CHAPTER XXV.
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?"