“What! do you fear for his life?”
“Life or intellect, one or the other, must pay the penalty. This is the second shock. The shipwreck gave the first, and rent the poor edifice almost in twain; this will, in all likelihood, lay it in ashes.”
“This is very dreadful!” said Cashel, upon whom the attendant event and the consequences were weighing heavily.
“He has told me all!” said Tiernay, almost sternly. “His jealousy and her levity, the rampant pride of station, the reckless freedom of a broken heart,—such are the ingredients that have made up a sad story, which may soon become a tragedy.”
“But there was no reason for it; his jealousy was absurd—unfounded.”
“As you will. You may go further, and say he could not lose what he never owned. I saw the peril—I even warned you of it.”
“I can only comprehend you by half,” said Cashel, impatiently. “You imply blame to me where I can feel none.”
“I blame you as I will ever do those who, not fearing danger for themselves, are as indifferent about their neighbors. It is not of this silly old man I am thinking here,—it is of her who, without a protector, should have found one in every man of generous and honorable feeling; not as you, perhaps, understand protection,—not by the challenge hurled in the face of all who would dare to asperse her fair name, but by that studied respect, that hallowed deference, that should avert detraction. Neither you nor any other could be the champion of her honor; but you might have been its defender by a better and a nobler heroism. It is too late to think of this now; let us not lose time in vain regrets. We must take measures that ungenerous reports should not be circulated.”
The door suddenly opened at the instant, and Linton, in his dressing-gown, entered; but, seeing Tiernay, made a motion to retire.
“Come in,” said Cashel; and there was something almost peremptory in the words.