The Grey Lady | Page 6

why the Honourable Mrs. Harrington should do all for the FitzHenrys
and nothing for Agatha. She did not attempt to attribute reasons. She
knew her sex too well for that. She merely wondered, which means that
she cherished a question until it grew into a grievance. The end of it she
knew would be a quarrel. This might not come until the FitzHenrys
should have grown to man's estate and man's privilege of quarrelling
with his female relatives about the youthful female relative of some
other person. But it would come, surely. Mrs. Ingham-Baker, the
parasite, knew her victim, Mrs. Harrington, well enough to be sure of
that.
And now that this quarrel had arisen--much sooner than she could have
hoped--providentially brought about by an astronomical
examination-paper, Mrs. Ingham-Baker was forced to face the
humiliating fact that she felt sorry for Luke.
It would have been different had Agatha been present, but that
ingenious maiden was at school at Brighton. Had her daughter been in
the room, Mrs. Ingham-Baker's motherly instinct would have narrowed
itself down to her. But in the absence of her own child, Luke's sorry
plight appealed to that larger maternal instinct which makes good
women in unlikely places.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker was, however, one of the many who learn to curb
the impulse of a charitable intention. She looked out of the window,
and pretended not to notice that the culprit had addressed his remark to
her. To complete this convenient deafness she gave a simulated little
cough of abstraction, which entirely gave her away.
Mrs. Harrington chose to ignore Luke's taunt.
"And," she inquired sweetly, "what do you intend to do now?"
Quite suddenly the boy turned on her.
"I intend," he cried, "to make my own life--whatever it may be. If I am
starving I will not come to you. If half-a-crown would save me, I would

rather die than borrow it from you. You think that you can buy
everything with your cursed money. You can't buy me. You can't buy a
FitzHenry. You--you can't--"
He gave a little sob, remembered his new manhood--that sudden,
complete manhood which comes of sorrow--pulled himself up, and
walked to the door. He opened it, turned once and glanced at his
brother, and passed out of the room.
So Luke FitzHenry passed out into his life--a life which he was to make
for himself. Passionate--quick to love, to hate, to suffer; deep in his
feeling, susceptible to ridicule or sarcasm--an orphan. The stairs were
dark as he went down them.
Mrs. Harrington gave a little laugh as the door closed behind him. She
had always been able to repurchase the friendship of her friends.
Fitz made a few steps towards the door before her voice arrested him.
"Stop!" she cried.
He paused, and the old sense of discipline that was in his blood made
him obey. He thought that he would find Luke upstairs on the bed with
his face buried in his folded arms, as he had found him a score of times
during their short life.
"I think you are too hard on him," he answered hotly. "It is bad enough
being ploughed, without having to stand abuse afterwards."
"My dear," said Mrs. Harrington, "just you come here and sit beside me.
We will leave Luke to himself for a little. It is much better. Let him
think it out alone."
What was there in this fair-haired boy's demeanour, voice, or being that
appealed to Mrs. Harrington, despite her sterner self?
So Fitz was pacified by the lady's gentler manner, and consented to
remain. He made good use of his time, pleading Luke's cause,
explaining his bad fortune, and modestly disclaiming any credit to
himself for having succeeded where his brother failed. But all the while
the boy was restless, eager to get away and run upstairs to Luke, who
he felt sure was living years in every moment, as children do in those
griefs which we take upon ourselves to call childish.
At last he rose.
"May I go now?" he asked.
"Yes, if you like. But do not bring Luke to me until he is prepared to
apologise for his ingratitude and rudeness."

"What a dear boy he is!" ejaculated Mrs. Ingham-Baker almost before
the door was closed. "So upright and honest and straightforward."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Harrington, with a sigh of anger.
"He will be a fine man," continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker. "I shall die
quite happy if my Agatha marries such a man as Henry will be."
Mrs. Harrington glanced at her voluminous friend rather critically.
"You do not look like dying yet," she said.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker put her head on one side and looked resigned.
"One never knows," she answered. "It is a great responsibility, Marian,
to have a daughter."
"I should imagine, from