“Of course, my dear fellow, I said a thousand things of you that I did n't believe—and, worse still, neither did he; but the upshot of all is, that he fancies it is a question between the peerage and the great untitled class; he has got it into his wise brain that the barons of Runnymede will rise from their monumental marble in horror and shame at such an invasion of 'the order;' and that there will be no longer security beneath the coronet when such a domestic Jack Cade as yourself goes at large.”
“I tell you again, Linton,—and let it be for the last time,—your pleasantry is most ill-timed. I cannot, I will not, gratify this old man's humor, and make myself ridiculous to pamper his absurd vanity. Besides, to throw a slander upon his wife, he must seek another instrument.”
By accident, mere accident, Cashel threw a more than usual significance into these last few words; and Linton, whose command over his features rarely failed, taken suddenly by what seemed a charge, grew deep red.
Cashel started as he saw the effect of his speech; he was like one who sees his chance shot has exploded a magazine.
“What!” cried he, “have you a grudge in that quarter, and is it thus you would pay it?”
“I hope you mean this in jest, Cashel?” said Linton, with a voice of forced calm.
“Faith, I never was less in a mood for joking; my words have only such meaning as your heart accuses you of.”
“Come, come, then there is no harm done. But pray, be advised, and never say as much to any one who has less regard for you. And now, once more, what shall we do with Kilgoff? He has charged me to carry you a message, and I only undertook the mission in the hope of some accommodation,—something that should keep the whole affair strictly amongst ourselves.”
“Then you wish for my answer?”
“Of course.”