‘Ye’ll remember the poor woman ye met last night in the kirkyard?’
‘Yes,’ answered Desmond.
‘Man,’ said Peebles, ‘I scarce know how to tell ye, or if ye’ll believe me when I’ve tellt ye. Maybe ye’ll think I’m daft or dreaming. You’ve just got to prepare yourself for the greatest shock ye ever had in your life. It well-nigh dinged the soul oot o’ me wi’ surprise when I heard it, and it will hit ye sairer still, I’m thinking.’
The old man’s voice was so tremulous with emotion that Desmond stopped short, and peered into his face questioningly in the pale moonlight which was struggling with the thick dust of the summer night.
‘For God’s sake, Peebles,’ he said, ‘what is it?’
‘It’s just this,’ returned the Scot. ‘That poor woman was Moya Macartney—your own mother!’
For some seconds Peebles’ speech carried no emotion to Desmond’s mind.
‘My mother!’ he repeated, in a voice whose only expression was one of pure bewilderment. ‘My mother?—Moya Macartney?’
‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘She that was dead is alive. ’Tis a long story, and I’ve neither time nor breath to tell you all. She spread the report of her own death eighteen years ago, and went across the seas to America. All these long, weary years, she’s denied her heart the only pleasure it could ever know—the pleasure of seeing her son’s face and hearing his voice. At last she could bear it no longer—she came. It was she you talked wi’ last night in the kirkyard, she who kissed your forehead and gied you her blessing.’
Desmond clutched at his throat with a choking sob.