“It is a very naughty world, no doubt of it,” said Linton, lighting a fresh cigar; “and the worst of it is, it tempts one always to be as roguish as one's neighbors for self-preservation.”
“You say I am not at liberty to speak of this letter to Lady Kilgoff?”
“Of course not; I am myself a defaulter in having told the matter to you.”
Cashel paced the room hurriedly; and what a whirlwind of opposing thoughts rushed through his brain! for while at times all Lady Kilgoff s warnings about Linton, all his own suspicions of his duplicity and deceit, were uppermost, there was still enough in Linton's narrative, were it true, to account for Lady Kilgoff's hatred of him. The counsels he had given, and she rejected, were enough to furnish a feud forever between them. At which side lay the truth? And then, this letter about Maritaña,—who was the writer? Could it be Linton himself? and if so, would he have ventured to allude to it?
These thoughts harassed and distressed him at every instant, and in his present feeling towards Linton he could not ask his aid to solve the mystery.
Now, he was half disposed to charge him with the whole slander; his passion prompted him to seek an object for his vengeance, and the very cool air of indifference Linton assumed was provocative of anger. The next moment, he felt ashamed of such intemperate warmth, and almost persuaded himself to tell him of his proposal for Mary Leicester, and thus prove the injustice of the suspicion about Lady Kilgoff.
“There's a tap at the door, I think,” said Linton. “I suppose, if it's Frobisher, or any of them, you'd rather not be bored?” And, as if divining the answer, he arose and opened it.
“Lord Kilgoff's compliments, and requests Mr. Linton will come over to his room,” said his Lordship's valet.
“Very well,” said Linton, and closed the door. “What can the old peer want at this time of night? Am I to bring a message to you, Cashel?”
Cashel gave an insolent laugh.