He went back to his office much disturbed, and sat himself down there to think. Truly Fate, that had so long been his friend, was turning its face against him. Things could not have gone worse. d’Aguilar had discovered the secret of his faith through his spies, and, having by some accursed mischance fallen in love with his daughter’s beauty, was become his bitter enemy because he must refuse her to him. Why must he refuse her? The man was of great position and noble blood; she would become the wife of one of the first grandees of Spain, one who stood nearest to the throne. Perhaps—such a thing was possible—she might live herself to be queen, or the mother of kings. Moreover, that marriage meant safety for himself; it meant a quiet age, a peaceable death in his own bed—for, were he fifty times a Marano, who would touch the father-in-law of the Marquis de Morella? Why? Just because he had promised her in marriage to Peter Brome, and through all his life as a merchant he had never yet broken with a bargain because it went against himself. That was the answer. Yet almost he could find it in his heart to wish that he had never made that bargain; that he had kept Peter, who had waited so long, waiting for another month. Well, it was too late now. He had passed his word, and he would keep it, whatever the cost might be.
Rising, he called one of the servants, and bade her summon Margaret. Presently she returned, saying that her mistress had gone out walking with Betty, adding also that his horse was at the door for him to ride to the river, where he was to pass the night on board his ship.
Taking paper, he bethought him that he would write to Margaret, warning her against the Spaniard. Then, remembering that she had nothing to fear from him, at any rate at present, and that it was not wise to set down such matters, he told her only to take good care of herself, and that he would be back in the morning.
That evening, when Margaret was in her own little sitting-chamber which adjoined the great hall, the door opened, and she looked up from the work upon which she was engaged, to see d’Aguilar standing before her.
“Señor!” she said, amazed, “how came you here?”
“Señora,” he answered, closing the door and bowing, “my feet brought me. Had I any other means of coming I think that I should not often be absent from your side.”
“Spare me your fine words, I pray you, Señor,” answered Margaret, frowning. “It is not fitting that I should receive you thus alone at night, my father being absent from the house.” And she made as though she would pass him and reach the door.
d’Aguilar, who stood in front of it, did not move, so perforce she stopped half way.
“I found that he was absent,” he said courteously, “and that is why I venture to address you upon a matter of some importance. Give me a few minutes of your time, therefore, I beseech you.”
Now, at once the thought entered Margaret’s mind that he had some news of Peter to communicate to her—bad news perhaps.