It was a bright, hot summer day, the sky without a cloud, the air without a breeze. The sports of the morning were over, the hounds had returned to their kennel, the slaughtered stag was brought in, the horses were in the stable, the hunters seeking repose. The old palace of Falkland, where James V. drew the last breath of a life which had become burdensome, rose stately amidst its gardens and woods; and the old trees, but few of which now remain in the neighbourhood, then spread their wide branches over the velvet turf; in some places approaching so near to the building, as, when the wind waved them, to brush with their long fingers the palace walls. James himself had gone in about an hour before, rejoiced with the success, but fatigued with the exertions, of the chase; and all the ladies of the court were screening their beauty in the shady halls, from the glare of the full sun.
It has often struck me, in looking at the finer paintings of Claude de Lorraine--and they are not all really fine--and in contemplating the calm, quiet, sunny scenes they represent, that the painter must have chosen, by preference, that hour when, under the summer skies of Italy, all nature seems to be taking a mid-day slumber. Such was the aspect of the scene about the palace of Falkland on the day of which I speak. Looking towards the wood, and with one's back towards the palace, so as to shut out its memorial of active life, one might have fancied that one was in the midst of some primeval solitude, or else that the whole world, oppressed with the heat, was sound asleep. No moving object was to be seen; not a forester or keeper was within sight; the deer were hidden in the coverts of the wood; the very birds seemed to avoid the glare; and the court servants themselves--those busy toilers--were all enjoying the repose afforded by the weariness of their lords.
At length, however, after the scene had remained thus quiet for about half an hour, a very young but very handsome man sauntered forth from one of the smaller doors of the building, crossed the warm green in front, turned to one of the old trees, stood for a moment under the shade, and then walked languidly to another, near an opposite angle of the palace. He seemed seeking a place for repose, but difficult to please, for he again left that tree and strolled to its green neighbour, where, stretching himself on the grass, he laid a book, which he carried with him, open on the ground, and supporting his head with his arm, gave himself up to thought. Oh, the thoughts of youth--the gay, the whirling, dream-like thoughts of youth! How pleasant is the visionary trance which boys and girls call meditation! True, youth has its pains as well as pleasures, both eager, intense, and thrilling; but it wants the fears and doubts of experience, that bitterest fruit of long life. The cloud may hang over it for an hour, but the breath of hope soon wafts it away, and it is not till the storm comes down in its full fury that youth will believe there are tempests in the sky.
There he lay and thought, with the branches waving gently over him, and the chequered light and shade playing on his face and on the open pages of the unread book beside him. The air was very sultry, even beneath the shadow of the trees, and he untied the cord which confined his silken vest at the neck, displaying a skin almost as fair as a woman's, although exercise, it would seem, was not wanting to give a browner hue; for even then he looked fatigued as well as heated, and there was dust upon his hair and upon his dress, as if he had ridden far and long that day. Weariness, and the hot summer air, with the playing of the shadows over his face, seemed to render him sleepy. His eyes looked heavy for a moment or two, the eyelids closed, opened again, closed once more, and there he lay, sound, sound asleep, not unlike what we may fancy was the shepherd boy of Latmus, when under the influence of the fair queen of night.
Some quarter of an hour had passed, and he still lay sleeping there, when round that angle of the building near which the tree grew, came walking, with a slow pace, a man of middle age, with an ungraceful gait, and of an ungainly appearance. He was habited in a suit of green, with a large ruff round his neck, and a tall crowned gray hat and feather; but he wore neither cloak nor sword, and instead of the latter, bore a small knife or dagger, stuck into his girdle on the left side. He, like the youth, seemed to have come out of the palace for fresher air than could be found within; and he, too, appeared in a meditative mood, for he walked with his eyes bent down, and his hand, in no very courtly fashion, scratching his breast. Nevertheless, from time to time, he gave a glance around; and the second time he did so, his eye fell upon the sleeping youth beneath the tree. With a quiet step he approached his side, but was instantly attracted by the open book, and took it up.
"Ay," murmured he, in a low tone, "love songs! That's just it; fit food for such a wild, empty-pated callant's brain."
Thus saying, he laid down the book again, and gazed upon the young man's face.
Suddenly he saw something which seemed to displease him mightily. His cheek flushed, his brow contracted, and he set his teeth hard. Then, bending down his head, he peered into the open bosom of the lad, and even partly drew back the collar of his shirt. It was done quietly and gently, but still it in some degree roused the sleeper, for he lifted his hand and brushed his throat, as if a fly had settled on him. The other started back instantly, but the young man did not wake; and the one who watched him continued to gaze at him sternly, with many a bitter feeling, it would appear, in his heart. His lip quivered; and for a moment he held his hand upon the hilt of his dagger, with a somewhat ominous look, and a cheek which had become pale. Then, however, he seemed to have made up his mind as to what he should do; and, stepping quietly back over the soft green turf, he approached one of the doors of the palace, which was close at hand, and tried to open it. It was locked, however, and turning on his heel again, with a low muttered blasphemy, he went round the angle of the building by the way which he had followed when he came.
Neither the sleeper, nor he who had lately stood beside him, was aware that there was another eye upon them both; but the instant the latter had departed, the door which he had tried in vain opened suddenly, and the light beautiful form of Beatrice Ruthven darted forth, crossed the green sward with the quick spring of a roe deer, and stooping over the sleeping youth, without care or ceremony, she tore from his neck a thick blue silk ribbon worked with gold.
The young man raised himself suddenly on his arm, looking surprised and bewildered; but Beatrice laid her finger on her lips, merely saying, in a low but emphatic tone, "Into the palace like lightning, mad boy!" and away she sprang towards the building again, passed the door, ran through the first passage, and up a narrow staircase to the entrance of a room on the first floor. There she paused and listened for a single instant, then threw the door open without ceremony and ran in.
Anne of Denmark was seated at a table, writing; but the sudden opening of the door made her lift her fair face with a look of some surprise and displeasure; and she said, in a reproving tone, "Beatrice! What now?"
Without reply, the fair girl darted forward in breathless haste, and laid the ribbon on the table before the queen.
"Quick, madam! put it in the drawer," she said, in a low, hurried tone. "Your majesty will see why in an instant;" and without waiting for any answer, she hurried from the room by the same way she had come, and closed the door.
There were several drawers in the writing table at which the queen was seated; and opening one with a hand which trembled slightly, while her cheek glowed a good deal, she placed the ribbon in it, closed it again, and tried to resume her writing; but not more than one minute had passed ere the step of the king was heard upon a staircase at the opposite side of the apartments from that by which Beatrice had entered, and a moment after James himself appeared, with a heavy scowl upon his brow.
Anne of Denmark looked up, not without some timidity, though she was by nature very intrepid. There was no expression, however, upon her countenance which could betray the agitation within; and seeing the look of anger and malice on James's face, she boldly took the initiative, saying, "What is the matter, sir? You seem disordered."
"No, no, my bonny bairn," said James, "there's nothing the matter; but I was just thinking what clever chiels those Italians are; and I want to see that ribbon which I bought for you of the merchant man."
"Certainly, sir," replied the queen, rising, with an unconcerned look, for she wished to test how far James's suspicions went; "you shall see it in a moment."
"No," cried the king, hastily, thinking that the queen was going to quit the chamber. "You had it in this room, madam, not so long ago that you need go to seek it. It's here you keep all your gauds and ornaments."
"Well, sir," answered Anne of Denmark, "I have no doubt that it is here still; but I cannot even open the drawers of this table, to look for it, without rising. I know not what is the matter with your majesty, but your conduct is very strange."
"I just want to see the ribbon, madam, that is all; and I think it must be in this chamber--if anywhere," was James's reply.
"Doubtless," answered Anne of Denmark, so far agitated as to open the wrong drawer by mistake.
"It's no there," said the king, looking into the drawer. "There's naething there but gloves, and bracelets, and such like clamjamfry."
"I see it is not, sir," replied the queen, turning over the things with her hand; "but it may be somewhere else. Do you think any one has stolen it?" And she opened the drawer in which it really was.
James did not reply to her question; but not a little astonishment was painted on his rude coarse countenance, when Anne of Denmark drew forth the ribbon and laid it in his hand. He continued to gaze at it for a considerable time, and then put it closer to his eyes, to examine it more carefully all over, as if he doubted that it was really that which he had bestowed upon the queen. There it was, however, precisely the same in every respect; and at length he gave it her back again, and turning sharply on his heel, quitted the room, muttering, loud enough for her to hear, "De'il tak me, if like be not an ill mark."
A minute or two after, he was seen walking past the tree under which Alexander Ruthven had been sleeping; but by that time the young gentleman was gone.[4]One of the ordinary servants of the court passed his majesty, bowing low, a moment after; and the king called him up, saying, as he approached, "Go your ways, and rout me out Doctor Herries and the man retiring," James continued to walk up and down till he was joined by the person whom he had sent for. They then turned to the farther part of the gardens, much to the disappointment of Beatrice Ruthven, who saw all that passed from the window of a room immediately below that of the queen, and who had hoped to gather, at least from their demeanour, some indications of what was passing in regard to her brother. I will not say that she would not have listened eagerly to their conversation if the opportunity had presented itself; and perhaps the circumstances in which she was placed might be some justification of an act otherwise mean and pitiful; for, as the reader will see in the subsequent chapter, she had accidentally obtained information of designs the most treacherous against one dear brother, of whose high principles and noble conduct she could not entertain a doubt.
The king and his companion, however, walked away to the other side of the garden, as I have said, and stayed there for nearly half an hour, while Beatrice remained in anxious and painful thought. Her head rested on her hand, as she sat near the open window; and she had taken no note of how the time passed, when at length the sounds of people speaking as they walked by below, caught her ear. She would not move in the slightest degree; she even held her breath, lest she should lose one sound, and the next instant she distinguished the king's peculiar tone. The words as yet she could not hear, and still less those of Herries in his reply, though she recognised his voice at once.
The next instant, however, the sounds rose louder, and James was heard to say, "No, no, that will never do. We should lose our grip of the old bird, while wringing the neck of the young one; and there would be such a dust about it, that we should never see our way clear after."
"There, I think, your majesty is right," said Herries; "but if you will be advised by me there is a way to----"
Beatrice lost the conclusion of the sentence, for they moved on towards the other end of the terrace. She knew, however, that none of the royal apartments lay in that direction, and that the only door by which the king could enter led through the great hall, where he must necessarily encounter a number of the servants and followers of the court, a thing which James rarely desired. She approached somewhat nearer the window then, calculating that the two who had passed would return by the same way; nor was she disappointed, for, in a very few minutes, she heard the voices again, and the words of the king soon became audible. They were of no great importance, indeed, and conveyed no information but that which she already possessed--namely, that both her elder brothers were the principal objects, for the time, of James's hatred and suspicion.
"The de'il helps they Ruthvens, I think," said the monarch. "The one brother conveys himself away just at the minute when we have got all ready for him; and the other sends a token I would swear to, fleeing through the walls of Falkland like a conjuror."
This was all that Beatrice heard, but after they had passed the window, Doctor Herries replied, "The devil always helps his own, sire."
"And that's well said," answered the king, "for we have information to be relied upon, that this Earl of Gowrie, when in the city of Padua, had long and familiar dealings with a reputed sorcerer and magician, some of whose infernal arts he has doubtless acquired or contracted. Such matters are difficult of proof, for deeds of darkness hide themselves from the light. But time discovers many things, and Sathanus deals with his pets as we do with the birds and beasts which we keep for our food. He pats them on the back till his time comes, and then he cuts their weasands."
Doctor Herries smiled, for he was not so credulous in matters of demonology as his master; but by this time they had reached one of the smaller doors of the palace, which stood open, and they went in.
I must now go back for a period of more than a month. Gowrie on quitting Edinburgh rode on at a quick pace, hoping to save the tide at Queensferry; but he did not succeed. The water had sunk low, and the boat was on the shore. There was no resource but either to ride farther up in the direction of Stirling, or to wait till the next morning. Gowrie chose the latter course, though at the chance of being pursued and overtaken. He did not like the feeling of flight; and though it might be necessary, and he had already adopted the expedient as the only means of security, his repugnance was sufficient to turn the scale, when, on the banks of the Firth of Forth, he had to consider what was the next step to be taken. All passed quietly at the little inn, however. No signs or sounds of pursuit disturbed the night; and by grey of the dawn on the following morning, the earl and his followers were upon the shores of Fife. A short ride brought them into Perthshire; and then feeling in safety, the young earl paused at the first village, to consider what course he had better follow. If he went on to Perth, he saw that he might be detained there for some time. It was long since he had seen her whom he loved; and he felt that yearning of the heart to hold her in his arms again, which those who have loved truly can well comprehend. He was also somewhat anxious for her safety after all that had occurred to Austin Jute; but then, on the other hand, the few brief words which his sister had written, had indicated Perth as the place where he ought to take refuge; and it was not improbable that she might either know of some ambush on the way to Trochrie, or intend to send him further information before he went. The importance of receiving the speediest intelligence of what was passing at the court, decided him at length to act contrary to his own wishes, and he resolved to sleep that night at least in Perth.
Hardly had he risen on the following morning, when, at one and the same time, it was announced to him that one of the magistrates of the town desired to see him, and that a messenger from Dirleton had just dismounted in the courtyard. The latter was instantly admitted, and presented the earl with a packet addressed in his mother's hand. On opening it, however, he found a sealed letter from his sister, and also a few lines from the countess, informing him that the enclosed had come that morning from Beatrice, with the request that it might be forwarded instantly, and by a trusty messenger, to Perth. The letter from his sister contained the following words:--
"My dear and noble Lord and Brother,
"I had but time and opportunity to write you a very few words yesterday evening, which Hume must have delivered safely, as I find this morning that you have followed counsel, and are gone. I now send you farther information, not direct to Perth, but by the hands of our dear lady mother, lest what I write should be stopped by the way. All is quiet here at this present, but some people are much disappointed, I believe, in their hearts. The cause of my warning was as follows.--My maid, Margaret Brown, who is very faithful to me, but of a very prying and inquisitive disposition, and not without shrewdness, informed me that danger awaited you, my dear brother. She had seen that something was going on, it seems, in the abbey, which excited in her some suspicion; and her cousin, Robert Brown, a menial servant of the palace, after having been called to the presence of the king, said to her, unadvisedly, as she was coming to my room to aid me in changing my dress for the court in the evening, 'Your lady will have a sore heart before long.' Thereupon the girl, after having dressed me, employed all her art and ingine to draw forth from the man what it was he meant, and succeeded so far as to learn that you were to be arrested the next morning; but in such a sort, without due warrant or form of law, and with insults and injuries belike, as might bring you to resistance, when, a fray being created, you might perchance be killed without there seeming blame to any one. This was the girl's story. She having got some one of the court to call me out of the presence, and having always found her faithful and true of tongue, I wrote hastily the words I sent, and gave them to our friend Hume, to be delivered to your hand.
"Thus far is the girl's story confirmed since your departure, that I have it from a certain source, several people well armed went down to your house this morning, and others followed them not far behind, even so much that the street was crowded. On arriving they asked for you of the porter, but learning that you had gone for Perth on the night before, and being confirmed of the fact by one who saw you ride away, they separated and retired, not having told the reason of their coming. This makes me well satisfied that I warned you as I did, and assures me that you have not been driven away needlessly by your loving sister,
"Beatrice Ruthven."
"I must have forgotten Scotland," murmured Gowrie to himself. "Heaven! what a dream I have been living in!"
Perhaps what he said was true. We are all apt to forget the evils and discomforts of a place we have left behind. Memory is fond of pleasant objects, and plants thick ivy shrubs to rise up and decorate the ruins of the past. He had forgotten the turbulence and dangers which had surrounded his early days. He had almost brought himself to fancy that, as compared with Italy, Scotland was a place of peace, and security, and freedom, where the assassin's knife, the oppressor's wrong, the tyrant's sway were comparatively unknown. But the bitter reality was now before him; and he saw that to be an enemy of the court was to be but a hunted beast, whom every dog of favour might pull down and tear at liberty.
After a few minutes' thought, however, he cast off the impression, and sent for the bailie, who was waiting to speak with him. This magistrate was the reverse in everything of his junior, Bailie Roy--tall, thin, and raw-boned in person, somewhat bluff, and very laconic of speech; a man to be moved neither by fear or favour, but strong in his attachments and steady in his sense of right. He made an ungainly bow in answer to the earl's salutation, and at once dropped into the seat which he was invited to take.
"I have come, my lord," he said, "about the prisoner, David Drummond."
And there he stopped, as if all his say was said.
"Well, Mr. Bailie, what of him?" rejoined the earl. "I hear he has not been tried yet. If you will name the day most convenient to the magistrates, I will come down for the purpose, and hold a court."
"They were thinking of the twenty-second of the month," answered Bailie Graham; "aiblins that might not suit your lordship?"
"Quite well," answered Gowrie. "I will be down, undoubtedly."
Still Mr. Graham continued to sit and twirl his beaver, as if labouring with some other question or announcement; and at length he said, "Your lordship would not see the prisoner?"
"Certainly not," answered Gowrie. "He has been my own servant; and even that might be supposed to have some effect upon my judgment; but I can have no private communication with him while awaiting trial. If he have anything to request, either to make imprisonment more tolerable or to provide for his defence, let him demand it publicly."
"He said he would write to the king, my lord, when he was told of your answer," replied the bailie; "and he did it."
"Can he write?" asked the earl, in some surprise.
"No, not just with his own hand," said Mr. Graham; "but he got a scrivener to do it for him; and Bailie Roy, one way or another, got goodman Jobson to tell him what it was he said."
"I do not wish to hear, Mr. Bailie," said the earl. "It was probably intended for the king's ear alone."
"Ay, that it was," said the bailie, drily; "and no doubt his majesty will think no more of it than it deserves. It's not like to do the Earl of Gowrie much harm, I should think."
"I cannot tell," replied Gowrie, coolly; "but the unfortunate man must have his own way. If the king thinks there is anything important in his memorial, he will probably have the prisoner examined before the council."
"Na, na, my lord, he'll no do that," answered Bailie Graham. "He's gotten a' that the man can gie; and so he may lie where he is for the king."
A few words more explained to Gowrie that James had already sent some one from Edinburgh to confer with the prisoner in his cell; but that since then, "sin syne," as the bailie expressed it, no farther notice had been taken of the unfortunate David Drummond.
I must not say that Gowrie had no curiosity to know what the prisoner had said in his letter to the king; but he would not suffer it to master him, although he had little doubt that the first intimation of Julia's concealment at Trochrie had been thus communicated to James, and he did not feel at all sure that many parts of his conduct might not have been misrepresented by the sullen spirit of revenge which he had often remarked in the prisoner.
"It is very possible, Mr. Bailie," he said, "that this man may have attempted to injure me in his majesty's opinion by false or perverted statements; but that shall not prevent me from doing all that justice requires, without the slightest consideration of consequences. We will proceed, then, to the trial on the day you have named, and I shall not think it necessary even to let his majesty know the time appointed, for although it would not become either you or me to stop a letter addressed to our sovereign, yet the transaction is one with which we have nothing to do; and we must fulfil our duties as if it had not taken place."
"I knew your lordship was right," said Bailie Graham, in broader Scotch than I shall attempt to transcribe. "Bailie Roy, poor body, thought it would have been better for you to have seen the man, and spoke civilly to him till he was hanged; but I said that was not the way a provost of Perth should act; and so good morning to your lordship. Let them say what they will of you, this is the way to win through all."
Alas! that it should not always be as the worthy merchant said, and that this history should afford a pregnant example of the reverse.
Within an hour after the good man had departed from the earl's great house at Perth, Gowrie himself took his way towards Trochrie, riding with the spirit of love to hurry him forward. Gay and bright were the dreams that he dreamed by the way; and a feeling of rejoicing seemed to fill his heart as he thought that he had cast off the trammels of a court, and resumed that private station in which he now felt sure that happiness was only to be obtained. It would seem that fate or chance takes a delight in throwing obstacles in the way of impatience, perhaps as a check to its vehemence, and a warning to go more quietly. Though he set out early from Perth, and might have ridden the distance to Strathbraan in a few hours, a thousand petty accidents beset the earl by the way. A ford, which used to be practicable at almost all seasons, was now found impassable, for there had been rain in the hills. The earl's own horse cast a shoe, and it had to be replaced before he could proceed; and lastly, turned by the necessity of crossing the river higher up, into a more difficult and dangerous path, one of the horses slipped over a rocky bank, was severely injured, and the rider taken up insensible. The care of the poor man occupied some time; and so much was lost in this and other manners, that the sun had set nearly half an hour when the earl came to the spot whence the first view of Trochrie Castle was to be obtained. He looked eagerly forward through the thickening shadows of the night: the castle itself was lost in the darkness; but a light streamed forth from two spots, side by side, and Gowrie gladly recognised the position of the room in which Julia sat. Oh, how cheering, how gladdening are the lights as we approach after a long absence; what a tale does that faint distant spot of brightness tell to the heart, of peace, and love, and calm domestic joy, and all the hopes that gather round the hearth of home!
Onward he went then, with renewed impatience, and in ten minutes more he held Julia gladly to his heart. It was a moment that well repaid all the cares and anxieties and griefs he had suffered.
And there they sat side by side, and gazed at each other in silence, with her dear hand locked in his, and the heart looking out through the window of the eye; and each had much to say to the other, but still it was long unsaid, for emotions would have way before words.
"You look pale and sad, Gowrie," said Julia, at length. "I fear you have met with disappointment."
"No, indeed, dear girl," he answered, "I am not sad, nor have I reason to feel disappointment. My sensations have been very mixed, as all the feelings produced by the great world are; but now joy certainly predominates, for I am with you, and bear you some happy tidings. Then, as to disappointment, dearest Julia, I may experience some at finding that my fancy had drawn pictures of men and things in this, my native land, in colours far too bright; but that was my own fault or my own folly; and in the most essential point of my hopes, I have succeeded as far as I could expect."
"Thank Heaven for that!" replied Julia, with no light words; "whatever be that point, I am sure that it is a noble and a good one."
"Nay," said Gowrie, "do not praise too much, my Julia. It is a very selfish one; but, to keep you in no suspense, let me tell you that the king has given his consent, in writing, to our union in the month of September next. All difficulties are thus removed, and I must say that in this he has acted, to all appearance, generously; for he had learned that you are here, and might not unreasonably, perhaps, have expressed some anger at my having concealed the fact."
"I heard from good Austin that he had gained intelligence of my abode," replied Julia, "and I felt some alarm, especially during your faithful follower's long and unexplained absence; but I tried to comfort myself by thinking of all the precautions you had taken when last you were here; for I can hardly fancy that anything which Gowrie undertakes can go wrong."
"Would it were so, truly, my beloved," replied Gowrie, somewhat gloomily.
"See this very instance!" exclaimed Julia. "Have you not succeeded where we had so little hope?"
"Not succeeded as well as I could wish," answered her lover. "The king has made it a condition, Julia, that you shall formally renounce all claim whatsoever upon the estates and property of your father--even Whiteburn, though settled by deed upon your mother."
He paused a moment, watching her thoughtful face, and then added, "Nevertheless, I have promised the renunciation in your name; first, because I knew it was the only means of winning the king's consent; and secondly, because I found that it was more than doubtful whether you could establish your claim by law."
"I have but one regret in this case, Gowrie," replied the beautiful girl--"that I come to you poor and dowerless. Oh, if I had all the wealth which they say my poor father amassed, how gladly would I pour it out before you!"
"If that be all, have no regret, my love," replied the young earl--"right glad am I that you do not possess it. I have wealth enough for both, my Julia--too much, indeed, it seems; for in this land wealth and influence do not excite envy alone, but doubt and suspicion likewise. It is dangerous, I am sure, to be too powerful a subject under a weak king. However, I have enough, and to spare. If then, dear one, you will sign the act of renunciation, I will despatch it to the king to-morrow, and then no objection can be ever raised or opposition offered."
"Then I must not go to the court to sign it?" asked Julia, eagerly.
"Not unless you wish it," replied Gowrie.
"Thank Heaven for that, too!" she exclaimed. "Wish it! Oh no, Gowrie. I suppose the time will come when I must go there; but had I my will, that time would never be. I always dreaded the thought of courts, and what your dear sister told me of that in which she dwells, made me more timid and fearful than ever. Oh, promise me, Gowrie, that we shall spend the greater part of life afar from those nests of envy, malice, and greediness."
"That promise I will make with all my heart," replied her lover; "but tell me, Julia, are you not weary of this desert solitude? Beatrice, who almost always counsels well, has half persuaded me to keep you immured here till you are altogether my own; for she sees danger in your residing anywhere not provided so well for defence as this. She thinks the king might seize upon you, and use the expectation of your hand as a means of leading me to a course which my heart and conscience disapprove, or rather, employ the fear of losing you, to drive me to acts which I am bound to oppose and to denounce."
"I have never felt weary one day," answered Julia: "fears I may have had--anxiety to see you again, I may have felt; but weariness, never; nor shall I, Gowrie. A few short months will soon pass: you will let me see you at times; I have beautiful nature before my eyes, books, music, painting, thought, to fill up the time; and what need I more? Yes, follow dear Beatrice's counsel. Let me rest here, dear Gowrie, till all places become alike to me, for thou wilt be with me in all."
Gowrie pressed her gently to his heart, and then withdrew his arms again; for he felt that, lonely, protected only by his honour, he must not let even the warmth of the purest love call up a doubt or a fear in her young heart. His thoughts and words naturally followed the course in which his feelings led; and he replied, "I will be with you often, my Julia, though now I must leave you soon, I fear; but when I return I will try to bring one of my sisters with me to cheer you."
But Julia had tasted less of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and she answered, innocently, "I want no cheering when you are with me, Gowrie. Glad shall I be to see them; and if they be like Beatrice, my heart will open to them like a humble flower to the bright sun; but Gowrie's presence is life enough for me. But I have many things to tell you, too; and yet, I know not why, but I think you have not told me all."
"Oh, there are many minor things to mention," answered the young earl, doubtful whether it were wisest to inform her of the dangers which had menaced, or to conceal them, now that he was safe, at least for the time. "What need," he asked himself, "to disturb her mind, and keep her in constant agitation, whenever I am absent, by fears for me, whose life has been already menaced? Better let her remain in ignorance of the perils that beset my path, when she can do nought to avert them. Could she act, could she counsel, could she direct, I would conceal nothing from her; but she is here helpless and alone, unable to do aught but sit and weep over the dangers or the griefs of others. Shall I make the hours, lonely and dull as they must be here, sad and apprehensive also? No, no; I will not be insincere; and whatsoever she asks, will answer her truly; but I will say no more upon such subjects than needs must be said."
Perhaps Gowrie went a little further than this, for he purposely led the conversation away from the subject of his own fate; and all that Julia learned was, that the king had shown no great love in his demeanour either for the earl or for his brother. Even this made her somewhat thoughtful; and to change the subject, Austin Jute was sent for. He came as fresh, as gay, as ugly as ever; but on this occasion he had little to tell, for his journey back to Trochrie had passed without impediment from any other source but his ignorance of the way. The difficulties he met with from that cause, he described with considerable humour, telling the answers which had been given to his inquiries at the different places which he had passed, and imitating the various dialects of the counties through which he had gone, which were in those days very strongly marked. He did very well till he came to the Gaelic, and even then, though he was utterly unacquainted with the words of the language, he contrived to give some of the sounds so exactly, that Gowrie could not refrain from laughter.
Julia rejoiced to see him so gay; and if she had entertained any suspicion that he was withholding the painful portion of the truth from her, it was dissipated by the cheerfulness he displayed.
An hour or two thus went by; but Gowrie would not keep her long from repose, for he longed to go forth with her on the following morning, and roam through the valleys, and over the hills, now covered with the yellow broom and the young shoots of the heath. The weather had become bright and warm. The fair season was coming on with rapid strides, when the mountains are softened and decorated by the hand of nature, and their solemn gloom cheered by the smiles of the sky; and Gowrie thought of many a plan to make the hours pass pleasantly. "While here," he said to himself, "the feeling of security will spread a calm and tranquil atmosphere around us, which we could not obtain in a less wild and solitary spot. To-morrow, I will take my dear prisoner forth, and show her some of the beauties of the land to which she is yet a stranger."
At an early hour, therefore, he bade Julia adieu for the night, and retired to the room which he had ordered to be prepared for himself in the gate tower. There he held a somewhat long conversation with Donald Macduff, his baron bailie in Strathbraan; and having ascertained from him that all strangers had withdrawn from the neighbourhood, and that a keen watch had been kept up ever since Austin Jute's capture, lest any of the king's people should be lurking about in the valleys around, he lay down to rest, and slept more soundly than he had done for many a night before.
In a room of no very great dimensions in the fair town of Perth, were collected a number of persons upon a solemn and serious occasion. A number of the officers and magistrates of the town were present, seated on a little sort of platform raised above the rest of the room. On either side were drawn up the various officers of a municipal court of justice, as they existed at that time, although I am unable to give their designations; and towards the door were seen two or three halbardiers, with their imposing but clumsy-looking weapons over their shoulders, and dresses of the reign of James V. In a large arm-chair, in the midst of the magistrates of the town, was seated the Earl of Gowrie, as provost of Perth and heritable sheriff of the county; and at a little distance from him, on the same raised place of honour, appeared Sir George Ramsay, habited in the ordinary costume of the court. Across the front of the dais was stretched a long narrow table, at which were seated two or three men in dark garments, with pen and ink and paper before them, and at the opposite end of the room, with a fretted and gilt barrier of iron about three feet high in front, appeared the prisoner, David Drummond, with a stout jailor on either side. His strong and muscular frame appeared to have suffered little, if at all, by the confinement he had endured; but his dull and sinister-looking face was now as pale as ashes, for the earl had just pronounced upon him that doom of death which he himself had twice inflicted upon others. Sadly but calmly, after the most convincing proofs of his guilt, Gowrie had pronounced the fatal words, with his eye fixed firmly on the man's countenance.
Drummond gasped as if for breath to speak; but the two jailors laid their hands upon his arm, and were about to remove him, when the earl interposed, exclaiming, "Stay, stay; he desires to speak. Let him say whatever he thinks fit."
"I appeal to the king!" cried the wretched man--"I appeal to the king!"
"There is no appeal from this court," replied Gowrie; "but----"
"Ah! you fear what I could tell, Earl of Gowrie," cried the criminal. "It would not suit you that I should have communication with the king."
"Unhappy man," replied the earl, with perfect calmness, "you are only now aggravating your guilt. There is no act of my whole life that I fear to have proclaimed at the market cross to-morrow. My conscience acquits me of offence; would that yours could do so. But to prove to you that I fear nought that you can do or say, and that I wish not to deprive you of one chance of life, I will fix the day of your execution, for the crime you have committed, so far off as to afford you opportunity of using every means to obtain that pardon which you do not deserve. You have been fairly tried and justly condemned. There is no appeal but to the king's mere mercy. He has the power of grace ever in his own hands, and far be it from me to interpose between you and it. For your execution, therefore, if you cannot obtain grace, I name the twenty-eighth day of the next month, at noon, and may the Almighty have mercy on your soul! In the meantime, every means will be given to you of addressing any petitions or memorials to his majesty which you may think fit to send; and should I not be present in the town of Perth, I beg that the magistrate will take care that they be forwarded by a special messenger, and without any delay. Now remove him."
The court then rose, and Gowrie and Sir George Ramsay spoke a few words together, in the midst of which a servant of the earl's entered the hall, bearing a sealed packet in his hand.
"From the king's majesty, my lord," he said; and Gowrie instantly cut the silk and opened the letter, under the impression that it might have reference to the cause which had just been tried. Such, however, was not the case; and folding it up again, he put it in his pocket, saying, "Come, Ramsay, and rest yourself with me for a day or two. I am about to make strange changes in my house, and have also to place my pictures, just arrived from Italy, in which I would have your good advice."
"But a few hours, my good lord, can I stay," replied Ramsay; "and I am afraid my advice would serve you but little. However, such as it is, command."
Taking leave of the bailies of the town, and the other officers of the court, with whom the earl was extremely popular, Gowrie and his friend withdrew, and walked together through the streets. Several persons followed them out; but as soon as they were free from the crowd, Ramsay looked at the earl's face, saying, "I hope your news from the court, my lord, is more favourable than that which I was unfortunate enough to bring you when last we met."
"Oh, the letter was a mere invitation to join the court and hunt at Falkland, in the early part of June," replied the earl, "and an acknowledgment of having received a certain law paper, which had been examined by the king's advocate, and found full and in due form. His majesty has been very gracious," he continued, with a smile and a meaning glance, "for the letter is written in his own hand."
"Do you intend to accept the invitation?" asked Sir George Ramsay.
"I am doubtful," said the earl. "An invitation from a monarch is well nigh a command; and I am never disposed to disobey my king where I can obey with safety to my person and to my honour."
"Your honour is safe, my dear lord, wherever you are," replied Ramsay. "Where a man holds life lightly, when compared with integrity, his honour is ever in his own safe keeping, and no other hand can touch it. But your personal safety is another question, and I would have you look to it."
"Do you know aught, Dalhousie, of fresh designs meditated against me?" asked the earl, straightforwardly; nor was the answer less explicit.
"No, I do not," answered Ramsay. "Of fresh designs I know none; but I may doubt whether the old ones are abandoned; and I have often thought it a dangerous sort of sport, my good lord, to hunt with a half-reconciled enemy. The chase has its accidents, which occur most frequently where many people are assembled. Methinks I would advise you to hunt but little, and with those people alone upon whose care and prudence you can rely."
He spoke in a very meaning tone; and Gowrie answered, "I think your advice is good; and, moreover, I could hardly contrive to accept his majesty's invitation consistently with the arrangements already formed; for my dear mother has consented to come forth from the retirement which she has long kept, and meet me at Trochrie in a few days."
"Then I suppose we shall soon have to congratulate you on an event which, I trust, may contribute to your happiness," said Ramsay. "The court has been busy with the story for some time past."
"Not very soon," answered Gowrie; "at least, to a lover it seems long. Some three months must yet elapse--and itislong; for what man is there, Dalhousie, let him read the stars skilfully as he will, let him be learned, wise, experienced, who shall say all that may happen in three months? How often does the shaking hand of Fortune spill the wine out of the overflowing cup of joy even as she is handing it to our lips!"
"But too true, my dear lord," replied Sir George; "but I trust in your case it will not be so, for your fate is, I think, much in your own hands. If you but avoid dangers where they are known to exist, I think they will not come to seek you."
Gowrie mused. "What should be the cause of this enmity?" he said at length, in a meditating tone. "What have I done to merit it? Is it that some one is playing false both to the king and me, and poisoning his ear with lying tales of false disloyalty? Or is it that between his blood and mine there is a repugnance which cannot be pacified--that the sad and terrible deed done by my grandfather in his mother's presence, when his unborn eyes were yet waiting for the light, has placed enmity between our races even to the present hour? They say that there are strange mortal antipathies in the blood of some men towards others, which can never be conquered by any effort of the person hated; and surely such must be the case even now, for a more loyal subject, or one who more truly wishes well to his crown, his state, his person, does not live. What are my offences?"
"I could tell you some, my lord," replied Sir George Ramsay. "First and foremost, you are too powerful in the land for a king's love. Your estates are vast. Your wealth, during a long minority, has mightily increased; you are allied to all the most powerful and noble in the land; and you are known to be one who would oppose, without fear, or change, or wavering, the establishment of arbitrary power in Scotland, either in the church or state. These are motives strong enough, my lord, and they are the real ones. What the pretences may be, I know not; but if you keep yourself aloof from all factions and all parties, if you abstain, as far as is consistent with your honour and your station, from all opposition to the king, methinks that the feelings that have risen up must die away of themselves, like weeds that have no roots.--But here we are at your great house, my lord, and a grand mansion is it, certainly."
"Come, see the pictures I have lately purchased," said Gowrie. "I shall have scantily room to place them unless I build me a new gallery. It is with such things as these, Dalhousie--with music, pictures, books, and thought, that I have employed my mind, and not in hatching treason or brooding over schemes of disloyalty.--But we will talk no more of such things. This is the way.--John Christie," he continued, speaking to the porter, "bid them serve dinner in the little hall for myself and Sir George, and see that his servants be well entertained. We are in the gallery when the meal is ready."
Thus saying, he led the way across the court towards the right hand, and entering a door in a little projecting tower which stood in one angle, he conducted his friend up a small staircase which was called the Black Turnpike, being but scantily lighted by three small loopholes. At the top of this staircase Gowrie opened a door which led into a very large and handsome room, containing no furniture except some tall straight-backed gilt chairs, covered with rich embroidered velvet. Passing by another door on the right, the earl then took his way across this spacious chamber to an entrance on the opposite side, while Ramsay remarked, "This is the gallery-chamber, if I remember rightly."
"Yes," replied the earl; "and that door behind us leads to my study, which I have furnished well with books. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to change my domicile, for the window looks down into the street, and the noise often distracts my thoughts."
"You will soon have other books to read in your lady's eyes, my lord," replied Sir George Ramsay, with a smile; and passing on, they entered by a small door that splendid gallery which formed the admiration of all men who saw it in those times. The walls were hung with pictures by the older masters of the Flemish, German, and Italian schools. Some were of a very ancient date, almost contemporary with the revival of the arts--more curious, perhaps, than beautiful, but yet not without their beauty too. There were two or three Van Eycks, and one especially, a fine picture of John of Bruges. But that which most attracted the attention of Sir George Ramsay, even from the Titians and the Correggios on the wall, were some large flat wooden cases, placed upright around, and with the tops removed, showing the pictures which the earl himself had collected in Italy. Amongst the rest was one of very large size, on which the clear light from the north shone strongly. It was rich and powerful in tone, and vigorous in conception, representing Niobe weeping over her children amidst a scene of great picturesque beauty, while the vengeful God of Day was seen retiring in the distance with the work of death completed. Before it Sir George Ramsay stopped for a moment or two, and gazed with interest and admiration. When he turned round he found the young earl standing beside him with his arms crossed upon his broad chest, and his eyes fixed upon the female figure with a look of stern thought.
"What a beautiful picture!" exclaimed the knight; "yet it is by a hand I do not know, and seems fresh from the easel. Who was the artist?"
"A young man of the name of Guido Reni," replied Gowrie. "It was painted for me this last year in an incredibly short space of time, for the artist wanted money; and I gave him his own price. But that picture, Dalhousie, has a particular interest for me. Do you not think the Niobe very like my mother?--younger a good deal, but still very like."
"It is, indeed," said Ramsay, "particularly in the brow and eyes. Strange that it should be so, for this Italian most probably never saw her."
"Never in his life," replied Gowrie; "and I can only account for it thus.--I passed several days with this young man in his painting room at Bologna, and chanced, I remember, to mention my mother, and her devoted affection for her children. Whether there is any likeness between myself and her I do not know; but I left him to finish the picture and send it over when it was complete, and when I opened it a few days ago, was struck with the extraordinary resemblance.--Come, here is a Caracci well worth your seeing."
"And that lad lying dead with his arm thrown back under his head, and the left hand clutching the grass, is like your brother Alexander," said Ramsay, lingering before the picture still. But Gowrie had gone on, and his friend soon followed. There was still much to be seen in the gallery; but the habit of that day was to dine at a very early hour; and shortly after, the two gentlemen were summoned to their meal; and Sir George Ramsay mounted his horse almost as soon as dinner was concluded.
Gowrie then retired from the court in which he had seen his friend depart, to the study which he had spoken of in passing through the gallery chamber. There, casting himself into a chair, he thought for a moment or two, but in the end took up a book out of a number lying near, and began to read. He had not perused a dozen sentences, however, when the door opened, and, without announcement, Mr. William Cowper, a gentle and amiable man, one of the ministers of Perth, entered, saying, "I hope I do not interrupt your studies, my lord."
"Oh no," answered Gowrie, throwing down the volume. "It is but a foolish book, called, 'De Conspirationibus adversus Principes,' a collection of famous treasons, all foolishly contrived, and ending in defeat by the conspirators having too many men in their councils."
"Dangerous studies, my lord," replied the clergyman.
"Not for me, my good friend," answered Gowrie, gravely. "But what brings you, my dear sir?"
The conversation then took another turn; but Mr. Cowper, after he had left the earl, mentioned more than once, though doubtless with no bad intentions, the studies in which he had found the young lord engaged.[5]