THE CHURCH OF ST. GENEVIEVE.
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea!
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine;
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light,
Beneath the heaven of thine.--BULWER.
To Gray it appeared as if the day would never pass, and he spent the
hours of it in thinking over all he would say to Murielle, and all she
might probably reply. He glanced at his mirror--would the scar on his
face shock her? Doubtless, but she would love him the more for it,
and then it would wear away in time. Then he consulted the gnomons of
the sun-dials at the street corners, and the clocks of the numerous
churches, and to the eyes of an impatient lover, the shadows of the
former, and the hands of the latter, seemed alike to stand still.
Yet inevitable Time, which may neither be anticipated or withheld,
passed slowly, and surely on. The shadows of the quaint streets, of the
carved and traceried steeples, and of the battlemented castle, with its
grey old walls and muddy sluices, fell far to the eastward, along the
grassy meadows of the Bommelerwaard; the storks were already in their
nests on the steep old gables, and long before the appointed hour, Gray
was at the porch of St. Genevieve, where, with anxious eyes, he scanned
the passengers, and the thoroughfares in every direction.
At last _seven_ tolled from the spire, and every stroke reverberated
in his heart. They had not yet come, and just as a sigh of impatience
escaped him, a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld
the abbot of Tongland, and standing behind him, on the upper step of
the porch, a pace or two within the church, was a lady, wearing a
Flemish hood and veil. Gray's heart rose to his lips, as he sprang
towards her, and pressed in his the hands of Murielle.
"Beware, Sir Patrick," said the abbot, "we cannot permit such
transports here, and in view of the passers, too! Retire into the north
aisle, while I betake me to the south, for I have still some leaves of
my daily office to read; and when that is over, I shall rejoin you. Be
secret--be wary!"
With this advice, the politic old Churchman left Gray and Murielle to
themselves, being perfectly well aware that his presence, could in no
way enhance the joy of this sudden interview.
The quiet tenderness of Murielle moderated the ardor of Gray; both
trembled with the depth of their emotions, and the girl's eyes were
full of tears of affection and fear, for she felt as if Gray had been
restored to her from the tomb, and sometime passed before she could
speak with coherence.
"Ah, that I should miss your presence here for a moment," said Gray,
"but I was watching the passers in the streets."
"While I watched _you_ from the church!"
"And how did you enter it--I have been an hour at the porch."
"We came by the postern, which adjoins the great garden of the Dyck
Graf's mansion."
"Where you reside?"
"Yes."
"And the earl, too?"
"Yes--but he is hunting with the Dyck Graf. Oh, these wounds on your
face," said Murielle, stroking his cheek with her pretty hands, and
kissing it; "oh, mother of God, what must you have suffered?"
"More than tongue can say, Murielle, and more in mind than in body; but
these scars are the relict of that dreadful day, when Earl James so
mercilessly struck me down, as I besought mercy or quarter--not for my
own sake, but for _yours_."
"And when I thought to have died--great is my wonder that I did not,
for strenuously the earl, the countess, and all in Thrave strove to
convince me of your death."
"But you received my letter, by Sir Thomas--my good and brave
MacLellan?"
"Yes--and it restored me to hope, to life as it were, by the assurance
that you lived--you, whom all about me wished should die."
Gray drew her close to his heart, and a soft sweet smile overspread
the childlike face, while he pressed to his again and again the little
rosebud mouth. At that moment he heard something like a cough or snort;
Gray looked round, but saw only the shadows of the pillars that lay in
long lines across the tessalated floor of the church.
"I thought, Murielle, I should have gone mad with perplexity when I saw
you at Antwerp," said Gray.
"At Antwerp--you saw me there?" replied Murielle, a little beam of
gratified vanity lighting up her eyes.
"In the procession of the assumption; but the strange part you
bore--how came that about?"
"Through the desire of the earl and the bishop of Mechlin (or as some
name him, Malines), whom he knew in Scotland as secretary to the Legate
Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini; but, believe me, I had no desire to appear
as I did."
"And how long do you remain in Bommel?"
"A week."
"Thank heaven! then we shall meet often. Have--have you yet seen the
outlawed duke of Albany?" asked Gray; hesitating with the question,
while burning with impatience for the answer.
"No," said Murielle, blushing in spite of herself; "I have declined."
Gray pressed her to his breast.
"You know then, dearest, of what the earl is capable," said he; "of
forcing you to become the bride of another, who will further his
designs and strengthen his power at home and abroad."
"Yes--yes," replied Murielle, weeping; "I knew it--already has he
broadly hinted as much."
"Already!"
"And commanded me to obey; ah, pardon me for making this admission!"
said she imploringly.
"Pardon you?" reiterated Gray.
"Yes; but the earl rarely condescends to hint."
"Oh my beloved heart!"
"I meant not to add to your griefs, dearest, by naming a rival whose
rank renders him so formidable,--but--but--" tears choked her utterance.
"And this rival is the duke of Albany--a French minion--an outlaw; the
son of a traitor who plotted for the lawless detention of James I., in
England; a roué and swashbuckler, who consorts with the robber, Ludwig
of Endhoven!"
"'Tis indeed he, to whom they would sacrifice me," said Murielle,
clasping her poor little tremulous hands, and weeping bitterly. Gray
remained silent for some moments, while love, pity, and alarm wrung his
heart by turns.
"I know it--I know it," said he gloomily, "for Albany's own lips
informed me."
"You see, dear Gray, to what lengths Douglas and my sister will go in
their thirst for vengeance. The young king dethroned or slain; his
banished cousin crowned by English aid as Robert IV., the house of
Douglas would become more powerful than ever, and thus attain in the
land a strength which none could crush, and before which Livingstone
and Crichton assuredly must fall."
The vista these projects opened up, when thus plainly stated, startled
even the gallant heart of Gray!
"But Albany dare not," said he huskily, while grasping his dagger;
"_this_ should end his treason long ere it reached the mature length
his father's did."
"Douglas and Albany will dare anything," sobbed Murielle; "alas, poor
me! I am, my sister says, but a child, and a very weak one in their
iron hands."
"Then be a woman--let us escape and seek safety by flight together. We
are but thirty miles from the sea, where we can soon find a ship for
Scotland, and ere the earl's return we may be ready to defy him."
"Oh to what would you tempt me?"
"To save yourself and me. Once wedded, once again in Scotland, under
the protection of the king, a boy though he be, we might defy your
kinsman and all his followers."
"Oh no--no!" said Murielle, shaking her head mournfully.
"To Gueldres then. Duke Arnold will succour and protect us," urged Gray
vehemently.
"Worse still!"
"Oh Murielle, in pity to yourself and me----"
"Nay, nay, this must not be," said the abbot of Tongland angrily, as
he came suddenly forward; "Sir Patrick Gray, this is a breach of faith
with me. In friendship to her, and you my kinsman--for I dearly love
you both--I permitted this meeting; but have no intention that it shall
take a turn so startling--so dangerous for the honour of Lady Murielle,
and for the lives of us all perhaps! Come--come with me lady, we must
return at once."
"But we shall meet again,--good Father Abbot, say we shall meet again?"
urged Gray.
"Once, I promise you, once ere we leave Bommel, on the _third_ evening
from this, at the _same_ hour," said the abbot, hurrying Murielle away,
for at that moment several Flemish ecclesiastics entered the church.
As Gray wished to avoid every one, he withdrew; but resolved that, come
what might of it, in his next interview with Murielle, to save her from
the perils that were impending. She still loved him truly, and there
was every consolation in the knowledge that she did so; yet her love
would not save her from Albany when Douglas chose to play the tyrant.
But the abbot's _protégé_, the serpent, was abroad, and there were many
mischiefs to be plotted and many to be worked ere Murielle could be
saved from her persecutors.
As she and the abbot passed through the postern door which opened from
one of the aisles into the garden of the Dyck Graf--a door over which
there may be seen to this day, a strange sculpture of a mitred cat
preaching to twelve little mice--a man who had evidently been listening
shrunk back into the shade. This person was the somewhat ubiquitous
James Achanna, who, inspired alike by impatience and malevolence,
repaired immediately to his lord and chief the earl.