Captain Con’s behaviour grieved her.  And it certainly revived an ancient accusation against his countrymen.  If he cared for her so much, why had he not placed confidence in her and commissioned her to speak of his election to his wife?  Irishmen will never be quite sincere!—­But why had his cousin exposed him to one whom he greatly esteemed?  However angry he might be with Con O’Donnell in his disapproval of the captain’s conduct, it was not very considerate to show the poor man to her in his natural colours.  Those words:  ‘The consolidation of the Union:’  sprang up.  She had a dim remembrance of words ensuing:  ’ceremonies going at a funeral pace . . . on the highway to the solidest kind of union:’—­Yes, he wrote:  ‘I leave you to . . .’  And Captain Philip showed her the letter: 

She perceived motives beginning to stir.  He must have had his intention:  and now as to his character!—­Jane was of the order of young women possessing active minds instead of figured paste-board fronts, who see what there is to be seen about them and know what may be known instead of decorously waiting for the astonishment of revelations.  As soon as she had asked herself the nature of the design of so honourable a man as Captain Philip in showing her his cousin’s letter, her blood spun round and round, waving the reply as a torch; and the question of his character confirmed it.

But could he be imagined seeking to put her on her guard?  There may be modesty in men well aware of their personal attractions:  they can credit individual women with powers of resistance.  He was not vain to the degree which stupefies the sense of there being weight or wisdom in others.  And he was honour’s own.  By these lights of his character she read the act.  His intention was . . . and even while she saw it accurately, the moment of keen perception was overclouded by her innate distrust of her claim to feminine charms.  For why should he wish her to understand that he was no fortune-hunter and treated heiresses with greater reserve than ordinary women!  How could it matter to him?

She saw the tears roll.  Tears of men sink plummet-deep; they find their level.  The tears of such a man have more of blood than of water in them.—­What was she doing when they fell?  She was shading his head from the sun.  What, then, if those tears came of the repressed desire to thank her with some little warmth?  He was honour’s own, and warmhearted Patrick talked of him as a friend whose heart was, his friend’s.  Thrilling to kindness, and, poor soul! helpless to escape it, he felt. perhaps that he had never thanked her, and could not.  He lay there, weak and tongue-tied:  hence those two bright volumes of his condition of weakness.