I could an I would, Sir Harry.
Old Play.
While the gay company at Tubbermore dined sumptuously, and enjoyed the
luxuries of a splendid table with no other alloy to their pleasure than
the _ennui_ of people whose fastidiousness has grown into malady,
Mr. Corrigan sat in council at the cottage with his ancient ally, the
doctor. There was an appearance of constraint over each,--very unusual
with men who had been friends from boyhood; and in their long pauses,
and short, abrupt sentences, might be read the absence of that confiding
spirit which had bound them so many years like brothers.
It may be in the reader's recollection that while Corrigan was pledged
to secrecy by Linton respecting his revelations of Cashel, Tiernay was
equally bound by Roland not to divulge any of his plans for the old
man's benefit. Perhaps it was the first time in the life of either that
such a reserve had been practised. Certainly it weighed heavily upon
both; and more than once they were coming to the fatal resolve to
break their vows, and then some sudden thought--some unknown dread of
disconcerting the intentions of those who trusted them--would cross
their mind, and after a momentary struggle, a half cough, and muttered
“Well! well!” they would relapse into silence, each far too occupied by
himself to note the other's embarrassment.
It was after a long time and much thought that Corrigan perceived,
however pledged to Linton not to speak of Cashel's conduct respecting
the cottage, that he was in no wise bound to secrecy regarding the
proposal for Mary Leicester's hand; and this was, indeed, the topic on
which he was most desirous of the doctor's counsel.
“I have a secret for you, Tiernay,” said the old man, at length; “and
it is one which will surprise you. I have had an offer this morning
for Mary! Ay; just so. You often told me that nothing but this life of
isolation and retirement would have left her with me so long; but the
thought of losing her--the tangible, actual dread--never presented
itself before this day!”
“Who is it?” said Tiernay, shortly, but not without evident agitation of
manner.
“One who has never enjoyed much of your favor, Tiernay, and whom I
suspect you have judged with less than your habitual fairness.”
“I know the man. Linton?”
“It was Linton.”
“And he actually made this proposition?” said Tiernay, with an
expression of the most unbounded surprise in his features.
“To me, myself, in this room, he made it.”
“He asked you what her fortune would be?” said Tiernay, gruffly.
“He did not; he told me of his own. He said, that by a recent event he
had become possessed of sufficient property to make him indifferent to
the fortune of whoever he might marry. He spoke sensibly and well of his
future career, of the plans he had conceived, and the rules he made for
his own guidance; he spoke warmly of her with whom he wished to share
his fortunes; and lastly, he alluded in kind terms to myself, dependent
as I am upon her care, and living as I do upon her affection. In a word,
if there was not the ardor of a passionate lover, there was what I augur
better from,--the sentiments of one who had long reflected on his own
position in life, who knew the world well, and could be no mean guide
amid its dangers and difficulties.”
“Have you told Mary of this?”
“I have not. My answer to Linton was: 'Let me have time to think over
this proposal; give me some hours of thought before I even speak to my
granddaughter;' and he acceded at once.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Tiernay, rising, and pacing the room. “How
inadequate are we two old men--removed from intercourse with the world,
neither players nor lookers-on at the game of life--to cope with one
like him, and see what he purposes to himself by this alliance! As
for his affection, as for his power to feel her worth, to estimate the
gentle virtues of her spotless nature, I cannot, I will not believe it.”
“And for that very reason are you unfit to judge him. Your prejudices,
ever against him, are rendered stronger because you cannot divine
motives black enough to suit your theory; you give the benefit of all
your doubts against himself.”
“I know him to be a gambler in its worse sense. Not one who plays even
for the gratification of those alternating vacillations of hope and fear
which jaded, worn-out natures resort to as the recompense for blunted
emotions and blasted ambitions, but a gambler for gain!--that foul
amalgam of the miser and the knave. I 've seen him play the sycophant,
too, like one who studied long his part, and knew it thoroughly. No, no,
Con, it is not one like this must be husband of Mary!”
“I tell you again, Tiernay, you suffer your prejudices to outrun all
your prudence. The very fact that he asks in marriage a portionless
girl, without influence from family, and without the advantage of
station, should outweigh all your doubts twice told.”
“This does but puzzle me,--nothing more,” said Tiernay, doggedly. “Were
it Cashel, that high-hearted, generous youth, who made this offer--”
“I must stop you, Tiernay; you are as much at fault in your
over-estimate of _one_ as in your disparagement of the _other_. Cashel
is not what you deem him. Ask me not how I know it. I cannot, I dare not
tell you; it is enough that I do know it, and know it by the evidence of
my own eyes.”
“Then they have deceived you, that's all,” said Tiernay, roughly; “for I
tell you, and I speak now of what my own knowledge can sustain, that
he is the very soul of generosity,--a generosity that would imply
recklessness, if not guided by the shrinking delicacy of an almost
girlish spirit.”
“Tiernay, Tiernay, you are wrong, I say,” cried Corrigan, passionately.
“And _I_ say it is _you_ who are in error,” said Tiernay. “It was but
this morning I held in my hands--” He stopped, stammered, and was silent.
“Well,” cried Corrigan, “go on,--not that, indeed, you could convince
me against what my eyes have assured; for here, upon this table, I
beheld--”
“Out with it, man! Tell what jugglery has been practised on you, for I
see you have been duped.”
“Hush! here 's Mary!” cried Corrigan, who, scarcely able to control
himself, now walked the room in great agitation.
“You were talking so loud,” said Mary, “that I guessed you were
quarrelling about politics, and so I came to make peace.”
“We were not, Mary; but Tiernay is in one of his wrong-head humors.”
“And your grandfather in the silliest of his foolish ones!” exclaimed
Tiernay, as, snatching up his hat he left the cottage.