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 amus.e.m.e.nt, that Bruno was not so well acquainted with Licorice as herself.

"I asked in great distress if Anegay were not with her. Licorice a.s.sured 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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d.' '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 pa.s.sionate charges: Anegay was dead. I should see her if I would, to convince me. So I pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 G.o.d'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!"

"a.s.suredly 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 pa.s.sionate exclamation from Belasez, and the father and daughter were clasped heart to heart.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

"Content to fill Religion's vacant place With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace."

_Cowper_.

"Nay, my son, it is of no use. I shall never forsake the faith of my fathers. For this child, if she can believe it,--well: she is more thine than mine,--_ay Dios_! And perhaps there is this much change in me, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not be idolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? We know so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easily transplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oak alone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son,--a maiden whom I should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew may bow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, but which seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave is bound by his master. I cannot take up with those."

"Nor I," said Belasez in a low voice.

"Then do not," was the quiet answer of Bruno. "I shall never ask it of either of you."

"But thou believest all these?" said Abraham.

"I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very little matter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another man think he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before G.o.d. For Mary, Mother and Maid, I honour her, as you maybe honour your mother.

_I_ do not worship her: about other men I say nothing. And as to the Church,--why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, to whom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, then they have no right to be hers."

"Ah Bruno," said Abraham rather sadly, "thy religion is not that of other Christians."