“Get the boat ready to take Major Stapylton to Inistioge.”
“You forget none of the precepts of hospitality,” said Stapylton, wheeling hastily around, and directing his steps towards the river.
Barrington looked after him as he went, and probably in his long and varied life, crossed with many a care and many troubles, he had never felt the pain of such severe self-reproach as in that moment. To see his guest, the man who had sat at his board and eaten his salt, going out into the dreary night without one hospitable effort to detain him, without a pledge to his health, without a warm shake of his hand, or one hearty wish for his return.
“Dear, dear!” muttered he, to himself, “what is the world come to! I thought I had no more experiences to learn of suffering; but here is a new one. Who would have thought to see the day that Peter Barrington would treat his guest this fashion?”
“Are you coming in to tea, grandpapa?” cried Josephine, from the garden.
“Here I am, my dear!”
“And your guest, Peter, what has become of him?” said Dinah.
“He had some very urgent business at Kilkenny; something that could not admit of delay, I opine.”
“But you have not let him go without his letters, surely. Here are all these formidable-looking despatches, on his Majesty's service, on the chimney-piece.”
“How forgetful of me!” cried he, as, snatching them up, he hastened down to the river-side. The boat, however, had just gone; and although he shouted and called at the top of his voice, no answer came, and he turned back at last, vexed and disappointed.