There was a fine old house, as we should call it now, but which was
then in great part a modern one, although the beating and buffeting of
angry winds, and the dark breath of the storm, had blackened it ere
more than sixty years had passed since the foundation-stone was laid.
It was built in a style of which there are very few specimens in
England, though several in France; but that is easily accounted for,
inasmuch as during the greater portion of the short period assigned to
that particular style, contentions of one kind or another had existed
between the court of London and that of Paris, and the communication
between England and Italy was extremely limited. Very different had
been the case with Scotland, the connexion between which country and
France had been cemented by many ties, while an infinite number of the
young noblemen of the north completed their education either at Paris
or at one of the universities of Italy. The Tudor architecture in
churches is well known; and although there is something in the breast
of every man of taste which tells him that there is a want of purity
of conception and grandeur of design therein, yet it is very beautiful
in its kind. So much, however, can hardly be said in favour of the
social architecture of the period; and perhaps less still, in point of
really good taste, were the pretensions of that Italian style, in
which one front of Dirleton House was constructed. The windows were
large and many, divided by stone mullions, and having pilasters
between, light and airy, but of no order under the sun, and panels
covered with rich and fantastic arabesques.
The whole had an air of lightness and richness, notwithstanding its
incongruous and unmeaning details; but at the hour of which I speak,
and at which a little cavalcade consisting of seven horses approached
the front, nothing could be seen of the elaborate ornaments, and the
whole building lay in the midst of the grey woods that surrounded it,
a large and sombre pile of building, with a cheerful light streaming
through two or three of the casements. Weary with travelling, anxious
and apprehensive, Julia looked up to Dirleton House with a cold
feeling of dread and gloom. Vain had been Gowrie's assurances of a
kind reception: she felt that she was a wanderer--a fugitive, claiming
protection and aid, even to their own peril, from persons on whom she
had no claim, and who were strangers to her in all the kindly
relations of the heart. Her timidity became more and more great as she
approached the principal entrance of the house, which projected before
the rest, with a sort of terrace and flight of steps of its own. Fancy
was very busy, and showed her the strange looks with which she would
be at first received, the stately lady of royal race, the two or three
tall and lordly striplings, her sons, all gazing upon her as a
stranger, and wondering what brought her there.
"I will send in the letter first," she thought; "they will then know
who I am, at least; and I shall soon see by my reception whether I am
a welcome guest or not. It will be bad enough at the best----Here,
Austin," she said, when, having ridden up to the terrace by one of the
two slopes at the sides, the man sprang to hold her rein, and assist
her to dismount,--"here, Austin, take this letter in. Deliver it into
the Countess of Gowrie's own hand, and tell her that I wait her
pleasure without."
The man looked surprised, but took the letter, and approached the
great door, by the side of which hung an immense massive iron ring,
notched all over the inner side, with a small iron bar beside it
suspended from a chain, Austin gazed at this strange-looking
instrument by the faint light, and felt it with his hand, but could
make nothing of it. He was looking for some other means of making
their presence known within, when the other servant, David Drummond, a
heavy, sinister-looking man, started forward, and taking hold of the
ring, soon produced a sound, by running the iron bar over the notches
in the inside, sufficient to call two or three servants to the door.
Austin was immediately admitted, and disappeared from Julia's sight,
while the other servant shook hands with an old friend, one of the
domestics of the countess, and seemed to explain who the fair guest
was, for the porter came instantly forward, and with a civil tone, but
in such broad Scotch that she could scarcely understand him, asked if
she would not alight and come in, as he was quite sure his mistress
would be very glad to see her.
"I will alight," said Julia, accepting his assistance, "for I am very
weary of my horse's back; but as to the rest, I will wait;" and
springing to the ground, she leaned her arm upon the saddle, the tired
beast standing quite still by her side.
She had not long to remain in uncertainty, however, for hardly two
minutes had passed when she heard a female voice, as some one
approached the door from within, exclaiming, "Where's my bairn?
Where's my dear child?" and immediately after a tall and commanding
woman, somewhat past the middle age, issued forth with a quick step,
and approached her. Her gray hair, falling from under a black velvet
coif, and mingling with a lace veil attached thereunto, her long black
velvet garments, in the fashion of the reign of Queen Mary, her fine,
though worn countenance, her tall figure, and her quick step and eager
look, all struck poor Julia with a feeling of awe, which was only
dissipated by the warm and tender embrace in which the countess folded
her, kissing her repeatedly, and saying, "And did ye doubt, poor
thing, that Gowrie's mother would not take ye to her heart? Come,
come, my bairn, you do not know me yet; but Dorothea Ruthven is no
false friend or fleeching courtier, to say one thing and mean another.
Come you in, and rest all your cares upon a mother's bosom; for, God
willing, I will be a mother to you as to my own bairns."
Thus saying, she took her by the hand, and led her through the wide
vestibule into a small but richly decorated room on the ground floor.
Then stopping in the midst, where the full light from a large sconce
filled with wax candles fell upon them both, she turned to look upon
her fair companion for the first time.
As if struck and astonished by what she beheld, the old countess
suddenly loosed her hold, and clasping her two hands together, she
exclaimed, "Ae, but you're bonny!" Then instantly throwing her arms
round her, she pressed her to her heart again.
Julia wept with agitation and joy, and the gentle clasping of her
small soft fingers upon the old countess's hand conveyed without words
all that was passing in her heart.
"Now sit down, my dear child," said Lady Gowrie, taking her own seat,
and pointing to another close by her; "you're weary and frightened, I
dare say, for I see from the first few lines of Gowrie's letter that
something has not gone quite right with all your plans; but you must
not let that put your heart down, my bonny bird, for this is a wild
land, and if we were to let little things scare us, we should live in
terror all our lives. My two young lads have gone out, and not come
back yet, but they will be right glad when they return to find their
new sister, and then we'll have our supper, and you shall go to bed
and sleep."
"Oh, read Gowrie's letter first, before you are so kind, dear lady,"
said Julia, wiping the tears from her eyes; "you will see that my
coming with him has first brought embarrassment upon him on his return
to his native land, and perhaps you may not love me so well
afterwards."
"Not a bit less, my child," said the old countess, in a firm, but sad
tone. "I have ever loved those I loved, best when misfortune came upon
them. Did I not love his father well," she continued, raising her eyes
to heaven, "the day the axe fell? And yet, woe is me! bitter was that
day of love, indeed! Well-a-well, I will read my boy's letter; but
mind, my dear, you are to call me mother, for a mother I will be to
you, come fair or come foul;" and wiping away the tears from her eyes,
she held the letter nearer to the sconce, and read.
While she went on, Julia gazed at her with a look of anxious interest;
but her longing to know what would be the lady's feelings on hearing
all the particulars of her situation, was soon lost in scanning the
worn but noble feelings, and tracing the strong likeness between her
and her son.
"Fie, fie!" cried the old lady, at length, when she had read the
somewhat long epistle to an end; "this is but a scratch, and you and
Gowrie have taken it for a wound. Our good king is fond of gold, and
he has those about him who are fonder still; but when they find that
you have none, my child, they'll leave you at peace right willingly.
It will all come to nothing, you'll see. However, in the meantime,
like a dutiful mother," she continued, with a smile, "I must do what
my son bids me, though I'm loath to part with you so soon. But first I
must take care that the servants are tutored to speak carefully. All
my own people I can depend upon; can you on yours, my child?"
"I trust so," replied Julia; "the two girls can speak no English, so
they are safe; and of the men, one is faithfulness itself. The other I
do not know so well, but he has been with Gowrie long, I believe, and
came with us all the way from Italy."
"What's his name?" asked the countess; and when she heard it was David
Drummond, she shook her head with a rather doubtful look. "He's what
we call a dour creature," she said, "but faithful to his trust, I
believe. He killed a man here in a fray, and I sent him over to John
to get him out of harm's way. John warned him well, that if he played
so with his hands again, he should suffer; but I believe he is honest,
only ill to manage when he takes a grudge at any one. I will have the
people up into the vestibule, and tell them to be secret. They've been
used to things that would teach fools discretion."
Thus saying, she rose, and taking a small silver bell from the table,
went out into the vestibule, where Julia heard the bell ring, and
after a short pause the sound of many feet moving. Then came the voice
of the countess speaking loud and slow. A few short sentences, with
long pauses between, concluded her harangue; but in a moment after
there was a considerable movement and bustle; and when Lady Gowrie
returned, she had on either side a fine tall lad, bearing a strong
resemblance to her eldest son. Each of the boys gazed forward with
natural eagerness to see their future sister in-law, and the colour
mounted somewhat more warmly into Julia's face; but all embarrassment
was over in a moment, for one after the other advanced with frank
grace, kissed her fair cheek, and called her Julia and sister.
"Now, William, my boy," said the countess, "we must have supper soon
and to bed betimes, for Julia must on upon her way early to-morrow,
and you must go to guard her, with five or six of the men and her own
people."
"Early to-morrow!" cried the lad, in great surprise; "I thought that
she was going to stay with us here. Where is she going?"
"Ask no questions, lad," said his mother, gravely; "it does not become
youth to inquire, but rather to obey. You will have your directions
to-morrow ere you set out; and those you must entirely keep to
yourself till you come to the end of your journey. Now go and order
them to set on the supper. Your dear sister is tired and hungry, I
doubt not."
"No, indeed, dear mother," replied Julia; "fear has taken all appetite
from me to-day."
"Fear, poor frightened bird!" said the old lady. "We must strengthen
your heart with mountain air--not to make it harder, but more firm.
Fear nothing here, my dear, for we will guard you well. You come of an
eagle's race, and he who checques at you is but a goshawk."
While she had been speaking, her son William had left the room, and in
a minute or two it was announced that supper was served. Putting her
arm through that of her fair guest, the countess led her to a small
hall, where supper was found upon the table; but as they went the
elder lady said, in a low voice, to her young companion, "You shall
have a little chamber next to mine, and your two maidens beyond. I
will wake you before daylight, for ever since Gowrie's death I rise at
four. But, in truth, you must warn the girls yourself that you set out
early, for though I could once speak French I have lost it now, and
Italian I could never conquer."
Weariness of body and of mind performed for Julia the part of peace;
and she slept as soon as her head touched the pillow. Her sleep was
disturbed and full of dreams, however; and on the following morning
she woke with a start and a feeling of terror, when some one knocked
at her chamber door. For a moment or two she knew not where she was;
but she was soon recalled to the recollection of all the circumstances
of her fate, by the voice of the Countess of Gowrie warning her that
it was time to rise for her journey. All that kindness could do was
performed to soothe, comfort, and encourage her; and her lover's
mother affected to laugh at her fears, though she bewailed the
necessity of her going at that season of the year into the wild and
solitary scenes where she was about to take up her abode.
In her directions to her son William, the old countess was very
particular, remaining closeted with him for nearly half an hour. No
one was informed of the ultimate end of the journey about to be taken
but Julia and himself; and instead of directing their course by land
towards Trochrie, the party proceeded in a straight line towards the
sea, and took boat, thereby increasing the length of the journey some
thirty or forty miles. The servants, who were acquainted with the
country, might well be somewhat surprised when they found where they
landed, and in what direction they afterwards bent their course; but
not the slightest expression of astonishment was seen upon the
countenance of any one, and not one word of comment was uttered
amongst them. With much unquestioning obedience they followed where
their young master led, in a manner which perhaps was only seen in
Scotland at that time. Towards Julia, William Ruthven was all
brotherly kindness and attention, cheering her to the utmost of his
power, and attempting, in his young zeal, to amuse her with tales of
the different places through which they passed. But it is sad to say,
that almost every little history--such had been for many years the
state of Scotland--ended with a tragedy; and he soon found that the
subject on which Julia was most inclined to speak was that of his
brother Gowrie. He indulged her, then, by many a question with regard
to the earl's stay in Italy, and to their journey home; and thus
indeed he did contrive to while away several hours, till at length, on
the evening of the third day, they arrived in sight of a large and
somewhat gloomy-looking building, which William Ruthven pointed out as
the castle of Trochrie. During the whole of the latter part of their
journey the mountains had been rising up before them, and all the
beautiful scenery of Athol, with which every English traveller is well
acquainted, presented itself to Julia's sight. The day was peculiarly
favourable, too, though that which preceded it had been dark and
lowering. The sun, journeying towards the north, had made, as it were,
an effort to dispel the clouds; and, towards evening, the heavy masses
of vapour floating away upon the light wind, only served to cast dark
shadow upon some points of the landscape, while the rest remained
covered with bright gleams; and the sinking sun flooded the glens with
light, and sparkled in the streams and waterfalls. At the distance of
about a mile from the castle a man was sent forward to have the gates
opened, and as they rode over the drawbridge, which had been lowered
to give them admission, William Ruthven said, in a kind tone, "Welcome
to Trochrie, dear Julia."
Julia knew not why, but a cold shudder crept over her frame at the
words; and looking up at the dark arch under which she was passing,
she asked herself involuntarily, "In what case shall I pass these
gates again?"