Austin Jute was soon quite at home at the house of the English ambassador. His talents were of a very universal kind; and they had been sharpened by certain citizen-of-the-world habits, which he had acquired in the roving life he had led for some years. He had first come over to France with the Earl of Essex, as servant to one of the gentlemen of his household; and that gentleman having been killed in one of the many skirmishes which were then taking place, Austin had been left, like a masterless horse on the field of battle, to run about the world as he liked. Doubtless the earl himself would have either provided for his return to England, or taken him into his own service, had Austin applied properly. But Austin did not, for he had no affection for the Queen of England's favourite, although susceptible of strong attachments; and with a score or two of crowns, which he had accumulated one way or another, he set out to see the world, and, if possible, improve his fortunes. He was rarely at a loss, in whatever circumstances he might be placed; for though very unlike a cat in disposition, he had the quality attributed to the feline tribe of always falling upon his feet. Ready, willing, bold, active in mind and body, a shrewd observer, a ready combiner, with a very retentive memory of everything he saw or heard, and great confidence in his own luck, Austin Jute might have gone through life with the greatest possible success, had it not been for a certain light-hearted love for the fair sex, which often got him into quarrels with more serious lovers, and a quickness of disposition, which rendered those quarrels much more serious than they might otherwise have been. Whenever he was not personally concerned, and he had to manage any affairs for others, he was generally exceedingly prudent and shrewd; at other times, however, he was rash to the greatest possible degree, and seemed to find a pleasure--a vain pleasure, perhaps--in multiplying scrapes around him, with the most perfect confidence of being able to get out of them some way or another.
Thus, in gaiety of heart, he had wandered half through Europe--sometimes being obliged to make a very precipitate retreat from one or other of the small states into which the continent was then divided, but as frequently obtaining as much honour and success as he could have anticipated--when a succession of misadventures, unusually long and serious, brought him to Padua without a crown in his pocket. He was there relieved in the midst of poverty, which had depressed, and sickness which had nearly extinguished his light spirit, by several of the English and Scottish students, and thus fell under the notice of the Earl of Gowrie, who, finding him clever, and having cause to believe him honest, engaged him in his service, at first in a very inferior position, from which he had risen by strong proofs of zeal, attachment, and honesty, to the highest point in his master's favour and confidence.
With all his fellow-servants, too, he was a very great favourite, for he had not the slightest inclination to domineer, to exact, or to exclude; and the curious sort of miscellaneous education which he had received, or rather, which he had bestowed upon himself, gave him a superiority that they were quite willing to acknowledge. He could write, and he could read, which was more than many persons in a much higher station could do at that time. He could play upon the fiddle and the flute, and the hurdy-gurdy. He could carve all sorts of things in wood. He had as many curious receipts as are to be found in the "True Gentlewoman's Delight." He could catch all sorts of birds and beasts by strange devices of his own. He could fence, use the sword and buckler, or play at single stick like a master of the art of defence. He could ride well, and was never known to appear either tired or sleepy.
He had not been a couple of hours in Sir Henry Neville's house, before a multitude of his small talents displayed themselves for the benefit of the ambassador's servants; and his frank good humour soon gained him plenty of friends in the household. Unlike most Englishmen, who seem to look upon every man as an enemy till he has proved himself otherwise, Austin Jute appeared to regard the whole human race as a friend, which is, perhaps, the greatest of all secrets for smoothing the way of life; and on the evening of the day of his arrival, he sat in the hall at the embassy, carving a little sort of box or casket out of a piece of yew, in which he produced the most extraordinary devices, whistling all the time airs so wild and merry, that many of the servants collected around to listen, and others looked over his shoulder, examining the progress of his work.
While thus employed, one of the attendants came into the hall, saying, "The news isn't good, Master Jute. The people say he will not get over the night."
"Well, he knows best what he's about," answered Austin Jute, quietly. "Every man must die once; and but once can a man die. He has got what he deserved from me, and nothing more. He must manage the rest as he likes himself."
"But it may be awkward for you, if he does die," answered the man.
"Not a whit," replied Austin Jute. "My luck is not at so low an ebb. Fortune comes tripping, they say; and a stumble's no great matter so there be not a fall. I say devoutly, 'God save the worthy gentleman!' But if he dies, he dies; and it is no fault of mine--I wish him well."
"But who is the lady who was in the carriage?" asked another of the servants; for curiosity, the passion of all semi-civilized people, was even stronger then in capitals than it is now in country towns. "They say she is not your lord's wife."
"No," answered Austin Jute, "but she is his cousin, which is better, as the world goes. She will be his wife hereafter, if Heaven so will it, and she live long enough to reach the first stage of woman's decline."
"Nay, I see not how that is a decline," said the servant. "It is promotion, I think; and all ladies think so too."
"Why was Sarah better than Hagar," asked Austin Jute, laughing, "except that the one was the free woman and the other bond woman? Now, according to our rites and ceremonies, the wife is the bond woman, and therefore, matrimony in a woman's case is the first stage of decline. It is maid--wife--mother; and then widowhood or death gives the poor thing liberty again. She is first free, then the slave to one, then the slave to many, and if ever she regains her liberty, it is by Heaven's will."
"If they are going to marry," said the blunt Englishman who spoke, "I wonder they don't marry at once, and go back home, man and wife. It is what we simple people would do. It would save trouble and save speculation."
"True," answered Austin Jute; "but there are impediments in all things, Master Jacob. Look you here, now. The lady has just lost her grandfather by death, who was as good as a father to her, or better. Now, it is improper for a lady to marry in mourning, and improper for a lady to travel all alone with a gentleman, without being married to him. Now, which is worst, think you, Master Jacob?"
"All alone with a gentleman without being married to him," replied the Englishman, "for that, one can cure one's self."
"And so one can cure the other," replied Austin Jute; "and therefore the lady does not travel all alone with my lord; for, besides her maid, who is a very nice young woman, she has got with her my master's old tutor, Mr. Rhind, who is a very nice old woman. Thus all decencies are made to meet; and they can jog along as coolly as Noah and his wife did over the waters of the flood, though, Heaven mend me! I do not think I could do the same."
Perhaps the task was not so easy to Gowrie as his good servant thought, and to say truth, all considerations of prudence prove frequently but very weak bonds against inclination. He strove to strengthen them indeed as far as possible, and though the presence of worthy Mr. Rhind was often an annoyance as well as a restraint, yet he tried not to escape from it. Mr. Rhind, however, whose sense of propriety was somewhat capricious, and who was now so much accustomed to see Gowrie and Julia together, as to think it not so strange as he had done at first, would frequently, during their stay in Paris, go forth to see this object or that, which was worthy of attention, and the lovers would be left alone together in circumstances dangerous to their resolution. It was thus one evening, after about seven days' residence in Paris, that the worthy tutor was absent, and Gowrie sat by Julia's side. The windows were closed, the hangings drawn, the bright fire of wood sparkled and glimmered on the broad hearth, the taper light was dim and shadowy; and they sat dreaming over the future, or meditating over the past, while Fancy's timid wing dared hardly rest over the present, lest she should settle there and be unable to rise again.
It was a cold evening, the frosty air made the fire sparkle; there came sounds of joyous voices from without, rousing sympathies and hopes and visions of happiness. A gay girl's tongue was heard passing the windows, sinking into silence almost as soon as heard; but the words "Oui, oui, je t'aime, je t'aimerai toujours," sounded distinct upon the ears of those within. It was the key-note of the heart, and in each bosom it echoed, "Oui, oui, je t'aime, je t'aimerai toujours."
She was very lovely as she sat there, leaning back in the large chair, with her tiny feet stretched out towards the fire; every line full of grace; one small fair hand resting white upon the dark drapery falling over her knee, the other locked in Gowrie's, and her head slightly bending forward, with the bright dark curls flowing over her brow and cheek, and her full dark eyes bent upon the fire, seeing pictures in the strong light and shade.
"Oui, oui, je t'aimerai toujours," said Julia's heart, and Gowrie's repeated it; and the thoughts of both wandered far away, plunging through the future like a swallow into the depths of air. Whither did Gowrie's wander? Far, far away, as I have said, and calm judgment strove in vain to regulate its flight. There was something stronger still than reason in his breast. Love--passion was for the time the master, and fancy was but passion's slave. He let her range, but it was for his good pleasure, and reason's voice was all unheard.
At length the lover started up with a thrilling frame and an agitated voice, exclaiming, "This is, indeed, too hard!"
"What, Gowrie, what?" demanded Julia, rising with some alarm at the sudden exclamation which broke the stillness, for they had not spoken for some minutes.
Gowrie clasped her in his arms, and whispered in a low tone, bending down his head till it rested on her shoulder, "Thus to love you, thus to be ever near you, and to be forbidden to call you mine till long, long months of dark uncertainty are past.--Oh, Julia, why should we not be united at once? He who is gone could never foresee all the difficulties and even dangers in which his prohibition may place us. I feel sure that had he done so, he never would have exacted such a sacrifice. One half of our journey is still before us. We must still remain here many days, perhaps weeks; and oh, dear girl, if you can feel or even conceive that which I feel, you will know that this struggle is almost more than mortal can bear, especially when I see the difficulties and dangers increasing ever before us, which would be all removed by our immediate union. What should prevent you from giving me this dear hand at once?" and he covered it with ardent kisses.
"Nothing but our promise, Gowrie," replied Julia, with a burning cheek and a deep sigh; "but, oh, let us not break our word. I will do whatever you will. You are all to me now. I have none but you; and what you can ask I will not refuse, for I know you will not ask anything that is wrong. But oh, remember and consider what it was we promised, how solemnly we promised, and that that promise was given to the dead."
"But if the dead could see," answered Gowrie, "would not the circumstances in which we are actually placed appear so different to those which were contemplated, as to justify a deviation from our engagement?" And as he spoke he pressed her closer to him.
"I know not," answered Julia, without an effort to free herself from his embrace, "nor can we ever know, till we join him where all doubts end; but yet, Gowrie, he was not one to overlook aught in his foresight of the future. Nothing has occurred which he might not naturally foresee. We love dearly, we feel strongly, we are anxious to be united, we have been delayed on our journey, we have been exposed to some insolence and some inconvenience. More, even, may be before us; but all this could not but be displayed to the eyes of one who had well nigh eighty years of the world's experience, and whose memory of every event in life was as perfect as that of youth. Besides, Gowrie, it was a promise, and I have ever held a promise to be the most sacred of all things. Did I know that I had ever broken one, let whatever be the motive, let whatever be the justification, I should never know pure happiness after--I should live in regret and fear--there would be a spot upon the past and a cloud upon the future. I should feel that I had been untrue, and fear retribution."
She raised her bright dark eyes to his face, with an appealing, almost an imploring look, and then added, in a low tone, "But be it as you will, Gowrie. My fate is in your hands, and I am ready to suffer anything--even that, for your sake."
"Enough, enough, dearest!" said Gowrie, with a sigh; "you shall suffer nothing for my sake that I can spare you. But oh, dear girl, you know not the pain which the fulfilment of this promise costs. Did you never dream, Julia, that you were parched with thirst, and saw a cool stream flowing before your eyes, but that when you bent down to drink, the pure wave receded before your lip, leaving you more thirsty than before? Thus often do I fancy it may be with me, and that our union may still be delayed by circumstances, till some unexpected fate snatches me from you, or you from me, for ever, when a few dear words spoken at the altar might put our happiness, in that respect, beyond fate."
Julia bent down her head, with bright drops swimming in her eyes, for such sad pictures were not unfrequently present to her own imagination; but she answered, "It would be a clouded happiness, Gowrie; for we should both feel that we had done wrong. I have never, indeed, dreamt such a dream as you mention; but yet I understand well what you mean, and sometimes fears and doubts take possession of me also. Yet I reproach myself when I give way to them; and I am sure that they would increase a thousand fold were we to break our promise. I should then tremble every hour lest our dear-purchased happiness--bought by a falsehood--should be taken from us, and that the union too soon attained, would be too soon ended."
"You are wiser and better than I am," said Gowrie, gently relaxing the embrace in which he held her, and kissing her tenderly--"and it shall be as you will, my love."
"Oh, neither wiser nor better," answered Julia; "but women are accustomed to ponder upon such things, and think of them, I imagine, more deeply than men, who act often from sudden impulses."
Though grave and sad, Gowrie could not refrain from smiling at the very different view she took of human character from that which either prejudice or experience gives to man. Yet, after a moment's thought, he replied, "The world does not judge so, my Julia; and yet, perhaps, you are in some degree right. Women give more weight to feeling and thought, and men to interest and passion, in balancing the right or wrong of actions in the mind. But hark! there is a foot in the ante-room;" and he led her back to her seat.
The next instant there was a gentle tap at the door, and on Gowrie saying, "Come in," the person of Austin Jute appeared.
"Austin, Austin!" cried his master, "I commanded you strictly not to stir from Sir Henry Neville's house till this unfortunate affair was terminated."
"True, my noble lord," replied Austin, "but thetillhas happened. Not, indeed, that I could have staid longer, pent up in one house like a jackdaw in a cage, if it had cost me my life to go out. Had the doors been locked it might have been a different thing, for one soon learns to do without what one cannot get; but with what one longs for, always before one's eyes, one is sure to try for it."
Gowrie turned his eyes, with a smile, to Julia, but did not speak; and the man went on, saying, "All yesterday I looked out of the window of the porter's room, because I did not choose to trust myself to look out of the door; and this morning, as I crossed the fore-court, I found myself sidling up towards the gate, whether I would or not, like a young crab left upon the sands. To-morrow I should have been out, I am sure, had I not had a message to-night to tell me that Master Ramsay had taken a sudden turn the night before in the right way, and was now out of danger. He sent himself to tell me, which was civil, and he told the messenger to bid me come to see him to-morrow, when I should be quite safe."
Lord Gowrie mused; but after a moment's thought he said, "I trust this youth has some grace left. Nevertheless, Austin, you had better not go until I have seen and taken counsel with Sir Henry Neville. This might be a mere scheme to entrap you. I say not that it is so, for I do not know the habits of this place well enough to judge; but it is exactly such a stratagem as men would have recourse to in Italy; and I must have the advice of one who knows better the customs of Paris than either of us."
"Oh, they are very different from the Italians," said Austin Jute; but then, remembering Julia's parentage, he stopped short, and the next moment Mr. Rhind entered the room.
As early on the following morning as possible, Gowrie visited Sir Henry Neville, and was received with every mark of kindness and distinction. He propounded at once his questions regarding Ramsay and Austin Jute, but received a reply which somewhat surprised him.
"Oh, there is no danger to your servant," said the ambassador. "Neither Ramsay himself nor any one else in Paris, I think, would venture to send such a message to my house for the purpose of entrapping any one. Besides, I have the same information myself; but yet I think I would not let the servant go."
"Will you explain why not?" said Gowrie. "I was in hopes that the fact of Ramsay's sending this message at all, was a proof that the rash intemperance of which you formerly spoke, proceeded merely from the unchastised passion of youth, and that he has better qualities in his nature than he has hitherto suffered to appear."
"I trust it is so," replied Neville; "but yet there remains a great deal to be beaten out of him. The truth is, my dear lord," he continued, with a laugh, "that the message first came to me, and though, perhaps, kindly intended towards your servant, was still somewhat insolent in its tone. He sent to say that he was recovering, and that the man who had wounded him need fear no chastisement--that was the word he used; and he then went on to say, that the man might come to him in safety, when he would assure him of his pardon. We rough islanders, my lord, are accustomed to think that no pardon is necessary where no offence has been committed; and therefore I judge that you had better not let your man go. It might only lead to evil consequences; for I do not think, from Master Austin's look and manner, that he is one to submit to haughty or injurious words without a rejoinder."
"He certainly shall not go," answered Gowrie, "since such was the message. However, I shall myself soon quit Paris, and therefore, Sir Henry, if you will favour me with the letters which you have promised me for the English court, I will deliver them with pride and pleasure, as it is, of course, my intention to present my humble duty to her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, as I pass through London."
"You shall have them this very evening," answered Neville; "but yet I wish you would stay for a couple of days longer; for I know that you are a great lover of music, and there is a very delicate concert to be given the day after to-morrow. There are three of the most excellent performers on the violin that ever were heard, besides some famous singers from Italy; and they will perform several rare and beautiful pieces by a new composer of great genius."
Lord Gowrie promised at once to stay for the high treat offered to him; but he took his leave without informing Sir Henry Neville that he had other objects in delaying his departure. Had the message of Ramsay been that which he had imagined when he visited the ambassador, the young earl would have quitted Paris on the following day; but the tone in which he now found it was conceived, induced him to adopt another course, and proceeding at once to his own chamber without seeing Julia, he sat down and wrote the following note:--
"To Master Ramsay of Newburn, greeting:--
"Sir,
"His excellency Sir Henry Neville, English ambassador at this court, has communicated to me your message to my servant, by whom you were wounded. I rejoice to hear that you are in a way of recovery, which, I trust, will be soon complete. It was my purpose to have quitted this capital long ago, but in the circumstances which exist, I shall remain here for some days longer, in order to give you an opportunity of doing that which, doubtless, you will be naturally disposed to do. We are all subjected to error, especially in youth; but when a man of good breeding has committed a fault towards another, he is always desirous of apologizing for it. I am informed, by no less than five eye-witnesses, that while I had ridden on before my carriage, you offered an insult to a lady under my care and escort, which was, in fact, an insult to myself. Doubtless you are inclined to write an apology for this conduct, as that which has passed between my servant and yourself can be considered as no atonement to
"Your most humble servant,
"Gowrie."
When he had read the letter over, sealed, and addressed it, the earl dispatched it by an old and somewhat matter-of-fact servant, who had accompanied him from Scotland to Italy. He gave no especial directions in regard to its delivery; and the man, in the ordinary course, would probably have left it at the lodging of his young countryman, had he not been forced to take with him, both to show him the way, and to interpret for him, a lacquais de place, who had been engaged by the earl since his arrival in Paris. The lacquais de place of those days was a very different animal from that which bears the title at present, when every drunken courier, who has been discharged for bad behaviour, and whose character is too well established to obtain permanent employment, places himself at the door of a hotel, and calls himself a lacquais de place. The one who had been hired by Lord Gowrie was a brisk, impudent, meddling fellow, full of the most consummate French vanity, and determined to have his say upon every occasion. He must needs see the letter which was to be delivered; and when he got to the door, he did not fail to impress upon the good old man, that it was necessary he should deliver the letter to the Seigneur de Ramsay in person, and obtain an answer of some kind, to which the Scotchman, always well inclined to meet a countryman in foreign lands, did not in the slightest degree object. Some difficulty, indeed, was made in admitting him; but when he announced that he came with a letter from the Earl of Gowrie, the difficulty ceased, and he was ushered into the room of the wounded man.
Ramsay of Newburn was lying on his bed dressed in a warm robe de chambre, as if he had been only allowed to get up during the morning. He was a powerful and a handsome man of one or two-and-twenty years of age, with good features, but by no means a prepossessing expression. His face was very pale from loss of blood, and from the illness consequent upon his wound; but his eye was bright and hawk-like, and, with his black hair, neglected since his wound, and falling in ragged masses over his forehead, it gave a wild, fierce look to his worn countenance. As soon as the servant entered, he motioned his own attendant to withdraw, and said in a low, hollow tone, "They tell me you are the Earl of Gowrie's servant. You are not the man who wounded me?"
"No, sir," replied the other. "He is still at the embassy."
"You have got a letter for me, have you not?" asked Ramsay, keeping his eyes fixed upon his face.
The man presented it; but Ramsay went on without opening the letter, saying, "You are a countryman of mine, by your tongue."
"Yes, sir," answered the servant. "I come from fair Perth itself."
"It is a beautiful town," said Ramsay. "I suppose you have been long in the service of the earl?"
"I was in the service of his brother before him," replied the man.
"Well, I am very sorry there should have been any disagreement between the earl and myself," continued Ramsay. "Pray, who is the lady who is with his lordship?"
"I cannot justly say, sir," answered the man; and then, seeing a curious sort of light coming into the other's eyes, he added, "She's a far-away cousin of my lord's. The Lady Julia Douglas, they call her. My lord met with her in Italy, where some of her relations dying, he agreed to see her safe back to Scotland."
"Then she is not an Italian, as some of my people told me?" rejoined the young man.
"Oh, no," cried the servant. "She speaks fine English; and I've never heard her speak anything else, except to the servants at times."
Ramsay mused, and then inquired if the earl was going direct back to Scotland.
"He'll stay a while in London town, they say," rejoined the man; "but I can tell nothing for certain. My lord does not talk much of what he intends to do."
"Will you draw back that curtain from the window?" said the wounded man, "that I may see what the earl writes;" and his request being complied with, he opened the letter and read. The first words seemed to please him well, for a smile came upon his lip. It had somewhat a sarcastic turn, indeed; but the usual expression of his face was sneering. The next words, however, clouded his brow; and as he read on, it became as black as a thunder cloud. When he had done, he remained with his teeth hard set, and the letter still in his hand, apparently musing over the contents, while quick, almost spasmodic, changes of expression came over his face, and from time to time he muttered something to himself, the sense of which the servant could not catch. Gradually, however, the irritable movements seemed to cease; and he looked at the letter again, not reading it regularly, but glancing his eye from one part to the other, in a desultory manner. His brow then became smoother, though it cost him an apparent effort to banish the frown, and the sneer which hung about his upper lip he could not banish.
"If your lord takes his departure so soon," he said, "I fear I cannot have the honour of paying my respects to him. Is it quite certain that he goes in three days?"
"I have not heard, sir," replied the man, "and so I can't say; but if he has told you so in the letter, depend upon it he'll do it: for he is not one to change his mind lightly."
"Well, then," said Ramsay, with a somewhat peculiar emphasis, "I must wait another opportunity."
"I will tell him so, sir," said the old servant; but the young man exclaimed, "No, no, you need not tell him exactly that; merely say I regret my inability to wait upon him, and that I am unable to write. You may say, moreover----"
He did not finish the sentence, but fell into thought again, tossing himself uneasily on his bed, till the servant, thinking that he had done, took a step towards the door, saying, "Well, I'll tell him, sir, just what you say."
"Stay, stay," said Ramsay; "I have something to add. You may say to the noble lord, for me, that I am sorry I offended the lady, but that I did not at all intend to insult her. The curtain was drawn rudely in my face by a man in the inside of the carriage; and I pulled it back as a reproof to him, without thinking of her at all."
"Well, sir, you know best," replied the man, who, though not very brilliant, did not think that this account accorded well with what he himself had seen. "I'll tell the earl just what you say."
"Pray do," said Ramsay; "and say, moreover, that I shall soon have the honour of seeing his lordship in Scotland, as I intend to return thither as soon as I can travel. Your master is well acquainted, I think, with my good cousin, Sir George."
"Oh, ay," answered the man. "I have seen Ramsay of Dalhousie many a time, both at Perth and at Dirleton, and young Jock Ramsay, too, his brother, who used to come to play with Mr. Alexander. They used to quarrel and fight very often; but that is the way with boys."
"They quarrelled, did they?" said Ramsay of Newburn, with a smile. "Doubtless they'll be better friends as men. And now, tell my man to give you a draught of strong waters, but don't let it make you forget to deliver my message to your lord."
"No, no, sir; no fear of that," answered the man, and withdrew.
When he was gone, Ramsay writhed upon his bed, as if in pain, and he murmured to himself, "Ay, that bitter cup is quaffed; but I'll make those who have forced it upon me taste a bitterer. But how--but how? I shall never have strength to wield a sword like a man again. The villain has crippled me for life. I can fire a shot, though; and, my good lord of Gowrie, I will not forget you."
Then he fell into thought again, and meditated in silence for nearly half an hour, while various changes of expression came over his countenance, all dark, but of different shades. At length some thought seemed to please him, for he laughed aloud. "Ay," he said, "that were better. Then, however matters go, I am the gainer. He has made me truckle to his leman. I'll try if I cannot make him bend his haughty head before those who once already have trampled on the necks of Ruthvens. Let him beware both of words and actions, for he shall be sharply looked to. The proud peat! Let him stay in London with the crooked old Englishwoman. I'll be in Scotland before him, and he shall find her protection blast rather than save him. If I know my cousin John aright, I can so work these ends together as to make this earl regret having done shame to a Ramsay. What I have not strength to do boldly, I will try to do shrewdly, and there will be some pleasure in seeing him help to work out my objects against himself. There is Stuart, too; if we can once get him mixed in the affair, the king will not be long out of it. Then, Gowrie, look to yourself, for James never forgives those whom he fears."
He continued thus muttering to himself for some time longer; but what has been already detailed will be sufficient to show that Ramsay entertained that sweet and gentlemanlike passion of revenge, which was at the time exceedingly dear and pleasant to most of his countrymen. It is so, indeed, with all nations in a semi-barbarous state, and in such a state was Scotland undoubtedly at that time. Torn by factions, frequently a prey to civil strife, when not actually a prey to anarchy, ruled by the strongest and the readiest hand which could clutch and hold the reins of government, she had long seen her children rising to power and wealth on each other's heads, and the pathway to honours marked out by a stream of blood. Ambition went hand in hand with revenge; and the terrible rule seemed fully established in the land, "to forget a benefit as soon as possible, but never to forgive an injury."
I must pass over, with a very brief and general statement, the events which occurred to the personages connected with this tale during several months. There is always in tale-telling, unless the action be compressed within a very short space, a period during which the interest would flag, if the regular passing of each day was noticed, and the small particulars detailed. Were life filled with those striking events which move and interest the reader, with those passions to which the sympathetic heart thrills, with those grand scenes of action which excite the imagination, or with those lesser incidents which amuse and entertain, the human frame, like an over-sharpened knife, would be ground down upon the whetstone of the world, and existence be curtailed of half its date. It is my belief, that patriarchal age was secured to the earlier inhabitants of earth as much by the long intervals existing between the periods of intense excitement, to which they were sometimes subjected, and by the calm and careless ease of the intervening periods, as by any of the many other causes which combined to extend the space between birth and death to well nigh a thousand years. True, they were not close pent up in cities--true, they were continually changing air and scene--true, that excess in anything was little known--true, that they were nearer to the great architype, fresh from the hands of his God, and framed for the immortality of which sin deprived him--true, that long centuries of vice, folly, contention, and misfortune had not then brought forth the multitudinous host of diseases continually warring against the mortal body, diminishing its powers of resistance from generation to generation; but still I believe that the want of excitement, which can only be known where men are spread wide and far apart over the face of the earth, was absolutely necessary to that vast prolongation of life. The mind and body did not mutually grind down each other. Still, the more peaceful periods in any man's history are those which the least interest his fellow-men, and during the time which elapsed between Gowrie's departure from Paris and his arrival in Scotland, no adventures or impediments occurred which can justify much detail. That departure was delayed for a day or two beyond the period which he had at first fixed; and though the weather was now becoming sharp and cold, yet those few days produced a favourable change, and rain and fog gave way to clear skies and broad sunshine. The days, however, were brief, and the journeys necessarily short; so that a week elapsed between his departure from Paris and his arrival at Calais. Four days more brought him to Loudon, and now a new scene opened upon him.
Furnished with letters from Sir Henry Neville to the principal statesmen of the court of Queen Elizabeth, he was received with every demonstration of respect and esteem in the English capital, and two days after was presented to the queen herself. I find little record in history of what followed; but one historian, whose views, it must be remarked, were strongly biassed by peculiar feelings of partizanship, declares that the honours shown by the English sovereign to the young earl were of the most marked and extraordinary kind. It is sometimes, in the present day, not easy to account for the course of policy pursued by Elizabeth in her conduct to the subjects of the neighbouring crown; but we must not doubt well-authenticated facts because we cannot penetrate their motives. The writer whom I have mentioned states, in speaking of the Earl of Gowrie, that the queen "ordered that guards should attend him, that all honours should be paid him which were due to a Prince of Wales and to her first cousin, and that he should be entertained at the public expense all the time he should remain at her court."
I can scarcely imagine that this account is not exaggerated. We find that she showed no such honours to others, who stood much in the same degree of affinity to herself as he did; and unless she wished needlessly to alarm the King of Scotland, no cause can be supposed for such conduct. That she treated Gowrie with great distinction, however, is undeniable, and even marked her favour for him more strongly than her old affection for his grandfather could account for. This course was very dangerous to the young earl himself, for the court of England at that time was thronged by spies of the Scottish monarch; and even the most familiar friends and counsellors of Elizabeth conveyed information to James of all that could affect his interest, to the most minute circumstances. The natural desire of what is called currying favour, of course, gave some degree of colour to the accounts transmitted; and there is every reason to believe, from an examination of the State Paper Office, that such intimations alone were given as had a tendency to put the monarch on his guard, without discouraging his hopes or diminishing his energies. The way for his advent to the throne had been prepared long beforehand; whether from the general considerations of policy, from personal ambition, or from avarice, such men as Cecil had chosen their course, and were determined to remove or overawe all competitors, and to insure the accession of the King of Scotland. I am inclined to believe--without considering them as anything more than mere mortals--that the purest spirit of patriotism inspired those who thus acted. Every man of common sense must have seen that most important ends were to be obtained by uniting the crowns of Scotland, Ireland, and England upon one head; nor could any one doubt that--apart from all considerations of the personal character of the man--the means of maintaining his claims, of crushing all competitors, and of establishing his power upon a firm and secure basis, were more completely in the hands of the King of Scotland than of any other person who could aspire to the English throne. His faults were all personal, which never enter sufficiently into the calculations of politicians; his advantages were those of position, which almost always have too much weight with those who influence the fate of empires. By personal character, no man was ever less fitted to fill the throne of a great country, or to unite discordant races under one sway, than James I.: by political position, no one could compete with him in pretensions to the throne of England. Happy had it been for Great Britain had such not been the case, for the vices of the man more than compensated the advantages of the prince, and the weakness of his successors consummated what his own wickedness began; but no one can blame those who chose according to the lights they possessed, and who smoothed the way for that which naturally appeared the best for the whole nation at the time.
The reports which reached Scotland of the honours shown to the Earl of Gowrie in the English capital, generated, in a jealous and irritable mind, covetous of extended and despotic rule, a feeling of doubt and dread most dangerous to its object; and the busy and gossiping spirit of a small court did not fail to increase the unpleasant impressions thus produced, by a thousand rumours, which had no foundation in truth. Reports were circulated and credited, that Queen Elizabeth had actually designated the Earl of Gowrie as her successor, and even that, in order to unite two great claims to the crown which she held, she had made all the arrangements for a marriage between that nobleman and the Lady Arabella Stuart; one who, like himself, was not very remote from the direct succession. These facts have been omitted altogether, or slurred over by modern historians, in noticing that part of history in which this young nobleman appears; but that such rumours existed in England and Scotland can be proved from contemporary authorities; and we can easily conceive the feelings with which such a man as James was thus prepared to view one whose influence was already redoubtable, on his return to his native land.
Could he have seen the private life of the earl, it is probable that, although he might still have remained inimical, the king's fears would not have assumed the character of hatred. From various motives, which every one can conceive, Julia was not disposed to mingle with the gaieties of a foreign court, or, before she was received and recognised in her own land, to assume the position she was entitled to in the society of the neighbouring state. She felt it no privation, indeed--she sought it not--she cared not for it; but even if she had, she would have forborne, and she had full compensation in the tenderness of him she loved. Gowrie appeared at the court of England alone: he put not forth on her behalf, claims which were to be decided in a different country, and by different laws; and on the only occasion when the queen jestingly alluded to his fair companion, he replied, with that courtly reverence towards the sovereign to which Elizabeth was accustomed, and that due respect for Julia's situation from which he never deviated, "It is painful, madam, to be torn by two duties and two inclinations. You may easily suppose it would be grateful for me to linger here at your majesty's feet, but my duty, both by kindred and by promise, is to escort my cousin back to Scotland, in order to establish rights of which she has been too long deprived. I trust, however," he added, with the air of gallantry which pervaded Elizabeth's court, "that ere long I shall be enabled to return, not alone to bask in the beams of your favour, but to ask a share for one who, I may humbly say, is more worthy than myself of that honour for which princes might well contend with pride."
He spoke with that serious gravity, and yet with that unembarrassed ease, which greatly struck the sovereign whom he addressed; and she replied, in her somewhat abrupt manner, "God's my life, cousin, I have a great inclination to see this same fair creature, and would do so too with all honour, either in private or in public, did I not know that it would do her no good service where she is going. Commend me to her, however, and tell her we regard her and yourself with favour, and will do our best to serve you both should need be."
The earl conveyed the message to her he loved; but Julia smiled almost sadly, as she replied, "I fear me, Gowrie, that I am not fitted for courts, at all events by inclination. Calm and peaceful quiet with him I love is all that I desire in life. Nevertheless, understand me, I would not for the world keep back him whose fame and whose character I am bound to regard even before my own peace, from the path of honour and renown, for anything that earth can give. I am ready, when you require it, to mingle with courts and crowds, to take my share in whatever may be for your benefit--nay, should need be, to buckle on your armour with my own hands for the battle-field, and bid God speed you in the right, while I remain alone to weep and pray for your deliverance and success. Heaven send me strength when the hour of trial comes; but in strength or in weakness I will not shrink from my duty towards you."
About ten days after, when the frost, which was then reigning with great severity, had broken up, rendering the roads more passable, Gowrie took his departure from London, and proceeded by slow journeys towards Scotland. He was detained for somewhat more than a week at York by a fresh fall of snow; but as soon as that had melted away under the increasing warmth of the spring, he resumed his way, and passed the border in the end of February, 1600.
It was a cold, clear, frosty afternoon, in the month of January, 1600, when two gentlemen, both young, but one considerably older than the other, walked together up and down a trim but formal piece of garden ground, beneath the walls of one of the old fortified houses of the day, not very many miles distant from the fair city of Edinburgh, and in the county of Mid Lothian. The hour was late, the sun was below the sky, bright stars were beginning to peep out above, and the garden was only defended from the keen blast by a wall of uncemented stones, although the castle itself was a very solid piece of masonry.
Still the two gentlemen continued to walk on, with the crisp frost crackling under their feet, whenever they fell upon the long grass at the side of the path, or upon the dry leaves which had dropped from the trees, few and far between, which graced the little enclosure.
The elder of the two was a man of about six or seven-and-twenty years of age, of the middle height, or perhaps somewhat less, slight in appearance, from the extreme accuracy of all his proportions, though in reality much stronger than many men of a more powerful look. His features were slightly aquiline, but chiseled with wonderful delicacy. The hair was dark, but the eye clear and blue, with that calm, firm, but mild expression, which we are inclined to attach to vigor of character when united with gentleness of heart. His mien and air were particularly distinguished by a sort of easy dignity, which rendered it impossible to see him without feeling that there was not only a gentleman of high race and associations, but a man of remarkable powers of mind, of which he was conscious, but not vain.
The companion of this personage was in years a mere youth, but in form a strong and active man. He was darker in complexion than the other, taller, more muscular, and the well-grown beard showed that boyhood was no more. His countenance was also very handsome; but there was in it a stern and fiery look, which reminded one of a fierce warhorse when checked by the rein; and occasionally as he talked, there would come a scowling frown upon his brow, which rendered the expression very different from that of his companion. Nevertheless, there was traceable in the features a strong resemblance, so that in the angry moments of the one, which indeed were rare, or the gayer and gentler moments of the other, there was no difficulty in pronouncing them two brothers.
"Well, John," said the elder of the two, as they turned in their walk, "I wish much you would abandon your intention of riding back to-night. I would fain put eight-and-forty hours between your rash impetuosity and your meeting again with your former friend. You seem so little moved by reason, that I would see what time can do."
"I tell you, Dalhousie," said his brother, "I am not going to quarrel with him. Indeed, he will take care how he gives me occasion, I think. But I and Alexander Ruthven can never more be friends. His pride is insufferable, and his favour with the queen, be it good and honest, as some would have us think, be it dishonest and disloyal, as others suspect, can give him no claim to reverence from others as good as himself, or better perhaps."
"Is there no pride at the bottom of your own feelings towards him, John?" asked his brother, with a smile; "and is there not, perhaps, a little jealousy of that same favour that you speak of, which makes you look upon it in an unfair light? Ruthven's sister is the queen's dearest friend; and is it at all unnatural that a portion of her regard for the sister should be extended to the brother?"
"I do not know," answered John Ramsay, quickly; "I am not so nice in my scanning as you are, George; but one thing I do know, which is, that I do not love to see my lord and master made to look like a fool in his own court by one of his own servants. If there be nothing evil in this familiarity but that, it is surely bad enough; but if there be more, they had better not let me see fair signs of it; for I would drive my dagger into his heart as readily as his grandfather drove his into Rizzio's."
"Fie, fie! You are too rash, boy," said Sir George Ramsay; "neither zeal nor courage are worth much, John, unless tempered by discretion; and again I say, you give too much way to passion, and suffer it to give a colour to all you see; just as you used to quarrel with Alexander Ruthven, when a boy, without any reasonable cause, so do you now suspect and dislike him as a man without just grounds."
"I never loved him," answered the other, moodily. "I dislike all the Ruthvens--I always have disliked them, with their stately grandeur and proud airs."
"Because you are proud yourself, John," said his brother; "and because your pride has been somewhat offensive at times, they have not liked you. Did you ever see any of them show pride towards me?"
"Because you are not proud enough," replied the young man, sharply.
"I am as proud as any man ought to be," replied his brother, in a reproving tone; "too proud to do a base action--too proud to give way to a grovelling thought--too proud to entertain a mean suspicion. I am proud, too, of my name and race, proud of the deeds of my ancestors, and proud enough, I trust, never to tarnish their renown by any unworthy act of their descendant."
With one of those impulses which move hasty men, the youth seized his brother's hand and pressed it warmly. "I know you are, Dalhousie," he said; "forgive me, my dear brother. I may be somewhat too proud; but I do not ever really doubt that you are proud enough for all that is noble, too proud for anything that is mean. But you have not lately seen so much of what is passing at the court as I have; and believe me the sight is not pleasant."
"Well, then, John, stay another night away from it," answered his brother; "you acknowledge that the king does not expect you till Friday. One day will take you to Edinburgh and to Stirling, ride as slow as you will."
"Be it as you wish," replied John Ramsay, "but I must set out to-morrow somewhat early.--Hark! There are horses' feet coming along the frosty road. Who can it be, I wonder, at this late hour?"
"Some of our good cousins come to rest for the night," said Sir George Ramsay, with a smile; "it can be no one on business of much consequence, by the slowness of the horses' tread."
He was mistaken, however, for the result of the meeting which was about to take place was of infinite consequence to the fate of his brother and himself. The two walked leisurely along the little path which led back to the house, and passing through a small postern door, proceeded to the gates to welcome the coming guest. All that they could see, when they looked out along the road, was a dim figure on horseback, at the distance of about two hundred yards, and something like another horseman behind. Both were coming very slowly, although the coldness of the night might well have rendered quicker progression agreeable both to man and horse. As the travellers were evidently approaching the house for the purpose of stopping there, Sir George Ramsay called out some of the servants; and the moment after, his brother, looking intently forward, said, "It is very like Andrew's figure, but riding bent and listless, as I have seen him when he is drunk."
"I hope he has not chosen that condition to present himself on his return," said Sir George. "Halloo! Who comes?"
"'Tis I, Sir George," answered the voice of Ramsay of Newburn, "faint and weary, and needing much your hospitality."
It was evident, from the way in which he spoke, that the young gentleman was perfectly sober; and Sir George merely replied, "Come in, Andrew, come in. You shall be right welcome. Here, William, take Newburn's horse."
"Lend me your arm, good fellow," said the guest, slowly dismounting. "I am not over supple, nor so strong as I once was."
His own servant rode up with the saddle-bags at the same moment; and being assisted from his horse, he was led into the house, where lights were burning in what was called the great chamber. Both Sir George Ramsay and his brother were struck and moved with the ghastly paleness of their cousin's countenance, and everything was done that kindness could devise to refresh and revive him.
"Ah, now," said Sir George, after he had drunk a cup of that fine Bordeaux wine which was to be found nowhere in greater perfection than in Scotland, "there is some colour coming into your cheek again. You will do well now."
"My cheek will never bear the rose again, Dalhousie," replied his cousin. "It was once red enough, but its ruddiness is gone for ever."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed John Ramsay; "why, what is the matter with thee, man? Hast thou seen a wraith?"
"Ay, and felt one too, in the shape of a drawn sword," replied the other. "I have been run through the body by a churl in the streets of Paris. 'Tis now some two months ago, and I am well, they tell me. But where is my strength gone? Where the quickness of my hand, which could always keep my head, till that hour?"
"But how did all this happen?" demanded Sir George Ramsay. "Some foolish quarrel, I'm afraid, Andrew."
"Good faith, foolish enough," answered the young man; "but I am cured of folly for life, George;" and he proceeded to give his own account of the adventure which had befallen him with good Austin Jute.
"I was riding through the streets of Paris," he said, "with two young friends, when we had to pass a large old country carriage, in which I espied a very pretty face--you know I always loved pretty faces. I might gaze at it somewhat earnestly perhaps for a moment longer than was needful; and I am not sure that I did not rein in my horse a little, when lo, up rides one of the servants who was behind the carriage, and struck me a blow, which made me miss the stirrups, and left me scarcely time to save myself from falling under the horse's feet."
"A lounder on the side of the head," said John Ramsay, half inclined to laugh; but his cousin went on gravely.
"I should not have had the blood of a Ramsay in my veins," he said, "if I had not taken sword in hand to avenge such an insult. But, good faith, the fellow was as quick as I was, and a good swordsman too, though I have seldom met my match. The street was narrow and crowded, however, the carriage in the way, horses all about us, and somehow I slipped my foot, and the next instant found his sword running like a hot iron through my chest and out of my shoulder bone. Here--it went in here," he continued, laying his hand upon the spot, "and passed out here, going clean through flesh and bone. I dropped instantly, and was carried away to my lodging, where I lay upon a sick bed for many a day, and rose only to find that I have lost the full use of my sword arm for ever. I may hold a pen perhaps, like a clerk, but as to manly uses they are gone."
"But what became of the man who hurt you?" demanded Sir George Ramsay; "if your tale be quite correct, Andrew, his conduct was most unjustifiable."
He laid a strong emphasis on the word, if, for he knew his cousin well, and there was a conviction in his mind that something had been kept back. Ramsay of Newburn, however, did not appear to remark the peculiar tone in which the words were pronounced, but replied, "It was unjustifiable, I think, Dalhousie; but he had great protectors. The English ambassador stood his friend, and the ambassador's intimate--your friend, the Earl of Gowrie--talked high, and opposed the pursuit of justice. Between them they would not suffer the man to be secured, even till it was ascertained whether I lived or died."
"But what had Gowrie to do with it?" asked Sir George, while his brother's brow grew dark, and his teeth tight set together. "I should have thought that Gowrie, of all men, would have been inclined to resent an injury done to a Ramsay; and the earl has a strong sense of justice--he had, even as a boy."
"Not where his own followers are concerned," replied his young cousin; "and this man was his own servant. I know not what became of his sense of justice in this case; but the matter is as I told you. He defended the man against all pursuit; and had I died I have no doubt that he and his dear friend and counsellor, the English ambassador, would have found means to shelter the offender altogether."
Sir George Ramsay mused, still doubting much; but John got up and walked about the room, and, after a momentary pause, his cousin continued, "He had even the kindness, when I was lying on a sick bed, to send a demand that I should make an apology to the lady whom I gazed at."
"You did not do it!--I trust you did not do it!" exclaimed John Ramsay, vehemently.
"I trust you did," said Sir George, looking up. "An apology is due to any lady we have offended, whoever asks it; and I cannot but think, from what I have seen of the young earl myself, and from what I have heard through others, that he would not have demanded an apology had there been no cause of offence."
"You always judge me harshly, Dalhousie," said his cousin, somewhat bitterly.
"Faith, not I," answered the young knight. "I judge men as I find them, Andrew. I know Gowrie's nature and temper well, and I know yours, too, my good cousin.--But what did you do? Did you make the apology?"
"I could do nothing else," answered the other. "I was ill on a sick bed; I felt that the powers of my right arm were gone for ever; I knew not what might happen if I refused, with such influence as there was arrayed against me. Otherwise, I would have made him eat my sword first. As it was, I only said that I was sorry if I had offended the lady, and that I had no intention of insulting her; but with that he contented himself."
Sir George Ramsay smiled. "I can see Gowrie in it all," he said; "resolute in what he thinks is right, but mild and easily appeased."
"Out upon it!" exclaimed his brother, and darted impatiently from the room.
Sir George did not seem to notice his departure in the least, but went on with what he was saying. "But what I do not understand is, that he should send you a message. Surely he wrote, Newburn? Have you still the letter?"
"Yes," answered his cousin. "I will show it to you some other time. It is in my baggage."
"I should like to see it much," said Sir George. "Now, tell me truly, Andrew, did you do nothing else than gaze? I know you well, my good cousin. You are gay and rash, have a somewhat evil opinion of all women, and believe that admiration, even when implying insult, must still have something pleasing in it for them. Did you add no words to the look?"
"Not one, upon my honour," replied his cousin, boldly.
"And no act either?" asked Sir George; and then seeing a sort of hectic glow come into his cousin's pale face, he added, quickly, "You did--I see it there--What was it?"
"I really do not know what right you have to tax me so," replied Andrew Ramsay, colouring still more.
"I will tell you," answered Sir George, in a calm, but stern tone. "You have told me some passages which have lately taken place, implying that you have been injured. Now, if wrong has been done my cousin, and the very consequences of that wrong prevent him from redressing it himself, I take up his quarrel as the head of his house. But I must first be sure that wrong has been done you. I must see the case clearly, and therefore I ask you what it was you did. Do not conceal anything from me, Andrew, for depend upon it I will know the whole, and that very soon."
The other grew white and red by turns, but his elder cousin had habitually great command over him, and he answered in a low and somewhat sullen tone, "I only pulled back the curtain of the carriage a little, to see her more plainly, nor should I have done that if it had not been rudely drawn in my face."
"So now we have the truth," said Sir George; "and I will tell you how I read your story, Andrew. You and some young companions--gay libertines, mayhap--in riding through the streets of Paris, met a carriage containing a young lady of great beauty. You stare rudely in, as I have seen you do a thousand times; the curtain is drawn to shut out an insolent gaze, and you pull it back again with a sort of coarse bravado. These are the plain facts of the case, I take it, and even by your own showing I cannot but see that Gowrie was quite right."
"You seem to have got his own story by heart, Sir George," replied his cousin, "and throw it somewhat unkindly in the teeth of a kinsman who, wounded, weak, and sick, comes to seek your hospitality."
"I am sorry for your wound, Andrew," said the knight, "and trust you may soon recover health and strength. As for the story, I have never heard one word of it but from your own lips. The writing was not very legible, but you cannot deny that I have managed to decipher it. And now let us change the subject a little. Who is this lady in whom Gowrie takes such an interest?"
"I know no--this leman, I suppose," replied the young man, with a scoff.
"Not what you suppose, Andrew, but what you have heard. You cannot have been mixed up in such an affair without having learned more of the object of your admiration. Who did people say she was?"
"Oh, she was given out to be his cousin, whom he was bringing from Italy," replied Ramsay of Newburn. "They said that she had been living with relations there, who were lately dead, and that Gowrie, like a true Paladin Orlando, was bringing her straight back, defying all men in her cause by the way."
"But what was her name?" asked Sir George. "You must have heard her name."
"His servants called her, the Lady Julia Douglas," answered his cousin. "I never heard of such a person. Did you?"
Sir George Ramsay mused, saying slowly, "No--no, not exactly--yet at the time of Morton's death there were rumours of a private marriage with an Italian lady--there were many Italians about the court at the time--Ha! here comes John back again--Have you ever heard, John, any rumours of the Regent Morton having left a daughter? I think I remember something of it."
"Oh, yes," answered John Ramsay. "I have heard Stuart talk of the matter. He was employed himself to search for the supposed widow and child; for they got about a story that the regent had married an Italian in the end of his life, but dared not own it for fear of the ministers, who would have put him on the stool of repentance, or preached at him by the hour, which would have been just as bad. Stuart could hear nothing of them, except that an old Italian count, with his daughter and young child, had fled to Leith as soon as Morton was arrested, and had taken ship there for France some weeks after his execution. They supposed that this was Morton's wife and child, and that she had carried away with her all the vast treasures he had scraped together."
Sir George Ramsay shook his head; but saying, "It must now be supper time; I will call for it," he left the room without any further observation on the subjects of which they had been talking.
The moment he was gone and the door closed, John Ramsay gave a peculiar glance to his cousin, saying, "I must hear more of this matter, Andrew--but alone, alone. Dalhousie's cold prejudices drive me mad. I cannot keep my temper with him when he talks of these Ruthvens. I have much to say to you, too."
"And I much for your ear, John," said his cousin, hurriedly. "Find out where your brother's people lodge me, and come to my room, after I have gone to bed and all is quiet; I shall retire soon, upon the plea of weariness; but I shall not sleep till you come, for I have those things in my breast which are enemies to slumber."
They had not time to say much more before Sir George Ramsay returned, and it was immediately after announced that supper was served in the hall. Thither, then, they took their way; and over the good cheer and the rich wine all painful subjects seemed forgotten, till Ramsay of Newburn rose, and alleging that he was weary, retired to rest.