“I should say as creditor and debtor,” said Linton; “but probably we are speaking in synonyms. Now, sir, a truce to this altercation, for which I have neither time nor taste. Tell me frankly, can you obtain repossession of this unlucky document which, in an ill-starred moment, you parted with? If you can, and will do so, I am willing to resume the position I occupied towards you half an hour ago. This is plain speaking, I am aware; but how much better than to bandy mock courtesies, in which neither of us have any faith! We are both men of the world—I, at least, have no shame in saying that I am such. Let us then be frank and business-like.”
“You have at last filled up the measure of your insults, sir,” said Corrigan, fiercely; “you have dared to speak of me as of yourself.”
“It is a compliment I have not paid a great many, notwithstanding,” replied Linton, with a languid insolence of manner that contrasted strongly with the other's natural warmth; “and there are people in this world would accept it as a flattery; but once more I say, let us abandon this silly squabble. Will you, or will you not, accept my proposal? I am ready to purchase the wreck as she lies upon the rocks, wave-tossed and shattered. Is it not better to give me the chance of floating her, than see her go to pieces before your eyes, and drift piecemeal into the wide ocean?”
“Leave me, sir—leave me! =” was all the old man could utter.
“If I take you at your word,” said Linton, rising, “remember that the last gleam of hope for you departs when I close that door behind me. I warn you that I am little given to relenting.”
“Insolent scoundrel!” cried Corrigan, carried away by indignation.
“Unhandsomely spoken, old gentleman; such words are ill-befitting gray hairs and palsied hands, but I forgive them. I repeat, however, my nature is not over-disposed to forgiveness; an injury with me is like a malady that leaves its mark behind it. The day may come when all your entreaties, aided even by the fair supplications of a more gentle penitent—”
“If you dare, sir!” cried Corrigan, interrupting; and the insolence, schooled and practised in many a trial, quailed before the look and gesture of the old man.
“You shall have your choice, then,” said Linton. “From henceforth you will have to confess that I am not a secret enemy.” And so saying, he opened the sash which led into the garden and passed out, leaving Corrigan overcome by emotion, and almost panic-stricken.
The deceptions which are practised on youth are seldom attended with lasting influence; but when they fall upon a heart chilled and saddened by age, they are stunning in their effect, and seldom, or never, admit of relief.