49. XLIX.
THE CONTENTS OF RUTHVEN'S TRUNKS.
As Lord Ruthven passed Dr. Vandyke,
on his way to the drawing-room,
their eyes met, and the young nobleman,
going close to him, said, in a low voice,
quite inaudible to the rest of the company:
“I wish to have a few moments' private
conversation with you, doctor.”
Dr. Vandyke's piercing glance seemed
to aim at penetrating the design of the
speaker: but Ruthven remained calm
and impressive.
“When?” said Dr. Vandyke.
“In half an hour.”
“Where?”
“In my chamber.”
The physician nodded.
“I will come thither; but will first
go see Lady Brand and the child, Meta.
I came for that.”
With these words, Dr. Vandyke bestowed
a comprehensive nod upon the
company, who gazed at his singular figure
with some astonishment, and proceeded,
without ceremony, toward the
wing of the mansion, in which Meta's
chamber was situated.
Colonel Brand, who had greeted the
doctor with a stately bow, looked after
him, and now said:
“Our friend Dr. Vandyke is a somewhat
singular personage, my lord.”
“But a most estimable person,” returned
Ruthven.
“Assuredly; and I owe him my personal
thanks for coming through such
weather to see Meta.”
“She is better, I trust, sir?”
“We hope so.”
“'Tis a pleasing augury, on an occasion
of this description,” said Ruthven;
“and now, with your permission, sir, I
will retire to my chamber for a short
space.”
Colonel Brand bowed.
“I will conduct you, my lord.”
“'Tis unnecessary. Let me not take
you from your guests.”
And, with a gesture of courteous refusal,
Lord Ruthven went up the great
staircase toward his chamber.
As he entered he saw Fergus standing
with his back toward him, gazing
upon a portrait upon the wall between
two of the lofty windows. The apartment
was elegantly furnished with what
is now called an “ashes-of-roses” carpet,
a centre-table of carved oak, easy-chairs,
a couch, an immense bed, and in
the fireplace burned a cheerful fire.
For the moment, Fergus seemed quite
unaware of all these surroundings. His
eyes were fixed upon the portrait with
absorbing attention; and, looking in the
same direction, Lord Ruthven betrayed
much astonishment. The portrait was
an exact likeness of himself, and this fact
evidently astounded the old body-servant.
Ruthven speedily remembered,
however, that Colonel Brand had informed
him of the existence of this portrait
of the elder Lord Ruthven—which
had been hung in this apartment after
its removal from Honoria's chamber—
and he wondered that he had not noticed
it on his first entrance.
“That is a striking likeness, Fergus,”
he said.
The old body-servant suddenly turned
round.
“Is it a picture of the late lord or of
your lordship?”
“Of the late lord, who was Colonel
Brand's friend.”
Fergus nodded.
“'Twould do for either, my lord, and
is surprising.”
Ruthven stood for some time, gazing
at the painting.
“The sight of this picture takes me
back to Ruthven Castle, when I was a
child, Fergus,” he said; “and that seems
a long time ago.”
“A very long time, my lord.”
“And who would then have dreamed
that Fate would conduct me to this remote
spot in the Virginia mountains;
that my errand here would be to find a
Lady Ruthven; and that, at the very
moment when the ceremony is about to
take place, I should see my father, as it
were, looking at me with his sad, stern
eyes; for the eyes are very sad, Fergus—
full of melancholy, I think!”
The words were uttered in a sorrowful
voice, and Lord Ruthven's head drooped.
“Strange destiny,” he murmured;
“and who can foretell his fate? Singular
current of events! That portrait
was painted when the original was a
strong and stalwart man — I a rosycheeked
child. He is long dead now—
and I am no longer a happy child, but a
very sorrowful man, Fergus — sorrowful,
but not bad, Fergus! I think there
is even much good in me, old friend.
My — visions — have not disturbed me
now for weeks—a strange softness and
kindness seem to have come to me!
Shall I be happy, then? Has my evil
genius fled, to make way for the beneficent
spirit of love and happiness?”
“Heaven grant it, my lord!” said
Fergus, with earnest feeling.
“Perchance 'tis you who are my good
genius, Fergus,” said Ruthven, with
a
glance of affection. “You are devoted
to me, I know, as few clansmen are to
their chieftains.”
“Devoted, my lord?” said the old
man, with a flush in his aged cheeks;
“that is scarcely the word. You are
more to me than I am to myself! Your
happiness and honor are no less, nay,
more, my care than your own! I would
guard them, as the watch-dog guards his
charge on the hills; and, 'tis not much
to say that I would die for you!”
Fergus turned away to hide the emotion,
of which he seemed to be somewhat
ashamed, and busied himself in taking
from Lord Ruthven's trunks the various
articles of his wardrobe. Among these
were two or three dress-swords—at that
time a portion of the full toilet of a gentleman—and
these he laid upon the table.
Next came a number of articles of
dress, and then a curiously-fashioned
Highland dirk.
At sight of this weapon, Ruthven approached,
and said, gently:
“Replace that dangerous-looking affair,
Fergus; 'tis out of place on so happy
an occasion. Why was it brought?”
“From habit, my lord. We Highlanders,
you know, carry the dirk, as the
Sassenach wears his rapier. 'Tis from
custom; and this came with the other
things.”
“So be it; but hide it away—'twould
fright some of the servants.”
“I will obey you, my lord.”
And Fergus replaced the grim-looking
weapon in the trunk, where it lay,
concealed beneath an embroidered coat
and the ruffled linen of its owner.
“Your lordship will not change your
dress?” said Fergus, when this ceremony
had been performed.
“No, Fergus; I am, I believe, properly
attired.”
At this same moment a knock came
at the door.
“Come in,” said Ruthven.
