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.