Lady Dulcie, wending her way back from the shebeen to the Castle under the escort of Rosie and the faithful Larry, dried her tears resolutely, and did her best—no hard task at sweet eighteen, with love as an ally—to look on the bright side of things. Desmond would never leave her for long, of that she felt assured. He might go out into the world to seek his fortune, and, of course, one so brave, generous, handsome, and altogether admirable, could hardly fail to find it; but his success or failure would never, she told herself, make any difference to her. The day was not far off when she would be her own mistress, and then no spite of accident or design should hold her from her lover’s arms.

As she and her companions came upon the confines of the Castle grounds two dusky figures approached them, and she made out by the faint light of the rising moon that they were Mr. Conseltine and his son Richard. They saluted her silently, to her great relief, and she passed by.

‘She’s been to meet that blackguard bastard, I suppose,’ muttered Richard between his teeth. ‘Damn him!’

‘With all my heart!’ responded his senior. ‘Damn him, by all means! Your blunder of the morning has turned out better than I had dared to hope; but it was a blunder all the same.’

‘It might have been,’ returned Richard; ‘but, so far, it has answered. We’ve got the brute out of the house, and it won’t be my fault if he gets in again.’

‘’Twas too bold a stroke, lad,’ said Conseltine. ‘You show your cards too openly—you play too boldly. If the proud-stomached young ass had only had a little common-sense, he might have consolidated his position with your uncle. Henry was in the mood to do anything, to commit any folly, after you insulted the boy.’

‘I couldn’t help it,’ returned Richard. ‘I hate the cad to such an extent that I’d have shouted his shame in his face if it had cost me every penny I have and every penny I expect from Kilpatrick.’

‘You’re a fool,’ said his father, smoothly as ever. It required a good deal to shake the elder Conseltine from his calm cynicism. ‘And if you think the game’s won just because you’ve insulted the Squireen and got him out of the Castle for a single day, you’re a bigger fool than I ever thought you—and that’s not saying a little. The game’s only begun. Henry’s fond of the brat—absence will make him fonder still. It’s quite on the cards that he may leave every stick and stone of his property to him and strand you with the barren title. Keep out of his way. He never liked you, and now he likes you less than ever. Leave him to me. Leave Dulcie alone, too. Don’t be trying to excuse yourself, or trying to make love to her; you’ll only make bad a deal worse. Who’s that in front of us?—your eyes are younger than mine.’

‘It’s that drunken scoundrel Blake.’

‘Blake!’ repeated Conseltine, and fell into a slower step. ‘Well, ’tis lucky, on the whole. ’Tis as well he should know.’

‘Know what?’ asked Richard.

‘Know all there is to be known about this business of the Squireen,’ answered the elder.

‘What affair is it of his?’

‘That you’ll not learn from me,’ responded his father: ‘not yet, at least. If it’s ever necessary you should know, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, keep a still tongue and an open eye. It’s to the shebeen he’s going—we’ll follow him.’

They were close behind Blake’s heels by the time he had reached the door of the alehouse. He lurched round and faced them.

‘The divil and his imp,’ he remarked, as a polite salutation, and stumbled across the threshold with no further greeting than a drunken laugh.

Peebles was in the kitchen, finishing a drink of whisky, and chatting with the widow.

‘Hullo! my king o’ Scots,’ hiccuped Blake. ‘You here? Drinkin’, too! Ye’ve taken to decent habits in your old age. Here! you’ll have another drink with me.’

‘Indeed but I’ll no’,’ replied the sententious old Scot.

‘You won’t! You won’t drink?’

‘Yes, with my friends,’ returned Peebles; ‘but I see none o’ them here.’

He set his glass upon the table, nodded to the widow, and went out to keep his already recorded interview with Moya in the churchyard.

Blake laughed with drunken good humour.

’Tis a brave boy, old Peebles! He doesn’t trust me, but, after all, ’tis a question of taste, and no gentleman quarrels on such a ground. Bedad, I’m dry.’ He searched his pockets, and found them empty. ‘Here, you spalpeen,’ he continued, accosting Richard, ‘pay for a drink for me. Sure, ’twill be a luxury for you, and one you don’t often enjoy.’

‘Bring some whisky, if you please, Mrs. Daly,’ said Conseltine smoothly, before Richard could muster his heavy wits to retort. ‘Sit down, Blake, and listen to me. Are ye sober enough to talk business?’

‘I’m as sober as I need be,’ responded Blake; ‘and more sober than I want to be, at this hour o’ the night.’

‘That’s easily cured,’ said Conseltine dryly, handing him a charged tumbler; ‘but don’t go too fast—this is business.’

‘Discoorse,’ said Blake, tossing off the spirit, ‘and I’ll listen.’

The widow still lingered about the room, making pretence of trifling with some household task. Conseltine with a smooth voice bade her leave them to themselves, and she obeyed, after which he rose, and for greater security closed the door leading to the road.

‘Ye’re mighty mysterious,’ said Blake. ‘What is it, at all?’

‘Have you heard what happened at the Castle this morning?’ asked Conseltine, leaning across the rude table at which the two were seated, and speaking in a whisper.

‘How the divil should I?’ asked Blake.

‘I’ve not been out of bed an hour, and I’d be there still, but the whisky gave out, and I kem here to wet my whistle.’

‘’Tis better ye should hear it from me than from another,’ said Conseltine, in the same tone of extreme caution. ‘My son here made a fool of himself this morning.’

‘Did he, now?’ returned Blake, with a laugh. ‘Sure his Creator did that for him twenty years ago.’

‘He had a row with the Squireen, young Desmond Macartney, and let out what he knew about his birth.’

‘’Tis the first time I knew that he knew anything about it,’ said Blake. ‘Was it you that trusted him with such a secret?’

‘Never mind how he came to know,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He learned the secret. Desmond provoked him, and he blurted it out before everybody—Lady Dulcie, my brother, Peebles and all.’

‘And he’s here to tell the tale?’ said Blake, with an air of drunken surprise. ‘Bedad, I’m a good man with my fists, but ’tis not I that would like to tell the Squireen that story.’

‘Listen! Listen!’ said Conseltine, beating the tops of his fingers on the table a little impatiently.

‘D’ye mean to sit there, Dick Conseltine,’ said Blake, ‘an’ tell me that that rip of a son o’ yours told the Squireen all that, and there was no fight?’

‘Devil a bit of a fight,’ answered Conseltine. ‘The boy was knocked clean out of time by the information. Well, when he came to, his lordship told him he’d acknowledge him before the world.’

‘His lordship’s a gentleman!’ cried Blake. ‘By the Lord, he is! If only he could hold a dacent skinful o’ liquor, he’d be the finest gentleman in Ireland, bar none. And what did the Squireen say?’

‘He cursed the father that begot him,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He shook the dust of the house off his feet, and swore he’d never cross the threshold again!’

‘Then the boy’s like his father—a gentleman!’ cried Blake, with a drunken cheer. ‘Here’s to him, with three times three and all the honours! And what did the old man say to that?’

‘It has made him seriously ill,’ answered Conseltine. ‘He has passed the day in bed, and has refused himself to everybody except Peebles. Now, Blake,’ he leaned further across the table, and fixed his keen eyes on the face of the drunken squire, ‘the time has come for a definite understanding between us.’

‘Well?’ asked Blake. He made an obvious and partially successful attempt to sober himself. ‘Give me that jug o’ water.’ It was passed to him, and he drained it—to the great apparent refreshment and steadying of his wits. ‘A man has need of all his brains, Dick Conseltine, when ye speak in that tone of voice. Out with it—what hell-broth are ye brewing now?’

‘There’s no new development yet,’ answered Conseltine, with a smile, ‘though something may occur at any moment with Henry in his present condition. But I want to know definitely, yes or no, are you for us or against us?’

‘That just depends on how ye treat me,’ muttered Blake. ‘I don’t know whether it is that I’m getting old, or whether the whisky is playing false with my nerves—which is what I’d call my conscience, if I was one o’ the pious sort—or what it is, but I—I fluctuate! Sometimes—it’s generally in the morning, when I wake—I feel penitent: I feel that I’d like to go over to the enemy and clear my breast o’ the load I’ve borne this eighteen years and more. What are ye doin’?’ he asked angrily, as Conseltine trod heavily on his foot beneath the table. ‘Oh, the cub! Sure I said nothin’ that he has the brains to understand. Yes, Mr. Richard Conseltine, that’s how I feel at times, and it comes over me generally in the mornin’, when the whisky’s out and my pockets are empty. And, by thunder, if I did! if I did tell all I know—Holy Moses! what a racket it would make up at the Castle, and all Ireland over. Faith, I’d live in history! ’Twould be what the play-actors call a fine situation! And let me tell ye, there’s them as ’d make it worth me while to do it!’

‘You drunken hog!’ murmured Conseltine under his breath; adding aloud, ‘You won’t do that, Blake!’

‘Won’t I?’ returned Blake. ‘Faith, you’re surer about it than I am!’

‘No,’ said Conseltine, ‘you won’t do it. I can make it better worth your while to keep silent.’

‘Then why the divil don’t ye?’ asked Blake. ‘You’re very fond o’ talking about your gratitude, and you hold out fine promises, but what do ye do?’

‘It seems to me,’ returned the other, ‘that I’ve done a good deal.’

‘And it seems to me,’ exclaimed Blake, banging the table to emphasize the personal pronoun, ‘that ye do damn’d little. I tell ye, Dick Conseltine, it’s not for nothing that I’m going to suffer the torments of an aching conscience!’

‘Your aching conscience,’ said Conseltine, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, ‘has been fairly well salved so far. Is it money that you want?’

‘Bedad it is, then!’ cried the other. ‘I haven’t the price of a glass in the wide world.’

‘Well,’ said his fellow conspirator, ‘I’m willing to do what I can, in reason.’

‘In reason!’ repeated Blake. ‘Your notions of what’s reasonable and mine may not agree. Look here, now, what d’ye say to two hundred pounds?’

‘Two hundred pounds!’ cried Conseltine, with well-acted amazement. ‘Oh, come, come, Blake!’

‘Come, come!’ echoed Blake. ‘’Tis you that has to come—I’ve gone far enough along the road to hell; I’ll go no farther unless I’m paid for it. I want two hundred pounds to-morrow, and I’ll have it, or know the reason why!’

‘I can’t do it, Blake,’ cried Conseltine.

‘Very well, then,’ said Blake, ‘his lordship can, and I’ll not only get two hundred, but ease my aching conscience at the same time.’

‘I think you’re hard,’ said Conseltine. ‘Come, Blake; our interests stand or fall together. Look at the affair all round, pro and con. You might get that two hundred from Henry, but ’twould be all you’d get. Now, serve my interest, and Dick’s here, and you’re safe for life. Have I ever refused you money when you asked for it?’

‘That’s all right,’ said Blake; ‘don’t refuse me now!’

‘Well,’ groaned Conseltine, ‘if you must have it you must.’

‘Bedad I must,’ returned the other, with a nod full of meaning. ‘Is it a bargain?’

‘Yes, it’s a bargain.’

‘To-morrow, mind.’

‘Yes, to-morrow.’

‘Good! Then I’ll drug my conscience and accept the solatium. And now I’m goin’ home.’

‘Very well,’ said Conseltine; ‘I’ll see you to-morrow.’

‘All right!’ retorted Blake, with a disfavouring eye on Richard. ‘Don’t bring the cub with you. I can stand the old sinner, but not the young one.’

He reeled from the room, and Conseltine’s glance, as it followed him, was full of a dark and concentrated loathing.

‘The insolent scoundrel!’ said Richard, when he was out of hearing. ‘Why do you stand him? What is his hold over you?’

‘I hope you’ll never need to know,’ returned his father, draining his glass. ‘Damn him! I wish he was in the grave.’

‘He’s going there as fast as drink can take him,’ said Richard.

‘I feel inclined sometimes,’ said his amiable parent, ‘to give him a lift on the journey.’