CHAPTER EIGHT.
IN THE DARK.
"I trust Thee, though I cannot see Thy light upon my pathway shine; However dark, Lord, let it be Thy way, not mine!"
"If it stand with your good liking, may a man have speech of Sir Piersde Rievaulx?"
It was a tall youth who asked the question, and he stood under the porchof a large Gothic house, on the banks of the Thames near Westminster.The night was wet and dark, and it was the second of April 1236.
"And who art thou, that would speak with the knight my master?"
"What I have to say to him is of consequence. Who I may be does not somuch matter."
"Well said, my young cockerel! Thou crowest fairly." The porterlaughed as he set down the lantern which he had been holding up to theyouth's face, and took down a large key from the peg on which it hung."What shall I say to my master touching thee?"
"Say, if it please you, that one would speak with him that hathimportant tidings, which closely concern the King's welfare."
"They were rash folks that trusted a slip like thee with importanttidings."
"None trusted me."
"Eavesdropping, eh? Well, thou canst keep thine own counsel, lad asthou art. I will come back to thee shortly."
It was nearly half an hour before the porter returned; but the youthnever changed his position, as he stood leaning against the side of theporch.
"Come in," said the porter, holding the wicket open. "Sir Piers willsee thee. I told him, being sent of none, thou wert like to have notoken."
The unknown visitor followed the porter in silence through the pavedcourtyard, up a flight of stone steps, and into a small chamber, hungwith blue. Here, at a table covered with parchments, sat one of KingHenry's ministers, Sir Piers de Rievaulx, son of the Bishop ofWinchester, the worst living foe of Earl Hubert of Kent. He was on theyounger side of middle age, and was only not quite so bad a man as thefather from whom he inherited his dark gleaming eyes, lithe quickmotions, intense prejudices, and profound artfulness of character.
"Christ save you! Come forward," said Sir Piers. "Shut the door,Oliver, and let none enter till I bid it.--Now, who art thou, and whatwouldst thou with me?"
"I am Delecresse, son of Abraham of Norwich."
"Ha! A Jew, of course. Thy face matches thy name. Now, thy news?"
"Will my noble knight be pleased to tell his unworthy servant if helikes the taste of revenge?"
Delecresse despised himself for the words he used. A son of Israel tohumble himself thus to one of the Goyim! But it was expedient that the"creeping thing" should be flattered and gratified, in order to inducehim to act as a tool.
"Decidedly!" replied Sir Piers, looking fixedly at Delecresse.
"Your Honour hates Sir Hubert of Kent, or I am mistaken?"
"Ha, _pure foy_! Worse than I hate the Devil."
The Devil was very near to both at that moment.
"If I help you to be revenged on him, will you pay me by giving me myrevenge on another?"
Delecresse had dropped alike his respectful words and subservientmanner, and spoke up now, as man to man.
"`Turn about is fair play,' I suppose," said Sir Piers. "If thou seeknot revenge on any friend of mine, I will."
"I seek it on Sir Richard de Clare, the young Earl of Gloucester."
"_He_ is no friend of mine!" said Sir Piers, between his teeth. "Hisfather married the woman I wanted. I should rather enjoy it thanotherwise."
"The Lady his mother yet lives."
"What is that to me? She is an old hag. What do I care for her now?"
Delecresse felt staggered for a moment. Bad as he was in one respect,he was capable of personal attachment as well as of hatred; and SirPiers' delicate notions of love rather astonished him. But Sir Pierswas very far from being the only man who was--or is--incapable ofentertaining any others. Delecresse soon recovered himself. He was tooanxious to get his work done, to quarrel with his tools. It wasgratifying, too, to discover that Sir Piers was not a likely man to betroubled by any romantic scruples about breaking the heart of the youngMargaret. Delecresse himself had been unpleasantly haunted by those,and had with some difficulty succeeded in crushing them down and turningthe key on them. Belasez's pleading looks, and Margaret's bright,pretty face, persisted in recurring to his memory in a very provokingmanner. Sir Piers was evidently the man who would help him to forgetthem.
"Well!--go on," said the Minister, when Delecresse hesitated.
"I have good reason to believe that Sir Richard is on the point ofwedding the Damsel Margaret de Burgh; nay, I am not sure if they are notmarried clandestinely. Could not this be used as a handle to ruin bothof them?"
The two pairs of eyes met, and a smile which was anything but angelicbroke over the handsome countenance of Sir Piers.
"Not a bad idea for one so young," he remarked. "Is it thine own?"
"My own," answered Delecresse, shortly.
"I could make some use of thee in the Kings service."
"Thank you," said Delecresse, rather drily. "I do not wish to have_more_ to do with the Devil and his angels than I find necessary."
Sir Piers broke into a laugh. "Neat, that! I suppose I am one of theangels? But I am surprised to hear such a sentiment from a Jew."
Nothing is more inconsistent than sin. In his anxiety to gratify hisrevenge, Delecresse was enduring patiently at the hands of Sir Piers farworse insults than that over which he had so long brooded from Richardde Clare. He kept silence.
"It really is a pity," observed Sir Piers, complacently surveyingDelecresse, "that such budding talent as thine should be cast away upontrade. Thou wouldst make far more money in secret service. It would beeasy to change thy name. Keep thy descent quiet, and be ready to eathumble-pie for a short time. There is no saying to what thou mightestrise in this world."
"And the other?" Delecresse felt himself an unfledged cherub by theside of Sir Piers.
"Bah!" Sir Piers snapped his fingers. "What do such as we know aboutthat? There is no other world. If there were, the chances are thatboth of us would find ourselves very uncomfortable there. We had betterstay in this as long as we can."
"As you please, Sir Knight. I am not ready to sell my soul for gold."
"Only for revenge, eh? Well, that's not much better. There are a fewscruples about thee, my promising lad, which thou wouldst find itnecessary to sacrifice in the service. Some soft-hearted mother orsister, I imagine, hath instilled them into thee. Women are alwaysafter some mischief. I wish there were none."
What did Delecresse know of the momentary pang of sensation which hadpricked that hard, seared heart, as for one second memory brought beforehim the loving face of a little child, over whose fair head for thirtyyears the churchyard daisies had been blooming? Could he hear thetender, pleading voice of the baby sister, begging dear Piers not tohurt her pet kitten, and she would give him all the sweetmeats AuntTheffania sent her? Such moments do come to the hardest hearts: andthey usually leave them harder. Before Delecresse had found an answer,Sir Piers was himself again.
"Thou hast done me a service, boy: and I will take care that thy friendSir Richard feels the goad as well as my beloved Earl Hubert. Take thispiece of gold. Nay, it will not burn thee. 'Tis only earthly metal.Thou wilt not? As thou list. The saints keep thee! Ah,--I forgot!Thou dost not believe in the saints. Bah! no more do I. Only words,lad,--all words. Fare thee well."
A few minutes later Delecresse found himself in the street. He wasconscious of a very peculiar and highly uncomfortable mixture offeelings, as if one part of his nature were purely angelic, and theother absolutely diabolical. He felt almost as if he had come directfrom a personal interview with Satan, and his spirit had been soiled anddegraded by the contact. Yet was he any better than Sir Piers, exceptin lack of experience and opportunity? He leaned over the parapet as hepassed, and watched the dark river flowing silently below.
"I wish I had not done it!" came in
muttered accents from his lips atlast. "I do almost, really, wish I had not done it!"
And then, as the reader knows, he went home and snubbed his sister.
Abraham could get nothing out of his son except some scornful platitudesconcerning the "creeping creatures." Not a shred of information wouldDelecresse give. He was almost rude to his father--a very high crime inthe eyes of a Jew: but it was because he was so intensely dissatisfiedwith himself.
"O my son, light of mine eyes, what hast thou done!" mournfullyejaculated old Abraham, as he resigned the attempt to influence orreason with Delecresse.
"Done?--made those vile Gentiles wince, I hope!" retorted Licorice. "Ihate every man, woman, and child among them. I should like to bake themall in the oven!"
And she shut the door of that culinary locality with a bang. Belasezlooked up with saddened eyes, and her mother noticed them.
"Abraham, son of Ursel," she said that night, when she supposed herdaughter to be safely asleep in the inner chamber, "when dost thou meanto have this maiden wedded?"
"I do not know, wife. Would next week do?"
Next week was always Abraham's time for doing every thing.
"If thou wilt. The gear has all been ready long ago. There is only thefeast to provide."
"Then I suppose I had better speak to Hamon," said Abraham, in the toneof a man who would have been thankful if allowed to let it alone. "Itis time, I take it?"
"It is far past the time, husband," said Licorice. "That girl's heart,as I told thee, is gone after the creeping things. Didst thou not seethe look in her eyes to-night? Like to like--blood to blood! It mademine boil to behold it."
"Forbid it, God of our fathers!" fervently ejaculated Abraham."Licorice, dost thou think the child has ever guessed--"
"Hush, husband, lest she should chance to awake. Guessed! No, and shenever shall."
Belasez's ears, it is unnecessary to say, were strained to catch everysound. What was she not to guess?
"Art thou sure that Genta knows nothing?"
Genta was the daughter of Abraham's brother Moss.
"Nothing that would do much harm," said Licorice, but in rather adoubtful tone. "Beside, Genta can hold her peace."
"Ay, if she choose. But suppose she did not? She knows, does she not,about--Anegay?"
"Hush! Well, yes--something. But not what would do most mischief."
"What, about her marriage with--"
"Man I do, for pity's sake, give over, or thou wilt blurt all out! Doonly think, if the child were to hear! Trust me, she would go back tothat wasp's nest to-morrow. No, no! Just listen to me, son of Ursel.Get her safely married before she knows anything. Leo may be reliedupon to keep her in safe seclusion: and when she has a husband andhalf-a-dozen children to tie her down, heart and soul, to us, she willgive over pining after the Gentiles."
Belasez was conscious of a rising repugnance, which she had never feltbefore, to this marriage about to be forced upon her. Not personally toLeo, of whom she knew nothing; but to this tie contemplated for her,which was to be an impassable barrier between her and all her Christianfriends.
"Well!" sighed Abraham. He evidently did not like it. "I suppose,then, I must let the Cohen [Note 1] know about it."
"If it be not already too late," responded Licorice, dubiously. "Ifonly this second visit had not happened! There was less harm done thefirst time, and I do not quite understand it. Some stronger feeling hastaken possession of her now. Either her faith is shaken--"
"May the All-Merciful defend us from such horror!"
"Well, it is either that, or there is love in her heart--a deeper lovethan for the Gentile woman, and the girls of whom she talks. She likesthem, I do not doubt; but she would never break her heart after them.There is somebody else, old man, of whom we have not heard; and Icounsel thee to try and find out him or her. I am sadly afraid it is_him_."
"But, Licorice, she has not seen any one. The Lady passed her word thatnot a soul should come near her."
"Pish! Did the shiksah keep it? Even if she meant to do--and who cantrust a Gentile?--was she there, day and night? Did Emendant not tellthee that he saw her at the Coronation?"
"Well, yes, he did," admitted Abraham, with evident reluctance.
"And had she Belasez there, tied to her apron-string, with a bandageover her eyes? Son of Ursel, wilt thou never open thine? Who knows howmany young gallants may have chattered to her then? `When the cat isaway--' thou knowest. Not that the shiksah was much of a cat when shewas there, I'll be bound. Dost thou not care if the child be stolenfrom us? And when they have stolen her heart and her soul, they may aswell take her body. It won't make much difference then."
"Licorice--"
Belasez listened more intently than ever. There was a world of tenderregret in Abraham's voice, and she knew that it was not for Licorice.
"Licorice,"--he said, and stopped.
"Go on," responded her mother sharply, "unless thou wert after somefoolery, as is most likely."
"Licorice, hast thou forgotten that Sabbath even, when thou broughtesthome--"
"I wish thou wouldst keep thy tongue off names. I have as good a memoryas thou, though it is not lined like thine with asses' skin."
"And dost thou remember what thou toldest me that she said to thyreproaches?"
"Well, what then?"
"`What then?' O Licorice!"
"I do wish thou wouldst speak sense!--what art thou driving at?"
"Thou art hard to please, wife. If I speak plainly thou wilt not hearme out, and if I only hint thou chidest me for want of plainness. Well!if thou canst not see `what then,' never mind. I thought thosesorrowful words of my poor child might have touched thy heart. I canassure thee, they did mine, when I heard of them. They have never beenout of mine ears since."
It seemed plain to Belasez that her mother was being rebuked for want ofmotherly tenderness, and, as she doubted not, towards Anegay. Thismysterious person, then, must have been a sister of whom she had neverheard,--probably much older than herself.
"What a lot of soft down must have been used up to make thine heart!"was the cynical reply of Licorice.
"I cannot help it, Licorice. I have her eyes ever before me--hers, andhis. It is of no use scolding me--I cannot help it. And if it be asthou thinkest, I cannot break the child's heart. I shall not speak toHamon, nor the Cohen."
"Faint-hearted Gentile!" blazed forth Licorice.
"Get it over, wife," said Abraham, quietly. "I will try to find out ifthou hast guessed rightly; though it were rather work for thee than me,if--well, I will do my best. But suppose I should find that she hasgiven her maiden heart to some Gentile,--what am I to do then?"
"Do! What did Phinehas the son of Eleazar the priest unto Zimri andCozbi? Hath not the Blessed One commanded, saying, `Thy daughter thoushalt not give unto his son'? What meanest thou? Do! Couldst thou dotoo much, even if they were offered upon the altar before the God ofSabaoth?"
"Where is it?" responded Abraham, desolately. "But, Licorice,--_our_daughter?"
"What dost thou mean?" said Licorice, fiercely. "Perhaps we might shedtears first. But they must not pollute the sacrifice. Do not the holyRabbins say that a tear dropped upon a devoted lamb washeth out all themerit of the offering?"
"I believe they do," said Abraham; "though it is not in the Thorah. ButI did not mean exactly that. Dost thou not understand me?"
"I understand that thou art no true son of Abraham!" burst out his wife."I say she is, and she shall be!"
"Who ever heard of such reckoning in the days of the fathers?" answeredAbraham. "Licorice, I am doubtful if we have done well in keeping backthe truth so much. Doth not the Holy One love and require truth in allHis people? Yet it was thy doing, not mine."
"Oh yes, thou wouldst have told her at once!" sneered Licorice. "Shewould stay with us meekly then, would she not? Go to sleep, for mercy'ssake, I entreat thee, and hold thy tongue, before any worse m
ischief bedone. My doing! yes, it is well it was. Had I listened to thee, thatgirl would have been worshipping idols at this moment."
"`Blessed is the man that trusteth in Adonai,'" softly said Abraham."He could have helped it, I suppose."
"Ay, and happy is that woman that hath a wise man to her husband!"responded Licorice, irreverently. "Go to sleep, for the sake of Jaelthe wife of Heber the Kenite, or I shall get up and chop thy head off,for thou art not a whit better than Sisera!"
Perhaps Abraham thought it the wisest plan to obey his incensed spouse,for no word of response reached Belasez.
That damsel lay awake for a considerable time. She soon made up hermind to get as much as she could out of her cousin Genta. It wasevident that a catechising ordeal awaited her, to the end of discoveringa supposed Christian lover; but feeling her conscience quite clear onthat count, Belasez was only disturbed at the possible revelation of herchange of faith. She could, however, honestly satisfy Abraham that shehad not received baptism. But two points puzzled and deeply interestedher. How much had she better say about Bruno?--and, what was thismysterious point which they were afraid she might guess--which seemed tohave some unaccountable reference to herself? If Anegay were hersister, as she could no longer doubt, why should her conduct in some wayreflect upon Belasez? Suppose Anegay had married a Christian--as shethought most likely from the allusions, and which she knew would be inher parents' eyes disgrace of the deepest dye--or even if Anegay hadherself become a Christian, which was a shade worse still,--yet what hadthat to do with Belasez, and why should it make her so anxious to goback to the Christians?
Then, as to Bruno,--Belasez was conscious in her heart that she lovedhim very dearly, though her affection was utterly unmingled with anythoughts of matrimony. She would have thought old Hamon as eligible fora husband, when he patted her on the head with a patriarchalbenediction. It was altogether a friendly and daughterly class offeeling with which she regarded Father Bruno. But would Abraham enterinto that? Was it wise to tell him?
Thinking and planning, Belasez fell asleep.
The ordeal did not come off immediately. It seemed to Belasez as if herfather would gladly have avoided it altogether; but she was tolerablysure that her mother would not allow him much peace till it was done.
"Delecresse," she said, the first time she was alone with her brother,"had we ever a sister?"
"Never, to my knowledge," said Delecresse, looking as if he wonderedwhat had put that notion into her head.
Evidently he knew nothing.
Genta, who was constantly coming in and out, for her home was in thesame short street, dropped in during the evening, and Belasez carriedher off to her own little bed-chamber, which was really a goodsizedcloset, on the pretext of showing her some new embroidery.
"Genta," she said, "tell me when my sister died."
"Thy sister, Belasez?" Genta's expression was one of most innocentperplexity. "Hadst thou ever a sister?"
"Had I not?"
"I never heard of one."
"Think, Genta I was she not called Anegay?"
Genta's shake of the head was decided enough to settle any question, butBelasez fancied she caught a momentary flash in her eyes which was by nomeans a negation.
But Belasez did not hear a few sentences that were uttered before Gentaleft the house.
"Aunt Licorice, what has Belasez got in her head?"
"Nay, what has she, Genta?"
"I am sure some one has been telling her something. She has asked meto-night if she had not once a sister, and if her name were not Anegay."
The exclamation in reply was more forcible than elegant. But thatnight, as Belasez lay in bed, through half-closed eyes she saw hermother enter and hold the lantern to her face. I am sorry to add thatBelasez instantly counterfeited profound sleep; and Licorice retiredwith apparent satisfaction.
"Husband!" she heard her mother say, a few minutes later, "either someson of a Philistine has told that child something, or she has overheardour words."
"What makes thee think so?" Abraham's tone was one of great distress,if not terror.
"She has been asking questions of Genta. But she has got hold of thewrong pattern--she fancies Anegay was her sister."
"Does she?" replied Abraham, in a tone of sorrowful tenderness.
"There's less harm in her thinking that, than if she knew the truth.Genta showed great good sense: she professed to know nothing at allabout it."
"Dissimulation again, Licorice!" came, with a heavy sigh, from Abraham.
"Hold thy tongue! Where should we be without it?"
Abraham made no answer. But early on the following morning he summonedBelasez to the little porch-chamber, and she went with her heartbeating.
As she suspected, the catechism was now to be gone through. But poorAbraham was the more timid of the two. He was so evidently unwilling tospeak, and so regretfully tender, that Belasez's heart warmed, and shelost all her shyness. Of course, she told him more than she otherwisewould have done.
Belasez denied the existence of any Christian lover, or indeed of anylover at all, with such clear, honest eyes, that Abraham could not butbelieve her. But, he urged, had she ever seen any man in the Castle, tospeak to him?
"Yes," said Belasez frankly. "Not while the Lady was there. But duringher absence, Sir Richard de Clare had been three times in the bower, andthe priests had given lessons to the damsels in the ante-chamber."
"Did any of these ever speak to thee?"
"Sir Richard never spoke to me but twice, further than to say `Goodmorrow.' Once he admired a pattern I was working, and once he asked me,when I came in from the leads, if it were raining."
"Didst thou care for him, my daughter?"
"Not in the least," said Belasez, "nor he for me. I rather think DamselMargaret was his attraction." Her father seemed satisfied on thatpoint. "And these priests? How many were there?" Belasez told him."Master Aristoteles the physician, and Father Nicholas, and FatherWarner, chaplains of my Lord the Earl; and the chaplain of the Lady."
She hardly knew what instinct made her unwilling to utter Father Bruno'sname; and, most unintentionally, she blushed.
"Oh!" said Abraham to himself, "the Lady's chaplain is the dangerousperson.--Are they old men, my child?"
"None of them is either very old or very young, Father."
"Describe them to me, I pray thee."
"Master Aristoteles I cannot describe, for I have only heard his voice.Father Nicholas is about fifty, I should think: a kindly sort of man,but immersed in his books, and caring for little beside. Father Warneris not pleasant; all the girls were very much afraid of him."
"And the chaplain of the Lady?"
"He is forty or more, I should suppose: tall and slender, eyes and hairdark; a very pleasant man to speak with."
"I am afraid so!" was Abraham's internal comment.--"And his name,daughter?"
"Father Bruno."
"_What_?" Abraham had risen, with outspread hands, as though he wouldfain push away some unwelcome and horrible thing.
Belasez repeated the name.
"Bruno!--de Malpas?"
"I never heard of any name but Bruno."
"Has he talked with thee?" Abraham's whole manner showed agitation.
"Much."
"Upon what subjects?"
Belasez would gladly have avoided that question.
"Different subjects," she said, evasively.
"Tell me what he said when he first met thee."
"He seemed much distressed, I knew not at what, and murmured that myface painfully reminded him of somebody."
"Ah!--Belasez, didst thou know whom?"
"Not till I came home," she said in a low tone.
"_Ay de mi_! What hast thou heard since thy coming home?"
Belasez resolved to speak the truth. She had been struck by herfather's hints that some terrible mischief had come from not speakingit; and she thought that perhaps open confession on her part migh
t leadto confidence on his.
"I overheard you and my mother talking at night," she said. "I gatheredthat the somebody whom I was like was my sister, and that her name wasAnegay; and I thought she had either become a Christian, or had wedded aChristian. Father, may I know?"
"My little Belasez," he said, with deep feeling, "thou knowest all butthe one thing thou must not know. There was one called Anegay. But shewas not thy sister. Let the rest be silence to thee."
It seemed to cost Abraham immense pain to say even so much as this. Hesat quiet for a moment, his face working pitifully.
"Little Belasez," he said again, "didst thou like that man?"
"I think I loved him," was her soft answer.
Abraham's gesture, which she thought indicated despair and anguish,roused her to explain.
"Father," she said hastily, "I do not mean anything wrong or foolish. Iloved Father Bruno with a deep, reverential love--such as I give you."
"Such as thou givest me--O Belasez!"
Belasez thought he was hurt by her comparison of her love for him tothat of her love for a mere stranger.
"Father, how shall I explain? I meant--"
"My poor child, I need no explanation. Thou hast been more righteousthan we. Belasez, the truth is hidden from thee because thou art toonear it to behold it. My poor, poor child!" And suddenly rising,Abraham lifted up his arms in the attitude of prayer. "O Thou thatdoest wonders, Thou hast made the wrath of man to praise Thee. Howunsearchable are Thy judgments, and Thy ways past finding out!" Then helaid his hand upon Belasez's head.
"It is Adonai," he said. "Let Him do what seemeth Him good. He saidunto Shimei, Curse David. Methinks He hath said to thee, Love Bruno.The Holy One forbid that I should grudge the love of--of our child, tothe desolate heart which we made desolate. Adonai knows, and He only,whether we did good or bad. Pray to Him, my Belasez, to forgive thatone among us who truly needs His forgiveness!"
And Abraham hurried from the room, as if he were afraid to trusthimself, lest if he stayed he should say something which he mightafterwards regret bitterly.
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Note 1. Priest. All Jews named Cohen are sons of Aaron.