"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.