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.