THE SNARE.
On the following morning, when Castell returned, Margaret told him of
the visit of d’Aguilar, and of all that had passed between them, told
him also that he was acquainted with their secret, since he had spoken
of her as half a Jew.
“I know it, I know it,” answered her father, who was much disturbed and
very angry, “for yesterday he threatened me also. But let that go, I
can take my chance; now I would learn who brought this man into my
house when I was absent, and without my leave.”
“I fear that it was Betty,” said Margaret, “who swears that she thought
she did no wrong.”
“Send for her,” said Castell. Presently Betty came, and, being
questioned, told a long story.
She said she was standing by the side door, taking the air, when Señor
d’Aguilar appeared, and, having greeted her, without more words walked
into the house, saying that he had an appointment with the master.
“With me?” broke in Castell. “I was absent.”
“I did not know that you were absent, for I was out when you rode away
in the afternoon, and no one had spoken of it to me, so, thinking that
he was your friend, I let him in, and let him out again afterwards.
That is all I have to say.”
“Then I have to say that you are a hussy and a liar, and that, in one
way or the other, this Spaniard has bribed you,” answered Castell
fiercely. “Now, girl, although you are my wife’s cousin, and therefore
my daughter’s kin, I am minded to turn you out on to the street to
starve.”
At this Betty first grew angry, then began to weep; while Margaret
pleaded with her father, saying that it would mean the girl’s ruin, and
that he must not take such a sin upon him. So the end of it was, that,
being a kind-hearted man, remembering also that Betty Dene was of his
wife’s blood, and that she had favoured her as her daughter did, he
relented, taking measures to see that she went abroad no more save in
the company of Margaret, and that the doors were opened only by
men-servants.
So this matter ended.
That day Margaret wrote to Peter, telling him of all that had happened,
and how the Spaniard had asked her in marriage, though the words that
he used she did not tell. At the end of her letter, also, she bade him
have no fear of the Señor d’Aguilar or of any other man, as he knew
where her heart was.
When Peter received this writing he was much vexed to learn that both
Master Castell and Margaret had incurred the enmity of d’Aguilar, for
so he guessed it must be, also that Margaret should have been troubled
with his love-making; but for the rest he thought little of the matter,
who trusted her as he trusted heaven. Still it made him anxious to
return to London as soon as might he, even though he must take the risk
of the Spaniards’ daggers. Within three days, however, he received
other letters both from Castell and from Margaret, which set his fears
at rest.
These told him that d’Aguilar had sailed for Spain indeed, Castell said
that he had seen him standing on the poop of the Ambassador de Ayala’s
vessel as it dropped down the Thames towards the sea. Moreover,
Margaret had a note of farewell from his hand, which ran:
“Adieu, sweet lady, till that predestined hour when we meet again. I
go, as I must, but, as I told you, your image goes with me.
“Your worshipper till death,
“MORELLA.”
“He may take her image so long as I keep herself and if he comes back
with his worship, I promise him that death and he shall not be far
apart,” was Peter’s grim comment as he laid the paper down. Then he
went on with his letters, which told that now, when the Spaniards had
gone, and there was nothing more to fear, he was awaited in London.
Indeed, Castell fixed a day when he should arrive—May 31st—that was
within a week, adding that on its morrow—namely, June 1st, for Margaret
would not be wed in May, the Virgin Mary’s month, since she held it to
be unlucky—their marriage might take place as quietly as they would.
Margaret wrote the same news, and in such sweet words that he kissed
her letter, then hastened to answer it, shortly, after his custom, for
Peter was no great scribe, saying, that if the saints willed it he
would be with them by nightfall on the last day of May, and that in all
England there was no happier man than he.
Now all that week Margaret was very busy preparing her marriage robe,
and other garments also, for it was settled that on the next day they
should ride together down to Dedham, in Essex, whither her father would
follow them shortly. The Old Hall was not ready, indeed, nor would it
be for some time; but Peter had furnished certain rooms in it which
might serve them for the summer season, and by winter time the house
would be finished and open.
Castell was busy also, for now, having worked very hard at the task,
his ship the Margaret was almost refitted and laden, so that he hoped
to get her to sea on this same May 31st, and thus be clear of the last
of his business, except the handing over of his warehouses and stock to
those who had bought them. These great affairs kept him much at
Gravesend, where the ship lay, but, as he had no dread of further
trouble now that d’Aguilar and the other Spaniards, among them that
band of de Ayala’s servants who had vowed to take Peter’s life, were
gone, this did not disturb him.
Oh! happy, happy was Margaret during those sweet spring days, when her
heart was bright and clear as the skies from which all winter storms
had passed. So happy was she indeed, and so full of a hundred joyful
cares, that she found no time to take note of her cousin Betty, who
worked with her at her wedding broideries, and helped to make
preparations for the journey which should follow after. Had she done
so, she might have seen that Betty was anxious and distressed, like one
who waited for some tidings that did not come, and from hour to hour
fought against anguish and despair But she took no note, whose heart
was too full of her own matters, and who did but count the hours till
she should see her lover back and pass to his arms, a wife.
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?”
“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.”
[Illustration: ]
In another moment that steel would have pierced his heart
“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.