"Is Mr. Christian at home, sir?" said Mona.
Mylrea Balladhoo glanced up under his spectacles. What Kerruish Kinvig had once said of Christian and this young woman flashed across his mind at that instant. "No, my girl, no. Christian is helping the Castle Rushen men to lay hands on that gang of scoundrels, you know."
"He is not with them, sir," said Mona, with a fearful effort.
"Oh, yes, though; I sent Jemmy after him to instruct him. But he'll be home soon; I expect him every minute. I hope they've captured the vagabonds."
It was terrible to go on. Mona lifted up her whole soul in prayer for this old man, whose hour of utmost need had now come. And she herself was to deal the blow that must shatter his happiness. "God help him," she muttered, passionately, and the involuntary prayer was made audible.
Mylrea Balladhoo rose stiffly to his feet. He looked for an instant and in silence into the pale face before him.
"What is it?" he faltered, with an affrighted stare. "What news? Is Christian—Where is Christian? Have the scoundrels—injured him?"
"He was one of themselves," said Mona, and dropped to her knees in the depth of her agony.
Then slowly, disjointedly, inconsequentially, repeating incident after incident, beginning again and again, explaining, excusing, praying for pardon, and clasping the old man's knees in the tempest of her passion, Mona told the whole story as she knew it: how she had heard too late that Christian had gone out in Kisseck's boat; how she tried to compass his rescue; how, at the very crown and top of what she mistook for her success, the hand of Fate itself seemed to have been thrust in, to the ruin of all. She finished with the story of the flight of the four men to Kisseck's cottage, the quarreling there, the pistol shot, and the strange answer to her knock.
Mylrea Balladhoo stood still with the stupid, bewildered look of one who has been dealt an unexpected and dreadful blow. The world seemed to be crumbling under him. At that first instant there was something like a ghastly smile playing over his pallid face. Then the truth came rolling over his soul. The sight was fearful to look upon. He fell back with a low moan. But the good God sent the stricken old man the gift of tears. He wept aloud, and cried that he could better have borne poverty than such disgrace. "Oh, my son, my son! how have you shortened my days; how you have clothed me with shame; oh, my son, my son!" But love was uppermost even in that bitter hour.