“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.