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.