‘I know it was Patrick Blake,’ replied Moya. ‘That much I’m sure of.’
‘But how do you ken it?’ asked the bewildered Peebles.
‘Sure ‘twould be too long a story to tell ye now. ’Twas only lately that an accident put me on the track. It took time and trouble to get Ryan O’Connor and Patrick Blake into the same skin, but I did it. And now, all that remains to be learned is just whether Blake was ever a priest, or whether his office was as false as his name. Will ye do that for me, Mr. Peebles? ’Tis not for my sake I ask it, but for my son’s—for Desmond’s!’
Peebles had fallen into a sitting posture on a low stone dyke, and sat staring at her like a man bewitched.
‘Moya! Moya Macartney! D’ye ken what ye’re sayin’? Oh! my head will rive with the dingin’ ye’ve started in my brains. Blake married ye! Blake a priest! Why, woman!’ he cried, suddenly straightening himself, ‘if that’s so, ye’re Lady Kilpatrick!’
‘Desmond would be Lord Kilpatrick,’ Moya answered simply. ‘’Tis for his sake, Mr. Peebles, that I ask you for help; not for mine, God knows. There were times,’ she went on, after another long pause, ‘long, long ago, when I’d have given my life to hold him—Henry Kilpatrick—in my arms for just one minute—times when all the shame and sorrow he’d brought on the poor ignorant girl who’d loved him seemed nothing—when, if the broad sea had not been betwixt us, I’d have gone to him and said, “Take me as your misthress, your servant, anything—let me see your face and hear your voice now and then, one day in the year, and I’ll follow ye barefoot through the world.” But they’ve gone, long since, and all my love and all my anger are gone with them. As to bein’ Lady Kilpatrick,’ she went on, with a short and mirthless laugh, ‘’tis not the chance of that that brings me here. A fine lady I’d make for any lord, wouldn’t I? and much at me aise I’d be among the grand folk he’d introduce me to? But Desmond’s a gintleman—as good a gintleman as any in Ireland, as Henry himself—and if the title’s his by rights, he shall have it. I shan’t trouble him. I shall go as I came, when I’ve seen him happy and honoured in his place. The thought has been food and drink, fire and shelter, to me these months past, since God sent the message that it might be so. Will you help me, Mr. Peebles?’
‘Will I help ye?’ cried Peebles, springing to his feet with the vivacity of a young man. ‘Deil hae me, but I’ll know the truth in four-and-twenty hours. But, eh, lass, if ye’re mistaken? If it’s not sae? I’d just gang clean daft in the disappointment. But it must—it must be true, eh, lass? To see the faces o’ they two Conseltines! To see the bonny lad, that they denounced as a beggar and a bastard, established wi’ title and estates! To see Lady Dulcie Lady Kilpatrick and Desmond’s wife! Oh! if it’s no’ true there’ll be a braw end o’ one good Scot, for I’ll just gang neck and crop into Limbo for sheer vexation. Dawm it! that I should say so—it must be true! It shall be true, if I squeeze it oot o’ yon scoundrel Blake wi’ my ain old hands, and his worthless life along wi’ it! But I maun awa’, lass—I maun awa’. There’s a hantle o’ things to be done at the Castle, and the lazy loons o’ servants are at sixes and sevens if they haven’t me about their lugs. I’ll see yon drunken ne’er-do-weel this day, and I’ll hae news for ye the morn’s morn. Keep a good heart, woman. The king shall enjoy his ain again. Eh, I’m just daft!’ Indeed, anybody who had witnessed the scene might have thought so,—he was so topful of excitement.
‘God bless ye, Mr. Peebles,’ said Moya. ‘Ye’re a true friend to me and the boy.’
‘Ay, am I,’ returned Peebles, ‘and that ye shall see ere long. Gang hame, lass, and pray for Desmond.’
‘Pray for him!’ cried Moya. ‘Has there been a day this eighteen years I’ve not prayed for him? No, nor a waking hour. God go with ye, sir, but——’