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Fair Margaret

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #9780 · 583,552 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Fair Margaret

Author: H. Rider Haggard

Illustrator: Joseph Ratcliffe Skelton


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9780]
                Most recently updated: October 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9780

Credits: Juliet Sutherland, Steve Flynn, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIR MARGARET ***

[Illustration]




Fair Margaret

by H. Rider Haggard

Author of “King Solomon’s Mines,” “She,” “Jess,” etc.

WITH 15 ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. R. SKELTON

London: HUTCHINSON & CO.
Paternoster Row

1907


CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD.
CHAPTER II. JOHN CASTELL.
CHAPTER III. PETER GATHERS VIOLETS.
CHAPTER IV. LOVERS DEAR.
CHAPTER V. CASTELL’S SECRET.
CHAPTER VI. FAREWELL.
CHAPTER VII. NEWS FROM SPAIN.
CHAPTER VIII. D’AGUILAR SPEAKS.
CHAPTER IX. THE SNARE.
CHAPTER X. THE CHASE.
CHAPTER XI. THE MEETING ON THE SEA.
CHAPTER XII. FATHER HENRIQUES.
CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN.
CHAPTER XIV. INEZ AND HER GARDEN.
CHAPTER XV. PETER PLAYS A PART.
CHAPTER XVI. BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH.
CHAPTER XVII. THE PLOT.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOLY HERMANDAD.
CHAPTER XIX. BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS.
CHAPTER XX. ISABELLA OF SPAIN.
CHAPTER XXI. BETTY STATES HER CASE.
CHAPTER XXII. THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL.
CHAPTER XXIII. FATHER HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE FALCON STOOPS.
CHAPTER XXV. HOW THE MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA.
ENVOI.


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“A DOVE, COMRADES!—A DOVE!”
CASTELL DECLARES HIMSELF A JEW
“YOU MEAN THAT YOU WISH TO MURDER ME”
MARGARET APPEARED DESCENDING THE BROAD OAK STAIRS
IN ANOTHER MOMENT THAT STEEL WOULD HAVE PIERCED HIS HEART
THE GALE CAUGHT HIM AND BLEW HIM TO AND FRO
“LADY,” HE SAID, “THIS IS NO DEED OF MINE”
A CRUEL-LOOKING KNIFE AND A NAKED ARM PROJECTED THROUGH THE PANELLING
“MY NAME IS INEZ. YOU WANDER STILL, SEÑOR”
“THERE ARE OTHERS WHERE THEY CAME FROM”
“TO-DAY I DARE TO HOPE THAT IT MAY BE OTHERWISE”
A MAGNIFICENTLY ATTIRED LADY OF MIDDLE AGE
“WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE MARCHIONESS OF MORELLA!”
“WE ARE PLAYERS IN A STRANGE GAME, MY LADY MARGARET”
“YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST, PETER”




FAIR MARGARET




CHAPTER I.
HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD.


It was a spring afternoon in the sixth year of the reign of King Henry
VII. of England. There had been a great show in London, for that day
his Grace opened the newly convened Parliament, and announced to his
faithful people—who received the news with much cheering, since war is
ever popular at first—his intention of invading France, and of leading
the English armies in person. In Parliament itself, it is true, the
general enthusiasm was somewhat dashed when allusion was made to the
finding of the needful funds; but the crowds without, formed for the
most part of persons who would not be called upon to pay the money, did
not suffer that side of the question to trouble them. So when their
gracious liege appeared, surrounded by his glittering escort of nobles
and men-at-arms, they threw their caps into the air, and shouted
themselves hoarse.

The king himself, although he was still young in years, already a
weary-looking man with a fine, pinched face, smiled a little
sarcastically at their clamour; but, remembering how glad he should be
to hear it who still sat upon a somewhat doubtful throne, said a few
soft words, and sending for two or three of the leaders of the people,
gave them his royal hand, and suffered certain children to touch his
robe that they might be cured of the Evil. Then, having paused a while
to receive petitions from poor folk, which he handed to one of his
officers to be read, amidst renewed shouting he passed on to the great
feast that was made ready in his palace of Westminster.

Among those who rode near to him was the ambassador, de Ayala,
accredited to the English Court by the Spanish sovereigns, Ferdinand
and Isabella, and his following of splendidly attired lords and
secretaries. That Spain was much in favour there was evident from his
place in the procession. How could it be otherwise, indeed, seeing that
already, four years or more before, at the age of twelve months, Prince
Arthur, the eldest son of the king, had been formally affianced to the
Infanta Catherine, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, aged one year
and nine months? For in those days it was thought well that the
affections of princes and princesses should be directed early into such
paths as their royal parents and governors considered likely to prove
most profitable to themselves.

At the ambassador’s left hand, mounted on a fine black horse, and
dressed richly, but simply, in black velvet, with a cap of the same
material in which was fastened a single pearl, rode a tall cavalier. He
was about five-and-thirty years of age, and very handsome, having
piercing black eyes and a stern, clean-cut face.

In every man, it is said, there can be found a resemblance, often far
off and fanciful enough, to some beast or bird or other creature, and
certainly in this case it was not hard to discover. The man resembled
an eagle, which, whether by chance or design, was the crest he bore
upon his servants’ livery, and the trappings of his horse. The
unflinching eyes, the hooked nose, the air of pride and mastery, the
thin, long hand, the quick grace of movement, all suggested that king
of birds, suggested also, as his motto said, that what he sought he
would find, and what he found he would keep. Just now he was watching
the interview between the English king and the leaders of the crowd
whom his Grace had been pleased to summon, with an air of mingled
amusement and contempt.

“You find the scene strange, Marquis,” said the ambassador, glancing at
him shrewdly.

“Señor, here in England, if it pleases your Excellency,” he answered
gravely, “Señor d’Aguilar. The marquis you mentioned lives in Spain—an
accredited envoy to the Moors of Granada; the Señor d’Aguilar, a humble
servant of Holy Church,” and he crossed himself, “travels abroad—upon
the Church’s business, and that of their Majesties’.”

“And his own too, sometimes, I believe,” answered the ambassador drily.
“But to be frank, what I do not understand about you, Señor d’Aguilar,
as I know that you have abandoned political ambitions, is why you do
not enter my profession, and put on the black robe once and for all.
What did I say—black? With your opportunities and connections it might
be red by now, with a hat to match.”

The Señor d’Aguilar smiled a little as he replied.

“You said, I think, that sometimes I travel on my own business. Well,
there is your answer. You are right, I have abandoned worldly
ambitions—most of them. They are troublesome, and for some people, if
they be born too high and yet not altogether rightly, very dangerous.
The acorn of ambition often grows into an oak from which men hang.”

“Or into a log upon which men’s heads can be cut off. Señor, I
congratulate you. You have the wisdom that grasps the substance and
lets the shadows flit. It is really very rare.”

“You asked why I do not change the cut of my garments,” went on
d’Aguilar, without noticing the interruption. “Excellency, to be frank,
because of my own business. I have failings like other men. For
instance, wealth is that substance of which you spoke, rule is the
shadow; he who has the wealth has the real rule. Again, bright eyes may
draw me, or a hate may seek its slaking, and these things do not suit
robes, black or red.”

“Yet many such things have been done by those who wore them,” replied
the ambassador with meaning.

“Aye, Excellency, to the discredit of Holy Church, as you, a priest,
know better than most men. Let the earth be evil as it must; but let
the Church be like heaven above it, pure, unstained, the vault of
prayer, the house of mercy and of righteous judgment, wherein walks no
sinner such as I,” and again he crossed himself.

There was a ring of earnestness in the speaker’s voice that caused de
Ayala, who knew something of his private reputation, to look at him
curiously.

“A true fanatic, and therefore to us a useful man,” he thought to
himself, “though one who knows how to make the best of two worlds as
well as most of them;” but aloud he said, “No wonder that our Church
rejoices in such a son, and that her enemies tremble when he lifts her
sword. But, Señor, you have not told me what you think of all this
ceremony and people.”

“The people I know well, Excellency, for I dwelt among them in past
years and speak their language; and that is why I have left Granada to
look after itself for a while, and am here to-day, to watch and make
report——” He checked himself, then added, “As for the ceremony, were I
a king I would have it otherwise. Why, in that house just now those
vulgar Commons—for so they call them, do they not?—almost threatened
their royal master when he humbly craved a tithe of the country’s
wealth to fight the country’s war. Yes, and I saw him turn pale and
tremble at the rough voices, as though their echoes shook his throne. I
tell you, Excellency, that the time will come in this land when those
Commons will be king. Look now at that fellow whom his Grace holds by
the hand, calling him ‘sir’ and ‘master,’ and yet whom he knows to be,
as I do, a heretic, a Jew in disguise, whose sins, if he had his
rights, should be purged by fire. Why, to my knowledge last night, that
Israelite said things against the Church——”

“Whereof the Church, or its servant, doubtless made notes to be used
when the time comes,” broke in de Ayala. “But the audience is done, and
his Highness beckons us forward to the feast, where there will be no
heretics to vex us, and, as it is Lent, not much to eat. Come, Señor!
for we stop the way.”

Three hours had gone by, and the sun sank redly, for even at that
spring season it was cold upon the marshy lands of Westminster, and
there was frost in the air. On the open space opposite to the
banqueting-hall, in front of which were gathered squires and grooms
with horses, stood and walked many citizens of London, who, their day’s
work done, came to see the king pass by in state. Among these were a
man and a lady, the latter attended by a handsome young woman, who were
all three sufficiently striking in appearance to attract some notice in
the throng.

The man, a person of about thirty years of age, dressed in a merchant’s
robe of cloth, and wearing a knife in his girdle, seemed over six feet
in height, while his companion, in her flowing, fur-trimmed cloak, was,
for a woman, also of unusual stature. He was not, strictly speaking, a
handsome man, being somewhat too high of forehead and prominent of
feature; moreover, one of his clean-shaven cheeks, the right, was
marred by the long, red scar of a sword-cut which stretched from the
temple to the strong chin. His face, however, was open and manly, if
rather stern, and the grey eyes were steady and frank. It was not the
face of a merchant, but rather that of one of good degree, accustomed
to camps and war. For the rest, his figure was well-built and active,
and his voice when he spoke, which was seldom, clear and distinct to
loudness, but cultivated and pleasant—again, not the voice of a
merchant.

Of the lady’s figure little could be seen because of the long cloak
that hid it, but the face, which appeared within its hood when she
turned and the dying sunlight filled her eyes, was lovely indeed, for
from her birth to her death-day Margaret Castell—fair Margaret, as she
was called—had this gift to a degree that is rarely granted to woman.
Rounded and flower-like was that face, most delicately tinted also,
with rich and curving lips and a broad, snow-white brow. But the wonder
of it, what distinguished her above everything else from other
beautiful women of her time, was to be found in her eyes, for these
were not blue or grey, as might have been expected from her general
colouring, but large, black, and lustrous; soft, too, as the eyes of a
deer, and overhung by curling lashes of an ebon black. The effect of
these eyes of hers shining above those tinted cheeks and beneath the
brow of ivory whiteness was so strange as to be almost startling. They
caught the beholder and held him, as might the sudden sight of a rose
in snow, or the morning star hanging luminous among the mists of dawn.
Also, although they were so gentle and modest, if that beholder chanced
to be a man on the good side of fifty it was often long before he could
forget them, especially if he were privileged to see how well they
matched the hair of chestnut, shading into black, that waved above them
and fell, tress upon tress, upon the shapely shoulders and down to the
slender waist.

Peter Brome, for he was so named, looked a little anxiously about him
at the crowd, then, turning, addressed Margaret in his strong, clear
voice.

“There are rough folk around,” he said; “do you think you should stop
here? Your father might be angered, Cousin.”

Here it may be explained that in reality their kinship was of the
slightest, a mere dash of blood that came to her through her mother.
Still they called each other thus, since it is a convenient title that
may mean much or nothing.

“Oh! why not?” she answered in her rich, slow tones, that had in them
some foreign quality, something soft and sweet as the caress of a
southern wind at night. “With you, Cousin,” and she glanced approvingly
at his stalwart, soldier-like form, “I have nothing to fear from men,
however rough, and I do greatly want to see the king close by, and so
does Betty. Don’t you, Betty?” and she turned to her companion.

Betty Dene, whom she addressed, was also a cousin of Margaret, though
only a distant connection of Peter Brome. She was of very good blood,
but her father, a wild and dissolute man, had broken her mother’s
heart, and, like that mother, died early, leaving Betty dependent upon
Margaret’s mother, in whose house she had been brought up. This Betty
was in her way remarkable, both in body and mind. Fair, splendidly
formed, strong, with wide, bold, blue eyes and ripe red lips, such was
the fashion of her. In speech she was careless and vigorous. Fond of
the society of men, and fonder still of their admiration, for she was
romantic and vain, Betty at the age of five-and-twenty was yet an
honest girl, and well able to take care of herself, as more than one of
her admirers had discovered. Although her position was humble, at heart
she was very proud of her lineage, ambitious also, her great desire
being to raise herself by marriage back to the station from which her
father’s folly had cast her down—no easy business for one who passed as
a waiting-woman and was without fortune.

For the rest, she loved and admired her cousin Margaret more than any
one on earth, while Peter she liked and respected, none the less
perhaps because, try as she would—and, being nettled, she did try hard
enough—her beauty and other charms left him quite unmoved.

In answer to Margaret’s question she laughed and answered:

“Of course. We are all too busy up in Holborn to get the chance of so
many shows that I should wish to miss one. Still, Master Peter is very
wise, and I am always counselled to obey him. Also, it will soon be
dark.”

“Well, well,” said Margaret with a sigh and a little shrug of her
shoulders, “as you are both against me, perhaps we had best be going.
Next time I come out walking, cousin Peter, it shall be with some one
who is more kind.”

Then she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could
through the thickening crowd. Finding this difficult, before Peter
could stop her, for she was very swift in her movements, Margaret bore
to the right, entering the space immediately in front of the
banqueting-hall where the grooms with horses and soldiers were
assembled awaiting their lords, for here there was more room to walk.
For a few moments Peter and Betty were unable to escape from the mob
which closed in behind her, and thus it came about that Margaret found
herself alone among these people, in the midst, indeed, of the guard of
the Spanish ambassador de Ayala, men who were notorious for their
lawlessness, for they reckoned upon their master’s privilege to protect
them. Also, for the most part, they were just then more or less in
liquor.

One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the
priest-diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had
also been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who
appeared to be young and pretty, determined to examine her more
closely, and to this end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to
stumble, he grasped at Margaret’s cloak as though to save himself, and
with a wrench tore it open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful
figure.

“A dove, comrades!—a dove!” he shouted in a voice thick with drink,
“who has flown here to give me a kiss.” And, casting his long arms
about her, he strove to draw her to him.

[Illustration: ]

“A dove, comrades!—A dove!”

“Peter! Help me, Peter!” cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in
his grip.

“No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass,” said the drunken
Scotchman, “Andrew is as good as Peter,” at which witticism those of
the others who understood him laughed, for the man’s name was Andrew.

Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian Andrew it seemed as
though suddenly he had fallen into the power of a whirlwind. At least
Margaret was wrenched away from him, while he spun round and round to
fall violently upon his face.

“That’s Peter!” exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish.

“Yes,” answered another, “and a patron saint worth having”; while a
third pulled the recumbent Andrew to his feet.

The man looked like a devil. His cap had gone, and his fiery red hair
was smeared with mud. Moreover, his nose had been broken on a cobble
stone, and blood from it poured all over him, while his little red eyes
glared like a ferret’s, and his face turned a dirty white with pain and
rage. Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he drew his sword
and rushed straight at his adversary, purposing to kill him.

Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, which he found no
time to draw. In his hand, however, he carried a stout holly staff shod
with iron, and, while Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed, on
this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it was, parried and
turned it. Then, before the man could strike again, that staff was up,
and Peter had leapt upon him. It fell with fearful force, breaking the
Scotchman’s shoulder and sending him reeling back.

“Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!” shouted the spectators.

But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad with rage at the
insult that had been offered to Margaret. Up flew the iron-tipped staff
again, and down it came, this time full on Andrew’s head, which it
shattered like an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead.

For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken a tragic turn.
Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing at the prostrate form:

“Name of God! our mate is done for. That merchant hits hard.”

Instantly there arose a murmur among the dead man’s comrades, and one
of them cried:

“Cut him down!”

Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and
snatched the Scotchman’s sword from the ground where it had fallen, at
the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left
hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as
he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they
held back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that
against so many he had no chance.

“Englishmen,” he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head
or glance, “will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?”

There was a moment’s pause, then a voice behind cried:

“By God! not I,” and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside him,
his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand.

“Nor I,” said another. “Peter Brome and I have fought together before.”

“Nor I,” shouted a third, “for we were born in the same Essex hundred.”

And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his
side as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him.

“That will do,” said Peter, “we want no more than man to man. Look to
the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would see
English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in
peace.”

“Yes, come on, you foreign cowards,” shouted the mob, who did not love
these turbulent and privileged guards.

By now the Spanish blood was up, and the old race-hatred awake. In
broken English the sergeant of the guard shouted out some filthy insult
about Margaret, and called upon his followers to “cut the throats of
the London swine.” Swords shone red in the red sunset light, men
shifted their feet and bent forward, and in another instant a great and
bloody fray would have begun.

But it did not begin, for at that moment a tall señor, who had been
standing in the shadow and watching all that passed, walked between the
opposing lines, as he went striking up the swords with his arm.

“Have done,” said d’Aguilar quietly, for it was he, speaking in
Spanish. “You fools! do you want to see every Spaniard in London torn
to pieces? As for that drunken brute,” and he touched the corpse of
Andrew with his foot, “he brought his death upon himself. Moreover, he
was not a Spaniard, there is no blood quarrel. Come, obey me! or must I
tell you who I am?”

“We know you, Marquis,” said the leader in a cowed voice. “Sheath your
swords, comrades; after all, it is no affair of ours.”

The men obeyed somewhat unwillingly; but at this moment arrived the
ambassador de Ayala, very angry, for he had heard of the death of his
servant, demanding, in a loud voice, that the man who had killed him
should be given up.

“We will not give him up to a Spanish priest,” shouted the mob. “Come
and take him if you want him,” and once more the tumult grew, while
Peter and his companions made ready to fight.

Fighting there would have been also, notwithstanding all that d’Aguilar
could do to prevent it; but of a sudden the noise began to die away,
and a hush fell upon the place. Then between the uplifted weapons
walked a short, richly clad man, who turned suddenly and faced the mob.
It was King Henry himself.

“Who dare to draw swords in my streets, before my very palace doors?”
he asked in a cold voice.

A dozen hands pointed at Peter.

“Speak,” said the king to him.

“Margaret, come here,” cried Peter; and the girl was thrust forward to
him.

“Sire,” he said, “that man,” and he pointed to the corpse of Andrew,
“tried to do wrong to this maiden, John Castell’s child. I, her cousin,
threw him down. He drew his sword and came at me, and I killed him with
my staff. See, it lies there. Then the Spaniards—his comrades—would
have cut me down, and I called for English help. Sire, that is all.”

The king looked him up and down.

“A merchant by your dress,” he said; “but a soldier by your mien. How
are you named?”

“Peter Brome, Sire.”

“Ah! There was a certain Sir Peter Brome who fell at Bosworth Field—not
fighting for me,” and he smiled. “Did you know him perchance?”

“He was my father, Sire, and I saw him slain—aye, and slew the slayer.”

“Well can I believe it,” answered Henry, considering him. “But how
comes it that Peter Brome’s son, who wears that battle scar across his
face, is clad in merchant’s woollen?”

“Sire,” said Peter coolly, “my father sold his lands, lent his all to
the Crown, and I have never rendered the account. Therefore I must live
as I can.”

The king laughed outright as he replied:

“I like you, Peter Brome, though doubtless you hate me.”

“Not so, Sire. While Richard lived I fought for Richard. Richard is
gone; and, if need be, I would fight for Henry, who am an Englishman,
and serve England’s king.”

“Well said, and I may have need of you yet, nor do I bear you any
grudge. But, I forgot, is it thus that you would fight for me, by
causing riot in my streets, and bringing me into trouble with my good
friends the Spaniards?”

“Sire, you know the story.”

“I know your story, but who bears witness to it? Do you, maiden,
Castell the merchant’s daughter?”

“Aye, Sire. The man whom my cousin killed maltreated me, whose only
wrong was that I waited to see your Grace pass by. Look on my torn
cloak.”

“Little wonder that he killed him for the sake of those eyes of yours,
maiden. But this witness may be tainted.” And again he smiled, adding,
“Is there no other?”

Betty advanced to speak, but d’Aguilar, stepping forward, lifted his
bonnet from his head, bowed and said in English:

“Your Grace, there is; I saw it all. This gallant gentleman had no
blame. It was the servants of my countryman de Ayala who were to blame,
at any rate at first, and afterwards came the trouble.”

Now the ambassador de Ayala broke in, claiming satisfaction for the
killing of his man, for he was still very angry, and saying that if it
were not given, he would report the matter to their Majesties of Spain,
and let them know how their servants were treated in London.

At these words Henry grew grave, who, above all things, wished to give
no offence to Ferdinand and Isabella.

“You have done an ill day’s work, Peter Brome,” he said, “and one of
which my attorney must consider. Meanwhile, you will be best in safe
keeping,” and he turned as though to order his arrest.

“Sire,” exclaimed Peter, “I live at Master Castell’s house in Holborn,
nor shall I run away.”

“Who will answer for that,” asked the king, “or that you will not make
more riots on your road thither?”

“I will answer, your Grace,” said d’Aguilar quietly, “if this lady will
permit that I escort her and her cousin home. Also,” he added in a low
voice, “it seems to me that to hale him to a prison would be more like
to breed a riot than to let him go.”

Henry glanced round him at the great crowd who were gathered watching
this scene, and saw something in their faces which caused him to agree
with d’Aguilar.

“So be it, Marquis,” he said. “I have your word, and that of Peter
Brome, that he will be forthcoming if called upon. Let that dead man be
laid in the Abbey till to-morrow, when this matter shall be inquired
of. Excellency, give me your arm; I have greater questions of which I
wish to speak with you ere we sleep.”




CHAPTER II.
JOHN CASTELL.


When the king was gone, Peter turned to those men who had stood by him
and thanked them very heartily. Then he said to Margaret:

“Come, Cousin, that is over for this time, and you have had your wish
and seen his Grace. Now, the sooner you are safe at home, the better I
shall be pleased.”

“Certainly,” she replied. “I have seen more than I desire to see again.
But before we go let us thank this Spanish señor——” and she paused.

“D’Aguilar, Lady, or at least that name will serve,” said the Spaniard
in his cultured voice, bowing low before her, his eyes fixed all the
while upon her beautiful face.

“Señor d’Aguilar, I thank you, and so does my cousin, Peter Brome,
whose life perhaps you saved—don’t you, Peter? Oh! and so will my
father.”

“Yes,” answered Peter somewhat sulkily, “I thank him very much; though
as for my life, I trusted to my own arm and to those of my friends
there. Good night, Sir.”

“I fear, Señor,” answered d’Aguilar with a smile, “that we cannot part
just yet. You forget, I have become bond for you, and must therefore
accompany you to where you live, that I may certify the place. Also,
perhaps, it is safest, for these countrymen of mine are revengeful,
and, were I not with you, might waylay you.”

Now, seeing from his face that Peter was still bent upon declining this
escort, Margaret interposed quickly.

“Yes, that is wisest, also my father would wish it. Señor, I will show
you the way,” and, accompanied by d’Aguilar, who gallantly offered her
his arm, she stepped forward briskly, leaving Peter to follow with her
cousin Betty.

Thus they walked in the twilight across the fields and through the
narrow streets beyond that lay between Westminster and Holborn. In
front tripped Margaret beside her stately cavalier, with whom she was
soon talking fast enough in Spanish, a tongue which, for reasons that
shall be explained, she knew well, while behind, the Scotchman’s sword
still in his hand, and the handsome Betty on his arm, came Peter Brome
in the worst of humours.

John Castell lived in a large, rambling, many-gabled, house, just off
the main thoroughfare of Holborn, that had at the back of it a garden
surrounded by a high wall. Of this ancient place the front part served
as a shop, a store for merchandise, and an office, for Castell was a
very wealthy trader—how wealthy none quite knew—who exported woollen
and other goods to Spain under the royal licence, bringing thence in
his own ships fine, raw Spanish wool to be manufactured in England, and
with it velvet, silks, and wine from Granada; also beautiful inlaid
armour of Toledo steel. Sometimes, too, he dealt in silver and copper
from the mountain mines, for Castell was a banker as well as a
merchant, or rather what answered to that description in those days.

It was said that beneath his shop were dungeon-like store-vaults, built
of thick cemented stone, with iron doors through which no thief could
break, and filled with precious things. However this might be,
certainly in that great house, which in the time of the Plantagenets
had been the fortified palace of a noble, existed chambers whereof he
alone knew the secret, since no one else, not even his daughter or
Peter, ever crossed their threshold. Also, there slept in it a number
of men-servants, very stout fellows, who wore knives or swords beneath
their cloaks, and watched at night to see that all was well. For the
rest, the living-rooms of this house where Castell, Margaret his
daughter, and Peter dwelt, were large and comfortable, being new
panelled with oak after the Tudor fashion, and having deep windows that
looked out upon the garden.

When Peter and Betty reached the door, not that which led into the
shop, but another, it was to find that Margaret and d’Aguilar, who were
walking very quickly, must have already passed it, since it was shut,
and they had vanished. At his knock—a hard one—a serving-man opened,
and Peter strode through the vestibule, or ante-chamber, into the hall,
where for the most part they ate and sat, for thence he heard the sound
of voices. It was a fine room, lit by hanging lamps of olive oil, and
having a large, open hearth where a fire burned pleasantly, while the
oaken table in front of it was set for supper. Margaret, who had thrown
off her cloak, stood warming herself at the fire, and the Señor
d’Aguilar, comfortably seated in a big chair, which he seemed to have
known for years, leaned back, his bonnet in his hand, and watched her
idly.

Facing them stood John Castell, a stout, dark-bearded man of between
fifty and sixty years of age, with a clever, clean-cut face and
piercing black eyes. Now, in the privacy of his home, he was very
richly attired in a robe trimmed with the costliest fur, and fastened
with a gold chain that had a jewel on its clasp. When Castell served in
his shop or sat in his counting-house no merchant in London was more
plainly dressed; but at night, loving magnificence at heart, it was his
custom thus to indulge in it, even when there were none to see him.
From the way in which he stood, and the look upon his face, Peter knew
at once that he was much disturbed. Hearing his step, Castell wheeled
round and addressed him at once in the clear, decided voice which was
his characteristic.

“What is this I am told, Peter? A man killed by you before the palace
gates? A broil! A public riot in which things went near to great
bloodshed between the English, with you at the head of them, and the
bodyguard of his Excellency, de Ayala. You arrested by the king, and
bailed out by this señor. Is all this true?”

“Quite,” answered Peter calmly.

“Then I am ruined; we are all ruined. Oh! it was an evil hour when I
took one of your bloodthirsty trade into my house. What have you to
say?”

“Only that I want my supper,” said Peter. “Those who began the story
can finish it, for I think their tongues are nimbler than my own,” and
he glanced wrathfully at Margaret, who laughed outright, while even the
solemn d’Aguilar smiled.

“Father,” broke in Margaret, “do not be angry with cousin Peter, whose
only fault is that he hits too hard. It is I who am to blame, for I
wished to stop to see the king against his will and Betty’s, and
then—then that brute,” and her eyes filled with tears of shame and
anger, “caught hold of me, and Peter threw him down, and afterwards,
when he attacked him with a sword, Peter killed him with his staff,
and—all the rest happened.”

“It was beautifully done,” said d’Aguilar in his soft voice and foreign
accent. “I saw it all, and made sure that you were dead. The parry I
understood, but the way you got your smashing blow in before he could
thrust again—ah! that——”

“Well, well,” said Castell, “let us eat first and talk afterwards.
Señor d’Aguilar, you will honour my poor board, will you not, though it
is hard to come from a king’s feast to a merchant’s fare?”

“It is I who am honoured,” answered d’Aguilar; “and as for the feast,
his Grace is sparing in this Lenten season. At least, I could get
little to eat, and, therefore, like the señor Peter, I am starved.”

Castell rang a silver bell which stood near by, whereon servants
brought in the meal, which was excellent and plentiful. While they were
setting it on the table, the merchant went to a cupboard in the
wainscoting, and took thence two flasks, which he uncorked himself with
care, saying that he would give the señor some wine of his own country.
This done, he said a Latin grace and crossed himself, an example which
d’Aguilar followed, remarking that he was glad to find that he was in
the house of a good Christian.

“What else did you think that I should be?” asked Castell, glancing at
him shrewdly.

“I did not think at all, Señor,” he answered; “but alas! every one is
not a Christian. In Spain, for instance, we have many Moors and—Jews.”

“I know,” said Castell, “for I trade with them both.”

“Then you have never visited Spain?”

“No; I am an English merchant. But try that wine, Señor; it came from
Granada, and they say that it is good.”

d’Aguilar tasted it, then drank off his glass.

“It is good, indeed,” he said; “I have not its equal in my own cellars
there.”

“Do you, then, live in Granada, Señor d’Aguilar?” asked Castell.

“Sometimes, when I am not travelling. I have a house there which my
mother left me. She loved the town, and bought an old palace from the
Moors. Would you not like to see Granada, Señora?” he asked, turning to
Margaret as though to change the subject. “There is a wonderful
building there called the Alhambra; it overlooks my house.”

“My daughter is never likely to see it,” broke in Castell; “I do not
purpose that she should visit Spain.”

“Ah! you do not purpose; but who knows? God and His saints alone,” and
again he crossed himself, then fell to describing the beauties of
Granada.

He was a fine and ready talker, and his voice was very pleasant, so
Margaret listened attentively enough, watching his face, and forgetting
to eat, while her father and Peter watched them both. At length the
meal came to an end, and when the serving-men had cleared away the
dishes, and they were alone, Castell said:

“Now, kinsman Peter, tell me your story.”

So Peter told him, in few words, yet omitting nothing.

“I find no blame in you,” said the merchant when he had done, “nor do I
see how you could have acted otherwise than you did. It is Margaret
whom I blame, for I only gave her leave to walk with you and Betty by
the river, and bade her beware of crowds.”

“Yes, father, the fault is mine, and for it I pray your pardon,” said
Margaret, so meekly that her father could not find the heart to scold
her as he had meant to do.

“You should ask Peter’s pardon,” he muttered, “seeing that he is like
to be laid by the heels in a dungeon over this business, yes, and put
upon his trial for causing the man’s death. Remember, he was in the
service of de Ayala, with whom our liege wishes to stand well, and de
Ayala, it seems, is very angry.”

Now Margaret grew frightened, for the thought that harm might come to
Peter cut her heart. The colour left her cheek, and once again her eyes
swam with tears.

“Oh! say not so,” she exclaimed. “Peter, will you not fly at once?”

“By no means,” he answered decidedly. “Did I not say it to the king,
and is not this foreign lord bond for me?”

“What can be done?” she went on; then, as a thought struck her, turned
to d’Aguilar, and, clasping her slender hands, looked pleadingly into
his face and asked: “Señor, you who are so powerful, and the friend of
great people, will you not help us?”

“Am I not here to do so, Señora? Although I think that a man who can
call half London to his back, as I saw your cousin do, needs little
help from me. But listen, my country has two ambassadors at this
Court—de Ayala, whom he has offended, and Doctor de Puebla, the friend
of the king; and, strangely enough, de Puebla does not love de Ayala.
Yet he does love money, which perhaps will be forthcoming. Now, if a
charge is to be laid over this brawl, it will probably be done, not by
the churchman, de Ayala, but through de Puebla, who knows your laws and
Court, and—do you understand me, Señor Castell?”

“Yes,” answered the merchant; “but how am I to get at de Puebla? If I
were to offer him money, he would only ask more.”

“I see that you know his Excellency,” remarked d’Aguilar drily. “You
are right, no money should be offered; a present must be made after the
pardon is delivered—not before. Oh! de Puebla knows that John Castell’s
word is as good in London as it is among the Jews and infidels of
Granada and the merchants of Seville, at both of which places I have
heard it spoken.”

At this speech Castell’s eyes flickered, but he only answered:

“May be; but how shall I approach him, Señor?”

“If you will permit me, that is my task. Now, to what amount will you
go to save our friend here from inconvenience? Fifty gold angels?”

“It is too much,” said Castell; “a knave like that is not worth ten.
Indeed, he was the assailant, and nothing should be paid at all.”

“Ah! Señor, the merchant is coming out in you; also the dangerous man
who thinks that right should rule the world, not kings—I mean might.
The knave is worth nothing, but de Puebla’s word in Henry’s ear is
worth much.”

“Fifty angels be it then,” said Castell, “and I thank you, Señor, for
your good offices. Will you take the money now?”

“By no means; not till I bring the debt discharged. Señor, I will come
again and let you know how matters stand. Farewell, fair maiden; may
the saints intercede for that dead rogue who brought me into your
company, and that of your father and your cousin of the quick eye and
the stalwart arm! Till we meet again,” and, still murmuring
compliments, he bowed himself out of the room in charge of a
manservant.

“Thomas,” said Castell to this servant when he returned, “you are a
discreet fellow; put on your cap and cloak, follow that Spaniard, see
where he lodges, and find out all you can about him. Go now, swiftly.”

The man bowed and went, and presently Castell, listening, heard a side
door shut behind him. Then he turned and said to the other two:

“I do not like this business. I smell trouble in it, and I do not like
the Spaniard either.”

“He seems a very gallant gentleman, and high-born,” said Margaret.

“Aye, very gallant—too gallant, and high-born—too high-born, unless I
am mistaken. So gallant and so high-born——” And he checked himself,
then added, “Daughter, in your wilfulness you have stirred a great
rock. Go to your bed and pray God that it may not fall upon your house
and crush it and us.”

So Margaret crept away frightened, a little indignant also, for after
all, what wrong had she done? And why should her father mistrust this
splendid-looking Spanish cavalier?

When she was gone, Peter, who all this while had said little, looked up
and asked straight out:

“What are you afraid of, Sir?”

“Many things, Peter. First, that use will be made of this matter to
extort much money from me, who am known to be rich, which is a sin best
absolved by angels. Secondly, that if I make trouble about paying,
other questions will be set afoot.”

“What questions?”

“Have you ever heard of the new Christians, Peter, whom the Spaniards
call Maranos?”

He nodded.

“Then you know that a Marano is a converted Jew. Now, as it chances—I
tell you who do not break secrets—my father was a Marano. His name does
not matter—it is best forgotten; but he fled from Spain to England for
reasons of his own, and took that of the country whence he
came—Castile, or Castell. Also, as it is not lawful for Jews to live in
England, he became converted to the Christian faith—seek not to know
his motives, they are buried with him. Moreover, he converted me, his
only child, who was but ten years old, and cared little whether I swore
by ‘Father Abraham’ or by the ‘Blessed Mary.’ The paper of my baptism
lies in my strong box still. Well, he was clever, and built up this
business, and died unharmed five-and-twenty years ago, leaving me
already rich. That same year I married an Englishwoman, your mother’s
second cousin, and loved her and lived happily with her, and gave her
all her heart could wish. But after Margaret’s birth, three-and-twenty
years gone by, she never had her health, and eight years ago she died.
You remember her, since she brought you here when you were a stout lad,
and made me promise afterwards that I would always be your friend, for
except your father, Sir Peter, none other of your well-born and ancient
family were left. So when Sir Peter—against my counsel, staking his all
upon that usurping rogue Richard, who had promised to advance him, and
meanwhile took his money—was killed at Bosworth, leaving you landless,
penniless, and out of favour, I offered you a home, and you, being a
wise man, put off your mail and put on woollen and became a merchant’s
partner, though your share of profit was but small. Now, again you have
changed staff for steel,” and he glanced at the Scotchman’s sword that
still lay upon a side table, “and Margaret has loosed that rock of
which I spoke to her.”

“What is the rock, Sir?”

“That Spaniard whom she brought home and found so fine.”

“What of the Spaniard?”

“Wait a while and I will tell you.” And, taking a lamp, he left the
room, returning presently with a letter which was written in cipher,
and translated upon another sheet in John Castell’s own hand.

“This,” he said, “is from my partner and connection, Juan Bernaldez, a
Marano, who lives at Seville, where Ferdinand and Isabella have their
court. Among other matters he writes this: ‘I warn all brethren in
England to be careful. I have it that a certain one whose name I will
not mention even in cipher, a very powerful and high-born man, and,
although he appears to be a pleasure-seeker only, and is certainly of a
dissolute life, among the greatest bigots in all Spain, has been sent,
or is shortly to be sent, from Granada, where he is stationed to watch
the Moors, as an envoy to the Court of England to conclude a secret
treaty with its king. Under this treaty the names of rich Maranos that
are already well known here are to be recorded, so that when the time
comes, and the active persecution of Jews and Maranos begins, they may
be given up and brought to Spain for trial before the Inquisition. Also
he is to arrange that no Jew or Marano may be allowed to take refuge in
England. This is for your information, that you may warn any whom it
concerns.’”

“You think that d’Aguilar is this man?” asked Peter, while Castell
folded up the letter and hid it in the pocket of his robe.

“I do; indeed I have heard already that a fox was on the prowl, and
that men should look to their hen-houses. Moreover, did you note how he
crossed himself like a priest, and what he said about being among good
Christians? Also, it is Lent and a fast-day, and by ill-fortune,
although none of us ate of it, there was meat upon the table, for as
you know,” he added hurriedly, “I am not strict in such matters, who
give little weight to forms and ceremonies. Well, he observed it, and
touched fish only, although he drank enough of the sweet wine.
Doubtless a report of that meat will go to Spain by the next courier.”

“And if it does, what matter? We are in England, and Englishmen will
not suffer their Spanish laws and ways. Perhaps the señor d’Aguilar
learned as much as that to-night outside the banqueting-hall. There is
something to be feared from this brawl at home; but while we are safe
in London, no more from Spain.”

“I am no coward, but I think there is much more to be feared, Peter.
The arm of the Pope is long, and the arm of the crafty Ferdinand is
longer, and both of them grope for the throats and moneybags of
heretics.”

“Well, Sir, we are not heretics.”

“No, perhaps not heretics; but we are rich, and the father of one of us
was a Jew, and there is something else in this house which even a true
son of Holy Church might desire,” and he looked at the door through
which Margaret had passed to her chamber.

Peter understood, for his long arms moved uneasily, and his grey eyes
flashed.

“I will go to bed,” he said; “I wish to think.”

“Nay, lad,” answered Castell, “fill your glass and stay awhile. I have
words to say to you, and there is no time like the present. Who knows
what may happen to-morrow?”




CHAPTER III.
PETER GATHERS VIOLETS.


Peter obeyed, sat down in a big oak chair by the dying fire, and waited
in his silent fashion.

“Listen,” said Castell. “Fifteen months ago you told me something, did
you not?”

Peter nodded.

“What was it, then?”

“That I loved my cousin Margaret, and asked your leave to tell her so.”

“And what did I answer?”

“That you forbade me because you had not proved me enough, and she had
not proved herself enough; because, moreover, she would be very
wealthy, and with her beauty might look high in marriage, although but
a merchant’s daughter.”

“Well, and then?”

“And then—nothing,” and Peter sipped his wine deliberately and put it
down upon the table.

“You are a very silent man, even where your courting is concerned,”
said Castell, searching him with his sharp eyes.

“I am silent because there is no more to say. You bade me be silent,
and I have remained so.”

“What! Even when you saw those gay lords making their addresses to
Margaret, and when she grew angry because you gave no sign, and was
minded to yield to one or the other of them?”

“Yes, even then—it was hard, but even then. Do I not eat your bread?
and shall I take advantage of you when you have forbid me?”

Castell looked at him again, and this time there were respect and
affection in his glance.

“Silent and stern, but honest,” he said as though to himself, then
added, “A hard trial, but I saw it, and helped you in the best way by
sending those suitors—who were worthless fellows—about their business.
Now, say, are you still of the same mind towards Margaret?”

“I seldom change my mind, Sir, and on such a business, never.”

“Good! Then I give you my leave to find out what her mind may be.”

In the joy which he could not control, Peter’s face flushed. Then, as
though he were ashamed of showing emotion, even at such a moment, he
took up his glass and drank a little of the wine before he answered.

“I thank you; it is more than I dared to hope. But it is right that I
should say, Sir, that I am no match for my cousin Margaret. The lands
which should have been mine are gone, and I have nothing save what you
pay me for my poor help in this trade; whereas she has, or will have,
much.”

Castell’s eyes twinkled; the answer amused him.

“At least you have an upright heart,” he said, “for what other man in
such a case would argue against himself? Also, you are of good blood,
and not ill to look on, or so some maids might think; whilst as for
wealth, what said the wise king of my people?—that ofttimes riches make
themselves wings and fly away. Moreover, man, I have learned to love
and honour you, and sooner would I leave my only child in your hands
than in those of any lord in England.”

“I know not what to say,” broke in Peter.

“Then say nothing. It is your custom, and a good one—only listen. Just
now you spoke of your Essex lands in the fair Vale of Dedham as gone.
Well, they have come back, for last month I bought them all, and more,
at a price larger than I wished to give because others sought them, and
but this day I have paid in gold and taken delivery of the title. It is
made out in your name, Peter Brome, and whether you marry my daughter,
or whether you marry her not, yours they shall be when I am gone, since
I promised my dead wife to befriend you, and as a child she lived there
in your Hall.”

Now moved out of his calm, the young man sprang from his seat, and,
after the pious fashion of the time, addressed his patron saint, on
whose feast-day he was born.

“Saint Peter, I thank thee—”

“I asked you to be silent,” interrupted Castell, breaking him short.
“Moreover, after God, it is one John who should be thanked, not St.
Peter, who has no more to do with these lands than Father Abraham or
the patient Job. Well, thanks or no thanks, those estates are yours,
though I had not meant to tell you of them yet. But now I have
something to propose to you. Say, first, does Margaret think aught of
that wooden face and those shut lips of yours?”

“How can I know? I have never asked her; you forbade me.”

“Pshaw! Living in one house as you do, at your age I would have known
all there was to know on such a matter, and yet kept my word. But
there, the blood is different, and you are somewhat over-honest for a
lover. Was she frightened for you, now, when that knave made at you
with the sword?”

Peter considered the question, then answered:

“I know not. I did not look to see; I looked at the Scotchman with his
sword, for if I had not, I should have been dead, not he. But she was
certainly frightened when the fellow caught hold of her, for then she
called for me loud enough.”

“And what is that? What woman in London would not call for such a one
as Peter Brome in her trouble? Well, you must ask her, and that soon,
if you can find the words. Take a lesson from that Spanish don, and
scrape and bow and flatter and tell stories of the war and turn verses
to her eyes and hair. Oh, Peter! are you a fool, that I at my age
should have to teach you how to court a woman?”

“Mayhap, Sir. At least I can do none of these things, and poesy wearies
me to read, much more to write. But I can ask a question and take an
answer.”

Castell shook his head impatiently.

“Ask the question, man, if you will, but never take the answer if it is
against you. Wait rather, and ask it again—”

“And,” went on Peter without noticing, his grey eyes lighting with a
sudden fire, “if need be, I can break that fine Spaniard’s bones as
though he were a twig.”

“Ah!” said Castell, “perhaps you will be called upon to make your words
good before all is done. For my part, I think his bones will take some
breaking. Well, ask in your own way—only ask and let me hear the answer
before to-morrow night. Now it grows late, and I have still something
to say. I am in danger here. My wealth is noised abroad, and many covet
it, some in high places, I think. Peter, it is in my mind to have done
with all this trading, and to withdraw me to spend my old age where
none will take any notice of me, down at that Hall of yours in Dedham,
if you will give me lodging. Indeed for a year and more, ever since you
spoke to me on the subject of Margaret, I have been calling in my
moneys from Spain and England, and placing them out at safe interest in
small sums, or buying jewels with them, or lending them to other
merchants whom I trust, and who will not rob me or mine. Peter, you
have worked well for me, but you are no chapman; it is not in your
blood. Therefore, since there is enough for all of us and more, I shall
pass this business and its goodwill over to others, to be managed in
their name, but on shares, and if it please God we will keep next Yule
at Dedham.”

As he spoke the door at the far end of the hall opened, and through it
came that serving-man who had been bidden to follow the Spaniard.

“Well,” said Castell, “what tidings?”

The man bowed and said:

“I followed the Don as you bade me to his lodging, which I reached
without his seeing me, though from time to time he stopped to look
about him. He rests near the palace of Westminster, in the same big
house where dwells the ambassador de Ayala, and those who stood round
lifted their bonnets to him.

“Watching I saw some of these go to a tavern, a low place that is open
all night, and, following them there, called for a drink and listened
to their talk, who know the Spanish tongue well, having worked for five
years in your worship’s house at Seville. They spoke of the fray
to-night, and said that if they could catch that long-legged fellow,
meaning Master Brome yonder, they would put a knife into him, since he
had shamed them by killing the Scotch knave, who was their officer and
the best swordsman in their company, with a staff, and then setting his
British bulldogs on them. I fell into talk with them, saying that I was
an English sailor from Spain, which they were too drunk to question,
and asked who might be the tall don who had interfered in the fray
before the king came. They told me he is a rich señor named d’Aguilar,
but ill to serve in Lent because he is so strict a churchman, although
not strict in other matters. I answered that to me he looked like a
great noble, whereon one of them said that I was right, that there was
no blood in Spain higher than his, but unfortunately, there was a bend
in its stream, also an inkpot had been upset into it.”

“What does that mean?” asked Peter.

“It is a Spanish saying,” answered Castell, “which signifies that a man
is born illegitimate, and has Moorish blood in his veins.”

“Then I asked what he was doing here, and the man answered that I had
best put that question to the Holy Father and to the Queen of Spain.
Lastly, after I had given the soldier another cup, I asked where the
don lived, and whether he had any other name. He replied that he lived
at Granada for the most part, and that if I called on him there I
should see some pretty ladies and other nice things. As for his name,
it was the Marquis of Nichel. I said that meant Marquis of Nothing,
whereon the soldier answered that I seemed very curious, and that was
just what he meant to tell me—nothing. Also he called to his comrades
that he believed I was a spy, so I thought it time to be going, as they
were drunk enough to do me a mischief.”

“Good,” said Castell. “You are watchman tonight, Thomas, are you not?
See that all doors are barred so that we may sleep without fear of
Spanish thieves. Rest you well, Peter. Nay, I do not come yet; I have
letters to send to Spain by the ship which sails to-morrow night.”

When Peter had gone, John Castell extinguished all the lamps save one.
This he took in his hand and passed from the hall into an apartment
that in old days, when this was a noble’s house, had been the private
chapel. There was an altar in it, and over the altar a crucifix. For a
few moments Castell knelt before the altar, for even now, at dead of
night, how knew he what eyes might watch him? Then he rose and, lamp in
hand, glided behind it, lifted some tapestry, and pressed a spring in
the panelling beneath. It opened, revealing a small secret chamber
built in the thickness of the wall and without windows; a mere cupboard
that once perhaps had been a place where a priest might robe or keep
the sacred vessels.

In this chamber was a plain oak table on which stood candles and an ark
of wood, also some rolls of parchment. Before this table he knelt down,
and put up earnest prayers to the God of Abraham, for, although his
father had caused him to be baptized into the Christian Church as a
child, John Castell remained a Jew. For this good reason, then, he was
so much afraid, knowing that, although his daughter and Peter knew
nothing of his secret, there were others who did, and that were it
revealed ruin and perhaps death would be his portion and that of his
house, since in those days there was no greater crime than to adore God
otherwise than Holy Church allowed. Yet for many years he had taken the
risk, and worshipped on as his fathers did before him.

His prayer finished, he left the place, closing the spring-door behind
him, and passed to his office, where he sat till the morning light,
first writing a letter to his correspondent at Seville, and then
painfully translating it into cipher by aid of a secret key. His task
done, and the cipher letter sealed and directed, he burned the draft,
extinguished his lamp, and, going to the window, watched the rising of
the sun. In the garden beneath blackbirds sang, and the pale primroses
were abloom.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “whether when those flowers come again I
shall live to see them. Almost I feel as though the rope were
tightening about my throat at last; it came upon me while that accursed
Spaniard crossed himself at my table. Well, so be it; I will hide the
truth while I can, but if they catch me I’ll not deny it. The money is
safe, most of it; my wealth they shall never get, and now I will make
my daughter safe also, as with Peter she must be. I would I had not put
it off so long; but I hankered after a great marriage for her, which,
being a Christian, she well might make. I’ll mend that fault; before
to-morrow’s morn she shall be plighted to him, and before May-day his
wife. God of my fathers, give us one month more of peace and safety,
and then, because I have denied Thee openly, take my life in payment if
Thou wilt.”

Before John Castell went to bed Peter was already awake—indeed, he had
slept but little that night. How could he sleep whose fortunes had
changed thus wondrously between sun set and rise? Yesterday he was but
a merchant’s assistant—a poor trade for one who had been trained to
arms, and borne them bravely. To-day he was a gentleman again, owner of
the broad lands where he was bred, and that had been his forefathers’
for many a generation. Yesterday he was a lover without hope, for in
himself he had never believed that the rich John Castell would suffer
him, a landless man, to pay court to his daughter, one of the loveliest
and wealthiest maids in London. He had asked his leave in past days,
and been refused, as he had expected that he would be refused, and
thenceforward, being on his honour as it were, he had said no tender
word to Margaret, nor pressed her hand, nor even looked into her eyes
and sighed. Yet at times it had seemed to him that she would not have
been ill-pleased if he had done one of these things, or all; that she
wondered, indeed, that he did not, and thought none the better of him
for his abstinence. Moreover, now he learned that her father wondered
also, and this was a strange reward of virtue.

For Peter loved Margaret with heart and soul and body. Since he, a lad,
had played with her, a child, he loved her, and no other woman. She was
his thought by day and his dream by night, his hope, his eternal star.
Heaven he pictured as a place where for ever he would be with Margaret,
earth without her could be nothing but a hell. That was why he had
stayed on in Castell’s shop, bending his proud neck to this tradesman’s
yoke, doing the bidding and taking the rough words of chapmen and of
lordly customers, filling in bills of exchange, and cheapening
bargains, all without a sign or murmur, though oftentimes he felt as
though his gorge would burst with loathing of the life. Indeed, that
was why he had come there at all, who otherwise would have been far
away, hewing a road to fame and fortune, or digging out a grave with
his broadsword. For here at least he could be near to Margaret, could
touch her hand at morn and evening, could watch the light shine in her
beauteous eyes, and sometimes, as she bent over him, feel her breath
upon his hair. And now his purgatory was at an end, and of a sudden the
gates of joy were open.

But what if Margaret should prove the angel with the flaming sword who
forbade him entrance to his paradise? He trembled at the thought. Well,
if so, so it must be; he was not the man to force her fancy, or call
her father to his aid. He would do his best to win her, and if he
failed, why then he would bless her, and let her go.

Peter could lie abed no longer, but rose and dressed himself, although
the dawn was not fully come. By his open window he said his prayers,
thanking God for mercies past, and praying that He would bless him in
his great emprise. Presently the sun rose, and there came a great
longing on him to be alone in the countryside, he who was country-born
and hated towns, with only the sky and the birds and the trees for
company.

But here in London was no country, wherever he went he would meet men;
moreover, he remembered that it might be best that just now he should
not wander through the streets unguarded, lest he should find Spaniards
watching to take him unawares. Well, there was the garden; he would go
thither, and walk a while. So he descended the broad oak stairs, and,
unbolting a door, entered this garden, which, though not too well kept,
was large for London, covering an acre of ground perhaps, surrounded by
a high wall, and having walks, and at the end of it a group of ancient
elms, beneath which was a seat hidden from the house. In summer this
was Margaret’s favourite bower, for she too loved Nature and the land,
and all the things it bore. Indeed, this garden was her joy, and the
flowers that grew there were for the most part of her own
planting—primroses, snowdrops, violets, and, in the shadow of the
trees, long hartstongue ferns.

For a while Peter walked up and down the central path, and, as it
chanced, Margaret, who also had risen early and not slept too well,
looking through her window curtains, saw him wandering there, and
wondered what he did at this hour; also, why he was dressed in the
clothes he wore on Sundays and holidays. Perhaps, she thought, his
weekday garments had been torn or muddied in last night’s fray. Then
she fell to thinking how bravely he had borne him in that fray. She saw
it all again; the great red-headed rascal tossed up and whirled to the
earth by his strong arms; saw Peter face that gleaming steel with
nothing but a staff; saw the straight blows fall, and the fellow go
reeling to the earth, slain with a single stroke.

Ah! her cousin, Peter Brome, was a man indeed, though a strange one,
and remembering certain things that did not please her, she shrugged
her ivory shoulders, turned red, and pouted. Why, that Spaniard had
said more civil words to her in an hour than had Peter in two years,
and he was handsome and noble-looking also; but then the Spaniard was—a
Spaniard, and other men were—other men, whereas Peter was—Peter, a
creature apart, one who cared as little for women as he did for trade.

Why, then, if he cared for neither women nor trade, did he stop here?
she wondered. To gather wealth? She did not think it; he seemed to have
no leanings that way either. It was a mystery. Still, she could wish to
get to the bottom of Peter’s heart, just to see what was hid there,
since no man has a right to be a riddle to his loving cousin. Yes, and
one day she would do it, cost what it might.

Meanwhile, she remembered that she had never thanked Peter for the
brave part which he had played, and, indeed, had left him to walk home
with Betty, a journey that, as she gathered from her sprightly cousin’s
talk while she undressed her, neither of them had much enjoyed. For
Betty, be it said here, was angry with Peter, who, it seemed, once had
told her that she was a handsome, silly fool, who thought too much of
men and too little of her business. Well, since after the day’s work
had begun she would find no opportunity, she would go down and thank
Peter now, and see if she could make him talk for once.

So Margaret threw her fur-trimmed cloak about her, drawing its hood
over her head, for the April air was cold, and followed Peter into the
garden. When she reached it, however, there was no Peter to be seen,
whereon she reproached herself for having come to that damp place so
early and meditated return. Then, thinking that it would look foolish
if any had chanced to see her, she walked down the path pretending to
seek for violets, and found none. Thus she came to the group of great
elms at the end, and, glancing between their ancient boles, saw Peter
standing there. Now, too, she understood why she could find no violets,
for Peter had gathered them all, and was engaged, awkwardly enough, in
trying to tie them and some leaves into a little posy by the help of a
stem of grass. With his left hand he held the violets, with his right
one end of the grass, and since he lacked fingers to clasp the other,
this he attempted with his teeth. Now he drew it tight, and now the
brittle grass stem broke, the violets were scattered, and Peter used
words that he should not have uttered even when alone.

“I knew you would break it, but I never thought you could lose your
temper over so small a thing, Peter,” said Margaret; and he in the
shadow looked up to see her standing there in the sunlight, fresh and
lovely as the spring itself.

Solemnly, in severe reproof, she shook her head, from which the hood
had fallen back, but there was a smile upon her lips, and laughter in
her eyes. Oh! she was beautiful, and at the sight of her Peter’s heart
stood still. Then, remembering what he had just said, and certain other
things that Master Castell had said, he blushed so deeply that her own
cheeks went red in sympathy. It was foolish, but she could not help it,
for about Peter this morning there was something strange, something
that bred blushes.

“For whom are you gathering violets so early,” she asked, “when you
ought to be praying for that Scotchman’s soul?”

“I care nothing for his soul,” answered Peter testily. “If the brute
had one, he can look after it himself; and I was gathering the
violets—for you.”

She stared. Peter was not in the habit of making her presents of
flowers. No wonder he had looked strange.

“Then I will help you to tie them. Do you know why I am up so early? It
is for your sake. I behaved badly to you last night, for I was cross
because you wanted to thwart me about seeing the king. I never thanked
you for all you did, you brave Peter, though I thanked you enough in my
heart. Do you know that when you stood there with that sword, in the
middle of those Englishmen, you looked quite noble? Come out into the
sunlight, and I will thank you properly.”

In his agitation Peter let the remainder of the flowers fall. Then an
idea struck him, and he answered:

“Look! I can’t; if you are really grateful for nothing at all, come in
here and help me to pick up these violets—a pest on their short
stalks!”

She hesitated a little, then by degrees drew nearer, and, bending down,
began to find the flowers one by one. Peter had scattered them wide, so
that at first the pair were some way apart, but when only a few
remained, they drew close. Now there was but one violet left, and, both
stretching for it, their hands met. Margaret held the violet, and Peter
held Margaret’s fingers. Thus linked they straightened themselves, and
as they rose their faces were very near together and oh! most sweet
were Margaret’s wonderful eyes; while in the eyes of Peter there shone
a flame. For a second they looked at each other, and then of a sudden
he kissed her on the lips.




CHAPTER IV.
LOVERS DEAR.


“Peter!” gasped Margaret—“Peter!”

But Peter made no answer, only he who had been red of face went white,
so that the mark of the sword-cut across his cheek showed like a
scarlet line upon a cloth.

“Peter!” repeated Margaret, pulling at her hand which he still held,
“do you know what you have done?”

“It seems that you do, so what need is there for me to tell you?” he
muttered.

“Then it was not an accident; you really meant it, and you are not
ashamed.”

“If it was, I hope that I may meet with more such accidents.”

“Peter, leave go of me. I am going to tell my father, at once.”

His face brightened.

“Tell him by all means,” he said; “he won’t mind. He told me——”

“Peter, how dare you add falsehood to—to—you know what. Do you mean to
say that my father told you to kiss me, and at six o’clock in the
morning, too?”

“He said nothing about kissing, but I suppose he meant it. He said that
I might ask you to marry me.”

“That,” replied Margaret, “is a very different thing. If you had asked
me to marry you, and, after thinking it over for a long while, I had
answered Yes, which of course I should not have done, then, perhaps,
before we were married you might have—Well, Peter, you have begun at
the wrong end, which is very shameless and wicked of you, and I shall
never speak to you again.”

“I daresay,” said Peter resignedly; “all the more reason why I should
speak to you while I have the chance. No, you shan’t go till you have
heard me. Listen. I have been in love with you since you were twelve
years old—”

“That must be another falsehood, Peter, or you have gone mad. If you
had been in love with me for eleven years, you would have said so.”

“I wanted to, always, but your father refused me leave. I asked him
fifteen months ago, but he put me on my word to say nothing.”

“To say nothing—yes, but he could not make you promise to show
nothing.”

“I thought that the one thing meant the other; I see now that I have
been a fool, and, I suppose, have overstayed my market,” and he looked
so depressed that Margaret relented a little.

“Well,” she said, “at any rate it was honest, and of course I am glad
that you were honest.”

“You said just now that I told falsehoods—twice; if I am honest, how
can I tell falsehoods?”

“I don’t know. Why do you ask me riddles? Let me go and try to forget
all this.”

“Not till you have answered me outright. Will you marry me, Margaret?
If you won’t, there will be no need for you to go, for I shall go and
trouble you no more. You know what I am, and all about me, and I have
nothing more to say except that, although you may find many finer
husbands, you won’t find one who would love and care for you better. I
know that you are very beautiful and very rich, while I am neither one
nor the other, and often I have wished to Heaven that you were not so
beautiful, for sometimes that brings trouble on women who are honest
and only have one heart to give, or so rich either. But thus things
are, and I cannot change them, and, however poor my chance of hitting
the dove, I determined to shoot my bolt and make way for the next
archer. Is there any chance at all, Margaret? Tell me, and put me out
of pain, for I am not good at so much talking.”

Now Margaret began to grow disturbed; her wayward assurance departed
from her.

“It is not fitting,” she murmured, “and I do not wish—I will speak to
my father; he shall give you your answer.”

“No need to trouble him, Margaret. He has given it already. His great
desire is that we should marry, for he seeks to leave this trade and to
live with us in the Vale of Dedham, in Essex, where he has bought back
my father’s land.”

“You are full of strange tidings this morning, Peter.”

“Yes, Margaret, our wheel of life that went so slow turns fast enough
to-day, for God above has laid His whip upon the horses of our Fate,
and they begin to gallop, whither I know not. Must they run side by
side, or separate? It is for you to say.”

“Peter,” she said, “will you not give me a little time?”

“Aye, Margaret, ten whole minutes by the clock, and then if it is nay,
all your life, for I pack my chest and go. It will be said that I
feared to be taken for that soldier’s death.”

“You are unkind to press me so.”

“Nay, it is kindest to both of us. Do you then love some other man?”

“I must confess I do,” she murmured, looking at him out of the corners
of her eyes.

Now Peter, strong as he was, turned faint, and in his agitation let go
her hand which she lifted, the violets still between her fingers,
considering it as though it were a new thing to her.

“I have no right to ask you who he is,” he muttered, striving to
control himself.

“Nay, but, Peter, I will tell you. It is my father—what other man
should I love?”

“Margaret!” he said in wrath, “you are fooling me.”

“How so? What other man should I love—unless, indeed, it were
yourself?”

“I can bear no more of this play,” he said. “Mistress Margaret, I bid
you farewell. God go with you!” And he brushed past her.

“Peter,” she said when he had gone a few yards, “would you have these
violets as a farewell gift?”

He turned and hesitated.

“Come, then, and take them.”

So back he came, and with little trembling fingers she began to fasten
the flowers to his doublet, bending ever nearer as she fastened, until
her breath played upon his face, and her hair brushed his bonnet. Then,
it matters not how, once more the violets fell to earth, and she
sighed, and her hands fell also, and he put his strong arms round her
and drew her to him and kissed her again and yet again on the hair and
eyes and lips; nor did Margaret forbid him.

At length she thrust him from her and, taking him by the hand, led him
to the seat beneath the elms, and bade him sit at one end of it, while
she sat at the other.

“Peter,” she whispered, “I wish to speak with you when I can get my
breath. Peter, you think poorly of me, do you not? No—be silent; it is
my turn to talk. You think that I am heartless, and have been playing
with you. Well, I only did it to make sure that you really do love me,
since, after that—accident of a while ago (when we were picking up the
violets, I mean), you would have been in honour bound to say it, would
you not? Well, now I am quite sure, so I will tell you something. I
love you many times as well as you love me, and have done so for quite
as long. Otherwise, should I not have married some other suitor, of
whom there have been plenty? Aye, and I will tell you this to my sin
and shame, that once I grew so angry with you because you would not
speak or give some little sign, that I went near to it. But at the last
I could not, and sent him about his business also. Peter, when I saw
you last night facing that swordsman with but a staff, and thought that
you must die, oh! then I knew all the truth, and my heart was nigh to
bursting, as, had you died, it would have burst. But now it is all done
with, and we know each other’s secret, and nothing shall ever part us
more till death comes to one or both.”

Thus Margaret spoke, while he drank in her words as desert sands,
parched by years of drought, drink in the rain—and watched her face,
out of which all mischief and mockery had departed, leaving it that of
a most beauteous and most earnest woman, to whom a sense of the weight
of life, with its mingled joys and sorrows, had come home suddenly.
When she had finished, this silent man, to whom even his great
happiness brought few words, said only:

“God has been very good to us. Let us thank God.”

So they did, then, even there, seated side by side upon the bench,
because the grass was too wet for them to kneel on, praying in their
simple, childlike faith that the Power which had brought them together,
and taught them to love each other, would bless them in that love and
protect them from all harms, enemies, and evils through many a long
year of life.

Their prayer finished, they sat together on the seat, now talking, and
now silent in their joy, while all too fast the time wore on. At
length—it was after one of these spells of blissful silence—a change
came over them, such a change as falls upon some peaceful scene when,
unexpected and complete, a black stormcloud sweeps across the sun, and,
in place of its warm light, pours down gloom full of the promise of
tempest and of rain. Apprehension got a hold of them. They were both
afraid of what they could not guess.

“Come,” she said, “it is time to go in. My father will miss us.”

So without more words or endearments they rose and walked side by side
out of the shelter of the elms into the open garden. Their heads were
bent, for they were lost in thought, and thus it came about that
Margaret saw her feet pass suddenly into the shadow of a man, and,
looking up, perceived standing in front of her, grave, alert, amused,
none other than the Señor d’Aguilar. She uttered a little stifled
scream, while Peter, with the impulse that causes a brave and startled
hound to rush at that which frightens it, gave a leap forward towards
the Spaniard.

“Mother of God! do you take me for a thief?” he asked in a laughing
voice, as he stepped to one side to avoid him.

“Your pardon,” said Peter, shaking himself together; “but you surprised
us appearing so suddenly where we never thought to see you.”

“Any more than I thought to see you here, for this seems a strange
place to linger on so cold a morning,” and he looked at them again with
his curious, mocking eyes that appeared to read the secret of their
souls, while they grew red as roses beneath his scrutiny. “Permit me to
explain,” he went on. “I came here thus early on your service, to warn
you, Master Peter, not to go abroad to-day, since a writ is out for
your arrest, and as yet I have had no time to quash it by friendly
settlement. Well, as it chanced, I met that handsome lady who was with
you yesterday, returning from her marketing—a friendly soul—she says
she is your cousin. She brought me to the house, and having learned
that your father, whom I wished to see, was at his prayers, good man,
in the old chapel, led me to its door and left me to seek him. I
entered, but could not find him, so, having waited a while, strayed
into this garden through the open door, purposing to walk here till
some one should appear, and, you see, I have been fortunate beyond my
expectations or deserts.”

“So!” said Peter shortly, for the man’s manner and elaborated
explanations filled him with disgust. “Let us seek Master Castell that
he may hear the story.”

“And we thank you much for coming to warn us,” murmured Margaret. “I
will go find my father,” and she slipped past him towards the door.

d’Aguilar watched her enter it, then turned to Peter and said:

“You English are a hardy folk who take the spring air so early. Well,
in such company I would do the same. Truly she is a beauteous maiden. I
have some experience of the sex, but never do I remember one so fair.”

“My cousin is well enough,” answered Peter coldly, for this Spaniard’s
very evident admiration of Margaret did not please him.

“Yes,” answered d’Aguilar, taking no notice of his tone, “she is well
enough to fill the place, not of a merchant’s daughter, but of a great
lady—a countess reigning over towns and lands, or a queen even; the
royal robes and ornaments would become that carriage and that brow.”

“My cousin seeks no such state who is happy in her quiet lot,” answered
Peter again; then added quickly, “See, here comes Master Castell
seeking you.”

d’Aguilar advanced and greeted the merchant courteously, noticing as he
did so that, notwithstanding his efforts to appear unconcerned, Castell
seemed ill at ease.

“I am an early visitor,” he said, “but I knew that you business folk
rise with the lark, and I wished to catch our friend here before he
went out,” and he repeated to him the reason of his coming.

“I thank you, Señor,” answered Castell. “You are very good to me and
mine. I am sorry that you have been kept waiting. They tell me that you
looked for me in the chapel, but I was not there, who had already left
it for my office.”

“So I found. It is a quaint place, that old chapel of yours, and while
I waited I went to the altar and told my beads there, which I had no
time to do before I left my lodgings.”

Castell started almost imperceptibly, and glanced at d’Aguilar with his
quick eyes, then turned the subject and asked if he would not breakfast
with them. He declined, however, saying that he must be about their
business and his own, then promptly proposed that he should come to
supper on the following night that was—Sunday—and make report how
things had gone, a suggestion that Castell could not but accept.

So he bowed and smiled himself out of the house, and walked
thoughtfully into Holborn, for it had pleased him to pay this visit on
foot, and unattended. At the corner whom should he meet again but the
tall, fair-haired Betty, returning from some errand which she had found
it convenient to fulfil just then.

“What,” he said, “you once more! The saints are very kind to me this
morning. Come, Señora, walk a little way with me, for I would ask you a
few questions.”

Betty hesitated, then gave way. It was seldom that she found the chance
of walking through Holborn with such a noble-looking cavalier.

“Never look at your working-dress,” he said.

“With such a shape, what matters the robe that covers it?”—a compliment
at which Betty blushed, for she was proud of her fine figure.

“Would you like a mantilla of real Spanish lace for your head and
shoulders? Well, you shall have one that I brought from Spain with me,
for I know no other lady in the land whom it would become better. But,
Mistress Betty, you told me wrong about your master. I went to the
chapel and he was not there.”

“He was there, Señor,” she answered, eager to set herself right with
this most agreeable and discriminating foreigner, “for I saw him go in
a moment before, and he did not come out again.”

“Then, Señora, where could he have hidden himself? Has the place a
crypt?”

“None that I have heard of; but,” she added, “there is a kind of little
room behind the altar.”

“Indeed. How do you know that? I saw no room.”

“Because one day I heard a voice behind the tapestry, Señor, and,
lifting it, saw a sliding door left open, and Master Castell kneeling
before a table and saying his prayers aloud.”

“How strange! And what was there on the table?”

“Only a queer-shaped box of wood like a little house, and two
candlesticks, and some rolls of parchment. But I forgot, Señor; I
promised Master Castell to say nothing about that place, for he turned
and saw me, and came at me like a watchdog out of its kennel. You won’t
say that I told you, will you, Señor?”

“Not I; your good master’s private cupboard does not interest me. Now I
want to know something more. Why is that beautiful cousin of yours not
married? Has she no suitors?”

“Suitors, Señor? Yes, plenty of them, but she sends them all about
their business, and seems to have no mind that way.”

“Perhaps she is in love with her cousin, that long-legged,
strong-armed, wooden-headed Master Brome.”

“Oh! no, Señor, I don’t think so; no lady could be in love with him—he
is too stern and silent.”

“I agree with you, Señora. Then perhaps he is in love with her.”

Betty shook her head, and replied:

“Peter Brome doesn’t think anything of women, Señor. At least he never
speaks to or of them.”

“Which shows that probably he thinks about them all the more. Well,
well, it is no affair of ours, is it? Only I am glad to hear that there
is nothing between them, since your mistress ought to marry high, and
be a great lady, not a mere merchant’s wife.”

“Yes, Señor. Though Peter Brome is not a merchant, at least by birth,
he is high-born, and should be Sir Peter Brome if his father had not
fought on the wrong side and sold his land. He is a soldier, and a very
brave one, they say, as all might see last night.”

“No doubt, and perhaps would make a great captain, if he had the
chance, with his stern face and silent tongue. But, Señora Betty, say,
how comes it that, being so handsome,” and he bowed, “you are not
married either? I am sure it can be from no lack of suitors.”

Again Betty, foolish girl, flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“You are right, Señor,” she answered. “I have plenty of them; but I am
like my cousin—they do not please me. Although my father lost his
fortune, I come of good blood, and I suppose that is why I do not care
for these low-born men, and would rather remain as I am than marry one
of them.”

“You are quite right,” said d’Aguilar in his sympathetic voice. “Do not
stain your blood. Marry in your own class, or not at all, which,
indeed, should not be difficult for one so beautiful and charming.” And
he looked into her large eyes with tender admiration.

This quality, indeed, soon began to demonstrate itself so actively, for
they were now in the fields where few people wandered, that Betty, who
although vain was proud and upright, thought it wise to recollect that
she must be turning homewards. So, in spite of his protests, she left
him and departed, walking upon air.

How splendid and handsome this foreign gentleman was, she thought to
herself, really a great cavalier, and surely he admired her truly. Why
should he not? Such things had often been. Many a rich lady whom she
knew was not half so handsome or so well born as herself, and would
make him a worse wife—that is, and the thought chilled her somewhat—if
he were not already married.

From all of which it will be seen that d’Aguilar had quickly succeeded
in the plan which only presented itself to him a few hours before.
Betty was already half in love with him. Not that he had any desire to
possess this beautiful but foolish woman’s heart, who saw in her only a
useful tool, a stepping-stone by means of which he might draw near to
Margaret.

For with Margaret, it may be said at once, he was quite in love. At the
sight of her sweet yet imperial beauty, as he saw her first,
dishevelled, angry, frightened, in the crowd outside the king’s
banqueting-hall, his southern blood had taken sudden fire. Finished
voluptuary though he was, the sensation he experienced then was quite
new to him. He longed for this woman as he had never longed for any
other, and, what is more, he desired to make her his wife. Why not?
Although there was a flaw in it, his rank was high, and therefore she
was beneath him; but for this her loveliness would atone, and she had
wit and learning enough to fill any place that he could give her. Also,
great as was his wealth, his wanton, spendthrift way of life had
brought him many debts, and she was the only child of one of the
richest merchants in England, whose dower, doubtless, would be a
fortune that many a royal princess might envy. Why not again? He would
turn Inez and those others adrift—at any rate, for a while—and make her
mistress of his palace there in Granada. Instantly, as is often the
fashion of those who have Eastern blood in their veins, d’Aguilar had
made up his mind, yes, before he left her father’s table on the
previous night. He would marry Margaret and no other woman.

Yet at once he had seen many difficulties in his path. To begin with,
he mistrusted him of Peter, that strong, quiet man who could kill a
great armed knave with his stick, and at a word call half London to his
side. Peter, he was sure, being human, must be in love with Margaret,
and he was a rival to be feared. Well, if Margaret had no thoughts of
Peter, this mattered nothing, and if she had—and what were they doing
together in the garden that morning?—Peter must be got rid of, that was
all. It was easy enough if he chose to adopt certain means; there were
many of those Spanish fellows who would not mind sticking a knife into
his back in the dark.

But sinful as he was, at such steps his conscience halted. Whatever
d’Aguilar had done, he had never caused a man to be actually murdered,
he who was a bigot, who atoned for his misdoings by periods of remorse
and prayer, in which he placed his purse and talents at the service of
the Church, as he was doing at this moment. No, murder must not be
thought of; for how could any absolution wash him clean of that stain?
But there were other ways. For instance, had not this Peter, in
self-defence it is true, killed one of the servants of an ambassador of
Spain? Perhaps, however, it would not be necessary to make use of them.
It had seemed to him that the lady was not ill pleased with him, and,
after all, he had much to offer. He would court her fairly, and if he
were rejected by her, or by her father, then it would be time enough to
act. Meanwhile, he would keep the sword hanging over the head of Peter,
pretending that it was he alone who had prevented it from falling, and
learn all that he could as to Castell and his history.

Here, indeed, Fortune, in the shape of the foolish Betty, had favoured
him. Without a doubt, as he had heard in Spain, and been sure from the
moment that he first saw him, Castell was still secretly a Jew.
Mistress Betty’s story of the room behind the altar, with the ark and
the candles and the rolls of the Law, proved as much. At least here was
evidence enough to send him to the fires of the Inquisition in Spain,
and, perhaps, to drive him out of England. Now, if John Castell, the
Spanish Jew, should not wish, for any reason, to give him his daughter
in marriage, would not a hint and an extract from the Commissions of
their Majesties of Spain and the Holy Father suffice to make him change
his mind?

Thus pondering, d’Aguilar regained his lodgings, where his first task
was to enter in a book all that Betty had told him, and all that he had
observed in the house of John Castell.




CHAPTER V.
CASTELL’S SECRET.


In John Castell’s house it was the habit, as in most others in those
days, for his dependents, clerks, and shopmen to eat their morning and
mid-day meals with him in the hall, seated at two lower tables, all of
them save Betty, his daughter’s cousin and companion, who sat with them
at the upper board. This morning Betty’s place was empty, and presently
Castell, lifting his eyes, for he was lost in thought, noted it, and
asked where she might be—a question that neither Margaret nor Peter
could answer.

One of the servants at the lower table, however—it was that man who had
been sent to follow d’Aguilar on the previous night—said that as he
came down Holborn a while before he had seen her walking with the
Spanish don, a saying at which his master looked grave.

Just as they were finishing their meal, a very silent one, for none of
them seemed to have anything to say, and after the servants had left
the hall, Betty arrived, flushed as though with running.

“Where have you been that you are so late?” asked Castell.

“To seek the linen for the new sheets, but it was not ready,” she
answered glibly. “The mercer kept you waiting long,” remarked Castell
quietly. “Did you meet any one?”

“Only the folk in the street.”

“I will ask you no more questions, lest I should cause you to lie and
bring you into sin,” said Castell sternly. “Girl, how far did you walk
with the Señor d’Aguilar, and what was your business with him?”

Now Betty knew that she had been seen, and that it was useless to deny
the truth.

“Only a little way,” she answered, “and that because he prayed me to
show him his path.”

“Listen, Betty,” went on Castell, taking no notice of her words. “You
are old enough to guard yourself, therefore as to your walking abroad
with gallants who can mean you no good I say nothing. But know this—no
one who has knowledge of the matters of my house,” and he looked at her
keenly, “shall mix with any Spaniard. If you are found alone with this
señor any more, that hour I have done with you, and you never pass my
door again. Nay, no words. Take your food and eat it elsewhere.”

So she departed half weeping, but very angry, for Betty was strong and
obstinate by nature. When she had gone, Margaret, who was fond of her
cousin, tried to say some words on her behalf; but her father stopped
her.

“Pshaw!” he said, “I know the girl; she is vain as a peacock, and,
remembering her gentle birth and good looks, seeks to marry above her
station; while for some purpose of his own—an ill one, I’ll warrant—
that Spaniard plays upon her weakness, which, if it be not curbed, may
bring trouble on us all. Now, enough of Betty Dene; I must to my work.”

“Sir,” said Peter, speaking for the first time, “we would have a
private word with you.”

“A private word,” he said, looking up anxiously. “Well, speak on. No,
this place is not private; I think its walls have ears. Follow me,” and
he led the way into the old chapel, whereof, when they had all passed
it, he bolted the door. “Now,” he said, “what is it?”

“Sir,” answered Peter, standing before him, “having your leave at last,
I asked your daughter in marriage this morning.”

“At least you lose no time, friend Peter; unless you had called her
from her bed and made your offer through the door you could not have
done it quicker. Well, well, you ever were a man of deeds, not words,
and what says my Margaret?”

“An hour ago she said she was content,” answered Peter.

“A cautious man also,” went on Castell with a twinkle in his eye, “who
remembers that women have been known to change their minds within an
hour. After such long thought, what say you now, Margaret?”

“That I am angry with Peter,” she answered, stamping her small foot,
“for if he does not trust me for an hour, how can he trust me for his
life and mine?”

“Nay, Margaret, you do not understand me,” said Peter. “I wished not to
bind you, that is all, in case——”

“Now you are saying it again,” she broke in vexed, and yet amused. “Do
so a third time, and I will take you at your word.”

“It seems best that I should remain silent. Speak you,” said Peter
humbly.

“Aye, for truly you are a master of silence, as I should know, if any
do,” replied Margaret, bethinking her of the weary months and years of
waiting. “Well, I will answer for you.—Father, Peter was right; I am
content to marry him, though to do so will be to enter the Order of the
Silent Brothers. Yes, I am content; not for himself, indeed, who has so
many faults, but for myself, who chance to love him,” and she smiled
sweetly enough.

“Do not jest on such matters, Margaret.”

“Why not, father? Peter is solemn enough for both of us—look at him.
Let us laugh while we may, for who knows when tears may come?”

“A good saying,” answered Castell with a sigh. “So you two have
plighted your troth, and, my children, I am glad of it, for who knows
when those tears of which Margaret spoke may come, and then you can
wipe away each other’s? Take now her hand, Peter, and swear by the
Rood, that symbol which you worship”—here Peter glanced at him, but he
went on—“swear, both of you that come what may, together or separate,
through good report or evil report, through poverty or wealth, through
peace or persecutions, through temptation or through blood, through
every good or ill that can befall you in this world of bittersweet, you
will remain faithful to your troth until you be wed, and after you are
wed, faithful to each other till death do part you.”

These words he spoke to them in a voice that was earnest almost to
passion, searching their faces the while with his quick eyes as though
he would read their very hearts. His mood crept from him to them; once
again they felt something of that fear which had fallen on them in the
garden when they passed into the shadow of the Spaniard. Very solemnly
then, and with little of true lovers’ joy, did they take each other’s
hands and swear by the Cross and Him Who hung on it, that through these
things, and all others they could not foretell, they would, if need
were, be faithful to the death.

“And beyond it also,” added Peter; while Margaret bowed her stately
head in sweet assent.

“Children,” said Castell, “you will be rich—few richer in this
land—though mayhap it would be wise that you should not show all your
wealth at once, or ape the place of a great house, lest envy should
fall upon your heads and crush you. Be content to wait, and rank will
find you in its season, or if not you, your children. Peter, I tell you
now, lest I should forget it, that the list of all my moneys and other
possessions in chattels or lands or ships or merchandise is buried
beneath the floor of my office, just under where my chair stands. Lift
the boards and dig away a foot of rubbish, and you will find a stone
trap, and below an iron box with the deeds, inventories, and some very
precious jewels. Also, if by any mischance that box should be lost,
duplicates of nearly all these papers are in the hands of my good
friend and partner in our inland British trade, Simon Levett, whom you
know. Remember my words, both of you.”

“Father,” broke in Margaret in an anxious voice, “why do you speak of
the future thus?—I mean, as though you had no share in it? Do you fear
aught?”

“Yes, daughter, much, or rather I expect, I do not fear, who am
prepared and desire to meet all things as they come. You have sworn
that oath, have you not? And you will keep it, will you not?”

“Aye!” they answered with one breath.

“Then prepare you to feel the weight of the first of those trials
whereof it speaks, for I will no longer hold back the truth from you.
Children, I, whom for all these years you have thought of your own
faith, am a Jew as my forefathers were before me, back to the days of
Abraham.”

[Illustration: ]

Castell declares himself a Jew

The effect of this declaration upon its hearers was remarkable. Peter’s
jaw dropped, and for the second time that day his face went white;
while Margaret sank down into a chair that stood near by, and stared at
him helplessly. In those times it was a very terrible thing to be a
Jew. Castell looked from one to the other, and, feeling the insult of
their silence, grew angry.

“What!” he exclaimed in a bitter voice, “are you like all the others?
Do you scorn me also because I am of a race more ancient and honourable
than those of any of your mushroom lords and kings? You know my life:
say, what have I done wrong? Have I caught Christian children and
crucified them to death? Have I defrauded my neighbour or oppressed the
poor? Have I mocked your symbol of the Host? Have I conspired against
the rulers of this land? Have I been a false friend or a cruel father?
You shake your heads; then why do you stare at me as though I were a
thing accursed and unclean? Have I not a right to the faith of my
fathers? May I not worship God in my own fashion?” And he looked at
Peter, a challenge in his eyes. “Sir,” answered Peter, “without a doubt
you may, or so it seems to me. But then, why for all these years have
you appeared to worship Him in ours?”

At this blunt question, so characteristic of the speaker, Castell
seemed to shrink like a pin-pricked bladder, or some bold fighter who
has suddenly received a sword-thrust in his vitals. All courage went
out of the man, his fiery eyes grew tame, he appeared to become visibly
smaller, and to put on something of the air of those mendicants of his
own race, who whine out their woes and beg alms of the passer-by. When
next he spoke, it was as a suppliant for merciful judgment at the hands
of his own child and her lover.

“Judge me not harshly,” he said. “Think what it is to be a Jew—an
outcast, a thing that the lowest may spurn and spit at, one beyond the
law, one who can be hunted from land to land like a mad wolf, and
tortured to death, when caught, for the sport of gentle Christians, who
first have stripped him of his gains and very garments. And then think
what it means to escape all these woes and terrors, and, by the doffing
of a bonnet, and the mumbling of certain prayers with the lips in
public, to find sanctuary, peace, and protection within the walls of
Mother Church, and thus fostered, to grow rich and great.”

He paused as though for a reply, but as they did not speak, went on:

“Moreover, as a child, I was baptized into your Church; but my heart,
like that of my father, remained with the Jews, and where the heart
goes the feet follow.”

“That makes it worse,” said Peter, as though speaking to himself.

“My father taught me thus,” Castell went on, as though pleading his
case before a court of law.

“We must answer for our own sins,” said Peter again.

Then at length Castell took fire.

“You young folk, who as yet know little of the terrors of the world,
reproach me with cold looks and colder words,” he said; “but I wonder,
should you ever come to such a pass as mine, whether you will find the
heart to meet it half as bravely? Why do you think that I have told you
this secret, that I might have kept from you as I kept it from your
mother, Margaret? I say because it is a part of my penance for the sin
which I have sinned. Aye, I know well that my God is a jealous God, and
that this sin will fall back on my head, and that I shall pay its price
to the last groat, though when and how the blow will strike me I know
not. Go you, Peter, or you, Margaret, and denounce me if you will. Your
priests will speak well of you for the deed, and open to you a shorter
road to Heaven, and I shall not blame you, nor lessen your wealth by a
single golden noble.”

“Do not speak so madly, Sir,” said Peter; “these matters are between
you and God. What have we to do with them, and who made us judges over
you? We only pray that your fears may come to nothing, and that you may
reach your grave in peace and honour.”

“I thank you for your generous words, which are such as befit your
nature,” said Castell gently; “but what says Margaret?”

“I, father?” she answered, wildly. “Oh! I have nothing to say. He is
right. It is between you and God; but it is hard that I must lose my
love so soon.” Peter looked up, and Castell answered:

“Lose him! Why, what did he swear but now?”

“I care not what he swore; but how can I ask him, who is of noble,
Christian birth, to marry the daughter of a Jew who all his life has
passed himself off as a worshipper of that Jesus Whom he denies?”

Now Peter held up his hand.

“Have done with such talk,” he said. “Were your father Judas himself,
what is that to you and me? You are mine and I am yours till death part
us, nor shall the faith of another man stand between us for an hour.
Sir, we thank you for your confidence, and of this be sure, that
although it makes us sorrowful, we do not love or honour you the less
because now we know the truth.”

Margaret rose from her chair, looked a while at her father, then with a
sob threw herself suddenly upon his breast.

“Forgive me if I spoke bitterly,” she said, “who, not knowing that I
was half a Jewess, have been taught to hate their race. What is it to
me of what faith you are, who think of you only as my dearest father?”

“Why weep then?” asked Castell, stroking her hair tenderly.

“Because you are in danger, or so you say, and if anything happened to
you—oh! what shall I do then?”

“Accept it as the will of God, and bear the blow bravely, as I hope to
do, should it fall,” he answered, and, kissing her, left the chapel.

“It seems that joy and trouble go hand in hand,” said Margaret, looking
up presently.

“Yes, Sweet, they were ever twins; but provided we have our share of
the first, do not let us quarrel with the second. A pest on the priests
and all their bigotry, say I! Christ sought to convert the Jews, not to
kill them; and for my part I can honour the man who clings to his own
faith, aye, and forgive him because they forced him to feign to belong
to ours. Pray then that neither of us may live to commit a greater sin,
and that we may soon be wed and dwell in peace away from London, where
we can shelter him.”

“I do—I do,” she answered, drawing close to Peter, and soon they forgot
their fears and doubts in each other’s arms.

On the following morning, that of Sunday, Peter, Margaret, and Betty
went together to Mass at St. Paul’s church; but Castell said that he
was ill, and did not come. Indeed, now that his conscience was stirred
as to the double life he had led so long, he purposed, if he could
avoid it, to worship in a Christian church no more. Therefore he said
that he was sick; and they, knowing that this sickness was of the
heart, answered nothing. But privately they wondered what he would do
who could not always remain sick, since not to go to church and partake
of its Sacraments was to be published as a heretic.

But if he did not accompany them himself, Castell, without their
knowledge, sent two of his stoutest servants, bidding these keep near
to them and see that they came home safe.

Now, when they left the church, Peter saw two Spaniards, whose faces he
thought he knew, who seemed to be watching them, but, as he lost sight
of them presently in the throng, said nothing. Their shortest way home
ran across some fields and gardens where there were few houses. This
lane, then, they followed, talking earnestly to each other, and noting
nothing till Betty behind called out to them to beware. Then Peter
looked up and saw the two Spaniards scrambling through a gap in the
fence not six paces ahead of them, saw also that they laid their hands
upon their sword-hilts.

“Let us pass them boldly,” he muttered to Margaret; “I’ll not turn my
back on a brace of Spaniards,” but he also laid his hand upon the hilt
of the sword he wore beneath his cloak, and bade her get behind him.

Thus, then, they came face to face. Now, the Spaniards, who were
evil-looking fellows, bowed courteously enough, and asked if he were
not Master Peter Brome. They spoke in Spanish; but, like Margaret Peter
knew this tongue, if not too well, having been taught it as a child,
and practised it much since he came into the service of John Castell,
who used it largely in his trade.

“Yes,” he answered. “What is your business with me?”

“We have a message for you, Señor, from a certain comrade of ours, one
Andrew, a Scotchman, whom you met a few nights ago,” replied the
spokesman of the pair. “He is dead, but still he sends his message, and
it is that we should ask you to join him at once. Now, all of us
brothers have sworn to deliver that message, and to see that you keep
the tryst. If some of us should chance to fail, then others will meet
you with the message until you keep that tryst.”

“You mean that you wish to murder me,” said Peter, setting his mouth
and drawing the sword from beneath his cloak. “Well, come on, cowards,
and we will see whom Andrew gets for company in hell to-day. Run back,
Margaret and Betty—run.” And he tore off his cloak and threw it over
his left arm.

[Illustration: ]

“You mean that you wish to murder me”

So for a moment they stood, for he looked fierce and ill to deal with.
Then, just as they began to feint in front of him, there came a rush of
feet, and on either side of Peter appeared the two stout serving-men,
also sword in hand.

“I am glad of your company,” he said, catching sight of them out of the
corners of his eyes. “Now, Señors Cut-throats, do you still wish to
deliver that message?”

The answer of the Spaniards, who saw themselves thus unexpectedly
out-matched, was to turn and run, whereon one of the serving-men,
picking up a big stone that lay in the path, hurled it after them with
all his force. It struck the hindmost Spaniard full in the back, and so
heavy was the blow that he fell on to his face in the mud, whence he
rose and limped away, cursing them with strange, Spanish oaths, and
vowing vengeance.

“Now,” said Peter, “I think that we may go home in safety, for no more
messengers will come from Andrew to-day.”

“No,” gasped Margaret, “not to-day, but to-morrow or the next day they
will come, and oh! how will it end?”

“That God knows alone,” answered Peter gravely as he sheathed his
sword.

When the story of this attempt was told to Castell he seemed much
disturbed.

“It is clear that they have a blood-feud against you on account of that
Scotchman whom you killed in self-defence,” he said anxiously. “Also
these Spaniards are very revengeful, nor have they forgiven you for
calling the English to your aid against them. Peter, I fear that if you
go abroad they will murder you.”

“Well, I cannot stay indoors always, like a rat in a drain,” said Peter
crossly, “so what is to be done? Appeal to the law?”

“No; for you have just broken the law by killing a man. I think you had
best go away for a while till this storm blows over.”

“Go away! Peter go away?” broke in Margaret, dismayed.

“Yes,” answered her father. “Listen, daughter. You cannot be married at
once. It is not seemly; moreover, notice must be given and arrangement
made. A month hence will be soon enough, and that is not long for you
to wait who only became affianced yesterday. Also, until you are wed,
no word must be said to any one of this betrothal of yours, lest those
Spaniards should lay their feud at your door also, and work you some
mischief. Let none know of it, I charge you, and in company be distant
to each other, as though there were nothing between you.”

“As you will, Sir,” replied Peter; “but for my part I do not like all
these hidings of the truth, which ever lead to future trouble. I say,
let me bide here and take my chance, and let us be wed as soon as may
be.”

“That your wife may be made a widow before the week is out, or the
house burnt about our ears by these rascals and their following? No,
no, Peter; walk softly that you may walk safely. We will hear the
report of the Spaniard d’Aguilar, and afterwards take counsel.”




CHAPTER VI.
FAREWELL.


D’Aguilar came to supper that night as he had promised, and this time
not on foot and unattended, but with pomp and circumstance as befitted
a great lord. First appeared two running footmen to clear the way; then
followed D’Aguilar, mounted on a fine white horse, and splendidly
apparelled in a velvet cloak and a hat with nodding ostrich plumes,
while after him rode four men-at-arms in his livery.

“We asked one guest, or rather he asked himself, and we have got seven,
to say nothing of their horses,” grumbled Castell, watching their
approach from an upper window. “Well, we must make the best of it.
Peter, go, see that man and beast are fed, and fully, that they may not
grumble at our hospitality. The guard can eat in the little hall with
our own folk. Margaret, put on your richest robe and your jewels, those
which you wore when I took you to that city feast last summer. We will
show these fine, foreign birds that we London merchants have brave
feathers also.”

Peter hesitated, misdoubting him of the wisdom of this display, who, if
he could have his will, would have sent the Spaniard’s following to the
tavern, and received him in sober garments to a simple meal.

But Castell, who seemed somewhat disturbed that night, who loved,
moreover, to show his wealth at times after the fashion of a Jew, began
to fume and ask if he must go himself. So the end of it was that Peter
went, shaking his head, while, urged to it by her father, Margaret
departed also to array herself.

A few minutes later Castell, in his costliest feast-day robe, greeted
d’Aguilar in the ante-hall, and, the two of them being alone, asked him
how matters went as regarded de Ayala and the man who had been killed.

“Well and ill,” answered d’Aguilar. “Doctor de Puebla, with whom I
hoped to deal, has left London in a huff, for he says that there is not
room for two Spanish ambassadors at Court, so I had to fall back upon
de Ayala after all. Indeed, twice have I seen that exalted priest upon
the subject of the well-deserved death of his villainous servant, and,
after much difficulty, for having lost several men in such brawls, he
thought his honour touched, he took the fifty gold angels—to be
transmitted to the fellow’s family, of course, or so he said—and gave a
receipt. Here it is,” and he handed a paper to Castell, who read it
carefully.

It was to the effect that Peter Brome, having paid a sum of fifty
angels to the relatives of Andrew Pherson, a servant of the Spanish
ambassador, which Andrew the said Peter had killed in a brawl, the said
ambassador undertook not to prosecute or otherwise molest the said
Peter on account of the manslaughter which he had committed.

“But no money has been paid,” said Castell.

“Indeed yes, I paid it. De Ayala gives no receipts against promises.”

“I thank you for your courtesy, Señor. You shall have the gold before
you leave this house. Few would have trusted a stranger thus far.”

d’Aguilar waved his hand.

“Make no mention of such a trifle. I would ask you to accept it as a
token of my regard for your family, only that would be to affront so
wealthy a man. But listen, I have more to say. You are, or rather your
kinsman Peter, is still in the wood. De Ayala has pardoned him; but
there remains the King of England, whose law he has broken. Well, this
day I have seen the King, who, by the way, talked of you as a worthy
man, saying that he had always thought only a Jew could be so wealthy,
and that he knew you were not, since you had been reported to him as a
good son of the Church,” and he paused, looking at Castell.

“I fear his Grace magnifies my wealth, which is but small,” answered
Castell coolly, leaving the rest of his speech unnoticed. “But what
said his Grace?”

“I showed him de Ayala’s receipt, and he answered that if his
Excellency was satisfied, he was satisfied, and for his part would not
order any process to issue; but he bade me tell you and Peter Brome
that if he caused more tumult in his streets, whatever the provocation,
and especially if that tumult were between English and Spaniards, he
would hang him at once with trial or without it. All of which he said
very angrily, for the last thing which his Highness desires just now is
any noise between Spain and England.”

“That is bad,” answered Castell, “for this very morning there was near
to being such a tumult,” and he told the story of how the two Spaniards
had waylaid Peter, and one of them been knocked down by the serving-man
with a stone. At this news d’Aguilar shook his head.

“Then that is just where the trouble lies,” he exclaimed. “I know it
from my people, who keep me well informed, that all those servants of
de Ayala, and there are more than twenty of them, have sworn an oath by
the Virgin of Seville that before they leave this land they will have
your kinsman’s blood in payment for that of Andrew Pherson, who,
although a Scotchman, was their officer, and a brave man whom they
loved much. Now, if they attack him, as they will, there must be a
brawl, for Peter fights well, and if there is a brawl, though Peter and
the English get the best of it, as very likely they may, Peter will
certainly be hanged, for so the King has promised.”

“Before they leave the land? When do they leave it?”

“De Ayala sails within a month, and his folk with him, for his
co-ambassador, the Doctor de Puebla, will bear with him no more, and
has written from the country house where he is sulking that one of them
must go.”

“Then I think it is best, Señor, that Peter should travel for a month.”

“Friend Castell, you are wise; I think so too, and, I counsel you,
arrange it at once. Hush! here comes the lady, your daughter.”

As he spoke, Margaret appeared descending the broad oak stairs which
led into the ante-room. Holding a lamp in her hand, she was in full
light, whereas the two men stood in the shadow. She wore a low-cut
dress of crimson velvet, embroidered about the bodice with dead gold,
which enhanced the dazzling whiteness of her shapely neck and bosom.
Round her throat hung a string of great pearls, and on her head was a
net of gold, studded with smaller pearls, from beneath which her
glorious, chestnut-black hair flowed down in rippling waves almost to
her knees. Having her father’s bidding so to do, she had adorned
herself thus that she might look her fairest, not in the eyes of their
guest, but in those of her new-affianced husband. So fair was she seen
thus that d’Aguilar, the artist, the adorer of loveliness, caught his
breath and shivered at the sight of her.

[Illustration: ]

Margaret appeared descending the broad oak stairs

“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he said, “your daughter is more
beautiful than all of them put together. She should be crowned a queen,
and bewitch the world.”

“Nay, nay, Señor,” answered Castell hurriedly; “let her remain humble
and honest, and bewitch her husband.”

“So I should say if I were the husband,” he muttered, then stepped
forward, bowing, to meet her.

Now the light of the silver lamp she held on high flowed over the two
of them, d’Aguilar and Margaret, and certainly they seemed a
well-matched pair. Both were tall and cast by Nature in a rich and
splendid mould; both had that high air of breeding which comes with
ancient blood—for what bloods are more ancient than those of the Jew
and the Eastern?—both were slow and stately of movement, low-voiced,
and dignified of speech. Castell noted it and was afraid, he knew not
of what.

Peter, entering the room by another door, clad only in his grey
clothes, for he would not put on gay garments for the Spaniard, noted
it also, and with the quick instinct of love knew this magnificent
foreigner for a rival and an enemy. But he was not afraid, only jealous
and angry. Indeed, nothing would have pleased him better then than that
the Spaniard should have struck him in the face, so that within five
minutes it might be shown which of them was the better man. It must
come to this, he felt, and very glad would he have been if it could
come at the beginning and not at the end, so that one or the other of
them might be saved much trouble. Then he remembered that he had
promised to say or show nothing of how things stood between him and
Margaret, and, coming forward, he greeted d’Aguilar quietly but coldly,
telling him that his horses had been stabled, and his retinue
accommodated.

The Spaniard thanked him very heartily, and they passed in to supper.
It was a strange meal for all four of them, yet outwardly pleasant
enough. Forgetting his cares, Castell drank gaily, and began to talk of
the many changes which he had seen in his life, and of the rise and
fall of kings. d’Aguilar talked also, of the Spanish wars and policy,
for in the first he had seen much service, and of the other he knew
every turn. It was easy to see that he was one of those who mixed with
courts, and had the ear of ministers and majesty. Margaret also, being
keen-witted and anxious to learn of the great world that lay beyond
Holborn and London town, asked questions, seeking to know, amongst
other things, what were the true characters of Ferdinand, King of
Aragon, and Isabella his wife, the famous queen.

“I will tell you in few words, Señora. Ferdinand is the most ambitious
man in Europe, false also if it serves his purpose. He lives for self
and gain—that is, money and power. These are his gods, for he has no
true religion. He is not clever but, being very cunning, he will
succeed and leave a famous name behind him.”

“An ugly picture,” said Margaret. “And what of his queen?”

“She,” answered d’Aguilar, “is a great woman, who knows how to use the
temper of her time and so attain her ends. To the world she shows a
tender heart, but beneath it lies hid an iron resolution.”

“What are those ends?” asked Margaret again.

“To bring all Spain under her rule; utterly to crush the Moors and take
their territories; to make the Church of Christ triumphant upon earth;
to stamp out heresy; to convert or destroy the Jews,” he added slowly,
and as he spoke the words, Peter, watching, saw his eyes open and
glitter like a snake’s—“to bring their bodies to the purifying flames,
and their vast wealth into her treasury, and thus earn the praise of
the faithful upon earth, and for herself a throne in heaven.”

For a while there was silence after this speech, then Margaret said
boldly:

“If heavenly thrones are built of human blood and tears, what stone and
mortar do they use in hell, I wonder?” Then, without pausing for an
answer, she rose, saying that she was weary, curtseyed to d’Aguilar,
her father and Peter, each in turn, and left the hall.

When she had gone the talk flagged, and presently d’Aguilar asked for
his men and horses and departed also, saying as he went:

“Friend Castell, you will repeat my news to your good kinsman here. I
pray for all your sakes that he may bow his head to what cannot be
helped, and thus keep it safe upon his shoulders.”

“What meant the man?” asked Peter, when the sound of the horses’ hoofs
had died away.

Castell told him of what had passed between him and d’Aguilar before
supper, and showed him de Ayala’s receipt, adding in a vexed voice:

“I have forgotten to repay him the gold; it shall be sent to-morrow.”

“Have no fear; he will come for it,” answered Peter coldly. “Now, if I
have my way, I will take the risk of these Spaniards’ swords and King
Henry’s rope, and bide here.”

“That you must not do,” said Castell earnestly, “for my sake and
Margaret’s, if not for yours. Would you make her a widow before she is
a wife? Listen: it is my wish that you travel down to Essex to take
delivery of your father’s land in the Vale of Dedham and see to the
repairing of the mansion house, which, I am told, needs it much. Then,
when these Spaniards are gone, you can return and at once be married,
say one short month hence.”

“Will not you and Margaret come with me to Dedham?”

Castell shook his head.

“It is not possible. I must wind up my affairs, and Margaret cannot go
with you alone. Moreover, there is no place for her to lodge. I will
keep her here till you return.”

“Yes, Sir; but will you keep her safe? The cozening words of Spaniards
are sometimes more deadly than their swords.”

“I think that Margaret has a medicine against all such arts,” answered
her father with a little smile, and left him.

On the morrow when Castell told Margaret that her lover must leave her
for a while that night—for this Peter would not do himself—she prayed
him even with tears that he would not send him so far from her, or that
they might all go together. But he reasoned with her kindly, showing
her that the latter was impossible, and that if Peter did not go at
once it was probable that Peter would soon be dead, whereas, if he
went, there would be but one short month of waiting till the Spaniards
had sailed, after which they might be married and live in peace and
safety.

So she came to see that this was best and wisest, and gave way; but oh!
heavy were those hours, and sore was their parting. Essex was no far
journey, and to enter into lands which only two days before Peter
believed he had lost for ever, no sad errand, while the promise that at
the end of a single month he should return to claim his bride hung
before them like a star. Yet they were sad-hearted, both of them, and
that star seemed very far away.

Margaret was afraid lest Peter might be waylaid upon the road, but he
laughed at her, saying that her father was sending six stout men with
him as an escort, and thus companioned he feared no Spaniards. Peter,
for his part, was afraid lest d’Aguilar might make love to her while he
was away. But now she laughed at him, saying that all her heart was
his, and that she had none to give to d’Aguilar or any other man.
Moreover, that England was a free land in which women, who were no
king’s wards, could not be led whither they did not wish to go. So it
seemed that they had naught to fear, save the daily chance of life and
death. And yet they were afraid.

“Dear love,” said Margaret to him after she had thought a while, “our
road looks straight and easy, and yet there may be pitfalls in it that
we cannot guess. Therefore you must swear one thing to me: That
whatever you shall hear or whatever may happen, you will never doubt me
as I shall never doubt you. If, for instance, you should be told that I
have discarded you, and given myself to some other husband; if even you
should believe that you see it signed by my hand, or if you think that
you hear it told to you by my voice—still, I say, believe it not.”

“How could such a thing be?” asked Peter anxiously.

“I do not suppose that it could be; I only paint the worst that might
happen as a lesson for us both. Heretofore my life has been calm as a
summer’s day; but who knows when winter storms may rise, and often I
have thought that I was born to know wind and rain and lightning as
well as peace and sunshine. Remember that my father is a Jew, and that
to the Jews and their children terrible things chance at times. Why,
all this wealth might vanish in an hour, and you might find me in a
prison, or clad in rags begging my bread. Now do you swear?” and she
held towards him the gold crucifix that hung upon her bosom.

“Aye,” he said, “I swear it by this holy token and by your lips,” and
he kissed first the cross and then her mouth, adding, “Shall I ask the
same oath of you?”

She laughed.

“If you will; but it is not needful. Peter, I think that I know you too
well; I think that your heart will never stir even if I be dead and you
married to another. And yet men are men, and women have wiles, so I
will swear this: That should you slip, perchance, and I live to learn
it, I will try not to judge you harshly.” And again she laughed, she
who was so certain of her empire over this man’s heart and body.

“Thank you,” said Peter; “but for my part I will try to stand straight
upon my feet, so should any tales be brought to you of me, sift them
well, I pray you.”

Then, forgetting their doubts and dreads, they talked of their
marriage, which they fixed for that day month, and of how they would
dwell happily in Dedham Vale. Also Margaret, who well knew the house,
named the Old Hall, where they should live, for she had stayed there as
a child, gave him many commands as to the new arrangement of its
chambers and its furnishing, which, as there was money and to spare,
could be as costly as they willed, saying that she would send him down
all things by wain so soon as he was ready for them.

Thus, then, the hours wore away, until at length night came and they
took their last meal together, the three of them, for it was arranged
that Peter should start at moonrise, when none were about to see him
go. It was not a very happy meal, and, though they made a brave show of
eating, but little food passed their lips. Now the horses were ready,
and Margaret buckled on Peter’s sword and threw his cloak about his
shoulders, and he, having shaken Castell by the hand and bade him guard
their jewel safely, without more words kissed her in farewell, and
went.

Taking the silver lamp in her hand, she followed him to the ante-room.
At the door he turned and saw her standing there gazing after him with
wide eyes and a strained, white face. At the sight of her silent pain
almost his heart failed him, almost he refused to go. Then he
remembered, and went.

For a while Margaret still stood thus, until the sound of the horses’
hoofs had died away indeed. Then she turned and said:

“Father, I know not how it is, but it seems to me that when Peter and I
meet again it will be far off, yes, far off upon the stormy sea—but
what sea I know not.” And without waiting for an answer she climbed the
stairs to her chamber, and there wept herself to sleep.

Castell watched her depart, then muttered to himself:

“Pray God she is not foresighted like so many of our race; and yet why
is my own heart so heavy? Well, according to my judgment, I have done
my best for him and her, and for myself I care nothing.”




CHAPTER VII.
NEWS FROM SPAIN.


Peter Brome was a very quiet man, whose voice was not often heard about
the place, and yet it was strange how dull and different the big, old
house in Holborn seemed without him. Even the handsome Betty, with whom
he was never on the best of terms, since there was much about her of
which he disapproved, missed him, and said so to her cousin, who only
answered with a sigh. For in the bottom of her heart Betty both feared
and respected Peter. The fear was of his observant eyes and caustic
words, which she knew were always words of truth, and the respect for
the general uprightness of his character, especially where her own sex
was concerned.

In fact, as has been hinted, some little time before, when Peter had
first come to live with the Castells, Betty, thinking him a proper man
of gentle birth, such a one indeed as she would wish to marry, had made
advances to him, which, as he did not seem to notice them, became by
degrees more and more marked. What happened at last they two knew
alone, but it was something that caused Betty to become very angry, and
to speak of Peter to her friends as a cold-blooded lout who thought
only of work and gain. The episode was passing, and soon forgotten by
the lady in the press of other affairs; but the respect remained.
Moreover, on one or two occasions, when the love of admiration had led
her into griefs, Peter had proved a good friend, and what was better, a
friend who did not talk. Therefore she wished him back again,
especially now, when something that was more than mere vanity and
desire for excitement had taken hold of her, and Betty found herself
being swept off her feet into very deep and doubtful waters.

The shopmen and the servants missed him also, for to him all disputes
were brought for settlement, nor, provided it had not come about
through lack of honesty, were any pains too great for him to take to
help them in a trouble. Most of all Castell missed him, since until
Peter had gone he did not know how much he had learned to rely upon
him, both in his business and as a friend. As for Margaret, her life
without him was one long, empty night.

Thus it chanced that in such a house any change was welcome, and,
though she liked him little enough, Margaret was not even displeased
when one morning Betty told her that the lord d’Aguilar was coming to
call on her that day, and purposed to bring her a present.

“I do not seek his presents,” said Margaret indifferently; then added,
“But how do you know that, Betty?”

The young woman coloured, and tossed her head as she answered:

“I know it, Cousin, because, as I was going to visit my old aunt
yesterday, who lives on the wharf at Westminster, I met him riding, and
he called out to me, saying that he had a gift for you and one for me
also.”

“Be careful you do not meet him too often, Betty, when you chance to be
visiting your aunt. These Spaniards are not always over-honest, as you
may learn to your sorrow.”

“I thank you for your good counsel,” said Betty, shortly, “but I, who
am older than you, know enough of men to be able to guard myself, and
can keep them at a distance.”

“I am glad of it, Betty, only sometimes I have thought that the
distance was scarcely wide enough,” answered Margaret, and left the
subject, for she was thinking of other things.

That afternoon, when Margaret was walking in the garden, Betty, whose
face seemed somewhat flushed, ran up to her and said that the lord
d’Aguilar was waiting in the hall.

“Very good,” answered Margaret, “I will come. Go, tell my father, that
he may join us. But why are you so disturbed and hurried?” she added
wonderingly.

“Oh!” answered Betty, “he has brought me a present, so fine a present—a
mantle of the most wonderful lace that ever I saw, and a comb of
mottled shell mounted in gold to keep it off the hair. He made me wait
while he showed me how to put it on, and that was why I ran.”

Margaret did not quite see the connection; but she answered slowly:

“Perhaps it would have been wiser if you had run first. I do not
understand why this fine lord brings you presents.”

“But he has brought one for you also, Cousin, although he would not say
what it was.”

“That I understand still less. Go, tell my father that the Señor
d’Aguilar awaits him.”

Then she went into the hall, and found d’Aguilar looking at an
illuminated Book of Hours in which she had been reading, that was
written in Spanish in one column and in Latin in that opposite. He
greeted her in his usual graceful way, that, where Margaret was
concerned, was easy and well-bred without being bold, and said at once:

“So you read Spanish, Señora?”

“A little. Not very well, I fear.”

“And Latin also?”

“A little again. I have been taught that tongue. By studying them thus
I try to improve myself in both.”

“I perceive that you are learned as you are beautiful,” and he bowed
courteously.

“I thank you, Señor; but I lay claim to neither grace.”

“What need is there to claim that which is evident?” replied d’Aguilar;
then added, “But I forgot, I have brought you a present, if you will be
pleased to accept it. Or, rather, I bring you what is your own, or at
the least your father’s. I bargained with his Excellency Don de Ayala,
pointing out that fifty gold angels were too much to pay for that dead
rogue of his; but he would give me nothing back in money, since with
gold he never parts. Yet I won some change from him, and it stands
without your door. It is a Spanish jennet of the true Moorish blood,
which, hundreds of years ago, that people brought with them from the
East. He needs it no longer, as he returns to Spain, and it is trained
to bear a lady.” Margaret did not know what to answer, but,
fortunately, at that moment her father appeared, and to him d’Aguilar
repeated his tale, adding that he had heard his daughter say that the
horse she rode had fallen with her, so that she could use it no more.

Now, Castell did not wish to accept this gift, for such he felt it to
be; but d’Aguilar assured him that if he did not he must sell it and
return him the price in money, as it did not belong to him. So, there
being no help for it, he thanked him in his daughter’s name and his
own, and they went into the stable-yard, whither it had been taken, to
look at this horse.

The moment that Castell saw it he knew that it was a creature of great
value, pure white in colour, with a long, low body, small head, gentle
eyes, round hoofs, and flowing mane and tail, such a horse, indeed, as
a queen might have ridden. Now again he was confused, being sure that
this beast had never been given back as a luck-penny, since it would
have fetched more than the fifty angels on the market; moreover, it was
harnessed with a woman’s saddle and bridle of the most beautifully
worked red Cordova leather, to which were attached a silver bit and
stirrup. But d’Aguilar smiled, and vowed that things were as he had
told them, so there was nothing more to be said. Margaret, too, was so
pleased with the mare, which she longed to ride, that she forgot her
scruples, and tried to believe that this was so. Noting her delight,
which she could not conceal as she patted the beautiful beast,
d’Aguilar said:

“Now I will ask one thing in return for the bargain that I have
made—that I may see you mount this horse for the first time. You told
me that you and your father were wont to go out together in the
morning. Have I your leave, Sir,” and he turned to Castell, “to ride
with you before breakfast, say, at seven of the clock, for I would show
the lady, your daughter, how she should manage a horse of this blood,
which is something of a trick?”

“If you will,” answered Castell—“that is, if the weather is fine,” for
the offer was made so courteously that it could scarcely be refused.

d’Aguilar bowed, and they re-entered the house, talking of other
matters. When they were in the hall again, he asked whether their
kinsman Peter had reached his destination safely, adding:

“I pray you, do not tell me where it is, for I wish to be able to put
my hand upon my heart and swear to all concerned, and especially to
certain fellows who are still seeking for him, that I know nothing of
his hiding-place.”

Castell answered that he had, since but a few minutes before a letter
had come from him announcing his safe arrival, tidings at which
Margaret looked up, then, remembering her promise, said that she was
glad to hear of it, as the roads were none too safe, and spoke
indifferently of something else. d’Aguilar added that he also was glad,
then, rising, took his leave “till seven on the morrow.”

When he had gone, Castell gave Margaret a letter, addressed to her in
Peter’s stiff, upright hand, which she read eagerly. It began and ended
with sweet words, but, like his speech, was brief and to the point,
saying only that he had accomplished his journey without adventure, and
was very glad to find himself again in the old house where he was born,
and amongst familiar fields and faces. On the morrow he was to see the
tradesmen as to alterations and repairs which were much needed, even
the moat being choked with mud and weeds. His last sentence was: “I
much mistrust me of that fine Spaniard, and I am jealous to think that
he should be near to you while I am far away. Beware of him, I
say—beware of him. May the Mother of God and all the saints have you in
their keeping! Your most true affianced lover.”

This letter Margaret answered before she slept, for the messenger was
to return at dawn, telling Peter, amongst other things, of the gift
which d’Aguilar had brought her, and how she and her father were forced
to accept it, but bidding him not be jealous, since, although the gift
was welcome, she liked the giver little, who did but count the hours
till her true lover should come back again and take her to himself.

Next morning she was up early, clothed in her riding-dress, for the day
was very fine, and by seven o’clock d’Aguilar appeared, mounted on a
great horse. Then the Spanish jennet was brought out, and deftly he
lifted her to the saddle, showing her how she must pull but lightly on
the reins, and urge or check her steed with her voice alone, using no
whip or spur.

A perfect beast it proved to be, indeed, gentle as a lamb, and easy,
yet very spirited and swift.

d’Aguilar was a pleasant cavalier also, talking of many things grave
and gay, until at length even Castell forgot his thoughts, and grew
cheerful as they cantered forward through the fresh spring morning by
heath and hill and woodland, listening to the singing of the birds, and
watching the husbandmen at their labour. This ride was but the first of
several that they took, since d’Aguilar knew their hours of exercise,
even when they changed them, and whether they asked him or not, joined
or met them in such a natural fashion that they could not refuse his
company. Indeed, they were much puzzled to know how he came to be so
well acquainted with their movements, and even with the direction in
which they proposed to ride, but supposed that he must have it from the
grooms, although these were commanded to say nothing, and always denied
having spoken with him. That Betty should speak of such matters, or
even find opportunity of doing so, never chanced to cross their minds,
who did not guess that if they rode with d’Aguilar in the morning,
Betty often walked with him in the evening when she was supposed to be
at church, or sewing, or visiting her aunt upon the wharf at
Westminster. But of these walks the foolish girl said nothing, for her
own reasons.

Now, as they rode together, although he remained very courteous and
respectful, the manner of d’Aguilar towards Margaret grew ever more
close and intimate. Thus he began to tell her stories, true or false,
of his past life, which seemed to have been strange and eventful
enough; to hint, too, of a certain hidden greatness that pertained to
him which he did not dare to show, and of high ambitions which he had.
He spoke also of his loneliness, and his desire to lose it in the
companionship of a kindred heart, if he could find one to share his
wealth, his station, and his hopes; while all the time his dark eyes,
fixed on Margaret, seemed to say, “The heart I seek is such a one as
yours.” At length, at some murmured word or touch, she took affright,
and, since she could not avoid him abroad, determined to stay at home,
and, much as she loved the sport, to ride no more till Peter should
return. So she gave out that she had hurt her knee, which made the
saddle painful to her, and the beautiful Spanish mare was left idle in
the stable, or mounted only by the groom.

Thus for some days she was rid of d’Aguilar, and employed herself in
reading and working, or in writing long letters to Peter, who was busy
enough at Dedham, and sent her thence many commissions to fulfil.

One afternoon Castell was seated in his office deciphering letters
which had just reached him. The night before his best ship, of over two
hundred tons burden, which was named the Margaret, after his daughter,
had come safely into the mouth of the Thames from Spain. That evening
she was to reach her berth at Gravesend with the tide, when Castell
proposed to go aboard of her to see to the unloading of her cargo. This
was the last of his ships which remained unsold, and it was his plan to
re-load and victual her at once with goods that were waiting, and send
her back to the port of Seville, where his Spanish partners, in whose
name she was already registered, had agreed to take her over at a fixed
price. This done, it was only left for him to hand over his business to
the merchants who had purchased it in London, after which he would be
free to depart, a very wealthy man, and spend the evening of his days
at peace in Essex, with his daughter and her husband, as now he so
greatly longed to do. So soon as they were within the river banks the
captain of this ship, Smith by name, had landed the cargo-master with
letters and a manifest of cargo, bidding him hire a horse and bring
them to Master Castell’s house in Holborn. This the man had done
safely, and it was these letters that Castell read.

One of them was from his partner Bernaldez in Seville; not in answer to
that which he had written on the night of the opening of this
history—for this there had been no time—yet dealing with matters
whereof it treated. In it was this passage:

“You will remember what I wrote to you of a certain envoy who has been
sent to the Court of London, who is called d’Aguilar, for as our cipher
is so secret, and it is important that you should be warned, I take the
risk of writing his name. Since that letter I have learned more
concerning this grandee, for such he is. Although he calls himself
plain Don d’Aguilar, in truth he is the Marquis of Morella, and on one
side, it is said, of royal blood, if not on both, since he is reported
to be the son born out of wedlock of Prince Carlos of Viana, the
half-brother of the king. The tale runs that Carlos, the learned and
gentle, fell in love with a Moorish lady of Aguilar of high birth and
great wealth, for she had rich estates at Granada and elsewhere, and,
as he might not marry her because of the difference of their rank and
faiths, lived with her without marriage, of which union one son was
born. Before Prince Carlos died, or was poisoned, and while he was
still a prisoner at Morella, he gave to, or procured for this boy the
title of marquis, choosing from some fancy the name of Morella, that
place where he had suffered so much. Also he settled some private lands
upon him. After the prince died, the Moorish lady, his lover, who had
secretly become a Christian, took her son to live at her palace in
Granada, where she died also some ten years ago, leaving all her great
wealth to him, for she never married. At this time it is said that his
life was in danger, for the reason that, although he was half a Moor,
too much of the blood-royal ran in his veins. But the Marquis was
clever, and persuaded the king and queen that he had no ambition beyond
his pleasures. Also the Church interceded for him, since to it he
proved himself a faithful son, persecuting all heretics, especially the
Jews, and even Moors, although they are of his own blood. So in the end
he was confirmed in his possessions and left alone, although he refused
to become a priest.

“Since then he has been made an agent of the Crown at Granada, and
employed upon various embassies to London, Rome, and elsewhere, on
matters connected with the faith and the establishment of the Holy
Inquisition. That is why he is again in England at this moment, being
charged to obtain the names and particulars concerning all Maranos
settled there, especially if they trade with Spain. I have seen the
names of those of whom he must inquire most closely, and that is why I
write to you so fully, since yours is first upon the list. I think,
therefore, that you do wisely to wind up your business with this
country, and especially to sell your ships to us outright and quickly,
since otherwise they might be seized—like yourself, if you came here.
My counsel to you is—hide your wealth, which will be great when we have
paid you all we owe, and go to some place where you will be forgotten
for a while, since that bloodhound d’Aguilar, for so he calls himself,
after his mother’s birthplace, has not tracked you to London for
nothing. As yet, thanks be to God, no suspicion has fallen on any of
us; perhaps because we have many in our pay.”

When Castell had finished transcribing all this passage he read it
through carefully. Then he went into the hall, where a fire burned, for
the day was cold, and threw the translation on to it, watching until it
was consumed, after which he returned to his office, and hid away the
letter in a secret cupboard behind the panelling of the wall. This
done, he sat himself in his chair to think.

“My good friend Juan Bernaldez is right,” he said to himself;
“d’Aguilar, or the Marquis Morella, does not nose me and the others out
for nothing. Well, I shall not trust myself in Spain, and the money,
most of it, except what is still to come from Spain, is put out where
it will never be found by him, at good interest too. All seems safe
enough—and yet I would to God that Peter and Margaret were fast
married, and that we three sat together, out of sight and mind, in the
Old Hall at Dedham. I have carried on this game too long. I should have
closed my books a year ago; but the trade was so good that I could not.
I was wise also, who in this one lucky year have nearly doubled my
fortune. And yet it would have been safer, before they guessed that I
was so rich. Greed—mere greed—for I do not need this money which may
destroy us all! Greed! The ancient pitfall of my race.”

As he thought thus there came a knock upon his door. Snatching up a pen
he dipped it in the ink-horn and, calling “Enter,” began to add a
column of figures on a paper before him.

The door opened; but he seemed to take no heed, so diligently did he
count his figures. Yet, although his eyes were fixed upon the paper, in
some way that he could not understand he was well aware that d’Aguilar
and no other stood in the room behind him, the truth being, no doubt,
that unconsciously he had recognised his footstep. For a moment the
knowledge turned him cold—he who had just been reading of the mission
of this man—and feared what was to come. Yet he acted well.

“Why do you disturb me, Daughter?” he said testily, and without looking
round. “Have not things gone ill enough with half the cargo destroyed
by sea-water, and the rest, that you must trouble me while I sum up my
losses?” And, casting the pen down, he turned his stool round
impatiently.

Yes! there sure enough stood d’Aguilar, very handsomely arrayed, and
smiling and bowing as was his custom.




CHAPTER VIII.
D’AGUILAR SPEAKS.


“Losses?” said d’Aguilar. “Do I hear the wealthy John Castell, who
holds half the trade with Spain in the hollow of his hand, talk of
losses?”

“Yes, Señor, you do. Things have gone ill with this ship of mine that
has barely lived through the spring gales. But be seated.”

“Indeed, is that so?” said d’Aguilar as he sat down. “What a lying jade
is rumour! For I was told that they had gone very well. Doubtless,
however, what is loss to you would be priceless gain to one like me.”

Castell made no answer, but waited, feeling that his visitor had not
come to speak with him of his trading ventures.

“Señor Castell,” said d’Aguilar, with a note of nervousness in his
voice, “I am here to ask you for something.”

“If it be a loan, Señor, I fear that the time is not opportune.” And he
nodded towards the sheet of figures.

“It is not a loan; it is a gift.”

“Anything in my poor house is yours,” answered Castell courteously, and
in Oriental form.

“I rejoice to hear it, Señor, for I seek something from your house.”

Castell looked a question at him with his quick black eyes.

“I seek your daughter, the Señora Margaret, in marriage.”

Castell stared at him, then a single word broke from his lips.

“Impossible.”

“Why impossible?” asked d’Aguilar slowly, yet as one who expected some
such answer. “In age we are not unsuited, nor perhaps in fortune, while
of rank I have enough, more than you guess perhaps. I vaunt not myself,
yet women have thought me not uncomely. I should be a good friend to
the house whence I took a wife, where perchance a day may come when
friends will be needed; and lastly, I desire her not for what she may
bring with her, though wealth is always welcome, but—I pray you to
believe it—because I love her.”

“I have heard that the Señor d’Aguilar loves many women, yonder in
Granada.”

“As I have heard that the Margaret had a prosperous voyage, Señor
Castell. Rumour, as I said but now, is a lying jade. Yet I will not
copy her. I have been no saint. Now I would become one, for Margaret’s
sake. I will be true to your daughter, Señor. What say you now?”

Castell only shook his head.

“Listen,” went on d’Aguilar. “I am more than I seem to be; she who weds
me will not lack for rank and titles.”

“Yes, you are the Marquis de Morella, the reputed son of Prince Carlos
of Viana by a Moorish mother, and therefore nephew to his Majesty of
Spain.”

d’Aguilar looked at him, then bowed and said:

“Your information is good—as good as mine, almost. Doubtless you do not
like that bar in the blood. Well, if it were not there, I should be
where Ferdinand is, should I not? So I do not like it either, though it
is good blood and ancient—that of those high-bred Moors. Now, may not
the nephew of a king and the son of a princess of Granada be fit to
mate with the daughter of—a Jew, yes, a Marano, and of a Christian
English lady, of good family, but no more?”

Castell lifted his hand as though to speak; but d’Aguilar went on:

“Deny it not, friend; it is not worth while here in private. Was there
not a certain Isaac of Toledo who, hard on fifty years ago, left Spain,
for his own reasons, with a little son, and in London became known as
Joseph Castell, having, with his son, been baptized into the Holy
Church? Ah! you see you are not the only one who studies genealogies.”

“Well, Señor, if so, what of it?”

“What of it? Nothing at all, friend Castell. It is an old story, is it
not, and, as that Isaac is long dead and his son has been a good
Christian for nearly fifty years and had a Christian wife and child,
who will trouble himself about such a matter? If he were openly a
Hebrew now, or worse still, if pretending to be a Christian, he in
secret practised the rites of the accursed Jews, why then——”

“Then what?”

“Then, of course, he would be expelled this land, where no Jew may
live, his wealth would be forfeit to its king, whose ward his daughter
would become, to be given in marriage where he willed, while he
himself, being Spanish born, might perhaps be handed over to the power
of Spain, there to make answer to these charges. But we wander to
strange matters. Is that alliance still impossible, Señor?”

Castell looked him straight in the eyes and answered:

“Yes.”

There was something so bold and direct in his utterance of the word
that for a moment d’Aguilar seemed to be taken aback. He had not
expected this sharp denial.

“It would be courteous to give a reason,” he said presently.

“The reason is simple, Marquis. My daughter is already betrothed, and
will ere long be wedded.”

d’Aguilar did not seem surprised at this intelligence.

“To that brawler, your kinsman, Peter Brome, I suppose?” he said
interrogatively. “I guessed as much, and by the saints I am sorry for
her, for he must be a dull lover to one so fair and bright; while as a
husband—” And he shrugged his shoulders. “Friend Castell, for her sake
you will break off this match.”

“And if I will not, Marquis?”

“Then I must break it off for you in the interest of all of us,
including, of course, myself, who love her, and wish to lift her to a
great place, and of yourself, whom I desire should pass your old age in
peace and wealth, and not be hunted to your death like a mad dog.”

“How will you break it, Marquis? by—”

“Oh no, Señor!” answered d’Aguilar, “not by other men’s swords—if that
is what you mean. The worthy Peter is safe from them so far as I am
concerned, though if he should come face to face with mine, then let
the best man win. Have no fear, friend, I do not practise murder, who
value my own soul too much to soak it in blood, nor would I marry a
woman except of her own free will. Still, Peter may die, and the fair
Margaret may still place her hand in mine and say, ‘I choose you as my
husband.’”

“All these things, and many others, may happen, Marquis; but I do not
think it likely that they will happen, and for my part, whilst thanking
you for it, I decline your honourable offer, believing that my daughter
will be more happy in her present humble state with the man she has
chosen. Have I your leave to return to my accounts?” And he rose.

“Yes, Señor,” answered d’Aguilar, rising also; “but add an item to
those losses of which you spoke, that of the friendship of Carlos,
Marquis de Morella, and on the other side enter again that of his hate.
Man!” he added, and his dark, handsome face turned very evil as he
spoke, “are you mad? Think of the little tabernacle behind the altar in
your chapel, and what it contains.”

Castell stared at him, then said:

“Come, let us see. Nay, fear no trick; like you I remember my soul, and
do not stain my hands with blood. Follow me, so you will be safe.”

Curiosity, or some other reason, prompted d’Aguilar to obey, and
presently they stood behind the altar.

“Now,” said Castell, as he drew the tapestry and opened the secret
door, “look!” d’Aguilar peered into the place; but where should have
been the table, the ark, the candlesticks, and the roll of the law of
which Betty had told him, were only old dusty boxes filled with
parchments and some broken furniture.

“What do you see?” asked Castell.

“I see, friend, that you are even a cleverer Jew than I thought. But
this is a matter that you must explain to others in due season. Believe
me, I am no inquisitor.” Then without more words he turned and left
him.

When Castell, having shut the secret door and drawn the tapestry,
hurried from the chapel, it was to find that the marquis had departed.

He went back to his office much disturbed, and sat himself down there
to think. Truly Fate, that had so long been his friend, was turning its
face against him. Things could not have gone worse. d’Aguilar had
discovered the secret of his faith through his spies, and, having by
some accursed mischance fallen in love with his daughter’s beauty, was
become his bitter enemy because he must refuse her to him. Why must he
refuse her? The man was of great position and noble blood; she would
become the wife of one of the first grandees of Spain, one who stood
nearest to the throne. Perhaps—such a thing was possible—she might live
herself to be queen, or the mother of kings. Moreover, that marriage
meant safety for himself; it meant a quiet age, a peaceable death in
his own bed—for, were he fifty times a Marano, who would touch the
father-in-law of the Marquis de Morella? Why? Just because he had
promised her in marriage to Peter Brome, and through all his life as a
merchant he had never yet broken with a bargain because it went against
himself. That was the answer. Yet almost he could find it in his heart
to wish that he had never made that bargain; that he had kept Peter,
who had waited so long, waiting for another month. Well, it was too
late now. He had passed his word, and he would keep it, whatever the
cost might be.

Rising, he called one of the servants, and bade her summon Margaret.
Presently she returned, saying that her mistress had gone out walking
with Betty, adding also that his horse was at the door for him to ride
to the river, where he was to pass the night on board his ship.

Taking paper, he bethought him that he would write to Margaret, warning
her against the Spaniard. Then, remembering that she had nothing to
fear from him, at any rate at present, and that it was not wise to set
down such matters, he told her only to take good care of herself, and
that he would be back in the morning.

That evening, when Margaret was in her own little sitting-chamber which
adjoined the great hall, the door opened, and she looked up from the
work upon which she was engaged, to see d’Aguilar standing before her.

“Señor!” she said, amazed, “how came you here?”

“Señora,” he answered, closing the door and bowing, “my feet brought
me. Had I any other means of coming I think that I should not often be
absent from your side.”

“Spare me your fine words, I pray you, Señor,” answered Margaret,
frowning. “It is not fitting that I should receive you thus alone at
night, my father being absent from the house.” And she made as though
she would pass him and reach the door.

d’Aguilar, who stood in front of it, did not move, so perforce she
stopped half way.

“I found that he was absent,” he said courteously, “and that is why I
venture to address you upon a matter of some importance. Give me a few
minutes of your time, therefore, I beseech you.”

Now, at once the thought entered Margaret’s mind that he had some news
of Peter to communicate to her—bad news perhaps.

“Be seated, and speak on, Señor,” she said, sinking into a chair, while
he too sat down, but still in front of the door.

“Señora,” he said, “my business in this country is finished, and in a
few days I sail hence for Spain.” And he hesitated a moment.

“I trust that your voyage will be pleasant,” said Margaret, not knowing
what else to answer.

“I trust so also, Señora, since I have come to ask you if you will
share it. Listen, before you refuse. To-day I saw your father, and
begged your hand of him. He would give me no answer, neither yea nor
nay, saying that you were your own mistress, and that I must seek it
from your lips.”

“My father said that?” gasped Margaret, astonished, then bethought her
that he might have had reasons for speaking so, and went on rapidly,
“Well, it is short and simple. I thank you, Señor; but I stay in
England.”

“Even that I would be willing to do for your sake Señora, though, in
truth, I find it a cold and barbarous country.”

“If so, Señor d’Aguilar, I think that I should go to Spain. I pray you
let me pass.”

“Not till you have heard me out, Señora, when I trust that your words
will be more gentle. See now I am a great man in my own country.
Although it suits me to pass here incognito as plain Señor d’Aguilar I
am the Marquis of Morella, the nephew of Ferdinand the King, with some
wealth and station, official and private. If you disbelieve me, I can
prove it to you.”

“I do not disbelieve,” answered Margaret indifferently, “it may well be
so; but what is that to me?”

“Then is it not something, Lady, that I, who have blood-royal in my
veins, should seek the daughter of a merchant to be my wife?”

“Nothing at all—to me, who am satisfied with my humble lot.”

“Is it nothing to you that I should love as I do, with all my heart and
soul? Marry me, and I tell you that I will lift you high, yes, perhaps
even to the throne.”

She thought a moment, then asked:

“The bribe is great, but how would you do that? Many a maid has been
deceived with false jewels, Señor.”

“How has it been done before? Not every one loves Ferdinand. I have
many friends who remember that my father was poisoned by his father and
Ferdinand’s, he being the elder son. Also, my mother was a princess of
the Moors, and if I, who dwell among them as the envoy of their
Majesties, threw in my sword with theirs—or there are other ways. But I
am speaking things that have never passed my lips before, which, were
they known, would cost me my head—let it serve to show how much I trust
you.”

“I thank you, Señor, for your trust; but this crown seems to me set
upon a peak that it is dangerous to climb, and I had sooner sit in
safety on the plain.”

“You reject the pomp,” went on d’Aguilar in his passionate, pleading
voice, “then will not the love move you? Oh! you shall be worshipped as
never woman was. I swear to you that in your eyes there is a light
which has set my heart on fire, so that it burns night and day, and
will not be quenched. Your voice is my sweetest music, your hair is a
cord that binds me to you faster than the prisoner’s chain, and, when
you pass, for me Venus walks the earth. More, your mind is pure and
noble as your beauty, and by the aid of it I shall be lifted up through
the high places of the earth to some white throne in heaven. I love
you, my lady, my fair Margaret; because of you, all other women are
become coarse and hateful in my sight. See how much I love you, that I,
one of the first grandees of Spain, do this for your sweet sake,” and
suddenly he cast himself upon his knees before her, and lifting the hem
of her dress pressed it to his lips.

Margaret looked down at him, and the anger that was rising in her
breast melted, while with it went her fear. This man was much in
earnest; she could not doubt it. The hand that held her robe trembled
like shaken water, his face was ashen, and in his dark eyes swam tears.
What cause had she to be afraid of one who was so much her slave?

“Señor,” she said very gently, “rise, I pray you. Do not waste all this
love upon one who chances to have caught your fancy, but who is quite
unworthy of it, and far beneath you; one, moreover, by whom it may not
be returned. Señor, I am already affianced. Therefore, put me out of
your mind and find some other love.”

He rose and stood in front of her.

“Affianced,” he said, “I knew it. Nay, I will say no ill of the man; to
revile one more fortunate is poor argument. But what is it to me if you
are affianced? What to me if you were wed? I should seek you all the
same, who have no choice. Beneath me? You are as far above me as a
star, and it would seem as hard to reach. Seek some other love? I tell
you, lady, that I have sought many, for not all are so hard to win, and
I hate them every one. You I desire alone, and shall desire till I be
dead, aye, and you I will win or die. No, I will not die till you are
my own. Have no fear, I will not kill your lover, save perhaps in fair
fight; I will not force you to give yourself to me, should I find the
chance, but with your own lips I will yet listen to you asking me to be
your husband. I swear it by Him Who died for us. I swear that, laying
aside all other ends, to that sole purpose I will devote my days. Yes,
and should you chance to pass from earth before me, then I will follow
you to the very gates of death and clasp you there.”

Now again Margaret’s fear returned to her. This man’s passion was
terrible, yet there was a grandeur in it; Peter had never spoken to her
in so high a fashion.

“Señor,” she said almost pleadingly, “corpses are poor brides; have
done with such sick fancies, which surely must be born of your Eastern
blood.”

“It is your blood also, who are half a Jew, and, therefore, at least
you should understand them.”

“Mayhap I do understand, mayhap I think them great in their own
fashion, yes, noble even, and admire, if it can be noble to seek to win
away another man’s betrothed. But, Señor, I am that man’s betrothed,
and all of me, my body and my soul, is his, nor would I go back upon my
word, and so break his heart, to win the empire of the earth. Señor,
once more I implore you to leave this poor maid to the humble life that
she has chosen, and to forget her.”

“Lady,” answered d’Aguilar, “your words are wise and gentle, and I
thank you for them. But I cannot forget you, and that oath I swore just
now I swear again, thus.” And before she could prevent him, or even
guess what he was about to do, he lifted the gold crucifix that hung by
a chain about her neck, kissed it, and let it fall gently back upon her
breast, saying, “See, I might have kissed your lips before you could
have stayed me, but that I will never do until you give me leave, so in
place of them I kiss the cross, which till then we both must carry.
Lady, my lady Margaret, within a day or two I sail for Spain, but your
image shall sail with me, and I believe that ere long our paths must
cross again. How can it be otherwise since the threads of your life and
mine were intertwined on that night outside the Palace of Westminster
—intertwined never to be separated till one of us has ceased to be, and
then only for a little while. Lady, for the present, farewell.”

Then swiftly and silently as he had come, d’Aguilar went.

It was Betty who let him out at the side door, as she had let him in.
More, glancing round to see that she was not observed—for it chanced
now that Peter was away with some of the best men, and the master was
out with others, no one was on watch this night—leaving the door ajar
that she might re-enter, she followed him a little way, till they came
to an old arch, which in some bygone time had led to a house now pulled
down. Into this dark place Betty slipped, touching d’Aguilar on the arm
as she did so. For a moment he hesitated, then, muttering some Spanish
oath between his teeth, followed her.

“Well, most fair Betty,” he said, “what word have you for me now?”

“The question is, Señor Carlos,” answered Betty with scarcely
suppressed indignation, “what word you have for me, who dared so much
for you to-night? That you have plenty for my cousin, I know, since
standing in the cold garden I could hear you talk, talk, talk, through
the shutters, as though for your very life.”

“I pray that those shutters had no hole in them,” reflected d’Aguilar
to himself. “No, there was a curtain also; she can have seen nothing.”
But aloud he answered: “Mistress Betty, you should not stand about in
this bitter wind; you might fall ill, and then what should I suffer?”

“I don’t know, nothing perhaps; that would be left to me. What I want
to understand is, why you plan to come to see me, and then spend an
hour with Margaret?”

“To avert suspicion, most dear Betty. Also I had to talk to her of this
Peter, in whom she seems so greatly interested. You are very shrewd,
Betty—tell me, is that to be a match?”

“I think so; I have been told nothing, but I have noticed many things,
and almost every day she is writing to him, though why she should care
for that owl of a man I cannot guess.”

“Doubtless because she appreciates solid worth, Betty, as I do in you.
Who can account for the impulses of the heart, which come, say some of
the learned, from heaven, and others, from hell? At least it is no
affair of ours, so let us wish them happiness, and, after they are
married, a large and healthy family. Meanwhile, dear Betty, are you
making ready for your voyage to Spain?”

“I don’t know,” answered Betty gloomily. “I am not sure that I trust
you and your fine words. If you want to marry me, as you swear, and be
sure I look for nothing less, why cannot it be before we start, and how
am I to know that you will do so when we get there?”

“You ask many questions, Betty, all of which I have answered before. I
have told you that I cannot marry you here because of that permission
which is necessary on account of the difference in our ranks. Here,
where your place is known, it is not to be had; there, where you will
pass as a great English lady—as of course you are by birth—I can obtain
it in an hour. But if you have any doubts, although it cuts me to the
heart to say it, it would be best that we should part at once. I will
take no wife who does not trust me fully and alone. Say then, cruel
Betty, do you wish to leave me?”

“You know I don’t; you know it would kill me,” she answered in a voice
that was thick with passion, “you know I worship the ground you tread
on, and hate every woman you go near, yes, even my cousin who has been
so good to me, and whom I love. I will take the risk and come with you,
believing you to be an honest gentleman, who would not deceive a girl
who trusts him; and if you do, may God deal with you as I shall, for I
am no toy to be broken and thrown away, as you would find out. Yes, I
will take the risk because you have made me love you so that I cannot
live without you.”

“Betty, your words fill me with rapture, showing me that I have not
misread your noble mind; but speak a little lower—there are echoes in
this hole. Now for the plans, for time is short, and you may be missed.
When I am about to sail I will invite Mistress Margaret and yourself to
come aboard my ship.”

“Why not invite me without my cousin Margaret?” asked Betty.

“Because it would excite suspicion which we must avoid—do not interrupt
me. I will invite you both or get you there upon some other pretext,
and then I will arrange that she shall be brought ashore again and you
taken on. Leave it all to me, only swear that you will obey any
instructions I may send you for if you do not, I tell you that we have
enemies in high places who may part us for ever. Betty, I will be
frank, there is a great lady who is jealous, and watches you very
closely. Do you swear?”

“Yes, yes, I swear. But about the great lady?”

“Not a word about her—on your life—and mine. You shall hear from me
shortly. And now, sweetheart—good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Betty, but still she did not stir.

Then, understanding that she expected something more, d’Aguilar nerved
himself to the task, and touched her hair with his lips.

Next moment he regretted it, for even that tempered salute fanned her
passion into flame.

Throwing her arms about his neck Betty drew his face to hers and kissed
him many times, till at length he broke, half choking, from her
embrace, and escaped into the street.

“Mother of Heaven!” he muttered to himself, “the woman is a volcano in
eruption. I shall feel her kisses for a week,” and he rubbed his face
ruefully with his hand. “I wish I had made some other plan; but it is
too late to change it now—she would betray everything. Well, I will be
rid of her somehow, if I have to drown her. A hard fate to love the
mistress and be loved of the maid!”




CHAPTER IX.
THE SNARE.


On the following morning, when Castell returned, Margaret told him of
the visit of d’Aguilar, and of all that had passed between them, told
him also that he was acquainted with their secret, since he had spoken
of her as half a Jew.

“I know it, I know it,” answered her father, who was much disturbed and
very angry, “for yesterday he threatened me also. But let that go, I
can take my chance; now I would learn who brought this man into my
house when I was absent, and without my leave.”

“I fear that it was Betty,” said Margaret, “who swears that she thought
she did no wrong.”

“Send for her,” said Castell. Presently Betty came, and, being
questioned, told a long story.

She said she was standing by the side door, taking the air, when Señor
d’Aguilar appeared, and, having greeted her, without more words walked
into the house, saying that he had an appointment with the master.

“With me?” broke in Castell. “I was absent.”

“I did not know that you were absent, for I was out when you rode away
in the afternoon, and no one had spoken of it to me, so, thinking that
he was your friend, I let him in, and let him out again afterwards.
That is all I have to say.”

“Then I have to say that you are a hussy and a liar, and that, in one
way or the other, this Spaniard has bribed you,” answered Castell
fiercely. “Now, girl, although you are my wife’s cousin, and therefore
my daughter’s kin, I am minded to turn you out on to the street to
starve.”

At this Betty first grew angry, then began to weep; while Margaret
pleaded with her father, saying that it would mean the girl’s ruin, and
that he must not take such a sin upon him. So the end of it was, that,
being a kind-hearted man, remembering also that Betty Dene was of his
wife’s blood, and that she had favoured her as her daughter did, he
relented, taking measures to see that she went abroad no more save in
the company of Margaret, and that the doors were opened only by
men-servants.

So this matter ended.

That day Margaret wrote to Peter, telling him of all that had happened,
and how the Spaniard had asked her in marriage, though the words that
he used she did not tell. At the end of her letter, also, she bade him
have no fear of the Señor d’Aguilar or of any other man, as he knew
where her heart was.

When Peter received this writing he was much vexed to learn that both
Master Castell and Margaret had incurred the enmity of d’Aguilar, for
so he guessed it must be, also that Margaret should have been troubled
with his love-making; but for the rest he thought little of the matter,
who trusted her as he trusted heaven. Still it made him anxious to
return to London as soon as might he, even though he must take the risk
of the Spaniards’ daggers. Within three days, however, he received
other letters both from Castell and from Margaret, which set his fears
at rest.

These told him that d’Aguilar had sailed for Spain indeed, Castell said
that he had seen him standing on the poop of the Ambassador de Ayala’s
vessel as it dropped down the Thames towards the sea. Moreover,
Margaret had a note of farewell from his hand, which ran:

 “Adieu, sweet lady, till that predestined hour when we meet again. I
go, as I must, but, as I told you, your image goes with me.

“Your worshipper till death,     

“MORELLA.”

“He may take her image so long as I keep herself and if he comes back
with his worship, I promise him that death and he shall not be far
apart,” was Peter’s grim comment as he laid the paper down. Then he
went on with his letters, which told that now, when the Spaniards had
gone, and there was nothing more to fear, he was awaited in London.
Indeed, Castell fixed a day when he should arrive—May 31st—that was
within a week, adding that on its morrow—namely, June 1st, for Margaret
would not be wed in May, the Virgin Mary’s month, since she held it to
be unlucky—their marriage might take place as quietly as they would.

Margaret wrote the same news, and in such sweet words that he kissed
her letter, then hastened to answer it, shortly, after his custom, for
Peter was no great scribe, saying, that if the saints willed it he
would be with them by nightfall on the last day of May, and that in all
England there was no happier man than he.

Now all that week Margaret was very busy preparing her marriage robe,
and other garments also, for it was settled that on the next day they
should ride together down to Dedham, in Essex, whither her father would
follow them shortly. The Old Hall was not ready, indeed, nor would it
be for some time; but Peter had furnished certain rooms in it which
might serve them for the summer season, and by winter time the house
would be finished and open.

Castell was busy also, for now, having worked very hard at the task,
his ship the Margaret was almost refitted and laden, so that he hoped
to get her to sea on this same May 31st, and thus be clear of the last
of his business, except the handing over of his warehouses and stock to
those who had bought them. These great affairs kept him much at
Gravesend, where the ship lay, but, as he had no dread of further
trouble now that d’Aguilar and the other Spaniards, among them that
band of de Ayala’s servants who had vowed to take Peter’s life, were
gone, this did not disturb him.

Oh! happy, happy was Margaret during those sweet spring days, when her
heart was bright and clear as the skies from which all winter storms
had passed. So happy was she indeed, and so full of a hundred joyful
cares, that she found no time to take note of her cousin Betty, who
worked with her at her wedding broideries, and helped to make
preparations for the journey which should follow after. Had she done
so, she might have seen that Betty was anxious and distressed, like one
who waited for some tidings that did not come, and from hour to hour
fought against anguish and despair But she took no note, whose heart
was too full of her own matters, and who did but count the hours till
she should see her lover back and pass to his arms, a wife.

Thus the time went on until the appointed day of Peter’s return, the
morrow of her marriage, for which all things were now prepared, down to
Peter’s wedding garments, that were finer than any she had yet seen him
wear, and the decking of the neighbouring church with flowers. In the
early morning her father rode away to Gravesend with the most of his
men-servants for the ship Margaret was to sail at the following dawn
and there was yet much to be done before she could lift anchor. Still,
he had promised to be back by nightfall in time to meet Peter who,
leaving Dedham that morning, could not reach them before then.

At length it was past four of the afternoon, and everything being
finished, Margaret went to her room to dress herself anew, that she
might look fine in Peter’s eyes when he should come. Betty she did not
take with her, for there were things to which her cousin must attend;
moreover, her heart was so full that she wished to be alone a while.

Betty’s heart was full also, but not with joy. She had been deceived.
The fine Spanish Don, who had made her love him so desperately, had
sailed away and left her without a word. She could not doubt it, he had
been seen standing on the ship—and not one word. It was cruel, cruel,
and now she must help another woman to be made a happy wife, she who
was beggared of hope and love. Moodily, full of bitterness, she went
about her tasks, biting her lips and wiping her fine eyes with the
sleeve of her robe, when suddenly the door opened, and a servant, not
one of their own, but a strange man who had been brought in to help at
the morrow’s feast, called out that a sailor wished to speak with her.

“Then let him enter here; I have no time to go out to listen to his
talk,” snapped Betty.

Presently the sailor was shown in, the man who brought him leaving the
room at once. He was a dark fellow, with sly black eyes, who, had he
not spoken English so well, might have been taken for a Spaniard.

“Who are you, and what is your business?” asked Betty sharply.

“I am the carpenter of the ship Margaret,” he answered, “and I am here
to say that our master Castell has met with an accident there, and
desires that Mistress Margaret, his daughter, should come to him at
once.”

“What accident?” asked Betty.

“In seeing to the stowage of cargo he slipped and fell down the hold,
hurting his back and breaking his right arm, and that is why he cannot
write. He is in great pain; but the physician whom we summoned bade me
tell Mistress Margaret that at present he has no fear for his life. Are
you Mistress Margaret?”

“No,” answered Betty; “but I will go to her at once; do you bide here.”

“Then are you her cousin, Mistress Betty Dene, for if so I have
something for you?”

“I am. What is it?”

“This,” said the man, drawing out a letter which he handed to her.

“Who gave you this?” asked Betty suspiciously.

“I do not know his name, but he was a noble-looking Spanish Don, and a
liberal one too. He had heard of the accident on the Margaret, and,
knowing my errand, asked me if I would deliver this letter to you, for
the fee of a gold ducat, and promise to say nothing of it to any one
else.”

“Some rude gallant, doubtless,” said Betty, tossing her head; “they are
ever writing to me. Bide here; I go to Mistress Margaret.”

Once she was outside the door Betty broke the seal of the letter
eagerly enough, for she had been taught with Margaret, and could read
well. It ran:

 “BELOVED,  “You thought me faithless and gone, but it is not so. I was
silent only because I knew you could not come alone who are watched;
but now the God of Love gives us our chance. Doubtless your cousin will
bring you with her to visit her father, who lies on his ship sadly
hurt. While she is with him I have made a plan to rescue you, and then
we can be wed and sail at once—yes, to-night or to-morrow, for with
much trouble, knowing that you wished it, I have even succeeded in
bringing that about, and a priest will be waiting to marry us. Be
silent, and show no doubt or fear, whatever happens, lest we should be
parted for always. Be sure then that your cousin comes that you may
accompany her. Remember that your true love waits you.

“C. d’A.”

When Betty had mastered the contents of this amorous effusion she went
pale with joy, and turned so faint that she was like to fall. Then a
doubt struck her that it might be some trick. No, she knew the
writing—it was d’Aguilar’s, and he was true to her, and would marry her
as he had promised, and take her to be a great lady in Spain. If she
hesitated now she might lose him for ever—him whom she would follow to
the end of the world. In an instant her mind was made up, for Betty had
plenty of courage. She would go, even though she must desert the cousin
whom she loved.

Thrusting the letter into her bosom she ran to Margaret’s room, and,
bursting into it, told her of the man and his sad message. But of that
letter she said nothing. Margaret turned white at the news, then,
recovering herself, said:

“I will come and speak with him at once.” And together they went down
the stairs.

To Margaret the sailor repeated his story, nor could all her questions
shake it. He told her how the mischance had happened, for he had seen
it, so he said, and where her father’s hurts were, adding, that
although the physician held that as yet he was in no danger of his
life, Master Castell thought otherwise, and did nothing but cry that
his daughter should be brought to him at once.

Still Margaret doubted and hesitated, for she feared she knew not what.

“Peter should be here within two hours at most,” she said to Betty.
“Would it not be best to wait for him?”

“Oh! Margaret, and what if your father should die in the meanwhile?
Perhaps he knows better how deep his hurts are than does this leech. If
so, you would have a sore heart for all your life. Sure you had better
go, or at the least I will.”

Still Margaret wavered, till the sailor said:

“Lady, if it is your will to come, I can guide you to where a boat
waits to take you across the river. If not, I must be gone, for the
ship sails with the moonrise, and they only wait your coming to carry
the master, your father, to the warehouse on shore thinking it best
that you should be present. If you do not come, this will be done as
gently as possible, and there you must seek him to-morrow, alive or
dead.” And the man took up his cap as though to leave.

“I will come with you,” said Margaret. “Betty, you are right; order the
two horses to be saddled, mine and the groom’s, with a pillion on which
you can ride, for I will not send you or go alone, understand that this
sailor has his own horse.”

The man nodded, and accompanied Betty to the stable. Then Margaret took
pen and wrote hastily to Peter, telling him of their evil chance, and
bidding him follow her at once to the ship, or, if it had sailed to the
warehouse. “I am loth to go,” she added “alone with a girl and a
strange man, yet I must since my heart is torn with fear for my beloved
father. Sweetheart, follow me quickly.”

This done, she gave the letter to that servant who had shown in the
sailor, bidding him hand it, without fail, to Master Peter Brome when
he came, which the man promised to do.

Then she fetched plain dark cloaks for herself and Betty, with hoods to
them, that their faces might not be seen, and presently they were
mounted.

“Stay!” said Margaret to the sailor as they were about to start. “How
comes it that my father did not send one of his own men instead of you,
and why did none write to me?”

The man looked surprised; he was a very good actor.

“His people were tending him,” he said, “and he bade me to go because I
knew the way, and had a good, hired horse ashore which I have used when
riding with messages to London about new timbers and other matters. As
for writing, the physician began a letter, but he was so slow and long
that Master Castell ordered me to be off without it. It seems,” the man
added, addressing Betty with some irritation, “that Mistress Margaret
misdoubts me. If so, let her find some other guide, or bide at home. It
is naught to me, who have only done as I was bidden.”

Thus did this cunning fellow persuade Margaret that her fears were
nothing, though, remembering the letter from d’Aguilar, Betty was
somewhat troubled. The thing had a strange look, but, poor, vain fool,
she thought to herself that, even if there were some trick, it was
certainly arranged only that she might seem to be taken, who could not
come alone. In truth she was blind and mad, and cared not what she did,
though, let this be said for her, she never dreamed that any harm was
meant towards her cousin Margaret, or that a lie had been told as to
Master Castell and his hurts.

Soon they were out of London, and riding swiftly by the road that
followed the north bank of the river, for their guide did not take them
over the bridge, as he said the ship was lying in mid-stream and that
the boat would be waiting on the Tilbury shore. But there was more than
twenty miles to travel, and, push on as they would, night had fallen
ere ever they came there. At length, when they were weary of the dark
and the rough road, the sailor pulled up at a spot upon the river’s
brink—where there was a little wharf, but no houses that they could
see—saying that this was the place. Dismounting, he gave his horse to
the groom to hold, and, going to the wharf, asked in a loud voice if
the boat from the Margaret was there, to which a voice answered, “Aye.”
Then he talked for a minute to those in the boat, though what he said
they could not hear, and ran back again, bidding them dismount, and
adding that they had done well to come, as Master Castell was much
worse, and did nothing but cry for his daughter.

The groom he told to lead the horses a little way along the bank till
he found an inn that stood there, where he must await their return or
further orders, and to Betty he suggested that she should go with him,
as there was but little place left in the boat. This she was willing
enough to do, thinking it all part of the plan for her carrying off;
but Margaret would have none of it, saying that unless her cousin came
with her she would not stir another step. So grumbling a little the
sailor gave way, and hurried them both to some wooden steps and down
these into a boat, of which they could but dimly see the outline.

So soon as ever they were seated side by side in the stern it was
pushed off, and rowed away rapidly into the darkness, while one of the
sailors lit a lantern which he fastened to the bow, and far out on the
river, as though in answer to the signal, another star of light
appeared, towards which they headed. Now Margaret, speaking through the
gloom, asked the rowers of her father’s state; but the sailor, their
guide, prayed her not to trouble them, as the tide ran very swiftly and
they must give all their mind to their business lest they should
overset. So she was silent, and, racked with doubts and fears, watched
that star of light growing ever nearer, till at length it hung above
them.

“Is that the ship Margaret?” cried their guide, and again a voice
answered “Aye.”

“Then tell Master Castell that his daughter has come at last,” he
shouted again, and in another minute a rope had been thrown to them,
and they were fast alongside a ladder on to which Betty, who was
nearest to it, was pushed the first, except for their guide, who had
run up the wooden steps very swiftly.

Betty, who was active and strong, followed him, Margaret coming next.
As she reached the deck Betty thought she heard a voice say in Spanish,
of which she understood something, “Fool! Why have you brought both?”
but the answer she could not catch. Then she turned and gave her hand
to Margaret, and together they walked forward to the foot of the mast.

“Lead me to my father,” said Margaret.

Whereon the guide answered:

“Yes, this way, Mistress, but come alone, for the sight of two of you
at once may disturb him.”

“Nay,” she answered, “my cousin comes with me.” And she took Betty’s
hand and clung to it.

Shrugging his shoulders the sailor led them forwards, and as they went
she noted that men were hauling on a sail, while other men, who sang a
strange, wild song, worked on what seemed to be a windlass. Now they
reached a cabin, and entered it, the door being shut behind them. In
the cabin a man sat at a table with a lamp hanging over his head. He
rose and turned towards them, bowing, and Margaret saw that it
was—d’Aguilar!

Betty stood silent; she had expected to meet him, though not here and
thus. Her foolish heart bounded so at the sight of him that she seemed
to choke, and could only wonder dimly what mistake had been made, and
how he would explain to Margaret and get her away, leaving herself and
him together to be married. Indeed, she searched the cabin with her
eyes to see where the priest was waiting, then noting a door beyond,
thought that doubtless he must be hidden there. As for Margaret, she
uttered a little stifled cry, then, being a brave woman, one of that
high nature which grows strong in the face of trouble, straightened
herself to her full height and said in a low, fierce voice:

“What do you here? Where is my father?”

“Señora,” he answered humbly, “I am on board my ship, the San Antonio,
and as for your father, he is either on his ship, the Margaret, or more
likely, by now, at his house in Holborn.”

At these words Margaret reeled back till the wall of the cabin stayed
her, and there she rested.

“Spare me your reproaches,” went on d’Aguilar hurriedly. “I will tell
you all the truth. First, be not anxious as to your father; no accident
has happened to him; he is sound and well. Forgive me if you have
suffered pain and doubt; but there was no other way. That tale was only
one of love’s snares and tricks——” He paused, overcome, fascinated by
Margaret’s face, which of a sudden had grown awful—that of a goddess of
vengeance, of a Medusa, which seemed to chill his blood to ice.

“A snare! A trick!” she muttered hoarsely, while her eyes flamed on him
like burning stars. “Thus then I pay you for your tricks.” And in an
instant he became aware that she had snatched a dagger from her bosom
and was springing on him.

He could not move; those fearful eyes held him fast. In another moment
that steel would have pierced his heart. But Betty had seen also, and,
thrusting her strong arms about Margaret, held her back, crying:

“Listen, you do not understand. It is I he wants—not you; I whom he
loves, and who love him, and am about to marry him. You he will send
back home.”

[Illustration: ]

In another moment that steel would have pierced his heart

“Loose me,” said Margaret, in such a voice that Betty’s arms fell from
her, and she stood there, the dagger still in her hand. “Now,” she said
to d’Aguilar, “the truth, and be swift with it. What means this woman?”

“She knows best,” answered d’Aguilar uneasily. “It has pleased her to
wrap herself in this web of conceits.”

“Which it has pleased you to spin, perchance. Speak, girl!”

“He made love to me,” gasped Betty; “and I love him. He promised to
marry me. He sent me a letter but to-day—here it is,” and she drew it
out.

“Read,” said Margaret; and Betty read.

“So you have betrayed me,” said Margaret, “you, my cousin, whom I have
sheltered and cherished.”

“No,” cried Betty. “I never thought to betray you; sooner would I have
died. I believed that your father was hurt, and that while you were
visiting him that man would take me.”

“What have you to say?” asked Margaret of d’Aguilar in the same
dreadful voice. “You offered your accursed love to me—and to her, and
you have snared us both. Man, what have you to say?”

“Only this”, he answered, trying to look brave, “that woman is a fool,
whose vanity I played on that I might make use of her to keep near to
you.”

“Do you hear, Betty? do you hear?” cried Margaret with a terrible
little laugh; but Betty only groaned as though she were dying.

“I love you, and you only,” went on d’Aguilar. “As for your cousin, I
will send her ashore. I have committed this sin because I could not
help myself. The thought that you were to be married to another man
to-morrow drove me mad, and I dared all to take you from his arms, even
though you should never come to mine. Did I not swear to you,” he said
with an attempt at his old gallantry, “that your image should accompany
me to Spain, whither we are sailing now?” And as he spoke the words the
ship lurched a little in the wind.

Margaret made no answer, only toyed with the dagger blade, and watched
him with eyes that glittered more coldly than its steel.

“Kill me, if you will, and have done,” he went on in a voice that was
desperate with love and shame. “So shall I be rid of all this torment.”

Then Margaret seemed to awake, for she spoke to him in a new voice—a
measured, frozen voice. “No,” she answered, “I will not stain my hands
even with your blood, for why should I rob God of His own vengeance? If
you attempt to touch me, or even to separate me from this poor woman
whom you have fooled, then I will kill—not you, but myself, and I swear
to you that my ghost shall accompany you to Spain, and from Spain down
to the hell that awaits you. Listen, Carlos d’Aguilar, Marquis of
Morella, this I know about you, that you believe in God and hear His
anger. Well, I call down upon you the vengeance of Almighty God. I see
it hang above your head. I say that it shall fall upon you, waking and
sleeping, loving and hating, in life and in death to all eternity. Do
your worst, for you shall do it all in vain. Whether I die or whether I
live, every pang that you cause me to suffer, every misery that you
have brought, or shall bring, upon the head of my betrothed, my father,
and this woman, shall be repaid to you a millionfold in this world and
the next. Now do you still wish that I should accompany you to Spain,
or will you let me go?”

“I cannot,” he answered hoarsely; “it is too late.”

“So be it, I will accompany you to Spain, I and Betty Dene, and the
vengeance of Almighty God that hovers over you. Of this at least be
sure—I hate you, I despise you, but I fear you not at all. Go.” Then
d’Aguilar stumbled from that cabin, and the two women heard the door
bolted behind him.




CHAPTER X.
THE CHASE.


About the time that Margaret and Betty were being rowed aboard the San
Antonio, Peter Brome and his servants, who had been delayed an hour or
more by the muddy state of the roads, pulled rein at the door of the
house in Holborn. For over a month he had been dreaming of this moment
of return, as a man does who expects such a welcome as he knew awaited
him, and who on the morrow was to be wed to a lovely and beloved bride.
He had thought how Margaret would be watching at the window, how,
spying him advancing down the street, she would speed to the door, how
he would leap from his horse and take her to his arms in front of every
one if need be—for why should they be ashamed who were to be wed upon
the morrow?

But there was no Margaret at the window, or at any rate he could not
see her, for it was dark. There was not even a light; indeed the whole
face of the old house seemed to frown at him through the gloom. Still,
Peter played his part according to the plan; that is, he leapt from his
horse, ran to the door and tried to enter, but could not for it was
locked, so he hammered on it with the handle of his sword, till at
length some one came and unbolted. It was the hired man with whom
Margaret had left the letter, and he held a lantern in his hand.

The sight of him frightened Peter, striking a chill to his heart.

“Who are you?” he asked; then, without waiting for an answer, went on,
“Where are Master Castell and Mistress Margaret?”

The man answered that the master was not yet back from his ship, and
that the Lady Margaret had gone out nearly three hours before with her
cousin Betty and a sailor—all of them on horseback.

“She must have ridden to meet me, and missed us in the dark,” said
Peter aloud, whereon the man asked whether he spoke to Master Brome,
since, if so, he had a letter for him.

“Yes,” answered Peter, and snatched it from his hand, bidding him close
the door and hold up the lantern while he read, for he could see that
the writing was that of Margaret.

“A strange story,” he muttered, as he finished it. “Well, I must away,”
and he turned to the door again.

As he stretched out his hand to the key, it opened, and through it came
Castell, as sound as ever he had been.

“Welcome, Peter!” he cried in a jolly voice. “I knew you were here, for
I saw the horses; but why are you not with Margaret?”

“Because Margaret has gone to be with you, who should be hurt almost to
death, or so says this letter.”

“To be with me—hurt to the death! Give it me—nay, read it, I cannot
see.”

So Peter read.

“I scent a plot,” said Castell in a strained voice as he finished, “and
I think that hound of a Spaniard is at the bottom of it, or Betty, or
both. Here, you fellow, tell us what you know, and be swift if you
would keep a sound skin.”

“That would I, why not?” answered the man, and told all the tale of the
coming of the sailor.

“Go, bid the men bring back the horses, all of them,” said Castell
almost before he had done; “and, Peter, look not so dazed, but come,
drink a cup of wine. We shall need it, both of us, before this night is
over. What! is there never a fellow of all my servants in the house?”
So he shouted till his folk, who had returned with him from the ship,
came running from the kitchen.

He bade them bring food and liquor, and while they gulped down the
wine, for they could not eat, Castell told how their Mistress Margaret
had been tricked away, and must be followed. Then, hearing the horses
being led back from the stables, they ran to the door and mounted, and,
followed by their men, a dozen or more of them, in all, galloped off
into the darkness, taking another road for Tilbury, that by which
Margaret went, not because they were sure of this, but because it was
the shortest.

But the horses were tired, and the night was dark and rainy, so it came
about that the clock of some church struck three of the morning before
ever they drew near to Tilbury. Now they were passing the little quay
where Margaret and Betty had entered the boat, Castell and Peter riding
side by side ahead of the others in stern silence, for they had nothing
to say, when a familiar voice hailed them—that of Thomas the groom.

“I saw your horses’ heads against the sky,” he explained, “and knew
them.”

“Where is your mistress?” they asked both in a brea

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