Part 9 (1/2)
”I wish I may be strong enough; I hope to Heaven that I may rally--”
Glencore stopped suddenly as he got thus far, but the agitation the words cost him seemed most painful.
”I say again, don't distress yourself about Upton,--leave the care of entertaining him to _me_. I 'll vouch for it that he leaves us well satisfied with his welcome.”
”It was not of _that_ I was thinking,” said he, impatiently; ”I have much to say to him,--things of great importance. It may be that I shall be unequal to the effort; I cannot answer for my strength for a day,--not for an hour. Could you not write to him, and ask him to defer his coming till such time as he can spare me a week, or at least some days?”
”My dear Glencore, you know the man well, and that we are lucky if we can have him on his _own_ terms, not to think of imposing _ours_; he is sure to have a number of engagements while he is in England.”
”Well, be it so,” said Glencore, sighing, with the air of a man resigning himself to an inevitable necessity.
CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL.
”Not come, Craggs!” said Harcourt, as late on the Sat.u.r.day evening the Corporal stepped on sh.o.r.e, after crossing the lough.
”No, sir, no sign of him. I sent a boy away to the top of 'the Devil's Mother,' where you have a view of the road for eight miles, but there was nothing to be seen.”
”You left orders at the post-office to have a boat in readiness if he arrived?”
”Yes, Colonel,” said he, with a military salute; and Harcourt now turned moodily towards the Castle.
Glencore had scarcely ever been a very cheery residence, but latterly it had become far gloomier than before. Since the night of Lord Glencore's sudden illness, there had grown up a degree of constraint between the two friends which to a man of Harcourt's disposition was positive torture. They seldom met, save at dinner, and then their reserve was painfully evident.
The boy, too, in unconscious imitation of his father, grew more and more distant; and poor Harcourt saw himself in that position, of all others the most intolerable,--the unwilling guest of an unwilling host.
”Come or not come,” muttered he to himself, ”I 'll bear this no longer.
There is, besides, no reason why I should bear it. I 'm of no use to the poor fellow; he does not want, he never sees me. If anything, my presence is irksome to him; so that, happen what will, I 'll start to-morrow, or next day at farthest.”
He was one of those men to whom deliberation on any subject was no small labor, but who, once that they have come to a decision, feel as if they had acquitted a debt, and need give themselves no further trouble in the matter. In the enjoyment of this newly purchased immunity he entered the room where Glencore sat impatiently awaiting him.
”Another disappointment!” said the Viscount, anxiously.
”Yes; Craggs has just returned, and says there's no sign of a carriage for miles on the Oughterard road.”
”I ought to have known it,” said the other, in a voice of guttural sternness. ”He was ever the same; an appointment with him was an engagement meant only to be binding on those who expected him.”
”Who can say what may have detained him? He was in London on business,--public business, too; and even if he had left town, how many chance delays there are in travelling.”
”I have said every one of these things over to myself, Harcourt; but they don't satisfy me. This is a habit with Upton. I 've seen him do the same with his Colonel, when he was a subaltern; I 've heard of his arrival late to a Court dinner, and only smiling at the dismay of the horrified courtiers.”
”Egad,” said Harcourt, bluntly, ”I don't see the advantage of the practice. One is so certain of doing fifty things in this daily life to annoy one's friends, through mere inadvertence or forgetfulness, that I think it is but sorry fun to incur their ill-will by malice prepense.”
”That is precisely why he does it.”
”Come, come, Glencore; old Rixson was right when he said, 'Heaven help the man whose merits are canva.s.sed while they wait dinner for him.' I 'll order up the soup, for if we wait any longer we 'll discover Upton to be the most graceless vagabond that ever walked.”
”I know his qualities, good and bad,” said Glencore, rising, and pacing the room with slow, uncertain steps; ”few men know him better. None need tell me of his abilities; none need instruct me as to his faults.
What others do by accident, _he_ does by design. He started in life by examining how much the world would bear from him; he has gone on, profiting by the experience, and improving on the practice.”