‘No,’ she said. ‘But couldn’t I go away quietly to some place where Desmond could come and see me at odd times? I’d not disgrace him, then, nor—nor Henry. If Blake will spake the truth, Desmond will be the next Lord Kilpatrick, and that will make me as happy as I can ever be this side o’ the grave.’
‘Disgrace me!’ cried Desmond. ‘Oh, mother! how can ye speak so?’ What is it to me that I am to be Lord Kilpatrick? Sure, I’d rather be the poor Squireen, and have you to love and work for, than be king of all Ireland.’
‘Weel said!’ cried Peebles. ‘Eh, there’s the real grit in ye, laddie! But I’m thinking that maybe ye’ll find mair virtue in the title o’ Lord Kilpatrick than ye think for. Think o’ Lady Dulcie, Desmond. Can ye ask her, the bonnie doo, to share sic a life as ye’d hae to live for years and years to come, before ye’ve made a name and position for yersel’? It looks easy at your age to conquer the world, but the fight’s a long and bitter one. And then, there’s the plain justice of the case. Let right be done. Your mother’s Lady Kilpatrick, and you’re Desmond Conseltine, my lord’s heir, and I’ll see them damn’d—the Lord forgive me for swearin’!—before I’ll let yon brace o’ murderin’ thieves prosper at your expense. No, no, Moya, my lass. There’s nae hurry for the moment. We can afford the time to bide and turn it over till we’ve hit on the best means o’ gettin’ your rights—but hae them ye shall, and Desmond, too, or my name’s no’ Peebles. But save us a’, here are ye twa poor creatures standing here drippin’ water. Ye’ll be takin’ yer deaths o’ cauld. I must find ye anither shelter, my lady, where ye may bide quiet and canny till matters are arranged. I’ll hae to find how the land lies, and prepare my lord’s mind. I hae’t! There’s Patsy Maguire’s cottage. He’s gone to Dublin to sell his stock for emigrating to America. He’ll not be back for a week, and the bit sticks o’ furniture are a’ there. ’Tis a lonesome place. Ye’ll not be disturbit, and nobody need ken that ye’re there. I’ll send ye all ye can want by a sure hand. Kiss your son, and say good-bye to him for a day or twa. Trust to me!’
Desmond and his mother took each other again in their arms, and for a minute the deep silence of the night was broken only by the babble of the brook and the sound of their sobs and kisses. Then the old mill, which had been blazing furiously, though unheeded, fell in upon itself with a thunderous crash.
‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles, ‘come awa’ if ye don’t want the countryside about us! It’s jest a wonder that naebody’s come already. Hoot! they’re coming!’
A noise of distant voices and the clatter of feet became audible.
‘Quick, quick!’ cried the old man. ‘Get back hame, Desmond; I’ll see to your mother.’
He took Moya by the arm, and with gentle violence forced her from the scene, while Desmond moved off in the contrary direction. Once or twice he had to hide behind trees and boulders from the people who were now passing towards the mill attracted from all quarters by the blazing timbers.
Once clear of them, and out again in the wide silence of the summer night, he tried hard to fix his mind on the events of the evening, but his brain was bewildered, and seemed like a screw too worn to bite; he could think to no satisfactory result. Half mechanically, his feet bore him in paths he had travelled thousands of times, and he found himself at last on the outskirts of Kilpatrick Castle. Then his wandering wits fixed themselves on one image—Dulcie! He stole noiselessly as a thief about the great house. It was still as a tomb, and dark, but for a single ray of light which shone from a window which he knew to be Dulcie’s. His heart glowed with love and hope. At last she should be his!
There was no question now of accepting her heroic self-sacrifice. He could give her the position that she had a right to aspire to. She had descended from her lofty station like a pitying angel to love the poor, nameless boy. He could raise her to a higher. His heart was so full of love and pride and triumph that he knelt on the turf beneath that friendly gleam of light, and prayed to it as a devotee would pray to the shrine of his favourite saint, the happy tears running down his face.