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.