And now, when it was quite apparent that Luke was a sailor and nothing else, the Navy would have none of him. Those who knew him--his kindly old captain and others--averred that, with a strict and unquestionable discipline, Luke FitzHenry could be made a first-class officer and a brilliant sailor. No one quite understood him, not even his brother Henry, usually known as Fitz. Fitz did not understand him now; he had not understood him since the fatal notice had been posted on the broad mainmast, of which some may wot. He did not know what to say, so, like the wise old Duke, he said nothing.
In the meantime the train raced on. Every moment brought them nearer to London and to the Honourable Mrs. Harrington.
Fitz seemed to be realising this, for he glanced uneasily at his brother, whose morose, sullen face was turned resolutely towards the window.
“She’ll be a fool,” he said, “if she does not give you another chance.”
“I would not take it,” answered Luke mechanically.
He was darker than his brother, with a longer chin and a peculiar twist of the lips. His eyes were lighter in colour, and rather too close together. A keen observer would have put him down as a boy who in manhood might go wrong. The strange thing was that no one could have hesitated for a moment in selecting Luke as the cleverer of the two.
Fitz paused. He was not so quick with his tongue as with his limbs. He knew his brother well enough to foresee the effect of failure. Luke FitzHenry was destined to be one of those unfortunate men who fail ungracefully.
“Do not decide in too great a hurry,” said Fitz at length, rather lamely. “Don’t be a fool!”
“No, it has been decided for me by my beastly bad luck.”
“It was bad luck--deuced bad luck.”