"'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth:
Larger eyes and redder mouth
Than mine were in my first youth."
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.
So faithfully had the Countess adhered to her plighted word that Belasez
should be seen by no one, that not one of the priests had yet beheld her
except Father Nicholas, and the meeting in that case had been accidental
and momentary. But when Father Bruno announced to his brother priests
his intention of seeking an interview with the Jewish maiden, Father
Nicholas shook his head waggishly.
"Have a care of the toils of Satan, Brother Bruno!" said he. "The
maiden may have the soul of a fiend, for aught I wot, yet hath she the
face of an angel."
"I thank thee. There is no fear!" answered Bruno, with a smile which
made him look sadder.
The Countess had not returned from the coronation festivities, and the
girls were alone in Margaret's bower, when Father Bruno entered, with
"God save all here!"
Belasez rose hastily, and prepared to withdraw.
"Wait, my child," said the priest, gently: "I would speak with thee."
But when she turned in answer, and he saw her face, some strange and
terrible emotion seemed to convulse his own.
"_Domine, in Te speravi_!" fell from his trembling lips, as if he
scarcely realised what he was saying.
Belasez looked at him with an astonished expression. Whatever were the
cause of his singular emotion, it was evidently neither understood nor
shared by her.
With a manifest effort of self-control, Bruno recovered himself.
"Sit down, daughters," he said: for all had risen in reverence to the
priest: and he seated himself on the settle, whence he had a full view
of Belasez.
"And what is thy name, my daughter?"
"Belasez, at your service."
"And thy father's name?"
"Abraham of Norwich, if it please you."
"Abraham--of Norwich! Not--not the son of Ursel of Norwich?"
"The same."
Again that look of intense pain crossed Bruno's face.
"No wonder!" he said, speaking not to Belasez. "The very face--the very
look! No wonder!--And thy mother?"
"My mother is Licorice, the daughter of Kokorell of Lincoln."
Bruno gave a little nod, as if he had known it before.
"Hast thou any brethren or sisters?"
"One brother only; his name is Delecresse."
The reply seemed to extinguish Bruno's interest. For a moment, as if
his thoughts were far elsewhere, he played with a morsel of sewing-silk
which he had picked up from the floor.
"The Lord is wiser than men," he said at last, as if that were the
conclusion to which his unseen thoughts had led him.
"Yes; and better," answered the young Jewess.
"And better," dreamily repeated the priest. "We shall know that one
day, when we wake up to see His Face."
"Amen," said Belasez. "`When we awake up after Thy likeness,' saith
David the Prophet, `we shall be satisfied with it.'"
"`Satisfied!' echoed Bruno. Art thou satisfied, my daughter?"
The answering "No!" appeared to come from the depths of Belasez's heart.
"Shall I tell thee wherefore? There is but one thing that satisfies the
soul of man. Neither in earth nor in Heaven is any man satisfied with
aught else. My child, dost thou know what that is?"
Belasez looked up, her own face working a little now.
"You mean," she said, "the Man whom ye call Christ."
"I mean Him."
"I know nothing about Him." And Belasez resumed her embroidery, as if
that were of infinitely greater consequence. "Dost thou know much about
happiness?"
"Happiness!" exclaimed the girl. "I know what mirth is. Do you mean
that? Or, I know what it is to feel as if one cared for nothing. Is
that your meaning?"
"Happiness," said Bruno, "is what thy King meant when he said, `I shall
be satisfied with it.' Dost thou know that?"
Belasez drew a long breath, and shook her head sadly.
"No," she said. "I have never known that."
"Because thou hast never known Jesus Christ."
"I know He said, `I am the life,'" responded the girl slowly. "And life
is not worth much. Perhaps it might be,--if one were satisfied."
"Poor child! Is life not worth much to thee?" answered the priest in a
pitying tone. "And thou art very young--not much over twenty."
"I am under twenty. I am just eighteen."
Once more Bruno's face was convulsed.
"Just eighteen!" he said. "Yes--Licorice's child! _Yet_ she had no
pity. Aye me--just eighteen!"
"Do you know my mother?" said Belasez in accents of mingled surprise and
curiosity.
"I did--eighteen years ago."
And Bruno rose hastily, as if he wished to dismiss the subject.
Margaret dropped on her knees and requested his blessing, which he gave
as though his thoughts were far away: and then he left the room slowly,
gazing on Belasez to the last.
This was the first, but not by any means the last, interview between
Father Bruno and the Jewish maiden. A month later, Doucebelle asked
Belasez how she liked him.
"I do not like him; I love him," said Belasez, with more warmth than
usual.
"What a confession!" answered Doucebelle, playfully.
"Oh, not that sort of love!" responded Belasez with a tinge of scorn.
"I think it must be the sort that we can take into Heaven with us."
The next morning, Levina announced to the Countess, in a tone of
gratified spite, that two persons were in the hall--an old man, unknown
to her, and the young Jew, Delecresse. He had come for his sister.
Belasez received the news of her recall at first with a look of blank
dismay, and then with a shower of passionate tears. Her deep attachment
to her Christian friends was most manifest. She kissed the hand of the
Countess and Margaret, warmly embraced Doucebelle, and then looked round
as if something were wanting still.
"What is it, my maid?" kindly asked the Countess.
"Father Bruno!" faltered Belasez through her tears. "Oh, I must say
farewell to Father Bruno!"
The Countess looked astonished, for she knew not that Bruno and Belasez
had ever met. A few words from Doucebelle explained. Still the
Countess was extremely dissatisfied.
"My maid," she said, "thy father may think I have not kept my word. I
ought to have told Father Bruno. I never thought of it, when he first
came. I am very sorry. Has he talked with thee on matters of religion
at all?"
"Yes." Belasez explained no further.
"Dear, dear!" said the Countess. "He meant well, I suppose. And of
course it is better thy soul should be saved. But I wish he had less
zeal and more discretion."
"Lady," said Belasez, pausing for an instant, "if ever I enter the
kingdom of the Blessed One above, I think I shall owe it to the Bishop
of Lincoln and to Father Bruno."
"That is well, no doubt," responded the Countess, in a very doubtful
tone. "Oh dear! what did make Father Bruno think of coming up here?"
As Belasez passed down towards the hall, Father Bruno himself met her on
the stairs.
"Whither goest thou, my child?" he asked in some surprise.
"I am going--away." Belasez's tears choked her voice.
"To thy father's house?"
She bowed.
"Without Christ?"
"No, Father, not without Him," sobbed the girl. "Nor,--if you will
grant it to me at this moment--without baptism."
"Dost thou believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?"
"I do."
Bruno hesitated a minute, while an expression of deep pain flitted over
his face.
"I cannot do it, Belasez."
"O Father! do you reject me?"
"God forbid, my child! I do not reject thee in any wise: I only reject
myself. Belasez, long years ago, Licorice thy mother did me a cruel
wrong. If I baptise thee, I shall feel it to be my revenge on her. And
I have no right thus to defile the snow-white robe of thy baptism
because my hands are not clean, nor to mingle the revenge of earth with
the innocence of Heaven. Wait a moment."
And he turned and went rapidly down the stairs. Belasez waited till he
came back. He was accompanied by Father Warner. She trembled at the
ordeal which she guessed to await her, and soon found that she was not
far wrong. Father Warner took her into the empty chapel, and required
her to repeat the Creed (which of course she could not do), to tell him
which were the seven deadly sins, and what the five commandments of the
Church. Belasez had never heard of any of them. Warner shook his head
sternly, and wondered what Brother Bruno could possibly mean by
presenting this ignorant heathen as a fit candidate for baptism.
Belasez felt as if God and man alike would have none of her. Warner
recommended her to put herself under the tuition of some priest at
Norwich--which was to her a complete impossibility--and perhaps in a
year or thereabouts, if she were diligent and obedient in following the
orders of her director, she might hope to receive the grace of holy
baptism.
She went out sobbing, and encountered Bruno at the head of the stairs.
"O Father Bruno!" faltered the girl. "Father Warner will not do it!"
"I was afraid so," said Bruno, sadly. "I should not have thought of
asking him had my Brother Nicholas been at home. Well, daughter, this
is no fault of thine. Remember, we baptise only with water: but He
whose ministers we are can baptise thee with the Holy Ghost and with
fire. Let Him be thy Shepherd to provide for thee; thy Priest to
absolve thee; thy King to command thine heart's allegiance. So dwell
thou to Him in this world now, that hereafter thou mayest dwell with Him
for ever."
Belasez stooped and kissed his hand. He gave her his blessing in
fervent tones, bade her a farewell which gave him unmistakable pain, and
let her depart. Belasez drew her veil closely over her face, and joined
Delecresse and her father's old friend Hamon in the hall.
"What a time thou hast been!" said Delecresse, discontentedly. "Do let
us go now. I want to be outside this accursed Castle."
But to Belasez it seemed like stepping out of the sunlit fold into the
dreary wilderness beyond.
As they passed the upper end of the hall, Belasez paused for an instant
to make a last reverence to Margaret, who sat there talking with her
unacknowledged husband, Sir Richard de Clare. The black scowl on the
face of her brother drew her attention at once.
"Who is that young Gentile?" he demanded.
"Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Gloucester."
"What hast thou against him?" asked old Hamon.
"That is the youth that threw my cap into a pool, a year ago, and called
me a Jew cur," said Delecresse, between his teeth.
"Pooh, pooh!" said old Hamon. "We all have to put up with those little
amenities. Never mind it, child."
"I'll never mind it--till the time come!" answered Delecresse, in an
undertone. "Then--I think I see how to wipe it off."
Belasez found her mother returned from Lincoln. She received a warm
welcome from Abraham, a much cooler one from Licorice, and was very
glad, having arrived at home late, to go to bed in her own little
chamber, which was inside that of her parents. She soon dropped asleep,
but was awoke ere long by voices in the adjoining room, distinctly
audible through the curtain which alone separated the chambers. They
spoke in Spanish, the language usually employed amongst themselves by
the English Sephardim.
"_Ay de mi_, [`Woe is me!'] that it ever should have been so!" said the
voice of Licorice. "What did the shiksah [Note 1] want with her?"
"I told thee, wife," answered Abraham, in a slightly injured tone, "she
wanted the child to embroider a scarf."
"And I suppose thou wert too anxious to fill thy saddle-bags to care for
the danger to her?"
"There was no danger at all, wife. The Countess promised all I asked
her. And I made thirteen gold pennies clear profit. Thou canst see the
child is no worse--they have been very kind to her: she said as much."
"Abraham, son of Ursel, thou art a very wise man!"
"What canst thou mean, Licorice?"
"`Kind to her!' If they had starved her and beaten her, there might
have been no harm done. Canst thou not see that the girl's heart is
with her Christian friends? Why, she had been crying behind her veil,
quietly, all the journey."
"Well, wife? What then?"
"`What then?' Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! `What then?' Why, then--she
will do like Anegay."
"The God of our fathers forbid it!" cried Abraham, in tones of horror
and distress.
"It is too late for that," said Licorice, with a short, contemptuous
laugh. "Thou shouldst have said that a year ago, and have kept the
child at home."
"We had better marry her at once," suggested Abraham, still in a voice
of deep pain.
"`There are no birds in last year's nest,' old man," was the response.
"Marry her or let it alone, the child's heart is gone from us. She has
left behind her in yonder Castle those for whom she cares more than for
us, and, I should not wonder also, a faith dearer to her than ours. It
will be Anegay over again. Ah, well! Like to like! What else could we
expect?"
"Can she hear us, Licorice?"
"Not she! She was fast asleep an hour ago."
"Wife, if it be so, have we not deserved it?"
"Abraham, don't be a fool!" cried Licorice, so very snappishly that it
sounded as if her conscience might have responded a little to the
accusation.
"I cannot but think thou didst evil, Licorice,--thou knowest how and
when."
"I understand thee, of course. It was the only thing to do."
"I know thou saidst so," answered Abraham in an unconvinced tone. "Yet
it went to my heart to hear the poor child's sorrowful moan."
"Thy heart is stuffed with feathers."
"I would rather it were so than with stones."
"Thanks for the compliment!"
"Nay, I said nothing about thee. But, Licorice, if it be as thou
thinkest, do not let us repeat that mistake."
"I shall repeat no mistakes, I warrant thee."
The conversation ceased rather suddenly, except for one mournful
exclamation from Abraham,--"Poor Anegay!"
Anegay! where had Belasez heard that name before? It belonged to no
friend or relative, so far as she knew. Yet that she had heard it
before, and that in interesting connection with something, she was
absolutely certain.
Belasez dropped asleep while she was thinking. It seemed to her that
hardly a minute passed before she woke again, to hear her mother moving
in the next room, and to see full daylight streaming in at the window.
And suddenly, just as she awoke, it rushed upon her when and how she had
heard of Anegay.
She saw herself, a little child, standing by the side of Licorice. With
them was old Belya, the mother of Hamon, and before them stood an
enormous illuminated volume at which they were looking. Belasez found
it impossible to remember what had been said by Belya; but her mother's
response was as vivid in her mind as if the whole scene were of
yesterday.
"Hush! The child must not know. Yes, Belya, thou art right. That was
taken from Anegay's face."
What was it that was taken? And dimly before Belasez's mental eyes a
picture seemed to grow, in which a king upon his throne, and a woman
fainting, were the principal figures. Esther before Ahasuerus!
That was it, of course. And Belasez sprang up, with a determination to
search through her father's books, and to find the picture which had
been taken from Anegay's face.
But, after all, who was Anegay?
Licorice was in full tide of business and porridge-making, in her little
kitchen, when Belasez presented herself with an apology for being late.
"Nay, folks that go to bed at nine may well not rise till five," said
Licorice, graciously. "Throw more salt in here, child, and fetch the
porringers whilst I stir it. Call thy father and Delecresse,--breakfast
will be ready by the time they are."
Breakfast was half over when Licorice inquired of her daughter whom she
had seen at Bury Castle.
"Oh! to speak to, only the Countess and her daughter, Damsel Margaret,
and the other young damsels, Doucebelle, Eva, and Marie; and Levina, the
Lady's dresser. They showed me some others through the window, so that
I knew their names and faces."
Belasez quietly left out the priests.
"And what knights didst thou see there?"
"Through the window? Sir Hubert the Earl, and Sir Richard of
Gloucester, and Sir John the Earl's son, and Sir John de Averenches.
Oh! I forgot Dame Hawise, Sir John's wife; but I never saw much of
her."
"There was no such there as one named Bruno de Malpas, I suppose?" asked
Licorice, with assumed carelessness. "No, there was no knight of that
name." But in her heart Belasez felt that the name belonged to the
priest, Father Bruno.
A few more questions were asked her, of no import, and then they rose.
When Licorice set her free from household duties, Belasez took her way
to the little closet over the porch which served as her father's
library. He was the happy possessor of eleven volumes,--a goodly number
at that date. Eight she passed by, knowing them to contain no pictures.
The ninth was an illuminated copy of the Brut, which of course began,
as all chronicles then did, with the creation; but Belasez looked
through it twice without finding any thing to satisfy her. Next came
the Chronicle of Benoit, but the illuminations in this were merely
initials and tail-pieces in arabesque. There was only one left, and it
was the largest volume in the collection. Belasez could not remember
having ever opened it. She pulled it down now, just missing a sprained
wrist in the process, and found it to be a splendid copy of the
Hagiographa, with full-page pictures, glowing with colours and gold. Of
course, the illuminations had been executed by Christian hands; but all
these books had come to Abraham in exchange for bad debts, and he was
not so consistent as to refuse to look at the representations of created
things, however wicked he might account it to produce them. Belasez
turned over the stiff leaves, one after another, till she reached the
Book of Esther. Yes, surely that was the picture she remembered. There
sat the King Ahasuerus on a curule chair, wearing a floriated crown and
a mantle clasped at the neck with a golden fibula; and there fainted
Queen Esther in the arms of her ladies, arrayed in the tight gown, the
pocketing sleeve, the wimple, and all other monstrosities of the early
Plantagenet era. A Persian satrap, enclosed in a coat of mail and a
surcoat with a silver shield, whereon an exceedingly rampant red lion
was disporting itself, appeared to be coming to the help of his liege
lady; while a tall white lily, in a flower-pot about twice the size of
the throne, occupied one side of the picture. To all these details
Belasez paid no attention. The one thing at which she looked was the
face of the fainting Queen, which was turned full towards the spectator.
It was a very lovely face of a decidedly Jewish type. But what made
Belasez glance from it to the brazen mirror fixed to the wall opposite?
Was it Anegay of whom Bruno had been thinking when he murmured that she
was so like some one? Undoubtedly there was a likeness. The same pure
oval face, the smooth calm brow, the dark glossy hair: but it struck
Belasez that her own features, as seen in the mirror, were the less
prominently Jewish.
And, once more, who was Anegay?
How little it is possible to know of the innermost heart of our nearest
friends! Belasez went through all her duties that day, without rousing
the faintest suspicion in the mind of her mother that she had heard a
syllable of the conversation between her parents the night before. Yet
she thought of little else. Her household work was finished, and she
sat in the deep recess of the window at her embroidery, when Delecresse
came and stood beside her.
"Belasez, who was that damsel that sat talking with my Lord of
Gloucester in the hall when we passed through?"
"That was the Damsel Margaret, daughter of Sir Hubert the Earl."
"What sort of a maiden is she?"
"Very sweet and gentle. I liked her extremely. She was always most
kind to me."
"Is she attached to my Lord of Gloucester?"
It was a new idea to Belasez.
"Really, I never thought of that, Cress. But I should not at all wonder
if she be. She is constantly talking of him."
"Does he care for her?"
"I fancy he does, by the way I have seen him look up at her windows."
"Yes, I could tell that from his face."
The tone of her brother's voice struck Belasez unpleasantly.
"Cress! what dost thou mean?"
"It is a pity that the innocent need suffer with the guilty," answered
Delecresse, contemptuously. "But it mostly turns out so in this world."
Belasez grasped her brother's wrists.
"Cress, thou hast no thought of revenging thyself on Sir Richard of
Gloucester for that boyish trick he once played on thee?"
"I'll be even with him, Belasez. No man--least of all a Christian dog--
shall insult me with impunity."
"O Cress, Cress! Thou must not do it. Hast thou forgotten that
vengeance belongeth to the Holy One, to whom be glory? And for such a
mere nothing as that!"
"Nothing! Dost thou call it nothing for a son of Abraham to be termed a
Jew cur by one of those creeping things of Gentiles? Is not the day at
hand when they shall be our ploughmen and vine-dressers?"
"Well, then," answered Belasez, assuming a playfulness which she was far
from feeling, "when Sir Richard is thy ploughman, thou canst knock his
cap off."
"Pish! They like high interest, these Christians. I'll let them have
it, the other way about."
"Cress, what dost thou mean to do?"
"I mean that he shall pay me every farthing that he owes," said
Delecresse through his clenched teeth. "I cannot have it in gold coins,
perhaps. It will suit me as well in drops of blood,--either from his
veins or from his heart."
"Delecresse, thou _shalt not_ touch the Damsel Margaret, if that be the
meaning of those terrible words."
"I am not going to touch her," replied Delecresse, scornfully, "even
with the tongs he took to my cap. I would not touch one of the vile
insects for all the gold at Norwich!"
"But what dost thou mean?"
"Hold thou thy peace. I was a fool to tell thee."
"What art thou going to do?" persisted Belasez.
"What thou wilt hear when it is done," said Delecresse, walking away.
He left poor Belasez in grief and terror. Some misery, of what sort she
could not even guess, was impending over her poor friend Margaret. How
was it possible to warn her?--and of what was she to be warned?
A few minutes were spent in reflection, and then Belasez's work was
hastily folded, and she went in search of her father. Abraham listened
with a perplexed and annoyed face.
"That boy always lets his hands go before his head! But what can I do,
daughter? In good sooth, I would not willingly see any injury done to
the Christians that have been so kind to thee. Where is Cress?"
"He went into the kitchen," said Belasez. Abraham shuffled off in that
direction, in the loose yellow slippers which were one of the recognised
signs of a Jew.
"Delecresse is just gone out," he said, coming back directly. "I will
talk to him when he comes in."
But twelve days elapsed before Delecresse returned.
"Cress, thou wilt not do anything to Sir Richard of Gloucester?"
earnestly pleaded Belasez, when she found him alone.
"No," said Delecresse, with a glitter in his eyes which was not
promising.
"Hast thou done any thing?"
"All I mean to do."
"O Cress, what hast thou done?"
"Go to bed!" was the most lucid explanation which all the eager
entreaties of Belasez could obtain from her brother.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The feminine singular of the Hebrew word rendered, in the A.V.,
"creeping things." Dr Edersheim tells us that this flattering term is
commonly employed in speaking of a Gentile.