That same night a cold round moon was shining on the old graveyard where the people of Kilpatrick had for many generations buried their dead—a place of green and grassy graves, with here and there a simple cross of stone or wood. It was a lonely place, a lonely hour, and with the rising moon came a chilly night wind, stealing from grave to grave, and lifting the grass upon them as a cold hand might lift the hair of human heads.

The silence of the spot was broken by the sound of a slow but firm footstep approaching along the quiet by-road that led to the village. A tall woman, with a shawl about her head, and clad in a material so dark as to pass for black in the moonlight, entered the graveyard, and stood looking towards the distant sea. She looked long and earnestly before she spoke.

‘It’s the time I named,’ she murmured in a deep, inward-sounding voice. ‘Will he come, I wonder? Maybe he’ll think it’s an idle message, and never guess who sent it, for he thinks me dead and gone long years ago. I must speak with him, and hear tidings of my boy. Oh, saints in heaven, that know the achings of a mother’s heart, ye’ve given me strength to bear my trouble all these years—give me strength now, and pity the wakeness that brought me here, maybe to get a glimpse of my darling son!’

She leaned against a ragged, wind-blown tree, with her forehead supported on her arm; then, slipping to the ground, bent her head in prayer—an appeal of which only an occasional word could have been heard by any chance listener, though the fervour of her supplication shook her whole body with a passionate tremor. She was so lost for the moment to all sense of her surroundings that a loud and cheerful whistle, coming along the path she had herself travelled but a few minutes previous, fell unheeded on her ear, and the gravedigger, returning for his pick and shovel, was close upon her before she recognised his presence.

She rose with a start, and the suddenness of her apparition made the intruder’s music stop with a ludicrous suddenness.

‘Musha!’ he cried. ‘What’s that at all? ’Tis a woman! Bedad, I took ye for a ghost!’

‘I’m flesh and blood, like yourself,’ she answered.

‘But why were ye kneeling there?’ he asked, still fearfully.

‘I was only saying a prayer,’ she answered.

‘A mighty lonesome place to say your prayers in,’ said the gravedigger, crossing himself. ‘Unless,’ he added as an afterthought, and more gently, ‘ye’ve any kith or kin lying here.’

‘No,’ said the woman; ‘I am a stranger.’

‘Well, good luck t’ ye, whoever y’ are,’ said the gravedigger. ‘I’ll just get the pick and the spade, and lave ye to your devotions.’ He jumped into an open grave at a little distance. ‘I can finish this in the morning,’ he added to himself. ‘Another two feet ’ll do it.’

‘Who’s to be buried there?’ she asked, as he clambered out with his tools in his hand.

‘A poor colleen that kilt herself for love. Leastways, she drowned herself, but wint out of her mind first, to make sure of Christian burial. Are ye livin’ hereabouts, my woman?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve a lodging down at the old mill.’

‘Musha!’ said the gravedigger, ‘that’s a lonesome place.’

‘The more fit, maybe,’ she answered, ‘for a lonesome woman.’

‘Will ye be going now?’ asked the man, looking at her with some anxiety.

‘Presently,’ she answered. ‘Sure, I’m doing no harm.’

‘Sorra the bit,’ he said; ‘but I’m thinking that there’s not many women—nor men ayther, for that matter—who’d care to walk this graveyard at night, when the fairies walk it. Well, tastes differ, and so good luck t’ ye.’

‘And good luck to you!’ the woman answered.

The man shouldered his tools and went off, resuming his interrupted whistle. The woman looked anxiously down the road.

‘It’s past the time I named,’ she said to herself, ‘and no sign of him yet.’

She walked to the low wall which separated the graveyard from the road, and stood there, watching so keenly that the sound of a footstep approaching from the opposite side of the churchyard failed to wake her attention. The unseen wayfarer, who was no other than Mr. Feagus, returning homewards after a wettish evening with a client beyond the village, caught sight of her tall, gaunt figure clearly outlined against the pale flood of moonlight which deluged the sky.

‘Who’s that, now?’ he asked himself, with a start,—‘a woman, or a taisch?—a Christian soul, or an ugly spirit? Wake my soul to glory! I’m sorry I took this road, for it’s lonesome for a lawyer with long arrears of conscience to make up; and, faith, here’s another of ’em coming the way I came myself. No, ’tis a man this time, a living man, bless the saints! I’ll step along with him for company. Am I drunk or dreamin’? ’Tis that old omadhaun, Peebles the steward! ’Tis mighty queer! What can bring a quiet man like that down here at night-toime? If it’s an assignation with that female? The old rascal! I’ll keep out of his way, and watch what he’s after.’

He slid cautiously over the wall, and established himself in the deepest shadow, just as Peebles’ lean figure emerged into clear moonlight.

The old man paused at the wicket-gate.

‘I saw someone here—I’d swear till it, and noo there’s nae sign of any living thing. Lord save us! it’s a gruesome place. Well, gruesome or no gruesome, I’ll e’en see it through. She’s there!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of the woman’s figure. ‘Ahem! Was’t you, lass, that sent the message to Mr. Peebles?’

The woman turned eagerly.

‘Yes, sir!’ she cried. ‘I sent for you!’ ‘Good e’en t’ ye, whoever ye are,’ said Peebles. ‘I’m here at your service, though I ken little enough what it is ye want o’ me. ’Twas of Moya Macartney ye wanted to speak—the puir lassie that died lang syne?’

‘Of Moya Macartney, sure enough,’ answered the woman. ‘But she never died, sir. She’s alive this day, and nearer than ye think!’

‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed Peebles. ‘You say she’s living! Moya Macartney living?’

The woman turned her face to the moonlight, and let her shawl, which had hidden it, fall back upon her shoulders. The old man stepped nearer, peering on her with a look of mingled expectation, incredulity, and superstitious horror. The face was white, thin, and wrinkled, but he recognised it in a moment; and as the great black eyes dwelt on Peebles’ face, the thin lips murmured a name which struck on his astonished ears like a veritable echo from the grave.

‘Moya!’ he cried. ‘Moya Macartney! No! It can’t be!’

‘It is, sir,’ said Moya. ‘I’m Moya Macartney. Old and gray now, Mr. Peebles, but the same colleen ye knew once in Kenmare.’

The hidden listener raised his head cautiously.

‘Saints preserve us!’ he muttered, and taking advantage of Peebles’ wonder and consternation, crept nearer to him and his companion.

‘Meeracle of meeracles!’ cried the old man. He extended a trembling hand, and took that which Moya held out in answer. It was as real as, and warmer and steadier than, his own. ‘Ay! ye’re flesh and blood; but—what does it mean?’

‘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.’

‘God bless him!’ sobbed the heartbroken mother. ‘But what shall I do? What shall I do?’

‘Let me take ye to him,’ said Peebles. ‘Eh, lass, but the boy’s heart will leap for joy to know ye’re alive.’

‘No!’ said Moya, shrinking back. ‘No, no! Let things be as they are. It’s betther, far betther, that he should think me dead.

Alive, I shall only shame him more. Just let me see him, let me look into his eyes and hear his voice—’tis all I ask of the blessed saints, and I’ll go back to where I came from and never trouble him again.’

At that moment, as if in answer to the impassioned prayer of that lonely heart, a voice rose at a hundred yards’ distance. Peebles started at the sound:

‘Tho’ I lave thee for ever, my darling, and go,

Thine image shall haunt me in sunshine and

snow;

Like the light of a star shining over the foam,

Thy face shall go with me wherever I roam.’

‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles. ‘’Tis himself.’

‘Who?’ cried Moya wildly. ‘Desmond? My son?’

‘Ay! your son Desmond. Wheest, woman! He’s coming this way.’

‘Though waves roll between us, sweet star of my

love,

Thy voice calls unto me——’

Desmond’s voice rose again as he spoke, nearer and more distinct.

‘Mr. Peebles!’ he cried, pausing in his song to scrutinize his old friend’s figure in the moonlight. ‘It’s late for you to be out here among the graves. Who’s that with ye?’

Peebles hesitated. Moya touched him lightly on the arm.

‘It’s just a poor peasant body. She’s strange to these parts, and was asking the way.’

Moya had gathered her shawl about her face again, and a sob broke from her.

‘Sure she’s in trouble,’ Desmond added pityingly.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Moya, conquering herself, ‘I’m in bitter trouble. And by the same token there’s trouble in your heart too.’

‘In mine?’ said Desmond, forcing a laugh, not very successfully.

‘Ye favour one I used to know,’ said Moya. ‘Will ye tell me your name, sir?’

‘My name?’ said Desmond hesitatingly. ‘Well, why not? My name’s Desmond Macartney.’

‘Desmond Macartney!’ the woman repeated. ‘I’ll not forget it. Sure I’d once a boy of me own, as swate to look upon as yourself. It’s proud your mother should be of such a son.’

‘My mother is dead,’ said Desmond. ‘She died long ago—when I was but a child. Good-night t’ ye, and God help ye through your trouble.’

‘Where are you going, Desmond?’ asked Peebles.

‘To the farm yonder; they’ll put me up for the night.’

‘Wait for me there to-morrow. I must see you.’

‘I’ll wait,’ said Desmond. He looked again at Moya, who was crying unrestrainedly. ‘Poor soul!’ he said. ‘She seems to have a heavy grief.’

‘She has,’ said Peebles. ‘She’s lost all the folk she loves.’

‘Like me,’ sighed Desmond. ‘Well, well! “Though I lave thee for ever,”’ he began singing again as he turned away, till interrupted by the stranger’s voice.

‘Sir—Mr. Desmond!’ cried the woman suddenly, ‘they say that the blessing o’ one broken heart may help to heal the trouble of another. Will ye bend down in this holy place and take a poor creature’s blessing?’

‘Sure,’ said Desmond, ‘it’s only one blessing in the whole world that I seek, and that I can never have—the blessing of my own dead mother.’

‘Maybe it might come through me! I’m a mother, too!’

‘Humour her, laddie,’ said Peebles gently. ‘Humour her. Her sorrow’s great.’

Desmond took off his cap and knelt with bent head. It seemed long before the voice broke the solemn stillness, but when at last it was audible, it was strangely firm.

‘May the Lord watch over ye, now and for ever! May the mouth of the mother that bore ye spake through me, and bring ye happiness, health, and peace. May your days be long in the land, till you’re old and gray like me. But, oh, may ye never know my trouble or lose what I have lost. Amen! Amen!’

‘And may God bless you!’ said Desmond, rising, deeply touched by the solemn words and the deep rich voice which had spoken them.

‘And now,’ said Moya, ‘will ye let a poor crathure kiss your forehead, for the sake of her own son that she’ll never see again?’ She took his head between her hands and pressed her lips to his brow in a long embrace. ‘The Lord be with you, Desmond Macartney.’

With no other word, she turned and left the graveyard, Peebles following her after a hasty reminder to Desmond of their engagement for the morrow.

It was not till some minutes later, when Desmond’s voice rose again on the air at a considerable distance, and the figures of Moya and Peebles had disappeared, that Feagus rose to his feet.

‘Monomondiaoul!’ he said softly to himself. ‘Moya Macartney alive! And what will me lord and Mr. Conseltine say to that, I wonder?’