"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 wish _her_ to 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.