“Sit down beside me, Mark,” said he, placing the chairs at the table, “and read this.”
With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already broken.
“This is addressed to your father, Mark,” said he, showing him the superscription.
“I know that hand-writing,” said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; “that is Father Rourke's.”
“Yes, that's the name,” said Talbot, opening the letter. “Read this,” and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud—
“Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December, same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff. Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler.”
“And what of all that,” said Mark, with a voice of evident disappointment. “Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism to claim my name or my kindred?”
“No, but to claim your estate and fortune,” said Talbot, hurriedly. “Do you not perceive the date of this document—1774—and that you only attained your majority on last Christmas day——”
“That cannot be,” interrupted Mark. “I joined my father in a loan upon the estate two years ago; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the same time, and I must have been of age to do so.”
“That does not follow,” said Talbot, smiling. “It suited the objects of others to make you think so; but you were little more than nineteen at the time. Here's the certificate of your mother's marriage, and the date is February, 1773.”