“Stop,” said she, boldly. “You know nothing of the temper of the man you talk of; but it is enough that I tell you he has got no money. Listen to me, O’Rorke. It was but yesterday he sent off a little ornament his wife nsed to wear to have it sold, to pay a county rate they were threatening to distrain for——”
“Where did you get all your law?” said he, jeeringly; but, not heeding the gibe, she went on, “I would have offered him the few shillings I had, but I was ashamed and afraid.”
“How much is it?”
“A little more than two pounds. You shall have it; but remember, I can do no more. I have nothing I could sell—not a ring, nor a brooch; not even a pin.”
“It’s better than nothing,” muttered he, surlily, below his breath. “Let me have it.”
“It is up at the Abbey. Wait, and I’ll fetch it. I’ll not be an instant.” And before he could answer she was gone. In less time than seemed possible she was back again, breathless and agitated. “Here it is,” said she, placing the money in his hand. “If you should see him, tell him how grieved I am to be of such little service to him, and give him this silk handkerchief; tell him I used to wear it round my neck, and that I sent a kiss to him in it—poor fellow! I almost wish I was with him,” muttered she, as she turned away her head, for the hot tears filled her eyes—she felt weak and sick.
“I’m afraid this will do little good,” said O’Rorke, looking at the money in his open palm.
“And yet I can do no more!” said she, with deep sorrow.
“Wouldn’t you venture to tell your uncle how it is? Sure he might see that the disgrace, if this old man is caught and brought to trial, will spread to himself?”
“I dare not—I will not,” said she, firmly.