3. III.
THE BODY-SERVANT.
Fergus greeted this abrupt exclamation
with an air of perfect coolness.
“The young man, my lord?” he
said.
“Yes!”
“When?” was the laconic question
of the old body-servant.
“When I saw the other!”
“The young woman, my lord?”
“Yes!”
This brief dialogue was followed by
a long silence, interrupted once or twice
by a stifled groan from Lord Ruthven.
Fergus knit his brows, but preserved his
coolness.
“Well, my lord,” he said, at length,
“I say again what I have said time after
time in Scotland, England, France, and
elsewhere, that the future must take care
of itself.”
Lord Ruthven frowned.
“Meanwhile,” continued the body-servant,
coolly, “I would advise your
lordship to keep a stout heart, and hope
for the best.”
Whereat his master broke out:
“A stout heart!—then I am a baby!”
Fergus saw the storm coming, but
did not shrink in the least.
“You mean that I am a mere nervous
invalid!” continued Ruthven, angrily—
“a cowering slave, shrinking from shadows!”
Fergus retained his calmness, and replied:
“I beg to call your lordship's attention
to the fact that, if you grow excited,
your wound will bleed afresh.”
“I care naught for it—let it bleed!”
“The blood is even now oozing
through the bandage, my lord.”
Lord Ruthven replied by violently
tearing the linen from his head. Immediately
a stream of blood ran down his
white cheeks, rendering his appearance
ghastly.
The spectacle disarmed in an instant
the stiff old Scotchman of his coolness.
The upright bar of iron suddenly melted.
Fergus ran to his master, and placed his
arm around him.
“My lord! my lord! you will kill yourself!—you
will bleed to death!” he cried.
“What care I, Fergus?”
“My lord! my lord!”
“What care I whether my wretched
life ends here, and now or not?”
The old man uttered a groan, and
busied himself in washing away the
blood. He then replaced the bandage
with the tenderness of a mother, and
Lord Ruthven, who had sunk back and
closed his eyes, made no resistance.
“Your lordship cuts your poor old
Fergus to the very heart,” said the servant.
“I would not do so, Fergus,” was the
nobleman's low reply, “but you know
well the terrible effect upon me of the least
expression of doubt upon that subject.
I am to `hope for the best!' Then I am
not competent to direct the event. You
mean that, though you do not say it—!”
“Your lordship grows excited.”
“You intimate that I may fail in the
hour of trial!”
“My lord!”
“That I may be induced to yield to
this accursed temptation!”
“My lord, I think nothing, and say
nothing.”
“Do you dream that I could?” said
Lord Ruthven, in a despairing tone, and
with gloomy sarcasm he added:
“You, no doubt, imagine that the part
of the drama in which you appear is to be
enacted also in Virginia.”
Fergus replied with great coolness:
“I think, my lord, that this world we
live in is a very strange world, and that
we can't tell what will happen a day in
advance.”
“True, true!” murmured Lord Ruthven,
in a hopeless voice.
“And as to myself, my lord—do you
think I am afraid? Has your lordship the
right to think that, when I have remained
with you—looking death in the face?”
The nobleman suddenly raised his
head, and held out his hand to the old
man.
“Pardon me, Fergus!” he said, “pardon
my injustice and ingratitude! You
are truly brave and faithful!”
Fergus bent down and kissed the hand
extended toward him, with an expression
of the deepest respect and affection. His
face flushed, and a moisture came to the
old eyes.
“There is naught to pardon, my lord.
Am I not your servitor? Do with me as
you will.”
From under the bushy eyebrows
darted a glance of absolute tenderness—
that of the feudal vassal for his beloved
lord.
“No!” Lord Ruthven said; “we are
not master and servitor, Fergus. You
are my foster-brother—more than that,
you are my friend. We must not quarrel.
We are in a strange land together. We
must be fast and true—fast and true!”
Fergus had retired a step, and now
bowed respectfully.
“I never doubted your devotion,
Fergus; that you remain with me is sufficient
proof of that; nor did I ever dream
that my brave Fergus was afraid.”
The old Scotchman, who had grown
as cold as ever, shook his head.
“As to the devotion, my lord, you do
me no more than justice. I am devoted
to you; but, as to the fear, there you are
wrong, I am afraid.”
“You have cause to be,” groaned Lord
Ruthven.
“But I dare the danger, and don't let
it frighten me, my lord. I have my duty
to do to the last of the great line of
Ruthven; and that duty I will perform,
though the devil himself rise in my path!”
“My faithful Fergus!”
“Thanks, my lord, for the word. I
hope I'm faithful. And, now as your lordship
calls me foster-brother—tell me—I
wish to know—will your lordship remain
here in Virginia?”
“I know not—no! no! How can I?”
Fergus looked for some moments, intently,
at his master. In this fixed glance
there was no little astonishment. Then,
slowly shaking his head, he said:
“It needs must be that something
terrible is going to happen when the last
of the Ruthvens—the bravest, strongest
of his race—talks thus! You shiver and
turn white! My lord, let us go.”
“Yes, yes!—and yet—his excellency
will think it strange! But—well, well!
leave me now. I will sleep, Fergus, and
—to-morrow—”
The voice died away, and the speaker,
with his eyes fixed upon the floor, fell
into a profound and gloomy reverie.
Fergus turned away. As he did so,
he uttered some words in Gaelic. These
words signified—“It is fated!”
