Lord Montagu's Page. G. P. R. James

Mr. Syndic, it is a moment of temptation.

      "Perhaps his business is matter of life and death, and an hour even may be of vast consequence to me, to the city, to the Protestant cause. Indeed, it must be so, or they never would have sent him over in such stormy weather." So said fancy—a quality much more nearly allied to curiosity than people think; and Clement Tournon rose from his seat. But the fine moral sense that was in him interfered. "No, never!" he said; "no, never! I will not touch them so long as he lives. They shall not be fingered by any one in my house."

      Still, he felt strongly tempted; and after a while he rose again and went to call Marton, feeling it would be better for him not to remain in that room alone. His large-capped pippin-faced maid-servant was then duly imbued with all the doctor's directions, warned to change the cataplasms every two hours and to keep the wet cloths on the head cool; and then Clement Tournon walked forth from his house toward the fine old town-hall.

      Marton sat and sewed. The invalid did not stir, and an hour passed by. "It must be time to change the cataplasms," she thought: "he will not wake till I come back: would Heaven he could, poor lad!" and down she went to the kitchen where what she needed had been left to keep warm.

      In the mean time, we may as well look about the room. It was a very pretty little chamber, well and even luxuriously furnished withal. Two windows looked out to the back court, and the sunshine came in over a lower house behind. The rays first fell upon a small writing-desk of dark carved oak, then touched upon a small bookcase in the same style, well provided with books, and then upon a large armory, as it was then called, or wardrobe, as we should now term it. There was moreover a corner cupboard, also richly carved, with a glass door on two sides, showing a number of little knick-knacks selected with great taste, some ivory figures exquisitely cut, and a child's sampler of not the best needlework.

      Suddenly the door opened, and, with a quick step, but so light that one could not hear a footfall, there entered a creature that seemed like a dream, or a fairy, or a wreath of morning mist with fancy to shape it into the form of a young girl. She could not be more than fifteen years of age; but yet there were traces of early womanhood in neck and shoulders and rounded limbs. But we may have to describe her hereafter, and here we only stop to speak of the look of strange surprise which opened the long, blue, deeply-fringed eyes more wide, and expanded the nostril of the delicate nose, and raised the arched eyebrow, and showed the pearl-like teeth between the rosy lips, as she beheld the pale and bloody figure of the poor lad lying upon her own bed. She stood for a moment in silent astonishment, and then was approaching slowly on tiptoe—as if her foot could have made any noise—toward the bedside, when a soft voice behind her said, "Lucette."

      She started and turned round, and the old syndic, who stood in the doorway, beckoned her into the passage beyond.

      "My dear child," he said, "I have been obliged to give your room to a poor young lad who has been sadly hurt, because it was the only one where he could have perfect quiet. I will put you in the blue room on the other side, where you may have some noise; but I know your good heart will not let you feel annoyed at giving up your chamber for a day or two to him and our good Marton, who has to nurse him."

      "I will nurse him myself," said the young girl, "or at least help Marton. Annoyed, grandfather? Could you think I would be annoyed in such a case as his? Poor fellow! I will go and speak to him." And, before the old man could tell her that it was in vain, she ran up to the bedside, and said, in a low, sweet voice, "Be of good cheer, young gentleman: we will nurse and tend you till you are quite well."

      Her lips almost touched his ear as she spoke; and, whether it was that the soft breath fanned him sweetly, or that the sound of a woman's tongue had something that found a way to his heart when even hearing failed, Ned Langdale turned suddenly in his bed, murmuring, "Mother, dear mother, do not leave me."

CHAPTER V.

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      About nine o'clock in the evening the invalid wakened to a consciousness of existence; but how wild and strange a consciousness! His speech was incoherent, his eye vague and wandering. He seemed to make vehement efforts to recover the power of reason and thought; but it was all in vain. If in answer to a question he uttered a few connected words, the next instant all was confused and senseless in the attempt at a sentence; and, when Dr. Cavillac visited him at half-past ten, his pulse was beating as if it would have burst the artery, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild.

      "Perfect silence, absence of light, with diet and blood-letting," said the doctor—"those are the only means to save him. Thank Heaven, he is finely delirious. He can neither understand nor try to answer any question. If he could but reason and talk, he were a dead youth. Now, mark me, syndic: let there be a finger on every lip; let everybody in your house be dumb for the next three days. If he speak, do not answer him. If he do not speak, keep silence. Give him the drinks I told you; and to-morrow I will bleed him again. In three days we shall know more, and probably at that time he will recover his senses, it may be for life, it may be for death; but all depends upon good nursing."

      The prognosis of the physician was verified. At the end of three days Edward Langdale did recover his senses; but some events had taken place in the mean time which must be noticed before we follow his history further. We must, in the first place, begin with that most interesting personage, Master Pierrot, who is going to be introduced in a new character—that of a philosopher. Although the press very generally assumes the form of majesty, and indulges in the plural number, probably in the proud consciousness of its sovereign power over the minds, and perhaps the bodies, of a certain number of human beings, it was with no such vain confidence that the last sentence began, "We must," &c. That formula was merely adopted to include you and me, dear reader, who, having to jog over a good space of country together, had better agree upon our line of travel before we set out upon each day's journey. It was, therefore, merely a sort of suggestion on my part that we should first look after Pierrot, and to be understood as implying nothing more.

      Now, during the last few hours Pierrot had met with a number of severe mortifications—those somewhat sharp lessons of life which sometimes do a man a great deal of good. In the first place, poor Master Ned had, in very plain language, told him that he was a coward when drunk, if he was a brave man when sober; and, as there was a certain consciousness in Pierrot's breast that there was a good deal of truth in the lad's assertion, of course the accusation was the more unpalatable. Secondly, the conduct of Clement Tournon showed him that one bad habit could deprive and had deprived him of the last scrap of confidence amongst people of any character; and, lastly, the refusal to let him attend upon his young master showed that even his fidelity and affection were doubted. Now, Pierrot was really an affectionate fellow, and this mortified him more than any thing else. It is probable that many a time in life, since by an evil practice he had lost wealth and station and consideration, Pierrot had resolved to cast the vice from him. He might have so resolved a hundred or a hundred and fifty times; but he had never kept his resolution. Never before, however, had any one doubted his qualities of heart; and on the present occasion, with a good deal of time to spare—in fact, it was all to spare, as he sat in the kitchen or passages of the syndic's house—he bestowed the golden superfluity upon thought. His mind was not naturally a weak one, though there is no denying that it had been weakened by intemperance; and it was now making a great effort.

      "So," he said to himself, "I am not even to be trusted in the boy's sick-room. Well, that is somewhat hard. No, it is not. The old man is quite right. He knows I am a drunken rascal, and thinks I am not to be trusted in any thing. Hang me if I have not a mind to make him think better of me. But it is of no use: I should only begin again. Why need I begin again at all? Master Ned knows me better than any of them; and he only requires me not to drink when there is any thing important in the wind. He knows I cannot help it at other times. But why cannot I help it at other times, if I can help it then? I can help it if I like; and, by Heaven, I will not drink any more, except when he gives me leave; and I'll ask him never to give me leave. So we will settle the matter that way. I do love that lad, though he gave me a shot in the leg to keep me from running