“Herbert's better,” said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a look that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father.
“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he may recover?”
“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up with him till four o'clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.”
“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night's rest; you've had a long and tiresome ride to-day.”
“I'm not tired, and I'll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone of his self-willed habit—one, which his father had never sought to control, from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark broke, at length, by saying—“So, it is pretty clear now that our game is up—the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on.”
“What of Callaghan?” asked the O'Donoghue, in a sinking voice.
“Refused—flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five hundred down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he'd strain a point.”
“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you mention about Kate's money?”
“No,” said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. “No, sir, I never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for our faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I'll not suffer it.”
“But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I'll repay——”