“Yes, I 'll write,” said Cashel, still musing on his own thoughts.
“I see pretty plainly,” cried Linton, laughing, “there's no earthly use in asking you questions just now, your brain being otherwise occupied, and so, good-bye.”
“Good-bye—good-bye,” said Cashel, endeavoring, but not with a very good grace to shake off his pre-occupation while he shook hands with him; and Linton descended the stairs, humming an opera air, with all the seeming light-heartedness of a very careless nature.
Cashel, meanwhile, sat down, and, with his head resting on his hand, pondered over their late interview. There were two circumstances which both puzzled and distressed him. How came it that Linton should have written this note to Kennyfeck on a subject which only seemed to have actually suggested itself in the course of this their very last conversation? Had he already planned the whole campaign respecting the seat in Parliament and the qualification, and was his apparently chance allusion to those topics a thing studied and devised beforehand? This, if true, would argue very ill for his friend's candor and fair dealing; and yet, how explain it otherwise? Was there any other seat open to him for which to need a qualification? If so, he had never spoken of it. It was the first time in his life that Cashel had conceived a suspicion of one whom he had regarded in the light of friend, and only they who have undergone a similar trial can understand the poignant suffering of the feeling; and yet, palpable as the cause of such a doubt was, he had never entertained it had not Linton spoken disparagingly of the Kennyfecks! This is a curious trait of human nature, but one worth consideration; and while leaving it to the elucidation the penetration of each reader may suggest, we only reiterate the fact, that while Cashel could, without an effort, have forgiven the duplicity practised on himself, the levity Linton employed respecting Olivia engendered doubts of his honor too grave to be easily combated.
As for Linton scarcely had he quitted Cashel, than he hastened to call on Kennyfeck; he had written the note already alluded to, to leave at the house should the solicitor be from home; but having left it by accident on the writing-table, his servant, discovering it to be sealed and addressed, had, without further question, left it at Kennyfeck's house. As Linton went along, he searched his pockets for the epistle, but consoled himself by remembering how he had left it at home.
A few moments later found him at Kennyfeck's door. The attorney was at home, and, without any announcement, Linton entered the study where he sat.
“I was this instant writing to you, sir,” said Kennyfeck, rising, and placing a seat for him; “Mr Cashel, on being informed of the wish expressed in your note—”
“Of what note?” said Linton, in a voice of, for him, very unusual agitation.
“This note—here, sir,—dated—no, by-the-by, it is not dated, but brought by your servant two hours ago.”
Linton took the paper, glanced his eye over it, and then, in mingled chagrin and forgetfulness, tore it, and threw the fragments into the fire.