‘Come awa’, come awa’,’ repeated Peebles gently, as one speaks to a froward child. ‘Ye’ll be doing yourself a mischief.’
The old lord rose tremulously, and left the room on his servant’s arm. Mr. Conseltine stepped rapidly forward to open the door, and shook his brother’s hand as he passed from the room. Then, returning, he addressed Feagus, who was still puffing with anger.
‘Sit down, Mr. Feagus. Fill again, man, and wash the taste of that drunken blackguard out of your mouth. Yes, yes,’ he continued, seeing Feagus about to speak; ‘he’s all that you could call him, but he has to be endured; he knows too much to be crossed.’
‘Knows?’ snorted Feagus; ‘and what does he know, then?’
Conseltine looked warily round before replying, and then, bending across the table till his face was within a foot of Feagus’s, he said in a low voice:
‘He knows all about Moya Macartney.’
‘Moya Macartney!’ echoed his son. ‘And who, pray, is Moya Macartney?’
‘She was a peasant girl, away down in Kenmare. My brother married her—a sham marriage—’Twas Blake that played priest for him, and pretended to be in Holy Orders.’
‘That’s true!’ murmured Feagus. ‘And after—tell him what came of it!’
‘The old story. Henry grew tired of his plaything. One day, when the child—they had a child—was two years old, he told Moya the truth. She went on like a madwoman for a time, and then went quite cold and quiet. Henry thought ’Twas all right, and that she had accepted the situation; but within two hours she disappeared, taking the child with her, and for a month or two nothing was heard of her.’