A. F. Pollard - "Henry VIII."

Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 363, December 16, 1882"

Karl Gutzkow - "Berlin Panorama einer Weltstadt"

Sarah Tytler - "A Houseful of Girls"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Fair Margaret

H >> H. Rider Haggard >> Fair Margaret




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" asked Betty.

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

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

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

"I am. What is it?"

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

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

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

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

"BELOVED,

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

"C. d'A."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still Margaret wavered, till the sailor said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that the ship _Margaret_?" cried their guide, and again a voice
answered "Aye."

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

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

"Lead me to my father," said Margaret.

Whereon the guide answered:

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

"Nay," she answered, "my cousin comes with me." And she took Betty's
hand and clung to it.

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

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

"What do you here? Where is my father?"

"Senora," 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To be with me--hurt to the death! Give it me--nay, read it, I cannot
see."

So Peter read.

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

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

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

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

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

"I saw your horses' heads against the sky," he explained, "and knew
them."

"Where is your mistress?" they asked both in a breath.

"Gone, gone with Betty Dene in a boat, from this quay, to be rowed to
the _Margaret_, or so I thought. Having stabled the horses as I was
bidden, I came back here to await them. But that was hours ago, and I
have seen no soul, and heard nothing except the wind and the water, till
I heard the galloping of your horses."

"On to Tilbury, and get boats," said Castell. "We must catch the
_Margaret_ ere she sails at dawn. Perhaps the women are aboard of her."

"If so, I think Spaniards took them there, for I am sure they were not
English in that craft," said Thomas, as he ran by the side of Castell's
horse, holding to the stirrup leather.

His master made no answer, only Peter groaned aloud, for he too was sure
that they were Spaniards.

An hour later, just as the dawn broke, they with their men climbed to
the deck of the _Margaret_ while she was hauling up her anchor. A few
words with her captain, Jacob Smith, told them the worst. No boat had
left the ship, no Margaret had come aboard her. But some six hours
before they had watched the Spanish vessel, _San Antonio_, that had been
berthed above them, pass down the river. Moreover, two watermen in a
skiff, who brought them fresh meat, had told them that while they were
delivering three sheep and some fowls to the _San Antonio_, just before
she sailed, they had seen two tall women helped up her ladder, and
heard one of them say in English, "Lead me to my father."

Now they knew all the awful truth, and stared at each other like dumb
men.

It was Peter who found his tongue the first, and said slowly:

"I must away to Spain to find my bride, if she still lives, and to kill
that fox. Get you home, Master Castell."

"My home is where my daughter is," answered Castell fiercely. "I go
a-sailing also."

"There is danger for you in that land of Spaniards, if ever we get
yonder," said Peter meaningly.

"If it were the mouth of hell, still I would go," replied Castell. "Why
should I not who seek a devil?"

"That we do both," said Peter, and stretching out his hand he took that
of Castell. It was the pledge of the father and the lover to follow her
who was all to them, till death stayed their quest.

Castell thought a little while, then gave orders that all the crew
should be called together on deck in the waist of the ship, which was a
carack of about two hundred tons burden, round fashioned, and sitting
deep in the water, but very strongly built of oak, and a swift sailer.
When they were gathered, and with them the officers and their own
servants, accompanied by Peter, he went and addressed them just as the
sun was rising. In few and earnest words he told them of the great
outrage that had been done, and how it was his purpose and that of Peter
Brome who had been wickedly robbed of the maid who this day should have
become his wife, to follow the thieves across the sea to Spain, in the
hope that by the help of God, they might rescue Margaret and Betty. He
added that he knew well this was a service of danger, since it might
chance that there would be fighting, and he was loth to ask any man to
risk life or limb against his will, especially as they came out to trade
and not to fight. Still, to those who chose to accompany them, should
they win through safely, he promised double wage, and a present charged
upon his estate, and would give them writings to that effect. As for
those who did not, they could leave the ship now before she sailed.

Copyright (c) 2007. topboookz.com. All rights reserved.