"My brother," he said, "before I came you were in my place. You did not know I lived; you were the eldest son. I take from you this house, these lands. Take them back from me; they make me sad. I will keep none of them. See! I am not even good enough to be thy servant."
"But you cannot give them back," rejoined Philip. "Perhaps I might take them if you could and let you be happy in your own way. But you are my father's eldest son, and you must have them, and your eldest son after you."
"Ah! what a misery!" he cried. "I take all these things from my brother!"
He spoke mournfully and tears glistened in his eyes. He flung himself down on the floor, and hid his face with his hands in an attitude of despondency and wretchedness.
"If I died," he said at last, "all would come right. Why did you not leave me in Ampezzo? I do you harm; I rob you."
"No, you do me no harm," answered Philip; "besides, you are my brother and we care for you. If you are good we shall love you."
To Philip it seemed as if this brother of his was little more than a child, who might be managed as a child. But Martin shook his head and looked up intently into his father's face.
"You will never love me," he said. "My father, it would be a happy thing for you all if I was to die."
The words were so true that neither of them could contradict him. If Martin died how many of the vexatious complications that beset them would cease, and soon be forgotten by the world! Margaret might have said something to console the sorrowful heart just awaking to life and consciousness, but she was not there.
"If I could only die!" he murmured to himself with exceeding sadness.