Fair Margaret
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H. Rider Haggard >> Fair Margaret
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Their prayer finished, they sat together on the seat, now talking, and
now silent in their joy, while all too fast the time wore on. At
length--it was after one of these spells of blissful silence--a change
came over them, such a change as falls upon some peaceful scene when,
unexpected and complete, a black stormcloud sweeps across the sun, and,
in place of its warm light, pours down gloom full of the promise of
tempest and of rain. Apprehension got a hold of them. They were both
afraid of what they could not guess.
"Come," she said, "it is time to go in. My father will miss us."
So without more words or endearments they rose and walked side by side
out of the shelter of the elms into the open garden. Their heads were
bent, for they were lost in thought, and thus it came about that
Margaret saw her feet pass suddenly into the shadow of a man, and,
looking up, perceived standing in front of her, grave, alert, amused,
none other than the Senor d'Aguilar. She uttered a little stifled
scream, while Peter, with the impulse that causes a brave and startled
hound to rush at that which frightens it, gave a leap forward towards
the Spaniard.
"Mother of God! do you take me for a thief?" he asked in a laughing
voice, as he stepped to one side to avoid him.
"Your pardon," said Peter, shaking himself together; "but you surprised
us appearing so suddenly where we never thought to see you."
"Any more than I thought to see you here, for this seems a strange place
to linger on so cold a morning," and he looked at them again with his
curious, mocking eyes that appeared to read the secret of their souls,
while they grew red as roses beneath his scrutiny. "Permit me to
explain," he went on. "I came here thus early on your service, to warn
you, Master Peter, not to go abroad to-day, since a writ is out for your
arrest, and as yet I have had no time to quash it by friendly
settlement. Well, as it chanced, I met that handsome lady who was with
you yesterday, returning from her marketing--a friendly soul--she says
she is your cousin. She brought me to the house, and having learned that
your father, whom I wished to see, was at his prayers, good man, in the
old chapel, led me to its door and left me to seek him. I entered, but
could not find him, so, having waited a while, strayed into this garden
through the open door, purposing to walk here till some one should
appear, and, you see, I have been fortunate beyond my expectations
or deserts."
"So!" said Peter shortly, for the man's manner and elaborated
explanations filled him with disgust. "Let us seek Master Castell that
he may hear the story."
"And we thank you much for coming to warn us," murmured Margaret. "I
will go find my father," and she slipped past him towards the door.
D'Aguilar watched her enter it, then turned to Peter and said:
"You English are a hardy folk who take the spring air so early. Well, in
such company I would do the same. Truly she is a beauteous maiden. I
have some experience of the sex, but never do I remember one so fair."
"My cousin is well enough," answered Peter coldly, for this Spaniard's
very evident admiration of Margaret did not please him.
"Yes," answered d'Aguilar, taking no notice of his tone, "she is well
enough to fill the place, not of a merchant's daughter, but of a great
lady--a countess reigning over towns and lands, or a queen even; the
royal robes and ornaments would become that carriage and that brow."
"My cousin seeks no such state who is happy in her quiet lot," answered
Peter again; then added quickly, "See, here comes Master Castell
seeking you."
D'Aguilar advanced and greeted the merchant courteously, noticing as he
did so that, notwithstanding his efforts to appear unconcerned, Castell
seemed ill at ease.
"I am an early visitor," he said, "but I knew that you business folk
rise with the lark, and I wished to catch our friend here before he went
out," and he repeated to him the reason of his coming.
"I thank you, Senor," answered Castell. "You are very good to me and
mine. I am sorry that you have been kept waiting. They tell me that you
looked for me in the chapel, but I was not there, who had already left
it for my office."
"So I found. It is a quaint place, that old chapel of yours, and while I
waited I went to the altar and told my beads there, which I had no time
to do before I left my lodgings."
Castell started almost imperceptibly, and glanced at d'Aguilar with his
quick eyes, then turned the subject and asked if he would not breakfast
with them. He declined, however, saying that he must be about their
business and his own, then promptly proposed that he should come to
supper on the following night that was--Sunday--and make report how
things had gone, a suggestion that Castell could not but accept.
So he bowed and smiled himself out of the house, and walked thoughtfully
into Holborn, for it had pleased him to pay this visit on foot, and
unattended. At the corner whom should he meet again but the tall,
fair-haired Betty, returning from some errand which she had found it
convenient to fulfil just then.
"What," he said, "you once more! The saints are very kind to me this
morning. Come, Senora, walk a little way with me, for I would ask you a
few questions."
Betty hesitated, then gave way. It was seldom that she found the chance
of walking through Holborn with such a noble-looking cavalier.
"Never look at your working-dress," he said.
"With such a shape, what matters the robe that covers it?"--a compliment
at which Betty blushed, for she was proud of her fine figure.
"Would you like a mantilla of real Spanish lace for your head and
shoulders? Well, you shall have one that I brought from Spain with me,
for I know no other lady in the land whom it would become better. But,
Mistress Betty, you told me wrong about your master. I went to the
chapel and he was not there."
"He was there, Senor," she answered, eager to set herself right with
this most agreeable and discriminating foreigner, "for I saw him go in a
moment before, and he did not come out again."
"Then, Senora, where could he have hidden himself? Has the place a
crypt?"
"None that I have heard of; but," she added, "there is a kind of little
room behind the altar."
"Indeed. How do you know that? I saw no room."
"Because one day I heard a voice behind the tapestry, Senor, and,
lifting it, saw a sliding door left open, and Master Castell kneeling
before a table and saying his prayers aloud."
"How strange! And what was there on the table?"
"Only a queer-shaped box of wood like a little house, and two
candlesticks, and some rolls of parchment. But I forgot, Senor; I
promised Master Castell to say nothing about that place, for he turned
and saw me, and came at me like a watchdog out of its kennel. You won't
say that I told you, will you, Senor?"
"Not I; your good master's private cupboard does not interest me. Now I
want to know something more. Why is that beautiful cousin of yours not
married? Has she no suitors?"
"Suitors, Senor? Yes, plenty of them, but she sends them all about their
business, and seems to have no mind that way."
"Perhaps she is in love with her cousin, that long-legged, strong-armed,
wooden-headed Master Brome."
"Oh! no, Senor, I don't think so; no lady could be in love with him--he
is too stern and silent."
"I agree with you, Senora. Then perhaps he is in love with her."
Betty shook her head, and replied:
"Peter Brome doesn't think anything of women, Senor. At least he never
speaks to or of them."
"Which shows that probably he thinks about them all the more. Well,
well, it is no affair of ours, is it? Only I am glad to hear that there
is nothing between them, since your mistress ought to marry high, and be
a great lady, not a mere merchant's wife."
"Yes, Senor. Though Peter Brome is not a merchant, at least by birth, he
is high-born, and should be Sir Peter Brome if his father had not fought
on the wrong side and sold his land. He is a soldier, and a very brave
one, they say, as all might see last night."
"No doubt, and perhaps would make a great captain, if he had the chance,
with his stern face and silent tongue. But, Senora Betty, say, how comes
it that, being so handsome," and he bowed, "you are not married either?
I am sure it can be from no lack of suitors."
Again Betty, foolish girl, flushed with pleasure at the compliment.
"You are right, Senor," she answered. "I have plenty of them; but I am
like my cousin--they do not please me. Although my father lost his
fortune, I come of good blood, and I suppose that is why I do not care
for these low-born men, and would rather remain as I am than marry
one of them."
"You are quite right," said d'Aguilar in his sympathetic voice. "Do not
stain your blood. Marry in your own class, or not at all, which, indeed,
should not be difficult for one so beautiful and charming." And he
looked into her large eyes with tender admiration.
This quality, indeed, soon began to demonstrate itself so actively, for
they were now in the fields where few people wandered, that Betty, who
although vain was proud and upright, thought it wise to recollect that
she must be turning homewards. So, in spite of his protests, she left
him and departed, walking upon air.
How splendid and handsome this foreign gentleman was, she thought to
herself, really a great cavalier, and surely he admired her truly. Why
should he not? Such things had often been. Many a rich lady whom she
knew was not half so handsome or so well born as herself, and would make
him a worse wife--that is, and the thought chilled her somewhat--if he
were not already married.
From all of which it will be seen that d'Aguilar had quickly succeeded
in the plan which only presented itself to him a few hours before. Betty
was already half in love with him. Not that he had any desire to possess
this beautiful but foolish woman's heart, who saw in her only a useful
tool, a stepping-stone by means of which he might draw near to Margaret.
For with Margaret, it may be said at once, he was quite in love. At the
sight of her sweet yet imperial beauty, as he saw her first,
dishevelled, angry, frightened, in the crowd outside the king's
banqueting-hall, his southern blood had taken sudden fire. Finished
voluptuary though he was, the sensation he experienced then was quite
new to him. He longed for this woman as he had never longed for any
other, and, what is more, he desired to make her his wife. Why not?
Although there was a flaw in it, his rank was high, and therefore she
was beneath him; but for this her loveliness would atone, and she had
wit and learning enough to fill any place that he could give her. Also,
great as was his wealth, his wanton, spendthrift way of life had brought
him many debts, and she was the only child of one of the richest
merchants in England, whose dower, doubtless, would be a fortune that
many a royal princess might envy. Why not again? He would turn Inez and
those others adrift--at any rate, for a while--and make her mistress of
his palace there in Granada. Instantly, as is often the fashion of those
who have Eastern blood in their veins, d'Aguilar had made up his mind,
yes, before he left her father's table on the previous night. He would
marry Margaret and no other woman.
Yet at once he had seen many difficulties in his path. To begin with, he
mistrusted him of Peter, that strong, quiet man who could kill a great
armed knave with his stick, and at a word call half London to his side.
Peter, he was sure, being human, must be in love with Margaret, and he
was a rival to be feared. Well, if Margaret had no thoughts of Peter,
this mattered nothing, and if she had--and what were they doing together
in the garden that morning?--Peter must be got rid of, that was all. It
was easy enough if he chose to adopt certain means; there were many of
those Spanish fellows who would not mind sticking a knife into his back
in the dark.
But sinful as he was, at such steps his conscience halted. Whatever
d'Aguilar had done, he had never caused a man to be actually murdered,
he who was a bigot, who atoned for his misdoings by periods of remorse
and prayer, in which he placed his purse and talents at the service of
the Church, as he was doing at this moment. No, murder must not be
thought of; for how could any absolution wash him clean of that stain?
But there were other ways. For instance, had not this Peter, in
self-defence it is true, killed one of the servants of an ambassador of
Spain? Perhaps, however, it would not be necessary to make use of them.
It had seemed to him that the lady was not ill pleased with him, and,
after all, he had much to offer. He would court her fairly, and if he
were rejected by her, or by her father, then it would be time enough to
act. Meanwhile, he would keep the sword hanging over the head of Peter,
pretending that it was he alone who had prevented it from falling, and
learn all that he could as to Castell and his history.
Here, indeed, Fortune, in the shape of the foolish Betty, had favoured
him. Without a doubt, as he had heard in Spain, and been sure from the
moment that he first saw him, Castell was still secretly a Jew. Mistress
Betty's story of the room behind the altar, with the ark and the candles
and the rolls of the Law, proved as much. At least here was evidence
enough to send him to the fires of the Inquisition in Spain, and,
perhaps, to drive him out of England. Now, if John Castell, the Spanish
Jew, should not wish, for any reason, to give him his daughter in
marriage, would not a hint and an extract from the Commissions of their
Majesties of Spain and the Holy Father suffice to make him change
his mind?
Thus pondering, d'Aguilar regained his lodgings, where his first task
was to enter in a book all that Betty had told him, and all that he had
observed in the house of John Castell.
CHAPTER V
CASTELL'S SECRET
In John Castell's house it was the habit, as in most others in those
days, for his dependents, clerks, and shopmen to eat their morning and
mid-day meals with him in the hall, seated at two lower tables, all of
them save Betty, his daughter's cousin and companion, who sat with them
at the upper board. This morning Betty's place was empty, and presently
Castell, lifting his eyes, for he was lost in thought, noted it, and
asked where she might be--a question that neither Margaret nor Peter
could answer.
One of the servants at the lower table, however--it was that man who had
been sent to follow d'Aguilar on the previous night--said that as he
came down Holborn a while before he had seen her walking with the
Spanish don, a saying at which his master looked grave.
Just as they were finishing their meal, a very silent one, for none of
them seemed to have anything to say, and after the servants had left the
hall, Betty arrived, flushed as though with running.
"Where have you been that you are so late?" asked Castell.
"To seek the linen for the new sheets, but it was not ready," she
answered glibly. "The mercer kept you waiting long," remarked Castell
quietly. "Did you meet any one?"
"Only the folk in the street."
"I will ask you no more questions, lest I should cause you to lie and
bring you into sin," said Castell sternly. "Girl, how far did you walk
with the Senor d'Aguilar, and what was your business with him?"
Now Betty knew that she had been seen, and that it was useless to deny
the truth.
"Only a little way," she answered, "and that because he prayed me to
show him his path."
"Listen, Betty," went on Castell, taking no notice of her words. "You
are old enough to guard yourself, therefore as to your walking abroad
with gallants who can mean you no good I say nothing. But know this--no
one who has knowledge of the matters of my house," and he looked at her
keenly, "shall mix with any Spaniard. If you are found alone with this
senor any more, that hour I have done with you, and you never pass my
door again. Nay, no words. Take your food and eat it elsewhere."
So she departed half weeping, but very angry, for Betty was strong and
obstinate by nature. When she had gone, Margaret, who was fond of her
cousin, tried to say some words on her behalf; but her father
stopped her.
"Pshaw!" he said, "I know the girl; she is vain as a peacock, and,
remembering her gentle birth and good looks, seeks to marry above her
station; while for some purpose of his own--an ill one, I'll warrant--
that Spaniard plays upon her weakness, which, if it be not curbed, may
bring trouble on us all. Now, enough of Betty Dene; I must to my work."
"Sir," said Peter, speaking for the first time, "we would have a
private word with you."
"A private word," he said, looking up anxiously. "Well, speak on. No,
this place is not private; I think its walls have ears. Follow me," and
he led the way into the old chapel, whereof, when they had all passed
it, he bolted the door. "Now," he said, "what is it?"
"Sir," answered Peter, standing before him, "having your leave at last,
I asked your daughter in marriage this morning."
"At least you lose no time, friend Peter; unless you had called her from
her bed and made your offer through the door you could not have done it
quicker. Well, well, you ever were a man of deeds, not words, and what
says my Margaret?"
"An hour ago she said she was content," answered Peter.
"A cautious man also," went on Castell with a twinkle in his eye, "who
remembers that women have been known to change their minds within an
hour. After such long thought, what say you now, Margaret?"
"That I am angry with Peter," she answered, stamping her small foot,
"for if he does not trust me for an hour, how can he trust me for his
life and mine?"
"Nay, Margaret, you do not understand me," said Peter. "I wished not to
bind you, that is all, in case----"
"Now you are saying it again," she broke in vexed, and yet amused. "Do
so a third time, and I will 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 colder words," he said; "but I wonder,
should you ever come to such a pass as mine, whether you will find the
heart to meet it half as bravely? Why do you think that I have told you
this secret, that I might have kept from you as I kept it from your
mother, Margaret? I say because it is a part of my penance for the sin
which I have sinned. Aye, I know well that my God is a jealous God, and
that this sin will fall back on my head, and that I shall pay its price
to the last groat, though when and how the blow will strike me I know
not. Go you, Peter, or you, Margaret, and denounce me if you will. Your
priests will speak well of you for the deed, and open to you a shorter
road to Heaven, and I shall not blame you, nor lessen your wealth by a
single golden noble."
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