Fair Margaret

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

Castell shook his head impatiently.

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

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

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

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

"Well," said Castell, "what tidings?"

The man bowed and said:

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

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

"What does that mean?" asked Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

LOVERS DEAR

"Peter!" gasped Margaret--"_Peter!_"

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face brightened.

"Tell him by all means," he said; "he won't mind. He told me----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To say nothing--yes, but he could not make you promise to show
nothing."

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

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

"You said just now that I told falsehoods--twice; if I am honest, how
can I tell falsehoods?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You are full of strange tidings this morning, Peter."

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

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

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

"You are unkind to press me so."

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

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

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

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

"Nay, but, Peter, I will tell you. It is my father--what other man
should I love?"

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

"How so? What other man should I love--unless, indeed, it were
yourself?"

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

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

He turned and hesitated.

"Come, then, and take them."

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

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

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

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

"God has been very good to us. Let us thank God."

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

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