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 silkwhich he was packing.
"Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soulbut 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 herto carry infection to him?"
"What is to be done?" demanded Abraham, blankly. "Could not Pucella behad, or old Cuntessa?"
"Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the richusurer, and Pucella would be no good,--she's as frightened of the feveras 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 tremendouslyafraid of thee."
"Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likelythou wouldst take it."
"_Ay de mi_, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thiefto take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. Ishall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of aChristian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering batas thou art."
"Bats don't tear their garments, wife."
"They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dostthou."
"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 inan attitude of pitying astonishment.
"I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas wereto walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, `Here she is, O myLord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.'"
"I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him breakhis for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers--What wickedthing 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 adaughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, `Ye shall not give herunto the heathen'?"
"I do not think De Malpas was a heathen."
"Hast thou been to the creeping thing up yonder and begged to bebaptised to-morrow?"
This was a complimentary allusion to that Right Reverend person, theBishop 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 theesay so." And Licorice pretended to make a close examination of herskirt, 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 foreighteen 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 werecasting off drops of water. "I've done my best. I shall let it alonenow. Genta must be nursed: and I cannot bring infection home. Andafter 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 heragain."
Abraham made no answer, unless his troubled eyes and quivering lips didso for him. But the night closed in upon a very quiet chamber, owing tothe absence of Licorice. Delecresse sat studying, with a book openbefore him: Belasez was busied with embroidery. Abraham was idle, sofar as his hands were concerned; but any one who had studied him for aminute would have seen that his thoughts were very active, and by nomeans pleasant.
Ten calm days passed over, and nothing happened. They heard, throughneighbours, that Genta was going through all the phases of a tediousillness, and that Licorice was a most attentive and valuable nurse.
At the end of those ten days, Delecresse came in with an order for someof the exquisite broidery which only Belasez could execute. It waswanted for the rich usurer's wife, Rosia: and she wished Belasez to cometo her with specimens of various patterns, so that she might select theone she preferred.
A walk through the city was an agreeable and unusual break in themonotony of existence; and Rosia's house was quite at the other end ofthe Jews' quarter. Belasez prepared to go out with much alacrity. Herfather escorted her himself, leaving Delecresse to mind the shop.
The embroidery was exhibited, the pattern chosen, and they were nearlyhalf-way at home, when they were overtaken by a sudden hailstorm, andtook refuge in the lych-gate of a church. It was growing dusk, and theyhad not perceived the presence of a third person,--like themselves, arefugee from the storm.
"This is heavy!" said Abraham, as the hailstones came pouring anddancing down.
"I am afraid we shall not get home till late," was the response of hisdaughter.
"No, not till late," said Abraham, absently.
"Belasez!" came softly from behind her.
She turned round quickly, her hands held out in greeting, her eyessparkling, 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 evermeet."
Ah, little idea had Belasez how that meeting had been imagined, longedfor, prayed for, through all those weary weeks. She glanced at herfather, suddenly remembering that her warm welcome to the Christianpriest was not likely to be much approved by him. Bruno's eyes followedhers.
"Abraham!" he said, in tones which sounded like a mixture of friendshipand 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 greatpain. "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--myBelasez."
"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 onceso 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 thouknowest."
"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 isabout to do it. Let me put it thus, or I shall not know how to bearit."
"I have no wish nor intention to trouble you, my father," said Brunohastily. "If I might, now and then, see this child,--to tell truth, itwould be a great pleasure and solace to me: for I have learned to loveher,--just the years of my Beatrice, just what Beatrice might have grownto be. Yet--if I speak I must speak honestly--give me leave to seeBelasez, 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 theworld 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 taugh
t 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 waswilling. But my hands were not clean enough. I felt that I could notrepress a sensation of triumphing over Licorice, if I baptised herdaughter. May the Lord forgive me if I erred, but I did not dare to doit."
"O my son, my son!" broke from Abraham. "Thou hast been more righteousthan I. Come home with me, and tell the story to Belasez thyself; andthen--Adonai, Thou knowest. Help me to do Thy will!"
Bruno was evidently much astonished, and not a little perplexed atAbraham's speech; but he followed him quietly. The storm was over now,and they gained home and the chamber over the porch without coming incontact with Delecresse. Abraham left Bruno there, while he desiredBelasez to take off her wet things and rejoin them. Meantime he changedhis coat, and carried up wine and cake to his guest. But when Belasezreappeared, Abraham drew the bolt, and closed the inner baize door whichshut 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 faceupon it.
"But, my father, dost thou wish _her_ to hear it?"
"The Blessed One does, I believe. She has heard as yet but a garbledversion. 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 thingcould surprise her more than that Bruno should be actually invited totell the tapued story, it was the calm way in which Abraham received theintimation that she had all but professed Christianity. Mortal angerand scathing contempt she could have understood and expected; but thiswas utterly beyond her.
"Belasez," said Bruno, "years ago, before thou wert born, thy father hadanother daughter, and her name was Anegay."
"Father! you said Anegay was not my sister!" came in surprised accentsfrom Belasez. But a choking sob was the only answer from Abraham.
"She was not the daughter of thy mother, Belasez; but of thy father'sfirst wife, whose name was Fiona. Perhaps he meant that. She wastwenty years older than thou. And--I need not make my tale long--wemet, Belasez, and we loved each other. I told her of Christ, and shebecame a Christian, and received holy baptism at my hands. By that timethy father had wedded thy mother. As thou knowest, she is a staunchJewess; and though she did not by any means discover all, she did findthat Anegay had Christian friends, and forbade her to see them again.Time went on, and we could scarcely ever meet, and Anegay was not veryhappy. At length, one night, a ring was brought to me which was herusual token, praying me to meet her quickly at the house of Isabel deFulshaw, where we had usually met before. I went, and found her weepingas 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 thehouse the next morning unless she would trample on the cross, as a signthat 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, `andthat would be nothing: but my mother means it for a sign of abjuringChrist.' And she earnestly implored me to get her into some nunnery,where she might be safe. Perhaps I ought to have done that. But Ioffered her another choice of safety. And the next morning, as soon asthe 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 bitterlygrieved at her becoming a Christian, but he had no hand in hersufferings at that time. A year or more went on, and the Lord gave us ababy daughter. I baptised her by the name of Beatrice, which was alsothe name that her mother had received in baptism. She was nearly amonth old, when a message came to me from the Bishop, requiring me tocome 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 themaid-servant,--all were gone. An old woman, who dwelt in my parish, wasin the house, but she could tell me nothing save that a message had cometo her from Frethesind the maid, begging her to come and take charge ofthe house until my return, but not giving a word of explanation. Icould think of no place to which my wife would be likely to go, unlessher mother had been there, and had either forced or over-persuaded herto return with her. I hurried to Norwich with as much speed aspossible. To my surprise, Licorice received me with apparentkindliness, and inquired after Anegay as though no quarrel had everexisted."
Belasez thought, with momentary amusement, that Bruno was not so wellacquainted with Licorice as herself.
"I asked in great distress if Anegay were not with her. Licoriceassured 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 onlyfive weeks old.' Well, I could not tell what to think; her words andlooks were those of truth. She was apparently as kind as possible. Sheshowed me her baby--thyself, Belasez; and encouraged me to play withDelecresse, who was then a lively child of three years. I came away,baffled, yet unsatisfied. I should have been better pleased had I seenthy father. But he, I was told, was again absent on one of his businessjourneys."
"True," was the one word interpolated by Abraham, "I went to the houseof my friend, Walcheline de Fulshaw. He was an apothecary. I told mystory to him and to Isabel his wife, desiring their counsel as to themeans whereby I should get at the truth. Walcheline seemed perplexed;but Isabel said, `Father, I think I see how to find out the truth. Dostthou 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 isbright and shrewd, and I am sure she would do what she could out ofgratitude to thee.' Walcheline gave consent at once, and a messengerwas sent to the house of Aaron, requesting that his daughter would visitIsabel de Fulshaw, who had need of her. The girl came quickly, and veryintelligent she proved. She was about twelve years of age, and wasmanifestly loving and desirous to oblige Isabel, who had, as I heardafterwards, shown her great kindness. She said she knew Abraham thyfather 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 shereturned, 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?' askedIsabel. Rosia looked surprised. She had heard of none, exceptLicorice's own--thee, Belasez. Had she spoken with Anegay? The girlshook her head. Had she seen her? Yes. How was it, that she had seenher, but not spoken with her? The child replied, she was too ill tospeak; she knew no one."
"She did not know me, Belasez," said Abraham sorrowfully, lifting hiswhite, troubled face. "I came home to find her there, to my greatsurprise. But she did not know me. She took me for some other man, Icannot tell whom. And she kept begging me pitifully to tell Bruno--tolet Bruno know the moment he should come home: he would never, neverleave her in prison; he would be sure to rescue her. I asked Licoriceif Anegay had come of her own will, for I was very much afraid lest someforce had been used to bring her. But she assured me that my daughterhad returned of her own free will, only a little reluctantly, lest herhusband should not approve it. There had been no force whatever, only alittle gentle persuasion. And--fool that I was!--I believed it at thetime. It was not until all was over that I heard the real truth. Whatgood could come of telling Bruno then? It would be simply to make himmiserable 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. Shetold her that she felt certain she knew where Anegay was, and she musttell it to her. At last the child burst into tears. `Oh, don't askme!' she said, `for I did love her so much! I cannot believe whatLicorice says, that she is gone to Satan because she believed in theNazarene. I am sure she went to God.' `But is she dead, Rosia?' criedIsabel. And the child said, `She is dead. She died yesterdaymorning.'"
Bruno paused, apparently to recover his composure.
"I went back at once to this house. I saw that Licorice instantly readin my face that I had heard the truth: and she tried to brazen it out nolonger. 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 Ipassed into an inner chamber, and there I found her lying, my own fairdarling, white and still, with the lips sealed for ever which could havetold so much--"
Bruno nearly broke down, and he had to wait for a minute before he couldproceed.
"I stood up from my dead, and I demanded of Licorice why she had donethis cruel thing. And she said, `Why! How little does a Christian knowthe heart of a Jew! Canst thou not guess that in our eyes it is adegradation for a daughter of Israel to be looked on by such as youGentiles--that for one of you so much as to touch her hand is pollutionthat only blood can wipe away? Why! I wanted to revenge myself onthee, and if it were not too late, to save the child's soul. Thou cansthang 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, andthat 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 thatthou deemest dear and holy, by the love that thou bearest to that babeof thine in the cradle, I conjure thee to tell me what has become of mychild. Is she yet living?' She paused a while. Then she said in a lowvoice, `No, Bruno. The journey was too much, in such a season, for soyoung an infant. She died the day after we arrived here. Perhaps,'said Licorice, `thou wilt not believe me; but I am sorry that the childis dead. I meant to bring her up a strict Jewess, and to wed her tosome Jew. That would have been sweet to me. She and my Belasez wouldhave grown together like twin sisters, for they were almost exactly ofan age.' I could not refuse credence, for her look and tone were thoseof truth. It explained, too, if Beatrice had died so soon afterarrival, 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 bea lonely walk with Him, sweetened by no human love any more, only by thedear hope that Heaven would hold us all, and that when we met in theGolden 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 isno slight perplexity to me, why thou hast thought it meet that thissorrowful 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 hadbeen sitting all the time, and to walk straight to the window. Heseemed unwilling to speak, and his companions looked at him in doubtfulsurprise. 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 hathtaken 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 comeback?"
"Never," was Bruno's answer.
"And is it, under any circumstances, lawful for a man to lie unto hisneighbour?"
Bruno, like many another, was better than his system; and at that timethe Church herself had not reached those depths of legalised iniquitywherein she afterwards plunged. So that he had no hesitation inrepeating, "Never."
"Then hear the truth, Bruno de Malpas; and if it well-nigh break an oldman's heart to tell it, it is better that I should suffer and die forGod's sake than that I should live for mine. On one point, Licoricedeceived thee to the last. And until now, I, even I, have aided her induping thee. Yet it is written, `He that confesseth and forsaketh hissin 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 herknees, and flung her arms around Abraham.
"O Father, if it be so, speak quickly, and end his agony! For the sakeof the righteous Lord, that loveth righteousness, do, do give FatherBruno back his child!"
Abraham disengaged himself from Belasez's clinging arms with what seemedalmost a shudder. He took up his long robe, and tore it from the skirtto the neck. Then, with a voice almost choked with emotion, he laidboth 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, andthe father and daughter were clasped heart to heart.
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