PETER PLAYS A PART.
“Stop,” said Peter from the shadow of the doorway, “I fear this
business, Inez, and I do not understand why it is needful. Why cannot
you say what you have to say here?”
“Are you mad?” she answered almost fiercely through her veil. “Do you
think that it can be any pleasure for me to seem to make love to a
stone shaped like a man, for whom I care nothing at all—except as a
friend?” she added quickly. “I tell you, Señor Peter, that if you do
not do as I tell you, you will never hear what I have to say, for I
shall be held to have failed in my business, and within a few minutes
shall vanish from you for ever—to my death perhaps; but what does that
matter to you? Choose now, and quickly, for I cannot stand thus for
long.”
“I obey you, God forgive me!” said the distraught Peter from the
darkness of the doorway; “but must I really——?”
“Yes, you must,” she answered with energy, “and some would not think
that so great a penance.”
Then she lifted the corner of her veil coyly and, peeping out beneath
it, called in a soft, clear voice, “Oh! forgive me, dear friend, if I
have run too fast for you, forgetting that you are still so very weak.
Here, lean upon me; I am frail, but it may serve.” And she passed up
the steps again, to reappear in another moment with Peter’s hand
resting on her shoulder.
“Be careful of these steps,” she said, “they are so slippery”—a
statement to which Peter, whose pale face had grown suddenly red,
murmured a hearty assent. “Do not be afraid,” she went on in her
flute-like voice; “this is the secret garden, where none can hear
words, however sweet, and none can see even a caress, no, not the most
jealous woman. That is why in old days it was called the Sultana’s
Chamber, for there at the end of it was where she bathed in the summer
season. What say you of spies? Oh! yes, in the palace there are many,
but to look towards this place, even for the Guardian of the Women, was
always death. Here there are no witnesses, save the flowers and the
birds.”
As she spoke thus they reached the central path, and passed up it
slowly, Peter’s hand still upon the shoulder of Inez, and her white arm
about him, while she looked up into his eyes.
“Bend closer over me,” she whispered, “for truly your face is like that
of a wooden saint,” and he bent. “Now,” she went on, “listen. Your lady
lives, and is well—kiss me on the lips, please, that news is worth it.
If you shut your eyes you can imagine that I am she.”
Again Peter obeyed, and with a better grace than might have been
expected.
“She is a prisoner in this same palace,” she went on, “and the marquis,
who is mad for love of her, seeks by all means, fair or foul, to make
her his wife!”
“Curse him!” exclaimed Peter with another embrace.
“Till a few days ago she thought you dead; but now she knows that you
are alive and recovering. Her father, Castell, escaped from the place
where he was put, and is in hiding among his friends, the Jews, where
even Morella cannot find him; indeed, he believes him fled from the
city. But he is not fled, and, having much gold, has opened a door
between himself and his daughter.”
Here she stopped to return the embrace with much warmth. Then they
passed under some trees, and came to the marble baths where the
sultanas were supposed to have bathed in summer, for this place had
been one of the palaces of the Kings of Granada before they lived in
the Alhambra. Here Inez sat down upon a seat and loosened some garment
about her throat, for the evening was very hot.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked doubtfully, for he was filled with
many fears.
“Cooling myself,” she answered; “your arm was warm, and we may sit here
for a few minutes.”
“Well, go on with your tale,” he said.
“I have little more to say, friend, except that if you wish to send any
message, I might perhaps be able to take it.”
“You are an angel,” he exclaimed.
“That is another word for messenger, is it not? Continue.”
“Tell her—that if she hears anything of all this business, it isn’t
true.”
“On that point she may form her own opinion,” replied Inez demurely.
“If I were in her place I know what mine would be. Don’t waste time; we
must soon begin to walk again.”
Peter stared at her, for he could understand nothing of all this play.
Apparently she read his look, for she answered it in a quiet, serious
voice:
“You are wondering what everything means, and why I am doing what I do.
I will tell you, Señor, and you can believe me or not as you like.
Perhaps you think that I am in love with you. It would not be
wonderful, would it? Besides, in the old tales, that always happens—the
lady who nurses the Christian knight and worships him and so forth.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort; I am not so vain.”
“I know it, Señor, you are too good a man to be vain. Well, I do all
these things, not for love of you, or any one, but for hate—for hate.
Yes, for hate of Morella,” and she clenched her little hand, hissing
the words out between her teeth.
“I understand the feeling,” said Peter. “But—but what has he done to
you?”
“Do not ask me, Señor. Enough that once I loved him—that accursed
priest Henriques sold me into his power—oh! a long while ago, and he
ruined me, making me what I am, and—I bore his child, and—and it is
dead. Oh! Mother of God, my boy is dead, and since then I have been an
outcast and his slave—they have slaves here in Granada, Señor—
dependent on him for my bread, forced to do his bidding, forced to wait
upon his other loves; I, who once was the sultana; I, of whom he has
wearied. Only to-day—but why should I tell you of it? Well, he has
driven me even to this, that I must kiss an unwilling stranger in a
garden,” and she sobbed aloud.
“Poor girl!—poor girl!” said Peter, patting her hand kindly with his
thin fingers. “Henceforth I have another score against Morella, and I
will pay it too.”
“Will you?” she asked quickly. “Ah! if so, I would die for you, who now
live only to be revenged upon him. And it shall be my first vengeance
to rob him of that noble-looking mistress of yours, whom he has stolen
away and has set his heart upon wholly, because she is the first woman
who ever resisted him—him, who thinks that he is invincible.”
“Have you any plan?” asked Peter.
“As yet, none. The thing is very difficult. I go in danger of my life,
for if he thought that I betrayed him he would kill me like a rat, and
think no harm of it. Such things can be done in Granada without sin,
Señor, and no questions asked—at least if the victim be a woman of the
murderer’s household. I have told you already that if I had refused to
do what I have done this evening I should certainly have been got rid
of in this way or that, and another set on at the work. No, I have no
plan yet, only it is I through whom the Señor Castell communicates with
his daughter, and I will see him again, and see her, and we will make
some plan. No, do not thank me. He pays me for my services, and I am
glad to take his money, who hope to escape from this hell and live on
it elsewhere. Yet, not for all the money in the world would I risk what
I am risking, though in truth it matters not to me whether I live or
die. Señor, I will not disguise it from you, all this scene will come
to the Dona Margaret’s ears, but I will explain it to her.”
“I pray you, do,” said Peter earnestly—“explain it fully.”
“I will—I will. I will work for you and her and her father, and if I
cease to work, know that I am dead or in a dungeon, and fend for
yourselves as best you may. One thing I can tell you for your
comfort—no harm has been done to this lady of yours. Morella loves her
too well for that. He wishes to make her his wife. Or perhaps he has
sworn some oath, as I know that he has sworn that he will not murder
you—which he might have done a score of times while you have lain a
prisoner in his power. Why, once when you were senseless he came and
stood over you, a dagger in his hand, and reasoned out the case with
me. I said, ‘Why do you not kill him?’ knowing that thus I could best
help to save your life. He answered, ‘Because I will not take my wife
with her lover’s blood upon my hands, unless I slay him in fair fight.
I swore it yonder in London. It was the offering which I made to God
and to my patron saint that so I might win her fairly, and if I break
that oath, God will be avenged upon me here and hereafter. Do my
bidding, Inez. Nurse him well, so that if he dies, he dies without sin
of mine,’ No, he will not murder you or harm her. Friend Pedro, he dare
not.”
“Can you think of nothing?” asked Peter.
“Nothing—as yet nothing. These walls are high, guards watch them day
and night, and outside is the great city of Granada where Morella has
much power, and whence no Christian may escape. But he would marry her.
And there is that handsome fool-woman, her servant, who is in love with
him—oh! she told me all about it in the worst Spanish I ever heard, but
the story is too long to repeat; and the priest, Father Henriques—he
who wished that you might be killed at the inn, and who loves money so
much. Ah! now I think I see some light. But we have no more time to
talk, and I must have time to think. Friend Pedro, make ready your
kisses, we must go on with our game, and, in truth, you play but badly.
Come now, your arm. There is a seat prepared for us yonder. Smile and
look loving. I have not art enough for both. Come!—come!” And together
they walked out of the dense shadow of the trees and past the marble
bath of the sultanas to a certain seat beneath a bower on which were
cushions, and lying among them a lute.
“Seat yourself at my feet,” she said, as she sank on to the bench. “Can
you sing?”
“No more than a crow,” he answered.
“Then I must sing to you. Well, it will be better than the
love-making.” Then in a very sweet voice she began to warble amorous
Moorish ditties that she accompanied upon the lute, whilst Peter, who
was weary in body and disturbed in mind, played a lover’s part to the
best of his ability, and by degrees the darkness gathered.
At length, when they could no longer see across the garden, Inez ceased
singing and rose with a sigh.
“The play is finished and the curtain down,” she said; “also it is time
that you went in out of this damp. Señor Pedro, you are a very bad
actor; but let us pray that the audience was compassionate, and took
the will for the deed.”
“I did not see any audience,” answered Peter.
“But it saw you, as I dare say you will find out by-and-by. Follow me
now back to your room, for I must be going about your business—and my
own. Have you any message for the Señor Castell?”
“None, save my love and duty. Tell him that, thanks to you, although
still somewhat feeble, I am recovered of my hurt upon the ship and the
fever which I took from the sun, and that if he can make any plan to
get us all out of this accursed city and the grip of Morella I will
bless his name and yours.”
“Good, I will not forget. Now be silent. Tomorrow we will walk here
again; but be not afraid, then there will be no more need for
love-making.”
Margaret sat by the open window-place of her beautiful chamber in
Morella’s palace. She was splendidly arrayed in a rich, Spanish dress,
whereof the collar was stiff with pearls, she who must wear what it
pleased her captor to give her. Her long tresses, fastened with a
jewelled band, flowed down about her shoulders, and, her hand resting
on her knee, from her high tower prison she gazed out across the valley
at the dim and mighty mass of the Alhambra and the ten thousand lights
of Granada which sparkled far below. Near to her, seated beneath a
silver hanging-lamp, and also clad in rich array, was Betty.
“What is it, Cousin?” asked the girl, looking at her anxiously. “At
least you should be happier than you were, for now you know that Peter
is not dead, but almost recovered from his sickness and in this very
palace; also, that your father is well and hidden away, plotting for
our escape. Why, then, are you so sad, who should be more joyful than
you were?”
“Would you learn, Betty? Then I will tell you. I am betrayed. Peter
Brome, the man whom I looked upon almost as my husband, is false to
me.”
“Master Peter false!” exclaimed Betty, staring at her open-mouthed.
“No, it is not possible. I know him; he could not be, who will not even
look at another woman, if that is what you mean.”
“You say so. Then, Betty, listen and judge. You remember this
afternoon, when the marquis took us to see the wonders of this palace,
and I went thinking that perhaps I might find some path by which
afterwards we could escape?”
“Of course I remember, Margaret. We do not leave this cage so often
that I am likely to forget.”
“Then you will remember also that high-walled garden in which we
walked, where the great tower is, and how the marquis and that hateful
priest Father Henriques and I went up the tower to study the prospect
from its roof, I thinking that you were following me.”
“The waiting-women would not let me,” said Betty. “So soon as you had
passed in they shut the door and told me to bide where I was till you
returned. I went near to pulling the hair out of the head of one of
them over it, since I was afraid for you alone with those two men. But
she drew her knife, the cat, and I had none.”
“You must be careful, Betty,” said Margaret, “lest some of these
heathen folk should do you a mischief.”
“Not they,” she answered; “they are afraid of me. Why, the other day I
bundled one of them, whom I found listening at the door, head first
down the stairs. She complained to the marquis, but he only laughed at
her, and now she lies abed with a plaster on her nose. But tell me your
tale.”
“We climbed the tower,” said Margaret, “and from its topmost room
looked out through the windows that face south at all the mountains and
the plain over which they dragged us from Motril. Presently the priest,
who had gone to the north wall, in which there are no windows, and
entered some recess there, came out with an evil smile upon his face,
and whispered something to the marquis, who turned to me and said:
“‘The father tells me of an even prettier scene which we can view
yonder. Come, Señora, and look.’
“So I went, who wished to learn all that I could of the building. They
led me into a little chamber cut in the thickness of the stone-work, in
the wall of which are slits like loop-holes for the shooting of arrows,
wide within, but very narrow without, so that I think they cannot be
seen from below, hidden as they are between the rough stones of the
tower.
“‘This is the place,’ said the marquis, ‘where in the old days the
kings of Granada, who were always jealous, used to sit to watch their
women in the secret garden. It is told that thus one of them discovered
his sultana making love to an astrologer, and drowned them both in the
marble bath at the end of the garden. Look now, beneath us walk a
couple who do not guess that we are the witnesses of their vows.’
“So I looked idly enough to pass the time, and there I saw a tall man
in a Moorish dress, and with him, for their arms were about each other,
a woman. As I was turning my head away who did not wish to spy upon
them thus, the woman lifted her face to kiss the man, and I knew her
for that beautiful Inez who has visited us here at times, as a spy I
think. Presently, too, the man, after paying her back her embrace,
glanced about him guiltily, and I saw his face also, and knew it.”
“Who was it?” asked Betty, for this gossip of lovers interested her.
“Peter Brome, no other,” Margaret answered calmly, but with a note of
despair in her voice. “Peter Brome, pale with recent sickness, but no
other man.”
“The saints save us! I did not think he had it in him!” gasped Betty
with astonishment.
“They would not let me go,” went on Margaret; “they forced me to see it
all. The pair tarried for a while beneath some trees by the bath and
were hidden there. Then they came out again and sat them down upon a
marble seat, while the woman sang songs and the man leaned against her
lovingly. So it went on until the darkness fell, and we went, leaving
them there. Now,” she added, with a little sob, “what say you?”
“I say,” answered Betty, “that it was not Master Peter, who has no
liking for strange ladies and secret gardens.”
“It was he, and no other man, Betty.”
“Then, Cousin, he was drugged or drunk or bewitched, not the Peter whom
we know.”
“Bewitched, perchance, by that bad woman, which is no excuse for him.”
Betty thought a while. She could not doubt the evidence, but from her
face it was clear that she took no severe view of the offence.
“Well, at the worst,” she said, “men, as I have known them, are men. He
has been shut up for a long while with that minx, who is very fair and
witching, and it was scarcely right to watch him through a slit in a
tower. If he were my lover, I should say nothing about it.”
“I will say nothing to him about that or any other matter,” replied
Margaret sternly. “I have done with Peter Brome.”
Again Betty thought, and spoke.
“I seem to see a trick. Cousin Margaret, they told you he was dead, did
they not? And then that news came to us that he was not dead, only
sick, and here. So the lie failed. Now they tell you, and seem to show
you, that he is faithless. May not all this have been some part played
for a purpose by the woman?”
“It takes two to play such parts, Betty. If you had seen——”
“If I had seen, I should have known whether it was but a part or love
made in good earnest; but you are too innocent to judge. What said the
marquis all this while, and the priest?”
“Little or nothing, only smiled at each other, and at length, when it
grew dark and we could see no more, asked me if I did not think that it
was time to go—me! whom they had kept there all that while to be the
witness of my own shame.”
“Yes, they kept you there—did they not?—and brought you there just at
the right time—did they not?—and shut me out of the tower so that I
might not be with you—oh! and all the rest. Now, if you have any
justice in you, Cousin, you will hear Peter’s side of this story before
you judge him.”
“I have judged him,” answered Margaret coldly, “and, oh! I wish that I
were dead.”
Margaret rose from her seat and, stepping to the window-place in the
tower which was built upon the edge of a hill, searched the giddy depth
beneath with her eyes, where, two hundred feet below, the white line of
a roadway showed faintly in the moonlight.
“It would be easy, would it not,” she said, with a strained laugh,
“just to lean out a little too far upon this stone, and then one swift
rush and darkness—or light—for ever—which, I wonder?”
“Light, I think,” said Betty, jerking her back from the window—“the
light of hell fire, and plenty of it, for that would be self-murder,
nothing else, and besides, what would one look like on that road?
Cousin, don’t be a fool. If you are right, it isn’t you who ought to go
out of that window; and if you are wrong, then you would only make a
bad business worse. Time enough to die when one must, say I—which,
perhaps, will be soon enough. Meanwhile, if I were you, I would try to
speak to Master Peter first, if only to let him know what I thought of
him.”
“Mayhap,” answered Margaret, sinking back into a chair, “but I
suffer—how can you know what I suffer?”
“Why should I not know?” asked Betty. “Are you the only woman in the
world who has been fool enough to fall in love? Can I not be as much in
love as you are? You smile, and think to yourself that the poor
relation, Betty, cannot feel like her rich cousin. But I do—I do. I
know that he is a villain, but I love this marquis as much as you hate
him, or as much as you love Peter, because I can’t help myself; it is
my luck, that’s all. But I am not going to throw myself out of a
window; I would rather throw him out and square our reckoning, and that
I swear I’ll do, in this way or the other, even if it should cost me
what I don’t want to lose—my life.” And Betty drew herself up beneath
the silver lamp with a look upon her handsome, determined face, which
was so like Margaret’s and yet so different, that, could he have seen
it, might well have made Morella regret that he had chosen this woman
for a tool.
While Margaret studied her wonderingly she heard a sound, and glanced
up to see, standing before them, none other than the beautiful
Spaniard, or Moor, for she knew not which she was, Inez, that same
woman whom, from her hiding-place in the tower, she had watched with
Peter in the garden.
“How did you come here?” she asked coldly.
“Through the door, Señora, that was left unlocked, which is not wise of
those who wish to talk privately in such a place as this,” she answered
with a humble curtsey.
“The door is still unlocked,” said Margaret, pointing towards it.
“Nay, Señora, you are mistaken; here is its key in my hand. I pray you
do not tell your lady to put me out, which, being so strong, she well
can do, for I have words to say to you, and if you are wise you will
listen to them.”
Margaret thought a moment, then answered:
“Say on, and be brief.”