Fair Margaret by H. Rider Haggard (page 2)

so a third time, and I will 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.”

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 older 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.

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.

“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 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 our side.”

“Spare me your fine words, I pray you, Señor,” answered Margaret, frowning. “It is not fitting that 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 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 hint 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 how 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 low 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.”

“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