The Grey Lady | Page 7

Henry Seton Merriman
what I have seen of Agatha, that the child is
quite capable of taking care of herself."
"Yes," answered the fond mother, "she is intelligent. But a girl is so
helpless in the world, and when I am gone I should feel happier if I
knew that my child had a good husband, such as Fitz, to take care of
her."
Neither of these ladies being of the modern school of feminine learning,
the vague theology underlying this remark was allowed to pass
unnoticed.
Mrs. Harrington drummed with her thin wrinkled fingers on the arm of
her chair, and waited with a queer anticipatory little smile for her friend
to proceed.
"But, of course," continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker, blundering into the
little feminine snare, "a naval man can scarcely marry. They are always
so badly off. I suppose poor Fitz will not be able to support a wife until
he is quite middle-aged."
"That remains to be seen," said Mrs. Harrington, with a gleam in her
hard grey eyes, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker pricked her finger.
"I am sure," said the latter lady unctuously, when she had had time to
think it out, "I am sure I should be content for her to live very quietly if
I only knew that she had married a good man. I always say that riches
do not make happiness."
"Yes, a number of people say that," answered Mrs. Harrington, and at
the same moment Fitz burst into the room.
"Aunt Marian," he cried, "he has gone!"
"Who has gone?" asked the lady of the house coldly. "Please close the
door."

"Luke! He has gone! He went straight out of the house, and the butler
does not know where he went to! It is all your fault, Aunt Marian; you
had no right to speak to him like that! You know you hadn't. I am going
to look for him."
"Now, do not get excited," said Mrs. Harrington soothingly. "Just come
here and listen to me. Luke has behaved very badly. He has been idle
and stubborn on board the Britannia. He has been rude and ungrateful
to me."
She found she had taken the boy's hand, and she dropped it suddenly,
as if ashamed of showing so much emotion.
"I am not going to have my house upset by the tantrums of a bad-
tempered boy. It is nearly dinner time. Luke is sure to come back. If he
is not back by the time we have finished dinner I will send one of the
men out to look for him. He is probably sulking in some corner of the
gardens."
Seeing that Fitz was white with anxiety, she forgot herself so much as
to draw him to her again.
"Now, Fitz," she said, "you must obey me and leave me to manage
Luke in my own way. I know best. Just go and dress for dinner. Luke
will come back--never fear."
But Luke did not come back.

CHAPTER III
. A SEA DOG.
There is one that slippeth in his speech, but not from his heart.
The glass door of the dining-room of the Hotel of the Four Nations at
Barcelona was opened softly, almost nervously, by a shock-headed
little man, who peered into the room.
One of the waiters stepped forward and drew out a chair.
"Thank ye--thank ye," said the new-comer, in a thick though pleasant
voice.
He looked around, rather bewildered--as if he had never seen a table
d'hote before. It almost appeared as if a doubt existed in his mind
whether or not he was expected to go and shake hands with some one
present, explaining who he was.
As, however, no one appeared to invite this confidence he took the

chair offered and sat gravely down.
The waiter laid the menu at his side, and the elderly diner, whose face
and person bespoke a seafaring life, gazed politely at it. He was
obviously desirous of avoiding hurting the young man's feelings, but
the card puzzled as much as it distressed him.
Observing with the brightest of blue eyes the manners and customs of
his neighbours, the old sailor helped himself to a little wine from the
decanter set in front of him, and filled up the glass with water.
The waiter drew forward a small dish of olives and another containing
slices of red sausage of the thickness, consistency, and flavour of a
postage stamp. The Englishman looked dubiously at these delicacies
and shook his head--still obviously desirous of giving no offence. Soup
was more comprehensible, and the sailor consumed his portion with a
non-committing countenance. But the fish, which happened to be of a
Mediterranean savour--served in little lumps--caused considerable
hesitation.
"Is it slugs?" inquired the mariner guardedly--as if open to
conviction--in a voice that penetrated half the length
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