‘And serve him right!’ cried Desmond hotly.
‘Hoots, man!’ said Peebles again, ‘ye’re in o’er much of a hurry to inherit.’
‘I?’ cried Desmond. ‘I never thought of myself. ’Tis for her, Peebles. Think of the long years of misery she’s endured, of all the anguish—the—the——’ His voice broke.
‘Ay!’ said Peebles. ‘Ye think as the young, who have never kenned sorrow, are apt to think. She has suffered so long that anither day or twa will hardly matter much, I’m thinking. You must bide a wee, laddie. You must trust to Peebles. I’m just as anxious to see you and your mother get your rights as ye can be yersel’; but lookers-on see most of the game, and my lord’s head is cooler than yours is like to be.’
‘He is right, Desmond,’ said Moya. ‘We must think of—of your father, and then—’tis myself, too, that has need of time and need of prayer. If the news had come years back, I couldn’t have held myself back. I should have run to him at once. But now—’tis not of him I think; ’tis of you. ’Tis little enough pleasure to me to know that I am Lady Kilpatrick, and the love that would have carried me to him is gone—gone all to you, Desmond.’
She fell silent for a time, looking straight before her with an expression which her two companions strove vainly to interpret till she spoke again.
‘Those villains think that they have killed me,’ she said presently, speaking quietly, almost dreamily. ‘I was thinkin’ that maybe——’
‘Yes, lassie—I mean Lady Kilpatrick,’ said the old man, substituting the title for the more familiar form of address, with all the respect of a good Scot for the upper ranks of the social hierarchy.
‘They think I’m dead,’ she said again, in the same slow and dreamy fashion. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I were dead?’
‘God guide us!’ exclaimed the old man, her wits are wandering.’