"And was it me, dearest papa?"

"No, Mary," said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, "it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that--that"--he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm--"that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make.

And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment--to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions--I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be."

"Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be."

The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man's eyes, and he turned away to hide them.

"It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more--less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks--and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?"

The old man's grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the exclusion of every other thought.

"And yet, Mary," said he, recovering something of his habitual tone, "there is an alternative--one which, if we could accept of it from choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it.

I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you--how thoughts of _me_ old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that he should be one of us, Mary--a new partner in our firm--a new member in the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties that bind us most closely--he talks of our home here as we ourselves might do--he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of whom I speak."

Mary Leicester's cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not; but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and was silent.

"I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child, there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?"

The old man drew her more closely to his side, and pa.s.sed his arm around her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head, seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she said,--

"You have often told me, papa, that disproportion of fortune was an insurmountable obstacle to married happiness; that the sense of perfect equality in condition was the first requisite of that self-esteem which must be the basis of an affection free and untrammelled from all unworthy considerations."

"Yes, dearest; I believe this to be true."

"Then, surely, the present is not a case in point; for while there is wealth and influence on one side, there are exactly the opposites on the other. If _he_ be in a position to make his choice among the great and t.i.tled of the land, _my_ destiny lies among the lowly and humble. What disparity could be greater?"

"When I spoke of equality," said the old man, "I referred rather to that of birth and lineage than to any other; I meant that social equality by which uniformity of tastes and habits are regulated. There is no _mesalliance_ where good blood runs on both sides."

This was the tenderest spot in the old man's nature; the pride of family surviving every successive stroke of fortune, or, rather, rising superior to them all.

"I thought, moreover," said Mary, "that in his preference of me, there was that suddenness which savored more of caprice than deep conviction.

How should I reckon upon its lasting? What evidence have I that he cares for the qualities which will not change in me, and not for those which spring from youth and happiness?--for I am happy, dearest pa; so happy that, with all our trials and difficulties, I often accuse myself of levity--insensibility even--feeling so light-hearted as I do."

The old man looked at her with rapture, and then pressed his lips upon her forehead.

"From all this, then, I gather, Mary," said he, smiling archly, "that, certain misgivings apart, the proposition is not peculiarly disagreeable to you?"

"I am sure I have not said so," said she, confusedly.

"No, dearest; only looked it. But stay, I heard the wicket close--there is some one coming. I expected Tiernay on a matter of business. Leave us together, child; and, till we meet, think over what we 've been saying.

Remember, too, that although I would not influence your decision, my heart would be relieved of its heaviest load if this could be."

Mary Leicester arose hastily and retired, too happy to hide, in the secrecy of her own room, that burst of emotion which oppressed her, and whose utterance she could no longer restrain.

Scarcely had she gone, when Linton crossed the gra.s.s-plot, and entered the cottage. A gentle tap at the door of the drawing-room announced him, and he entered. A more acute observer than Mr. Corrigan might have remarked that the deferential humility so characteristic of his manner was changed for an air of more purpose-like determination. He came to carry a point by promptness and boldness; and already his bearing announced the intention.

After a few words of customary greeting, and an inquiry more formal than cordial for Miss Leicester's health, he a.s.sumed an air of solemn purpose, and said,--

"You will not accuse me of undue impatience, my dear Mr. Corrigan, nor think me needlessly pressing, if I tell you that I have come here this morning to learn the answer to my late proposition. Circ.u.mstances have occurred at the hall to make my remaining there, even another day, almost impossible. Cashel's last piece of conduct is of such a nature as to make his acquaintance as derogatory as his friendship."

"What was it?"

"Simply this. Lord Kilgoff has at length discovered what all the world has known for many a day back; and, in his pa.s.sionate indignation, the poor old man has been seized with a paralytic attack."

Mr. Corrigan pa.s.sed his hand across his brow, as if to clear away some terrible imagination, and sat then pale, silent, and attentive, as Linton went on,--

"The most heartless is yet to come! While this old man lies stretched upon his bed--insensible and dying--this is the time Cashel selects to give a great entertainment, a ball, to above a thousand people. It is almost too much for belief--so I feel it myself. The palsied figure of his victim--his victim, do I say? there are two: that miserable woman, who sits as paralyzed by terror as he is by disease--might move any man from such levity; but Cashel is superior to such timidity; he fancies, I believe, that this ruffian hardihood is manliness, that brutal insensibility means courage, and so he makes his house the scene of an orgy, when his infamy has covered it with shame. I see how this affects you, sir; it is a theme on which I would never have touched did it not concern my own fortunes. For me, the acquaintance of such a man is no longer possible. For the sake of that unhappy woman, whom I knew in better days--to cover, as far as may be, the exposure that sooner or later must follow her fault--I am still here. You will, therefore, forgive my importunity if I ask if Miss Leicester has been informed of my proposal, and with what favor she deigns to regard it."

"I have told my granddaughter, sir," said the old man, tremulously, "we have talked together on the subject; and while I am not able to speak positively of her sentiments towards you, it strikes me that they are a.s.suredly not unfavorable. The point is, however, too important to admit a doubt: with your leave, we will confer together once again."

"Might I not be permitted to address the young lady myself, sir? The case too nearly concerns all my future happiness to make me neglect whatever may conduce to its accomplishment."

The old man hesitated; he knew not well what reply to make. At length he said,--

"Be it so, Mr. Linton; you shall have this permission. I only ask, that before you do so, we should clearly and distinctly understand each other. _We_ are of the world, and can discuss its topics, man to man.

With _her_, the matter rests on other and very different grounds."

"Of course; so I understand the permission, sir," said Linton, courteously, "on the distinct understanding that her acceptance alone is wanting to fill up the measure of my wishes."

"Is it necessary that I should repeat that I am totally dest.i.tute of fortune--that the humble means I possess expire with me, and that I am as poor in influence as in all else?"

"I have sufficient for both, sir, for all that moderate wishes can desire. Pray do not add a word upon the subject."

"I must be explicit, Mr. Linton, however wearisome to you the theme.

You will pardon an old man's prolixity, in consideration for the motives which prompt it. We have absolutely nothing of our once powerful family, save the name and the escutcheon,--mementos to remind us of our fall!

They did, indeed, say, some time back, that our t.i.tle to the estate afforded strong grounds for litigation--that there were points of considerable importance--"

"May I interrupt you, sir?" said Linton, laying his hand on Corrigan's arm. "A subject so full of regrets to _you_ can never be a pleasing topic to _me_. I am fully as rich as a man like myself could desire; and I trust to personal exertions for whatever I may wish to add in the way of ambition."

"And with good reason, sir," said Corrigan, proudly. "There are no failures to those who unite honesty of purpose with fine abilities. I will not add a word. Go--speak to my granddaughter: I tell you frankly my best wishes go with you."

Linton smiled a look of deep grat.i.tude, and moved towards the door.

"One second more," cried Corrigan, as the other laid his hand on the lock; "it may soon be, that, as a member of our family, you would have the right to express a will on the subject we have been talking of. I would wish to say, that, as I have abandoned all desire to contest this question, I should equally expect the same line of conduct from you."

"Can you doubt it, sir--or is it necessary that I should give my promise?"

"I hope and trust not. But having myself given a written pledge, under my own hand and seal, to Mr. Cashel, surrendering all right and t.i.tle to this estate--"

"Who gave this?" said Linton, turning suddenly round, and relinquishing his hold upon the lock of the door. "Who gave this?"

"I gave it."

"To whom?"

"To Mr. Cashel, in the presence of his agent."

"When?" exclaimed Linton, from whose pale features, now, intense agitation had banished all disguise. "When did you give it?"