Lady Kilpatrick. Robert Williams Buchanan
Peebles, ‘but prescribing the one sure remedy ye winna tak’? My lord, your disease is pride.
Try the black draught of humility and the blue pill of atonement!’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ asked his lordship, looking angrily at his servant, who returned his gaze quite unmoved.
‘Ye know weel what I’m talkin’ aboot,’ he returned, with no quickening of his usual deliberate drawl. ‘Acknowledge your child, Lord Kilpatrick, and thank God humbly on your knees for such a son to bless your declining years.’
‘By Heaven!’ cried his lordship, sitting up in his chair, ‘you—you—how dare you trifle with me?’ The gray shade deepened on his face, his trembling hands were pressed against his heart. ‘I have done my uttermost. I have provided for the boy. I have looked after his welfare—can a man do more?’
‘Ay, he can! Desmond Macartney is your flesh and blood. Acknowledge him before the world—it’s all the atonement ye can make to the poor lass that’s gone.’
‘She was not my wife!’
‘Ay was she,’ returned Peebles, ‘in the sight o’ God!’
His lordship struggled up in his seat with an oath.
‘That’s enough! You are out of my service, Peebles, from this moment—I discharge you!’
‘I’m agreeable,’ said Peebles, with unmoved calm.
‘And without a character—mind that!’
‘Character, is it?’ said the dour old Scot. ‘If ever I need one, I’ll gang till a God-fearing man, and no’ till your father’s son. Good-afternoon to your lordship.’ Peebles had reached the door when his lordship’s voice arrested him:
‘Stay—stay! I—ha!—I command you!’ ‘Too late!’ said Peebles coolly. ‘I’m no longer at your lordship’s orders—I’m discharged.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Why do you provoke me, Peebles? I have been a good master to you—a forbearing master. If we parted I should—I should miss you.’
‘No doot o’ that,’ returned Peebles, smiling. ‘Dismiss me, and ye dismiss your conscience. Dismiss me, and the Deil has ye, tooth and nail.’
His lordship laughed, but with no aspect of enjoyment.
‘You’re an assuming old scoundrel, Peebles. My conscience? Gad!—my conscience, indeed!’
‘Ay, and your conscience says, “Make amends to your own begotten son, the bairn of the puir lass who died for your sake, and who loved ye, Lord Kilpatrick.” ’
The old lord’s head sank upon his breast; his eyes were dim with a sudden moisture.
‘I loved her, Peebles—I loved her!’
‘And yet ye played that deil’s trick on her, with the aid o’ yon scoundrel Blake.’
‘How could I marry one so much my inferior?’ asked Kilpatrick tremulously.
‘And yet there are moments when I think that if—if she had not—if she had had a little more patience, I might have done it. There, there,’ he continued, with his usual testiness, ‘let it sleep. Don’t talk about it. As for Desmond, I have brought him up almost like my own son and heir. He has wanted nothing—he shall never want. I shall provide for him in my will.’
‘Grandly, no doot,’ said Peebles, with the abrupt snort which was his laugh, ‘with Mr. Conseltine at your lug, pleading for that smug-faced imp, his son.’
‘Desmond shan’t be forgotten,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Nothing on earth shall make me forget Desmond.’
‘There’s just a chance,’ said Peebles, after an interval of silence, scraping at his chin—‘there’s just a chance that Desmond, when he kens ye’re his father, will refuse to tak’ a shilling o’ your money. I know the lad, for isn’t he like the child o’ my ain old age—haven’t I watched over him and seen him grow—haven’t I had daily to lie to him, and tell him that he has neither father nor mother, but only a kind friend who knew them both—and haven’t I heard his voice break when he has asked of his dead mother? Man alive!’ he continued, in answer to Kilpatrick’s stricken look, ‘do your duty—acknowledge your son before the world! If anything can get ye a free pass through the gates of heaven, it will be a deed like that!’
‘Gad!’ said Kilpatrick, ‘I’ve a mind to do it, if only to spite my brother Dick. Peebles, do you think I’m a fool? Do you think I don’t know Dick Conseltine? He’s looking forward to my funeral. He wants the estate for young spindleshanks, my nephew. Suppose I showed him a trick worth two of that, eh? Ha, ha!’
His lordship’s rather spiteful chuckle was cut short by a rap at the door.
Peebles opened it, and Mr. Conseltine appeared.
‘My dear Henry,’ he said, advancing solicitously, ‘I trust you are better?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kilpatrick uneasily; ‘but——’
‘In that case,’ said Conseltine, smoothly interrupting him, ‘may I talk to you privately for a few minutes?’
‘If you desire,’ said his brother. ‘Don’t go, Peebles. Never mind Peebles, Dick He’s my conscience, my—my alter ego—eh, Peebles?’
‘As it is a family matter,’ said Conseltine, ‘I would prefer——’
‘Peebles is one of the family,’ said his lordship; ‘I’ve no secrets from him.’
‘Very good,’ said Conseltine, suffering no shade of annoyance to cloud his smooth face. ‘Mr. Peebles doubtless agrees with me that you exaggerate the gravity of your condition, and that, unless you specially desire it, the drawing up of a new will can be postponed. In the will already placed in my possession you, as is natural, devise the bulk of your estate to your next-of-kin. Do I understand that you desire to alter or modify that arrangement?’
His lordship, nervously interlacing his fingers, glanced at Peebles.
‘Tell your brother the truth, my lord. Tell him ye wish to leave the estates to your own begotten son.’
‘My brother has no son, Mr. Peebles,’ said Conseltine sternly.
‘Ay has he,’ said Peebles—‘Desmond Macartney.’
‘The fruit of a foolish liaison with a peasant. My dear Henry——’
‘Peebles is right, Dick,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Desmond should be my heir.’
‘My dear Henry!’ said Conseltine, ‘you must surely be mad. Proclaim your folly to the world! Acknowledge a waif and stray as your flesh and blood! It is simply midsummer madness! Thank God, whatever you do with any portion of your personal possessions, you can’t pass your patrimonial title to one born out of wedlock.’
Kilpatrick looked from his brother to Peebles, and back again, interlacing his fingers and dragging them apart.
‘Faith,’ he said, ‘that’s true, that’s true, Peebles. The title must go to my next-of-kin. It must go. There’s no help for it, and the title, with nothing to support it! eh? You must see that, Peebles. Gad, I’m sorry—I’m devilish sorry!’ He rose. ‘Never mind, Peebles, Desmond shan’t be forgotten. Trust me, he shan’t be forgotten.’
Conseltine offered him his arm, and he took it with a glance at his servant.
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Peebles, with an immovable face, ‘lean on your brother. It’s good to have loving kith and kin.’
Voices and laughter were heard from the landing without, and a moment later Dulcie, with Desmond at her heels, entered