Chapter 5

“Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we parted, dearest,” said Idalie, after long and earnest commune, as they sat together the following day in an olden chamber of Holyrood, far removed from the sovereign and the court. “Thou too art changed; and if in thee, a soldier and a man, absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow, pallor on thy cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange that I, a poor, weak girl, should suffer too? I scarce had loved thee, Gabriel, had there been no change.”

“I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less touching impress on thy cheek,” replied the count; “but for me, harsh storms and ruffled thoughts have joined with the yearning thoughts for thee to make me as thou seest. Why look upon me thus? canst doubt me, dearest?”

“Oh, no, no! thy love is not changed, save that it may be dearer still; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we parted. There are deeper sterner feelings in thy soul than heretofore; the change is there. The storms of which thou speakest have not been outward only—glory, ambition, love, are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.”

“And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou not love thy soldier still?”

“Oh, yes! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms—why is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely stern? It was not always thus?”

“Call it not stern my love: ’tis but the shadow of my spirit’s change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have marked it; yet ’tis not sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards myself. When we parted, dearest, I lived for earth and earthly things; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest; ’tis thus that I am changed.”

“And is this all?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his face; “is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy cheek and brow bear such true witness? The thought of heaven brings with it but balm and rest—not strife and pain. Gabriel, this is not all.”

“It is not all, my own! I would not have a thought concealed from thee; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. Listen to me beloved one; and oh, believe, Montgomeri would not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod; yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy church; the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over-spreading the pure light marking the path of Jesus, thou wouldst feel with me, and acknowledge that I could not think of God and heaven, and yet be other than I am. Idalie, speak to me! wherefore art thou thus?”

He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted, her lip and check blanched almost as death. Her large eyes distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as stone.

“It cannot, cannot be,” she murmured, in a low shuddering tone. “Montgomeri could not be other than true: no, no. Why will you speak thus, love?” she added, somewhat less unnaturally. “What can such strange words mean, save that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be unsheathed in persecuting wars—answer me, Gabriel, is it not so?”

“Alas! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon of every true man is needed to protect the creed which conviction has embraced. In these dark times this badge of Protestantism and the sword of defence must ever be raised together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic; but thou—”

“Thou art no heretic; no, no—it cannot be!” burst from the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprang from his embrace, “Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me—thou wouldst try the love I bear thee! Oh, not thus, not thus! Say thou art no heretic; thou art still the man my father loved, trusted, blessed; him to whom he gave his child. Speak to me; answer me—but one word!”

“I will, I will, mine own! let me but see thee calm. Am I not thine own? Art thou not mine? Come to my heart, sweet one; thou wilt find no change towards thee!”

“Answer me,” she reiterated; “Gabriel, thou hast not answered! By the love thou bearest me, by the vow unto my father—to love and cherish me till death—by thine own truth—I charge thee answer me, thou art no heretic?”

“If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by the Pope and his pampered minions in every land, to deny to them all allegiance, to refuse all belief in the intervention of saints and martyrs, or that absolution, bought and sold, can bring pardon and peace; if to read and believe the Holy Scriptures, and follow as they teach—if this is to be a heretic, Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it. Yes, dearest, I am a heretic in all, save love for thee!”

A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and Idalie fell forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Montgomeri could restore her to life, though he used a tenderness and skill strange in a rough warrior like himself; but no fond look returned his anxious gaze. She struggled to withdraw herself from his embrace, but the tone of reproachful agony with which he pronounced her name rendered the struggle vain; and, clinging to him, she sobbed. “I thought not of this, dreamed not of this; even in the dark foreboding haze clinging round the hour of meeting. Gabriel, in mercy leave me, or I shall forget my vow, and hurl down on me the wrath of the dead.”

“Leave thee!—vow!—wrath of the dead!” he repeated. “Oh, do not talk so wildly, love; reproach, upbraid me, as thou wilt; but tell me not to leave thee. Wherefore should we part?”

“Gabriel, it must be! I have no strength when I gaze on thee. Let not perjury darken this deep misery: leave me!”

“Perjury! what hast thou sworn?” demanded Montgomeri, hoarse, and choked with strong emotion.

“Never to wed with heresy! To retain the faith of my ancestors pure and unsullied as I received it. My father, from his bed of death, demanded this vow, and I pledged it unhesitatingly; for could I doubt thee?”

She had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was such a sudden and agonized change on the features of the count, that it not only banished calmness, but reawakened hope.

“Oh, say thou wert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest Gabriel, have I not judged thee wrongly, that still we may pray together as we have prayed? Thou hast not turned aside from our old and sainted creed. Say but this grief is causeless; that I may still love thee without sin; that there is no need to part!”

“Part!” he passionately exclaimed, “and from thee? Oh, no, no!”

“Then thou art, in truth, no heretic? It has all been a dark and terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet love!” she answered, in a voice of such trusting joyance, that Montgomeri started from her side, and hurriedly paced the room.

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up confidingly in his face; but its expression was enough. Shrinking from him, she implored, “Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on me thus, or that fearful dream will come again!”

“Would, would to God it were a dream!” he exclaimed, and his hands clasped both hers with convulsive pressure. “Idalie, I am no Catholic; I dare not again kneel as I have knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not even to retain thy precious love, to claim thee mine—thee, dearer than life, than happiness, than all, save eternity—I dare not deny my faith. But, oh, is there no other way? Can it be, that for this, a firm conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that which my soul believes, for this that we must part? Idalie, canst thou sentence me to this?”

“I have sworn,” she said, her white lips quivering with the effort. “My vow is registered in heaven—sworn unto the dead; by death only to be absolved.”

“To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient faith. Idalie, oh, hear me; let me plead now! Give to Louis de Montemar the government of thine ancestral lands, the control of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek them when thou wilt, unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his counsels. I ask but for thee; and here, far removed from the blood and misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for each other still. May not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain unbroken?”

“Montgomeri, it may not be,” she said, in a low yet collected tone, for it seemed as if the noble spirit of her race returned to give her strength for that harrowing hour.

“Tempt me not by such words as these—the love I bear thee is trial all-sufficient. My oath was pledged that I would never wed with heresy—never give my hand to one unfaithful to our old and sainted creed. Perchance that oath alone may save me from a like perdition, and if so, then is it well.”

“And doth thou scorn me for this—despise and loathe me? Oh, Idalie, thou knowest not all I have endured. In mercy add not to the anguish of this hour, by scorn of the change which imperious conscience alone had power to impel.”

“Scorn thee, Montgomeri! No; if thou, the good, the wise, can thus decide, and so find peace, is it for me to judge thee harshly? No, Idalie can never blame thee, Gabriel.”

He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the impassionate kisses he pressed on check and brow. She felt his hot tears fall fast upon her face, for in that suffering hour it was the iron-souled warrior that wept, not the pale, slight girl he held.

“This must not be, beloved,” she whispered, in low soothing tones. “Montgomeri, my noble love—for in this last hour I may still call thee so—oh, rouse thee from this woman’s weakness; this is no mood for thee. Thou must forget me, Gabriel; or so think of me as to be once again the brave, the high-souled warrior thou hast ever been. For my sake, rouse thee, love! The God we part to serve will hear my prayers, and bless thee.”

“And thou!” burst passionately from the lips of the count. “Oh, what shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the void of everlasting absence? In the rush of battle the warrior may find forgetfulness in death; but—”

“No, no, not death; Gabriel, for my sake, live, though not for me: add not this pang to a heart already tried enough. Promise me to live, and for me! Leave me to my God, Montgomeri, and He will give me peace.”

He could not answer, and minutes—many minutes—rolled away, and neither moved from the detaining arms of the other. Fortunately perhaps for both, a page entered with a summons to the count from the queen. Idalie lifted up her head, and while her very blood seemed turned to ice, a smile circled that pale lip.

“Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait, indulgent as she is.”

“But we shall meet again, sweet love?”

There was no answer; but Montgomeri would not understand that silence. He strained her once more to his heart, and turned away: another minute the arras fell, and he was gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to detain him, and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped senseless on the ground.