Fair Margaret: Envoi

Envoi

Ten years had gone by since Captain Smith took the good ship _Margaret_
across the bar of the Guadalquiver in a very notable fashion. It was
late May in Essex, and all the woods were green, and all the birds sang,
and all the meadows were bright with flowers. Down in the lovely vale of
Dedham there was a long, low house with many gables--a charming old
house of red brick and timbers already black with age. It stood upon a
little hill, backed with woods, and from it a long avenue of ancient
oaks ran across the park to the road which led to Colchester and London.
Down that avenue on this May afternoon an aged, white-haired man, with
quick black eyes, was walking, and with him three children--very
beautiful children--a boy of about nine and two little girls, who clung
to his hand and garments and pestered him with questions.

"Where are we going, Grandfather?" asked one little girl.

"To see Captain Smith, my dear," he answered.

"I don't like Captain Smith," said the other little girl; "he is so fat,
and says nothing."

"I do," broke in the boy, "he gave me a fine knife to use when I am a
sailor, and Mother does, and Father, yes, and Grandad too, because he
saved him when the cruel Spaniards wanted to put him in the fire. Don't
you, Grandad?"

"Yes, my dear," answered the old man. "Look! there is a squirrel
running over the grass; see if you can catch it before it reaches
that tree."

Off went the children at full pelt, and the tree being a low one, began
to climb it after the squirrel. Meanwhile John Castell, for it was he,
turned through the park gate and walked to a little house by the
roadside, where a stout man sat upon a bench contemplating nothing in
particular. Evidently he expected his visitor, for he pointed to the
place beside him, and, as Castell sat down, said:

"Why didn't you come yesterday, Master?"

"Because of my rheumatism, friend," he answered. "I got it first in the
vaults of that accursed Holy House at Seville, and it grows on me year
by year. They were very damp and cold, those vaults," he added
reflectively.

"Many people found them hot enough," grunted Smith, "also, there was
generally a good fire at the end of them. Strange thing that we should
never have heard any more of that business. I suppose it was because our
Margaret was such a favourite with Queen Isabella who didn't want to
raise questions with England, or stir up dirty water."

"Perhaps," answered Castell. "The water _was_ dirty, wasn't it?"

"Dirty as a Thames mud-bank at low tide. Clever woman, Isabella. No one
else would have thought of making a man ridiculous as she did by Morella
when she gave his life to Betty, and promised and vowed on his behalf
that he would acknowledge her as his lady. No fear of any trouble from
him after that, in the way of plots for the Crown, or things of that
sort. Why, he must have been the laughing-stock of the whole land--and
a laughing-stock never does anything. You remember the Spanish saying,
'King's swords cut and priests' fires burn, but street-songs kill
quickest!' I should like to learn more of what has become of them all,
though, wouldn't you, Master? Except Bernaldez, of course, for he's been
safe in Paris these many years, and doing well there, they say."

"Yes," answered Castell, with a little smile--"that is, unless I had to
go to Spain to find out."

Just then the three children came running up, bursting through the gate
all together.

"Mind my flower-bed, you little rogues," shouted Captain Smith, shaking
his stick at them, whereat they got behind him and made faces.

"Where's the squirrel, Peter?" asked Castell.

"We hunted it out of the tree, Grandad, and right across the grass, and
got round it by the edge of the brook, and then--"

"Then what? Did you catch it?"

"No, Grandad, for when we thought we had it sure, it jumped into the
water and swam away."

"Other people in a fix have done that before," said Castell, laughing,
and bethinking him of a certain river quay.

"It wasn't fair," cried the boy indignantly. "Squirrels shouldn't swim,
and if I can catch it I will put it in a cage."

"I think that squirrel will stop in the woods for the rest of its life,
Peter."

"Grandad!--Grandad!" called out the youngest child from the gate,
whither she had wandered, being weary of the tale of the squirrel,
"there are a lot of people coming down the road on horses, such fine
people. Come and see."

This news excited the curiosity of the old gentlemen, for not many fine
people came to Dedham. At any rate both of them rose, somewhat stiffly,
and walked to the gate to look. Yes, the child was right, for there,
sure enough, about two hundred yards away, advanced an imposing
cavalcade. In front of it, mounted on a fine horse, sat a still finer
lady, a very large and handsome lady, dressed in black silks, and
wearing a black lace veil that hung from her head. At her side was
another lady, much muffled up as though she found the climate cold, and
riding between them, on a pony, a gallant looking little boy. After
these came servants, male and female, six or eight of them, and last of
all a great wain, laden with baggage, drawn by four big Flemish horses.

"Now, whom have we here?" ejaculated Castell, staring at them.

Captain Smith stared too, and sniffed at the wind as he had often done
upon his deck on a foggy morning.

"I seem to smell Spaniards," he said, "which is a smell I don't like.
Look at their rigging. Now, Master Castell, of whom does that barque
with all her sails set remind you?"

Castell shook his head doubtfully.

"I seem to remember," went on Smith, "a great girl decked out like a
maypole running across white sand in that Place of Bulls at Seville--but
I forgot, you weren't there, were you?"

Now a loud, ringing voice was heard speaking in Spanish, and commanding
some one to go to yonder house and inquire where was the gate to the
Old Hall. Then Castell knew at once.

"It is Betty," he said. "By the beard of Abraham, it is Betty."

"I think so too; but don't talk of Abraham, Master. He is a dangerous
man, Abraham, in these very Christian lands; say, 'By the Keys of St.
Peter,' or, 'By St. Paul's infirmities.'"

"Child," broke in Castell, turning to one of the little girls, "run up
to the Hall and tell your father and mother that Betty has come, and
brought half Spain with her. Quickly now, and remember the
name, _Betty!_"

The child departed, wondering, by the back way; while Castell and Smith
walked towards the strangers.

"Can we assist you, Se�ora?" asked the former in Spanish.

"Marchioness of Morella, _if_ you please--" she began in the same
language, then suddenly added in English, "Why, bless my eyes! If it
isn't my old master, John Castell, with white wool instead of black!"

"It came white after my shaving by a sainted barber in the Holy House,"
said Castell. "But come off that tall horse of yours, Betty, my dear--I
beg your pardon--most noble and highly born Marchioness of Morella, and
give me a kiss."

"That I will, twenty, if you like," she answered, arriving in his arms
so suddenly from on high, that had it not been for the sturdy support of
Smith behind, they would both of them have rolled upon the ground.

"Whose are those children?" she asked, when she had kissed Castell and
shaken Smith by the hand. "But no need to ask, they have got my cousin
Margaret's eyes and Peter's long nose. How are they?" she added
anxiously.

"You will see for yourself in a minute or two. Come, send on your people
and baggage to the Hall, though where they will stow them all I don't
know, and walk with us."

Betty hesitated, for she had been calculating upon the effect of a
triumphal entry in full state. But at that moment there appeared
Margaret and Peter themselves--Margaret, a beautiful matron with a child
in her arms, running, and Peter, looking much as he had always been,
spare, long of limb, stern but for the kindly eyes, striding away
behind, and after him sundry servants and the little girl Margaret.

Then there arose a veritable babel of tongues, punctuated by embracings;
but in the end the retinue and the baggage were got off up the drive,
followed by the children and the little Spanish-looking boy, with whom
they had already made friends, leaving only Betty and her closely
muffled-up attendant. This attendant Peter contemplated for a while, as
though there were something familiar to him in her general air.

Apparently she observed his interest, for as though by accident she
moved some of the wrappings that hid her face, revealing a single soft
and lustrous eye and a few square inches of olive-coloured cheek. Then
Peter knew her at once.

"How are you, Inez?" he said, stretching out his hand with a smile, for
really he was delighted to see her.

"As well as a poor wanderer in a strange and very damp country can be,
Don Peter," she answered in her languorous voice, "and certainly
somewhat the better for seeing an old friend whom last she met in a
certain baker's shop. Do you remember?"

"Remember!" answered Peter. "It is not a thing I am likely to forget.
Inez, what became of Fray Henriques? I have heard several
different stories."

"One never can be sure," she answered as she uncovered her smiling red
lips; "there are so many dungeons in that old Moorish Holy House, and
elsewhere, that it is impossible to keep count of their occupants,
however good your information. All I know is that he got into trouble
over that business, poor man. Suspicions arose about his conduct in the
procession which the captain here will recall," and she pointed to
Smith. "Also, it is very dangerous for men in such positions to visit
Jewish quarters and to write incautious letters--no, not the one you
think of; I kept faith--but others, afterwards, begging for it back
again, some of which miscarried."

"Is he dead then?" asked Peter.

"Worse, I think," she answered--"a living death, the 'Punishment of the
Wall.'"

"Poor wretch!" said Peter, with a shudder.

"Yes," remarked Inez reflectively, "few doctors like their own
medicine."

"I say, Inez," said Peter, nodding his head towards Betty, "that marquis
isn't coming here, is he?"

"In the spirit, perhaps, Don Peter, not otherwise."

"So he is really dead? What killed him?"

"Laughter, I think, or, rather, being laughed at. He got quite well of
the hurts you gave him, and then, of course, he had to keep the queen's
gage, and take the most noble lady yonder, late Betty, as his
marchioness. He couldn't do less, after she beat you off him with your
own sword and nursed him back to life. But he never heard the last of
it. They made songs about him in the streets, and would ask him how his
godmother, Isabella, was, because she had promised and vowed on his
behalf; also, whether the marchioness had broken any lances for his sake
lately, and so forth."

"Poor man!" said Peter again, in tones of the deepest sympathy. "A cruel
fate; I should have done better to kill him."

"Much; but don't say so to the noble Betty, who thinks that he had a
very happy married life under her protecting care. Really, he ate his
heart out till even I, who hated him, was sorry. Think of it! One of the
proudest men in Spain, and the most gallant, a nephew of the king, a
pillar of the Church, his sovereigns' plenipotentiary to the Moors, and
on secret matters--the common mock of the vulgar, yes, and of the
great too!"

"The great! Which of them?"

"Nearly all, for the queen set the fashion--I wonder why she hated him
so?" Inez added, looking shrewdly at Peter; then without waiting for an
answer, went on: "She did it very cleverly, by always making the most of
the most honourable Betty in public, calling her near to her, talking
with her, admiring her English beauty, and so forth, and what her
Majesty did, everybody else did, until my exalted mistress nearly went
off her head, so full was she of pride and glory. As for the marquis, he
fell ill, and after the taking of Granada went to live there quietly.
Betty went with him, for she was a good wife, and saved lots of money.
She buried him a year ago, for he died slow, and gave him one of the
finest tombs in Spain--it isn't finished yet. That is all the story. Now
she has brought her boy, the young marquis, to England for a year or
two, for she has a very warm heart, and longed to see you all. Also, she
thought she had better go away a while, for her son's sake. As for me,
now that Morella is dead, I am head of the household--secretary, general
purveyor of intelligence, and anything else you like at a good salary."

"You are not married, I suppose?" asked Peter.

"No," Inez answered; "I saw so much of men when I was younger that I
seem to have had enough of them. Or perhaps," she went on, fixing that
mild and lustrous eye upon him, "there was one of them whom I liked too
well to wish----"

She paused, for they had crossed the drawbridge and arrived opposite to
the Old Hall. The gorgeous Betty and the fair Margaret, accompanied by
the others, and talking rapidly, had passed through the wide doorway
into its spacious vestibule. Inez looked after them, and perceived,
standing like a guard at the foot of the open stair, that scarred suit
of white armour and riven shield blazoned with the golden falcon,
Isabella's gift, in which Peter had fought and conquered the Marquis of
Morella. Then she stepped back and contemplated the house critically.

At each end of it rose a stone tower, built for the purposes of defence,
and all around ran a deep moat. Within the circle of this moat, and
surrounded by poplars and ancient yews, on the south side of the Hall
lay a walled pleasaunce, or garden, of turf pierced by paths and planted
with flowering hawthorns and other shrubs, and at the end of it, almost
hidden in drooping willows, a stone basin of water. Looking at it, Inez
saw at once that so far as the circumstances of climate and situation
would allow, Peter, in the laying out of this place, had copied another
in the far-off, southern city of Granada, even down to the details of
the steps and seats. She turned to him and said innocently:

"Sir Peter, are you minded to walk with me in that garden this pleasant
evening? I do not see any window in yonder tower."

Peter turned red as the scar across his face, and laughed as he
answered:

"There may be one for all that. Get you into the house, dear Inez, for
none can be more welcome there; but I walk no more alone with you
in gardens."

THE END

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