“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.”