For a long, sacred space the mother and son thus strangely reunited knelt together, their arms about each other, their hearts full of a whirl of many mingled emotions which made speech impossible. When at last Moya broke the long silence, it was with a voice curiously calm, despite the deep underlying tremor which told by what an heroic effort she was able to speak at all.

‘Desmond! My son!’

‘Mother!’ was all Desmond could sob in return.

‘Ye know me? Ye know who I am?’

‘Yes; Peebles has told me,’ returned Desmond.

‘Ye don’t shrink from me? Ye don’t despise the poor woman that loves ye?’

‘Shrink from you! Despise you!’ cried the boy, straining her to his heart, and speaking between the kisses with which he covered her face, her hands, her dress. ‘I’m like to burst with joy for finding ye! I was alone in the world, with scarce a friend, nameless and hopeless and homeless, and God has sent me you!’

He raised her to her feet, and fell on his knees again before her, looking up at her with eyes bright with fast-running tears.

‘Mother! mother! mother!’

It was all that he could say, and there was at once infinite pleasure and poignant grief in his repetition of the word. He fell forward, embracing her knees.

‘God’s good, after all!’ said Moya.

‘Many and many has been the bitter hour all these weary years when I thought He had forgotten me. Oh, my son, my son!’

She lifted him from his kneeling posture, and fed her hungry eyes upon his face.

‘Ye’re my own boy, Desmond. I can see the face that I remember years ago, smilin’ at me from the glass, when I little thought of the bitter trouble in store for me. I can die happy now. There’s nothing more that God can give me, now that I’ve held you in my arms and heard you call me mother.’

‘Not for many a long year yet, please God,’ sobbed Desmond; ‘not for many a long, happy year that you and I will pass together. I’ve something to live for, now—something to work for. We’ll go away together, back to the place you came from, and forget the past and all its misery.’

‘His face, too!’ said Moya, who, in her passionately loving scrutiny of Desmond’s features had let his words pass unheeded; ‘his face, as it was when I first knew him!’

‘You mean my father?’ cried Desmond. ‘I’ve disowned him! I’ve cast him off! I have no father!—nobody in the world but you, mother!’

‘Hoots, man!’ said Peebles, who stood blinking and looking on like an intelligent raven, ‘are ye going to retreat just when the battle’s in your hand? That’s mighty poor generalship, laddie!’

The events of the last quarter of an hour had quite banished from Desmond’s memory the story the old man had told him as they had walked from the farmer’s cottage towards the mill. At this sudden interruption he stared at Peebles with the empty look of one aroused from a daydream by words which bear no meaning to his mind.

‘All this trouble has turned the poor lad’s brain,’ said Peebles to Moya. ‘Hae ye forgotten,’ he continued to Desmond, ‘all that I told ye not an hour syne?’

The boy gave a sudden cry of recollection, and again threw his arms about his mother’s neck.

‘Come!’ he cried, ‘come to the Castle, and take the place that’s yours by right.’

‘Not yet, laddie, not yet,’ said Peebles. ‘Soft and cunning goes far. My lord’s no in a condition to hae sic a surprise sprung on him wi’ no sort o’ warning. ‘Deed, ’twould kill him, I’m thinking.’

‘And serve him right!’ cried Desmond hotly.

‘Hoots, man!’ said Peebles again, ‘ye’re in o’er much of a hurry to inherit.’

‘I?’ cried Desmond. ‘I never thought of myself. ’Tis for her, Peebles. Think of the long years of misery she’s endured, of all the anguish—the—the——’ His voice broke.

‘Ay!’ said Peebles. ‘Ye think as the young, who have never kenned sorrow, are apt to think. She has suffered so long that anither day or twa will hardly matter much, I’m thinking. You must bide a wee, laddie. You must trust to Peebles. I’m just as anxious to see you and your mother get your rights as ye can be yersel’; but lookers-on see most of the game, and my lord’s head is cooler than yours is like to be.’

‘He is right, Desmond,’ said Moya. ‘We must think of—of your father, and then—’tis myself, too, that has need of time and need of prayer. If the news had come years back, I couldn’t have held myself back. I should have run to him at once. But now—’tis not of him I think; ’tis of you. ’Tis little enough pleasure to me to know that I am Lady Kilpatrick, and the love that would have carried me to him is gone—gone all to you, Desmond.’

She fell silent for a time, looking straight before her with an expression which her two companions strove vainly to interpret till she spoke again.

‘Those villains think that they have killed me,’ she said presently, speaking quietly, almost dreamily. ‘I was thinkin’ that maybe——’

‘Yes, lassie—I mean Lady Kilpatrick,’ said the old man, substituting the title for the more familiar form of address, with all the respect of a good Scot for the upper ranks of the social hierarchy.

‘They think I’m dead,’ she said again, in the same slow and dreamy fashion. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I were dead?’

‘God guide us!’ exclaimed the old man, her wits are wandering.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But couldn’t I go away quietly to some place where Desmond could come and see me at odd times? I’d not disgrace him, then, nor—nor Henry. If Blake will spake the truth, Desmond will be the next Lord Kilpatrick, and that will make me as happy as I can ever be this side o’ the grave.’

‘Disgrace me!’ cried Desmond. ‘Oh, mother! how can ye speak so?’ What is it to me that I am to be Lord Kilpatrick? Sure, I’d rather be the poor Squireen, and have you to love and work for, than be king of all Ireland.’

‘Weel said!’ cried Peebles. ‘Eh, there’s the real grit in ye, laddie! But I’m thinking that maybe ye’ll find mair virtue in the title o’ Lord Kilpatrick than ye think for. Think o’ Lady Dulcie, Desmond. Can ye ask her, the bonnie doo, to share sic a life as ye’d hae to live for years and years to come, before ye’ve made a name and position for yersel’? It looks easy at your age to conquer the world, but the fight’s a long and bitter one. And then, there’s the plain justice of the case. Let right be done. Your mother’s Lady Kilpatrick, and you’re Desmond Conseltine, my lord’s heir, and I’ll see them damn’d—the Lord forgive me for swearin’!—before I’ll let yon brace o’ murderin’ thieves prosper at your expense. No, no, Moya, my lass. There’s nae hurry for the moment. We can afford the time to bide and turn it over till we’ve hit on the best means o’ gettin’ your rights—but hae them ye shall, and Desmond, too, or my name’s no’ Peebles. But save us a’, here are ye twa poor creatures standing here drippin’ water. Ye’ll be takin’ yer deaths o’ cauld. I must find ye anither shelter, my lady, where ye may bide quiet and canny till matters are arranged. I’ll hae to find how the land lies, and prepare my lord’s mind. I hae’t! There’s Patsy Maguire’s cottage. He’s gone to Dublin to sell his stock for emigrating to America. He’ll not be back for a week, and the bit sticks o’ furniture are a’ there. ’Tis a lonesome place. Ye’ll not be disturbit, and nobody need ken that ye’re there. I’ll send ye all ye can want by a sure hand. Kiss your son, and say good-bye to him for a day or twa. Trust to me!’

Desmond and his mother took each other again in their arms, and for a minute the deep silence of the night was broken only by the babble of the brook and the sound of their sobs and kisses. Then the old mill, which had been blazing furiously, though unheeded, fell in upon itself with a thunderous crash.

‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles, ‘come awa’ if ye don’t want the countryside about us! It’s jest a wonder that naebody’s come already. Hoot! they’re coming!’

A noise of distant voices and the clatter of feet became audible.

‘Quick, quick!’ cried the old man. ‘Get back hame, Desmond; I’ll see to your mother.’

He took Moya by the arm, and with gentle violence forced her from the scene, while Desmond moved off in the contrary direction. Once or twice he had to hide behind trees and boulders from the people who were now passing towards the mill attracted from all quarters by the blazing timbers.

Once clear of them, and out again in the wide silence of the summer night, he tried hard to fix his mind on the events of the evening, but his brain was bewildered, and seemed like a screw too worn to bite; he could think to no satisfactory result. Half mechanically, his feet bore him in paths he had travelled thousands of times, and he found himself at last on the outskirts of Kilpatrick Castle. Then his wandering wits fixed themselves on one image—Dulcie! He stole noiselessly as a thief about the great house. It was still as a tomb, and dark, but for a single ray of light which shone from a window which he knew to be Dulcie’s. His heart glowed with love and hope. At last she should be his!

There was no question now of accepting her heroic self-sacrifice. He could give her the position that she had a right to aspire to. She had descended from her lofty station like a pitying angel to love the poor, nameless boy. He could raise her to a higher. His heart was so full of love and pride and triumph that he knelt on the turf beneath that friendly gleam of light, and prayed to it as a devotee would pray to the shrine of his favourite saint, the happy tears running down his face.

‘God bless my darling!’ he said softly. ‘God bless her!’

The desire again to see her face, to hear her voice, was too strong to be resisted. He threw a few pebbles of gravel against the glass, and a moment later the blind was drawn aside. Lady Dulcie saw him standing pale and still in the broad moonlight, and softly raised the window.

‘Desmond, is it you?’

‘Yes, Lady Dulcie. Speak low. Maybe they’re listening. I couldn’t stay away longer; I longed so to see you.’

‘I’ll come down to you,’ she whispered; ‘go to the west door.’

He slipped away, and a minute or two later Dulcie issued from the house, enveloped in a white dressing-gown, her naked feet glistening in rose-coloured slippers. Desmond made an irrepressible motion to take her in his arms, but, remembering his soaked condition, drew back.

‘Why,’ said Dulcie, ‘you’re all dripping wet, you silly boy! What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘I’ve been fishing,’ said Desmond.

‘Fishing?’ repeated Dulcie.

‘Yes, sure,’ said the boy, with a happy laugh. ‘I’ve landed the biggest fish of the season. I’ll tell ye all about it by-and-by, Dulcie. Not yet. ’Tis a secret. Haven’t ye a kiss for me?’

Dulcie pecked at the cheek he extended towards her, making a comic little face.

‘What is your secret, Desmond?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you trust me?’

‘Not yet, my jewel,’ said Desmond. ‘Trust me a bit. I’ll tell you this much, dear. Our troubles are over, and I’ll be coming in a day or two to claim ye! Is that as sweet to you to hear as it is to me to say, I wonder?’

‘This is all very mysterious,’ said Dulcie. ‘But you seem very happy, Desmond. Won’t you tell me what has happened?’

‘Not yet. Wait a bit, and be as happy as your curiosity will let you.’

‘You provoking wretch!’ cried Dulcie. ‘I’m sure something has happened; you seem so ridiculously happy.’

‘Then I look as I feel. Tell me,’ he went on, to stave off further questioning on her part, ‘how are things going on here at the Castle? How is Lord Kilpatrick?’

‘He’s better in health,’ replied Dulcie, ‘but he’s very glum and silent, and he keeps his room. He has seen nobody but Peebles, and Mr. Conseltine, and me. He’s dreadfully changed—quite sullen and disagreeable. Oh, by the way, Mr. Conseltine and that son of his were out nearly all day, and when they came back, about an hour ago, I happened to pass them in the hall. They were both dreadfully pale, and looked awfully disturbed and frightened. Has your secret anything to do with them?

‘Maybe,’ said Desmond. ‘Sure, ’tis no use you asking questions. But ’tis good news I have for you, when the time comes to speak. And now, darling, give me another kiss, and go back indoors.’

He tried hard to hold himself from embracing her, but his arms were round her before he knew it and he strained her to his breast with all his strength.

‘I’ve ruined your gown,’ he said penitently, when the embrace was finished, ‘but I couldn’t help it. You’d draw the soul out of a stone when you look like that. The mischiefs done now, so I’ll take another! Good-night, my angel. Sweet dreams, and a happy waking for ye! If I stay any longer I’ll be breaking down and telling you all, and ’tis best you shouldn’t know for a while.’