“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 canvassed 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.”
“Well, if I don't mistake me much, he 'll soon appear to plead his own cause. I hear oars coming speedily in this direction.”
And so saying, Harcourt hurried away to resolve his doubts at once. As he reached the little jetty, over which a large signal-fire threw a strong red light, he perceived that he was correct, and was just in time to grasp Upton's hand as he stepped on shore.
“How picturesque all this, Harcourt,” said he, in his soft, low voice; “a leaf out of 'Rob Roy.' Well, am I not the mirror of punctuality, eh?”
“We looked for you yesterday, and Glencore has been so impatient.”
“Of course he has; it is the vice of your men who do nothing. How is he? Does he dine with us? Fritz, take care those leather pillows are properly aired, and see that my bath is ready by ten o 'clock. Give me your arm, Harcourt; what a blessing it is to be such a strong fellow!”
“So it is, by Jove! I am always thankful for it. And you—how do you get on? You look well.”
“Do I?” said he, faintly, and pushing back his hair with an almost fine-ladylike affectation. “I 'm glad you say so. It always rallies me a little to hear I 'm better. You had my letter about the fish?”
“Ay, and I'll give you such a treat.”
“No, no, my dear Harcourt; a fried mackerel, or a whiting and a few crumbs of bread—nothing more.”
“If you insist, it shall be so; but I promise you I'll not be of your mess, that's all. This is a glorious spot for turbot—and such oysters!”
“Oysters are forbidden me, and don't let me have the torture of temptation. What a charming place this seems to be!—very wild, very rugged.”
“Wild—rugged! I should think it is,” muttered Harcourt.
“This pathway, though, does not bespeak much care. I wish our friend yonder would hold his lantern a little lower. How I envy you the kind of life you lead here—so tranquil, so removed from all bores! By the way, you get the newspapers tolerably regularly?”
“Yes, every day.”
“That's all right. If there be a luxury left to any man after the age of forty, it is to be let alone. It's the best thing I know of. What a terrible bit of road! They might have made a pathway.”
“Come, don't grow faint-hearted. Here we are; this is Glencore.”
“Wait a moment. Just let him raise that lantern. Really this is very striking—a very striking scene altogether. The doorway excellent, and that little watch-tower, with its lone-star light, a perfect picture.”
“You 'll have time enough to admire all this; and we are keeping poor Glencore waiting,” said Harcourt, impatiently.
“Very true; so we are.”
“Glencore's son, Upton,” said Harcourt, presenting the boy, who stood, half pride, half bashfulness, in the porch.
“My dear boy, you see one of your father's oldest friends in the world,” said Upton, throwing one arm on the boy's shoulder, apparently caressing, but as much to aid himself in ascending the stair. “I'm charmed with your old Schloss here, my dear,” said he, as they moved along. “Modern architects cannot attain the massive simplicity of these structures. They have a kind of confectionery style with false ornament, and inappropriate decoration, that bears about the same relation to the original that a suit of Drury Lane tinfoil does to a coat of Milanese mail armor. This gallery is in excellent taste.”
And as he spoke, the door in front of him opened, and the pale, sorrow-struck, and sickly figure of Glencore stood before him. Upton, with all his self-command, could scarcely repress an exclamation at the sight of one whom he had seen last in all the pride of youth and great personal powers; while Glencore, with the instinctive acuteness of his morbid temperament, as quickly saw the impression he had produced, and said, with a deep sigh—
“Ay, Horace, a sad wreck.”
“Not so, my dear fellow,” said the other, taking the thin, cold hand within both his own; “as seaworthy as ever, after a little dry-docking and refitting. It is only a craft like that yonder,” and he pointed to Harcourt, “that can keep the sea in all weathers, and never care for the carpenter. You and I are of another build.”
“And you—how are you?” asked Glencore, relieved to turn attention away from himself, while he drew his arm within the other's.
“The same poor ailing mortal you always knew me,” said Upton, languidly; “doomed to a life of uncongenial labor, condemned to climates totally unstated to me, I drag along existence, only astonished at the trouble I take to live, knowing pretty well as I do what life is worth.”
“'Jolly companions every one!' By Jove!” said Har-court, “for a pair of fellows who were born on the sunny side of the road, I must say you are marvellous instances of gratitude.”
“That excellent hippopotamus,” said Upton, “has no-thought for any calamity if it does not derange his digestion! How glad I am to see the soup! Now, Glencore, you shall witness no invalid's appetite.”
As the dinner proceeded, the tone of the conversation grew gradually lighter and pleasanter. Upton had only to permit his powers to take their free course to be agreeable, and now talked away on whatever came uppermost, with a charming union of reflectiveness and repartee. If a very rigid purist might take occasional Gallicisms in expression, and a constant leaning to French modes of thought, none could fail to be delighted with the graceful ease with which he wandered from theme to theme, adorning each with some trait of that originality which was his chief characteristic. Harcourt was pleased without well knowing how or why, while to Glencore it brought back the memory of the days of happy intercourse with the world, and all the brilliant hours of that polished circle in which he had lived. To the pleasure, then, which his powers conferred, there succeeded an impression of deep melancholy, so deep as to attract the notice of Harcourt, who hastily asked—
“If he felt ill?”
“Not worse,” said he, faintly, “but weak—weary; and I know Upton will forgive me if I say good-night.”