Instead,
by a fortunate chance, the large schooner yacht of a rather eccentric old
friend came in to Venice, and the father eagerly accepted the invitation to
go on board and bring his invalid.
The owner, one Captain Grigsby, had been quite alone, so the three men
would be in peace, and nothing could be better for Paul than this warm sea
air.
"Typhoid fever?" Mark Grigsby had asked.
"No," Sir Charles had replied, "considerable mental tribulation over a
woman."
"D--d kittle cattle!" was Captain Grigsby's polite comment. "A fine boy,
too, and promising--"
"Appears to have been almost worth while," Sir Charles added, "from what I
gather--and, confound it, Grig, we'd have done the same in our day."
But Captain Grigsby only repeated: "D--d kittle cattle!"
And so they weighed anchor, and sailed along the Italian shores of the
sun-lit Adriatic.
These were better days for Paul. Each hour brought him back some health and
vigour. Youth and strength were asserting their own again, and the absence
of familiar objects, and the glory of the air and the blue sea helped
sometimes to deaden the poignant agony of his aching heart. But there it
was underneath, an ever-present, dull anguish. And only when he became
sufficiently strong to help the sailors with the ropes, and exert physical
force, did he get one moment's respite.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171