“And,” went on the Duke, “when chance or design brings thee together, if thou wouldst not be made to feel utterly unhappy, mention not the matter to him.  He is eccentric like the old lord, and would fall into the spleen, which condition, when entered into by his lordship, becomes of the temperature of that nondescript bourne the other side of Paradise.”

Buckingham knew that two emissaries were upon the seas from the New World.  They were coming to interest the King in behalf of Sir John.  So far the Duke had kept everything from his Majesty and must also keep these “bumpkins” from tormenting him with importunities of so rustic a nature as “western lands.”

But the Duke had made provision,—­should his designs be curtailed by laches—­delegating himself to the post of intercessor, whereby he could fool both the King and the emissary.  Serious injury would be done to no one, unless Cedric might feel poor for a short time.  But what were the odds; the Duke of Ellswold would soon die and Cedric’s wealth would be unlimited.  He would, with a handsome young wife, forget his finances ever were in depletion.

Buckingham had already disposed of some of Sir John’s jewels and rare laces, brought over by La Fosse and stored in the chest at the monastery.  There was, however, in the great Duke a vein of compunction, and for its easement he had refrained from selling some rare and costly miniatures belonging to Sir John’s wife, evidently handed down through a long line of consanguinity.  These he resolved in some way to return; perhaps he should find it convenient to present them to Mistress Penwick.

And so the thick, fierce clouds rolled up and gathered themselves together, hanging low, over the head of handsome, careless, rich, young Lord Cedric.

The village of Crandlemar was indignant that he had allowed to exist for so long a time the privilege of the monastery.  And these exceptions, with a hint of some foul murder committed at the castle, reached the nobles roundabout and stirred up a general demur.  Beside, it was whispered in the shire-moot that the woman about to be espoused by him was a rank Papist and had already placed popish pictures about the Chapel that was contiguous to the castle.  This was all that possibly could be said against her, as she was known to be most gracious to the poor Protestants in and about Crandlemar; giving equally to both factions with a lavish hand.  But these matters were all brought up to militate against his lordship.

Lord Cedric was already feeling the first thrusts of his enemy, Misfortune; for ’twas very evident that his Grace of Ellswold was near his death.  Warming-pans were of no avail.  He grew very cold; his extremities were as ice; while the attendants of his bed-chamber were as red as cooked lobsters from the natural heat of the midsummer’s day and the steaming flannels that were brought in at short intervals.

Her Grace walked back and forth outside his door continually, Lord Cedric joining her at times.