“Hold!” cried Corrigan, laying his hand on Linton's arm, “I cannot bear this. It is not at my age, sir, that disappointments like these can be borne easily. I have too short a time before me here to hope to recover from such shocks.”
“I would not willingly give you pain, my dear sir; nor indeed, is this the topic on which I am most anxious to address you. Another and a very different interest led me hither this morning; and, although I have thought long and maturely on the subject, I am as far as ever from knowing how to approach it. My own unworthiness to what I aspire recoils upon me at every instant, and nothing but the indulgent kindness with which you have always regarded me could give me courage. Forgive me this prolixity; I am like one who fears to plunge, lest he should never rise again.”
“If my estimate of you be correct,” said the old man, laying his hand upon Linton's, “the goal must needs be high to which you dare not aspire.”
“It is indeed so!” cried Linton, as if carried away by an irresistible emotion. “To me it means station, hope, worldly success, happiness,—ay, life itself. I cannot longer tamper with your feelings, nor my own. The ambition of which I speak, is to be your son; not alone in the affectionate love which already I bear you, but by the closest and dearest ties, to be bound to you in the same chain by which she is, who owns all my heart and all my destiny.”
He stopped as if overcome; and Corrigan, compassionating the agitation he seemed to suffer, said,—
“Be calm, my dear friend; this takes me by surprise. I was not in any way prepared for such an announcement; nor have I courage to look at its consequences; poor, old, companionless as I should be—”
“Nay, such cruelty was not in my thoughts. It was with far other intentions I became possessed of the property; it was in the glorious hope that it would be our home,—yours and mine together; not to render your hearth desolate, but to give it another guest, whose duty would be his title to be there.”
“Let me think,—let me reflect on this,—let me separate my own selfish thoughts from the higher ones that should guide me. You have not spoken to my daughter?”
“No, sir; I deemed the more honorable course to have your sanction; or, if not that, to bury my sorrows in silence forever.”
“There is so much to consider, and I am so weak and infirm, so inadequate to decide. Your proposal is a proud one for any girl,—I know it; and we are proud, although poor. Ay, Mr. Linton, poor to very necessity! If her affections were engaged by you, if I saw that your high qualities had made the impression upon her that they have on me, I own this offer would delight me; but can you say this is the case?”