Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER VII.

  Oh, the calm lapses in the turbulent and turbid stream of life whichHeaven sometimes graciously affords us,--the short breathing-spaces inthe race,--the still pauses in the battle,--how sweet, how comfortingthey are! Such a pause had fallen upon the city of Rochelle and all itsinhabitants. True, there were individual griefs and sufferings: thedoor of the closet with the skeleton in it can never be altogether shut.But to the city generally, and to its denizens generally, there was alull in the storm. It was nowhere more pleasantly felt than in the houseof good old Clement Tournon. He was a calm--a very calm--man; had beenso all his life. He had met with sorrows which had touched him deeply;but he had borne them calmly. He had known pleasures; but he had enjoyedthem calmly. He had mingled with angry parties, and seen strife andbloodshed; but he had been calm through all; and that verycalmness--which, by-the-way, is one of the most impressive qualities inregard to our fellow-men which any one can possess--had won for himgreat reverence upon the part of his neighbors.

  Young Edward Langdale, too, shared in the temporary tranquillity. "Sweetare the uses of adversity." It is a good text, and a true one also, ifwe use the adversity wisely; but sometimes we do not; and, althoughMaster Ned had known more adversity than most youths of his age, we mustacknowledge that he had found it all very severe, and had not had wisdomenough to discover honey in the stony rock. He had been hardened,sharpened, rendered stern, in the rough school through which he hadpassed. His character must have seemed to the reader somewhat harsh andremorseless; at least so I intended it to appear. But he had nowsuffered a long and heavy sickness: his frame was still feeble; hisactivity, for the time at least, was lost; and some traits in hischaracter which seemed to have been smothered by coarser things revivedand shone out. There was a latent poetry in his nature, a love andappreciation of all that was beautiful, a sense of harmony, and adelight in music, together with those strong affections which are sooften combined with strength of character. These, in the body'sfeebleness, asserted their power. Strange how the corporeal and themental wage such continual warfare upon each other! But even at timeswhen the bodily force and the strong will had possessed the most perfectsway, and given him command and rule over men much older and higher thanhimself, those qualities of heart and mind, though latent, had actedunseen to win affection also.

  Six days after his arrival in Rochelle, the little saloon in ClementTournon's house presented as calm and pleasant a scene as ever the eyerested upon. There was the old man himself, with his small velvet capupon his head; and there was Master Ned, leaning back in a large chair,with the hue of returning health coming back into his cheek,--always apleasant sight; and there was beautiful Lucette, who had just beensinging to the two, and who was now sitting on a low footstool, with herfair, delicate hand resting on the head of a lute. A beautiful silverlamp, with three burners,--modelled from those graceful lamps which wesee in the hands of the Tuscan peasantry,--gave light to the chamber;for the wax tapers in two exquisitely-wrought candlesticks had beenextinguished to save the eyes of Master Ned from the glare; and awater-pitcher and goblet, finely shaped from the antique and coveredwith grotesque figures, stood on a little table at the youth's lefthand, to cool his lips, still dry and hot from his recent illness.

  The eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon those specimens of the oldsyndic's art, and he was expressing his admiration of the delicacy andfineness of the designs, when Lucette observed, quietly, "He has muchmore beautiful things than those, Master Ned. I wish, father, I mightbring and show him the pyx that was sent from Rome."

  "Do so, my child," said Tournon. "And hark, Lucette----"

  He whispered a word in the young girl's ear, and she left the room, butreturned in a minute or two, bringing with her two objects in softleathern covers,--one of which was a pyx, probably from the hands ofBenvenuto Cellini.

  Edward took it from her hands and admired it greatly, gazing at thevarious curious arabesques with which it was decorated, and at themedallions displaying exquisitely-chiselled figures, while the oldsyndic untied the other cover, and took forth a large cup, or hanap, ofpure gold, ornamented by a row of precious stones encircling it in asort of garland, which again was supported by some beautiful sculpturedfigures. Master Ned rose feebly to lay the pyx upon the table, but themoment his eyes lighted on the cup he stood still, gazing at it as ifsight had suspended every other faculty. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, atlength, addressing the merchant, who was watching him closely: "wheredid you get that?"

  "I bought it some four years ago, when I was in England," answeredClement Tournon. "Something seems to surprise you. Did you ever see itbefore?"

  "See it!" exclaimed Master Ned. "Yes, often, my good friend,--ay,several times every year, since I could see any thing, till just fouryears ago last Martinmas. Every birthday--every festival-day--it wasbrought forth; for it must be the same. Oh, yes! Is there not 'EdwardLangdale' engraved on one side of the foot, and 'Buckley Hall' upon theother?"

  "There is," said the syndic; "and that is the very reason I told Lucetteto bring it. I wished to ask you if you are any relation of thoseLangdales of Buckley Hall. Edward Langdale! The two names are the same."

  "They are, indeed," said Master Ned. "That cup is mine, my good friend:at least, it ought to be,--it and much more which is now lost to meforever."

  "If it ought to be, it is thine still, my son," said the old syndic."Now, God forbid that I should withhold the rightful property ofanother! But tell us how all this happened. Let me hear what you canrecollect of your own life and fate. I know something of Buckley Hall,for it was in Huntingdon that I bought that cup. I would not purchase itat first, because I thought it was stolen,--most likely from the courtof King James, who was then at Royston; but the goldsmith who had ittold me that he had bought it fairly from Master Richard Langdale, theowner, and showed me a receipt for the money. I would fain hear how allthis happened."

  "Not to-night; not to-night," answered the youth. "The sight of that cuphas shaken me much, my father; and to speak of those days would shake mestill more in my weak state. To-morrow I shall be stronger, I trust; andthen I will tell you all. I have often thought it would do me good if Iwere to talk over the whole of those sad things with some one; for theyonly seem to rankle and fester in the silence of my own bosom, and tomake me reckless and ill-tempered. But I must get a little better andstronger first. Now I think I will go to bed."

  He turned to go, but then paused, and, taking up the cup, gazed at itearnestly for several minutes, saying, "I was just nine years old whenmy father had my name engraved on it and gave it to me on my birthday,bidding me never to fill it too full nor empty it too often."

  "Wise counsel," said the old man; "but, if it be thine, take it, my son.I am not a receiver of stolen goods."

  "No," said Edward Langdale. "You knew not that he who sold it had noright to do so; neither did he from whom you purchased it. Orphans areoften wronged, Monsieur Tournon; but I ought not to have been wronged byhim who wronged me. Well, to-morrow we will talk more of all thesematters."

  A little after nightfall on the following day, the same three sattogether in the same room. There had been no music, however, thatevening; and Lucette was leaning her fair head upon the old merchant'sknee. Edward Langdale was evidently stronger and better,--though he saidhe had slept but little. Yet there was more color in his cheek and lips,and his face and air had more their usual character of bold decisivefrankness, than on the preceding night.

  "Now I will tell you my whole story," he said, "beginning with myearliest recollections. Indeed, there is not much to tell, and it may bedone very shortly."

  MASTER NED'S HISTORY.

  "Amongst the first of my remembrances is the burning of my father'shouse. I recollect the house itself quite well; and a very handsomeplace it was. There were four great octangular towers at thecorners,--one on the southwestern side, all covered with ivy, in which anumber of cream-colored owls used to make their abode during the daysunshine. A deer-park surround
ed the house, full of fern andhawthorn-trees, and at the bottom of a bank was the highroad, with theriver brawling and rushing on by its side.

  "Of the interior of the house I do not remember much, although there isan impression on my mind of large rooms and furniture which had seenbetter days. Of the events which there took place I can recall nothingtill the night of the fire,--the great fire, as it was called for many ayear. And well it deserved the name; for in its progress it not onlydestroyed the house, but ate up the buttery, which was detached, andconsumed the farm-buildings and stabling, in which were lost many finehorses and an immense quantity of agricultural produce.

  "I remember on that night, the 18th of August, being startled out of mysleep by loud cries and shrieks and all sorts of noises,--especially arushing, roaring sound, which frightened me more than all the rest. Iwas a boy about seven years old at the time; and sleep clings to one atthat age like a tight garment, so that though I was as it were roused,and even alarmed, I was half asleep still. It was more like an uglydream than a reality; and perhaps I might have lain down and fallen intosound slumber again, had not some one suddenly thrown open the door,rushed to the bed, and caught me up in her arms. I saw not distinctly towhose bosom I was pressed, yet I felt sure. Whose could it be but amother's? She ran wildly with me to the door and there made a shorthesitating pause, then dashed along the corridor through flames andsmoke, ran down the stone steps, out of one of the back doors, upon thesmooth lawn behind, and laid me down under a large mulberry-tree. Hardby were several persons, weeping and wringing their hands; but amongstthem was my little sister, some three years younger than myself. 'He issafe! he is safe!' cried my mother. 'Run, some one, and tell SirRichard.'

  "My father, who was at that time about forty years of age, joined us ina few minutes, kissed me and my mother, remarked that she was scorched agood deal and her beautiful hair much burned; but he left us speedily,and returned to see what could be done to save the valuable property inthe house. I have been told since that he was evidently agitated andconfused, and his orders contradictory, and that much more might havebeen saved if he had displayed more presence of mind. Corporeally, hewas undoubtedly a very brave man, and had shown himself such; but he wasnot a man of ready action or strong determination. However, almost allthe plate was saved, and some of the pictures, which were fine; butseveral boxes of papers of much importance, I am told, could not befound in the confusion of the moment, and were undoubtedly lost. Memorybreaks off about that time; and I only remember that the whole house wasburned, and the greater part of the walls fell in, with the exception ofthose of the ivy-tower, which were very ancient and much thicker thanthe rest. Even there the wood-work was all consumed, and the stairsfell, except where a few of the stone steps, about half-way up, stillclung to the masonry.

  "My father often talked of rebuilding the house; but I believe hisfinances had been previously embarrassed, and he had suffered a heavyloss. We went then to live at Buckley Hall, which had fallen to mymother from her uncle some two years before, and which was not manymiles distant from the old house. It was a more modern building, withfine gardens, in stiff figures of all shapes, with urns, and fountains,and many quaint devices; but it had no deer-park, and I sadly missed thefern, and the hawthorn, and the wild broomy dells.

  "My next remembrance is of being ill and confined to bed, and my mothersinging to me as I began to grow a little better; and I recollect quitewell her coming in one day, looking very anxious, and my asking her tosing, with all the thoughtless impatience of youth. Well, she sang; butthe tears rolled down her cheeks; and when I was suffered to go out ofmy room I could find my little sister no more. I never saw her again;and she must have died, I suppose, of the same malady from which I hadsuffered. My mother's health waned from that hour, slowly,--so slowly asto be hardly seen to change between day and day,--but none the lesscertainly. Gentle and sweet, patient and uncomplaining, she would notburden any one even with a knowledge of what she felt. My father was allkindness to her and to me; but he was sometimes too light andthoughtless, I believe,--vowed that society would cheer her, and filledhis house with company,--not always the most considerate or the mostquiet. There was upon me, young as I was, an impression that my motherwas not well, that she loved tranquillity, that noise disturbed her; andI did my best to keep still, and even silent, when I was near her. Iwould sit with her for hours, reading; for when we came over to Buckleywe found a good teacher there, and I had rapidly learned to read. Then,when I could bear inactivity no longer, I would go out and get my pony,saddle him myself, and ride wild over the country, or wander about thegardens and think. I learned a good deal about this time; for my fatherwas very expert in all manly exercises, and took a pleasure in teachingme, and the good parson of the parish--a very learned but singularman--took great care of my studies.

  "At length, when I was about ten years old, the terrible moment camewhen I was to lose a mother. I will not dwell upon that sad time; but myheart seemed closed,--shut up. I cared for nothing,--lovednothing,--took no interest in any thing; and yet I was cast more thanever upon my own thoughts, for the good old parson, whose instructionsmight have afforded me some diversion for the mind, removed suddenly toa much better living, some fifteen miles distant.

  "My father still gave me instruction in fencing, wrestling, the use ofthe broad-sword; but he gave them and I received them languidly. Atlength, one day, he said to me, 'Edward, you are sad, my boy; and it istime you should resume your studies. I shall be very lonely without you;but I think it will be better for you to go over to good Dr.Winthorne's, whom you love so well, and who, I am sure, will receive youas a pupil. We shall only be fifteen miles apart, and I can see youoften.'

  "I made no objection, for Buckley had grown odious to me: every thingthere revived regrets: and in about a week I was quietly installed inthe neat and roomy parsonage, the glebe and garden of which were boundedby the same stream which ran past the old house in which I was born. Ithad been there a brawling stream; but here, some ten miles farther downupon its winding course, it had become a slow and somewhat wide river.

  "I wish I had time to tell you how I learned, and what I learned, underthe good clergyman's instruction. He had his own notions--and verypeculiar notions--in every thing. Latin and Greek he taught me; but hetaught me French and Italian too,--and taught them all at once. Hislessons were very short, for it was his maxim never to weary attention;but he took especial care that my bodily faculties should not lose anything for want of exercise. He would say that he had known very cleverhunchbacks and very learned and ingenious lame men, but that each ofthem had some peculiarity of judgment which showed that a straightintellect seldom inhabited a crooked body, or a strong mind a feebleone. He would make me wrestle and play at quoits and cudgels withplough-boys, shoot with the gamekeepers of neighboring estates, ride mypony over a rough country and dangerous leaps, and himself lead the way.He was a devout man, notwithstanding, and was highly esteemed by hisparishioners, and by a small circle of noble gentlemen, to some of whomhe was allied and who were not unfrequent guests at the parsonage. Allthis went on for about nine months, a considerable part of which time myfather was absent from Buckley, travelling, as they said, for hishealth, in Italy, where he had spent some years when quite a young man.At length, when he returned, I went home to pass some time with him; butI found him not alone."

  "Had he married again so early?" asked Clement Tournon, with a look ofconsternation.

  "Oh, no!" replied Master Ned: "he never married again; but there was ayoung gentleman with him, some twenty-one or twenty-two years of age,tall, very handsome, but with a dark and heavy brow, which almostspoiled his beauty. He spoke English with a strong foreign accent, andhad altogether the appearance of a foreigner. I naturally presumed hewas a guest, and treated him as such; but it was evident that he was anexceedingly favored guest, and all the servants seemed to pay him themost profound attention. I know not why, but I speedily began to dislikehim: perhaps it was a certain sort of patronizing air
he assumed towardme,--not exactly that of an elder to a younger person, but that of asuperior to an inferior. My father's conduct, too, was very strange. Hedid not introduce the visitor to me by name, but presented me to him,saying, 'My son Edward,' and during the rest of the day called himsimply Richard. On the following morning I detected--or fancied Idetected--the servants looking at me, watching me with an appearance ofinterest that almost amounted to compassion. They were all very fond ofme, and each seemed to regard Master Ned--the only name I went by--ashis own child; but when they now gazed upon me there was an air ofvexation--almost of pity--on their faces, and once or twice I thoughtthe old steward was about to tell me something of importance in private;but he broke off, and turned his conversation to common subjects.

  "All this, however, was so disagreeable to me, that, after having stayedtwo days at Buckley, I returned to my old preceptor's house atApplethorpe, feeling more wretched than I had felt since the first sadshock of my mother's death.

  "The same night, after supper, Dr. Winthorne questioned me closely as tomy visit, and asked what had caused me to return so soon. Whether he sawany thing in my manner, or had heard of any thing from others, I did notknow; but I told him all frankly, and he fell into a fit of thoughtwhich lasted till bedtime. On the following morning my studies, myexercises, and my amusements were renewed with increased activity. Therewas something more I wished to forget, as well as the irreparable lossof my mother; and I left not one moment unemployed. It was now the monthof May, and the season had been both cold and rainy; but I neversuffered either cold or rain, either snow or sleet, to keep mewithin-doors; and no naked Indian could be more hardy than I was. Atlength, some warm skies, with flying clouds and showers, came to cheerus; and, with my rod in my hand, I sallied forth one morning early tolure the speckled tyrants of the stream out of the water. I walked onwith good success for about two miles, and arrived at a shadowy reach ofthe river, where it lapsed into some deep pools, and then, tumbling overa shelf of rock in a miniature cascade, rushed on deep and strongtoward the east. I have said I was early; but there was some one therebefore me. A powerful-looking man, of some four or five and twenty yearsof age, was wading the stream with a rod in his hand and a pair offunnel-shaped boots upon his legs. Where he stood, the water did notcome much above his knees; but I knew that a little farther on itdeepened, and the bed of the stream was full of holes, in which thefinest trout usually lay; but the stranger seemed a skilful angler, and,I doubted not, knew the river as well as I did. Not to disturb hissport, I sat quietly down on the bank and watched him. He was not veryprepossessing in appearance, for his features were large and coarse, andthough there was a certain sort of dignity about his carriage, yet hisform was more that of a man accustomed to robust labor than to the moregraceful sports of a gentleman. However, as I was gazing, he hooked alarge fish, apparently somewhat too stout for his tackle; and, toprevent the trout from getting among the roots and stones while heplayed him, the fisherman kept stepping backward, with his face towardme and his back toward the deep run and the pool. 'Take care! takecare!' I cried. But my warning came too late: his feet were already onthe ridge of rock, and the next instant he fell over into the verydeepest part of the water. He rose instantly, but whether he was seizedwith cramp, or that his large heavy boots filled with water, I know not;but he sank again at once with a loud cry, and I ran along the ridge ofstone to give him help. The stream was much swollen with the late rains,and even there it was running very strong, so that I could hardly keepmy footing; but I contrived to get to a spot near which he was justrising again, and held out the thickest end of my rod to him. It wasbarely within his reach; but he grasped it with one hand so sharply asalmost to pull me over into the pool with him. I got my feet between twolarge masses of stone, however, and pulled hard, drawing him toward metill he could get hold of the rock with his hands. His safety was theneasily insured; and I only remarked two things peculiar in his demeanor:one was, that he never thanked me; and the other, that in all thestruggle he had contrived to retain his fishing-rod.

  "'Can you not swim?' he asked, as soon as we had both reached the bank.I answered in the negative, and he added, 'Learn to swim. Please God, itmay save your life some day. Learn to swim.' I offered to take him up tothe parsonage that he might dry his clothes; but he refused, not verycivilly; and then he asked my name, looking me very steadily in theface, without the slightest expression of gratitude for the aid I hadrendered him, and no trace of either agitation or trouble from thedanger he had run. 'You have kept your rod,' I said, 'but you havebroken your line.'

  "'I never let go my hold,' he answered; 'but, as you say, I have brokenmy line and lost my fish. Are you Sir Richard Langdale's son, the man upat Buckley?' I answered that I was, and in a few minutes after weparted. I did not forget his advice, however, for a part of every dayduring that summer I passed in the water, learning and practising theart of swimming, till none could swim better or longer. I have neverseen that man since; but he has fully repaid my service by inducing meto learn that which has more than once been of great service to me.

  "It was the month of October before I once more visited Buckley; andthen my father sent for me. I found the same young man still there whomI had seen on my former visit; but now my father removed all doubt ofwho he was, by saying, 'Edward, it is time that you should know thatthis is your brother Richard,--your elder brother.'

  "I need not dwell upon the mortification and annoyance which thisannouncement caused me. I was very young, as you may know when I tellyou that this occurred about five years ago, and, though of a somewhatsensitive character, I might have thought little of the matter after thefirst shock, had my brother's manner pleased me, had he shown kindnessor affection for me. But, with a sort of presentiment of what he was tobecome, I disliked him from the first; and he repaid me well, treatingme with a sort of supercilious coldness I could not bear. On the morningof the fourth day, when he had gone out fowling with a number ofservants and dogs, I went into my father's chamber and announced to himmy intention of going back that morning to pursue my studies with goodDr. Winthorne. Perhaps my tone was somewhat too decided and imperativefor one so young toward his father; but it certainly was respectful, andmy father did not oppose my purpose. He merely spoke--almost in anapologetic manner--of my brother and myself, intimated that he saw myannoyance, and, attributing it to motives which had never crossed mymind, added, 'You will have fortune enough, Ned. You surely need notgrudge your brother his share.' I did not reply; but his words set memusing, and, an hour after, I left Buckley and returned to Applethorpe.There, as before, I told my worthy preceptor all that had occurred, andhe somewhat censured my conduct, but at the same time condoled with andcomforted me. 'This young man,' he said, 'must be the son of an Italianlady, to whom, according to a vague rumor current about the time yourfather married your mother, he had been previously wedded in her owncountry. It was said her relations had separated her from him on accountof his religion and had shut her up in a convent, where she had died ofgrief. What he said about your fortune being sufficient, alluded ofcourse to the Buckley estate, which, being derived from your mother,must descend to you.'

  "'I never thought of fortune,' I answered, 'and should be glad to have abrother whom I could love; but I cannot like this young man.'

  "I had now seen my father for the last time in life. A quarrel, it wouldseem, took place between him and one of the gentlemen of theneighborhood, and about six months after the period of my visit they metand fought. Both were good swordsmen; and my father killed his adversaryon the spot. He was much wounded in the encounter, however, and diedsome four-and-twenty hours after. Sir Richard, his son, had not thoughtfit to send for me; but, as soon as the news reached Applethorpe, Dr.Winthorne went over with me to Buckley. There a scene took place which Ishall never think of without pain. My brother's whole thoughts were ofthe rich succession which had fallen to him. He had four or five lawyerswith him, some from the country, others brought post-haste from London.He claimed the wh
ole estates,--Buckley, and all that it contained; andhis lawyers showed that, the estate having fallen to my mother after hermarriage, without any deed of settlement having reserved it to herselfand her heirs, it had passed in pure possession to my father, anddescended to his eldest son. There was some dispute between him and Dr.Winthorne, who, with the village attorney, advocated my cause warmly;but in the end the good clergyman took my arm, saying, 'Come away,Edward: there are too many bad feelings here already: there will be moreif we stay. Your brother, who strips you of your mother's fortunebecause she perhaps trusted too far his father and yours, cannot depriveyou of Malden farm, which was left you by your great-uncle. Indeed, Iwill not believe that your father did not intend to do you justice. Hislast words to you implied it; and probably, Mr. Sykes, Sir Richard didmake a will, which we must leave you to have produced, if there be one.'

  "These last words were addressed to my firm friend, the village lawyer,who, though aged and a good deal deformed, wanted no energy. He hadalways loved my mother, and whenever I could I had sent him game andfish. I always see him when I am in England. But no will was ever found:proofs of my father's marriage to the Signora Laura Scotti wereproduced, and also of her death some five years before the marriage ofmy mother, and my brother Richard remained possessed of all that hadonce seemed destined for me. He found the property greatly encumbered,it is true, paid no debt that he could by any means evade, and, beingnaturally of a profuse and luxurious disposition, soon found itnecessary to sell much plate and jewels, many of which, beyond doubt,were my mother's own. Among the rest must have gone the cup I saw lastnight. As for myself, the little farm of Malden was all that was leftme, the annual income of which is not quite two hundred pounds ayear,--enough, perhaps, for any right ambition; but I had been educatedin high expectations, and I had received a shock which changed, orseemed to change, my whole nature.

  "One night, when we had been talking of these things, Dr. Winthorne laidhis hand upon my shoulder, saying, 'Ned, you must make yourself a nameand an estate. There are two courses before you: either pursue yourstudies vigorously for a few years, and then go to the university andpush your fortunes in the Church or at the bar, or put yourself in theway of another sort of advancement, and mingle in the strife of courtsand camps. You have talent for the one if you choose to embrace it; youranimal qualities may fit you for the other. If the latter be yourchoice, among my noble kinsfolks I can put you on the entrance of theroad; but you are not a boy who can remain idle. Think over it tillto-morrow at this hour; and then tell me of your resolve.'

  "My determination was soon formed. I could not make up my mind,especially with the feelings that were then busy in me, to devote myselfto mere dry and thoughtful studies; and I chose the more active scenes.The very next night Dr. Winthorne wrote to the Lord Montagu, distantlyrelated to his mother, and in about two months after I received theappointment of gentleman-page in his household, the only path now openin England to honor and renown. In this career I have met with manyvicissitudes, and have learned much in a harsher and sterner school thanthat of good Dr. Winthorne. I have not suffered, I trust, in mind or inbody, and, if my character has been hardened, I do believe the changetook place, not in the four last years of action and endeavor, but inthe few months of suffering and endurance which immediately preceded andfollowed my father's death. Let it not be thought, my excellent friend,that in any thing I have said I wished to cast a reproach upon hismemory. I am sure that he intended to secure to me what by right andequity was mine, whatever mere law may say; but probably the duel inwhich he fell was hasty; and it was a habit of his mind to put off bothconsideration and action as long as he could. Thought was a labor thattroubled him, and he often would not see dangers because reflection uponthe best way of meeting them would have been painful. As to my brother,I have never seen him again: I hear he has returned to Italy, there tospend what remains to him of his wealth. Thus, you see that, though thatcup is mine by right, it is no more mine by law than the estate ofBuckley, which has gone from me forever."

  The old merchant mused, and Lucette exclaimed, eagerly, that Sir RichardLangdale's conduct was cruel and unjust; but Master Ned answered, verymildly,--more so, indeed, than he might have done had not sicknesssoftened him,--"There is much that is both cruel and unjust in the law;but, when I think of the contrast between my home before and after heappeared in it, and when I think of what my own heart was before andafter he put his icy hand upon it, how he took from it its gentleness,and its kindness, and its confidence, I cannot but believe he has beencruel, and, though the same blood may and does flow in our veins, his ismingled with another stream, which is noway akin to mine."

  "You must take that cup, Master Edward," said the syndic. "I cannot keepit in conscience. Every time I saw it in the cupboard, I should----" Buthis sentence was broken in upon, and all discussion stopped, by theentrance of Marton, introducing a stout man in plain travelling-attire,who was a stranger at least to Edward Langdale.