“Repay!” was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a withering glance at his father.
“Then there's nothing but ruin before us,” said the O'Donoghue, in a solemn tone—“nothing!”
The old man's head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up and down the roomy chamber.
“Hemsworth's clerk hinted something about this old banker's intention of building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence.
“Building where?—-over at 'the Lodge?'”
“No, here—at Carrig-na-curra—throwing down this old place, I suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead.”
“What!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, with a look of fiery indignation. “Are they going to grub us out, root and branch? Is it not enough to banish the old lords of the soil, but they must remove their very landmarks also?”
“It is for that he's come here, I've no doubt,” resumed Mark; “he only waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term will give him.”
“I wish he had waited a little longer—a year, or at most, two, would have been enough,” said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then added, with a sickly smile—“You have little affection for the old walls, Mark.”
The youth made no reply, and he went on—“Nor is it to be wondered at. You never knew them in their happy days! but I did, Mark—ay, that I did. I mind the time well, when your grandfather was the head of this great county—when the proudest and the best in the land stood uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest honour they could receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room where we are sitting, I've seen thirty guests assembled, whose names comprised the rank and station of the province; and yet, all—every man of them, regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too—the descendant of one who was a king.”