The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged the O'Donoghue, and he went on. “Thirty-seven thousand acres descended to my grandfather, and even that was but a moiety of our former possessions.”
“Enough of this,” interrupted Mark rudely. “It is but an unprofitable theme. The game is up, father,” added he, in a deep stern voice, “and I, for one, have little fancy to wait for the winner to claim the stakes. Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I'd be many a mile away, ere a week was over.”
“You would not leave me, boy!” cried the old man, as he grasped the youth's hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. “You would not desert your poor old father. Oh, no—no, Mark; this would not be like you. A little patience, my child, and death will save you that cruelty.”
The young man's chest heaved and fell like a swelling wave; but he never spoke, nor changed a muscle of his rigid features.
“I have borne all misfortunes well till now,” continued the father. “I cared little on my own account, Mark; my only sorrow was for you; but so long as we were together, boy—so long as hand in hand we stood against the storm, I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay by me, then, Mark—tell me that whatever comes, you'll never leave me. Let it not be said, that when age and affliction fell upon the O'Donoghue, his son—the boy of his heart—deserted him. You shall command in every thing,” said he, with an impassioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon the youth's countenance. “I ask for nothing but to be near you. The house—the property—all shall be yours.”
“What house—what property—do you speak of?” said Mark, rudely. “Are we not beggars?”
The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his son's hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. “I was forgetting,” murmured he, in a broken voice—“it is as you say—you are right, Mark—you must go.”
Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young man's heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair, and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist.
“I'll not leave you,” said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper: “there's my hand upon it,” and he wrung in his strong grasp the unresisting fingers of the old man. “That's a promise, father, and now let us speak no more about it.”
“I'll get to my bed, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed his hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since anything like emotion had moved him, and the conflict of passion had worn and exhausted him. “Good-night, my boy—my own boy;” and he fell upon the youth's shoulder, half choked with sobs.