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 the _till_ has 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.