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.
CHAPTER XXXIII
HOUSE OF THE DYCK GRAF
With every exertion, the best of men can do but a moderate amount of good; but it seems in the power of the most contemptible individual to do indescribable mischief. – Washington Irving.
While the lonely Sir Patrick Gray, full of sombre and exciting thoughts, retired to his hostelry to consider and to plan the deliverance of Murielle from her own family, the house of Messire Jacques de Lalain, the Dyck Graf or hereditary governor of Bommel, which had been assigned as a temporary residence to the powerful Scottish noble and his retinue, became brilliantly lighted up.