THE THIRD EVENING.
Good fortune and the favour of the king
Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the new-born brief,
And be performed to-night.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
After what had occurred at Duke Reinald's cross, and being
bewildered by the whole affair of the ring--an affair which seemed
so inexplicable, Gray armed himself with more than usual care, and
covering his fine, flexible chain shirt, gorget and sleeves of tempered
Milan plate, by the ample brown and red-braided Muscovite gown, he
repaired punctually at seven o'clock to the church of St. Genevieve. He
entered with an anxious heart, and kept a hand on his sword, as he knew
not by whom, or in what fashion he might be greeted; but, to his joy
found Murielle and the abbot awaiting him in the appointed place.
Murielle was smiling and happy; but the abbot was sombre, gloomy, and
abstracted.
A recent conversation which had passed between him and the earl of
Douglas had revealed more of the latter's terrible political, or rather
insurrectionary projects, than the abbot conceived to be possible.
The poor old man was dismayed; his very soul shrank within him at
the contemplation of his lawful and anointed king dethroned, and his
native country plunged in civil strife, to gratify the proud ambition
and guilty vengeance of a turbulent and predatory noble. A wholesome
fear of that ugly architectural feature, the gallows knob of Thrave,
might have prevented him from daring to think of circumventing the
plans of the earl had he been in Galloway; for Douglas, though slavish
in superstition and in ritual observances, was sternly severe to all
who marred his purposes, or crossed the path of his ambition, or even
of his most simple wish: thus he who hanged the good lord of Teregles
in his armour, might not hesitate to hang an abbot in his cassock.
But here in Flanders, far from local feudal influences, the superior
of Tongland felt himself more free to act, and he had been all day
revolving in his mind the means of putting the lord chancellor and
other ministers of James II. in possession of facts which would enable
them to guard the interests of the throne and of the people from
confusion, from invasion, and an anarchy like that which followed the
demise of the good king Alexander III., and in the person of Gray he
had the means of immediate communication.
Anxious to solve a mystery, Gray said hurriedly, "You have lost a ring
Murielle?"
"My ring--ah, yes, and an omen of evil I deemed that loss to be; for it
was the betrothal ring you gave me at the Thorns of the Carlinwark. It
was lost two nights ago--or abstracted from me----"
"The latter most likely--but permit me to restore it," said he,
tenderly kissing her pretty hand; "it nearly lured me to my death, for
now I verily believe that a deadly snare was set for me."
"Oh, what is this you tell me?" she asked with alarm.
"Sad, sad truth, my own love."
"A snare? Oh, it is impossible, since none know that you are here, but
our lord the abbot and I."
"But others, Murielle, _do_ know," replied Gray, and he briefly related
the affair of the preceding evening; the visit of Carl Langfanger with
the ring and the message as from herself; the delays which had happily
occurred, and how he had reached the Wayside Cross too late for the
purpose of his secret enemies, but strangely enough in time to save
Achanna from a mutilation and death, which were no doubt intended for
another. Murielle was stupefied.
"Achanna--say you this man was James Achanna?" sobbed Murielle,
becoming very pale and trembling.
"Certainly 'twas he; oh, there is no mistaking that hateful visage of
his."
"Then you are indeed lost!" said she, clasping her hands; but the abbot
who had hitherto remained silent and gloomy, patted her head kindly,
and said--"My own good daughter, hearken to me; trust in Heaven and
hope--hope, the friend of happiness."
"But hope, Father Abbot, will desert us, unless----" said Gray,
hesitating, as he turned imploringly to Murielle.
"Unless what?" said the abbot.
"Murielle becomes my bride--my wife!"
"Sir Patrick Gray----"
"Her ring is here; a betrothal ring it is, and a wedding-ring it shall
be," continued Gray with increasing vehemence, as his voice with his
emotion became deeper. "Good father abbot, my kinsman and my friend,
you who knew and loved my father and mother well, you who were the
guide and mentor of both, even as you are of me, will not hear me now
in vain! The dangerous schemes of this ambitious earl----"
"Enough, enough," interrupted the abbot gloomily, as he waved his hand;
"to my sorrow and fear I know them all, and own they terrify me."
"Then, to save our young king from many deadly perils, and our
country from civil war--to save this miserable Duke Robert from the
block on which his father perished--to save the house of Douglas from
destruction, and, more than all, to save herself from misery, Murielle
must wed me!"
Murielle opened her tremulous lips to speak, but Gray added
impetuously,--"To-day--to-night--now, instantly!"
"Now?" reiterated the abbot.
"Now, or it may be never!"
"Oh, what is this you say?" said Murielle, shrinking closer to the
abbot.
"The solemn, the sad, the earnest, but the loving truth, dear
Murielle," urged Gray, his eyes and heart filling as he spoke with
passion and tenderness.
Much more followed, but they spoke rapidly and briefly, for time was
precious.
"You will end all this by wedding me, my beloved," said Gray in her
ear, as he pressed her to his breast, and stifled her reply by kisses.
"Then at midnight we shall leave Bommel together for the sea-coast,
from thence to Scotland and the king! Say that you will become my
wife--here are the altar, the church, the priest, and his missal--here
even the ring. Oh, say that you will, for with life I cannot separate
from you again!"
"My love for you," sobbed Murielle, "is stronger than my destiny----"
"Nay, 'tis destiny that makes you love me."
Her tears fell fast, but her silence gave consent.
The abbot felt all the force of his kinsman's arguments, and the more
so that they were added to his own previous fears and convictions. He
wisely conceived that the marriage of Murielle to Gray would prove the
most irremovable barrier to the proposed matrimonial alliance between
Douglas and the duke of Albany. He was aware that by the performance of
such a ceremony, he would open an impassable gulf between himself and
his lord and chief; but he felt that he owed a duty to the king, James
II., in saving him from a coalition so formidable as a union between
the adherents of the outlawed prince and rebellious peer; a duty to
Murielle, in saving her from becoming the hapless tool of a conspiracy,
the victim of a _roué_ husband and a ruinous plot; and a duty to his
kinsman and friend, whom he had every desire to protect and serve.
Thus he suddenly consented, and summoning his chanter, and a curé of
the church, whom in his writings he names "Father Gustaf Dennecker, of
the order of St. Benedict," he drew a missal from the embroidered pouch
which hung at his girdle, and before our poor bewildered Murielle knew
distinctly what was about to ensue she found herself a bride--on her
knees before the altar, and the marriage service being read over her.
It proceeded rapidly. Murielle felt as one in a dream. She saw the open
missal, from the parchment leaves of which some little golden crosses
dangled; she saw the abbot in his purple stole, and heard his distinct
but subdued Latinity, as he addressed them over the silver altar rail.
She was aware of the presence of Gray, and her little heart beat
tumultuously with awe and love and terror, while reassured from time
to time by the gentle pressure of his hand--that strong and manly hand
which had grown hard by the use of his sword-hilt. She heard the ring
blessed, and felt it placed upon her marriage finger!
She heard the muttered responses of Father Gustaf and of the old
chanter of Tongland Abbey, who, in his terror of the earl, was almost
scared out of his senses; and then came the sonorous voice of the
abbot, as he waved his hand above her, and concluded with these
words:--"Deus Israel conjugat vos; et ipse sit vobiscum, qui misertus
duobus unicis: et nunc Domine, fac eos plenius benedicere te."
She arose lady of Foulis, and the wedded wife of Sir Patrick Gray, from
whom death only could separate her; but she reclined her head upon his
breast, and sobbed with excitement, with joy, and alarm.
After a pause the abbot closed his missal, and as he descended from the
altar his eye caught a pale grim face behind the shadow of a column. It
vanished, but as the blood rushed back upon the heart of the startled
abbot, he thought the features of that face were those of James
Achanna, and _he was right!_
"You must now separate; the future depends upon your secrecy and
discretion, as a discovery will ruin all, and we have not a moment to
lose," said the abbot, who felt more dismay in his heart than at that
moment he cared to communicate.
"What a time to separate!" exclaimed Gray almost with anger.
"You separate but to meet again," said the abbot imperatively, but in
a low voice, lest there might be other eavesdroppers; "away to your
hostelry, Sir Patrick, get horses, and make every arrangement for
immediate flight. If you leave Bommel at midnight, by riding fast you
may both reach the coast of Altena long before day-break, and there
find a ship for Scotland."
"Let us escape now; why delay a single hour?"
"That may not be; your flight would be discovered, and the followers
of the earl would be aided in a pursuit by those of De Lalain the Dyck
Graf. The time to choose is when all are abed and asleep, or ought to
be, and I will provide the order to pass you through the gates of the
city. The doors of our residence are secured every night by Sir Alan
Lauder, who keeps the keys with care, as if he were still in Thrave,
and feared the thieves of Annandale. You know the window of Murielle's
sleeping apartment?"
"It overlooks the garden above an arbour."
"Be within the arbour when this church bell strikes twelve; keep your
horses in the street, and I myself, as far as an old man may, will aid
your flight together. You will pass through the church by the postern,
and then God speed ye to the sea! Till then, farewell, and my blessing
on ye! Ah, well-a-day! all this toil, all this trouble, all this peril
had been saved us, if--if----"
"What, my Lord?"
"The master of evil and of mischief had been but forgiven and restored
to his place--but the time shall come," said the abbot, remembering
his pet crotchet, as they hastily separated; "that blessed time shall
come!"