Fair Margaret
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H. Rider Haggard >> Fair Margaret
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"It came white after my shaving by a sainted barber in the Holy House,"
said Castell. "But come off that tall horse of yours, Betty, my dear--I
beg your pardon--most noble and highly born Marchioness of Morella, and
give me a kiss."
"That I will, twenty, if you like," she answered, arriving in his arms
so suddenly from on high, that had it not been for the sturdy support of
Smith behind, they would both of them have rolled upon the ground.
"Whose are those children?" she asked, when she had kissed Castell and
shaken Smith by the hand. "But no need to ask, they have got my cousin
Margaret's eyes and Peter's long nose. How are they?" she added
anxiously.
"You will see for yourself in a minute or two. Come, send on your people
and baggage to the Hall, though where they will stow them all I don't
know, and walk with us."
Betty hesitated, for she had been calculating upon the effect of a
triumphal entry in full state. But at that moment there appeared
Margaret and Peter themselves--Margaret, a beautiful matron with a child
in her arms, running, and Peter, looking much as he had always been,
spare, long of limb, stern but for the kindly eyes, striding away
behind, and after him sundry servants and the little girl Margaret.
Then there arose a veritable babel of tongues, punctuated by embracings;
but in the end the retinue and the baggage were got off up the drive,
followed by the children and the little Spanish-looking boy, with whom
they had already made friends, leaving only Betty and her closely
muffled-up attendant. This attendant Peter contemplated for a while, as
though there were something familiar to him in her general air.
Apparently she observed his interest, for as though by accident she
moved some of the wrappings that hid her face, revealing a single soft
and lustrous eye and a few square inches of olive-coloured cheek. Then
Peter knew her at once.
"How are you, Inez?" he said, stretching out his hand with a smile, for
really he was delighted to see her.
"As well as a poor wanderer in a strange and very damp country can be,
Don Peter," she answered in her languorous voice, "and certainly
somewhat the better for seeing an old friend whom last she met in a
certain baker's shop. Do you remember?"
"Remember!" answered Peter. "It is not a thing I am likely to forget.
Inez, what became of Fray Henriques? I have heard several
different stories."
"One never can be sure," she answered as she uncovered her smiling red
lips; "there are so many dungeons in that old Moorish Holy House, and
elsewhere, that it is impossible to keep count of their occupants,
however good your information. All I know is that he got into trouble
over that business, poor man. Suspicions arose about his conduct in the
procession which the captain here will recall," and she pointed to
Smith. "Also, it is very dangerous for men in such positions to visit
Jewish quarters and to write incautious letters--no, not the one you
think of; I kept faith--but others, afterwards, begging for it back
again, some of which miscarried."
"Is he dead then?" asked Peter.
"Worse, I think," she answered--"a living death, the 'Punishment of the
Wall.'"
"Poor wretch!" said Peter, with a shudder.
"Yes," remarked Inez reflectively, "few doctors like their own
medicine."
"I say, Inez," said Peter, nodding his head towards Betty, "that marquis
isn't coming here, is he?"
"In the spirit, perhaps, Don Peter, not otherwise."
"So he is really dead? What killed him?"
"Laughter, I think, or, rather, being laughed at. He got quite well of
the hurts you gave him, and then, of course, he had to keep the queen's
gage, and take the most noble lady yonder, late Betty, as his
marchioness. He couldn't do less, after she beat you off him with your
own sword and nursed him back to life. But he never heard the last of
it. They made songs about him in the streets, and would ask him how his
godmother, Isabella, was, because she had promised and vowed on his
behalf; also, whether the marchioness had broken any lances for his sake
lately, and so forth."
"Poor man!" said Peter again, in tones of the deepest sympathy. "A cruel
fate; I should have done better to kill him."
"Much; but don't say so to the noble Betty, who thinks that he had a
very happy married life under her protecting care. Really, he ate his
heart out till even I, who hated him, was sorry. Think of it! One of the
proudest men in Spain, and the most gallant, a nephew of the king, a
pillar of the Church, his sovereigns' plenipotentiary to the Moors, and
on secret matters--the common mock of the vulgar, yes, and of the
great too!"
"The great! Which of them?"
"Nearly all, for the queen set the fashion--I wonder why she hated him
so?" Inez added, looking shrewdly at Peter; then without waiting for an
answer, went on: "She did it very cleverly, by always making the most of
the most honourable Betty in public, calling her near to her, talking
with her, admiring her English beauty, and so forth, and what her
Majesty did, everybody else did, until my exalted mistress nearly went
off her head, so full was she of pride and glory. As for the marquis, he
fell ill, and after the taking of Granada went to live there quietly.
Betty went with him, for she was a good wife, and saved lots of money.
She buried him a year ago, for he died slow, and gave him one of the
finest tombs in Spain--it isn't finished yet. That is all the story. Now
she has brought her boy, the young marquis, to England for a year or
two, for she has a very warm heart, and longed to see you all. Also, she
thought she had better go away a while, for her son's sake. As for me,
now that Morella is dead, I am head of the household--secretary, general
purveyor of intelligence, and anything else you like at a good salary."
"You are not married, I suppose?" asked Peter.
"No," Inez answered; "I saw so much of men when I was younger that I
seem to have had enough of them. Or perhaps," she went on, fixing that
mild and lustrous eye upon him, "there was one of them whom I liked too
well to wish----"
She paused, for they had crossed the drawbridge and arrived opposite to
the Old Hall. The gorgeous Betty and the fair Margaret, accompanied by
the others, and talking rapidly, had passed through the wide doorway
into its spacious vestibule. Inez looked after them, and perceived,
standing like a guard at the foot of the open stair, that scarred suit
of white armour and riven shield blazoned with the golden falcon,
Isabella's gift, in which Peter had fought and conquered the Marquis of
Morella. Then she stepped back and contemplated the house critically.
At each end of it rose a stone tower, built for the purposes of defence,
and all around ran a deep moat. Within the circle of this moat, and
surrounded by poplars and ancient yews, on the south side of the Hall
lay a walled pleasaunce, or garden, of turf pierced by paths and planted
with flowering hawthorns and other shrubs, and at the end of it, almost
hidden in drooping willows, a stone basin of water. Looking at it, Inez
saw at once that so far as the circumstances of climate and situation
would allow, Peter, in the laying out of this place, had copied another
in the far-off, southern city of Granada, even down to the details of
the steps and seats. She turned to him and said innocently:
"Sir Peter, are you minded to walk with me in that garden this pleasant
evening? I do not see any window in yonder tower."
Peter turned red as the scar across his face, and laughed as he
answered:
"There may be one for all that. Get you into the house, dear Inez, for
none can be more welcome there; but I walk no more alone with you
in gardens."
THE END
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