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 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.