The Countess broke out with a shout of triumph: ‘There, there! they have come to reason at last. There’s an end of her folly.’
Malcolm felt himself a man, and Esclairmonde’s protector, all at once, as he stood forth, still holding her hand.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘this lady consents to intrust her troth to me, and be affianced to me’—his chest heaved, but he still spoke firmly—‘on condition that no word be spoken of the matter, nor any completion of the rite take place until the mourning for King Henry be at an end;’ and, at a sort of shiver from Esclairmonde, he added: ‘Not for a year, by which time I shall be of full age.’
‘A strange bridegroom!’ said Jaqueline; ‘but maybe you do well to get her on what terms you can. Do you agree, Monseigneur?’
In truth, Monseigneur may have been relieved that the trial of strength between him and his ward had thus terminated. He was only anxious to have the matter concluded.
The agreement, binding Malcolm to accept a stated number of crowns in instalments, as the value of Esclairmonde’s lands, under the guarantee of the Duke of Burgundy and King James of Scotland, had all been long ago signed, sealed, and secured; and there was nothing to prevent the fiancailles, or espousals, from taking place at once.
It was a much more real ceremony than a mere betrothal, being, in fact, in the eye of the civil law a marriage, though the full blessing and the sacramental words of union were deferred for the completion of the rite. It was the first part of the Marriage Service, binding the pair so indissolubly to one another, that neither could enter into wedlock with any one else as long as the other lived—except, of course, by Papal dispensation; and in cases of stolen weddings, it was all that was deemed needful.
All therefore that remained to be done was, that the Bishop summoned his chaplain to serve as a witness and as scribe; and then the two young people, in their deep mourning dresses, standing before the Bishop, vowed to belong to none other than to one another, and the betrothal rings being produced, were placed on their fingers, and their hands were clasped. Malcolm’s was steady, as he felt Esclairmonde’s rest in his untrembling, but with the quietness of one who trusted all in all where she trusted at all.
‘Poor children! they have all to learn,’ hilariously shouted the Countess. ‘They have forgotten the kiss!’
‘Will you suffer it, my sister?’ said Malcolm, with burning cheeks.