Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.Paying the Bill.“’Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.”Leigh Hunt.Father Bruno was walking slowly, with his hands one in the other behind him, about a mile from Bury Castle. It was a lovely morning in April, and, though alone, he had no fear of highwaymen; for he would have been a bold sinner indeed who, in 1236, meddled with a priest for his harm. An absent-minded man was Father Bruno, at all times when he was free to indulge in meditation. For to him:—“The future was all dark,And the past a troubled sea,And Memory sat in his heartWailing where Hope should be.”He was given to murmuring his thoughts half aloud when in solitude; and he was doing it now. They oscillated from one to the other of two subjects, closely associated in his mind. One was Belasez: the other was a memory of his sorrowful past, a fair girl-face, the likeness to which had struck him so distressingly in hers, and which would never fade from his memory “till God’s love set her at his side again.”“What will become of the maiden?” he whispered to himself. “So like, so like!—just what my Beatrice might have been, if—nay, Thou art wise, O Lord! It is I who am blind and ignorant. Ay, and just the same age! She must be the infant of whom Licorice spoke: she was then in the cradle, I remember. She said that if Beatrice had lived, they might have been like twin sisters. Well, well! Ay, and it is well. For Anegay has found her in Heaven, safe from sin and sorrow, from tempest and temptation, with Christ for evermore.“‘O mea, spes mea, O Syon aurea, ut clarior oro!’“And what does it matter for me, during these few and evil days that are left of this lower life? True, the wilderness is painful: but it will be over soon. True, my spirit is worn and weary: but the rest of the New Jerusalem will soon restore me. True, I am weak, poor, blind, ignorant, lonely, sorrowful: but my Lord is strength, wealth, light, wisdom, love, and joyfulness. Never canst thou be loveless, Bruno de Malpas, while the deathless love of Christ endureth; never canst thou be lonely and forlorn, whilst thou hast His company who is the sunlight of Heaven. Perhaps it would not have been good for me, had my beloved stayed with me. Nay, since He saw it good, it can be no perhaps, but a certainty. I suppose I should have valued Him less, had my jewel-casket remained full. Ay, Thou hast done well, my Lord! Pardon Thy servant if at times the journey grows very weary to his weak human feet, and he longs for a draught of the sweet waters of earthly love which Thou hast permitted to dry up. Grant him fresh draughts of that Living Water whereof he that drinketh shall thirst no more. Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe!“Was I right in refusing to baptise the maiden? Verily, it would have been rich revenge on Licorice. I had no right, as I told her, to suffer the innocence of her chrism to be soiled with the evil passions which were sin in me. Yet had I any right to deny her the grace of holy baptism, because I was not free from evil passions? Oh, how hard it is to find the straight road!“Poor little maiden! What will become of her now? I fear the impressions that have been made on her will soon be stifled in the poisonous atmosphere into which she is gone. And I cannot bear to think of her as a lost soul, with that face so like my Anegay, and that voice—“Now, shame upon thee, Bruno de Malpas! Is Belasez more to thee than to Him that died for her? Canst thou not trust Him who giveth unto His sheep eternal life, not to allow this white lamb to be plucked out of His hand? O Lord, increase my faith!—for it is very low. I am one of the very weakest of Thy disciples. Yet I am Thine. Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!”During the time occupied by these reflections, Bruno had been instinctively approaching the Castle, and he looked up suddenly as he was conscious of a clang of arms and a confused medley of voices, not in very peaceful tones, breaking in upon his meditations. He now perceived that the drawbridge was thronged with armed men, the portcullis drawn up, and the courtyard beyond full of soldiers in mail.“What is the matter, friend William?” asked Bruno of the porter at the outer gate.“Nay, the saints wot, good Father, not I: but of this am I very sure, that some mischance is come to my Lord. You were a wise man if you kept away.”“Not so,” was Bruno’s answer, as he passed on: “it is the hireling, not the shepherd, that fleeth from the wolf, and leaveth the sheep to be scattered.”He made his way easily into the hall, for no one thought of staying a priest. The lower end was thronged with soldiers. On the daïs stood Sir Piers de Rievaulx and half-a-dozen more, confronting Earl Hubert, who wore an expression of baffled amazement. Just behind him stood the Countess, evidently possessed by fear and anguish; Sir John de Burgh, with his hand upon his sword; Doucebelle, very white and frightened; and furthest in the background, Sir Richard de Clare, who clasped in his arms the fainting form of Margaret, and bent his head over her with a look of agonised tenderness.“Words are fine things, my Lord of Kent,” was the first sentence distinguishable to Father Bruno, and the spokesman was Sir Piers. “But I beg you to remember that it is of no earthly use talking tomein this strain. If you can succeed in convincing my Lord the King that you had no hand in this business, well!”—and Sir Piers’ shoulders went up towards his ears, in a manner which indicated that result to be far from what he expected. “But those two young fools don’t attempt to deny it, and their faces would give them the lie if they did. As for my Lady—”The Countess sprang forward and threw herself on her knees, clinging to the arm of her husband, while she passionately addressed herself to both.“Sir Piers, on my life and honour, my Lord knew nothing of this! It was done while he was away with the Lord King at Merton.—It was my doing, my Lord, mine! And it is true, what Sir Piers tells you. My daughter has gone too far with Sir Richard de Clare, ever to be married to another.” (Note 1.)Sir Piers stood listening with a rather amused set of the lips, as if he thought the scene very effective. To him, the human agony before his eyes was no more than a play enacted for his entertainment. Of course it was in the way of business; but Sir Piers’ principle was to get as much diversion out of his business as he could.“Very good indeed, Lady,” said that worthy Minister. “Your confession may spare you some annoyance. But as to your Lord, it will do nothing. You hardly expect us to swallow this pretty little fiction, I suppose? If you do, I beg you will undeceive yourself.—Officers, do your duty.” The officers had evidently received previous instructions, for they at once laid their hands on the shoulders of Earl Hubert and Sir Richard. The half-insensible Margaret was roused into life by the attempt to take her bridegroom from her. With a cry that might have touched any heart but that of Sir Piers de Rievaulx, she flung her arms around him and held him close.Apparently the officers were touched, for they stopped and looked at their chief for further orders.“Coward loons as ye are!—are ye frightened of a girl?” said Sir Piers with a harsh laugh, and he came forward himself. “Lady Margaret, there is no need to injure you unless you choose. Please yourself. I am going to arrest this young knight.”But for one second, Sir Piers waited himself. Those around mistook it for that knightly courtesy of which there was none in him. They did not know that suddenly, to him, out of Margaret’s pleading eyes looked the eyes of the dead sister, Serena de Rievaulx, and it seemed to him as though soft child-fingers held him off for an instant. He had never loved any mortal thing but that dead child.With one passionate, pleading gaze at Sir Piers, Margaret laid her head on the breast of Sir Richard, and sobbed as though her heart were breaking.“My Lord, my Lord!” came, painfully mixed with long-drawn sobs, from the lips of the young bride. “My own, own Richard! And only two months since we were married!—Have you the heart to part us?” she cried, suddenly turning to Sir Piers. “Did you never love any one?”“Never, Madam.” For once in his life, Sir Piers spoke truth, Never—except Serena: and not much then.“Brute!” And with this calumnious epithet—for brutes can love dearly—Margaret resumed her former attitude.“Lady Margaret, I must trouble you,” said Sir Piers, in tones of hardness veneered with civility.“My darling, you must let me go,” interposed the young Earl of Gloucester, who seemed scarcely less miserable than his bride.“Magot, my child, we may not stay justice,” said the distressed tones of her father.Yet she held tight until Sir Piers tore her away.“Look to the damsel,” he condescended to say, with a glance at Doucebelle and Bruno. “Oh, ha!—where is the priest that blessed this wedding? I must have him.”“There was no priest,” sobbed the Countess, lifting her head from her husband’s arm, where she had let it sink: “it wasper verba depresenti.”“That we will see,” was the cool response of Sir Piers. “Take all the priests, Sir Drew.—Now, my Lady!”“Fare thee well, my jewel,” said Earl Hubert, kissing the brow of the Countess. “Poor little Magot!—farewell, too.”“Sir Hubert, my Lord, forgive me! I meant no ill.”“Forgive thee?” said the Earl, with a smile, and again kissing his wife’s brow. “I could not do otherwise, my Margaret.—Now, Sir Piers, we are your prisoners.”“These little amenities being disposed of,” sneered Sir Piers. “I suppose women must cry over something:—kind, I should think, to give them something to cry about.—March out the prisoners.”Father Nicholas had been discovered in his study, engaged in the deepest meditation on a grammatical crux; and had received the news of his arrest with a blank horror and amazement very laughable in the eyes of Sir Piers. Master Aristoteles was pounding rhubarb with his sleeves turned up, and required some convincing that he was not wanted professionally. Father Warner was no where to be found. The three priests were spared fetters in consideration of their sacred character: both the Earls were heavily ironed. And so the armed band, with their prisoners, marched away from the Castle.The feelings of the prisoners were diverse. Father Nicholas was simply astonished beyond any power of words to convey. Master Aristoteles was convinced that the recent physical disturbances in the atmosphere were more than enough to account for the whole affair. Earl Hubert felt sure that his old enemy, the Bishop of Winchester, was at the bottom of it. Earl Richard was disposed to think the same Father Bruno alone looked upwards, and saw God.But assuredly no one of them saw the moving cause in that tall, stern, silent Jewish youth, and the last idea that ever entered the mind of Richard de Clare was to associate this great grief of his life with the boyish trick he had played on Delecresse two years before.For the great grief of Richard’s life this sorrow was. Through the six-and-twenty years which remained of his mortal span, he never forgot it, and he never forgave it.It proved the easiest thing in the world to convince King Henry that he had not intended Richard to marry Margaret. Had his dearly-beloved uncle, the Bishop of Valentia, held up before him a black cloth, and said, “This is white,” His Majesty would merely have wondered what could be the matter with his eyes.The next point was to persuade that royal and most deceivable individual that he had entertained an earnest desire to see Richard married to a Princess of Savoy, a cousin of the Queen. This, also, was not difficult. The third lesson instilled into him was that, Richard having thought proper to render this impossible by choosing for himself, he, King Henry, was a cruelly-injured and unpardonably insulted man. His Majesty swallowed them all as glibly as possible. The metal being thus fused to the proper state, the prisoners were brought before their affronted Sovereign in person.They were tried in inverse order, according to importance. Father Bruno could prove, without much difficulty, that the obnoxious marriage had taken place, on the showing of the prosecution itself, before he had entered the household. His penalty was the light one of discharge from the Countess’s service. That he deserved no penalty at all was not taken into consideration. The Crown could not so far err as to bring a charge against an entirely innocent man. The verdict, therefore, in Father Bruno’s case resembled that of the famous jury who returned as theirs, “Not Guilty, but we hope he won’t do it again.”Master Aristoteles was next placed in the dock, and had the honour of amusing the Court. His asseverations of innocent ignorance were so mixed up with dissertations on the virtues of savin and betony, and lamenting references to the last eclipse which might have warned him of what was coming on him, that the Court condescended to relax into a smile, and let the simple man go with the light sentence of six months’ imprisonment. At a subsequent period in his life, Master Aristoteles was wont to say that this sentence was the best thing that ever happened to him, since the enforced meditation and idleness had enabled him to think out his grand discovery that the dust which gathered on beams of chestnut wood was an infallible specific for fever. He had since treated three fever patients in this manner, and not one of them had died. Whether the patients would have recovered without the dust, and with being so much let alone, Master Aristoteles did not concern himself.Next came Father Nicholas. A light sentence also sufficed for him, not on account of his innocence, but because his friend the Abbot of Ham was a friend of the Bishop of Winchester.Earl Hubert of Kent was then tried. The animus of his accusers was plainly shown, for they brought up again all the old hackneyed charges on account of which he had been pardoned years before—for some of them more than once. The affront offered to the King by the Earl’s marriage with Margaret of Scotland, the fact that she and his third wife were within the forbidden degrees, and that no dispensation had been obtained; these were renewed, with all the other disproved and spiteful accusations of old time. But the head and front of the offending, in this instance, was of course the marriage of his daughter. It did not make much difference that Hubert calmly swore that he had never known of the marriage, either before or after, except what he had learned from the simple statement of the Countess his wife, to the effect that it had been contracted at Bury Saint Edmund’s, during his absence at Merton. The fervent intercession of Hubert’s friends, moved by the passionate entreaties of the Countess, did not make much difference either; but what did make a good deal was that the Earl (who knew his royal master) offered a heavy golden bribe for pardon of the crime he had not committed. King Henry thereupon condescended to announce that in consideration of the effect produced upon his compassionate heart by the piteous intercession of the prisoner’s friends,—“His fury should abate, and heThe crowns would take.”Earl Hubert therefore received a most gracious pardon, and was permitted to return (minus the money) to the bosom of his distracted family.But the heaviest vengeance fell on the young head of Richard de Clare, and through him on the fair girl with the cedar hair, whose worst crime was that she had loved him. It was not vengeance that could be weighed like Hubert’s coins, or told on the clock like the imprisonment of his physician. It was counted out, throb by throb, in the agony of two human hearts, one fiercely stabbed and artificially healed, and the other left to bleed to death like a wounded doe.The King’s first step was to procure a solemn Papal sentence of divorce between Richard and Margaret. Their consent, of course, was neither asked nor thought needful. His Majesty’s advisers allowed him—and Richard—a little rest then, before they thought it necessary to do any thing more.The result of the trial was to leave Father Bruno homeless. He returned to his monastery at Lincoln, and sought the leave of his Superior to be transferred to the Convent of the Order at Norwich. His heart still yearned over Belasez, with a tenderness which was half of Heaven and half of earth. Yet he knew that in all probability he would never find it possible to cross her path. Well! let him do what he could, and leave the rest with God. If He meant them to meet, meet they must, though Satan and all his angels combined to bar the way.“Wife!”“May thy beard be shaven! I was just dropping off. Well?”It had taken Abraham a long while to summon up his courage to make what he felt would be to Licorice an unwelcome communication. He was rather dismayed to find it so badly received at the first step.“Do go on, thou weariest of old jackdaws! I’m half asleep.”“I have spoken to the child, Licorice.”“As if thou couldst not have said that half an hour ago! Well, how do matters stand?”“There is one person in particular whom she is sorry to leave.”“Of course there is! I saw that as plain as the barber’s pole across the street. Didn’t I tell thee so? Is it some young Christian gallant, and who is he? Blessed be the memory of Abraham our father!—why did we ever let that girl go to Bury?”“It is not as thou art fearing, wife. But—it is worse.”“Worse!” Licorice seemed wide awake enough now. “Why, what could there be worse, unless she had married a Christian, or had abjured her faith?”“Wife, this is worse. She has seen—him.”“De Malpas?” The name was almost hissed from the lips of Licorice.“The same. It was to be, Licorice. Adonai knows why! But it is evident they were fated to meet.”“What did the viper tell her?”“I do not gather that he told her any thing, except that she brought a face to his memory that he had known of old. She fancies—and so of course does he—that it was her sister.”A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez’s blood curdle as she lay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than the angel.“What an ass he must be, never to guess the truth!”“She wants to know the truth, wife. She asked me if she might not.”“Thou let it alone. I’ll cook up a nice little story, that will set her mind at rest.”“O Licorice!—more deception yet?”“Deception! Why, wouldst thou tell her the truth? Just go to her now, and wake her, and let her know that she is—”Belasez strained her ears to their utmost, but the words which followed could not be heard from her mother’s dropped tones.“What would follow—eh?” demanded Licorice, raising her voice again.“Adonai knows!” said Abraham, sadly. “But I suppose we could not keep her long.”“I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what he and his catch-polls will say. Wouldn’t there be a pretty ferment? Old man, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talking about lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I’ll let thee know when I think there’s any danger of it), and show a little spice of prudence, like a craftsman of middle earth as thou art. More deception! Of course there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide to begin with, it he does not want to be carried down it.”“The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that she either became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thing more.”“Who told her Anegay’s name?”“I cannot imagine. It might be Bruno.”“We have always been so careful to keep it from her hearing.”There was a pause.“Didst thou find the Christian dog had tampered with her faith?”“I don’t know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her.”“Then he has, no doubt. I’ll get it out of her.”Belasez trembled at the threat.“Any thing more, old man? If not, I’ll go to sleep again.”“Licorice,” said Abraham in a low voice, “the child said she loved him—as she loves me.”“May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to them both?”“It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not know why.”“Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!”“I doubt if it do,” was Abraham’s dry answer.“Such a rabbit as thou art!—as frightened as a hare, and as soft as a bag of duck’s down. I’m going to sleep.”And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, with that uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen, with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It gradually dawned upon her that Licorice was going to “get it out of her,” and was likewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She had not heard two sentences which passed between her parents before she woke, or she might have been still more on her guard.“Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I told her that Anegay was not her sister.”“Just what might have been expected of thee, my paragon of wisdom! Well, never mind. I’ll tell her she was her aunt. That will do as well.”When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were duly completed, Licorice made Belasez’s heart flutter by a command to attend her in the little porch-chamber.“Belasez,” she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantly have suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing,—for Licorice’s character was well known to her—“Belasez, I hear from thy father that thou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was a kinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thou shalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from thee further than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and I have not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abraham thy father, and therefore thine aunt.”Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father’s sister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed that Abraham’s references to the dead girl were made with far more indication of love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that this might be due to the existence of relationship on his part and not on hers. She now concluded that it was simply a question of character. But who Anegay was, was a point left as much in the dark as ever.“She was a great friend of mine, daughter, and I loved her very dearly,” said Licorice, applying one hand to her perfectly dry eyes—a proceeding which imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her were generally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impression that she had hated her. “And at that time thy father dwelt at Lincoln—it was before we were married, thou knowest—and Anegay, being an only and motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. I cannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, but Anegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name was Beatrice—”A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feel especially doubtful of the truth of this part of the story.“And who had a brother,” pursued Licorice, “a young Christian squire, but as thou shalt hear, a most wicked and artful man.”Belasez at once set down the unknown squire as a model of all the cardinal virtues.“Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practise the Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over all unfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within their influence.”There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more charges brought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believed similar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at Bury Castle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken and uprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction that Jews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of the same stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found in both camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom she chose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidence or communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in such different moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any. Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was wholly uncultivated, and whose imagination all ran into cunning and deceit. Belasez was an article of much finer quality, both mentally and morally. The only person in her own family with whom she could exchange thought or feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came the nearest to it.It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to have so little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold herself into more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheer impossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognition that it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her own fault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness of heart.“It seems to me,” continued Licorice, “that this bad young man, whose name was De Malpas, must have cast a spell on our poor, unhappy Anegay. For how else could a daughter of Israel come to love so vile an insect as one of the accursed Goyim?“For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it was to all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of a marriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resource was to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forget all about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant of the Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy father were wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay with us.”Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: but how much of it was true? “And did she forget him, Mother?”“Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty.” Belasez privately thought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a duty as this would be extremely hard to do.“Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?”“She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and died soon after the birth of her first child,” said Licorice, glibly. “And was she really happy, Mother?”“Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else.”Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced.“Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits to Bury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to be trusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities avail thee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom a Christian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years she could not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do not mistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee.”And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of the interview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religious question for another time.“May I ask one other question, Mother?—what became of the maiden Beatrice and her brother?”Licorice’s eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on the principle of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where the road did not lead.“The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not know what became of the maiden.”Licorice disappeared.“The squire was not killed, I am sure,” said Belasez to herself. “It is Father Bruno.”Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay was not her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno was sure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him was only too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the very existence of Beatrice, were in Belasez’s eyes purely fictitious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted the latter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to that gleam in her mother’s eyes, which she invariably put on when she was launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction. Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were not a real person.But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that something was left behind which had not been told her?Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment after, she sprang to a sitting posture.Yes, there was something behind!What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story? Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,—which Licorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?There was not much sleep for Belasez that night.Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took the whole blame upon herself.

“’Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.”Leigh Hunt.

“’Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow,Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow.”Leigh Hunt.

Father Bruno was walking slowly, with his hands one in the other behind him, about a mile from Bury Castle. It was a lovely morning in April, and, though alone, he had no fear of highwaymen; for he would have been a bold sinner indeed who, in 1236, meddled with a priest for his harm. An absent-minded man was Father Bruno, at all times when he was free to indulge in meditation. For to him:—

“The future was all dark,And the past a troubled sea,And Memory sat in his heartWailing where Hope should be.”

“The future was all dark,And the past a troubled sea,And Memory sat in his heartWailing where Hope should be.”

He was given to murmuring his thoughts half aloud when in solitude; and he was doing it now. They oscillated from one to the other of two subjects, closely associated in his mind. One was Belasez: the other was a memory of his sorrowful past, a fair girl-face, the likeness to which had struck him so distressingly in hers, and which would never fade from his memory “till God’s love set her at his side again.”

“What will become of the maiden?” he whispered to himself. “So like, so like!—just what my Beatrice might have been, if—nay, Thou art wise, O Lord! It is I who am blind and ignorant. Ay, and just the same age! She must be the infant of whom Licorice spoke: she was then in the cradle, I remember. She said that if Beatrice had lived, they might have been like twin sisters. Well, well! Ay, and it is well. For Anegay has found her in Heaven, safe from sin and sorrow, from tempest and temptation, with Christ for evermore.

“‘O mea, spes mea, O Syon aurea, ut clarior oro!’

“And what does it matter for me, during these few and evil days that are left of this lower life? True, the wilderness is painful: but it will be over soon. True, my spirit is worn and weary: but the rest of the New Jerusalem will soon restore me. True, I am weak, poor, blind, ignorant, lonely, sorrowful: but my Lord is strength, wealth, light, wisdom, love, and joyfulness. Never canst thou be loveless, Bruno de Malpas, while the deathless love of Christ endureth; never canst thou be lonely and forlorn, whilst thou hast His company who is the sunlight of Heaven. Perhaps it would not have been good for me, had my beloved stayed with me. Nay, since He saw it good, it can be no perhaps, but a certainty. I suppose I should have valued Him less, had my jewel-casket remained full. Ay, Thou hast done well, my Lord! Pardon Thy servant if at times the journey grows very weary to his weak human feet, and he longs for a draught of the sweet waters of earthly love which Thou hast permitted to dry up. Grant him fresh draughts of that Living Water whereof he that drinketh shall thirst no more. Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe!

“Was I right in refusing to baptise the maiden? Verily, it would have been rich revenge on Licorice. I had no right, as I told her, to suffer the innocence of her chrism to be soiled with the evil passions which were sin in me. Yet had I any right to deny her the grace of holy baptism, because I was not free from evil passions? Oh, how hard it is to find the straight road!

“Poor little maiden! What will become of her now? I fear the impressions that have been made on her will soon be stifled in the poisonous atmosphere into which she is gone. And I cannot bear to think of her as a lost soul, with that face so like my Anegay, and that voice—

“Now, shame upon thee, Bruno de Malpas! Is Belasez more to thee than to Him that died for her? Canst thou not trust Him who giveth unto His sheep eternal life, not to allow this white lamb to be plucked out of His hand? O Lord, increase my faith!—for it is very low. I am one of the very weakest of Thy disciples. Yet I am Thine. Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!”

During the time occupied by these reflections, Bruno had been instinctively approaching the Castle, and he looked up suddenly as he was conscious of a clang of arms and a confused medley of voices, not in very peaceful tones, breaking in upon his meditations. He now perceived that the drawbridge was thronged with armed men, the portcullis drawn up, and the courtyard beyond full of soldiers in mail.

“What is the matter, friend William?” asked Bruno of the porter at the outer gate.

“Nay, the saints wot, good Father, not I: but of this am I very sure, that some mischance is come to my Lord. You were a wise man if you kept away.”

“Not so,” was Bruno’s answer, as he passed on: “it is the hireling, not the shepherd, that fleeth from the wolf, and leaveth the sheep to be scattered.”

He made his way easily into the hall, for no one thought of staying a priest. The lower end was thronged with soldiers. On the daïs stood Sir Piers de Rievaulx and half-a-dozen more, confronting Earl Hubert, who wore an expression of baffled amazement. Just behind him stood the Countess, evidently possessed by fear and anguish; Sir John de Burgh, with his hand upon his sword; Doucebelle, very white and frightened; and furthest in the background, Sir Richard de Clare, who clasped in his arms the fainting form of Margaret, and bent his head over her with a look of agonised tenderness.

“Words are fine things, my Lord of Kent,” was the first sentence distinguishable to Father Bruno, and the spokesman was Sir Piers. “But I beg you to remember that it is of no earthly use talking tomein this strain. If you can succeed in convincing my Lord the King that you had no hand in this business, well!”—and Sir Piers’ shoulders went up towards his ears, in a manner which indicated that result to be far from what he expected. “But those two young fools don’t attempt to deny it, and their faces would give them the lie if they did. As for my Lady—”

The Countess sprang forward and threw herself on her knees, clinging to the arm of her husband, while she passionately addressed herself to both.

“Sir Piers, on my life and honour, my Lord knew nothing of this! It was done while he was away with the Lord King at Merton.—It was my doing, my Lord, mine! And it is true, what Sir Piers tells you. My daughter has gone too far with Sir Richard de Clare, ever to be married to another.” (Note 1.)

Sir Piers stood listening with a rather amused set of the lips, as if he thought the scene very effective. To him, the human agony before his eyes was no more than a play enacted for his entertainment. Of course it was in the way of business; but Sir Piers’ principle was to get as much diversion out of his business as he could.

“Very good indeed, Lady,” said that worthy Minister. “Your confession may spare you some annoyance. But as to your Lord, it will do nothing. You hardly expect us to swallow this pretty little fiction, I suppose? If you do, I beg you will undeceive yourself.—Officers, do your duty.” The officers had evidently received previous instructions, for they at once laid their hands on the shoulders of Earl Hubert and Sir Richard. The half-insensible Margaret was roused into life by the attempt to take her bridegroom from her. With a cry that might have touched any heart but that of Sir Piers de Rievaulx, she flung her arms around him and held him close.

Apparently the officers were touched, for they stopped and looked at their chief for further orders.

“Coward loons as ye are!—are ye frightened of a girl?” said Sir Piers with a harsh laugh, and he came forward himself. “Lady Margaret, there is no need to injure you unless you choose. Please yourself. I am going to arrest this young knight.”

But for one second, Sir Piers waited himself. Those around mistook it for that knightly courtesy of which there was none in him. They did not know that suddenly, to him, out of Margaret’s pleading eyes looked the eyes of the dead sister, Serena de Rievaulx, and it seemed to him as though soft child-fingers held him off for an instant. He had never loved any mortal thing but that dead child.

With one passionate, pleading gaze at Sir Piers, Margaret laid her head on the breast of Sir Richard, and sobbed as though her heart were breaking.

“My Lord, my Lord!” came, painfully mixed with long-drawn sobs, from the lips of the young bride. “My own, own Richard! And only two months since we were married!—Have you the heart to part us?” she cried, suddenly turning to Sir Piers. “Did you never love any one?”

“Never, Madam.” For once in his life, Sir Piers spoke truth, Never—except Serena: and not much then.

“Brute!” And with this calumnious epithet—for brutes can love dearly—Margaret resumed her former attitude.

“Lady Margaret, I must trouble you,” said Sir Piers, in tones of hardness veneered with civility.

“My darling, you must let me go,” interposed the young Earl of Gloucester, who seemed scarcely less miserable than his bride.

“Magot, my child, we may not stay justice,” said the distressed tones of her father.

Yet she held tight until Sir Piers tore her away.

“Look to the damsel,” he condescended to say, with a glance at Doucebelle and Bruno. “Oh, ha!—where is the priest that blessed this wedding? I must have him.”

“There was no priest,” sobbed the Countess, lifting her head from her husband’s arm, where she had let it sink: “it wasper verba depresenti.”

“That we will see,” was the cool response of Sir Piers. “Take all the priests, Sir Drew.—Now, my Lady!”

“Fare thee well, my jewel,” said Earl Hubert, kissing the brow of the Countess. “Poor little Magot!—farewell, too.”

“Sir Hubert, my Lord, forgive me! I meant no ill.”

“Forgive thee?” said the Earl, with a smile, and again kissing his wife’s brow. “I could not do otherwise, my Margaret.—Now, Sir Piers, we are your prisoners.”

“These little amenities being disposed of,” sneered Sir Piers. “I suppose women must cry over something:—kind, I should think, to give them something to cry about.—March out the prisoners.”

Father Nicholas had been discovered in his study, engaged in the deepest meditation on a grammatical crux; and had received the news of his arrest with a blank horror and amazement very laughable in the eyes of Sir Piers. Master Aristoteles was pounding rhubarb with his sleeves turned up, and required some convincing that he was not wanted professionally. Father Warner was no where to be found. The three priests were spared fetters in consideration of their sacred character: both the Earls were heavily ironed. And so the armed band, with their prisoners, marched away from the Castle.

The feelings of the prisoners were diverse. Father Nicholas was simply astonished beyond any power of words to convey. Master Aristoteles was convinced that the recent physical disturbances in the atmosphere were more than enough to account for the whole affair. Earl Hubert felt sure that his old enemy, the Bishop of Winchester, was at the bottom of it. Earl Richard was disposed to think the same Father Bruno alone looked upwards, and saw God.

But assuredly no one of them saw the moving cause in that tall, stern, silent Jewish youth, and the last idea that ever entered the mind of Richard de Clare was to associate this great grief of his life with the boyish trick he had played on Delecresse two years before.

For the great grief of Richard’s life this sorrow was. Through the six-and-twenty years which remained of his mortal span, he never forgot it, and he never forgave it.

It proved the easiest thing in the world to convince King Henry that he had not intended Richard to marry Margaret. Had his dearly-beloved uncle, the Bishop of Valentia, held up before him a black cloth, and said, “This is white,” His Majesty would merely have wondered what could be the matter with his eyes.

The next point was to persuade that royal and most deceivable individual that he had entertained an earnest desire to see Richard married to a Princess of Savoy, a cousin of the Queen. This, also, was not difficult. The third lesson instilled into him was that, Richard having thought proper to render this impossible by choosing for himself, he, King Henry, was a cruelly-injured and unpardonably insulted man. His Majesty swallowed them all as glibly as possible. The metal being thus fused to the proper state, the prisoners were brought before their affronted Sovereign in person.

They were tried in inverse order, according to importance. Father Bruno could prove, without much difficulty, that the obnoxious marriage had taken place, on the showing of the prosecution itself, before he had entered the household. His penalty was the light one of discharge from the Countess’s service. That he deserved no penalty at all was not taken into consideration. The Crown could not so far err as to bring a charge against an entirely innocent man. The verdict, therefore, in Father Bruno’s case resembled that of the famous jury who returned as theirs, “Not Guilty, but we hope he won’t do it again.”

Master Aristoteles was next placed in the dock, and had the honour of amusing the Court. His asseverations of innocent ignorance were so mixed up with dissertations on the virtues of savin and betony, and lamenting references to the last eclipse which might have warned him of what was coming on him, that the Court condescended to relax into a smile, and let the simple man go with the light sentence of six months’ imprisonment. At a subsequent period in his life, Master Aristoteles was wont to say that this sentence was the best thing that ever happened to him, since the enforced meditation and idleness had enabled him to think out his grand discovery that the dust which gathered on beams of chestnut wood was an infallible specific for fever. He had since treated three fever patients in this manner, and not one of them had died. Whether the patients would have recovered without the dust, and with being so much let alone, Master Aristoteles did not concern himself.

Next came Father Nicholas. A light sentence also sufficed for him, not on account of his innocence, but because his friend the Abbot of Ham was a friend of the Bishop of Winchester.

Earl Hubert of Kent was then tried. The animus of his accusers was plainly shown, for they brought up again all the old hackneyed charges on account of which he had been pardoned years before—for some of them more than once. The affront offered to the King by the Earl’s marriage with Margaret of Scotland, the fact that she and his third wife were within the forbidden degrees, and that no dispensation had been obtained; these were renewed, with all the other disproved and spiteful accusations of old time. But the head and front of the offending, in this instance, was of course the marriage of his daughter. It did not make much difference that Hubert calmly swore that he had never known of the marriage, either before or after, except what he had learned from the simple statement of the Countess his wife, to the effect that it had been contracted at Bury Saint Edmund’s, during his absence at Merton. The fervent intercession of Hubert’s friends, moved by the passionate entreaties of the Countess, did not make much difference either; but what did make a good deal was that the Earl (who knew his royal master) offered a heavy golden bribe for pardon of the crime he had not committed. King Henry thereupon condescended to announce that in consideration of the effect produced upon his compassionate heart by the piteous intercession of the prisoner’s friends,—

“His fury should abate, and heThe crowns would take.”

“His fury should abate, and heThe crowns would take.”

Earl Hubert therefore received a most gracious pardon, and was permitted to return (minus the money) to the bosom of his distracted family.

But the heaviest vengeance fell on the young head of Richard de Clare, and through him on the fair girl with the cedar hair, whose worst crime was that she had loved him. It was not vengeance that could be weighed like Hubert’s coins, or told on the clock like the imprisonment of his physician. It was counted out, throb by throb, in the agony of two human hearts, one fiercely stabbed and artificially healed, and the other left to bleed to death like a wounded doe.

The King’s first step was to procure a solemn Papal sentence of divorce between Richard and Margaret. Their consent, of course, was neither asked nor thought needful. His Majesty’s advisers allowed him—and Richard—a little rest then, before they thought it necessary to do any thing more.

The result of the trial was to leave Father Bruno homeless. He returned to his monastery at Lincoln, and sought the leave of his Superior to be transferred to the Convent of the Order at Norwich. His heart still yearned over Belasez, with a tenderness which was half of Heaven and half of earth. Yet he knew that in all probability he would never find it possible to cross her path. Well! let him do what he could, and leave the rest with God. If He meant them to meet, meet they must, though Satan and all his angels combined to bar the way.

“Wife!”

“May thy beard be shaven! I was just dropping off. Well?”

It had taken Abraham a long while to summon up his courage to make what he felt would be to Licorice an unwelcome communication. He was rather dismayed to find it so badly received at the first step.

“Do go on, thou weariest of old jackdaws! I’m half asleep.”

“I have spoken to the child, Licorice.”

“As if thou couldst not have said that half an hour ago! Well, how do matters stand?”

“There is one person in particular whom she is sorry to leave.”

“Of course there is! I saw that as plain as the barber’s pole across the street. Didn’t I tell thee so? Is it some young Christian gallant, and who is he? Blessed be the memory of Abraham our father!—why did we ever let that girl go to Bury?”

“It is not as thou art fearing, wife. But—it is worse.”

“Worse!” Licorice seemed wide awake enough now. “Why, what could there be worse, unless she had married a Christian, or had abjured her faith?”

“Wife, this is worse. She has seen—him.”

“De Malpas?” The name was almost hissed from the lips of Licorice.

“The same. It was to be, Licorice. Adonai knows why! But it is evident they were fated to meet.”

“What did the viper tell her?”

“I do not gather that he told her any thing, except that she brought a face to his memory that he had known of old. She fancies—and so of course does he—that it was her sister.”

A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez’s blood curdle as she lay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than the angel.

“What an ass he must be, never to guess the truth!”

“She wants to know the truth, wife. She asked me if she might not.”

“Thou let it alone. I’ll cook up a nice little story, that will set her mind at rest.”

“O Licorice!—more deception yet?”

“Deception! Why, wouldst thou tell her the truth? Just go to her now, and wake her, and let her know that she is—”

Belasez strained her ears to their utmost, but the words which followed could not be heard from her mother’s dropped tones.

“What would follow—eh?” demanded Licorice, raising her voice again.

“Adonai knows!” said Abraham, sadly. “But I suppose we could not keep her long.”

“I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what he and his catch-polls will say. Wouldn’t there be a pretty ferment? Old man, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talking about lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I’ll let thee know when I think there’s any danger of it), and show a little spice of prudence, like a craftsman of middle earth as thou art. More deception! Of course there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide to begin with, it he does not want to be carried down it.”

“The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that she either became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thing more.”

“Who told her Anegay’s name?”

“I cannot imagine. It might be Bruno.”

“We have always been so careful to keep it from her hearing.”

There was a pause.

“Didst thou find the Christian dog had tampered with her faith?”

“I don’t know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her.”

“Then he has, no doubt. I’ll get it out of her.”

Belasez trembled at the threat.

“Any thing more, old man? If not, I’ll go to sleep again.”

“Licorice,” said Abraham in a low voice, “the child said she loved him—as she loves me.”

“May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to them both?”

“It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not know why.”

“Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!”

“I doubt if it do,” was Abraham’s dry answer.

“Such a rabbit as thou art!—as frightened as a hare, and as soft as a bag of duck’s down. I’m going to sleep.”

And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, with that uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen, with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It gradually dawned upon her that Licorice was going to “get it out of her,” and was likewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She had not heard two sentences which passed between her parents before she woke, or she might have been still more on her guard.

“Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I told her that Anegay was not her sister.”

“Just what might have been expected of thee, my paragon of wisdom! Well, never mind. I’ll tell her she was her aunt. That will do as well.”

When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were duly completed, Licorice made Belasez’s heart flutter by a command to attend her in the little porch-chamber.

“Belasez,” she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantly have suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing,—for Licorice’s character was well known to her—“Belasez, I hear from thy father that thou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was a kinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thou shalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from thee further than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and I have not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abraham thy father, and therefore thine aunt.”

Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father’s sister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed that Abraham’s references to the dead girl were made with far more indication of love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that this might be due to the existence of relationship on his part and not on hers. She now concluded that it was simply a question of character. But who Anegay was, was a point left as much in the dark as ever.

“She was a great friend of mine, daughter, and I loved her very dearly,” said Licorice, applying one hand to her perfectly dry eyes—a proceeding which imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her were generally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impression that she had hated her. “And at that time thy father dwelt at Lincoln—it was before we were married, thou knowest—and Anegay, being an only and motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. I cannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, but Anegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name was Beatrice—”

A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feel especially doubtful of the truth of this part of the story.

“And who had a brother,” pursued Licorice, “a young Christian squire, but as thou shalt hear, a most wicked and artful man.”

Belasez at once set down the unknown squire as a model of all the cardinal virtues.

“Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practise the Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over all unfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within their influence.”

There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more charges brought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believed similar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at Bury Castle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken and uprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction that Jews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of the same stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found in both camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom she chose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidence or communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in such different moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any. Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was wholly uncultivated, and whose imagination all ran into cunning and deceit. Belasez was an article of much finer quality, both mentally and morally. The only person in her own family with whom she could exchange thought or feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came the nearest to it.

It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to have so little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold herself into more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheer impossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognition that it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her own fault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness of heart.

“It seems to me,” continued Licorice, “that this bad young man, whose name was De Malpas, must have cast a spell on our poor, unhappy Anegay. For how else could a daughter of Israel come to love so vile an insect as one of the accursed Goyim?

“For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it was to all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of a marriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resource was to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forget all about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant of the Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy father were wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay with us.”

Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: but how much of it was true? “And did she forget him, Mother?”

“Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty.” Belasez privately thought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a duty as this would be extremely hard to do.

“Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?”

“She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and died soon after the birth of her first child,” said Licorice, glibly. “And was she really happy, Mother?”

“Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else.”

Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced.

“Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits to Bury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to be trusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities avail thee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom a Christian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years she could not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do not mistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee.”

And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of the interview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religious question for another time.

“May I ask one other question, Mother?—what became of the maiden Beatrice and her brother?”

Licorice’s eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on the principle of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where the road did not lead.

“The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not know what became of the maiden.”

Licorice disappeared.

“The squire was not killed, I am sure,” said Belasez to herself. “It is Father Bruno.”

Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay was not her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno was sure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him was only too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the very existence of Beatrice, were in Belasez’s eyes purely fictitious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted the latter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to that gleam in her mother’s eyes, which she invariably put on when she was launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction. Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were not a real person.

But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that something was left behind which had not been told her?

Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment after, she sprang to a sitting posture.

Yes, there was something behind!

What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story? Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,—which Licorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?

There was not much sleep for Belasez that night.

Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took the whole blame upon herself.

Chapter Ten.Truth told at last.“Guardami ben’! Ben’ son’, ben’ son’ Beatrice.”Dante.“Well, now, this is provoking!”“What is the matter, wife?” And Abraham looked up from a bale of silk which he was packing.“Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul but me to go and nurse her.”“There is Esterote, her brother’s wife.”“There isn’t! Esterote has her baby to look to. Dost thou expect her to carry infection to him?”“What is to be done?” demanded Abraham, blankly. “Could not Pucella be had, or old Cuntessa?”“Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich usurer, and Pucella would be no good,—she’s as frightened of the fever as a chicken, and she has never had it.”“Well, thou hast had it.”“I? Oh, I’m not frightened a bit—not of that. I am tremendously afraid of thee.”“Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it.”“Ay de mi, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art.”“Bats don’t tear their garments, wife.”“They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou.”“Wife, dost thou not think we might speak out honestly like true men, and trust the All-Merciful with the child’s future?”“Well, if ever I did see a lame, wall-eyed, broken-kneed old pack-ass, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!”And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an attitude of pitying astonishment.“I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas were to walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, ‘Here she is, O my Lord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.’”“I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him break his for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers—What wicked thing did he do, wife, that we should have used him thus?”“What! canst thou ask me? Did he not presume to lay unclean hands on a daughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, ‘Ye shall not give her unto the heathen’?”“I do not think De Malpas was a heathen.”“Hast thou been to the creeping thing up yonder and begged to be baptised to-morrow?”This was a complimentary allusion to that Right Reverend person, the Bishop of Norwich.“Nay, Licorice, I am as true to the faith as thou.”“Ay de mi! I must have put on my gown wrong side out, to make thee say so.” And Licorice pretended to make a close examination of her skirt, as if to discover whether this was the case.“Licorice, is it not written, ‘Cursed be their wrath, for it was cruel?’ Thine was, wife.”“Whatever has come to thy conscience? It quietly went to sleep for eighteen years; and now, all at once, it comes alive and awake!”Abraham winced, as though he felt the taunt true.“‘Better late than never,’ wife.”“That is a Christian saying.”“May be. It is true.”“Well!” And Licorice’s hands were thrust out from her, as if she were casting off drops of water. “I’ve done my best. I shall let it alone now. Genta must be nursed: and I cannot bring infection home. And after all, the girl is thine, not mine. Thou must take thine own way. But I shall bid her good-bye for ever: for I have no hope of seeing her again.”Abraham made no answer, unless his troubled eyes and quivering lips did so for him. But the night closed in upon a very quiet chamber, owing to the absence of Licorice. Delecresse sat studying, with a book open before him: Belasez was busied with embroidery. Abraham was idle, so far as his hands were concerned; but any one who had studied him for a minute would have seen that his thoughts were very active, and by no means pleasant.Ten calm days passed over, and nothing happened. They heard, through neighbours, that Genta was going through all the phases of a tedious illness, and that Licorice was a most attentive and valuable nurse.At the end of those ten days, Delecresse came in with an order for some of the exquisite broidery which only Belasez could execute. It was wanted for the rich usurer’s wife, Rosia: and she wished Belasez to come to her with specimens of various patterns, so that she might select the one she preferred.A walk through the city was an agreeable and unusual break in the monotony of existence; and Rosia’s house was quite at the other end of the Jews’ quarter. Belasez prepared to go out with much alacrity. Her father escorted her himself, leaving Delecresse to mind the shop.The embroidery was exhibited, the pattern chosen, and they were nearly half-way at home, when they were overtaken by a sudden hailstorm, and took refuge in the lych-gate of a church. It was growing dusk, and they had not perceived the presence of a third person,—like themselves, a refugee from the storm.“This is heavy!” said Abraham, as the hailstones came pouring and dancing down.“I am afraid we shall not get home till late,” was the response of his daughter.“No, not till late,” said Abraham, absently.“Belasez!” came softly from behind her.She turned round quickly, her hands held out in greeting, her eyes sparkling, delight written on every feature of her face.“Father Bruno! I never knew you were in Norwich.”“I have not been here long, my child. I wondered if we should ever meet.”Ah, little idea had Belasez how that meeting had been imagined, longed for, prayed for, through all those weary weeks. She glanced at her father, suddenly remembering that her warm welcome to the Christian priest was not likely to be much approved by him. Bruno’s eyes followed hers.“Abraham!” he said, in tones which sounded like a mixture of friendship and deprecation.Abraham had bent down as though he were cowering from an expected blow. Now he lifted himself up, and held out his hand.“Bruno de Malpas, thou art welcome, if God hath sent thee.”“God sends all events,” answered the priest, accepting the offered hand.“Ay, I am trying to learn that,” replied Abraham, in a voice of great pain. “For at times He sends that which breaks the heart.”“That He may heal it, my father.”The title, from Bruno’s lips, surprised and puzzled Belasez.“It may be so,” said Abraham in a rather hopeless tone. “‘It is Adonai; let Him do what seemeth Him good.’ So thou hast made friends with—my Belasez.”“I did not know she was thine when I made friends with her,” said Bruno, with that quiet smile of his which had always seemed to Belasez at once so sweet and so sad.“‘Did not know’? No, I suppose not. Ah, yes, yes! ‘Did not know’!”“Does this child know my history?” was Bruno’s next question.“She knows,” said Abraham in a troubled voice, “nearly as much as thou knowest.”“Then she knows all?”“Nay, she knows nothing.”“You speak in riddles, my father.”“My son, I am about to do that which will break my heart. Nay,—God is about to do it. Let me put it thus, or I shall not know how to bear it.”“I have no wish nor intention to trouble you, my father,” said Bruno hastily. “If I might, now and then, see this child,—to tell truth, it would be a great pleasure and solace to me: for I have learned to love her,—just the years of my Beatrice, just what Beatrice might have grown to be. Yet—if I speak I must speak honestly—give me leave to see Belasez, only on the understanding that I may speak to her of Christ. She is dear as any thing in this dreary world, but He is dearer than the world and all that is in it. If I may not do this, let me say farewell, and see her no more.”“Thou hast spoken to her—of the Nazarene?” asked Abraham in a low tone.“I have,” was Bruno’s frank reply.“Thou hast taught her the Christian faith?”“So far as I could do it.”Belasez stood trembling. Yet Abraham did not seem angry.“Thou hast baptised her, perhaps?”“No. That I have not.”“Not?—why not?”“She was fit for it in my eyes; and—may I say it, Belasez?—she was willing. But my hands were not clean enough. I felt that I could not repress a sensation of triumphing over Licorice, if I baptised her daughter. May the Lord forgive me if I erred, but I did not dare to do it.”“O my son, my son!” broke from Abraham. “Thou hast been more righteous than I. Come home with me, and tell the story to Belasez thyself; and then—Adonai, Thou knowest. Help me to do Thy will!”Bruno was evidently much astonished, and not a little perplexed at Abraham’s speech; but he followed him quietly. The storm was over now, and they gained home and the chamber over the porch without coming in contact with Delecresse. Abraham left Bruno there, while he desired Belasez to take off her wet things and rejoin them. Meantime he changed his coat, and carried up wine and cake to his guest. But when Belasez reappeared, Abraham drew the bolt, and closed the inner baize door which shut out all sound.“Now, Bruno de Malpas,” he said, “tell thy story.”And sitting down at the table, he laid his arms on it, and hid his face upon it.“But, my father, dost thou wishherto hear it?”“The Blessed One does, I believe. She has heard as yet but a garbled version. I wish what He wishes.”“Amen!” ejaculated Bruno. And he turned to Belasez.She, on her part, felt too much astonished for words. If any thing could surprise her more than that Bruno should be actually invited to tell the tapued story, it was the calm way in which Abraham received the intimation that she had all but professed Christianity. Mortal anger and scathing contempt she could have understood and expected; but this was utterly beyond her.“Belasez,” said Bruno, “years ago, before thou wert born, thy father had another daughter, and her name was Anegay.”“Father! you said Anegay was not my sister!” came in surprised accents from Belasez. But a choking sob was the only answer from Abraham.“She was not the daughter of thy mother, Belasez; but of thy father’s first wife, whose name was Fiona. Perhaps he meant that. She was twenty years older than thou. And—I need not make my tale long—we met, Belasez, and we loved each other. I told her of Christ, and she became a Christian, and received holy baptism at my hands. By that time thy father had wedded thy mother. As thou knowest, she is a staunch Jewess; and though she did not by any means discover all, she did find that Anegay had Christian friends, and forbade her to see them again. Time went on, and we could scarcely ever meet, and Anegay was not very happy. At length, one night, a ring was brought to me which was her usual token, praying me to meet her quickly at the house of Isabel de Fulshaw, where we had usually met before. I went, and found her weeping as though her heart would break. She told me that Licorice had been—not very gentle with her, and had threatened to turn her out of the house the next morning unless she would trample on the cross, as a sign that she abjured all her Christian friends and Christ. That, she said, she could not do. ‘I could tread on the piece of wood,’ she said, ‘and that would be nothing: but my mother means it for a sign of abjuring Christ.’ And she earnestly implored me to get her into some nunnery, where she might be safe. Perhaps I ought to have done that. But I offered her another choice of safety. And the next morning, as soon as the canonical hours had dawned, Anegay was my wife.”Abraham spoke here, but without lifting his head. “I was on a journey, Belasez,” he said. “I never persecuted my darling—never!”“No, Belasez,” echoed Bruno; “he never did. I believe he was bitterly grieved at her becoming a Christian, but he had no hand in her sufferings at that time. A year or more went on, and the Lord gave us a baby daughter. I baptised her by the name of Beatrice, which was also the name that her mother had received in baptism. She was nearly a month old, when a message came to me from the Bishop, requiring me to come to him, which involved a journey, there and back, of about a week. I went: and I returned—to find my home desolate. Wife, child—even the maid-servant,—all were gone. An old woman, who dwelt in my parish, was in the house, but she could tell me nothing save that a message had come to her from Frethesind the maid, begging her to come and take charge of the house until my return, but not giving a word of explanation. I could think of no place to which my wife would be likely to go, unless her mother had been there, and had either forced or over-persuaded her to return with her. I hurried to Norwich with as much speed as possible. To my surprise, Licorice received me with apparent kindliness, and inquired after Anegay as though no quarrel had ever existed.”Belasez thought, with momentary amusement, that Bruno was not so well acquainted with Licorice as herself.“I asked in great distress if Anegay were not with her. Licorice assured me she knew nothing of her. ‘Then you did not fetch her away?’ said I. ‘How could I?’ she answered. ‘I have a baby in the cradle only five weeks old.’ Well, I could not tell what to think; her words and looks were those of truth. She was apparently as kind as possible. She showed me her baby—thyself, Belasez; and encouraged me to play with Delecresse, who was then a lively child of three years. I came away, baffled, yet unsatisfied. I should have been better pleased had I seen thy father. But he, I was told, was again absent on one of his business journeys.”“True,” was the one word interpolated by Abraham, “I went to the house of my friend, Walcheline de Fulshaw. He was an apothecary. I told my story to him and to Isabel his wife, desiring their counsel as to the means whereby I should get at the truth. Walcheline seemed perplexed; but Isabel said, ‘Father, I think I see how to find out the truth. Dost thou not remember,’ she said, turning to her husband, ‘the maiden Rosia, daughter of Aaron, whom thou didst heal of her sickness a year past? Let me inquire of her. These Jews all know each other. The child is bright and shrewd, and I am sure she would do what she could out of gratitude to thee.’ Walcheline gave consent at once, and a messenger was sent to the house of Aaron, requesting that his daughter would visit Isabel de Fulshaw, who had need of her. The girl came quickly, and very intelligent she proved. She was about twelve years of age, and was manifestly loving and desirous to oblige Isabel, who had, as I heard afterwards, shown her great kindness. She said she knew Abraham thy father well, and Licorice and Anegay. ‘Had Anegay been there of late?’ Isabel asked her. ‘Certainly,’ answered Rosia. ‘Was she there now?’ The child hesitated. But the truth came out when Isabel pressed her. Licorice had been absent from home, for several weeks, and when she returned, Anegay was with her, and four men were also in her company. Anegay had been very ill: very, very ill indeed, said the child. But—after long hesitation—she was better now. ‘What about the baby?’ asked Isabel. Rosia looked surprised. She had heard of none, except Licorice’s own—thee, Belasez. Had she spoken with Anegay? The girl shook her head. Had she seen her? Yes. How was it, that she had seen her, but not spoken with her? The child replied, she was too ill to speak; she knew no one.”“She did not know me, Belasez,” said Abraham sorrowfully, lifting his white, troubled face. “I came home to find her there, to my great surprise. But she did not know me. She took me for some other man, I cannot tell whom. And she kept begging me pitifully to tell Bruno—to let Bruno know the moment he should come home: he would never, never leave her in prison; he would be sure to rescue her. I asked Licorice if Anegay had come of her own will, for I was very much afraid lest some force had been used to bring her. But she assured me that my daughter had returned of her own free will, only a little reluctantly, lest her husband should not approve it. There had been no force whatever, only a little gentle persuasion. And—fool that I was!—I believed it at the time. It was not until all was over that I heard the real truth. What good could come of telling Bruno then? It would be simply to make him miserable to no purpose. And yet—Go on, my son.”And Abraham returned to his former position.“Then,” continued Bruno, “Isabel pressed the child Rosia harder. She told her that she felt certain she knew where Anegay was, and she must tell it to her. At last the child burst into tears. ‘Oh, don’t ask me!’ she said, ‘for I did love her so much! I cannot believe what Licorice says, that she is gone to Satan because she believed in the Nazarene. I am sure she went to God.’ ‘But is she dead, Rosia?’ cried Isabel. And the child said, ‘She is dead. She died yesterday morning.’”Bruno paused, apparently to recover his composure.“I went back at once to this house. I saw that Licorice instantly read in my face that I had heard the truth: and she tried to brazen it out no longer. Yes, it was true, she said in answer to my passionate charges: Anegay was dead. I should see her if I would, to convince me. So I passed into an inner chamber, and there I found her lying, my own fair darling, white and still, with the lips sealed for ever which could have told so much—”Bruno nearly broke down, and he had to wait for a minute before he could proceed.“I stood up from my dead, and I demanded of Licorice why she had done this cruel thing. And she said, ‘Why! How little does a Christian know the heart of a Jew! Canst thou not guess that in our eyes it is a degradation for a daughter of Israel to be looked on by such as you Gentiles—that for one of you so much as to touch her hand is pollution that only blood can wipe away? Why! I wanted to revenge myself on thee, and if it were not too late, to save the child’s soul. Thou canst hang me now, if thou wilt: I have had my revenge!’ And I said, ‘Licorice, my faith teaches me that revenge must be left to God, and that only forgiveness is for the lips of men. I, a sinner as thou art, must have nothing to do with vengeance. But, O Licorice, by all that thou deemest dear and holy, by the love that thou bearest to that babe of thine in the cradle, I conjure thee to tell me what has become of my child. Is she yet living?’ She paused a while. Then she said in a low voice, ‘No, Bruno. The journey was too much, in such a season, for so young an infant. She died the day after we arrived here. Perhaps,’ said Licorice, ‘thou wilt not believe me; but I am sorry that the child is dead. I meant to bring her up a strict Jewess, and to wed her to some Jew. That would have been sweet to me. She and my Belasez would have grown together like twin sisters, for they were almost exactly of an age.’ I could not refuse credence, for her look and tone were those of truth. It explained, too, if Beatrice had died so soon after arrival, why the child Rosia had not heard of her. So then I knew, Belasez, that the life to which my God called me thenceforward was to be a lonely walk with Him, sweetened by no human love any more, only by the dear hope that Heaven would hold us all, and that when we met in the Golden City we should part no more.”Tears were dimming Belasez’s eyes. Bruno turned to Abraham.“Now, my father, I have done thy will. But suffer me to say that it is no slight perplexity to me, why thou hast thought it meet that this sorrowful story should be told to the child of her that did the wrong.”Abraham made no answer but to rise from the position in which he had been sitting all the time, and to walk straight to the window. He seemed unwilling to speak, and his companions looked at him in doubtful surprise. They had to wait, however, till he turned from the window, and came and stood before Bruno.“Son,” he said, “what saith thy faith to this question?—When a man hath taken the wrong road, and hath wandered far away from right, from truth, and God, is it ever too late, while life lasts, for him to turn and come back?”“Never,” was Bruno’s answer.“And is it, under any circumstances, lawful for a man to lie unto his neighbour?”Bruno, like many another, was better than his system; and at that time the Church herself had not reached those depths of legalised iniquity wherein she afterwards plunged. So that he had no hesitation in repeating, “Never.”“Then hear the truth, Bruno de Malpas; and if it well-nigh break an old man’s heart to tell it, it is better that I should suffer and die for God’s sake than that I should live for mine. On one point, Licorice deceived thee to the last. And until now, I, even I, have aided her in duping thee. Yet it is written, ‘He that confesseth and forsaketh his sin shall find mercy.’ May it not be too late for me!”“Assuredly not, my father. But what canst thou mean?”“Bruno, thy child did not die the day after she came hither.”“Father! Thou art not going to tell me—”Bruno’s voice had in it a strange mixture of agony and hope.“Son, thy Beatrice lives.”Before either could speak further, Belasez had thrown herself on her knees, and flung her arms around Abraham.“O Father, if it be so, speak quickly, and end his agony! For the sake of the righteous Lord, that loveth righteousness, do, do give Father Bruno back his child!”Abraham disengaged himself from Belasez’s clinging arms with what seemed almost a shudder. He took up his long robe, and tore it from the skirt to the neck. Then, with a voice almost choked with emotion, he laid both hands, as if in blessing, on the head of the kneeling Belasez.“Beatrice de Malpas,” he said, “Thou art that child.”A low cry from Bruno, a more passionate exclamation from Belasez, and the father and daughter were clasped heart to heart.

“Guardami ben’! Ben’ son’, ben’ son’ Beatrice.”Dante.

“Guardami ben’! Ben’ son’, ben’ son’ Beatrice.”Dante.

“Well, now, this is provoking!”

“What is the matter, wife?” And Abraham looked up from a bale of silk which he was packing.

“Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul but me to go and nurse her.”

“There is Esterote, her brother’s wife.”

“There isn’t! Esterote has her baby to look to. Dost thou expect her to carry infection to him?”

“What is to be done?” demanded Abraham, blankly. “Could not Pucella be had, or old Cuntessa?”

“Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich usurer, and Pucella would be no good,—she’s as frightened of the fever as a chicken, and she has never had it.”

“Well, thou hast had it.”

“I? Oh, I’m not frightened a bit—not of that. I am tremendously afraid of thee.”

“Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it.”

“Ay de mi, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art.”

“Bats don’t tear their garments, wife.”

“They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou.”

“Wife, dost thou not think we might speak out honestly like true men, and trust the All-Merciful with the child’s future?”

“Well, if ever I did see a lame, wall-eyed, broken-kneed old pack-ass, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!”

And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an attitude of pitying astonishment.

“I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas were to walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, ‘Here she is, O my Lord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.’”

“I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him break his for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers—What wicked thing did he do, wife, that we should have used him thus?”

“What! canst thou ask me? Did he not presume to lay unclean hands on a daughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, ‘Ye shall not give her unto the heathen’?”

“I do not think De Malpas was a heathen.”

“Hast thou been to the creeping thing up yonder and begged to be baptised to-morrow?”

This was a complimentary allusion to that Right Reverend person, the Bishop of Norwich.

“Nay, Licorice, I am as true to the faith as thou.”

“Ay de mi! I must have put on my gown wrong side out, to make thee say so.” And Licorice pretended to make a close examination of her skirt, as if to discover whether this was the case.

“Licorice, is it not written, ‘Cursed be their wrath, for it was cruel?’ Thine was, wife.”

“Whatever has come to thy conscience? It quietly went to sleep for eighteen years; and now, all at once, it comes alive and awake!”

Abraham winced, as though he felt the taunt true.

“‘Better late than never,’ wife.”

“That is a Christian saying.”

“May be. It is true.”

“Well!” And Licorice’s hands were thrust out from her, as if she were casting off drops of water. “I’ve done my best. I shall let it alone now. Genta must be nursed: and I cannot bring infection home. And after all, the girl is thine, not mine. Thou must take thine own way. But I shall bid her good-bye for ever: for I have no hope of seeing her again.”

Abraham made no answer, unless his troubled eyes and quivering lips did so for him. But the night closed in upon a very quiet chamber, owing to the absence of Licorice. Delecresse sat studying, with a book open before him: Belasez was busied with embroidery. Abraham was idle, so far as his hands were concerned; but any one who had studied him for a minute would have seen that his thoughts were very active, and by no means pleasant.

Ten calm days passed over, and nothing happened. They heard, through neighbours, that Genta was going through all the phases of a tedious illness, and that Licorice was a most attentive and valuable nurse.

At the end of those ten days, Delecresse came in with an order for some of the exquisite broidery which only Belasez could execute. It was wanted for the rich usurer’s wife, Rosia: and she wished Belasez to come to her with specimens of various patterns, so that she might select the one she preferred.

A walk through the city was an agreeable and unusual break in the monotony of existence; and Rosia’s house was quite at the other end of the Jews’ quarter. Belasez prepared to go out with much alacrity. Her father escorted her himself, leaving Delecresse to mind the shop.

The embroidery was exhibited, the pattern chosen, and they were nearly half-way at home, when they were overtaken by a sudden hailstorm, and took refuge in the lych-gate of a church. It was growing dusk, and they had not perceived the presence of a third person,—like themselves, a refugee from the storm.

“This is heavy!” said Abraham, as the hailstones came pouring and dancing down.

“I am afraid we shall not get home till late,” was the response of his daughter.

“No, not till late,” said Abraham, absently.

“Belasez!” came softly from behind her.

She turned round quickly, her hands held out in greeting, her eyes sparkling, delight written on every feature of her face.

“Father Bruno! I never knew you were in Norwich.”

“I have not been here long, my child. I wondered if we should ever meet.”

Ah, little idea had Belasez how that meeting had been imagined, longed for, prayed for, through all those weary weeks. She glanced at her father, suddenly remembering that her warm welcome to the Christian priest was not likely to be much approved by him. Bruno’s eyes followed hers.

“Abraham!” he said, in tones which sounded like a mixture of friendship and deprecation.

Abraham had bent down as though he were cowering from an expected blow. Now he lifted himself up, and held out his hand.

“Bruno de Malpas, thou art welcome, if God hath sent thee.”

“God sends all events,” answered the priest, accepting the offered hand.

“Ay, I am trying to learn that,” replied Abraham, in a voice of great pain. “For at times He sends that which breaks the heart.”

“That He may heal it, my father.”

The title, from Bruno’s lips, surprised and puzzled Belasez.

“It may be so,” said Abraham in a rather hopeless tone. “‘It is Adonai; let Him do what seemeth Him good.’ So thou hast made friends with—my Belasez.”

“I did not know she was thine when I made friends with her,” said Bruno, with that quiet smile of his which had always seemed to Belasez at once so sweet and so sad.

“‘Did not know’? No, I suppose not. Ah, yes, yes! ‘Did not know’!”

“Does this child know my history?” was Bruno’s next question.

“She knows,” said Abraham in a troubled voice, “nearly as much as thou knowest.”

“Then she knows all?”

“Nay, she knows nothing.”

“You speak in riddles, my father.”

“My son, I am about to do that which will break my heart. Nay,—God is about to do it. Let me put it thus, or I shall not know how to bear it.”

“I have no wish nor intention to trouble you, my father,” said Bruno hastily. “If I might, now and then, see this child,—to tell truth, it would be a great pleasure and solace to me: for I have learned to love her,—just the years of my Beatrice, just what Beatrice might have grown to be. Yet—if I speak I must speak honestly—give me leave to see Belasez, only on the understanding that I may speak to her of Christ. She is dear as any thing in this dreary world, but He is dearer than the world and all that is in it. If I may not do this, let me say farewell, and see her no more.”

“Thou hast spoken to her—of the Nazarene?” asked Abraham in a low tone.

“I have,” was Bruno’s frank reply.

“Thou hast taught her the Christian faith?”

“So far as I could do it.”

Belasez stood trembling. Yet Abraham did not seem angry.

“Thou hast baptised her, perhaps?”

“No. That I have not.”

“Not?—why not?”

“She was fit for it in my eyes; and—may I say it, Belasez?—she was willing. But my hands were not clean enough. I felt that I could not repress a sensation of triumphing over Licorice, if I baptised her daughter. May the Lord forgive me if I erred, but I did not dare to do it.”

“O my son, my son!” broke from Abraham. “Thou hast been more righteous than I. Come home with me, and tell the story to Belasez thyself; and then—Adonai, Thou knowest. Help me to do Thy will!”

Bruno was evidently much astonished, and not a little perplexed at Abraham’s speech; but he followed him quietly. The storm was over now, and they gained home and the chamber over the porch without coming in contact with Delecresse. Abraham left Bruno there, while he desired Belasez to take off her wet things and rejoin them. Meantime he changed his coat, and carried up wine and cake to his guest. But when Belasez reappeared, Abraham drew the bolt, and closed the inner baize door which shut out all sound.

“Now, Bruno de Malpas,” he said, “tell thy story.”

And sitting down at the table, he laid his arms on it, and hid his face upon it.

“But, my father, dost thou wishherto hear it?”

“The Blessed One does, I believe. She has heard as yet but a garbled version. I wish what He wishes.”

“Amen!” ejaculated Bruno. And he turned to Belasez.

She, on her part, felt too much astonished for words. If any thing could surprise her more than that Bruno should be actually invited to tell the tapued story, it was the calm way in which Abraham received the intimation that she had all but professed Christianity. Mortal anger and scathing contempt she could have understood and expected; but this was utterly beyond her.

“Belasez,” said Bruno, “years ago, before thou wert born, thy father had another daughter, and her name was Anegay.”

“Father! you said Anegay was not my sister!” came in surprised accents from Belasez. But a choking sob was the only answer from Abraham.

“She was not the daughter of thy mother, Belasez; but of thy father’s first wife, whose name was Fiona. Perhaps he meant that. She was twenty years older than thou. And—I need not make my tale long—we met, Belasez, and we loved each other. I told her of Christ, and she became a Christian, and received holy baptism at my hands. By that time thy father had wedded thy mother. As thou knowest, she is a staunch Jewess; and though she did not by any means discover all, she did find that Anegay had Christian friends, and forbade her to see them again. Time went on, and we could scarcely ever meet, and Anegay was not very happy. At length, one night, a ring was brought to me which was her usual token, praying me to meet her quickly at the house of Isabel de Fulshaw, where we had usually met before. I went, and found her weeping as though her heart would break. She told me that Licorice had been—not very gentle with her, and had threatened to turn her out of the house the next morning unless she would trample on the cross, as a sign that she abjured all her Christian friends and Christ. That, she said, she could not do. ‘I could tread on the piece of wood,’ she said, ‘and that would be nothing: but my mother means it for a sign of abjuring Christ.’ And she earnestly implored me to get her into some nunnery, where she might be safe. Perhaps I ought to have done that. But I offered her another choice of safety. And the next morning, as soon as the canonical hours had dawned, Anegay was my wife.”

Abraham spoke here, but without lifting his head. “I was on a journey, Belasez,” he said. “I never persecuted my darling—never!”

“No, Belasez,” echoed Bruno; “he never did. I believe he was bitterly grieved at her becoming a Christian, but he had no hand in her sufferings at that time. A year or more went on, and the Lord gave us a baby daughter. I baptised her by the name of Beatrice, which was also the name that her mother had received in baptism. She was nearly a month old, when a message came to me from the Bishop, requiring me to come to him, which involved a journey, there and back, of about a week. I went: and I returned—to find my home desolate. Wife, child—even the maid-servant,—all were gone. An old woman, who dwelt in my parish, was in the house, but she could tell me nothing save that a message had come to her from Frethesind the maid, begging her to come and take charge of the house until my return, but not giving a word of explanation. I could think of no place to which my wife would be likely to go, unless her mother had been there, and had either forced or over-persuaded her to return with her. I hurried to Norwich with as much speed as possible. To my surprise, Licorice received me with apparent kindliness, and inquired after Anegay as though no quarrel had ever existed.”

Belasez thought, with momentary amusement, that Bruno was not so well acquainted with Licorice as herself.

“I asked in great distress if Anegay were not with her. Licorice assured me she knew nothing of her. ‘Then you did not fetch her away?’ said I. ‘How could I?’ she answered. ‘I have a baby in the cradle only five weeks old.’ Well, I could not tell what to think; her words and looks were those of truth. She was apparently as kind as possible. She showed me her baby—thyself, Belasez; and encouraged me to play with Delecresse, who was then a lively child of three years. I came away, baffled, yet unsatisfied. I should have been better pleased had I seen thy father. But he, I was told, was again absent on one of his business journeys.”

“True,” was the one word interpolated by Abraham, “I went to the house of my friend, Walcheline de Fulshaw. He was an apothecary. I told my story to him and to Isabel his wife, desiring their counsel as to the means whereby I should get at the truth. Walcheline seemed perplexed; but Isabel said, ‘Father, I think I see how to find out the truth. Dost thou not remember,’ she said, turning to her husband, ‘the maiden Rosia, daughter of Aaron, whom thou didst heal of her sickness a year past? Let me inquire of her. These Jews all know each other. The child is bright and shrewd, and I am sure she would do what she could out of gratitude to thee.’ Walcheline gave consent at once, and a messenger was sent to the house of Aaron, requesting that his daughter would visit Isabel de Fulshaw, who had need of her. The girl came quickly, and very intelligent she proved. She was about twelve years of age, and was manifestly loving and desirous to oblige Isabel, who had, as I heard afterwards, shown her great kindness. She said she knew Abraham thy father well, and Licorice and Anegay. ‘Had Anegay been there of late?’ Isabel asked her. ‘Certainly,’ answered Rosia. ‘Was she there now?’ The child hesitated. But the truth came out when Isabel pressed her. Licorice had been absent from home, for several weeks, and when she returned, Anegay was with her, and four men were also in her company. Anegay had been very ill: very, very ill indeed, said the child. But—after long hesitation—she was better now. ‘What about the baby?’ asked Isabel. Rosia looked surprised. She had heard of none, except Licorice’s own—thee, Belasez. Had she spoken with Anegay? The girl shook her head. Had she seen her? Yes. How was it, that she had seen her, but not spoken with her? The child replied, she was too ill to speak; she knew no one.”

“She did not know me, Belasez,” said Abraham sorrowfully, lifting his white, troubled face. “I came home to find her there, to my great surprise. But she did not know me. She took me for some other man, I cannot tell whom. And she kept begging me pitifully to tell Bruno—to let Bruno know the moment he should come home: he would never, never leave her in prison; he would be sure to rescue her. I asked Licorice if Anegay had come of her own will, for I was very much afraid lest some force had been used to bring her. But she assured me that my daughter had returned of her own free will, only a little reluctantly, lest her husband should not approve it. There had been no force whatever, only a little gentle persuasion. And—fool that I was!—I believed it at the time. It was not until all was over that I heard the real truth. What good could come of telling Bruno then? It would be simply to make him miserable to no purpose. And yet—Go on, my son.”

And Abraham returned to his former position.

“Then,” continued Bruno, “Isabel pressed the child Rosia harder. She told her that she felt certain she knew where Anegay was, and she must tell it to her. At last the child burst into tears. ‘Oh, don’t ask me!’ she said, ‘for I did love her so much! I cannot believe what Licorice says, that she is gone to Satan because she believed in the Nazarene. I am sure she went to God.’ ‘But is she dead, Rosia?’ cried Isabel. And the child said, ‘She is dead. She died yesterday morning.’”

Bruno paused, apparently to recover his composure.

“I went back at once to this house. I saw that Licorice instantly read in my face that I had heard the truth: and she tried to brazen it out no longer. Yes, it was true, she said in answer to my passionate charges: Anegay was dead. I should see her if I would, to convince me. So I passed into an inner chamber, and there I found her lying, my own fair darling, white and still, with the lips sealed for ever which could have told so much—”

Bruno nearly broke down, and he had to wait for a minute before he could proceed.

“I stood up from my dead, and I demanded of Licorice why she had done this cruel thing. And she said, ‘Why! How little does a Christian know the heart of a Jew! Canst thou not guess that in our eyes it is a degradation for a daughter of Israel to be looked on by such as you Gentiles—that for one of you so much as to touch her hand is pollution that only blood can wipe away? Why! I wanted to revenge myself on thee, and if it were not too late, to save the child’s soul. Thou canst hang me now, if thou wilt: I have had my revenge!’ And I said, ‘Licorice, my faith teaches me that revenge must be left to God, and that only forgiveness is for the lips of men. I, a sinner as thou art, must have nothing to do with vengeance. But, O Licorice, by all that thou deemest dear and holy, by the love that thou bearest to that babe of thine in the cradle, I conjure thee to tell me what has become of my child. Is she yet living?’ She paused a while. Then she said in a low voice, ‘No, Bruno. The journey was too much, in such a season, for so young an infant. She died the day after we arrived here. Perhaps,’ said Licorice, ‘thou wilt not believe me; but I am sorry that the child is dead. I meant to bring her up a strict Jewess, and to wed her to some Jew. That would have been sweet to me. She and my Belasez would have grown together like twin sisters, for they were almost exactly of an age.’ I could not refuse credence, for her look and tone were those of truth. It explained, too, if Beatrice had died so soon after arrival, why the child Rosia had not heard of her. So then I knew, Belasez, that the life to which my God called me thenceforward was to be a lonely walk with Him, sweetened by no human love any more, only by the dear hope that Heaven would hold us all, and that when we met in the Golden City we should part no more.”

Tears were dimming Belasez’s eyes. Bruno turned to Abraham.

“Now, my father, I have done thy will. But suffer me to say that it is no slight perplexity to me, why thou hast thought it meet that this sorrowful story should be told to the child of her that did the wrong.”

Abraham made no answer but to rise from the position in which he had been sitting all the time, and to walk straight to the window. He seemed unwilling to speak, and his companions looked at him in doubtful surprise. They had to wait, however, till he turned from the window, and came and stood before Bruno.

“Son,” he said, “what saith thy faith to this question?—When a man hath taken the wrong road, and hath wandered far away from right, from truth, and God, is it ever too late, while life lasts, for him to turn and come back?”

“Never,” was Bruno’s answer.

“And is it, under any circumstances, lawful for a man to lie unto his neighbour?”

Bruno, like many another, was better than his system; and at that time the Church herself had not reached those depths of legalised iniquity wherein she afterwards plunged. So that he had no hesitation in repeating, “Never.”

“Then hear the truth, Bruno de Malpas; and if it well-nigh break an old man’s heart to tell it, it is better that I should suffer and die for God’s sake than that I should live for mine. On one point, Licorice deceived thee to the last. And until now, I, even I, have aided her in duping thee. Yet it is written, ‘He that confesseth and forsaketh his sin shall find mercy.’ May it not be too late for me!”

“Assuredly not, my father. But what canst thou mean?”

“Bruno, thy child did not die the day after she came hither.”

“Father! Thou art not going to tell me—”

Bruno’s voice had in it a strange mixture of agony and hope.

“Son, thy Beatrice lives.”

Before either could speak further, Belasez had thrown herself on her knees, and flung her arms around Abraham.

“O Father, if it be so, speak quickly, and end his agony! For the sake of the righteous Lord, that loveth righteousness, do, do give Father Bruno back his child!”

Abraham disengaged himself from Belasez’s clinging arms with what seemed almost a shudder. He took up his long robe, and tore it from the skirt to the neck. Then, with a voice almost choked with emotion, he laid both hands, as if in blessing, on the head of the kneeling Belasez.

“Beatrice de Malpas,” he said, “Thou art that child.”

A low cry from Bruno, a more passionate exclamation from Belasez, and the father and daughter were clasped heart to heart.

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