“Mere debility, nervous debility, my Lord. You are paying the heavy debt an overworked intellect must always acquit; but rest and repose will soon restore you.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered the other, with a weak smile, as though, without fathoming the sentiment, he felt that something agreeable to his feelings had been spoken.
“I have been impatient for your recovery, my Lord, I will confess to you, on personal grounds; I feel now how much I have been indebted to your Lordship's counsel and advice all through life, by the very incertitude that tracks me. In fact, I can resolve on nothing, determine nothing, without your sanction.”
The old man nodded assentingly; the assurance had his most sincere conviction.
“It would seem, my Lord, that I must—whether I will or no—stand for this borough, here; there is no alternative, for you are aware that Cashel is quite unfit for public business. Each day he exhibits more and more of those qualities which bespeak far more goodness of heart than intellectual training or culture. His waywardness and eccentricity might seriously damage his own party,—could he even be taught that he had one,—and become terrible weapons in the hands of the enemy. I was speaking of Cashel, my Lord,” said Linton, as it were answering the look of inquiry in the old man's face.
“I hate him, sir,” said the old peer, with a bitterness of voice and look that well suited the words.
“I really cannot wonder at it,” said Linton, with a deep sigh; “such duplicity is too shocking—far too shocking—to contemplate.”
“Eh! what? What did you say, sir?” cried the old man, impatiently.
“I was remarking, my Lord, that I have no confidence in his sincerity; that he strikes me as capable of playing a double part.”
A look of disappointment succeeded to the excited expression of the old man's face; he had evidently expected some revelation, and now his features became clouded and gloomy.