Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

The part of the town in which stood the house of Clement Tournon seemed quite deserted, and the house itself showed no signs of being inhabited. The windows were all closed; and the little court before the building, which separated it from the general line of the street, and which was once so trimly kept, was now all overgrown with grass. It was knee-high; and even the path of smooth white stones which led to the principal door hardly showed a trace of the unfrequent footfall. With a sinking heart, Edward looked up; but all was still and silent. The door stood open, and he approached and knocked with his knuckles. There was no reply, however: no voices were heard from the once merry kitchen, no sound of hammer or file from the workshop.

Edward Langdale had learned to know the house well, and, entering, he mounted the stairs and entered the room on the right. It was vacant and dark also, for the windows were all closed. He then turned to another; but it was empty likewise. He saw some light, however, stream from the room at the back,—the little room where he had lain in sickness for so many days,—Lucette's room, where he had first seen that dear face. It was a place full of memories for him; and, even if he had not seen that ray of sunshine crossing the top of the stairs, he would have entered. Pushing open the door, which stood a little ajar, he went in; and there was the object of his search straight before him.

Seated in the great arm-chair in which he himself had sat when first recovering was good old Clement Tournon, the shadow of his former self. The palms of his hands rested on his knees; his head was bent forward on his chest; his eyes were shut, and his lips and cheeks were of a bluish white. Had it not been for a slight rocking motion of his body as he sat, Edward would have thought him dead. Behind his chair, silent and still as a statue, stood the good woman Marton. She, too, was as pale as her helmet-shaped white cap, and the frank, good-humored expression of her countenance was supplanted by a cold, hard, stony look which seemed to say that every energy was dead. That such was not really the case, however, Edward soon saw; for, the moment her eyes lighted on him as he passed the door, the old bright light came into them again, and she walked quietly but hastily across the floor in her little blue socks, holding up her finger as a sign to keep silence.

"He sleeps," she said; "he sleeps. It is wellnigh as good as food for him. But how came you here, Master Ned? What has brought you? Has the English fleet arrived?"

"Alas, no," replied Edward, in the same low tone which she herself had used; "and it could not enter the port if it had. But I come, if possible, to save that good old man. I have a little food here with me. Go get me a cup and some water; for I have a little of that which will be better to him at first even than food."

"God bless you, sir!" said the good woman: "there is not a drop of wine in all the city, and with him the tide of life is nearly gone out. I thought he would have died this morning; but he would rise. You stay with him, and I will be back in a minute. But keep silent and still, for sleep always does him good." So saying, she hurried away and brought a silver cup and some fresh water.

All was silent during her absence: the old man slept on, and Edward Langdale seated himself near, as quietly as possible. Marton took her place again without a word; and for about three-quarters of an hour the slumber of old Clement Tournon continued unbroken. Then a voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, crying, "Rations!" and Marton hurried down.

Either the voice or the movement in the room disturbed the old man. He moved in his chair, raised his head a little, and Edward, with some of the strong waters well diluted in the cup, approached and put it to his lips.

"What is it?" said Clement Tournon, putting the cup feebly aside with his hand. "I thought it might have pleased God I should die in that sleep."

"Take a little," said Edward, in a low tone: "it will refresh you." And Clement Tournon suffered him to raise the cup again to his lips, aiding with his own feeble hands, and drank a deep draught, as if he were very thirsty. Then, suddenly raising his eyes to Edward's face, he exclaimed, "Good Heavens! who are you? Edward Langdale! Is it all a dream?—a horrible dream?"