It was late that night when Harry came in.  The servants, with whose terrors and superstitions Casey had taken such liberties, now looked upon him as something awful, and, as might be naturally expected, felt a dreadful curiosity with respect to him and his movements.  They lay awake on the night in question, with the express purpose of satisfying themselves as to the hour of his return, and as that was between twelve and one, they laid it down as a certain fact that there was something “not light,” and beyond the common in his remaining out so late.

CHAPTER IX.  Chase of the White Hare.

“Hark, forward, forward; holla ho!”

The next morning our friend Harry appeared at the breakfast table rather paler than usual, and in one of his most abstracted moods; for it may be said here that the frequent occurrence of such moods had not escaped the observation of his family, especially of his step-father, in whose good grace, it so happened, that he was not improving.  One cause of this was his supercilious, or, rather, his contemptuous manner towards his admirable and affectionate brother.  He refused to associate with him in his sports or diversions; refused him his confidence, and seldom addressed him, except in that tone of banter which always implies an offensive impression of inferiority and want of respect towards the object of it.  After breakfast the next morning, his father said to Charles, when the other members of the family had all left the room,—­

“Charley, there is something behind that gloom of Harry’s which I don’t like.  Indeed, altogether, he has not improved upon me since his return, and you are aware that I knew nothing of him before.  I cannot conceive his object in returning home just now, and, it seems, with no intention of going back.  His uncle was the kindest of men to him, and intended to provide for him handsomely.  It is not for nothing he would leave such an uncle, and it is not for nothing that such an uncle would part with him, unless there was a screw loose somewhere.  I don’t wish to press him into an explanation; but he has not offered any, and refuses, of course, to place any confidence in me.”

“My dear father,” replied the generous brother, “I fear you judge him too harshly.  As for these fits of gloom, they may be constitutional; you know my mother has them, and won’t speak to one of us sometimes for whole days together.  It is possible that some quarrel or misunderstanding may have taken place between him and his uncle; but how do you know that his silence on the subject does not proceed from delicacy towards that relative?”

“Well, it may be so; and it is a very kind and generous interpretation which you give of it, Charley.  Let that part of the subject pass, then; but, again, regarding this marriage.  The principle upon which he and his mother are proceeding is selfish, heartless, and perfidious in the highest degree; and d——­ me if I think it would be honorable in me to stand by and see such a villainous game played against so excellent a family—­against so lovely and so admirable a girl as Alice Goodwin.  It is a union between the kite and the dove, Charley, and it would be base and cowardly in me to see such a union accomplished.”