When the Earl of Gowrie had parted from his friend at the door of Hume's lodging, he walked on, followed by his servant, for some four or five hundred yards farther, till the wider and more fashionable street deviated into a number of narrow and somewhat intricate lanes, each, however, having its arcades on either side, with the three or four upper stories of the houses built over them, so that two people might have shaken hands from window to window. At the last house of one of these lanes, where the street terminated at a canal, with a bridge over it leading to the Treviso gate, the young nobleman stopped, and using a great bar of iron which hung upon the door, knocked three times aloud. He had to wait some time, however, before the door was opened, and was just about to knock again, when an old woman, with a lamp in her hand dangling by a long chain, appeared to give him entrance.
"How are you, Tita?" he said. "I am sorry to hear that Signor Manucci has been so ill. Can he see me to-night?"
"Oh yes, sir; he expects you," replied the woman, "and will go into his own private study to receive you, though the signora thinks it may hurt him."
The young lord's countenance fell at her reply; for he might fancy that the old man had determined upon receiving him alone, and to say sooth, he had come to see another also. He followed the woman, however, up the narrow stairs, telling his servant to wait below; and he was well pleased to find that his guide turned at once to the right; for he was acquainted with every step in the house, and knew that she was conducting him first to a cool little room where Manucci and his grand-daughter usually sat in the vehement heat of summer. He was even more fortunate than he expected to be, for when the door opened, the light within showed him that, for the time, the chamber was tenanted by one person only, and that the one he most desired to see. It is a strange passion, love, often agitating the strong in frame and powerful in mind more than the weak and gentle. It were vain to deny that the young lord was greatly moved as his eye fell again upon the fair being whose society the ordinary principles of worldly prudence had taught him to believe might be dangerous to his peace. Nevertheless, he advanced straight towards her, holding out his hand with eager agitated pleasure. Nor could she meet him without emotion, too plainly visible, notwithstanding all that inherent self-command which is one of the first qualities in a modest, well-regulated woman's heart. The colour varied in her check. The finely chiselled lip quivered in the vain effort to speak; and the dark bright eyes, as if afraid of their own tale, veiled themselves beneath the long lashes, avoiding the glance of tenderness of which she had caught a momentary sight.
The instant he had entered the room, the wise old woman left him and closed the door; and he stood for an instant silent, with the lady's hand in his. A moment after, he slowly raised her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. It was in those days but an act of ordinary courtesy, implying nothing but friendly regard or reverence; but they each felt that there was a fire in that kiss, and both were more agitated than at first.
"Julia," said the young earl, at length--"Julia, you are much moved; and so am I, indeed--we have been parted long----"
She sank slowly down into her seat again; but she felt that she must speak to welcome him, or let silence confess all; and she answered, "I have had much, very much to agitate me lately. It is not wonderful that I am a good deal moved, in seeing an old friend after a long absence."
"And is that all?" said the earl, almost sadly. "I had hoped it was something more. May I not trust that the agitation of both has the same source--that in absence we have learned to know our own hearts, and to feel that our happiness depends upon each other?"
"Hush! hush!" she said, raising her eyes to his face, with an expression which was answer enough. "I must not hear you. I must not reply upon such subjects--at least not now."
"And why not now?" demanded the earl. "Who can say when the opportunity may present itself again? Who can say what obstacles may intervene between us, if we do not seize the moments which fate has given?--Say, Julia, why not now?"
"Because I have duties to perform," she answered, "from which nothing should estrange me. The time may come--nay," she added, sorrowfully, "it must come, and that but too soon, when I shall have no one to think of but myself, no one to ask or to consult with, in regard to what I should do; but now I would not, if I could help it, take a thought away from him who has bestowed for long years all his thoughts upon me. I have even reproached myself, when I saw him suffering and sinking before my eyes, for having but too often let those thoughts, which should have been all his, wander away to other things."
"And did they seek me in their wanderings?" asked Gowrie, taking her hand again, and gazing into her eyes.
She answered not, but averted her look, while the rose deepened in her cheek; and as they thus sat, the door opened suddenly, and the old man appeared. It made them both start; but Gowrie was strong in honesty of heart and purpose; and advancing frankly, he took Manucci's hand in his, saying, "I have longed much to see you, my old friend, and your dear Julia too. We have been long parted; but my affection for neither has decreased."
Manucci was very feeble; and perhaps with agitation, perhaps with weakness, he tottered on his feet. Lord Gowrie held him firmly by the hand, however, drew forward a chair, and supported him till he was seated.
"I have many things to speak to you about," said the old man; "many things which may agitate me and you. But let us not talk about them just yet. I have been very ill; and the little strength I have left, would soon be expended if I did not economise it carefully."
"I have grieved much to hear of your illness," replied the earl, standing beside his chair and gazing down upon him. "My friend, Sir John Hume, has told me how much you have suffered, and how you have been persecuted."
"The latter is nothing," replied the old man. "Every man, not behind his age in knowledge, and who from that point casts his view farther forward than the rest, judging of the consequences of each fact by experience of the past, corrected by a full acquaintance with the present, will ever seem criminal in the eyes of the fools who disbelieve, and of the knaves who believe and dread. Persecution was to be expected when I held myself aloof from idlers who consumed their time in mere amusement, and from learned busy-bodies, who wasted it in vain and fruitless studies; but that illness was a sturdy, stern, and less conquerable foe. He has battered down the outworks, and the shattered fortress must soon surrender."
"Yet you look better than I expected," replied the earl. "Indeed, at your age, which you have often told me is great, few men look better."
He might, indeed, well say so, for the old man's eye, as he sat there, was clear and bright; and a hue, very like that of returning health, was in his cheek. He was a tall man, and had once, apparently, been a very powerful one. His frame, indeed, was a little bowed. His beard and hair were snowy white; and the skin was wrinkled, except upon the high forehead and the bald crown of the head. All the signs of age, indeed, were there, except that the teeth were fine and apparently undecayed, and that the hand--which, with the exception, perhaps, of the ear, shows the advance of age more distinctly than any other part of the frame--looked not so knotted and bony as it often appears at a late period of life.
The conversation easily and gradually deviated into topics of a calm and tranquil kind. The young earl spoke of many things which had occurred to him since he left Padua. They might afford little matter of amusement to the reader of the present day; but they were interesting to the ears which heard him. The old man, too, had his tale of the changes which had taken place in Padua; but he more frequently referred to the results which had followed his own researches in matters of science. Deeply read, for that period, in natural philosophy--mingled as it was at the time, before the immortal Bacon had established a juster system of investigation, with the dreams of alchymy and judicial astrology--he discussed many subjects familiar to the ears of Lord Gowrie, whose whole family had a strong and unusual taste for inquiry into the secrets of nature. The old man seemed to be revived by his young friend's presence; and he soon recovered that cheerful gaiety which had greatly distinguished him in earlier years. Still, however, the earl remarked, that from time to time his eyelid would drop and his voice become low, as if with fatigue, and at length he said, in a kindly tone, "You are tired, my good old friend. It will be better for me to bid you good night now, and come to talk of other matters with you to-morrow."
"No, no!" cried Manucci; "it must be to-night, or never. I have waited for you, Earl Gowrie, for I told you if you would return on this night, I would read you the scheme of your nativity--point out to you, as clearly as man's voice can show, the course by which you may avoid the perils and secure the advantages of life, and tell you what must absolutely happen--what is still dependent upon courage and conduct. For this I have studied, and pondered, and tried the indications of the stars again and again; but the hour is not yet come, and you must wait till the clock strikes twelve. Then I will speak; for to-morrow, perchance, I shall not have strength to do so."
"Nay, I trust your strength will every day increase," replied the earl; but the old man shook his head, and cast a grave and melancholy glance upon the beautiful girl who sat near him.
"The things of this life are waning away," he said; "and in truth, it is time that I should depart. Eighty years are a heavy load; and the burden is still increasing. There were men, as you have heard, who would fain have eased me of it; but as it contained a few things that are valuable, I was unwilling at that moment to part with it, like all other men, clinging to my treasure though it bent down the shoulders that bore it."
"Methinks a life of study and the calm enjoyment of tranquil thought may well lighten the burden of years," replied the earl; "and but for the apprehension and annoyance caused by these foolish men, your existence, my good friend, has been tranquil and peaceable enough."
The old man smiled sadly. "We always fail," he said, "when we judge of the fate of others. Life is double, Gowrie, an internal and an external life; the latter often open to the eyes of all, the former only seen by the eye of God. Nor is it alone those material things which we conceal from the eyes of others, which often make the apparently splendid lot in reality a dark one, or that which seems sad or solitary, cheerful and light within. Our characters, our spirits operate upon all that fate or accident subjects to them. We transform the events of life for our own uses, be those uses bitter or sweet; and as a piece of gold loses its form and its solidity when dropped into a certain acid, so the hard things of life are resolved by the operations of our own minds into things the least resembling themselves. True, a life of study and of thought may seem to most men a calm and tranquil state of existence. Such pursuits gently excite, and exercise softly and peacefully, the highest faculties of the intellectual soul; but age brings with it indifference even to these enjoyments--nay, it does more, it teaches us the vanity and emptiness of all man's knowledge. We reach the bounds and barriers which God has placed across our path in every branch of science, and we find, with bitter disappointment, at life's extreme close, that when we know all, we know nothing. This I have learned, my young friend, and it is all that I have learned in eighty years, that the only knowledge really worth pursuing is the knowledge of God in his word and his works--the only practical application of that high science, to do good to all God's creatures."
"Still study is not wasted," said the earl, "when it leads to such an elevated result, when it teaches us in the creature to see the Creator, and in the events of existence to behold his will, and surely the fruit of such conclusions must be peaceful."
"Tend to peace they must," replied the old man; "for they must quiet strong passions, moderate vehement desires, teach us to bear afflictions with fortitude, and to temper our anxieties with hope; but yet, noble lord, neither philosophy nor religion can alter the constitution of our minds. We may know that God is good and merciful. We may know that in the end all must be well; but we still see that on this earth there is a world of sorrow, and we may shrink under the anguish ourselves, or tremble at seeing it approach those we love."
"Fear not for me," said the beautiful girl who was seated beside him, seeing his eyes turned with a sad look towards her; "oh, let not one anxiety on my account add to the burden of years, and make your last days cheerless. Though those may deny me who are bound to protect me, thank God, I can render myself independent of them. The education you have given, the arts you have taught, would always enable me with my own hands to win my own bread----" and then she added, in a low tone, catching a look almost reproachful on the earl's face, "should it be needful."
"Which it shall never be," replied the earl at once, "so long as I have a hand and heart to offer, and means----"
"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the old man, turning his eyes almost sternly from the one to the other; "no such rash words. You know not what you speak of. At all events wait till you know what fate maybe before you; and then, with the deliberate forethought of a man, act as becomes a man, and not as a rash boy."
The effect of his words upon Julia were not such as might have been expected, perhaps; for whether the severer part had found an antidote in what her lover had said before, or whether, from some secret source in her own heart, the waters of hope swelled forth anew, she seemed from that moment to cast away the deeper tone of thought and feeling which had characterized her conversation and demeanour during the evening, and to resume the light-hearted spirit of youth which had spread such a charm around her in the first years of her acquaintance with Lord Gowrie.
"Nay," she said, laying her hand upon the old man's arm, "all other things apart, is it not true that I can win my own bread by my own hands? Can I not paint well enough to gain the few scudi that are needful for my little sustenance? Can I not compose music which brings tears at least into your eyes? Can I not write as well as many a one who lives by his pen? Can I not illuminate missals, or embroider, or work baskets, if needs must be? Would I not long ago have done all this for your support as well as mine, if you would but have let me?"
"You would indeed," he answered, "but that I could not have. Not that I hold it degradation in any one, my child, by their own industry to remedy the niggardliness of fortune; but I could not bear to see you labour for me."
"Oh, man's pride!" exclaimed Julia; "what an obstacle it is to peace and happiness. Here," she continued, turning to Lord Gowrie, with a sparkling look--"here has he, for many a year, supported, instructed, educated me; and now he will not let me repay a small portion of the debt I owe him by labouring for him now, although he knows right well that to do so would be my greatest joy, that the object would be happiness and the means amusement. But you look tired," she said, gazing affectionately in the old man's face; "let me go and bring you some refreshment."
"Call Tita," replied the old man; "she will bring it; and now let us speak of ordinary things."
A small tray was soon brought in, with some fruits, and bread, and wine; and the conversation was renewed in a gayer spirit, Julia striving by her light and happy tone to cheer the old man, and banish the gloom which seemed to hang about him. The time thus passed rapidly; and some few minutes before midnight the old man rose, saying to the earl, "I go before for a moment. Follow me speedily. She will show you the way, but remember, in the meantime, no rash words."
When he was gone, the earl and Julia stood for a moment gazing at each other; and then Gowrie took her hand, saying, "Notwithstanding his prohibition, thus far, at least, I must speak----"
But she laid her left hand on his shoulder, lifting her bright eyes swimming in tears to his, and interrupted him. "Not now, Gowrie," she said; "I am no dissembler, nor are you. My heart is open to you, and yours to me. If we were to speak for years we could say no more, and anything like promises are vain at this moment, for nothing shall ever part me from him but death. Now come. His lamp is lighted by this time; and I fear to trust myself with you here alone, not from doubt of you, but of my own firmness; and a few more words would make me weep. I see the dark day coming, Gowrie; and, as I said before, I would not, for the joy of heaven, rob him of one thought or care, so long as his life shall last."
As she spoke she led the way to the door without withdrawing her hand from her lover; and thus, hand in hand, they went along the corridor which led to the old man's study. There Julia left him, and the earl went in.
The room which the Earl of Gowrie entered was a small one of an octagonal shape, having tall lancet windows on every side but one. It had probably, at some period long past, been the interior of one of those small projecting turrets which we still occasionally see ornamenting the angles of the ancient castellated houses of the Italian nobility. The bridge leading towards the Treviso gate, and the small canal were underneath; the city walls rose up black beyond; but the turret was high above, and through the windows, on every side but that next to the city, were seen twinkling the bright and multitudinous stars of heaven. In the centre of the room was a large oaken table bearing a lamp, the flame of which was peculiarly bright and perfectly white in colour, and over the rest of the table were cast in strange confusion a number of curious objects. There were books--some closed, but some open, and displaying characters with which the young earl was perfectly unacquainted. One page was covered all over with cyphers alternately of red and blue; and one was traced with many mathematical figures, which, although the earl was well versed in that science, seemed to him strange and new. Another manuscript lay near, which he saw at once was written in Hebrew, but there were others in which the lines ran from corner to corner of the page, with such a multitude of strokes and flourishes, that the letters themselves could hardly be distinguished. Scientific instruments were there too, tossed about amongst the papers, with the uses of many of which the young lord was unacquainted. There were triangular glasses filled with sand, and glass globes, connected together by a tube of the same substance, half filled with mercury. Squares and triangles of brass covered over with curious signs were there likewise; and round about the room, beneath shelves loaded with ponderous volumes, were several globes, and instruments of a rude construction for observing the stars. In one corner stood a small furnace, with crucibles and retorts, and various other implements of chemical or alchemical science; and on a small pedestal of black marble between two of the windows was raised a crucifix of ebony and ivory, supported by two heads of cherubim, exquisitely sculptured in white marble, the one looking up towards the cross with a bright smile, the other with the eyes bent down, as if weeping, and the whole expression sad. At the foot of the crucifix lay a human skull.
At the moment the earl entered, the old man, Manucci, was seated on the side of the table opposite to the door, with a reading desk bearing up a large vellum-covered book before him, and a paper covered with a strange-looking diagram on the table. He had a pen in one hand, and a pair of compasses in the other; and without noticing, even by a look, the young earl's entrance, he turned his eyes from time to time to the book and then to the paper again, and once or twice inscribed a figure of a curious form at the side of the diagram. Twice he paused and listened, as if in expectation of some sound, and then laying down the pen, he leaned his head upon his hand, and remained in silent meditation.
At length the large bell of the Franciscan church of St. Antony struck the hour of midnight, and all the other clocks in the city proclaimed that a day was ending and beginning.
"Now," said Manucci, addressing the earl, "come hither, and sit beside me. Here is the scheme of your nativity, drawn out carefully according to the dates that you have given me. Of the past I will not speak; for, as you have often told me the events which have occurred to you at various periods of your life, perhaps in drawing deductions from the aspect of the stars, my judgment might be somewhat guided by the knowledge I already possessed. It is sufficient, however, that to any one who is acquainted, even superficially, with this science, it would plainly appear, that the aspect of the stars in the month of October, 1593, menaced you with great danger, and that in '94, towards the end of the year, you were clearly destined to quit your native land. Of the future, however, I must speak more strongly; for times of great trial to you are coming. Look at these menacing aspects, and judge for yourself."
"I know so little of the science," replied the earl, "that I cannot pretend to form a just opinion; but it seems to me, from the little I do know, that here," and he laid his finger on a part of the diagram, "is the promise of much happiness, honour, and peace, and love."
"Ay," said Manucci, "but look farther. Here is honour, and peace, and love, but hardly has the sun of next year touched his extreme point north, when see what menacing aspects appear. Almost every planet is in opposition in your house. Do you not see?"
"I do, indeed," answered the earl; "but yet it is nearly unintelligible to me. I beseech you read it, according to your skill."
"It is dark and yet clear," said the old man. "This, however, I can tell with certainty, that the greatest point of peril in your whole life, lies between the end of June next year and the anniversary of this day. The danger shall come upon you in the midst of peace and tranquillity, when all things seem to promise fair. If you escape that period, the rest of existence shall be bright and happy, your life shall be long and prosperous, and fortune shall smile upon you to the end; but there is great peril there."
"But how shall I avoid it?" asked the earl. "Can you give me no indication for my guidance? Can you not tell me what is the nature of the peril, from whom or whence it comes?"
Manucci mused. "It is not war," he said, "for Mars is low down. I should say that policy had to do with it, that the danger is more of conspiracy than of war."
The young earl smiled; but Manucci went on, in the same sort of musing way. "Love, too," he said, "has a share in the evil, though indirect; but conspiracy assuredly, from the menacing aspect of Saturn. Avoid, I beseech you, avoid all meddling with the politics of your native land; scrupulously and carefully eschew treason, or anything that may be so construed; listen not even to the words of conspirators, take no part in their counsels, drive them forth from your presence if they seek to tempt you, and so I trust you may escape the peril; but if not, you will certainly fall, for the anger of a king evidently threatens you; and the cause of danger is conspiracy, goaded on by love."
"Safely and surely can I promise," answered the earl, "for I have long made up my mind to avoid all plots, and to take no share of any kind in aught but the ordinary business of the day. My family have suffered too much already from their dealings with that foul fiend, Policy, which ever proves the ruin of those who give themselves up to her, who soothes them with hopes but to deceive them, and raises them up but to dash them down. Neither have I ever seen or heard of one benefit procured for the country by the blood of all the patriots who have fallen in defending their fellow citizens' rights, still less by that of those who have suffered base personal ambition to lead them into schemes of treason and disloyalty under the pretence of redressing grievances. There comes a pitch of tyranny sometimes, it is true, when it is necessary to dare all and to risk all for security, liberty, and repose; but it very, very seldom happens, in the ordinary course of events, that anything can be gained by revolt, which can compensate even for a few days of turbulence, anarchy, or civil war. Nothing of the kind exists at present, or is likely to exist, to justify anything like conspiracy or rebellion. Make your mind easy then, as far as I am concerned; for I can safely promise to avoid everything which can afford even a reasonable cause of suspicion."
"Thank God that it is so," answered Manucci, solemnly; "but ever keep in mind what I have said. Think of it every day. Remember it on every occasion; for I have told you that the peril will come suddenly, and probably, therefore, the temptation also. If you attend to my warning, and thus escape the danger, you will have to thank me for long years afterwards. Therefore now sit down here in my seat, and copy accurately that which is there written. Keep it constantly about you, refer to it often, and thus will you ever be upon your guard."
"If your warning prove effectual," replied Lord Gowrie, "I shall owe you, my dear friend, much indeed; and I only wish you would tell me how I can repay the service."
"Perhaps I may--perhaps I may," said the old man; "but copy that quickly, then we will talk more."
Lord Gowrie sat down to copy the paper; but it occupied him during a longer time than he had imagined, and in the meantime, a little scene had taken place in the kitchen of the house, which ultimately took a direction towards the same subjects which closed his conference with Manucci.
Left alone in the dark, worthy Austin Jute waited with exemplary patience till the old woman who had opened the door, returned with a lamp, and invited him to come and take some supper with her in the kitchen.
"One cannot have too much of a good thing," said the Englishman, for such he was, in his own tongue; "but then again, another proverb says, 'Enough is as good as a feast;' and to speak the truth, I have supped; but 'a full bag is better than an empty sack;' and, for that matter, no one knows when he has had enough, and therefore I cannot be supposed to be a judge in a case of conscience."
This reasoning was addressed to himself rather than to the old lady who stood by his side, listening to all he had to say with an air of the most perfect unconsciousness, waiting for the time when it should be his pleasure to explain himself in Italian.
"Well, ma'am, I will come," he replied, in the latter language, which, by the way, he spoke remarkably well. "My stomach says it would not object to any reasonable quantity of good food, and still less to a cup or two of good wine. I will follow you, and if----"
But the servant, accustomed to see many strange people, and to hear many foreign languages, seemed to comprehend his meaning as much by his looks as his words, and beckoning him to come on before he had ended his sentence, she led the way towards her refectory. The fare she spread before him was not very abundant nor very rich, but it was refreshing, for fruit was ever cheap at Padua, and of such consisted the principal part of their meal. Austin Jute was a man to make himself easily at home wherever he came, and though, to say truth, he might have been well pleased if his companion had been younger and prettier, nevertheless he was soon in full talk with the old woman; and when a little bell rang above for refreshments there, he helped her to arrange the dishes and place the glasses with their long stalks, as willingly and cheerily as if she had been sixteen.
"There now, Tita," he said, as she lifted the tray, "put the other side with the bottles next to you. Always, in life and on a tray, place the load where it is easiest borne. Two hands are enough when we know how to use them, but four are better when work is plenty: so I'll go and open the doors for you, for there seem many in your house."
As may well be supposed, Master Austin was now in high favour with the good dame; for age receives as a boon what youth exacts as a tribute; and when she rejoined him after carrying in the supper, she said, in a low voice, "Well, your lord is certainly one of the handsomest, noblest-looking cavaliers I ever saw; and so frank and friendly in his way. He always speaks to me as if I were an old friend, and not a poor servant."
"Like master, like man, my dear," replied Austin Jute; "birds of a feather flock together. Like sticks to like. That is the reason my master and I are so fond of each other; but I hope there is somebody else fond of him too, for I saw, as you came out, such a beautiful pair of eyes outshining the lamp, that I now understand very well why my lord came back to Padua, and why he used to come hither almost every night when he was here before, with that dull-looking fellow, Martini, after him, like an ill-conditioned cur running at the heels of a fine horse."
"I never liked that man," said the old woman, seating herself on her stool in the kitchen. "I am glad your lord has not brought him to-night."
"He could not bring him if he had wished it," replied Austin; "he would have tumbled to pieces by the way. He was hanged two months ago at Geneva, for robbing a gentleman who was in the same inn with us. My master would never believe he was a rogue till he saw him hanging, though, when he fell out of the ferry-boat into the Po, and floated like a bad egg, I told the noble earl, that he who is born to be hanged will never be drowned. They hanged him at last, however, and made the proverb good."
"I dare say they were quite right," said the old woman, in a moralizing mood; "though people who are set to do justice, often do great injustice. Do you know, they came and wanted to drag my good old master away, who is as honest a man and as good a Christian as any in Padua; and they would have done it, too, and most likely put him to the rack, if it had not been for the courage and kindness of one of your countrymen, a student here, called Hume, and the wit and lightness of the Signora Julia."
"Yes, I heard of all that Signor Hume did," replied Jute, "for he told my master while I was sitting in the ante-room, with nothing but a thin door between; for you know, Tita, though everything is made for one purpose, most of them will serve two. But what did the young lady do?"
"The moment she heard the noise," replied the old woman, "she ran and shut the door across the passage which leads to the study. So they found nothing but some scraps of old papers that were in the room where my poor master was ill in bed; for that door shuts so close that no one can tell it from the wainscot, and having no keyhole, but a spring lock, they thought the passage ended there. If they had got into the study there would have been fine to do, for there are all manner of strange things there, which are as innocent and as holy as thebambino, I will vow; but nobody understands them but my master, and everything people don't understand they think wicked."
This sage and just observation did not lead Austin Jute from the track he was following; for, to say sooth, curiosity was one of his failings, and the sight of so beautiful a face as he had seen in the room above, had stimulated that very ticklish quality till he could not resist it. "Ah, she is a charming creature, I am sure," he said; "it is true, all is not gold that glitters; and handsome is who handsome does. The devil will take an angel's form at times. The frock does not make the monk; but still she looked so sweet and sad, I am sure she is very amiable. Many a one, Donna Tita, looks gay and cheerful, and many a one looks pleasant and merry, and is but a sour devil after all; but it is a good heart that looks sad for other people's sorrows. Besides, my master would not be so fond of her if she were not an angel. But who is she? Is she the old signor's daughter?"
"And is your master so fond of her, then?" said the old woman, without answering his question. "Are you sure he has never been straying after other women, all this long time while he has been away?"
"Not once, upon my word," replied Austin, with a solemn air, laying his hand upon his left breast. "Lord bless you, since he knew the signora, he has become as discreet as a bell-wether. Why, he sent me out of Genoa for six weeks, just for pinching the cheek of Ninette Bar, the daughter of the innkeeper, and putting my lips too near those of Rosalie, the smith's niece. It is true that I had to break the head of Jerome, and whack Rosalie's lover in self-defence; for it came to crabstick. But as for my lord, he passed all his time at the house of an old gentleman called Beza, where fewer women got in than get into a monkery--though he used to have as gay a heart as the gayest once on a time."
"Then why did he go away, and stay away so long, if he is so fond of her?" asked the old lady, who had her own share of curiosity as well as Austin Jute.
"Nay! gads my life! you must ask that of the earl himself," replied the man, "for I am not his father confessor. Perhaps the lady was cold, for you women will have your whimsies. Dear creatures, you would not be half so charming without."
The compliment oblique is almost always sure to go deeper than the direct; and good Tita, though she had long lost any external claims to the title of a charming creature, included herself comfortably in the general category, and felt her heart open towards her companion. "No, no," she answered, "she is not cold--to him, at least; and how should she be, when she scarcely ever saw a young man before? He is not so bad looking either, and a kind heart too; and as for whimsies, dear child, she has none, and never had. She lay in my arms when she was two years old, and that is sixteen years since."
"Upon my life, the old gentleman must have taken to matrimony late in life, to have a daughter of eighteen, when he is eighty," said Austin Jute, laughing.
The shot took effect.
"His daughter, you foolish knave!" cried the old lady, "she is not his daughter!--His daughter's daughter, if you will."
"Well, there would be no great harm in it, if she were his daughter," answered Jute; "so you need not look so angry, my dear; many a man marries at sixty for the consolation of life, or at least of the little bit of life that remains. Better late than never, men say. I would rather come in at the end of the dinner than see no dinner at all. It is never too dark to see one's way, if one has but a lantern; and if we have gone on wrong from the beginning, why should we not try to get right at the end?--And so the young lady's name is not Manucci, after all?"
"Her mother's was," answered Tita. "Poor thing, I remember her well. When she gave the child into my hands," she said, "Take care of her, Tita, for she will soon have no mother to do so, and no father has she ever known."
"Oh, ho!" said Austin Jute, with a peculiar expression of countenance; but the old woman's black eyes flashed fire. "Out, knave!" she said, without allowing him to finish the sentence; "would you slander a saint in heaven?"
The next moment, however, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and she said, "I spoke foolishly. I should have told you, the babe's father died on the day that she was born. The mother never held her head up after; and she kept her word with me too truly; for scarcely four months were gone by, ere we laid her in Campo Santo."
"Poor thing!" said Austin Jute, in so natural a tone of pity, that all remains of anger were banished from Tita's heart. "How did the lady's husband die? Was it in battle or of disease?"
"By the axe, young man--by the axe," replied Tita, sharply; "a plaything with which people in your country sport even more than we do here in Italy--at least I have heard so; for I know nothing of any other land but my own; but I have heard the Signor say that there has been sufficient innocent blood shed upon the scaffold in England and Scotland to bring down a curse upon the country."
"Upon my life, he said true," replied Austin Jute; "for I have seen a few heads roll in my own day, and have always thought it a pity that people cannot find some other means of putting those out of the way who stand in their light, but by cutting them on the back of the neck. Were men's heads no better than turnips, we could not treat them more carelessly than we do in our little island. Poor child, her misfortunes came early; and I hope and trust that she got over them all at once. People must eat black bread, they say, at one time of their life; and it is better to swallow it before we have tasted any other, than to eat the white bread first, and then have the other after."
"God send that it be so with her," said the old woman, "for a dearer, sweeter girl never lived."
"And, after all, what is her name?" said Austin Jute, in that quiet sort of easy tone which so often leads on confidence; but good old Tita answered quietly, with a shrewd glance of the eye, "Julia, to be sure--the Lady Julia. That has been enough for me all my life; and it should be enough for you too, I think."
"Enough is as good as a feast," answered Austin Jute; but as he saw he could gain no more information he dropped the subject, and began to wonder at the length of his lord's visit.
"It is done," said the earl, "and, I think, accurately."
The old man bent over the paper, and examined every line. "Saturn is wanting in the third house," he replied; "and you have left out the sextile there."
Lord Gowrie corrected the error, then folded the paper carefully, and put it in his bosom. When he had done so, he turned his eyes to Manucci's face, and saw that the old man was very pale, while a dropping heaviness of the eyelid and a quivering of the lip seemed to the young lord to indicate great weariness.
"I wish much to speak to you, my good old friend," he said, "upon matters of great moment; but I see that you are weary, and I must not begin now, for our conversation might be long."
"We must begin now and end now, Gowrie," said the old man, looking at him gravely; "for who shall say what a day will bring forth? I have learned this in eighty years, if nothing else, that the present only is ours, the past is gone beyond our recall, the future is in the hand of God. Then let no man think that he can command to-morrow, for health or sickness, strength or weakness, fortune or adversity, are all as unstable as the wind, changing how and why we know not. I have much to say to you too, and on the same subject, I believe. You would speak of Julia, is it not so?"
"It is," answered Lord Gowrie.
"And you love her. I have seen it before this night. I have caught your eyes watching her anxiously, as if you loved, yet hesitated; as if the thoughts of the world's opinion, and friends' advice, and courtly favour, and ambitious dreams perchance, came like dull vapours from the earth, clouding the star of love. You went away; and I let you go, without one word to stay you; for no man can be worthy of her, so long as one such doubt remains in his bosom. Are they all gone now?"
"All that I have ever entertained," replied Lord Gowrie, in a tone of some mortification; "but you have done me some wrong, my good friend, in your own fancies. Very few of such considerations as those you imagined have had influence with me. I loved, but I saw no surety of being loved in return. I knew not how strong my love was till I went away; and I judged that it was but right to her to make myself sure--before I strove to win her affection--that my own was durable and true. I had often heard of boyish passion soon forgot, of love that waxes and wanes in a few short months, and if I have learned no other point of philosophy, I have learned to doubt the human heart till it is tried. As for worldly considerations, you do me wrong. No thoughts of court favour, of ambition, of avarice, ever crossed my mind. I am wealthy enough, powerful enough, high enough in station to set such things at nought: nor did the world's opinion influence me; but I thought it might be wiser and better too, if, ere I acted decidedly in any way, I opened my heart to my own dear mother, one of royal race, but who has withal a royal heart, and knows that the true wealth is the wealth of the mind, the highest nobility that of the spirit. Such were the only worldly feelings I bore with me when I went away; but I will not deny that long before that, when I found passion rising in my heart towards her, I did struggle against my growing love, though I struggled in vain. I am candid with you, my old friend--I tell you all; but now that I have the hope of being loved in return, every other consideration is cast away."
"Every other?" asked the old man, gazing at him thoughtfully.
"All, all!" replied the earl. "This is no time to ponder or to pause, no time to seek either consent or counsel. You have been very ill, nearly at the gates of death, were threatened with persecution, might have been torn from her in a moment, and she left desolate, friendless, defenceless. What should I have thought of myself--how should I have felt, if, when I returned, I had found you dead or in prison, and this dear girl cast upon the world? This must never be again, my old friend--if she will give me her heart, share my station and my fortune, and trust to this arm for her defence."
"Spoken nobly, and like yourself," replied the old man. "That she loves you, I doubt not; for, though unconsciously, perhaps, yet you did seek her love. That you love her well and truly, I am very sure; otherwise you would not be here to-night, Gowrie, for you came not alone to learn your fate from me. But yet I must think both for you and for her; and I will place the greatest trust in you that ever was placed in man, because I know you to be full of honour, and that she is firm in honesty and purity of heart. Yet I will exact some promises from you both--promises which, solemnly given, you will not dare to break."
"I never yet broke one knowingly," replied Lord Gowrie; "and I never will. Where her fate is concerned, believe me, my good friend, a promise given would be but the more sacred."
"And you are then resolved to marry her?" said Manucci.
"If she can give me her whole heart," replied the earl.
"Do you ask no question as to her birth, her station, her family?" said the old man.
"None," replied the earl. "Love, they say, my good friend, is blind; but mine has not been so. Before my feelings towards her deserved that name, I had many opportunities of observing; and my eyes were then, at least, open. Small traits, which might have escaped many, told me great secrets of her heart and character. Her love and her devotion to yourself, seeming to merge all feelings in her duty towards you; her prompt obedience to your lightest wish, flying before command, and seeming to divine your unspoken thoughts; her tenderness towards all, even towards the wicked and the cruel, censure losing itself in pity for those who are not happy enough to be good; that true modesty which is without vain affectation, and, ignorant of evil, places no watchful guard against false appearances. All these, and many more things of the kind, I marked, and often thought, these are the qualities which will only have greater scope and shed brighter lustre in a wife; and when to these was added, each day, the perception of some new grace of person or of mind, was it possible not to love, Manucci?"
"You have, indeed, watched closely, and judged well," replied the old man; "and, with one who can so justly estimate, I have no fear of my dear child's happiness. Now listen; and, though weary, I will tell you sufficient to show you that, even according to the world's usual judgment, you have not chosen so far amiss. By the side both of father and of mother, she is your equal in rank. Though an exile from my native city, I am of a race which can count its generations back almost to the days of ancient Rome. That she is the child of my only daughter you know, for you have often heard me say so; and, by the father's side, she is descended from a race, if not royal, as you have said of your mother, often more powerful than the kings they served. They, too, are of your own land; and their blood has mingled with that of your own ancestors. Your family and hers have fought, and plotted, and achieved, and sat together on many a field, in many a cabinet, at many a council board. Her father, indeed, she never knew, for he died by the hand of the executioner on the day when she was born; his lands were confiscated and given to another; and I fled from Scotland with her mother and herself, trusting that, at some future time, and by a more wise and just sovereign, that portion which was secretly settled on my poor child, as her dowry, and which no confiscation could touch by law, might be restored to its true owner. These papers, which I will give to you, will tell the rest and prove the whole; and now listen to me, Lord Gowrie--you must soon return to your own land----"
"Not to leave her here," replied the earl, interrupting him; "that I cannot do, my friend."
"Peace, peace," said the old man; "you must hear before you can understand. She shall go with you--but not as your wife, impatient boy--under the charge of your honour, and under your solemn promise to me, not even to seek to wed her till one of two things has come to pass. You shall endeavour, to the utmost of your power, to restore to her the estates which were reft from her and from her mother by the hand of oppression. The papers I am about to give you will prove her title, and all that she demands is justice. If you succeed, then in God's name, if you so will, make her your wife; but if not, you shall wait patiently till after the last day of September in the next year. Then the danger will be over."
"But what will become of you, my good friend?" demanded the earl. "I should never desire Julia to make such a sacrifice as that: nor would she, I am sure, accede, even if I were to demand it."
"Before that time," replied the old man, "my head will rest upon an earthy pillow. The blood is freezing in these wintry veins, and it will soon cease to flow. You said you were going farther on--to Rome, to Bologna, to Florence. Go on; and by the time you return, she may need protection and support. I know that I shall die within these two months; and although the precise period I know not, yet depend upon it, you will be still in Italy when that event happens. Then take her away at once from scenes which must have their bitterness, place her in honourable ward with your mother, who, if I know her right--and I remember her well--will be zealous in the cause of the orphan daughter of her husband's friend; and when her rights are established, or the day of danger for yourself is passed, then be to her as fond and true a husband as your noble father was to Dorothea Stuart. Will you promise me all I demand?"
"I will," answered the earl. "I do most solemnly; but as yet, my good friend--" and a slight shade of doubt came upon his face, "I am not sure that she herself will consent. I think--I trust she will; but there is no promise between us, no assurance upon her part, that she can love me as I love her. I must see her, I must ask her, before my heart is fully at ease. I will come to-morrow, for doubtless she has retired to rest ere now."
"See her at once," said the old man, with a smile. "Her answer will soon be given, or I know her not. Nor will she seek her pillow while I am waking. See her now. It were better, I think, that you proceeded on your journey to-morrow, so that when the hour comes, you may be ready to act at once."
"My journey can be postponed, or given up altogether," replied the earl. "It would be one full of care and anxiety, if I thought that she might be left here suddenly, without friends or support. I speak plainly, because, my noble friend, I know that you fear not death, and are prepared for its coming. Were I to follow out the plan I had proposed, she might be left here for weeks without comfort or assistance."
"No, no," answered Manucci, "I will not have it said, that your love for this dear child made you linger on here when you had other objects before you. As to her fate, fear not for that. I see what you dread; but there you are misled. I am very poor, it is true; but I have made myself poorer than I am, in order that she may be richer when the moment comes. In that cabinet are two thousand golden ducats, saved from my small means by the utmost parsimony. That will be sufficient, and more than sufficient, till she is under the protection of your mother. She must not go back to her native land altogether as a beggar; and she must hire one or more maidens to attend upon her by the way. Neither must she, my good lord, be dependent upon you; for that might give occasion for busy tongues to bruit about rash suspicions. Let her pay her own servants; let her defray her own expenses; there will be still enough and to spare. Now go and speak with her. I will wait you here."
The young earl rose with a faint smile, and moved towards the door; but ere he reached it he turned, and approaching the old man, grasped his hand, saying, "Many, very many thanks for all your confidence; but yet there is one more boon which I must ask, and I shall not be satisfied unless you grant it. My friend, Sir John Hume, whom you already know well, the affianced husband of my young sister Beatrice, will remain here for a fortnight longer. Should need be, Julia must trust in him, till I can reach her. He is the soul of honour, and kindly and gentle in feeling. But I must also leave a servant here, who shall attend every day at your house, and if events should require it, will either stay to assist his master's promised bride or seek and find me, with wit and diligence such as few can show. His character is a very mixed one, with faults and virtues in excess; but he has proved his devotion to me many a time, and of his honesty I am well assured. Say you agree to this! Then I shall go in peace."
"Well, so be it," answered the old man.
And leaving him for the time, the young earl hurried away towards the room whither he had been first conducted. His first steps along the passage were eager and impetuous. It seemed as if he could not too soon hear the words which were to decide his fate; but as he approached the door, his feet relaxed their speed; and he paused thoughtfully, with his hand lifted towards the lock. What was it that made him hesitate? Let his own words answer. "No, no, studied speech is vain," he said at length. "I will pour my heart into hers, and if the feelings within it but find voice, no eloquence can match them."
Thus saying, or rather thinking, he opened the door and went in. Julia was seated at the table with a book before her, on which her eyes rested not, with the lamp casting its pale light on the fair white forehead, the jetty hair, the long fringed eyelids, and the sweeping arch of the mouth. Her eyes were turned away, gazing on vacancy; but the first step of her lover in the room roused her from her reverie, and with a start, sudden but graceful, she rose, exclaiming, "Where is he?--Is he ill?"
"No, dearest Julia," replied the earl; "but I have come from him to you, to speak a few words, which, with your answer, must decide our fate for life."
As he spoke he took her hand, and led her back towards the chair from which she had risen; but she shook her head mournfully, without resuming her seat, and said, "Have I not answered already? I have told you that I cannot, that I must not speak now."
"Nay, listen to me," said the earl, "for I seek not to take you from him, nor even to bind you to quit him; but he and I have now spoken of all; and we have made promises to each other, which it remains but for you to ratify; for upon you depends the execution of his plans, as well as the fulfilment of my hopes."
She bowed her head in silence and with tearful eyes, looking like a flower bent down with heavy dew, and the earl gazed at her tenderly--almost sadly, for a moment. "I am about to leave you again, dear Julia," he said, at length; "but I go this time with very different feelings from those which I experienced when last we parted. I then knew not all that was in my own heart; I knew nothing of yours. I felt love without being aware how powerful it was, and without even hoping it was returned. But now I comprehend all the strength of my own attachment; and I do entertain hopes which it is for you to confirm or to destroy. Painful as it is, I must mingle sad images even with the expression of my brightest hopes. A time must come, Julia, and you yourself see that it is coming fast, when you will be left alone, bereft of kindred support. I have offered, I have promised, to supply to you the place of him whom death may soon, and must eventually, take away. Nothing that you can now say can make that promise void. It shall be executed fully, sincerely, with my whole heart and my whole energies; but it is you who must decide how it is to be executed by me--whether as the promised husband, plighted to you till death, with mournful happiness soothing your sorrows, sharing your grief, and with a right indefeasible to protect and comfort you, till your lot is blended by the marriage vow with his----"
The colour had come warmly up into her cheek as he spoke; and Gowrie paused an instant, doubting what were the emotions in which the blush had its source; "Or--" he added, "or as the true and sincere friend, fulfilling towards you the promise made to one loved, esteemed, and mourned by both; but, with deep and bitter disappointment in his heart, pouring shadow and darkness over his whole afterlife."
Julia started, gazed at him for an instant, and then exclaimed, "Oh no, Gowrie, no!--Can you have doubted?--Can you really have painted such a picture to your own fancy?--Can you think me so ungrateful--so base?" And she let her forehead fall upon his shoulder, while his arm stole round her waist.
"Thanks, dearest girl, thanks!" he said; "but tell me--tell me, Julia, is it with your whole heart?"
She looked up, with her cheek burning, and replied, in a voice hardly audible, "Do not doubt it! When he is gone, there will be none to share with you;" and Gowrie pressed her tenderly to his bosom.
"Enough, enough," he said; "now I shall be quite happy."
Oh, vain words! Oh, rash anticipations! What mortal has ever had the right to infer that he shall be happy, even for an hour? Any man may learn, how much stronger hope is than fear in the human heart, by examining whether his expectations of joy, or his apprehensions of sorrow, have been most frequently disappointed.