‘Sure, it’s a long story,’ said Moya; ‘but I’ll tell it ye in as few words as I can. When I left my child and went away broken-hearted, I little thought to live another day; but my courage failed me, and I feared to face my Maker before my time. I lived on, unknown and far away. But I heard news from time to time of my son. I knew that he was growing up happy, and ignorant, thank God, of his mother’s shame.’
‘Puir lass!’ said Peebles. ‘Puir lass! And it’s been for his own sake that ye’ve held aloof from him all these years—never shown your face or spoke a word!’
‘Sure, why should I? ’Twas enough for me to think that maybe, when he thought that I was dead, my lord’s heart might be turned to the poor friendless boy, and that he might crape into his father’s heart and earn his love. I said to myself a thousand times, “God bless him! I’ll never disgrace him. He shall never learn that his mother’s still living on this weary earth.”’
‘But ye’ve come at last, Moya,’ said Peebles, wiping his eyes; ‘ye’ve come at last to——’
‘Only to hear of his happiness—only, maybe, to get one glimpse of his face. Oh, sir, if I could do that same, I’d die happy, for the heaviness of years is on me, and I’ve not long to live. Speak to me! Tell me of him! Is he well and happy?’
‘Weel?’ repeated Peebles. ‘Ay, he’s weel enough. Happy? Ay, he’s as happy as most folk, for it’s a wearyin’ world.’ He paused, looking pityingly at Moya, and then resumed in a hesitating manner: ‘I’ve news for ye that I fear will not be over welcome to ye. ’Twas only yesterday he learned the truth. He found oot that Lord Kilpatrick was his father, and with that, poor lad, he shook the dust from his feet and fled away from his father’s house.’
‘My God!’ cried Moya. ‘But who tould him? Not you, sure?’
‘I?’ cried Peebles—‘I, that hae guarded the secret these eighteen years, and burdened my conscience with endless lees for the poor lad’s sake and yours! No, no, Moya. He was taunted wi’ his birth by a wicked whelp—his cousin, Richard Conseltine’s son, and a’ came oot.’
‘And then?’ cried Moya.
‘My lord begged him to stay, offered to make him his lawful heir, but he refused the siller and cursed his father in his mother’s name. Ah, don’t greet, woman, or I’ll be greeting too. Your name’s deepest in the lad’s heart, and first upon his lips.’