CHAPTER XI.—MOTHER AND SON.
Peebles, though weary with his unwonted vigil in the early morning and the anxiety of the day, made good speed to Doolan’s farm, urged as he was by those most powerful of stimulants, love and fear. It was a long and rough road, but a younger and stronger man than the old Scot might have been satisfied with the speed at which he covered it. He arrived panting at the humble cabin, where the farmer and his family, with Desmond among them, were just sitting down to the plain but plentiful evening meal of potatoes and buttermilk, supplemented by a rasher of bacon in honour of the guest, whom Doolan felt a great pride in entertaining, and who would have found a welcome equally warm at almost any house in the district.
‘By my soul!’ said the hospitable farmer, as Peebles broke into the room and fell exhausted into the nearest chair; ‘’tis me lord’s butler—’tis Mr. Peebles! The top o’ the evening to ye, sor. Bridget, I’m thinkin’ Mr. Peebles will be takin’ a dhrop o’ whisky. Saints above! what’s wrong wi’ ye, sor?’
Peebles slowly panted his breath back, while the farmer and his wife—the latter a ruddy, handsome peasant woman, who had been Desmond’s nurse eighteen years before—stood solicitously over him.
‘Get the bottle, Bridget,’ said the farmer. ‘The poor gentleman’s clane blown.
Peebles took a mouthful of the liquor, and felt the better for it.
‘What is it at all?’ asked Desmond.
‘Faith, ye look as if you’d seen a ghost. What is it, old friend?’