‘By the Saints, but ’tis a fine business I’m in for—a two-mile ride with Moya Macartney and Desmond—and ’tis a comfortable quarter of an hour I’ll be after having.’
His habitual recklessness prevailed, however, aided by the thought that, as the bearer of the message of peace, he might have a better chance of pardon for past peccadilloes. He arrived at Maguire’s cottage, which had a lonely and deserted aspect, in the bright mid-day sunshine. No curl of smoke from the chimney announced the presence of an occupant, and the door was fast shut. It opened at his knock, and disclosed Moya.
‘God save all here!’ said Blake, with his customary swagger rather broadened.
‘Amen to that, Patrick Blake,’ said Moya calmly, ‘for some of us need His mercy. What is it ye want here?’
‘Just yourself,’ said Blake. ‘I’m from the Castle with a message from Mr. Peebles. Ye’re asked for there.’
Moya turned a shade paler.
‘Is he there—Desmond?’
‘I’m going on to Doolan’s farm to take him,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve the carriage waitin’ here.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then added, with more show of feeling than was common with him: ‘I’m a quare sort o’ messenger to send on this errand, and God knows ye’re little likely to relish my society. It’s no sort o’ use in the world to say I’m sorry, or to offer apologies for what’s past, but I hope it’s good news I’m bringin’ ye. In fact, I know it’s good news.’ He took off his hat with a gesture that was almost dignified. ‘Will ye do me the honour to accompany me, Lady Kilpatrick?’
Moya drew her shawl about her face and walked to the carriage, the door of which Blake held open for her. He mounted beside the driver, and another ten minutes saw them at the farm. Desmond was in the yard, seated on a bench and engaged in splicing a fishing-rod. At the sound of the approaching wheels he checked the pensive whistle with which he accompanied his work; and at the sight of Blake on the box of the carriage, he dropped the rod to the ground and strode forward at a quickened pace and with heightened colour. Blake descended and confronted him.
‘Tell me this, Mr. Blake,’ said the boy; ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary. There is a man I know who’s a villain, but he’s old enough to be my father, and I hear that he’s a clergyman, so I can neither call him out nor lay a stick across his back. What would ye do in my place?’