“I cannot afford to give a man my confidence, because I am unable to sound his intentions,” said Tiernay. “I disliked this Linton from the first, and I never yet saw any distinct reason to alter the sentiment. That he has puzzled me—ay, completely puzzled me and all my calculations, within the last few days, is quite true. He has done that which, in a man like himself, disconcerts one altogether, because it is so difficult to trace his probable motive. What would you say, were I to tell you that this deep man of the world, this artful and subtle gambler in the game of life, has actually proposed for a girl who is utterly without fortune or family influence? That she is endowed with noble attributes—that she is one a prince might have chosen to share his fortunes, I deem as nothing to the purpose, for I cannot conceive such qualities as hers could weigh with him; but so it is,—he has actually made an offer of his hand.”
“Dare your confidence go further?” said Cashel, eagerly, “and tell me—to whom?”
“Yes. I have been guilty of one breach of faith in telling you so much, and I 'll hazard all, and let you hear the remainder. It was Mary Leicester.”
“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel, but in a voice barely audible.
“Mary Leicester,” continued Tiernay, “may count it among her triumphs to have attracted one whom all the world regards as an adventurer; a man living by the exercise of his clever wits, profiting by the weaknesses and follies of his acquaintances, and deriving his subsistence from the vices he knows how to pamper.”
“And what answer has he received?” asked Cashel, timidly.
“None, as yet. Poor Corrigan, overwhelmed by misfortune, threatened by one whose menace, if enforced, would be his death-stroke, has begged for a day or two to consider; but the reply is certain.”
“And will be—” Cashel could not command his emotion as he spoke.
“Refusal.”
“You are certain of this, Tiernay? You are positive of what you say?”