Fair Margaret (1907), page 11
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
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.
When he had finished, the sailormen, of whom there were about thirty, with the stout-hearted captain, Jacob Smith, a sturdy-built man of fifty years of age, at the head of them, conferred together, and at last, with one exception — that of a young new-married man, whose heart failed him — they accepted the offer, swearing that they would see the thing through to the end, were it good or ill, for they were all Englishmen, and no lovers of the Spaniards. Moreover, so bitter a wrong stirred their blood. Indeed, although for the most part they were not sailors, six of the twelve men who had ridden with them from London prayed that they might come too, for the love they had to Margaret, their master, and Peter; and they took them. The other six they sent ashore again, bearing letters to Castell’s friends, agents, and reeves, as to the transfer of his business and the care of his lands, houses, and other properties during his absence. Also, they took a short will duly signed by Castell and witnessed, wherein he left all his goods of whatever sort that remained unsettled or undevised, to Margaret and Peter, or the survivor of them, or their heirs, or failing these, for the purpose of founding a hospital for the poor. Then these men bade them farewell and departed, very heavy at heart, just as the anchor was hauled home, and the sails began to draw in the stiff morning breeze.
About ten o’clock they rounded the Nore bank safely, and here spoke a fishing-boat, who told them that more than six hours before they had seen the San Antonio sail past them down Channel, and noted two women standing on her deck, holding each other’s hands and gazing shorewards. Then, knowing that there was no mistake, there being nothing more that they could do, worn out with grief and journeying, they ate some food and went to their cabin to sleep.
