Earl Hubert's Daughter, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

________________________________________________________________________This is one of Emily Holt's admirable and deeply researched historicalnovels, this time set in the early years of the thirteenth century. Themain players in the story appear at first sight to be the upper-classladies of the Court, and their various somewhat confusing relationships. 

But early in the book an old Jewish pedlar comes and displays rich waresof a surprising value and variety. One of the girls asks if he can getsome special embroidery done on a scarf she wants to give as a present. Abraham sends in his young daughter Belasez and conditions are agreedsuch that she will not be called upon to do or eat anything she shouldnot, and all this seems to work very well. But the story involvingBelasez, her mother Licorice, and her brother Delecresse, gets more andmore involved and interesting. Belasez realises that there has beensomething in the past that she wants to unearth, and gradually the wholestrange story is revealed. 

________________________________________________________________________EARL HUBERT'S DAUGHTER, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

PREFACE. 

The thirteenth century was one of rapid and terrible incidents, tumultuous politics, and in religious matters of low and degradingsuperstition. Transubstantiation had just been formally adopted as adogma of the Church, accompanied as it always is by sacramentalconfession, and quickly followed by the elevation of the host and theinvention of the pix. Various Orders of monks were flocking intoEngland. The Pope was doing his best, aided by the Roman clergy, and totheir shame be it said, by some of the English, to fix his iron yoke onthe neck of the Church of England. The doctrine of human merit was atits highest pitch; the doctrine of justification by faith was absolutely_unknown_. 

Amid this thick darkness, a very small number of true-hearted, Heaven-taught men bore aloft the torch of truth--that is, of so muchtruth as they knew. One of such men as these I have sketched in FatherBruno. And if, possibly, the portrait is slightly over-charged for thedate, --if he be represented as a shade more enlightened than at thattime he could well be--I trust that the anachronism will be pardoned forthe sake of those eternal verities which would otherwise have been leftwanting. 

There is one fact in ecclesiastical history which should never beforgotten, and this is, that in all ages, within the visible corporatebody which men call the Church, God has had a Church of His own, true, living, and faithful. He has ever reserved to Himself that typicalseven thousand in Israel, of whom all the knees have not bowed untoBaal, and every mouth hath not kissed him. 

Such men as these have been termed "Protestants before the Reformation. "The only reason why they were not Protestants, was because there was asyet no Protestantism. The heavenly call to "come out of her" had notyet been heard. These men were to be found in all stations andcallings; on the throne--as in Alfred the Great, Saint Louis, and Henrythe Sixth; in the hierarchy--as in Anselm, Bradwardine, and Grosteste;in the cloister--as in Bernard de Morlaix; but perhaps most frequentlyin that rank and file of whom the world never hears, and of some ofwhom, however low their place in it, the world is not worthy. 

These men often made terrible blunders--as Saint Louis did when hepersecuted the Jews, under the delusion that he was thus doing honour tothe Lord whom they had rejected: and Bernard de Morlaix, when he led acrusade against the Albigenses, of whom he had heard only slanderousreports. Do we make no blunders, that we should be in haste to judgethem? How much more has been given to us than to them! How much more, then, will be required?

CHAPTER ONE. 

FATHER AND MOTHER. 

 "He was a true man, this--who lived for England, And he knew how to die. "

 "Sweet? There are many sweet things. Clover's sweet, And so is liquorice, though 'tis hard to chew; And sweetbriar--till it scratches. "

"Look, Margaret! Thine aunt, Dame Marjory, is come to spend thybirthday with thee. "

"And see my new bower? [Boudoir]. O Aunt Marjory, I am so glad!"

The new bower was a very pretty room--for the thirteenth century--butits girl-owner was the prettiest thing in it. Her age was thirteen thatday, but she was so tall that she might easily have been supposed two orthree years older. She had a very fair complexion, violet-blue eyes, and hair exactly the colour of a cedar pencil. If physiognomy may betrusted, the face indicated a loving and amiable disposition. 

The two ladies who had just entered from the ante-room--the mother andaunt of Margaret were both tall, finely-developed women, with shiningfair hair. They spoke French, evidently as the mother-tongue: but in1234 that was the custom of all English nobles. These ladies had beenbrought up in England from early maidenhood, but they were ScottishPrincesses--the eldest and youngest daughters of King William the Lion, by his Norman Queen, Ermengarde de Beaumont. Both sisters were veryhandsome, but the younger bore the palm of beauty in the artist's sense, though she was not endowed with the singular charm of manner whichcharacterised her sister. Chroniclers tell us that the youngerPrincess, Marjory, was a woman of marvellous beauty. Yet something moreattractive than mere beauty must have distinguished the PrincessMargaret, for two men of the most opposite dispositions to have borneher image on their hearts till death, and for her husband--a man capableof abject superstition, and with his hot-headed youth far behind him--tohave braved all the thunders of Rome, rather than put her away. 

These royal sisters had a singular history. Their father, King William, had put them for education into the hands of King John of England andhis Queen, Isabelle of Angouleme, when they were little more thaninfants, in other words, he had committed his tender doves to the chargeof almost the worst man and woman whom he could have selected. Therewere just two vices of which His English Majesty was not guilty, andthose were cowardice and hypocrisy. He was a plain, unvarnishedvillain, and he never hesitated for a moment to let people see it. Queen Isabelle had been termed "the Helen of the Middle Ages, " alikefrom her great beauty, and from the fact that her husband abducted herwhen betrothed elsewhere. She can hardly be blamed for this, since shewas a mere child at the time: but as she grew up, she developed acharacter quite worthy of the scoundrel to whom she was linked. Topersonal profligacy she added sordid avarice, and a positive incapacityfor telling the truth. To these delightful persons the poor littleScottish maidens, Margaret and Isabel, were consigned. At what ageMarjory joined them in England is doubtful: but it does not appear thatshe was ever, as they were, an official ward of the Crown. 

The exact terms on which these royal children were sent into Englandwere for many years the subject of sharp contention between theirbrother Alexander and King Henry the Third. The memorandum drawn upbetween the Kings William and John, does not appear to be extant: butthat by which, in 1220, they were afresh consigned to the care of Henrythe Third, is still in existence. Alexander strenuously maintained thatJohn had undertaken to marry the sisters to his own two sons. Theagreement with Henry the Third simply provides that "We will also marry[This meant at the time, `cause to be married'] Margaret and Isabel, sisters of the said Alexander, King of Scotland, during the space of onefull year from the feast of Saint Denis [October 8], 1220, as shall beto our honour: and if we do not marry them within that period, we willreturn them to the said Alexander, King of Scotland, safe and free, inhis own territories, within two years from the time specified. " [Note1. ]

This article of the convention was honestly carried out according to thelater memorandum, so far as concerned Margaret, who was married toHubert de Burgh, Earl of Kent, at York, on the twenty-fifth of June, 1221. Isabel, however, was not married (to Roger Bigod, Earl ofNorfolk) until May, 1225. [Note 2. ] Still, after the latter date, theconvention having been carried out, it might have been supposed that theKings would have given over quarrelling about it. The Princesses werehonourably married in England, which was all that Henry the Third atleast had undertaken to do. 

But neither party was satisfied. Alexander never ceased to reproachHenry for not having himself married Margaret, and united Isabel to hisbrother. Henry, while he testily maintained to Alexander that he haddone all he promised, and no further claim could be established againsthim, yet, as history shows, never to the last hour pardoned Hubert deBurgh for his marriage with the Scottish Princess, and most bitterlyreproached him for depriving him of her whom he had intended to make hisQueen. 

The truth seems to be that Henry the Third, who at the time ofMargaret's marriage was only a lad of thirteen years, had cherished forher a fervent boyish passion, and that she was the only woman whom heever really loved. Hubert, at that time Regent, probably never imaginedany thing of the kind: while to Margaret, a stately maiden of sometwenty years, if not more, the sentimental courtship of a schoolboy ofthirteen would probably be a source of amusement rather than sympathy. But at every turn in his after life, Henry showed that he had neverforgiven this slight put on his affections. It is true that hisaffection was of a somewhat odd type, presenting no obstacle to hisaspersing the character of his lady-love, when he found it convenient topoint a moral by so doing. But of all men who ever lived, surely one ofthe most consistently inconsistent was Henry the Third. In mostinstances he was "constant to one thing--his inconstancy. " Like hisfather, he possessed two virtues: but they were not the same. Henry wasnot a lover of cruelty for its own sake--which John was: and he was notpersonally a libertine. Of his father's virtues, bravery and honesty, there was not a trace in him. He covered his sins with an embroideredcloak of exquisite piety. The bad qualities of both parents wereinherited by him. To his mother's covetous acquisitiveness andingrained falsehood, he joined his father's unscrupulous exactions andwild extravagance. 

I have said that Henry was not a lover of cruelty in itself: but hecould be fearfully and recklessly cruel when he had a point to gain, aswe shall see too well before the story is ended. It may be true thatJohn murdered his nephew Arthur with his own hands; but it was reservedfor Henry, out of the public sight and away from his own eyes, toperpetrate a more cruel murder upon Arthur's hapless sister, "the Pearlof Bretagne, " by one of the slowest and most dreadful deaths possible tohumanity, and without any offence on her part beyond her very existence. Stow tells us that poor Alianora was slowly starved to death; and thatshe died by royal order the Issue Roll gives evidence, since one hundredpounds were delivered to John Fitz Geoffrey as his fee for the executionof Alianora the King's kinswoman. [Note 3. ]

It is not easy to say whether John or Henry would have made the moreclever vivisector. But assuredly, while John would have kept hislaboratory door open, and have sneered at anaesthetics, Henry would havesoftly administered curare [Note 4], and afterwards made a charmingspeech on the platform concerning the sacrifices of their own feelings, which physiologists are sorrowfully compelled to make for the benefit ofhumanity and the exigencies of science. 

Thirteen years after the marriage of Margaret of Scotland, when he was ayoung man of six-and-twenty, Henry the Third made a second attempt towin a Scottish queen. The fair Princess Marjory had now joined hersisters in England; and in point of age she was more suitable thanMargaret. The English nobles, however, were very indignant that theirKing should think of espousing a younger sister of the wife of so merean upstart as Hubert de Burgh. They grumbled bitterly, and the Count ofBretagne, brother-in-law of the murdered Arthur and the disinheritedAlianora, took upon himself to dissuade the King from his purpose. 

This Count of Bretagne is known as Pierre Mauclerc, or Bad-Clerk: not aflattering epithet, but historians assure us that Pierre only toothoroughly deserved the adjective, whatever his writing may have done. He had, four years before, refused his own daughter to King Henry, preferring to marry her to a son of the King of France. The Count hadundertaken no difficult task, for an easier could not be than topersuade or dissuade Henry the Third in respect of any mortal thing. Hepassed his life in acting on the advice in turn of every person who hadlast spoken to him. So he gave up Marjory of Scotland. 

Three years more had elapsed since that time, during which Marjory, verysore at her rejection, had withdrawn to the Court of King Alexander herbrother. In the spring of 1234 she returned to her eldest sister, whogenerally resided either in her husband's Town-house at Whitehall, --itwas probably near Scotland Yard--or at the Castle of Bury SaintEdmund's. She was just then at the latter. Earl Hubert himself was butrarely at home in either place, being constantly occupied elsewhere byofficial duties, and not unfrequently, through some adverse turn of KingHenry's capricious favour, detained somewhere in prison. 

"And how long hast thou nestled in this sweet new bower, my bird?" saidMarjory caressingly to her niece. 

"To-day, Aunt Marjory! It is a birthday present from my Lord andfather. Is it not pretty? Only look at the walls, and the windows, andmy beautiful velvet settle. Now, did you ever see any thing socharming?"

Marjory glanced at her sister, and they exchanged smiles. 

"Well, I cannot quite say No to that question, Magot. [Note 5. ] Butlead me round this wonderful chamber, and show me all its beauties. "

The wonderful chamber in question was not very spacious, being aboutsixteen feet in length by twelve in width. It had a wide fireplace atone end--there was no fire, for the spring was just passing intosummer--and two arched windows on one of its longer sides. Thefireplace was filled with a grotto-like erection of fir-cones, moss, androsemary: the windows, as Margaret triumphantly pointed out, were ofthat rare and precious material, glass. Three doors led into otherrooms. One, opposite the fireplace, gave access to a small privateoratory; two others, opposite the windows, communicated respectivelywith the wardrobe and the ante-chamber. These four rooms together, withthe narrow spiral staircase which led to them, occupied the whole floorof one of the square towers of the Castle. The walls of the bower werepainted green, relieved by golden stars; and on every wall-space betweenthe doors and windows was a painted "history"--namely, a medallion ofsome Biblical, historical, or legendary subject. The subjects in thisroom had evidently been chosen with reference to the tastes of a girl. They were, --the Virgin and Child; the legend of Saint Margaret; theWheel of Fortune; Saint Agnes, with her lamb; a fountain with dovesperched upon the edge; and Saint Martin dividing his cloak with thebeggar. The window-shutters were of fir-wood, bound with iron. Meagreindeed we should think the furniture, but it was sumptuous for the date. A tent-bed, hung with green curtains, stood between the two doors. Agreen velvet settle stretched across the window side of the room. Bythe fireplace was a leaf-table; round the walls were wooden brackets, with iron sockets for the reception of torches; and at the foot of thebed, which stood with its side to the wall, was a fine chest of carvedebony. There were only three pieces of movable furniture, twofootstools, and a curule chair, also of ebony, with a green velvetcushion. As nobody could sit in the last who had not had a king andqueen for his or her parents, it may be supposed that more than one wasnot likely to be often wanted. 

The Countess of Kent, as the elder sister, took the curule chair, whileher sister Marjory, when the inspection was finished, sat down on thevelvet settle. Margaret drew a footstool to her aunt's side, and tookup her position there, resting her head caressingly on Marjory's knee. 

"Three whole years, Aunt Marjory, that you have not been near us! Whatcould make you stay away so long?"

"There were reasons, Magot. "

The two Princesses exchanged smiles again, but there was some amusementin that of the Countess, while the expression of her sister was rathersad. 

Margaret looked from one to the other, as if she would have liked tounderstand what they meant. 

"Don't trouble that little head, " said her mother, with a laugh. "Thytime will come soon enough. Thou art too short to be told statesecrets. "

"I shall be as tall as you some day, Lady, " responded Margaret archly. 

"And then, " said Marjory, stroking the girl's hair, "thou wilt wishthyself back again, little Magot. "

"Nay!--under your good leave, fair Aunt, never!"

"Ah, we know better, don't we, Madge?" asked the Countess, laughing. "Well, I will leave you two maidens together. There is the month's washto be seen to, and if I am not there, that Alditha is as likely to putthe linen in the chests without a sprig of rosemary, as she is to lookin the mirror every time she passes it. We shall meet at supper. Adieu!"

And the Countess departed, on housekeeping thoughts intent. For a fewminutes the two girls--for the aunt was only about twelve years thesenior--sat silent, Margaret having drawn her aunt's hand down andrested her cheek upon it. They were very fond of one another: and beingso near in age, they had been brought up so much like sisters, thatexcept in one or two items they treated each other as such, and did notassume the respective authority and reverence usual between suchrelations at that time. Beyond the employment of the deferential _you_by Margaret, and the familiar _thou_ by Marjory, they chatted to eachother as any other girls might have done. But just then, for a fewminutes, neither spoke. 

"Well, Magot!" said Marjory, breaking the silence at last, "have wenought to say to each other? Thou art forgetting, I think, that I wanta full account of all these three years since I came to see thee before. They have not been empty of events, I know. "

Margaret's answer was a groan. 

"Empty!" she said. "Fair Aunt, I would they had been, rather than fullof such events as they were. Father Nicholas saith that the oldRomans--or Greeks, I don't know which--used to say the man was happy whohad no history. I am sure we should have been happier, lately, if wehad not had any. "

"`Don't know which!' What a heedless Magot!"

"Why, fair Aunt, surely you don't expect people to recollect lessons. Did you ever remember yours?"

Marjory laughed. "Sufficiently so, I hope, to know the differencebetween Greeks and Romans. But, however, --for the last three years. Tell me all about them. "

"Am I to begin with the Flood, like a professional chronicler?"

"Well, no. I think the Conquest would be soon enough. "

"Delicious Aunt Marjory! How many weary centuries you excuse me!"

"_How_ many, Magot?"

"Oh, please don't! How can I possibly tell? If you really want toknow, I will send for Father Nicholas. "

Marjory laughed, and kissed the lively face turned up to her. 

"Idle Magot! Well, go on. "

"I don't think I am idle, fair Aunt. But I do detest learning dates. --Well, now, --was it in April you left us? I know it was very soon aftermy Lady of Cornwall was married, but I do not remember exactly whatmonth. "

"It was in May, " said Marjory, shortly. 

"May, was it? Oh, I know! It was the eve of Saint Helen's Day. Well, things went on right enough, till my Lord of Canterbury took it into hishead that my Lord and father had no business to detain TunbridgeCastle, --it all began with that. It was about July, I think. "

"I thought Tunbridge Castle belonged to my Lord of Gloucester. What hadeither to do with it?"

"O Aunt Marjory! Have you forgotten that my young Lord of Gloucester isin ward to my Lord and father? The Lord King gave him first to my Lordthe Bishop of Winchester, when his father died; and then, about a yearafter, he took him away from the Bishop, and gave him to my fair father. Don't you remember him?--such a pretty boy! I think you knew all aboutit at the time. "

"Very likely I did, Magot. One forgets things, sometimes. "

And Margaret, looking up into the fair face, saw, and did notunderstand, the hidden pain behind the smile. 

"So my Lord of Canterbury complained of my fair father to the Lord King. (I wonder he could not attend to his own business. ) But the Lord Kingsaid that as my Lord of Gloucester held in chief of the Crown, allvacant trusts were his, to give as it pleased him. And then--AuntMarjory, do you like priests?"

"Magot, what a question!"

"But do you?"

"All priests are not alike, my dear child. They are like other people--some good, and some bad. "

"But surely all priests ought to be good. "

"Art thou always what thou oughtest to be, Magot?"

Margaret's answer was a sudden spring from the stool and a fervent hugof Marjory. 

"Aunt Marjory, " she said, when she had sat down again, "I just hate thatBishop of Winchester. " [Peter de Rievaulx, always one of the two chiefenemies of Margaret's father. ]

"Shocking, Magot!"

"Oh yes, of course it is extremely wicked. But I do. "

"I wish he were here, to set thee a penance for such a naughty speech. However, go on with thy story. "

"Well, what do you think, fair Aunt, that my Lord's Grace of Canterbury[Richard Grant, consecrated in 1229] did? He actually excommunicatedall intruders on the lands of his jurisdiction, and all who should holdcommunication with them, the King only excepted; and away he went toRome, to lay the matter before the holy Father. Of course he would tellhis tale from his own point of view. "

"The Archbishop went to Rome!"

"Indeed he did, Aunt Marjory. My fair father was very indignant. `Thatthe head of the English Church could not stand by himself, but must seekthe approbation of a foreign Bishop!' That was what he said, and Ithink my fair mother agreed with him. "

Perhaps in this nineteenth century we scarcely realise the gallant fightmade by the Church of England to retain her independence of Rome. Itdid not begin at the Reformation, as people are apt to suppose. It wasas old as the Church herself, and she was as old as the Apostles. Someof her clergy were perpetually trying to force and to rivet the chainsof Rome upon her: but the body of the laity, who are really the Church, resisted this attempt almost to the death. There was a perpetualstruggle, greater or smaller according to circumstances, between theKing of England and the Papacy, Pope after Pope endeavoured to fillEnglish sees and benefices with Italian priests: King after King bravedhis wrath by refusing to confirm his appointments. Apostle, they wereready to allow the Pope to be: sovereign or legislator, never. Doctrinethey would accept at his hands; but he should not rule over theirsecular or ecclesiastical liberties. The quarrel between Henry theSecond and Becket was entirely on this point. No wonder that Romecanonised the man who thus exalted her. The Kings who stood out mostfirmly for the liberties of England were Henry the Second, John, Edwardthe First and Second, and Richard the Second. This partly explains thereason why history (of which monks were mainly the authors) has solittle good to say of any of them, Edward the First only excepted. Itis not easy to say why the exception was made, unless it were because hewas too firmly rooted in popular admiration, and perhaps a little toomunificent to the monastic Orders, for much evil to be discreetly saidof him. Coeur-de-Lion was a Gallio who cared for none of those things:Henry the Third played into the hands of the Pope to-day, and of theAnglican Church to-morrow. Edward the Third held the balance as nearlyeven as possible. The struggle revived faintly during the reign ofHenry the Sixth, but the Wars of the Roses turned men's minds to homeaffairs, and Henry the Seventh was the obedient servant of His Holiness. So the battle went on, till it culminated in the Reformation. Thosewho have never entered into this question, and who assume that allEnglishmen were "Papists" until 1530, have no idea how gallantly theChurch fought for her independent life, and how often she flung from offher the iron grasp of the oppressor. It was not probable that aPrincess whose fathers had followed the rule of Columba, and lay buriedin Protestant Iona, should have any Roman tendencies on this question. Marjory was as warm as any one could have wished her. 

"Well, then, " Margaret went on, "that horrid Bishop of Winchester--"

"Oh, fie!" said her aunt. 

"--Came back to England in August. Aunt Marjory, it is no use, --he ishorrid, and I hate him! He hates my fair father. Do you expect me tolove him?"

"Well done, Magot!" said another voice. "When I want a lawyer to pleadmy cause, I will send for thee. --Christ save you, fair Sister! I heardyou were here, with this piece of enthusiasm. "

Both the girls rose to greet the Earl, Margaret courtesying low asbeseemed a daughter. 

It was very evident that, so far as outside appearance went, Margaretwas "only the child of her mother. " Earl Hubert was scarcely so tall ashis wife, and he had a bronzed, swarthy complexion, with dark hair. Though short, he was strongly-built and well-proportioned. His eyeswere dark, small, but quick and exceedingly bright. He had, whenneedful, a ready, eloquent tongue and a very pleasant smile. Yeteloquent as undoubtedly he could be, he was not usually a man of manywords; and capable as he was of very deep and lasting affection, he wasnot demonstrative. 

The soft, caressing manners of the Princess Margaret were not in herhusband's line at all. He was given to calling a spade a spade wheneverhe had occasion to mention the article: and if she preferred to alludeto it as "an agricultural implement for the trituration of the soil, " hewas disposed to laugh good-humouredly at the epithet, though he dearlyloved the silver voice which used it. 

A thoroughly representative man of his time was Hubert de Burgh, Earl ofKent; and he was one of those persons who leave a deep mark upon theirage. He was a purely self-made man. He had no pedigree: indeed, we donot know with absolute certainty who was his father, though moderngenealogists have amused themselves by making a pedigree for him, towhich there is no real evidence that he had the least claim. Yet of hiswives--for he was four times married--the first was an heiress, thesecond a baron's widow, the third a countess in her own right and adivorced queen, and the last a princess. His public life had begun byhis conducting a negotiation to the satisfaction of Coeur-de-Lion, inthe first year of his reign, 1189, when in all probability Hubert waslittle over twenty years of age. From that moment he rose rapidly. Merely to enumerate all the titles he bore would almost take a page. Hewas by turns a very rich man and a very poor one, according as his royaland capricious master made or revoked his grants. 

The religious character of Hubert is not a matter of speculation, but ofcertainty. It was--what his contemporaries considered elevated piety--amost singular mixture of the barest and basest superstition with somevery strong plain common-sense. The superstition was of the style setforth in the famous Spanish drama entitled "The Devotion of the Cross"--the true Roman type of piety, though to Protestant minds of thenineteenth century it seems almost inconceivable. The hero of thisplay, who is represented as tinctured with nearly every crime whichhumanity can commit, has a miracle performed in his favour, and goescomfortably to Heaven after it, on account of his devotion to the cross. The innocent reader must not suspect the least connection between thisdevotion and the atonement wrought upon the cross. It simply means, that whenever Eusebio sees the shape of a cross--in the hilt of hissword, the pattern of a woman's dress, two sticks thrown upon oneanother, --he stops in the midst of whatever sin he may be committing, and in some form, by word or gesture, expresses his "devotion. "

Of this type was Hubert's religion. His notion of spirituality was tograsp the pix with one hand, and to hold the crucifix in the other. Hekept a nicely-balanced account at the Bank of Heaven, in which--this ishistorical--the heaviest deposit was the fact that he had many yearsbefore saved a large crucifix from the flames. The idea that thisaction was not most pious and meritorious would have been in Hubert'seyes rank heresy. Yet he might have known better. The Psalter lay opento him, which, had he been acquainted with no other syllable ofrevelation, should alone have given him a very different conception ofspiritual religion. 

Athwart these singular notions of excellence, Hubert's good common-sensewas perpetually gleaming, like the lightning across a dark moor. Whatever else this man was, he was no slave of Rome. It was supportedby him, and probably at his instigation, that King John had sent hislofty message to the Pope, that--

 "No Italian priest Should tithe or toll in his dominions. "

It was when the administration lay in his hands that Parliament refusedto comply with the demands of the Pope till it was seen what otherkingdoms would do: and no Papal aggressions were successful in Englandso long as Hubert was in power. To reverse the famous phrase of LordDenbigh, Hubert was "a Catholic, if you please; but an Englishmanfirst. "

Truer Englishman, at once loyalist and patriot, never man was than he--well described by one of the English people as "that most faithful andnoble Hubert, who so often saved England from the ravages of theforeigner, and restored England to herself. " He stood by the Throne, bearing aloft the banner of England, in three especially dark andperilous days, when no man stood there but himself. To him alone, underProvidence, we owe it that England did not become a vassal province ofFrance. Most amply was his fidelity put to the test; most unspotted itemerged from the ordeal: most heavy was the debt of gratitude owed alikeby England and her King. 

That debt was paid, in a sense, to the uttermost farthing. In whatmanner of coin it was discharged, we are about to see. 

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Note 1. Patent Roll, 4 Henry Third; dated York, June 15 1220. 

Note 2. "In the octave of Holy Trinity" [May 25--June 1], at Alnwick. --Roberts' Extracts from Fines Rolls, 1225. 

Note 3. This terrible fact has been strangely ignored by many modernhistorians. --_Rot. Exit. , Michs_. , 25-6 Henry Third. 

Note 4. A drug which deadens the sensibilities--of the vivisector--byrendering the victim incapable of sound or motion, but not affecting thenerves of sensation in the least. 

Note 5. This was in 1234, when our story begins, the English diminutiveof Margaret, and was doubtless derived from the French Margot. 

Note 6. Any reader who is inclined to doubt this is requested toconsult Acts fifteen, 4, 22. It is unquestionably the teaching of theNew Testament. The clergy form part of the Church merely as individualChristians. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

"WHAT DO YOU LACK?"

 "If pestilence stalk through the land, ye say, This is God's doing. Is it not also His doing, when an aphis creepeth on a rosebud?"

 _Martin F. Tupper_. 

Earl Hubert was far too busy a man to waste his time in lounging onvelvet settles and exchanging sallies of wit with the ladies of hishousehold. He had done little more than give a cordial welcome toMarjory, and pat Margaret on the head, when he again disappeared, to beseen no more until supper-time. 

"Well, Magot, " said Marjory, sitting down in the chair, while Margaretas before accommodated herself with a footstool at her feet, "let us geton with thy story. I want to know all about that affair two years ago. Thy fair father looks wonderfully well, methinks, considering all thathe has gone through. "

"Does he not? O Aunt Marjory, I scarcely know how I am to tell youabout that. It was dreadful, --dreadful!"

And the tears stood in big drops on Margaret's eyelashes. 

"Well, I will try, " she said, with a deep sigh, as Marjory stroked herhair. "In the first place, the year ended all very well. My fairfather had been created Justiciary of Ireland for life, and Constable ofthe Tower, and various favours had been granted to him. That he shouldbe on the brink of trouble--and such trouble!--was the very last thingthought of by any one of us. And then that Bishop of Winchester cameback, and before a soul knew anything about it, he was high in the LordKing's favour, and on the twenty-ninth of July--(I am not likely toforget _that_ date!)--the blow fell. "

"He was dismissed, then, was he not, from all his offices, without aword of warning?"

"Dismissed and degraded, without a shadow of it!--and a string of themost cruel, wicked accusations brought against him--things that he neverdid nor dreamed of doing--Aunt Marjory, it makes my blood boil, only toremember them! I am not going to tell you all: there was one too horridto mention. "

"I know, my maiden. " Marjory interposed rather hastily. She had heardalready of King Henry's delicate and affectionate assault upon the fairname of Margaret's mother, and she did not wish for a repetition of it. 

"But beyond that, of what do you think he was accused?"

"I have not heard the other articles, Magot. "

"Then I will tell you. First, of preventing the Lord King's marriagewith the Duke of Austria's daughter, by telling the Duke that the Kingwas lame, and blind, and deaf, and a leper, and--"

"Gently, Magot, gently!" said Marjory, laughing. 

"I am not making a syllable of it, fair Aunt!--And that he was a wicked, treacherous man, not worthy of the love or alliance of any noble lady. _Pure foy_!--but I know what I should say, if I said just what I think. "

"It is sometimes quite as well not to do that, Magot. "

"Ha! Perhaps it is, when one may get into prison by it. It is acomfort one can always think. Neither Pope nor King can stop that. "

"Magot, my dear child!"

"Oh yes, I know! You think I am horribly imprudent, Aunt Marjory. Butnobody hears me except you and Eva de Braose--she is the only person inthe wardrobe, and there is no one in the ante-chamber. And as I haveheard her say more than I did just now, I don't suppose there is muchharm done. --Then, secondly, --they charged my fair father with stealing--only think, _stealing_!--a magical gem from the royal treasury whichmade the wearer victorious in battle, and sending it to the Prince ofWales. " [Llywelyn the Great, with whom King Henry was at war. ]

"Why should they suppose he would do that?"

"_Pure foy_, Aunt Marjory, don't ask me! Then, thirdly, they said itwas--"

Margaret sprang from her footstool suddenly, and disappeared for asecond through the door of the wardrobe. Marjory heard her say--

"Eva! I had completely forgotten, till this minute, to tell Marie thatmy Lady and mother desired her to finish that piece of tapestryto-night, if she can. Do go and look for her, and let her know, or shewill not have time. "

A slight rustle as of some one leaving the room was audible, and thenMargaret dashed back to her footstool, as if she too had not a minute tolose. 

"You know, Aunt Marjory, I could not tell you the next thing with Evalistening. They said that it was by traitorous letters from my fairfather that the Prince of Wales had caused Sir William de Braose to behung. "

"Eva's father, thou meanest?"

"Yes. Then they accused him of administering poison to my Lord ofSalisbury, of sending my cousin Sir Raymond to try and force the Lady ofSalisbury into marrying him while her lord was beyond seas, of poisoningmy Lord of Pembroke, Sir Fulk de Breaut, and my sometime Lord ofCanterbury's Grace. He might have spent his life in poisoning everybody! Then, lastly, they said he had obtained favour of the Lord Kingby help of the black art. "

Marjory smiled contemptuously. It was not because she was more freefrom superstition than other people, but simply because she knew fullwell that the only sorcery necessary to be used towards Henry the Thirdwas "the sorcery of a strong mind over a weak one. " [Note 1. ]

"It was rather unfortunate, " she said, "that my good Lord of Salisbury(whom God rest!) was seized with his last illness the very day after hehad supped at my fair brother's table. "

"Aunt Marjory!" cried her indignant niece. "Why, it is not a monthsince I was taken ill in the night, after I had supped likewise. Do yousuppose he poisoned me?"

"It is quite possible that walnuts might have something to do with it, Magot. But did I say he poisoned any one?"

"Now, Aunt Marjory, you are laughing at me, because you know I likethem. But don't you think it is absurd--the way in which people insiston fancying themselves poisoned whenever they are ill? It looks as ifevery human being were a monster of wickedness!"

"What would Father Warner say they are, Magot?"

"Oh, he would say it was perfectly true: and he would be right--so faras my Lord of Winchester and a few more are concerned. --Well, Eva, hastthou found Marie?"

"Yes, my dear. She is with the Lady, and she is busy with thetapestry. "

"Oh, that is right! I am sorry I forgot. "

"And the Lady bade me tell thee, _mignonne_, that she is coming to thybower shortly, with a pedlar who is waiting in the court, to choosestuffs for thy Whitsuntide robes. "

"A pedlar! Delightful! Aunt Marjory, I am sure you want something?"

Marjory laughed. "I want thy tale finished, Magot, before the pedlarcomes. "

"Too long, my dear Aunt Marjory, unless the pedlar takes all summer tomount the stairs. But you know my Lord and father fled into sanctuaryat Merton Abbey, and refused to leave it unless the Lord King wouldpledge his royal word for his safety. I don't think I should havethought it made much difference. (I wonder if that pedlar has anysilversmiths' work. ) The Lord King did not pledge his word, but heordered the Lord Mayor and the citizens to fetch my fair father--onlythink of that, Aunt Marjory!--dead or alive. Some of the noblercitizens appealed to the Bishop, who was everything with the King justthen: but instead of interceding for my fair father, as they asked, hemerely confirmed the order. So twenty thousand citizens marched on theAbbey; and when my fair father knew that, he fled to the high altar, andembraced the holy cross with one hand, holding the blessed pix in theother. "

"Was our Lord in the pix?" inquired Marjory--meaning, of course, torefer to the consecrated wafer. 

"I am not sure, fair Aunt. But however, things turned out better thanseemed likely: for not only the Bishop of Chichester, but even my Lordof Chester--my fair father's great enemy--interceded with the Lord Kingin his behalf. We heard that my Lord of Chester spoke very plainly tohim, and told him not only that he would find it easier to draw a crowdtogether than to get rid of it again, but also that his fickleness wouldscandalise the world. "

"And the Lord King allowed him to say that?"

"Yes, and it had a great effect upon him. I think people who are fickledon't like others to see it--don't you? Do you think that pedlar willhave any sendal [a silk stuff of extremely fine quality] of India?"

"Thine eyes and half thy tongue are in the pedlar's pack, Magot. Icannot tell thee. But just let me know how it ended, and thy fairfather was set free. "

"Oh, it did not end for ever so long! My Lord's Grace of Dublin gotleave for him to come home and see my fair mother and me; and afterthat, when he had gone into Essex, the King sent after him again, andSir Godfrey de Craucumbe took him away to the Tower. They sent for asmith to put him in fetters, but the man would not do it when he heardwho was to wear the fetters. He said he would rather die than be theman to put chains on `that most faithful and noble Hubert, who so oftensaved England from the ravages of foreigners, and restored England toherself. ' Aunt Marjory, I think he was a grand fellow! I would havekissed him if I had been there. "

As the kiss was at that time the common form of greeting between men andwomen, for a lady to offer a kiss to a man as a token that she approvedhis words or actions, was not then considered more demonstrative than itwould be to shake hands now. It was, in fact, not an unusualoccurrence. 

"And my fair father told us, " pursued Margaret, "when he heard what thesmith said, he could not help thinking of those words of our Lord, whenHe thanked God that His mission had been hidden from the wise, butrevealed to the ignorant. `For, ' our Lord said, `to Thee, my God, do Icommit my cause; for mine enemies have risen against me. '" [Note 2. ]

"And they took him to the Tower of London?"

"Yes, but the Bishop of London was very angry at the violation ofsanctuary, and insisted that my fair father should be sent back. Hethreatened the King with excommunication, and of course that frightenedhim. He sent him back to the church whence he was taken, but commandedthe Sheriff of Essex to surround the church, so that he should neitherescape nor obtain food. But my fair father's true friend, my good oldLord of Dublin--(you were right, Aunt Marjory; all priests are notalike)--interposed, and begged the Lord King to do to him what he hadthought to do to my Lord and father. The Lord King then offered thechoice of three things:--my Lord and father must either abjure thekingdom for ever, or he must be perpetually imprisoned, or he mustopenly confess himself a traitor. "

"A fair choice, surely!"

"Horrid, wasn't it?"

"He chose banishment, did he not?"

"He said, if the King willed it, he was content to go out of England fora time, --not for ever: but a traitor he would never confess himself, forhe had never been one. "

"The words of a true man!" said Marjory. 

"Splendid!--and then (Eva!--is that pedlar never coming up?) the LordKing found out that my fair father had laid up treasure in the Temple, and he actually accused him of taking it fraudulently from the royaltreasury, and summoned him to resign it. My fair father replied (Ishouldn't have done!) that he and all he had were at the King'spleasure, and sent an order to the Master of the Temple accordingly. Then--O Aunt Marjory, it is too long a tale to tell!--and I want thatpedlar. But I do think it was a shame, after all that, for the LordKing to profess to compassionate my Lord and father, and to say that hehad been faithful to our Lord King John of happy memory, [Note 3] andalso to our Lord King Richard (whom God pardon!); therefore, notwithstanding the ill-usage of himself, and the harm he had done thekingdom, he would rather pardon my fair father than execute him. `For, 'he said, `I would rather be accounted a remiss king than a man ofblood. '"

"Well, that does not sound bad, Magot. "

"Oh no! Words are very nice things, Aunt Marjory. And our Lord KingHenry can string them very prettily together. I have no patience--Isay, Eva! Do go and peep into the court and see what is becoming ofthat snail of a pedlar!"

"He is in the hall, eating and drinking, Margaret. "

"Well, I am sure he has had as much as is good for him!--So then, AuntMarjory, my fair father was sent to Devizes: and many nobles becamesureties for him, --my Lord of Cornwall, the King's brother, amongothers. And while he was there, he heard of the death of his greatenemy, my Lord of Chester. Then he said, `The Lord be merciful to him:he was my man by his own doing, and yet he never did me good where hecould work me harm. ' And he set himself before the holy cross, and sangover the whole Psalter for my Lord of Chester. Well, after that, --Icannot go into all the ups and downs of the matter, --but after a while, by the help of some of the garrison, my fair father contrived to escapefrom Devizes, and joined the Prince of Wales. That was last November;and he stayed in Wales until the King's journey to Gloucester. LastMarch the Lord King came here to the Abbey, and he granted severalmanors to my fair mother: and she took the opportunity to plead for myLord and father. So when the Lord King went to Gloucester, he was metby my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, who had been to treat with the Princeof Wales, and by his advice all those who had been outlawed, and hadsought refuge in Wales, were to be pardoned and received to favour. Oneof them, of course, was my fair father. So they met the Lord King atGloucester, and he took them to his mercy. My Lord and father said theLord King looked calmly on them, and gave them the kiss of peace. Butmy fair father himself was so much struck by the manner in which ourLord had repaid him his good deeds, that, as his varlet Adam told us, heclasped his hands, and looked up to Heaven, and he said, --`O Jesus, crucified Saviour, I once when sleeping saw Thee on the cross, piercedwith bloody wounds, and on the following day, according to Thy warning, I spared Thy image and worshipped it: and now Thou hast, in Thy favour, repaid me for so doing, in a lucky moment. '"

It did not strike either Marjory or Margaret, as perhaps it may thereader, that this speech presented a very curious medley of devotion, thankfulness, barefaced idolatry, and belief in dreams and luckymoments. To their minds the mixture was perfectly natural. So much so, that Marjory's response was--

"Doubtless it was so, Magot. It is always very unlucky to neglect adream. "

At this juncture Eva de Braose presented herself. She was one of threemaidens who were alike--as was then customary--wards of the Earl, andwaiting-maids of the Countess. They were all young ladies of high birthand good fortune, orphan heirs or co-heirs, whose usual lot it was, throughout the Middle Ages, to be given in wardship to some nobleman, and educated with his daughters. Eva de Braose, Marie de Lusignan, andDoucebelle de Vaux, [Eva and Marie (but not Doucebelle) are historicalpersons, ] were therefore the social equals and constant companions ofMargaret. Eva was a rather pretty, fair-haired girl, about two yearsolder than our heroine. 

"The pedlar is coming now, Margaret. "

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried Margaret. [Note 4. ] "Is my Lady and mothercoming?"

"Yes, and both Hawise and Marie. "

Hawise de Lanvalay was the young wife of Margaret's eldest brother. Earl Hubert's family consisted, beside his daughter, of two sons of hisfirst marriage, John and Hubert, who were respectively about eighteenand fifteen years older than their sister. 

The Countess entered in a moment, bringing with her the young LadyHawise, --a quiet-looking, dark-eyed girl of some eighteen years; andMarie, the little Countess of Eu, who was only a child of eleven. Afterthem came Levina, one of the Countess's dressers, and two sturdyvarlets, carrying the pedlar's heavy pack between them. The pedlarhimself followed in the rear. He was a very respectable-looking oldman, with strongly-marked aquiline features and long white beard; and hebrought with him a lithe, olive-complexioned youth of about eighteenyears of age. 

The varlets set down the pack on the floor, and departed. The old manunstrapped it, and opening it out with the youth's help, proceeded todisplay his goods. Very rich, costly, and beautiful they were. Thefinest lawn of Cambray (whence comes "cambric"), and the purest sheetingof Rennes, formed a background on which were exhibited rich diaperedstuffs from Damascus, crape of all colours from Cyprus, golden baudekynsfrom Constantinople, fine sendal from India, with satins, velvets, silks, taffetas, linen and woollen stuffs, in bewildering profusion. Over these again were laid rich furs, --sable, ermine, miniver, blackfox, squirrel, marten, and lamb; and trimmings of gold and silver, gimpand beads, delicate embroidery, and heavy tinsel. 

"Here, Lady, is a lovely thing in changeable sendal, " said the old man, hunting for it among his silks: "it would be charming for thefair-haired damsel--(lift off that fox fur, Cress), --blue and gold. Orhere, --a striped tartaryn, which would suit the dark young lady, --orangeand green. Then--(Cress, give me the silver frieze), --this, Lady, wouldbe well for the little maid, for somewhat cooler weather. And will myLady see the Cyprus? (Hand the pink one, Cress. ) This would make upenchantingly for the damsel that was in my Lady's chamber. "

"Where is Doucebelle?" asked the Countess, looking round. "I thoughtshe had come. Marie, run and fetch her. --Hast thou any broidery-work ofthe East Country, good man?"

"One or two small things, Lady. --Cress, give me thy sister's scarves. "

The young man unfolded a woollen wrapper, and then a lawn one inside it, and handed to his father three silken scarves, of superlatively finetexture, and covered with most exquisite embroidery. Even the Countess, accustomed as her eyes were to beautiful things, was not able tosuppress an admiring ejaculation. 

"This _is_ lovely!" she said. 

"Those are samples, " remarked the pedlar, with a gleam of pleasure inhis eyes. "I have more, of various patterns, if my Lady would wish tosee them. She has only to speak her commands. "

"Yes. But--these are all imported, I suppose?"

"All imported, such as I have shown to my Lady. "

"I presume no broideress is to be found in England, who can do such workas this?" said the Countess in a regretful tone. 

"Did my Lady wish to find one?"

"I wished to have a scarf in my possession copied, with a few variationswhich I would order. But I fear it cannot be done--it would be almostnecessary that I should see the broideress myself, to avoid mistakes;and I would fain, if it were possible, have had the work done under myown eye. "

"That might be done, perhaps. It would be costly. "

"Oh, I should not care for the cost. I want the scarf for a gift; andit is nothing to me whether I pay ten silver pennies or a hundred. "

"Would my Lady suffer her servant to see the scarf she wishes to haveimitated?"

"Fetch it, Levina, " said the Countess; "thou knowest which I mean. "

Levina brought it, and the pedlar gave it very careful inspection. 

"And the alterations?" he asked. 

"I would have a row of silver harebells and green ferns, touched withgold, as an outer border, " explained the Countess: "and instead of thoseornaments in the inner part, I would have golden scrolls, worked withthe words `Dieu et mon droit' in scarlet. "

The pedlar shook his head. "The golden scrolls with the words can bedone, without difficulty. But I must in all humility represent to myLady that the flowers and leaves she desires cannot. "

"Why?" asked the Countess in a surprised tone. 

"Not in this work, " answered the pedlar. "In this style ofembroidery"--and he took another scarf from his pack--"it could bewrought: but not in the other. "

"But that is not to be compared with the other!"

"My Lady has well said, " returned the pedlar with a smile. 

"But I do not understand where the difficulty lies?" said the Countess, evidently disappointed. 

"Let my Lady pardon her servant. We have in our company--nay, there isin all England--one broideress only, who can work in this style. And Idare not make such an engagement on her behalf. "

"Still I cannot understand for what reason?"

"Lady, these flowers, leaves, heads, and such representations of createdthings, are the work of Christian hands. That broidery which my Ladydesires is not so. "

"But why cannot Christians work this broidery?"

"Ha! They do not. My Lady's servant cannot speak further. "

"Then what is she who alone can do this work? What eyes and fingers shemust have!"

"She is my daughter, " answered the pedlar, rather proudly. 

"But I am sure the woman who can broider like this, is clever enough tomake a row of harebells and ferns!"

"Clever enough, --oh yes! But--she could not do it. "

"`Clever enough, ' but `could not do it'--old man, I cannot understandthee. "

"Lady, she would account it sin to imitate created things. "

The Countess looked up with undisguised amazement. 

"Why?"

"Because the Holy One has forbidden us to make to ourselves any likenessof that which is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath. "

"But I would pay her any sum she asked. "

"If my Lady can buy Christian consciences with gold, not so a daughterof Israel. "

The old man spoke proudly now, and his head was uplifted in a verydifferent style from his previous subservient manner. His son's lip wascurled, and his black eyes were flashing fire. 

"Well! I do not understand it, " answered the Countess, looking as muchannoyed as the sweet Princess Margaret knew how to look. "I should havethought thy daughter might have put her fancies aside; for what harm canthere be in broidering flowers? However, if she will not, she will not. She must work me a border of some other pattern, for I want the scarfwider. "

"That she can do, as my Lady may command. " The old Jew was once morethe obsequious tradesman, laying himself out to please a profitablecustomer. 

"What will be the cost, if the scarf be three ells in length, and--letme see--about half an ell broad?"

"It could not be done under fifteen gold pennies, my Lady. "

"That is costly! Well, never mind. If people want to make rich gifts, they must pay for them. But could I have it by Whitsuntide?--that is, afew days earlier, so as to make the gift then. "

The pedlar reflected for a moment. 

"Let my Lady pardon her servant if he cannot give that answer at thismoment. If my daughter have no work promised, so that she can give hertime entirely to this, it can be done without fail. But it is some dayssince my Lady's servant saw her, and she may have made some engagementsince. "

"I am the better pleased thou art not too ready to promise, " said theCountess, smiling. "But what about the work being done under my eye? Iwill lodge thy daughter, and feed her, and give her a gold penny extrafor it. "

The old Jew looked very grave. 

"Let my Lady not be angered with the lowest of her servants! But--weare of another religion. "

"Art thou afraid of my converting her?" asked the Countess, in an amusedtone. 

"Under my Lady's pardon--no!" said the old man, proudly. "I can trustmy daughter. And if my noble Lady will make three promises onwhatsoever she holds most holy, the girl shall come. "

"She should be worth having, when she is so hard to get at!" respondedthe Countess, laughing, as she took from her bosom a beautiful littlesilver crucifix, suspended by a chain of the same material from herneck, "Now then, old man, what am I to swear?"

"First, that my daughter shall not be required to work in any manner onthe holy Sabbath, --namely, as my Lady will understand it, from sunset onFriday until the same hour on Saturday. "

"That I expected. I know Jews are very precise about their Sabbaths. Very well, --so that the scarf be finished by Wednesday beforeWhitsuntide, that I swear. "

"Secondly, by my Lady's leave, that she shall not be compelled to eatany thing contrary to our law. "

"I have no desire to compel her. But what will she eat? I must knowthat I can give her something. "

"Any kind of vegetables, bread, milk, and eggs. "

"Lenten fare. Very well. I swear it. "

"Lastly, that my Lady will appoint her a place in her own apartments, orin those of the damsel her daughter, and that she may never stir out ofthat tower while she remains in the Castle. "

"Poor young prisoner! Good. If thou art so anxious to consign thychild to hard durance, I will swear to keep her in it. "

"May my Lady's servant ask where she will be?"

The Countess laughed merrily. "This priceless treasure of thine! Shemight be a king's daughter. I will put her in my daughter'sante-chamber, just behind thee. "

The pedlar walked into the ante-chamber, and inspected it carefully, tothe great amusement of the ladies. 

"It is enough, " he said, returning. "Lady, my child is not a king'sdaughter, but she is the dearest treasure of her old father's heart. "

The old man had well spoken, for his words, Jew as he was--a creature, according to the views of that day, born to be despised andill-treated--went straight to the tender heart of the Princess Margaret. 

"'Tis but nature, " she said softly. "Have no fear, old man: I will takecare of thy treasure. What is her name?"

"Will my Lady suffer her grateful servant to kiss her robe? I amAbraham of Norwich, and my daughter's name is Belasez. "

Singular indeed were the Jewish names common at this time, beyond a veryfew Biblical ones, of which the chief were Abraham, Aaron, and Moses--the last usually corrupted to Moss or Mossy. They were, for men, --Delecresse ("Dieu le croisse"), Ursel, Leo, Hamon, Kokorell, Emendant, and Bonamy:--for women, --Belasez ("Belle assez"), Floria, Licorice(these three were the most frequent), Esterote, Cuntessa, Belia, Anegay, Rosia, Genta, and Pucella. They used no surnames beyond the name of thetown in which they lived. 

"And what years has she?" asked the Countess. 

"Seventeen, if it please my Lady. "

"Good. I hope she will be clever and tractable. --Now, Madge, what do_you_ want?"

The Princess Marjory wanted a silver necklace, a piece of green silk fora state robe, and some unshorn wool for an every-day dress, besidelamb's fur and buttons for trimming. Buttons were fashionable ornamentsin those days, and it was not unusual to spend six or eight dozen uponone dress. 

"Now, Magot, let me see for thee, " said her mother. "Thy two woollengowns must be shorn for winter, and thou wilt want a velvet one for galadays: but there is time for that by and bye. What thou needest now is ablue Cyprus [crape] robe for thy best summer one, two garments ofcoloured thread for common, a silk hood, one or two lawn wimples [Note5], and a pair of corsets. [Note 6. ] Thou mayest have a new armilaus[Note 7] if thou wilt. "

"And may I not have a new mantle?" was Margaret's answer, in a coaxingtone. 

"A new mantle? Thou unconscionable Magot! Somebody will be ruinedbefore thy wants are supplied. "

"And a red velvet gipciere, Lady? And I _did_ so want a veil of sendalof Inde!"

"Worse and worse! Come, old man, prithee, measure off the Cyprus, andlook out the wimples quickly, or this damsel of mine will leave me nevera farthing in my pocket. "

"And Eva wants a new gown, " suggested Margaret. 

"Oh yes!" said the Countess, laughing. "And so does Marie, and so doesDoucebelle, I suppose, --and Hawise, I have no doubt. I shall becompletely ruined among you!"

"But my Lady will give me the sendal of Inde? I will try to do withoutthe gipciere. "

A gipciere was a velvet bag dependent from the waist, which served as apurse or pocket, as occasion required. 

"Magot, hast thou no conscience? Come, then, old man, let thisunreasonable damsel see thy gipcieres. And if she must have some sendalof Inde, well, --fate is inevitable. What was the other thing, Magot? Anew mantle? Oh, shocking! I can't afford that. What is the price ofthy black cloth, old man?"

It was easy to see that Margaret would have all she chose to ask, without much pressure. Some linen dresses were also purchased for theyoung wards of the Earl, --a blue fillet for Eva, and a new barm-cloth[apron] for Marie; and the Countess having chosen some sendal and lawnfor her own use, the purchases were at last completed. 

The old Jew, helped by Delecresse, repacked his wares with such care astheir delicacy and costliness required, and the Countess desired Levinato summon the varlets to bear the heavy burden down to the gate. 

"Peace wait on my Lady!" said the pedlar, bowing low as he took leave. "If it please the Holy One, my Belasez shall be here at my Lady'scommand before a week is over. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This was the answer given to her judges, four hundred yearslater, by Leonora Galigai, when she was asked to confess what kind ofmagic she had employed to obtain the favour of Queen Maria de' Medici. 

Note 2. The Earl's quotation from Scripture was extremely free, combining Matthew eleven verse 25 with the substance, but not the exactwords, of several passages in the Psalms. Nor did Friar Matthew Parisknow much better, since he refers to it all as "that passage in theGospels. "

Note 3. King Henry was given to allusions of this class, to the reveredmemory of his excellent father. 

Note 4. "Oh, delightful!" The modern schoolboy's "How jolly" is reallya corruption of this. The companion regret was "Ha, chetife!"--("Oh, miserable!")

Note 5. The wimple covered the neck, and was worn chiefly out of doors. Ladies from a queen to a countess wore it coming over the chin; womenof less rank, beneath. 

Note 6. Tight-lacing dates from about the twelfth century. 

Note 7. A short cloak, worn by both sexes, ornamented with buttons. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

BELASEZ. 

 "And, born of Thee, she may not always take Earth's accents for the oracles of God. "

 _Felicia Hemans_. 

The last word had scarcely left the pedlar's lips, when the door of theante-chamber was flung open, and a boy of Margaret's age burst into theroom. 

He was fair-haired and bright-faced, with a slender, elegant figure, andall his motions were very agile. Beginning with--"I say, Magot!"--hestopped suddenly both tongue and feet as he caught sight of theCountess. 

"Well, Sir Richard?" suggested that lady. 

"I cry you mercy, Lady. I did not know you were here. "

"And if you had done--what then?"

"Why, then, " answered Richard, laughing but colouring, "I suppose Iought to have come in more quietly. "

"Ah! Did you ever read with Father Nicholas about an old man who saidthat the Athenians knew what was right, but the Lacedemonians did it?"

"Your pardon, Lady! I always forget what I read with Father Nicholas. "

"I should suppose so. I am afraid there is Athenian blood in yourveins, Sir Richard!"

"Lady, if it stand with your pleasure, there is none but true Christianblood in my veins!" was the proud reply. 

"_Pure foy_! If you are so proud of your blood, I fear you will disdainto do what I was about to bid you. "

"I shall never disdain to execute the commands of a fair lady. "

"My word, Sir Richard, but you are growing a courtly knight! You seethat Jew boy has left his cap behind. As there are none here butdamsels, I was thinking I would ask you to call him back to fetch it. "

"He shall have it--a Jew boy! I'll take the tongs, then!"

The next minute Delecresse, who was just turning back to fetch theforgotten cap, heard a boyish voice calling to him out of a window, andlooking up, saw his cap held out in the tongs. 

"Here, thou cur of a Jew! What dost thou mean, to leave thy heathenstuff in the chamber of a noble damsel?"

And the cap was dropped into the courtyard, with such good aim that itfirst hit Delecresse on the head, and then lodged itself in the midst ofa puddle. 

Delecresse, without uttering a word, yet flushing red even through hisdark complexion, deliberately stooped, recovered his wet cap, and placedit on his head, pressing it firmly down as if he wished to impart themoisture to his hair. Then he turned and looked fixedly at Richard, whowas watching him with an amused face. 

"That wasn't a bad shot, was it?" cried the younger lad. 

"Thank you, " was the answer of Delecresse. "I shall know you again!"

The affront was a boyish freak, perpetrated rather in thoughtlessnessthan malice: but the tone of the answer, however simple the words, manifestly breathed revenge. Richard de Clare was not an ill-naturedboy. But he had been taught from his babyhood that a Jew was the scumof the earth, and that to speak contumeliously to such was so far frombeing wrong, that it absolutely savoured of piety. _Jews_ had crucifiedChrist. To have aided one of them, or to have been over civil to him, would in a Christian have been considered as putting a slight upon hisLord. There was, therefore, some excuse for Richard, educated as he hadbeen in this belief. 

Delecresse, on the contrary, had been as carefully brought up in theopposite conviction. To him it was the Gentile who was the refuse ofhumanity, and it was a perpetual humiliation to be forced to cringe to, and wait upon, such contemptible creatures. Moreover, the day wascoming when their positions should be reversed; and who could say hownear it was at hand? Then the proud Christian noble would be the slaveof the despised Jew pedlar, and--thought Delecresse, grinding histeeth--he at least would take care that the Christian slave shouldindulge no mistakes on that point. 

To both the youths Satan was whispering, and by both he was obeyed. Andeach of them was positively convinced that he was serving God. 

The vengeful words of Delecresse made no impression whatever on theyoung Earl of Gloucester. He would have laughed with scorn at the mereidea that such an insect as that could have any power to hurt him. Hedanced back to Margaret's bower, where, in a few minutes, he, she, Marie, and Eva were engaged in a merry round game. 

Beside the three girls who were in the care of the Countess, Earl Huberthad also three boy-wards--Richard de Clare, heir of the earldom ofGloucester; Roger de Mowbray, heir of the barony of Mowbray, now aboutfifteen years old; and John de Averenches (or Avranches), the son of aknight. With these six, the Earl's two sons, his daughter, and hisdaughter-in-law, there was no lack of young people in the Castle, ofwhom Sir John de Burgh, the eldest, was only twenty-nine. 

The promise made by Abraham of Norwich was faithfully kept. A week hadnot quite elapsed when Levina announced to the Countess that the Jewpedlar and the maiden his daughter awaited her pleasure in the court. The Countess desired her to bring them up immediately to Margaret'sbower, whither she would go herself to meet them. 

Margaret and Doucebelle had just come in from a walk upon the leads--theusual way in which ladies took airings in the thirteenth century. Indeed, the leads were the only safe and proper place for a young girl'sout-door recreation. The courtyard was always filled by the householdservants and soldiers of the garrison: and the idea of taking a walkoutside the precincts of the Castle, would never have occurred toanybody, unless it were to a very ignorant child indeed. There were nosafe highroads, nor quiet lanes, in those days, where a maiden mightwander without fear of molestation. Old ballads are full of accounts ofthe perils incurred by rash and self-sufficient girls who ventured aloneout of doors in their innocent ignorance or imprudent bravado. Theroadless wastes gave harbour to abundance of fierce small animals anddeadly vipers, and to men worse than any of them. 

Old Abraham, cap in hand, bowed low before the Princess, and presented aclosely-veiled, graceful figure, as the young broideress whom he hadpromised. 

"Lay thy veil aside, my maid, " said the Countess, with most unusualkindness, considering that it was a Jewess to whom she spoke. 

The maiden obeyed, and revealed to the eyes of the Princess and herdamsels a face and figure of such extreme loveliness that she no longerwondered at the anxiety of her father to provide for her concealment. But the beauty of Belasez was of an entirely different type from that ofthe Christians around her. Her complexion was olive, her hair ravenblack, her eyes large and dark, now melting as if in liquid light, nowbrilliant and full of fire. And if Margaret looked two years beyond herreal age, Belasez looked more like seven. 

"Thou knowest wherefore thou art come hither?" asked the Countess, smiling complacently on the vision before her. 

"To broider for my Lady, " said Belasez, in a low, clear, musical voice. 

"And wilt thou obey my orders?"

"I will obey my Lady in every thing not forbidden by the holy law. "

"Well, I think we shall agree, my maid, " returned the Countess, whoseprivate views respecting religious tolerance were something quiteextraordinary for the time at which she lived. "I would not willinglycoerce any person's conscience. But as I do not know thy law, thou wilthave to tell me if I should desire thee to do some forbidden thing. "

"My Lady is very good to her handmaiden, " said Belasez. 

"Margaret, take the maid into thy wardrobe for a little while, until shehas dined; and after that I will show her what I require. She will beglad of rest after her journey. "

Margaret obeyed, and a motion of her mother's hand sent Doucebelle afterher. The daughter of the house sat down on the settle which stretchedbelow the window, and Doucebelle followed her example: but Belasezremained standing. 

"Come and sit here by me, " said Margaret to the young Jewess. "I wantto talk to thee. "

Belasez obeyed in silence. 

"Art thou very tired with thy journey?"

"Not now, damsel, I thank you. We have come but a short stage thismorning. "

"Art thou fond of broidery?"

"I love everything beautiful. "

"And nothing that is not beautiful?"

"I did not say that, damsel. " Belasez's smile showed a perfect row ofsnow-white teeth. 

"Am I fair enough to love?" asked Margaret laughingly. She had a gooddeal of her mother's easy tolerance of differences, and all her sweetaffability to those beneath her. 

"Ah, my damsel, true love regards the heart rather than the face, methinks. I cannot see into my damsel's heart in one minute, but Ishould think it was not at all difficult to love her. "

"I want every body to love me, " said Margaret. "And I love every body. "

"If my damsel would permit me to counsel her, --love every body by allmeans: but do not let her want every body to love her. "

"Why not?"

"Because I fear my damsel will meet with disappointment. "

"Oh, I hate to be disappointed. Hast thou brought thine image withthee?"

To Margaret this question sounded most natural. In the first place, shecould not conceive the idea of prayer without something visible to prayto: and in the second, she had been taught that all Jews and Saracenswere idolaters. She was surprised to see the blood rush to Belasez'sdark cheek, and the fire flash from her eyes. 

"Will my damsel allow me to ask what she means? I do not understand. "

"Wilt thou not want to say thy prayers whilst thou art here?" respondedMargaret, who was at least as much puzzled as Belasez. 

"Most certainly! but not to an image!"

"Oh, do you Jews sometimes pray without images?"

"Does my damsel take us for idolaters?"

"Yes, I was always told so, " said Margaret, looking astonished. 

The fire died out of Belasez's eyes. She saw that Margaret had simplymade an innocent mistake from sheer ignorance of the question. 

"My damsel has been misinformed. We Israelites hold all images to bewicked, and abhorrent to the holy law. "

"Then thou wilt not want to set up an idol for thyself anywhere?"

"Most assuredly not. "

"I hope I have not vexed thee, " said Margaret, ingenuously. "I did notknow. "

"My damsel did not vex me, as soon as I saw that she did not know. "

"And wouldst thou not like better to be a Christian than a Jew?"demanded Margaret, who could not imagine the possibility of any feelingon Belasez's part regarding her nationality except those of regret andhumiliation. 

But the answer, though it came in a single syllable, was unmistakable. Intense pride, passionate devotion to her own creed and people, thedeepest scorn and loathing for all others, combined to make up the toneof Belasez's "No!"

"How very odd!" exclaimed Margaret, looking at her, with an expressionof great astonishment upon her own fair, open features. 

"Is it odd to my damsel? Does she know what her question sounded like, to me?"

"Tell me. "

"`Would she not like better to be a villein scullion-maid, than to bethe daughter of my noble Lord of Kent?'"

"But Jews are not noble!" cried Margaret, gazing in bewilderment fromBelasez to Doucebelle, as if she expected one of them to help her out ofthe puzzle. 

"Not in the world's estimate, " answered Belasez. "There is One abovethe world. "

Before Margaret could reply, the deep bass "Ding-dong!" of the greatdinner-bell rang through the Castle, and Levina made her appearance atthe door. 

"My Lady has given me charge concerning thee, Belasez, " she said, rathercoldly addressing the Jewess. "Thou wilt come with me. "

With a graceful reverence to Margaret, Belasez turned, and followedLevina. 

At that date, no titles except those of nobility or office were usual inEngland. Any woman below a peer's daughter, was addressed by herChristian name or by that of her husband. That is to say, the unmarriedwoman was simply "Joan;" the married one was "John's Wife. "

Belasez was gifted by nature with a large amount of that kind ofintuition which has been defined as feeling the pressure of otherpeople's atmosphere. It may be a gift which augurs delicacy andrefinement, but it always brings discomfort to its possessor. She knewinstinctively, and in a moment, that Levina was likely to be her enemy. 

It was true. Levina was a prey to that green-eyed monster which sportsitself with the miseries of humanity. She had been the best broideressin the Castle until that day. And now she felt herself suddenlysupplanted by a young thing of barely more than half her age andexperience, who was called in, forsooth, to do something which it wasimagined that Levina could not do. What business had the Countess tosuppose there was any thing she could not do?--or, to want something outof her power to provide? Was there the slightest likelihood, thoughtLevina, flaring up, that this scrap of a creature could work better thanherself?--a mere chit of a child (Levina was past thirty), with acomplexion like the fire-bricks (Levina's resembled putty), and hair thecolour of nasty sloes (Levina's was nearer that of a tiger-lily), andgreat staring eyes like horn lanterns! The Countess was the mostunreasonable, and Levina the most cruelly-outraged, of all the womenthat had ever held a needle since those useful instruments wereoriginally invented. 

Levina did not put her unparalleled wrongs into words. It would havebeen easier for Belasez to get on with her if she had done so. She heldher head up, and snorted like an impatient horse, as she stalked throughthe door into the ante-chamber. 

"This is where thou art to be, " she snapped in a staccato tone. 

Any amount of personal slight and scorn was merely what Belasez had beenaccustomed to receive from Christians ever since she had left hercradle. The disdain of Levina, therefore, though she could hardly enjoyit, made far less impression on her than the unaccountable kindliness ofthe royal ladies. 

"The Lady bade me ask what thou wouldst eat?" demanded Levina in thesame tone as before. 

"I thank thee. Any thing that has not had life. "

"What's that for?" came in shorter snaps than ever. 

"It would not be _kosher_. "

"Speak sense! What does the vermin mean?"

"I mean, it would not be killed according to our law. "

"Suppose it wasn't I--what then?"

"Then I must not eat it. "

"Stupid, silly, ridiculous stuff! May I be put in a pie, if I know whatthe Lady was thinking about, when she brought in such road-dirt as this!And my damsel sets herself above us all, forsooth! She must have hermeat served according to some law that nobody ever heard of, least ofall the Lord King's noble Council: and she must have a table set for herall by herself, as though she were a sick queen. Pray you, my nobleCountess, would you eat in gold or silver?--and how many varlets shallserve to carry your dainty meat?--and is your sweet Grace served uponthe knee, or no? I would fain have things done as may pleasure my rightnoble Lady. "

Belasez answered as she usually disposed of similar affronts, --bytreating them as if they were offered in genuine courtesy, but with afaint ring of satire beneath her tone. 

"I thank you. I should prefer wood, or pewter if it please you: and Ishould think one varlet might answer. I was never served upon the kneeyet, and it will scarcely be necessary now. "

Levina gave a second and stronger snort, and disappeared down thestairs. In a few minutes she made her reappearance, carrying in onehand a plate of broiled ham, and in the other a piece of extremely dryand rather mouldy bread. 

"Here is my gracious damsel's first course! Fulk le Especer was so goodas to tell me that folks of her sort are mighty fond of ham; so I tookgreat care to bring her some. There'll be sauce with the next. "

That there would be sauce--of one species--with every course served toher in that house, Belasez was beginning to feel no doubt. Yet howeverLevina chose to behave to her, the young Jewess maintained her owndignity. She quietly put aside the plate of ham, and, cutting off themouldy pieces, ate the dry bread without complaint Belasez's kindly andgenerous nature was determined that the Countess, who had been so muchkinder to her than at that time Christians usually were to Jews, shouldhear no murmuring word from her unless it came to actual starvation. 

Levina's sauce presented itself unmistakably with the second course, which proved to be a piece of apple-pie, swimming in the strongestvinegar. Though it must have set her teeth on edge, Belasez consumedthe pie in silence, avoiding the vinegar so far as she could, andentertained while she did so by Levina's assurances that it delightedher to see how completely Belasez enjoyed it. 

The third article, according to Levina, was cheese: but the firstmouthful was enough to convince the persecuted Jewess that soft soapwould have been a more correct epithet. She quietly let it alone. 

"_Ha, chetife_! I am sadly in fear that my sweetest damsel does notlike our Suffolk cheese?" said Levina in a most doleful tone. 

"Is it manufactured in this county?" asked Belasez very coolly; for, in1234, all soaps were of foreign importation. "I thought it tasted morelike the French make. "

Levina vanished down the stairs, but her suppressed laughter was quiteaudible. She came up again with two more plates, and informed Belasezthat they constituted the last course. One of them was filled withchicken-bones, picked exceedingly clean: the other with a piece of sweetcake, over which had been poured some very hot saline compound which byno means harmonised with the cake, but set Belasez's throat on fire. She managed, however, to eat it, thinking that she would get little foodof any kind if she did not: and Levina departed with the plates, remarking that it had done her good to see the excellent meal whichBelasez had made. It was a relief to the girl to be left alone: forsolitude had no terrors for her, and Levina was certainly not anenjoyable companion. After half-an-hour's quiet, Margaret and Evaentered the ante-chamber. 

"Hast thou dined, Belasez?" asked Margaret, kindly. 

"I thank my damsel, yes. "

"Did Levina bring thee such dishes as thou mightest eat?"

"According to our law? Oh yes. "

It was rather a relief to Belasez that the question took that form. 

"Then that is all right, " said Margaret, innocently, and passed on intoher own room. 

The Countess's step was heard approaching, but just before entering shestopped at the head of the stairs. 

"Thou hast given the girl her dinner, Levina?"

"Oh yes, my Lady!"

"What had she?"

"I brought her apple-pie, if it please my Lady, and cheese, and gateaude Dijon, and ham, and--a few other little things: but she would nottouch the ham, and scarcely the cheese. "

"Thou hast forgotten, Levina: I told thee no meat of any kind, nor fish;and I believe no Jew will touch ham. I did not know they objected tocheese. But had she enough? Apple-pie and gateau de Dijon make but apoor dinner. "

And without questioning Levina further, the Countess went on andaddressed Belasez direct. 

"My maid, hast thou fared well? I fear Levina did not bring thee properthings. "

Belasez hesitated. She was very unwilling to say no: and how could shein conscience say yes?

"They were according to our law, I thank my Lady, --all but the ham. That, under her gracious leave, I must decline. "

"But thou didst not take the cheese?"

"No, --with my Lady's leave. "

"Was it not in accordance with thy law, or didst thou not like it?"

"If my Lady will pardon me, " said poor Belasez, driven into a corner, "Idid not like it. "

"What kind was it?"

"Levina said it was Suffolk cheese. " Belasez's conscience rather smoteher in giving this answer. 

"Ah!" responded the unconscious Countess, "it is often hard, andeverybody does not like it, I know. "

Belasez was silent beyond a slight reverence to show that she heard theobservation. 

"But hast thou had enough?" pursued the Countess, still unsatisfied. 

"I am greatly obliged to my Lady, and quite ready to serve her, " was theevasive reply. 

The Countess looked hard at Belasez, but she said no more. Shedespatched Levina for the scarf which was to be copied, and gave theyoung Jewess her instructions. The exquisite work which grew inBelasez's skilful hands evidently delighted the Countess. She wasextremely kind, and the reserved but sensitive nature of Belasez wentout towards her in fervent love. 

To Margaret, the Jewish broideress was an object of equal mystery andinterest. She would sit watching her work for long periods. Shenoticed that Belasez ignored the existence of her private oratory, madeno reverence to the gilded Virgin which stood on a bracket in herwardrobe, and passed the _benitier_ without vouchsafing the leastattention to the holy water. Manifestly, Jews did not believe in gildedimages and holy water. But then, in what did they believe? Had theyany faith in any thing? Belasez had owned to saying her prayers, andshe acknowledged the existence of some law which she felt herself boundto obey. But whose law was it?--and to whom did she pray? Thesethoughts seethed in Margaret's brain till at last, one afternoon whenshe sat watching the embroidery, they burst forth into speech, "Belasez!"

"What would my damsel?"

"Belasez, what dost thou believe?"

The Jewess looked up in surprise. 

"I am not sure that I understand my damsel's question. Will shecondescend to explain?"

"I mean, what god dost thou worship?"

"There is but one God, " answered Belasez, solemnly. 

"That I believe, too: but we do not worship the same God, do we?"

"I think we do--to a certain extent. "

"But there is a difference between us. What is the difference?"

Belasez seemed to hesitate. 

"Don't be afraid, but speak out!" said Margaret, eagerly. 

"If I say what my Lady would not approve, would it be right in me?"

"My Lady and mother will not mind. Go on!"

"Damsel, I think the difference touches Him who is the Sent of God, andthe Son of the Blessed. We believe in Him, as well as you. But webelieve that He is yet to come, and is to be the salvation of Israel. You believe, "--Belasez's words came slowly, as if dragged fromher--"that He is come, long ago; and you think He will save all men. "

"But that is our Lord Christ, surely?" said Margaret. 

"You call Him so, " was Belasez's reply. "But He did come!" saidMargaret, in a puzzled tone. 

"A man came, undoubtedly, who claimed to be the Man who was to come. But was the claim a true one?"

"I have always been told that it was!"

"And I have always been told that it was not. "

"Then how are we to find out which is true?" Belasez spread her handsout with a semi-Eastern gesture, which indicated hopeless incapacity, ofsome sort. 

"Damsel, do not ask me. The holy prophets told our fathers of old timethat so long as Israel walked contrary to the Holy One, so long shouldthey wander over the earth, forsaken exiles, and be punished seven timesfor their sins. Are we not exiles? Is He not punishing us? Our holyand beautiful house is a desolation; our land is overthrown bystrangers. Yet we are no idolaters; we are no Sabbath-breakers; we donot profane the name of the Blessed. Do you think I never ask myselffor what sin it is that we are thus cast away from the presence of ourKing? In old days it was always for such sins as I have named: itcannot be that now. Is it--O Abraham our father! can it be?--that Hehas come, the King of Israel, and we have not known Him? Damsel, thereare thousands of the sons of Israel that have asked that question! Andthen--"

Belasez stopped suddenly. 

"Go on!" urged Margaret. "What then?"

"I shall say what my damsel will not wish to hear, if I do go on. "

"But I wish very much to hear it. "

"And then we look around on you, who call yourselves servants of Himwhom ye say is come. We ask you to tell us what you have learned ofHim. And ye answer us with the very things which the King of Israelsolemnly forbade. Ye point us to images of dead men, and ye hold upbefore us a goddess, a fair dead woman, and ye say, These are they whomye shall serve! And we answer, If these things be what ye have learnedfrom him that is come, then he never can be the Sent of God. Godforbade all idolatry, and all image-making: if he taught it, can he beMessiah? This is why in all the ages we have stood aloof. We mighthave received him, we might have believed him, --but for this. "

"But I do not know, " said Margaret, thoughtfully, "that holy Church laysmuch stress on images. I should think, if ye prefer to pray withoutthem, she would allow you to do so. I cannot understand how ye can praywithout them; for what is there to pray to? It is your infirmity, Isuppose. "

"Ah, Damsel, " said Belasez with a sad smile, "this seems to you a very, very little matter! How shall a Jew and a Christian ever understandeach other? For it is life or death to us. It is a question ofobeying, or of disobeying--not of doing something we fancy, or do notfancy. "

"Yes, but holy Church would decide it for you, " urged Margaret, earnestly. 

"Damsel, your words are strange to my ears. The Holy One (to whom bepraise!) has decided it long ago. `Ye shall _not_ make unto you anygraven image: ye shall _not_ bow down to them, nor worship them. ' Thecommand is given. What difference can it make to us, that the thing youcall the Church dares to disregard it? I scarcely understand what `theChurch' is. If I rightly know what my damsel means, it signifies allthe Christians. And Christians are Gentiles. How can the sons ofIsrael take laws from them? And to speak as if they could abrogate thelaw of Him that sitteth in the heavens, before whom they are all lessthan nothing and vanity! It is a strange tongue in which my damselspeaks. I do not understand it. "

Neither did Margaret understand Belasez. She sat and looked at her, with her mind in bewildered confusion. To her, the authority of theChurch was paramount, --was the only irrefragable thing. And here wassomething which looked like another Church, setting itself up with someunaccountable and unheard-of claim to be older, truer, better!--something which denied that the Church--with horror be it whispered!--had any right to make laws!--which referred to a law, and a Legislator, so high above the Church that it scarcely regarded the Church as worthmention in the matter at all! Margaret felt stunned. 

"But God speaks through the Church!" she gasped. 

"If that were so, they would speak the same thing, " was Belasez'sunanswerable response. 

Margaret felt pushed into a corner, and did not know what to say next. The difference between her point of view and that of Belasez was sovast, that considerations which would have silenced any one else at oncepassed as the idle wind by her. And Margaret could not see how to alterit. 

"I must ask Father Nicholas to show thee how it is, " she said at last ina kindly manner. "I am only an ignorant girl. But he can explain tothee. "

"Can he?" said Belasez. "What explanations of his, or any one's, canprove that man may please himself about obeying his Maker? He will tellme--does my damsel think I have never listened to a Christian priest?--he will tell me to offer incense to yonder gilded image. Had I notbetter offer it to myself? I am a living daughter of Israel: is thatnot better than the stone image of a dead one?"

"Better than our blessed Lady!" cried the horrified Margaret. 

"Perhaps, if she were here, a living woman, she might be the betterwoman of the two, " said Belasez, coolly. "But a living woman, I amsure, is better than a stone image, which can neither see, nor hear, norfeel. "

"Oh, but don't you know, " said Margaret eagerly, as a bright ideaoccurred to her, "that we have the holy Father, --the Pope? He keeps theChurch right; and our Lord commissioned Saint Peter, who was the firstPope, to teach every body and promised to guard him from all error. "

Margaret was mentally congratulating herself on this brilliant solutionof all difficulties. Belasez looked up thoughtfully. "But did Hepromise to guard all the successors?"

"Oh, of course!"

"I wonder--supposing He were the Messiah--if He did, " said Belasez. "Because I have sometimes thought that might explain it. "

"What might explain it?"

"My damsel knows that the disciples of great teachers often corrupttheir master's teaching, and in course of time they may come to teachdoctrines quite different from his. It has struck me sometimes whetherit might be so with you: that your Master was truly the Sent of God, andthat you have so corrupted His doctrines that there is very littlelikeness left now. There must be very little, if He spoke according tothe will of the Holy One. "

"But the Church never changes, " said Margaret. "Then He could not betrue, " said Belasez. "Oh, but Father Nicholas says the Church develops!She always teaches the truth, but she unfolds it more and more as timegoes on. "

"The truth is one, my damsel. It maybe more. But it can never bedifferent and contrary. "

"But we change, " urged Margaret, taking the last weapon out of herquiver. "We may need one thing to-day, and another to-morrow. "

"We may. And if the original command had been even, `Ye shall make noimage _but one_, ' I should think it might then, as need were, have beenaltered to, `Ye may now make a thousand images. ' But being, `Ye shallmake _none_' it cannot be altered. That would be to alter His characterwho is in all His universe the only unchangeable One. "

Margaret sat and watched the progress of the embroidery, but she said nomore. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THE TIME OF JACOB'S TROUBLE. 

 "I know that the thorny path I tread Is ruled with a golden line; And I know that the darker life's tangled thread, The brighter the rich design. 

 "For I see, though veiled from my mortal sight, God's plan is all complete; Though the darkness at present be not light, And the bitter be not sweet. "

The course of public events at that time was of decidedly a stirringcharacter. The public considered that four mock suns which had beenseen during the previous winter, two snakes fighting in the sea off thesouth coast, and fifteen days' continuous thunder in the followingMarch, were portents sufficiently formidable to account for anysucceeding political events whatever. The Church was busy introducingthe Order of Saint Francis into England. The populace were discoveringhow to manufacture cider, hitherto imported: and were, quite unknown tothemselves, laying the foundation of their country's commercialgreatness by breaking into the first vein of coal at Newcastle. Infact, the importance of this last discovery was so little perceived, that a hundred and fifty years were suffered to elapse before anyadvantage was taken of it. 

Belasez's work was done, and entirely to the satisfaction of theCountess. So much, also, did the Princess Marjory admire it, that sherequested another scarf might be worked for her, to be finished in timefor her approaching marriage. She was now affianced to Gilbert deClare, the new Earl of Pembroke. It was not without a bitter pang thatMarjory had resigned her proud hope of wearing the crown of England, andhad consented to become merely the wife of an English noble. But thecrown was gone from her beyond recall. The fickle-hearted King, who hadbeen merely attracted for a season by her great beauty, was now aseagerly pursuing a foreign Countess, Jeanne of Ponthieu, whom reportaffirmed to be equally beautiful: and perhaps Marjory was a littleconsoled, though she might not even admit it to herself, by the factthat Earl Gilbert was at once a much richer man than the King, and verymuch better-looking. She made him a good wife when the time came, andshe grieved bitterly over his loss, when six years afterwards he waskilled in a tournament at Hereford. 

Marjory was not so particular as her sister about the work being doneunder her own eyes. She left pattern and colours to Belasez's taste, only expressing her wish that red and gold should predominate, as theywere the tints alike of the arms of Scotland and of Clare. The Princesswas to be married on the first of August, and Belasez promised that herfather should deliver the scarf during his customary hawker's round inJuly. 

The young Jewess had suffered less than might have been supposed fromLevina. The Countess, without condescending to assign any reason, hadquietly issued orders that Belasez's meals should be served in theante-chamber, half an hour before the general repast was ready in thehall. In the presence of the young ladies, and not unfrequently of theCountess herself, Levina deemed it prudent to bring up apple-pie withoutsauce piquante, and to serve gateaux unmixed with pepper or anchovies. 

Abraham became eloquent in his thanks for the kindness shown to hisdaughter, and the tears were in Belasez's eyes when she took leave. 

"Farewell, my maid, " said the Countess, addressing the latter. "Thouart a fair girl, and thou hast been a good girl. I shall miss thypretty face in Magot's ante-chamber. We shall meet again, I doubt not. Such work as thine is not to be lightly esteemed. --Wilt thou grudge thytreasure to me, if I ask for her again?" she added, turning to Abrahamwith a smile. 

"Surely not, my Lady! My Lady has been as an angel of God to mydarling. "

"And remember, both of you, that if ye come into any trouble--as maybe--and thou seekest safe shelter for thy bird, I will give it her atany time, in return for her lovely work. "

This was a greater boon than it may appear. Troubles were only toolikely to assail a Jewish household, and to know a place where Belasezcould seek shelter and be certain of finding it, was a comfort indeed, and might at any hour be a most terrible necessity. 

Abraham kissed the robe of the Countess, and poured out eloquentblessings on her. Belasez kissed her hand and that of Margaret: but thetears choked the girl's voice as she turned to follow her father. 

The arguments against idolatry which Margaret had heard from Belasezwere ghosts easily laid by Father Nicholas. A few vague platitudesconcerning the supreme authority committed to the Apostle Peter, andthrough him to the Papacy (Father Nicholas discreetly left both pointsunencumbered by evidence), --the wickedness of listening to scepticalreasonings, and the happiness of implicit obedience to holy Church, --were quite enough to reduce Belasez's arguments, as they remained inMargaret's mind, to the condition of uncomfortable reminiscences, which, being also wicked, it was best to forget as soon as possible. 

But there had been one listener to that conversation, of whom neitherparty took account, and who could not forget it. This was Doucebelle deVaux. In her brain the words of the young Jewess took root andgerminated, but so silently, that no one suspected it but herself. Father Nicholas had not the faintest idea of the importance of thequestion, when one morning, during the Latin lesson which headministered twice a week to the young ladies of the Castle, Doucebelleasked him the precise meaning of _adoro_. 

"It means, in its original, to speak to or accost any one, " said thepriest; "but being now taken into the holy service of religion, itsignifies to pray, to supplicate; and, thence derived--to worship, tobow one's self down. "

"And, --if I do not trouble you too much, Father, --would you please totell me the difference between _adoro_ and _colo_?"

Father Nicholas was a born philologist, though in his day there was noappellation for the science. To be asked any question involving aderivation or comparison of words, was to him as a trumpet to awar-horse. 

"My daughter, it is pleasure, not trouble, to me, to answer suchquestions as these. _Colo_ is a word which comes from the Greek, but isnow obsolete in that tongue, wherein it seems to have had the meaning offeed or tend. Transferred to the Latin, it signifies to cultivate, exercise, practise, or cherish, --say rather, in any sense, to take painsabout a thing: hence, used in the blessed service of religion, it is toregard, venerate, respect, or worship. Therefore _cultus_, which is thenoun of this verb, signifies, when referred to things inanimate, tendingor cultivation to things animate, education, culture; to God and theholy saints, reverence and worship. Dost thou now understand, mydaughter?"

"I thank you very much, Father, " said Doucebelle, quietly; "I understandnow. "

When she was alone, she put her information together, and thought itcarefully over. 

"_Non adorabis ea, neque coles_. "

Images, then, were not to be reverenced, either in heart or by bodilygesture. So said the version of Scripture made by Saint Jerome, andused and authorised by the Church. But how was it that the Churchallowed these things to be done? Did she not know that Scriptureforbade them? Or was she above all Scripture? Practically, it lookedlike it. 

Yet how was it, if the Church were the mouthpiece of God, that thecommands issued by the One were diametrically at variance with therecommendations given by the other? If God did not change, --if theChurch did not change, --when had they been in accord, and how came theyto differ?

Doucebelle had now reached a point where she could neither turn roundnor go further. The more she cogitated on her problem, the moreinsoluble it appeared to her. Yet her instinctive feeling told her thatto refer it to Father Nicholas would be of no service. He was one ofthe better class of priests, --a man of respectable character, withliterary proclivities, which had in his case the effect of keeping himfrom vice on the one hand, and of deadening his spiritual sensibilitieson the other. To him, the religion he taught, and had himself beentaught, was sufficient for all necessities, and he could not understandany one wanting more. When a man's mind has never been disturbed by thequestion, it is no cause for wonder that he has never sought for theanswer. 

That Father Nicholas would have listened to her, Doucebelle knew; for hewas by no means an unkind or disobliging man. But she had sense toperceive that he was incapable of understanding her, and that his onlyidea of dealing with such queries would be not to solve, but to suppressthem. 

Doucebelle passed in mental review every person in the Castle: and everyone, in turn, she dismissed as unsuitable for her purpose. The otherchaplain of the Earl, Father Warner, was a stern, harsh man, of whomshe, in common with all the young people, was very much afraid; shecould not think of putting such queries to him. The chaplain of theCountess, Father Elias, had just resigned his post, and his successorhad not yet been appointed. Master Aristoteles, the householdphysician, was an excellent authority on the virtues of comfrey orfrogs' brains, but a very poor resource on a theological question. TheEarl was not at home. The Countess would be likely to enter intoDoucebelle's perplexities little better than Father Nicholas, and wouldplayfully chide her for entertaining them. All the young people weretoo young except Sir John de Burgh and Hawise. Sir John had not an ideabeyond war, politics, and falconry; and Hawise was accustomed to declinemental investigations altogether. So Doucebelle was shut up to herthoughts and her Psalter. Perhaps she might have been worse situated. 

On the 7th of February 1235, died Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, "the enemy ofall monks. " He had not, however, by any means been the enemy of allsuperstition. He was remarkably easy to take in by young women who hadsustained personal encounters with Satan, nuns who had been favouredwith apparitions of the Virgin, and monks to whom Saint Peter or SaintLawrence had made revelations. It is little wonder that he wascanonised, and perhaps not much that a touch of his bones, or a shred ofhis chasuble, were asserted to be possessed of miraculous power. A verydifferent man filled the see of Lincoln in his stead. On the 3rd ofJune following, Robert Grosteste was appointed to the vacant episcopalthrone. 

Grosteste was a man who had learned his life-lessons, not from priest ormonk, from Fathers or Decretals, but direct from God. I do not presumeto say that he held no false doctrine, or that he made no mistakes: butconsidering the time at which he lived, and the corruption all aroundhim, his teaching was singularly free from "wood, hay, stubble"--singularly clear, evangelical, and true to the one Foundation. Especially he set himself in opposition to the most popular doctrine ofthe day--that which was termed grace of congruity. And for a man insuch a position to set himself in entire and active opposition topopular taste and belief, and to persevere in it, requires supplieseither of vast pride from Satan, or of great grace from God. Grace ofcongruity is simply a variety of the old heresy of human merit. It cladits proud self in the silver robe of humility, by professing to possessonly an _imperfect_ degree of qualification for the reception of God'sgrace. Grace of condignity, on the other hand, put itself on anequality with the Divine gift, by its pretension to possess thatqualification to the uttermost. 

The summer was chiefly occupied by pageants and feasts, for there weretwo royal marriages, that of the Princess Marjory of Scotland withGilbert de Clare, and that of the Princess Isabel of England with theEmperor Frederic the Second of Germany. The latter ceremony did nottake place in England, but the gorgeous preparations did: for Henry theThird, who delighted in spending money even more than in acquiring it, provided his sister with the most splendid trousseau ever known even fora royal bride. Her very cooking-vessels were all of silver, and herreins and bridles were worked in gold. She was married at Worms, inJune: the wedding of the Princess Marjory took place on the first ofAugust. Abraham and Belasez were faithful to their promises, and thebeautiful scarf, wrought in scarlet and gold, was delivered intoMarjory's hands in time to be worn at the wedding. The young people ofthe Castle were naturally interested in the stereotyped rough and sillygambols which were then the invariable concomitants of a marriage: andthe stocking, skilfully flung by Marie, hit Margaret on the head, to theintense delight of the merry group around her. The equally amusing workof cutting up the bride-cake revealed Richard de Clare in possession ofthe ring, supposed to indicate approaching matrimony, Marie of thesilver penny which denoted riches, and Doucebelle of the thimble whichdoomed her to celibacy. 

"There, now! 'Tis as plain to be seen as the church spire!" said Eva, clapping her hands. "Margaret is destined by fate to wed with my cousinSir Richard. "

"Well, if `fate' mean my wish and intention, so she is, " whispered theCountess to her sister the bride. 

"Doth thy Lord so purpose it?" asked Marjory. 

"Oh, hush!" responded the Countess, laughing. "He knows nothing aboutit, and I don't intend that he shall, just yet. Trust me to bringthings about. "

"But suppose he should be angry?"

"_Pure foy_! He is never angry with me. Oh, thou dost not understand, my dear Madge, --at present. Men always want managing. When thou hastbeen wed a year, thou wilt know more about it. "

"But can all women manage men?" asked Marjory in an amused tone. 

"_Ha, chetife_! No, indeed. And there are some men who can't bemanaged, --worse luck! But my Lord is not one of the latter, the holysaints be thanked. "

"And thou art one of the women who can manage men, " answered Marjory, laughing. "I wonder at thee, Magot, and have done so many times, --thouhast such a strange power of winning folks to thy will. "

"Well, that some have, and some have not. I have it, I know, " said theCountess, complacently. "But I will give thee a bit of counsel, Madge, which thou mayest find useful. First, have a will: let it be clear anddistinct in thine own mind, what thou wouldst have done. And, secondly, let people see that thou takest quietly for granted that of course theywill do it. There is a great deal in that, with some people. A weakwill always bends to a strong. "

"But when two strong ones come in collision, how then?"

"Why, like wild animals, --fight it out, and discover which is thestronger. "

"A tournament of wills!" said Marjory. "I should hardly care to enterthose lists, I think. "

The Countess laughed, and shook her head. She knew that among thestrong-willed women Marjory was not to be reckoned. 

A tournament of that class was being held all that summer between theregular priests and the newly-instituted Predicant Friars. The priestscomplained that the friars presumed to hear confessions in the churches, which it was the prerogative of the regularly appointed priests to do:and wrathfully alleged that the public were more ready to confess tothese travelling mendicants than to the proper authorities. It ispossible that the cause may be traced to that human proclivity whichinclines a man to confide rather in a stranger whom he may never meetagain, than in one who can remind him of uncomfortable facts atinconvenient times: but also it is possible that the people recognisedin the teaching of the Minorite Friars, largely recruited as they werefrom the ranks of the Waldenses, somewhat more of that good news whichChrist came to bring to men, than of the endless, unmeaning ceremonieswhich encumbered the doctrine of the regular priests. 

The summer had given place to autumn. The courtyard of Bury Castle wasstrewn with golden and russet leaves; the Countess was preparing a newdress for the feast of Saint Luke. A foggy day had ended in a darknight, and Eva threw down her work and rethreaded her needle with along-drawn sigh. "Tired of sewing, Eva?"

"Very tired, Lady. I almost wish buttons grew on robes, and required nosewing. "

"Lazy maiden!" said the Countess playfully. "Then I am lazy too, "interposed Margaret; "for I do hate sewing. "

"If it please the Lady, " said Levina's voice at the door, "an old manand woman entreat the honour of laying a petition before her. "

"An old man and woman?--such a night as this! Do they come from thetown?"

"If it please the Lady, I do not know. "

"Very well. If the warder thinks them not suspicious persons, they cancome into the hall. I shall be down shortly. "

When the Countess descended, followed by Margaret and Doucebelle, shefound her petitioners awaiting her. Most unsuspicious, harmless, feeblecreatures they looked. The old man had tottered in as if barely able tostand; the old woman walked with a stout oaken staff, and was bentnearly double. 

"Well, good people!--what would ye have?" asked the Countess. 

In answer, the old man lifted his head, pulled away a mass of false greyhair and a wax mask from, his face, and the old Jew pedlar, Abraham ofNorwich, stood before the astonished ladies. 

"I am come, " he said in a voice broken by emotion, "to claim my Lady'spromise. "

"What promise, old man?"

"My Lady was pleased to say, that if the robbers broke into the nest, orthe hawk hovered over it, the young bird should be safe in her care. "

"Thy daughter? I remember, I did say so. Where is she?"

At a signal from Abraham, the aged woman at his side suddenlystraightened herself, and the removal of another wax mask and some falsewhite hair revealed the beautiful face of Belasez. 

"Welcome, my maiden, " said the Countess kindly. "And what troubles haveassailed thee, old Abraham, which made this disguise and flightnecessary?"

"My Lady is good to her poor servants, --may the Blessed One bind her inthe bundle of life! But not all Christians are like her. Lady, thereis this day sore trouble, and great rebuke and blasphemy, against thesons of Israel that dwell in Norwich. They accuse us of havingkidnapped and crucified a Christian child. They lay too much to us, Lady, --too much! We have never done such a thing, nor thought of it. But the house of my Lady's servant is despoiled, and his sonill-treated, and his brother in the gaol at Norwich for this cause: andto save his beautiful Belasez he has brought her to his gracious Lady. Will she give his bird shelter in her nest, according to her word?"

"Indeed I will, " answered the Countess. "Margaret, take the maid up tothine ante-chamber, and bid Levina bring her food. She must stay here awhile. And thou, sit thou down, old Abraham, and rest and refreshthee. "

"Truly, my Lady is as one of the angels of the Holy One to her triedservants!" said Abraham thankfully. 

Belasez kissed the hand of the Countess, and then turned and followedMargaret to the ante-chamber. 

"Art thou very tired, Belasez?"

"Very, very weary, my Damsel. We have come fourteen miles on foot sinceyesterday. "

Very weary Belasez looked. Now that the momentary excitement of herarrival and reception was over, the light had died out of the languideyes, and her head drooped as if she could scarcely hold it up. 

"Go to bed, " said Margaret; "that is the best place for over-tiredpeople. --Levina! My Lady and mother wills thee to bring the maid somefood. "

Levina appeared at the door, with an expression of undisguisedannoyance. 

"_Ha, chetife_!--if here is not my Lady Countess Jew come again! Whatwould it please her sweetest Grace to take?"

But Levina had forgotten, as older people sometimes do, that Margaretwas no longer a child to be kept in silent subjection. Girls offifteen--and she was nearly that now--were virtually women in thethirteenth century. Margaret turned to the scoffing Levina, with an airof dignified displeasure which rather startled the latter. 

"Levina! thou hast forgotten thyself. Do as thou art bid. "

And Levina disappeared without venturing a reply. 

"What have they done to thy brother, Belasez?" asked Margaret. 

"They beat him sorely. Damsel, and turned him forth into the street. "

"Where did he go?"

"That is known to the Blessed One. Out in the fields somewhere. It isnot the first time that a Jew hath lain hidden for a night or more, until the fury of the Christians should pass away. "

Doucebelle de Vaux was a grave and thoughtful girl, beyond her years. She sat silent now, trying to recall, from the stores of a memory nottoo well furnished, whether Christ, whom these Christians professed tofollow, had ever treated people in such a manner as this. At length sheremembered that she had seen a picture at Thetford of His driving sundrypeople out of the Temple with a scourge. But was that because they wereJews? Doucebelle thought not. She was too ignorant to be sure, but shefancied they had been doing something wrong. 

"I should think, " said Margaret warmly, "that you Jews must hate usChristians. "

"Christians are not all alike, " said Belasez with a faint smile. 

"But do you not hate us?" persisted Margaret. 

"Delecresse does, I am afraid, " replied Belasez, colouring. 

"But thyself?"

"No. O my Damsel, no!" She warmed into vivid life for an instant, tomake this reply; then she sank back against the wall, apparentlyoverpowered by utter weariness. 

"I am glad of that, " said Margaret, with her usual outspokenearnestness. --"What can Levina be doing? Doucebelle, do go and see. --And hast thou been hard at work at Norwich all the summer, Belasez?"

"No, if it please my Damsel. I have dwelt all this summer at Lincoln, with my mother's father. "

"`The Devil overlooks Lincoln, ' they say, " remarked Margaret, laughingly. "I hope he did thee no mischief, Belasez. But, perhapsJews do not believe in the Devil?"

"Ah! We have good cause to believe in the Devil, " answered Belasezgravely. "Nay, Damsel, he did me no mischief. Yet--what know I? TheHoly One knoweth all things. "

Belasez's tone struck Margaret as hinting at some one thing inparticular. But she did not explain further. Perhaps she was tootired. 

Doucebelle returned at this point, followed by Levina, who carried aplate of manchet-bread and a bowl of milk. And though Belasez did notknow it, she owed thanks to Doucebelle that it was not skim milk. Theyoung Jewess ate as if she were very faint as well as weary. 

"Then hast thou come here all the way from Lincoln?" inquired Margaretwhen the bowl was emptied. 

"If it please my Damsel, no. I had returned home only two days beforethe riot. "

"Is thy mother living?" asked Margaret abruptly. 

"Yes. She abode at Lincoln with my grandfather. He is very old, andwill not in likelihood live long. When he dies, my mother will comeback to us. "

"Do go to bed, Belasez. Thou canst scarcely hold thine head up, northine eyes open, " said Margaret compassionately: and Belasez acceptedthe invitation with thanks. Doucebelle went with her, and silentlynoticed two facts: that Belasez stood for a few minutes in silentprayer, with her face turned to the wall, before she offered to undress;and that she was fast asleep almost as soon as her head had touched thepillow. 

Doucebelle stood still and looked at the sleeping girl. Why was it sowicked to be a Jew? Had Belasez been a Christian of noble birth, oreven of mean extraction, she would have been regarded as an ornament ofany Court in Christendom. Some nobleman or knight would very soon havefound that lovely face, and her refined and dignified manners were fitfor any lady in the land. Why must she be regarded as despicable, andtreated with abuse and loathing, merely because she had been born aJewess? Of course Doucebelle knew the traditionary reason--because theJews had crucified Christ. But Belasez had not been one of them. Whymust she bear the shame of others' sins? Did none of my ancestors, thought Doucebelle, ever do some wicked deed? Yet people do not despiseme on that account. Why do they scorn her?

Belasez stirred in her sleep, and one or two broken words dropped fromher unconscious lips. Greatly interested, and a little startled, Doucebelle bent over her. But she could make out nothing connected fromthe indistinct utterances. It sounded as if Belasez were dreaming aboutsomebody whose face she could not see. "Hid faces, " Doucebelle heardher murmur. It was probably, she thought, some reminiscence connectedwith the tumults which had brought her to seek shelter at the Castle. Doucebelle drew the coverlet higher over the weary sleeper, and went toseek rest in her own bed. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

NOT WISELY. 

 "I love but one, and only one, -- O Damon, thou art he; Love thou but one, and only one, And let that one be me. "

 [Note 1. ]

The pedlar, Abraham, declined to remain at the Castle. There wereplenty of places, he said, where an old man could be safe: it was quiteanother thing for a young girl. If his gracious Lady would of herbounty give his bird shelter until the riot and its consequences wereover, and every thing peaceable again, Abraham would come and fetch heras soon as he deemed it thoroughly prudent. Meanwhile, Belasez couldwork for the Lady. The Countess was only too pleased to procure suchincomparable embroidery on such easy terms. She set Belasez to work onthe border of an armilaus, intended as a present for the new Queen: forthe hitherto unmarriageable King had at last found a Princess to accepthim. She was the second daughter of a penniless Provencal Count; butshe was a great beauty, though an extremely young girl; and her eldestsister was Queen of France. She proved a costly bargain. Free from allvisible vices except two, which, unfortunately, were two cultivated byHenry himself--unscrupulous acquisition and reckless extravagance--shenevertheless contrived to do terrible mischief, by giving her husband noadvice in general, and bad advice whenever she gave it in particular. His ivy-like nature wanted a strong buttress upon which to lean; andEleonore of Provence was neither stronger nor more stable than himself. Her one idea of life was to enjoy herself to the utmost. When shewanted a new dress, she had not the slightest notion of waiting till shehad money to pay for it. What were the people of England in her eyes, but machines for making it--things to be taxed--a vast and inexhaustibletreasury, of which you did but turn the handle, and coins came showeringout?

So the tax-gatherers went grinding on, and the land cried to God, andthe Court heard no sound. The man who was to be God's avenger upon themwas an obscure foreigner as yet. And the English noble who above allothers was to aid him in that vengeance, was still only a fair-hairedyouth of fifteen, whose thoughts were busy with a very differentsubject. But out of the one, the other was to grow, watered by tearsand blood. 

He was standing--young Richard de Clare--in one of the recessed windowsof the great hall, with Margaret beside him. They were talking in verylow tones. Richard's manner was pleading and earnest, while Margaret'seyes were cast down, and she was diligently winding round her finger ashred of green sewing-silk, as though her most important concern were tomake it go round a certain number of times. 

It was the old story, so many times repeated in this world, sometimes toflow smoothly on like waters to their haven, sometimes to end in stormywreckage and bitter disappointment. 

They were very young lovers. We should term them mere boy and girl, andcount them unfit to consider the matter at all. But in the thirteenthcentury, when circumstances forced men and women early to the front, andsixty years was considered ripe old age, fifteen was equivalent at leastto twenty now. 

In this instance, the course of true love--for it was on both sides verytrue--seemed likely to be smooth enough. The King had granted themarriage of Richard to Earl Hubert; and, as was then well understood, the person to whom he would most probably marry his ward was his owndaughter. The only irregular item of the matter was that the pairshould fall in love, or should broach the subject at all to each other. But human hearts are unaccountable articles; and even in those days, when matrimony was an affair of rule and compasses, those irregularthings did occasionally conduct themselves in a very irregular manner, leading young people to fall in love (and sometimes to run away) withthe wrong person, but happily and occasionally, as in this instance, with the right one. 

Half an hour later, Margaret was kneeling on a velvet cushion at thefeet of the Countess, who was (with secret delight) receiving auricularconfession concerning the very point on which she had set her heart. 

This mother and daughter were great friends, --a state of things tooinfrequent at any time, and particularly so in the Middle Ages. Margaret, the only one of her mother, was an unusually cherished andpetted child. The result was that she had no fear of the Countess, andlooked upon her as her natural confidante. Perhaps, if more daughterswould do so, there might be fewer unhappy marriages. At the same timeit must be admitted, that some mothers by no means invite confidence. 

The Countess of Kent, sweet as she was, had one great failing, --a faultoften to be found in very gentle and amiable natures. She was notsufficiently straightforward. Instead of honestly telling people whatshe wanted them to do, she liked to manage them into it; and thismanaging involved at most times more or less dissimulation. She dearlyloved to conduct her affairs by a series of little secrets. This is atemperament which usually rests on a mixture of affection and want ofcourage. We cannot bear to grieve those whom we love, and we shrinkfrom calling down their anger on ourselves, or even from risking theirdisapprobation of our conduct, past or proposed. Now, it had been forsome years the dearest wish of the Countess's heart that her Margaretshould marry Richard de Clare. But she never whispered her desire toany one, --least of all to her husband, with whom, humanly speaking, itlay mainly to promote or defeat it. And now, when Margaret's blushingconfession was whispered to her, the Countess privately congratulatedherself on her excellent management, and thought how much better it wasto pull unseen strings than to blaze one's wishes abroad. 

"And, Lady, will you of your grace plead for us with my Lord andfather?" said Margaret in a coaxing tone at last. 

"Oh, leave it all to me, " replied her mother. "I will manage him intoit. Never tell a man anything, my dove, if thou wouldst have him do it. Men are such obstinate, perverse creatures, that as often as not theywill just go the other way out of sheer wilfulness. Thou must alwayscontrive to manage them into it. "

Margaret, who had inherited her father's honesty with her mother'samiability, was rather puzzled by this counsel. 

"But how do you manage them?" said she. 

"There is an art in that, my dear. It takes brains. Different menrequire very different kinds of management. Now thy father is one whowill generally consent to a thing when it is done, though he would notif it were suggested to him at first. He rather likes his own way;still, he is very good when he is well managed, "--for instance afterinstance came floating back to the wife's mind, in which he had againsthis own judgment given way to her. "So that is the way to manage him. Now our Lord King Henry requires entirely different handling. "

That was true enough. While Earl Hubert always had a will of his own, and knew what it was (though he did not always get it), King Henry hadno will, and never knew what it was until somebody else told him. 

"I am afraid, Lady, I don't understand the management of men, " saidMargaret, with a little laugh and blush. 

"Thou wilt learn in time, my dear. Thou art rather too fond of sayingall thou meanest. That is not wise--for a woman. Of course a man oughtto tell his wife every thing. But there is no need for a wife always tobe chattering to her husband: she must have her little secrets, and heought to respect them. Now, as to Sir Richard, I can see as well aspossible the kind of management he will require; thou must quietlysuggest ideas to him, gently and diffidently, as if thou wert desirousof his opinion: but whenever he takes them up, mind and always let himthink he is getting his own way. He has a strong will, against which afoolish woman would just run full tilt, and spoil every thing. A wiseone will quietly get her own way, and let him fancy he has got his. That is thy work, Magot. "

Margaret shook her bright head with a laugh. Such work as that was notat all in her line. 

It took only a day for the girls to discover that the Belasez who hadcome back to them in October was not the Belasez who had gone away fromthem at Whitsuntide. She seemed almost a different being. Quite asamiable, as patient, as refined, as before, there was something abouther which they instantly perceived, but to which they found it hard togive a name. It was not exactly any one thing. It was not sadness, forat times she seemed more bright and lively than they remembered her ofold: it was not ill-temper, for her patience was proof against anyamount of teasing. But her moods were far more variable than they usedto be. A short time after she had been playing with little Marie, allsmiles and sunshine, they would see tears rush to her eyes, which sheseemed anxious to conceal. And at times there was an expression ofdistress and perplexity in her face, evidently not caused by anyintricacy in the pattern she was working. 

Indirect questions produced none but evasive answers. Each of the girlshad her own idea as to the solution of the enigma. Margaret, verynaturally, pronounced Belasez in love. Eva, one of whose sisters hadbeen recently ill, thought she was anxious about her brother. Mariesuggested that too much damson tart might be a satisfactoryexplanation, --that having been the state of things with herself a fewdays before. Hawise, who governed her life by a pair of moralcompasses, was of opinion that Belasez thought it proper to looksorrowful in her circumstances, and therefore did so except in anemergency. Doucebelle alone was silent: but her private thought wasthat no one of the four had come near the truth. 

When Belasez had been about a week at the Castle, one afternoon she andDoucebelle were working alone in the wardrobe. The Countess andMargaret were away for the day, on a visit to the Abbess of Thetford;Eva and Marie were out on the leads; Hawise was busy in her ownapartments. Belasez had been unusually silent that morning. She workedon in a hurried, nervous way, never speaking nor looking up, and alovely arabesque pattern grew into beauty under her deft fingers. Suddenly Doucebelle said--

"Belasez, does life never puzzle thee?"

Belasez looked up, with almost a frightened expression in her eyes. 

"Can anything puzzle one more?" she said: "unless it were the perplexitywhich is hovering over my soul. "

"Is that anything in which I could help thee?"

"It is something in which no human being could help me--only He beforewhom the inhabitants of the earth are as grasshoppers. "

There was silence for a moment. Then, in a low, hushed tone, Belasezsaid--

"Doucebelle, didst thou ever do a thing which must be either very right, or very wrong, and thou hadst no means whereby to know which it was?"

"No, " answered Doucebelle slowly. "I can scarcely imagine such athing. "

"Scarcely imagine the thing, or the uncertainty?"

"The uncertainty. Because I should ask the priest. "

"The priest!--where is he?"

Doucebelle looked up in surprise at the tone, and saw that Belasez wasin tears. 

"We had priests, " said the young Jewess. "We had sons of Aaron, and atemple, and an altar, and a holy oracle, whereby the Blessed One madeknown His will in all matters of doubt and perplexity to His people. But where are they now? The mountains of Zion are desolate, and thefoxes walk upon them. The light has died out of the sacred gems, evenif they themselves were to be found. We have walked contrary to Him, --ah! where is the unerring prophet that shall tell us how we did it?--andHe walks contrary to us, and is punishing us seven times for our sins. We are in the desert, in the dark. And the pillar of fire has gone backinto Heaven, and the Angel of the Covenant leadeth us no more. "

Doucebelle was almost afraid to speak, lest she should say somethingwhich might do more harm than good. She only ventured after a pause toremark--

"Still there are priests. "

"Yours? I know what they would tell me. " Belasez's fervent voice hadgrown constrained all at once. 

"Yes, thou dost not believe them, I suppose, " said Doucebelle, with abaffled feeling. 

"I want a prophet, Doucebelle, not a priest. Nay, He knows, the HolyOne, that we want a priest most bitterly; that we have no sacrificewherewith to stand before Him, --no blood to make atonement. But we wantthe prophet to point us to the priest. Let us know, by revelation fromHeaven, that this man, or that man, is the accepted Priest of the MostHigh, and trust us to bring our fairest lambs in sacrifice. "

"Belasez, I believe that the Lamb was offered, twelve hundred years ago, and the sacrifice which alone God will accept for the sins of men isover for ever, and is of everlasting efficacy. "

"I know. " Belasez's face was more troubled than before. 

"If thou canst not trust His priests, couldst thou not trust Him?"

"Trust whom?" exclaimed Belasez, with her eyes on fire. "O Doucebelle, Doucebelle, I know not how to bear it! I thought I was so strong tostand up against all falsehood and error, --and here, one man, with oneword, --Let me hold my peace. But O that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, that Thou wouldst come down! Hast Thou but one blessing, O Thou thatart a Father unto Israel? Or are we so much worse off than our fathersin the desert? Nay, are we not in the desert, with no leader to guideus, no fiery pillar to bid us rest here, or journey thither? Why hastThou given the dearly-beloved of Thy soul into the hands of her enemies?Is it--is it, because we hid our faces--from Him!"

And to Doucebelle's astonishment, Belasez covered her face with herapron, and sobbed almost as if her heart were breaking. 

"Poor Belasez!" said Doucebelle, gently. "It is often better to tellout what troubles us, than to keep it to ourselves. "

"If thou wert a daughter of Israel, I should tell it thee, and ask thycounsel. I need some one's counsel sorely. "

"And canst thou not trust me, Christian though I am?"

"Oh no, it is not that. Thou dost not understand, Doucebelle. Thoucouldst not enter into my difficulty unless thou wert of my faith. Thatis the reason. It is not indeed that I mistrust thee. "

"Hast thou told thy father?"

"My father? No! He would be as much horrified to hear that suchthoughts had ever entered my head, as the Lady would be if thou wert totell her thou didst not believe any longer in thy Christ. "

"Then what canst thou do? Could thy mother help thee, or thy brother?"

"My mother would command me to dismiss such ideas from my mind, on painof her curse. But I cannot dismiss them. And for Delecresse--I thinkhe would stab me if he knew. "

"What sort of thoughts are they?"

"Wilt thou keep my secret, if I tell thee?"

"Indeed, I will not utter them without thy leave. " Belasez cut off hersilk, laid down the armilaus, and clasped both hands round her knee. 

"When your great festivals draw nigh, " she said, "four times in everyyear, we Israelites are driven into your churches, and forced to listento a discourse from one of your priests. Until that day, I have neverpaid any attention to what I deemed blasphemy. I have listened for amoment, but at the first word of error, or the first repetition of oneof your sacred names, I have always stopped my ears, and heard no more. But this last Midsummer, when we were driven into Lincoln Cathedral, thenew Bishop was in the pulpit. And he spake not like the other priests. I could not stop my ears. Why should I, when he read the words of oneof our own prophets, and in the holy tongue, rendering it into French ashe went on? And Delecresse said it was correctly translated, for Iasked him afterwards. He saw nothing in it different from usual. Butit was terrible to me! He read words that I never knew were in ourScriptures--concerning One whom it seemed to me must be--_must_ be, Hewhom you call Messiah. `As a root out of a dry ground'--`no form norcomeliness'--`no beauty that we should desire Him, '--`despised andrejected of men'--and lastly, `we hid our faces from Him. ' For we did, Doucebelle, --we did! I could think of nothing else for a while. For wedid not hide them from others. We welcomed Judas of Galilee, andBarchocheba, and many another who rose up in our midst, claiming to besent of God. But He, who claimed to be The Sent One, --we crucified Him. We did not crucify them. We hid our faces from Him, and from Himalone. And then I heard more words, for the Bishop kept reading on. `We all like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his ownway'--ah, was that not true of the dispersed of Judah?--`and the Lordhath made to meet upon Him the iniquities of us all. ' Doucebelle, itwas like carrying a lamp into a dark chamber, and beholding every thingin it suddenly illuminated. Was that what it all meant? Was the Bishopright, when he said afterwards, that it was not possible that the bloodof bulls and goats could take away sin? Were they all not realities, asI had always thought them, but shadows, pointing forward through theages, to the One who was to come, to the Blood which could take awaysin? Did our own Scripture say so? `The Man that is My Fellow'--heread it, from one of our very own prophets. And `we hid our faces fromHim!' If He from whom we hid our faces--for there was but one such--ifHe were the Sent of God, the Man that is His Fellow, the Lamb whoseblood maketh atonement for the soul, --why then, what could there be forus but tribulation and wrath and indignation from before the Holy Onefor ever? Was it any marvel that we were punished seventy times for oursins, if we had done that?"

Belasez drew a long breath, and altered her position. 

"And, if we had not done that, what had we done? The old perplexitycame back on me, worse than ever. What had we done? We were notidolaters any more; we were not profane; we kept the rest of the holySabbath. Yet the Blessed One was angry with us, --He hid His face fromus: and the centuries went on, and we were exiles still, --still underthe displeasure of our heavenly King. And what had we done?--if we hadnot hidden our faces from Him who was the Man that is His Fellow. Andthen--"

Belasez paused again, and a softer, sadder expression came into hereyes. 

"And then the Bishop read some other words, --I suppose they were fromyour sacred books: I do not think they came from ours. He read that`because this Man continueth to eternity, untransferable hath He thepriesthood. ' He read that `if any man sin, we have an Advocate with theFather, and He is the propitiation for our sins. ' And again he readsome grand words, said by this Man Himself, --`I am the First and theLast, and the Living One: and I was dead, and am alive for evermore; andwith Me are the keys of Sheol and of death. ' Oh, it was so different, Doucebelle, from your priests' sermons generally! There was not a wordabout that strange thing you call the Church, --not a word about themaiden whom you worship. It was all about Him who was to be the Sent ofGod. And I thought--may I be forgiven of the Holy One, if it werewicked!--I thought this was the Priest that would suit me: this was theProphet that could teach me: this was the Man, who, if only I knew thatto do it was truth and not error, was light and not darkness, was lifeand not death, I could be content to follow to the world's end. And howam I to know it?"

Doucebelle looked up earnestly, and the girls' eyes met. One of themwas groping in the darkness in search of Christ. The other had gropedher way through the darkness, and had caught hold of Him. She did notsee His Face very clearly, but enough so to be sure that it was He. 

"Belasez, dear maid, He said one other thing. `Come unto Me, all yethat labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. ' Trust me, the surest way to find out who He is, is to come to Him. "

"What meanest thou? He is not on earth. "

"He is where thy need is, " answered Doucebelle gently. "In anylabyrinth out of which we know not the way, --over any grave where ourhearts lie buried, --we can meet Him. "

"But how? Thy words are a riddle to me. "

"Call Him, and see if He do not come to thee. And if He and thou do butmeet, it does not much matter by which track thou earnest thither. "

Belasez was silent, and seemed to be thinking deeply. 

"Doucebelle, " she said at last, "are there two sorts of Christians?Because thy language is like the Bishop of Lincoln's. All the priests, and other Christians, whom I have heard before, spoke in quite anotherstrain. "

"There are live Christians, and dead ones. I know not of any thirdsort. "

"The dead ones must be fearfully in the majority!" said Belasez: "Imean, if thou and the Bishop are live ones. "

"That may be true, I am afraid, " replied Doucebelle. 

"It must be the breathing of the Holy One that makes the difference, "observed Belasez, very thoughtfully. "For it is written, that Adonaiformed man of the dust of the earth, and breathed into his nostrils theneshama of life; and man became a living soul. Thus He breathed thelife into man at first, in the day of the creation of Adam. Surely, inthe day when the soul of man becomes alive to the will of the Holy One, He must breathe into him the second time, that he may live. "

"Belasez, what are your sacred books? You seem to have some. "

"We gave them to you, " was Belasez's reply. "But ye have added tothem. "

"But the Scriptures were given to the Church!" remonstrated Doucebellewith some surprise. 

"I know not what ye mean by the Church, " answered the Jewess. "Theywere ours, --given to our fathers, revealed to them by the Holy One. Wegave them to you, --or ye filched them from us, --I scarcely know which. And ye have added other books, which we cannot recognise. "

The flash of fervent confidence had died away, and Belasez was once morethe reserved, impenetrable Jewish maiden, to whom Gentile Christianswere unclean animals, and their doctrines to be mentioned only withscorn and abhorrence. And as Marie came dancing in at that moment, theconversation was not renewed. But it made a great impression uponDoucebelle, who ever afterwards added to her prayers thepetition, --"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, teach Belasez to know Thee. "["Bel Pere"--then one of the common epithets used in prayer. ]

But to every one in general, and to Doucebelle in particular, Belasezseemed shut up closer than ever. 

The January of 1236 came, and with it the royal marriage. Theceremonial took place at Canterbury, and Earl Hubert was present, as hisoffice required of him. The Countess excused herself on the ground ofslight illness, which would make it very irksome for her to travel inwinter. Her "intimate enemies" kindly suggested that she was actuatedby pique, since a time had been when she might have been herself Queenof England. But they did not know Margaret of Scotland. Pique andspite were not in her. Her real motive was something wholly different. She was not naturally ambitious, nor did she consider the crown ofEngland so highly superior to the gemmed coronal of a Scottish Princess;and she had never held King Henry in such personal regard as to feel anyregret at his loss. Her true object in remaining at Bury was to"manage" the marriage of Margaret with Richard de Clare. It was to be aclandestine match, except as concerned a few favoured witnesses; andEarl Hubert was to be kept carefully in the dark till all was safelyover. The wedding was to be one "_per verba de presenti_" then assacred by the canon law as if it had been performed by a priest in fullcanonicals; and as a matter of absolute necessity, no witness wasrequired at all. But the Countess thought it more satisfactory to haveone or two who could be trusted not to chatter till the time came forrevelation. She chose Doucebelle along with herself, as the one inwhose silence she had most confidence. Thus, in that January, in thedead of the night, the four indicated assembled in the bed-chamber ofthe Countess, and the bride and bridegroom, joining hands, said simply--

"In the presence of God and of these persons, I, Richard, take thee, Margaret, to my wedded wife:" and, "In the same presence I, Margaret, take thee, Richard, to my wedded husband. "

And according to canon and statute law they were legally married, norcould anything short of a divorce part them again. 

"Now then, go to bed, " said the Countess, addressing Doucebelle: "andbeware, every soul of you, that not a word comes out till I tell you yemay speak. "

"Belasez, when wilt thou be wed?" inquired Margaret, the next morning. If the thoughts of the bride ran upon weddings, it was not much to bewondered. 

"Next summer, " said Belasez, as coolly as if the question had been whenshe would finish her embroidery. There was no shadow of emotion of anykind to be seen. 

"Oh, art thou handfast?" replied Margaret, interested at once. 

"I was betrothed in my cradle, " was the answer of the Jewish maiden. 

"To a Jew, of course?"

"Of course! To Leo the son of Hamon of Norwich, my father's greatestfriend. "

"Is he a nice young man?"

"I never saw him. "

"Why, Belasez!"

"The maidens of my people are strictly secluded. It is not so withChristians. "

Yet it was less strange to these Christian girls than it would be to thereader. They lived in times when the hand of an heiress was entirely atthe disposal of her guardian, who might marry her to some one whom shehad never seen. As to widows, they were in the gift of the Crown, unless they chose (as many did) to make themselves safe by paying a highprice for "liberty to marry whom they would. " Even then, such a thingwas known as the Crown disregarding the compact. Let it be added, sincemuch good cannot be said of King John, that he at least was careful tofulfil his engagements of this description. His son was lessparticular. 

Margaret looked at Belasez with a rather curious expression. 

"And how dost thou like the idea, " she asked, "of being wife to one whomthou hast never seen?"

"I do not think about it, " said Belasez, in the same tone as before. "What is to be will be. "

"But what is to be, " said Margaret, "may be very delightful, or it maybe very horrid. "

"Yes, no doubt, " was the cool answer. "I shall see when the timecomes. "

Margaret turned away, with a shrug of her shoulders and a comic look inher eyes which nearly upset the gravity of the rest. 

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Note 1. These lines are (or were) to be seen, written with a diamondupon a pane of glass in a window of the Hotel des Pays-Bas, Spa, Belgium, with the date 1793. I do not know whether they are to be foundin the writings of any poet. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

THE NEW CONFESSOR. 

 "Had the knight looked up to the page's face, No smile the word had won; Had the knight looked up to the page's face, I ween he had never gone: Had the knight looked back to the page's geste, I ween he had turned anon, -- For dread was the woe in the face so young, And wild was the silent geste that flung Casque, sword, to earth as the boy down-sprung, And stood--alone, alone!"

 _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. 

Nobody enjoyed the spring of the year 1236. Rain poured down, day afterday, as if it were the prelude to a second Deluge. The Thamesoverflowed its banks to such an extent that the lawyers had to returnhome in boats, floated by the tide into Westminster Hall. There was noprogress, except by boat or horse, through the streets of the royalborough. 

Perhaps the physical atmosphere slightly affected the moral andpolitical, for men's minds were much unsettled, and their tempers verycaptious. The King, with his usual fickleness and love of novelty, hadthrown himself completely into the arms of the horde of poor relationswhom the new Queen brought over with her, particularly of her uncle, Guglielmo of Savoy, the Bishop of Valentia, whom he constituted hisprime minister. By his advice new laws were promulgated which extremelyangered the English nobles, who complained that they were held of noaccount in the royal councils. The storms were especially violent inthe North, and there people took to seeing prophetic visions of dreadfulimport. Beside all this, France was in a very disturbed state, whichboded ill to the English provinces across the sea. The Counts ofChampagne, Bretagne, and La Marche, used strong language concerning thedisgraceful fact that "France, the kingdom of kingdoms, was governed bya woman, " Queen Blanche of Castilla being Regent during the minority ofher son, Saint Louis. It is a singular fact that while the name ofBlanche has descended to posterity as that of a woman of remarkablewisdom, discretion, and propriety of life, the popular estimate of herduring her regency was almost exactly the reverse. 

Meanwhile, the royal marriage festivities went on uproariously atCanterbury. There was not a peacock-pie the less on account either ofthe black looks of the English nobles, or of the very shallow conditionof the royal treasury. To King Henry, who had no intention of payingany bills that he could help, what did it signify how much things cost, or whether the sum total were twenty pence or twenty thousand pounds?

The feasts having at last come to an end, King Henry left Canterbury forMerton Abbey, and Earl Hubert accompanied him. What became of the Queenis not stated: nor are we told whether His Majesty thus went "intoretreat" to seek absolution for his past transgressions, or from thelamentable necessity of paying his debts. 

On the 20th of January, the royal penitent emerged from his retreat, tobe crowned with his bride at Westminster. Earl Hubert of course waspresent; and the Countess thought proper to feel well enough to join himfor the occasion. The ceremony was a most splendid one, --very differentfrom that first hurried coronation of the young Henry on his father'sdeath, when, all the regalia having been lost in fording the Wash, hewas crowned with a gold collar belonging to his mother. The Archbishopof Canterbury was the officiating priest. The citizens of London, hereditary Butlers of England, presented three hundred and sixty cups ofgold and silver, at which the eyes of the royal and acquisitive pairdoubtless glistened, and which, in all probability, were melted down ina month to pay for the coronation banquet. King Henry paid a bill justoften enough to prevent his credit from falling into a hopelesslydisreputable condition. The Earl of Chester--one of Earl Hubert's twogreat enemies--bore Curtana, "the sword of Saint Edward, " says the monkof Saint Albans, "to show that he is Earl of the Palace, and has byright the power of restraining the King if he should commit an error. "Either Earl Ranulph de Blundeville was very neglectful of his office, orelse he must have found it anything but a sinecure. The Constable ofChester attended the Earl; his office was to restrain not the King, butthe people, by keeping them off with his wand when they pressed tooclose. The Earl of Pembroke, husband of Princess Marjory of Scotland, carried a wand before the King, cleared the way, superintended thebanquet, and arranged the guests. The basin was presented by a handsomeyoung foreigner, Simon de Montfort, youngest son of the Count deMontfort, and cousin of the Earl of Chester, to whose good offices inthe first instance he probably owed his English preferment. He had notyet become the most powerful man in the kingdom, the darling of theEnglish people, the husband of the King's sister, the man whom, on hisown testimony, --much as he feared a thunderstorm, --Henry feared "morethan all the thunder and lightning in the world!" The Earl of Arundelshould have been the cup-bearer; but being too young to discharge theoffice, his kinsman the Earl of Surrey officiated for him. The citizensof Winchester were privileged to cook the banquet; and the Abbot ofWestminster kept every thing straight by sprinkling holy water. 

Once more, the banquet over, the King returned into retreat at Merton toget rid of his additional shortcomings. Never was man so pious as thisMonarch, --if piety consisted of tithing mint, anise, and cummin, and ofneglecting the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith. 

It was a sharp frosty morning in February. Margaret, Doucebelle, andBelasez were at work in the bower, while Father Nicholas was hearingMarie read Latin in the ante-chamber. The other chaplains were alsopresent, --Father Warner, who, with Nicholas, belonged to the Earl; andFather Bruno, the chaplain of the Countess. Also present was MasterAristoteles, the reverend physician of the household. Fortunately forherself, Marie was by no means shy, and she feared the face of no humancreature unless it were Father Warner, who, Margaret used to say, hadeyes in the back of his head, and could hear what the cows were thinkingabout in the meadow. He was an extremely strict disciplinarian when onduty, but he never interfered with the proceedings of a brother tutor. 

Father Bruno was a new inmate of the household. He had come fromLincoln, with a recommendation from the recently-appointed Bishop, buthad been there too short a time to show his character, since he was asilent man, who appeared to see everything and to say nothing. 

"Very well, my daughter. Thou hast been a good, attentive maiden thismorning, " said Father Nicholas, when the reading was finished. 

"Then, Father, will you let me off my sums?" was Marie's quick response. 

Marie hated arithmetic, which was Doucebelle's favourite study. 

"Nay, my child, " said Father Nicholas, in an amused tone; "that is notmy business. Thou must ask Father Warner. "

"Please, Father Warner, will you let me off my sums?" pleaded Marie, butin a more humble style. 

"Certainly not, daughter. Fetch them at once. "

Marie left the room with a grieved face. 

"No news abroad, I suppose, my brethren?" suggested Master Aristoteles, in his brisk, simple, innocent manner. 

"Nay, none but what we all knew before, " said Father Nicholas. 

"Methinks the world wags but slowly, " said Master Aristoteles. 

"Much too fast, " was the oracular reply of Father Warner. 

"The pace of the world depends mainly on our own wishes, I take it, "said Father Nicholas. "He who would fain walk thinks the world is at agallop; while he who desires to gallop reckons the world but jogging ata market-trot. "

"There has been a great massacre of Jews in Spain, " said Father Bruno, speaking for the first time. 

All the conversation was plainly audible to the girls in the next room. When Father Bruno spoke, Belasez's head went up suddenly, and her workstood still. 

"Amen and Alleluia!" said Father Warner, who probably little suspectedthat he was using Hebrew words to express his abhorrence of the Hebrews. 

"Nay, my brother!" answered Father Bruno, gravely. "Shall we thank Godfor the perdition of human souls?"

"Of course not, --of course not!" interposed Father Nicholas, quickly. "I am sure our Brother Warner thanked God for the vindication of theDivine honour. "

"And is not the Divine honour more fully vindicated by far, " demandedFather Bruno, "when a soul is saved from destruction, than when it isplunged therein?"

"Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt!" eagerly assented Father Nicholas, whoseemed afraid of a _fracas_. 

"Curs!" said Father Warner, contemptuously. "They all belong to theirfather the Devil, and to him let them go. I would not give a farthingfor a Jew's soul in the market. "

Belasez's eyes were like stars. 

"Brother, " said Father Bruno, so gravely that it was almost sadly, "ourMaster was not of your way of thinking. He bade His apostles to beginat Jerusalem when they preached the good tidings of His kingdom. Havewe done it?"

Master Aristoteles' "Ah!" might mean anything, as the hearer chose totake it. 

"Of course they did so. The Church was first at Jerusalem, before SaintPeter transferred it to Rome, " snapped Father Warner. 

"Pardon me, my brother. I did not ask, Did they do so? I said, Have wedone so?" explained Bruno. 

"How could we?" responded Father Nicholas in a perplexed tone. "I nevercame across any of the evil race--holy Mary be my guard!--and if I haddone, I should have crossed over the road, lest they should cast a spellon me. "

Belasez's smile was one of contemptuous amusement. 

"_Pure foy_! If I ever came across one, I should spit in his face!"cried Warner. 

"Two might play at that game, " was the cool observation of Bruno. 

"I'd have him hung on the new machine if he did!" exclaimed Warner. 

The new machine was the gibbet, first set up in England in this year. 

"Brethren, " said Bruno, "we are verily guilty, one and all. For weeksthis winter, and I hear also last summer, there has been in this house amaiden of the Hebrew race, who has never learned the faith of Christ theLord, has probably never heard His name except in blasphemy. Which ofus four of His servants shall answer to God for that child's soul?"

Margaret expected Belasez's eyes to flash, and her lip to curl in scorn. To her great surprise, the girl caught up her work and went on with ithastily. Doucebelle, watching her with deep yet concealed interest, fancied she saw tears glistening on the samite. 

"Really, I never--you put it so seriously, Brother Bruno!--I neverlooked at the matter in that way. I did not think--" and FatherNicholas came to a full stop. "You see, I have been so very busyilluminating that missal for the Lady. I really never never consideredthe thing so seriously. "

"Brother Nicholas, " answered Bruno, "the Devil was serious enough whenhe tempted our mother Eva. And Christ was serious when He bore awayyour sins and mine, and nailed them to His cross. And the angels of Godare serious, when they look down and see us fighting with sin in thedark and weary day. What! God is serious, and Satan is serious, andthe holy angels are serious, --and can we not be serious? Will the greatJudge take that answer, think you? `Lord, I was so busy illuminatingand writing, that I let the maiden slip into perdition, and Thou wiltfind her there. '"

Belasez's head was bowed lower than before. 

"Brother Bruno! You are unreasonable, " interposed Warner. "We all haveour duties to our Lord and Lady. And as to that contemptible insect inthe Lady's chamber, --well, I do not know what you think, but I would notscorch my fingers pulling her out of Erebus. "

The dark brows of the young Jewess were drawn close together. 

"Ah, Brother Warner!" said Bruno. "Christ my Master scorched Hisfingers so much with me, that I cannot hesitate to burn mine in Hisservice. "

Marie and her arithmetic seemed forgotten by all parties. 

"I am afraid, Brother Bruno, " faltered Father Nicholas, "really afraid, I may have been too remiss. The poor girl!--of course, though she is aJew--and they are very bad people, very--yet she has a soul to be saved;yes, undoubtedly. I will see what I can do. There are only about adozen leaves of the missal, --and then that treatise on grace ofcongruity that I promised the Abbot of Ham--and, --let me see! I believeI engaged to write something for the Prior of Saint Albans. What wasit, now? Where are my tables? Oh, here!--yes, --ah! that would not takelong: a week might do it, I think. I will see, --I really will see, Brother Bruno, --when these little matters are disposed of, --what I cando for the girl. "

"Do! Give her ratsbane!" sneered Warner laconically. 

Bruno's reply was a quotation. 

"`While thy servant was busy here and there, he was gone. '"

Then he rose and left the room. 

"Dear, dear!" said Father Nicholas. "Our brother Bruno means well, --very well indeed, I am sure: but those enthusiastic people like him--don't you think they are very unsettling, Brother Warner? Really, hehas made me feel quite uncomfortable. Why, the world would have to beturned upside down! We could never write, nor paint, nor cultivateletters--we should have to be incessantly preaching and confessingpeople. "

"Stuff! The fellow's an ass!" was Father Warner's decision. "_Ha, chetife_!--what has become of that little monkey, Damsel Marie? I mustgo and see after her. "

And he followed his colleague. Father Nicholas gathered his paperstogether, and from the silence that ensued, the girls gathered that theante-chamber was deserted. 

"Belasez, " said Doucebelle that night, as she was brushing her hair--thetwo slept in the wardrobe--"wert thou very angry with Father Bruno, thismorning?"

Belasez looked up quickly. 

"With _him_? No! I thought--"

But the thought progressed no further till Doucebelle said--"Well?"

"I thought, " said Belasez, combing out her own hair very energetically, "that I had at last found even a Christian priest who was worthy of himof whom the Bishop of Lincoln preached, --him whom you believe to beMessiah. "

"Then, " said Doucebelle, greatly delighted, "thou wilt listen to FatherBruno, if he talks to thee?"

"I would not if I could help it, " was Belasez's equivocal answer. 

"Belasez, I cannot quite understand thee. Sometimes thou seemest sodifferent from what thou art at other times. "

"Because I am different. Understand me! Do I understand myself? TheHoly One--to whom be praise!--He understands us all. "

"But sometimes thou art willing to hear and talk, and at others thou artclose shut up like a coffer. "

"Because that is how I feel. "

"I wish thou wouldst tell thy feelings to Father Bruno. "

"I shall wait till he asks me, I think, " said Belasez a little drily. 

"Well, I am sure he will. "

"I am not sure that he will--twice. "

"Why, what wouldst thou say to him?"

"He will hear if he wants to know. "

And Belasez thereupon "shut up like a coffer, " and seemed to have losther tongue for the remainder of the night. 

Doucebelle determined that, if she could possibly contrive it, withoutwounding the feelings of Father Nicholas, her next confession should bemade to Father Bruno. He seemed to her to be a man made of altogetherdifferent metal from his colleagues. Master Aristoteles kept himselfentirely to physical ailments, and never heard a confession, except fromthe sick in emergency. Father Nicholas was a very easy confessor, forhis thoughts were usually in his beloved study, and whatever theconfession might be, absolution seemed to follow as a matter of course. If his advice were asked on any point outside philology in all itsdivisions, he generally appeared to be rather taken by surprise, andalmost as much puzzled as his penitent. His strongest reproof was--

"Ah, that was wrong, my child. Thou must not do that again. "

So that confession to Father Nicholas, while eminently comfortable to adead soul, was anything but satisfying to a living one. 

Father Warner was a terrible confessor. His minute questions penetratedinto every corner of soul and body. He took nothing for granted, goodnor bad. Absolution was hard to get from him, and not to be had on anyterms but those of severe penance. And yet it seemed to Doucebelle thatthere was an inner sanctuary of her heart from which he never even triedto lift the veil, a depth in her nature which he never approached. Wasit because there was no such depth in his, and therefore he necessarilyignored its existence in another?

In one way or another, they were all miserable comforters. She wishedto try Father Bruno. 

Most unwittingly, Father Nicholas helped her to gain her end byrequesting a holiday. He had heard a rumour that a Latin manuscript hadbeen discovered in the library of Saint Albans' Abbey, and FatherNicholas, in whose eyes the lost books of Livy were of more consequencethan any thing else in the world except the Order of Saint Benedict, wasunhappy till he had seen the manuscript. 

The Countess, in the Earl's absence, readily granted his request, andDoucebelle's fear of hurting the feelings of her kind-hearted thoughcareless old friend were no longer a bar in the way of consulting FatherBruno. 

Father Warner, who was confessing the other half of the household, growled his disapprobation when Doucebelle begged to be included in thepenitents of Father Bruno. 

"Something new always catches a silly girl's fancy!" said he. 

But Doucebelle had no scruple about hurting his feelings, since she didnot believe in their existence. So when her turn came, she knelt downin Bruno's confessional. 

At first she wondered if he were about to prove like Father Nicholas, for he did not ask her a single question till she stopped of herself. Then, instead of referring to any thing which she had said, he put oneof weighty import. 

"Daughter, what dost thou know of Jesus Christ?"

"I know, " said Doucebelle, "that He came to take away the sins of theworld, and I humbly trust that He will take away mine. "

"That He will?" repeated Bruno. "Is it not done already?"

"I thought, Father, that it would be done when I die. "

"What has thy dying to do with that? If it be done at all, it was donewhen He died. "

"Then where are my sins, Father?" asked Doucebelle, feeling very muchastonished. This was a new doctrine to her. But Bruno was anAugustinian, and well read in the writings of the Founder of his Order. 

"They are where God cannot find them, my child. Therefore there islittle fear of thy finding them. Understand me, --if thou hast laid themupon Christ our Lord. "

"I know I have, " said Doucebelle in a low voice. 

"Then on His own authority I assure thee that He has taken them. "

"Father I may I really believe that?"

"May! Thou must, if thou wouldst not make God a liar. "

"But what, then, have I to do?"

"What wouldst thou do for me, if I had rescued thee from a burninghouse, and lost my own life in the doing of it?"

"I could do nothing, " said Doucebelle, feeling rather puzzled. 

"Wouldst thou love or hate me?"

"O Father! can there be any question?"

"And supposing there were some thing left in the world for which thouknewest I had cared--a favourite dog or cat--wouldst thou leave it tostarve, or take some care of it?"

"I think, " was Doucebelle's earnest answer, "I should care for it asthough it were my own child. "

"Then, daughter, see thou dost that for Him who did lose His own life inrescuing thee. Love Him with every fibre of thine heart, and love whatHe has loved for His sake. He has left with thee those for whom onearth He cared most, --the poor, the sick, the unhappy. Be they untothee as thy dearest, and He the dearest of all. "

This was very unlike any counsel which Doucebelle had ever beforereceived from a confessor. There was something here of which she couldtake hold. Not that Father Bruno had suggested a new course of actionso much as that he had supplied a new motive power. To do good, to givealms, to be kind to poor and sick people, Doucebelle had been taughtalready: but the reason for it was either the abstract notion that itwas the right thing to do, or that it would help to increase her littleheap of human merit. 

To all minds, but in particular to an ignorant one, there is an enormousdifference between the personal and the impersonal. Tell a child thatsuch a thing must be done because it is right, and the motive power isfaint and vague, not unlikely to be overthrown by the first breath oftemptation. But let the child understand that to do this thing willplease or displease God, and you have supplied a far stronger energisingpower, in the intelligible reference to the will of a living Person. 

Doucebelle felt this--as, more or less, we all do. 

"Father, " she said, after a momentary pause, "I want your advice. "

"State thy perplexity, my daughter. "

"I hope, Father, you will not be angry; but a few days ago, when you andthe other priests were talking in the ante-chamber about Belasez, thedoor was open, and we heard every word in the bower. "

"Did Belasez hear what was said?"

"Yes. "

"Ha! What did she say?"

"I asked her, at night, whether what you had said had wounded her. Andshe said, No: but she thought there was one Christian priest who waslike what the Scripture described Christ to be. "

"Did she say that?" There was a tone of tender regret in the priest'svoice. 

"She did. But, Father, I want to know how to deal with Belasez. Sometimes she will talk to me quite freely, and tell me all her thoughtsand feelings: at other times I cannot get a word out of her. "

"Let her alone at the other times. What is the state of her mind?"

"She seems to have been very much struck, Father, with a sermon fromyour Bishop, wherein he proved out of her own Scriptures, she says, thatour Lord is the Messiah whom the Jews believe. But I do not know if shehas reached any point further than that. I think she hardly knows whatto believe. "

"Only those sermons do good which God preaches, " said Bruno. Perhaps hespoke rather to himself than to Doucebelle. "Whenever the maiden willspeak to thee, do not repulse her. Lead her, to the best of thy power, to see that Christ is God's one cure for all evil. Yet He must teach itfirst to thyself. "

"I think He has done so--a little, " answered Doucebelle. "But, Father, will you not speak to her?"

"My child, we will both wait upon God, and speak the words He gives us, at the time He will. And remember, --whatever blunders men make, --Belasez is, after the flesh, nearer akin to Him than thou art. She isthe kinswoman of the Lord Jesus. Let that thought spur thee on, if thoufaint by the way. "

"Father! Our Lord was not a Jew?"

"He was a Jew, my daughter. "

Hardly any news could more have amazed Doucebelle. 

"But why then do people use them so harshly?"

"Thou hadst better ask the people, " answered Bruno, drily. 

"Father, is it right to use Jews so?"

"Thou hadst better ask the Lord. "

"What does He say, Father?"

"He said, speaking to Abraham, the father of them all, `I will bless himthat blesseth thee, and curse him that curseth thee. '"

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Doucebelle. "If you please, Father, I couldnot help loving Belasez: but I tried hard not to do so, because Ithought it was wicked. It cannot be wrong to love a Jew, if ChristHimself were one. "

Bruno did not reply immediately. When he did, it was with a slightquiver in his voice which surprised Doucebelle. 

"It can never be wrong to love, " he said. "But, daughter, let not thylove stop at liking the maid's company. Let it go on till thou cansttake it into Heaven. "

The strangest of all strange ideas was this to Doucebelle. She had beentaught that love was always a weakness, and only too frequently a sin. That so purely earthly a thing could be taken into Heaven astonished herbeyond measure. 

"Father!" she said, in a tone of mingled amazement and inquiry. 

"What now, my daughter?"

"People always speak of love as weak, if not wicked. "

"People often talk of what they do not understand, my child. `God islove. ' Think not, therefore, that God resembles a worldly fancy whichsprings to-day, and fades away to-morrow. His is the heavenly lovewhich can never die, which is ready to sacrifice all things, which solooks to the true welfare of the beloved that it will give thee anyearthly suffering rather than see thee sink into perdition by thy sins. This is real love, daughter: and thou canst not sin in giving it toBelasez or to any other. "

"Yet, Father, " said Doucebelle in a puzzled tone, "the religious give uplove when they go into the cloister. I do not understand. A Sister ofSaint Ursula may not leave her convent, even if her own mother liesdying, and pleads hard to see her. And though some priests do wed, "--this had not yet, in England, ceased to be the case--"yet people alwaysseem to think the celibate priests more holy, as if that were more inaccordance with the will of God. Yet God tells us to love each other. I cannot quite understand. "

If Doucebelle could have seen, as well as spoken, through theconfessional grating, assuredly she would have stopped sooner. For theagony that was working in every line of Father Bruno's face would havebeen terrible to her to see. But she only thought that it was a longwhile before he answered her, and she wondered at the hard, constrainedtone in his voice. 

"Child!" he said, "does any one but God `quite understand'? Do weunderstand ourselves?--and how much less each other? It is only lovethat understands. He who most loves God will best understand men. Andfor the rest, --O Lord who hast loved us, pardon the blunders andmisunderstandings of Thy people, and save Thy servants that trust inThee!--Now go, my child, --unless thou hast more to say. _Absolvo te_. "

Doucebelle rose and retired. But she did not know that Father Brunoheard no more confessions. She only heard that he was not at home whendinner was served; and when he appeared at supper, he looked very wornand white, as if after a weary journey. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

THE SHADOW OF LONG AGO. 

 "'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth: Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth. "

 _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. 

So faithfully had the Countess adhered to her plighted word that Belasezshould be seen by no one, that not one of the priests had yet beheld herexcept Father Nicholas, and the meeting in that case had been accidentaland momentary. But when Father Bruno announced to his brother priestshis intention of seeking an interview with the Jewish maiden, FatherNicholas shook his head waggishly. 

"Have a care of the toils of Satan, Brother Bruno!" said he. "Themaiden may have the soul of a fiend, for aught I wot, yet hath she theface of an angel. "

"I thank thee. There is no fear!" answered Bruno, with a smile whichmade him look sadder. 

The Countess had not returned from the coronation festivities, and thegirls were alone in Margaret's bower, when Father Bruno entered, with"God save all here!"

Belasez rose hastily, and prepared to withdraw. 

"Wait, my child, " said the priest, gently: "I would speak with thee. "

But when she turned in answer, and he saw her face, some strange andterrible emotion seemed to convulse his own. 

"_Domine, in Te speravi_!" fell from his trembling lips, as if hescarcely realised what he was saying. 

Belasez looked at him with an astonished expression. Whatever were thecause of his singular emotion, it was evidently neither understood norshared by her. 

With a manifest effort of self-control, Bruno recovered himself. 

"Sit down, daughters, " he said: for all had risen in reverence to thepriest: and he seated himself on the settle, whence he had a full viewof Belasez. 

"And what is thy name, my daughter?"

"Belasez, at your service. "

"And thy father's name?"

"Abraham of Norwich, if it please you. "

"Abraham--of Norwich! Not--not the son of Ursel of Norwich?"

"The same. "

Again that look of intense pain crossed Bruno's face. 

"No wonder!" he said, speaking not to Belasez. "The very face--the verylook! No wonder!--And thy mother?"

"My mother is Licorice, the daughter of Kokorell of Lincoln. "

Bruno gave a little nod, as if he had known it before. 

"Hast thou any brethren or sisters?"

"One brother only; his name is Delecresse. "

The reply seemed to extinguish Bruno's interest. For a moment, as ifhis thoughts were far elsewhere, he played with a morsel of sewing-silkwhich he had picked up from the floor. 

"The Lord is wiser than men, " he said at last, as if that were theconclusion to which his unseen thoughts had led him. 

"Yes; and better, " answered the young Jewess. 

"And better, " dreamily repeated the priest. "We shall know that oneday, when we wake up to see His Face. "

"Amen, " said Belasez. "`When we awake up after Thy likeness, ' saithDavid the Prophet, `we shall be satisfied with it. '"

"`Satisfied!' echoed Bruno. Art thou satisfied, my daughter?"

The answering "No!" appeared to come from the depths of Belasez's heart. 

"Shall I tell thee wherefore? There is but one thing that satisfies thesoul of man. Neither in earth nor in Heaven is any man satisfied withaught else. My child, dost thou know what that is?"

Belasez looked up, her own face working a little now. 

"You mean, " she said, "the Man whom ye call Christ. "

"I mean Him. "

"I know nothing about Him. " And Belasez resumed her embroidery, as ifthat were of infinitely greater consequence. "Dost thou know much abouthappiness?"

"Happiness!" exclaimed the girl. "I know what mirth is. Do you meanthat? Or, I know what it is to feel as if one cared for nothing. Isthat your meaning?"

"Happiness, " said Bruno, "is what thy King meant when he said, `I shallbe satisfied with it. ' Dost thou know that?"

Belasez drew a long breath, and shook her head sadly. 

"No, " she said. "I have never known that. "

"Because thou hast never known Jesus Christ. "

"I know He said, `I am the life, '" responded the girl slowly. "And lifeis not worth much. Perhaps it might be, --if one were satisfied. "

"Poor child! Is life not worth much to thee?" answered the priest in apitying tone. "And thou art very young--not much over twenty. "

"I am under twenty. I am just eighteen. "

Once more Bruno's face was convulsed. 

"Just eighteen!" he said. "Yes--Licorice's child! _Yet_ she had nopity. Aye me--just eighteen!"

"Do you know my mother?" said Belasez in accents of mingled surprise andcuriosity. 

"I did--eighteen years ago. "

And Bruno rose hastily, as if he wished to dismiss the subject. Margaret dropped on her knees and requested his blessing, which he gaveas though his thoughts were far away: and then he left the room slowly, gazing on Belasez to the last. 

This was the first, but not by any means the last, interview betweenFather Bruno and the Jewish maiden. A month later, Doucebelle askedBelasez how she liked him. 

"I do not like him; I love him, " said Belasez, with more warmth thanusual. 

"What a confession!" answered Doucebelle, playfully. 

"Oh, not that sort of love!" responded Belasez with a tinge of scorn. "I think it must be the sort that we can take into Heaven with us. "

The next morning, Levina announced to the Countess, in a tone ofgratified spite, that two persons were in the hall--an old man, unknownto her, and the young Jew, Delecresse. He had come for his sister. 

Belasez received the news of her recall at first with a look of blankdismay, and then with a shower of passionate tears. Her deep attachmentto her Christian friends was most manifest. She kissed the hand of theCountess and Margaret, warmly embraced Doucebelle, and then looked roundas if something were wanting still. 

"What is it, my maid?" kindly asked the Countess. 

"Father Bruno!" faltered Belasez through her tears. "Oh, I must sayfarewell to Father Bruno!"

The Countess looked astonished, for she knew not that Bruno and Belasezhad ever met. A few words from Doucebelle explained. Still theCountess was extremely dissatisfied. 

"My maid, " she said, "thy father may think I have not kept my word. Iought to have told Father Bruno. I never thought of it, when he firstcame. I am very sorry. Has he talked with thee on matters of religionat all?"

"Yes. " Belasez explained no further. 

"Dear, dear!" said the Countess. "He meant well, I suppose. And ofcourse it is better thy soul should be saved. But I wish he had lesszeal and more discretion. "

"Lady, " said Belasez, pausing for an instant, "if ever I enter thekingdom of the Blessed One above, I think I shall owe it to the Bishopof Lincoln and to Father Bruno. "

"That is well, no doubt, " responded the Countess, in a very doubtfultone. "Oh dear! what did make Father Bruno think of coming up here?"

As Belasez passed down towards the hall, Father Bruno himself met her onthe stairs. 

"Whither goest thou, my child?" he asked in some surprise. 

"I am going--away. " Belasez's tears choked her voice. 

"To thy father's house?"

She bowed. 

"Without Christ?"

"No, Father, not without Him, " sobbed the girl. "Nor, --if you willgrant it to me at this moment--without baptism. "

"Dost thou believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?"

"I do. "

Bruno hesitated a minute, while an expression of deep pain flitted overhis face. 

"I cannot do it, Belasez. "

"O Father! do you reject me?"

"God forbid, my child! I do not reject thee in any wise: I only rejectmyself. Belasez, long years ago, Licorice thy mother did me a cruelwrong. If I baptise thee, I shall feel it to be my revenge on her. AndI have no right thus to defile the snow-white robe of thy baptismbecause my hands are not clean, nor to mingle the revenge of earth withthe innocence of Heaven. Wait a moment. "

And he turned and went rapidly down the stairs. Belasez waited till hecame back. He was accompanied by Father Warner. She trembled at theordeal which she guessed to await her, and soon found that she was notfar wrong. Father Warner took her into the empty chapel, and requiredher to repeat the Creed (which of course she could not do), to tell himwhich were the seven deadly sins, and what the five commandments of theChurch. Belasez had never heard of any of them. Warner shook his headsternly, and wondered what Brother Bruno could possibly mean bypresenting this ignorant heathen as a fit candidate for baptism. 

Belasez felt as if God and man alike would have none of her. Warnerrecommended her to put herself under the tuition of some priest atNorwich--which was to her a complete impossibility--and perhaps in ayear or thereabouts, if she were diligent and obedient in following theorders of her director, she might hope to receive the grace of holybaptism. 

She went out sobbing, and encountered Bruno at the head of the stairs. 

"O Father Bruno!" faltered the girl. "Father Warner will not do it!"

"I was afraid so, " said Bruno, sadly. "I should not have thought ofasking him had my Brother Nicholas been at home. Well, daughter, thisis no fault of thine. Remember, we baptise only with water: but Hewhose ministers we are can baptise thee with the Holy Ghost and withfire. Let Him be thy Shepherd to provide for thee; thy Priest toabsolve thee; thy King to command thine heart's allegiance. So dwellthou to Him in this world now, that hereafter thou mayest dwell with Himfor ever. "

Belasez stooped and kissed his hand. He gave her his blessing infervent tones, bade her a farewell which gave him unmistakable pain, andlet her depart. Belasez drew her veil closely over her face, and joinedDelecresse and her father's old friend Hamon in the hall. 

"What a time thou hast been!" said Delecresse, discontentedly. "Do letus go now. I want to be outside this accursed Castle. "

But to Belasez it seemed like stepping out of the sunlit fold into thedreary wilderness beyond. 

As they passed the upper end of the hall, Belasez paused for an instantto make a last reverence to Margaret, who sat there talking with herunacknowledged husband, Sir Richard de Clare. The black scowl on theface of her brother drew her attention at once. 

"Who is that young Gentile?" he demanded. 

"Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Gloucester. "

"What hast thou against him?" asked old Hamon. 

"That is the youth that threw my cap into a pool, a year ago, and calledme a Jew cur, " said Delecresse, between his teeth. 

"Pooh, pooh!" said old Hamon. "We all have to put up with those littleamenities. Never mind it, child. "

"I'll never mind it--till the time come!" answered Delecresse, in anundertone. "Then--I think I see how to wipe it off. "

Belasez found her mother returned from Lincoln. She received a warmwelcome from Abraham, a much cooler one from Licorice, and was veryglad, having arrived at home late, to go to bed in her own littlechamber, which was inside that of her parents. She soon dropped asleep, but was awoke ere long by voices in the adjoining room, distinctlyaudible through the curtain which alone separated the chambers. Theyspoke in Spanish, the language usually employed amongst themselves bythe English Sephardim. 

"_Ay de mi_, [`Woe is me!'] that it ever should have been so!" said thevoice of Licorice. "What did the shiksah [Note 1] want with her?"

"I told thee, wife, " answered Abraham, in a slightly injured tone, "shewanted the child to embroider a scarf. "

"And I suppose thou wert too anxious to fill thy saddle-bags to care forthe danger to her?"

"There was no danger at all, wife. The Countess promised all I askedher. And I made thirteen gold pennies clear profit. Thou canst see thechild is no worse--they have been very kind to her: she said as much. "

"Abraham, son of Ursel, thou art a very wise man!"

"What canst thou mean, Licorice?"

"`Kind to her!' If they had starved her and beaten her, there mighthave been no harm done. Canst thou not see that the girl's heart iswith her Christian friends? Why, she had been crying behind her veil, quietly, all the journey. "

"Well, wife? What then?"

"`What then?' Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! `What then?' Why, then--shewill do like Anegay. "

"The God of our fathers forbid it!" cried Abraham, in tones of horrorand distress. 

"It is too late for that, " said Licorice, with a short, contemptuouslaugh. "Thou shouldst have said that a year ago, and have kept thechild at home. "

"We had better marry her at once, " suggested Abraham, still in a voiceof deep pain. 

"`There are no birds in last year's nest, ' old man, " was the response. "Marry her or let it alone, the child's heart is gone from us. She hasleft behind her in yonder Castle those for whom she cares more than forus, and, I should not wonder also, a faith dearer to her than ours. Itwill be Anegay over again. Ah, well! Like to like! What else could weexpect?"

"Can she hear us, Licorice?"

"Not she! She was fast asleep an hour ago. "

"Wife, if it be so, have we not deserved it?"

"Abraham, don't be a fool!" cried Licorice, so very snappishly that itsounded as if her conscience might have responded a little to theaccusation. 

"I cannot but think thou didst evil, Licorice, --thou knowest how andwhen. "

"I understand thee, of course. It was the only thing to do. "

"I know thou saidst so, " answered Abraham in an unconvinced tone. "Yetit went to my heart to hear the poor child's sorrowful moan. "

"Thy heart is stuffed with feathers. "

"I would rather it were so than with stones. "

"Thanks for the compliment!"

"Nay, I said nothing about thee. But, Licorice, if it be as thouthinkest, do not let us repeat that mistake. "

"I shall repeat no mistakes, I warrant thee. "

The conversation ceased rather suddenly, except for one mournfulexclamation from Abraham, --"Poor Anegay!"

Anegay! where had Belasez heard that name before? It belonged to nofriend or relative, so far as she knew. Yet that she had heard itbefore, and that in interesting connection with something, she wasabsolutely certain. 

Belasez dropped asleep while she was thinking. It seemed to her thathardly a minute passed before she woke again, to hear her mother movingin the next room, and to see full daylight streaming in at the window. 

And suddenly, just as she awoke, it rushed upon her when and how she hadheard of Anegay. 

She saw herself, a little child, standing by the side of Licorice. Withthem was old Belya, the mother of Hamon, and before them stood anenormous illuminated volume at which they were looking. Belasez foundit impossible to remember what had been said by Belya; but her mother'sresponse was as vivid in her mind as if the whole scene were ofyesterday. 

"Hush! The child must not know. Yes, Belya, thou art right. That wastaken from Anegay's face. "

What was it that was taken? And dimly before Belasez's mental eyes apicture seemed to grow, in which a king upon his throne, and a womanfainting, were the principal figures. Esther before Ahasuerus!

That was it, of course. And Belasez sprang up, with a determination tosearch through her father's books, and to find the picture which hadbeen taken from Anegay's face. 

But, after all, who was Anegay?

Licorice was in full tide of business and porridge-making, in her littlekitchen, when Belasez presented herself with an apology for being late. 

"Nay, folks that go to bed at nine may well not rise till five, " saidLicorice, graciously. "Throw more salt in here, child, and fetch theporringers whilst I stir it. Call thy father and Delecresse, --breakfastwill be ready by the time they are. "

Breakfast was half over when Licorice inquired of her daughter whom shehad seen at Bury Castle. 

"Oh! to speak to, only the Countess and her daughter, Damsel Margaret, and the other young damsels, Doucebelle, Eva, and Marie; and Levina, theLady's dresser. They showed me some others through the window, so thatI knew their names and faces. "

Belasez quietly left out the priests. 

"And what knights didst thou see there?"

"Through the window? Sir Hubert the Earl, and Sir Richard ofGloucester, and Sir John the Earl's son, and Sir John de Averenches. Oh! I forgot Dame Hawise, Sir John's wife; but I never saw much ofher. "

"There was no such there as one named Bruno de Malpas, I suppose?" askedLicorice, with assumed carelessness. "No, there was no knight of thatname. " But in her heart Belasez felt that the name belonged to thepriest, Father Bruno. 

A few more questions were asked her, of no import, and then they rose. When Licorice set her free from household duties, Belasez took her wayto the little closet over the porch which served as her father'slibrary. He was the happy possessor of eleven volumes, --a goodly numberat that date. Eight she passed by, knowing them to contain no pictures. The ninth was an illuminated copy of the Brut, which of course began, as all chronicles then did, with the creation; but Belasez lookedthrough it twice without finding any thing to satisfy her. Next camethe Chronicle of Benoit, but the illuminations in this were merelyinitials and tail-pieces in arabesque. There was only one left, and itwas the largest volume in the collection. Belasez could not rememberhaving ever opened it. She pulled it down now, just missing a sprainedwrist in the process, and found it to be a splendid copy of theHagiographa, with full-page pictures, glowing with colours and gold. Ofcourse, the illuminations had been executed by Christian hands; but allthese books had come to Abraham in exchange for bad debts, and he wasnot so consistent as to refuse to look at the representations of createdthings, however wicked he might account it to produce them. Belasezturned over the stiff leaves, one after another, till she reached theBook of Esther. Yes, surely that was the picture she remembered. Theresat the King Ahasuerus on a curule chair, wearing a floriated crown anda mantle clasped at the neck with a golden fibula; and there faintedQueen Esther in the arms of her ladies, arrayed in the tight gown, thepocketing sleeve, the wimple, and all other monstrosities of the earlyPlantagenet era. A Persian satrap, enclosed in a coat of mail and asurcoat with a silver shield, whereon an exceedingly rampant red lionwas disporting itself, appeared to be coming to the help of his liegelady; while a tall white lily, in a flower-pot about twice the size ofthe throne, occupied one side of the picture. To all these detailsBelasez paid no attention. The one thing at which she looked was theface of the fainting Queen, which was turned full towards the spectator. It was a very lovely face of a decidedly Jewish type. But what madeBelasez glance from it to the brazen mirror fixed to the wall opposite?Was it Anegay of whom Bruno had been thinking when he murmured that shewas so like some one? Undoubtedly there was a likeness. The same pureoval face, the smooth calm brow, the dark glossy hair: but it struckBelasez that her own features, as seen in the mirror, were the lessprominently Jewish. 

And, once more, who was Anegay?

How little it is possible to know of the innermost heart of our nearestfriends! Belasez went through all her duties that day, without rousingthe faintest suspicion in the mind of her mother that she had heard asyllable of the conversation between her parents the night before. Yetshe thought of little else. Her household work was finished, and shesat in the deep recess of the window at her embroidery, when Delecressecame and stood beside her. 

"Belasez, who was that damsel that sat talking with my Lord ofGloucester in the hall when we passed through?"

"That was the Damsel Margaret, daughter of Sir Hubert the Earl. "

"What sort of a maiden is she?"

"Very sweet and gentle. I liked her extremely. She was always mostkind to me. "

"Is she attached to my Lord of Gloucester?"

It was a new idea to Belasez. 

"Really, I never thought of that, Cress. But I should not at all wonderif she be. She is constantly talking of him. "

"Does he care for her?"

"I fancy he does, by the way I have seen him look up at her windows. "

"Yes, I could tell that from his face. "

The tone of her brother's voice struck Belasez unpleasantly. 

"Cress! what dost thou mean?"

"It is a pity that the innocent need suffer with the guilty, " answeredDelecresse, contemptuously. "But it mostly turns out so in this world. "

Belasez grasped her brother's wrists. 

"Cress, thou hast no thought of revenging thyself on Sir Richard ofGloucester for that boyish trick he once played on thee?"

"I'll be even with him, Belasez. No man--least of all a Christian dog--shall insult me with impunity. "

"O Cress, Cress! Thou must not do it. Hast thou forgotten thatvengeance belongeth to the Holy One, to whom be glory? And for such amere nothing as that!"

"Nothing! Dost thou call it nothing for a son of Abraham to be termed aJew cur by one of those creeping things of Gentiles? Is not the day athand when they shall be our ploughmen and vine-dressers?"

"Well, then, " answered Belasez, assuming a playfulness which she was farfrom feeling, "when Sir Richard is thy ploughman, thou canst knock hiscap off. "

"Pish! They like high interest, these Christians. I'll let them haveit, the other way about. "

"Cress, what dost thou mean to do?"

"I mean that he shall pay me every farthing that he owes, " saidDelecresse through his clenched teeth. "I cannot have it in gold coins, perhaps. It will suit me as well in drops of blood, --either from hisveins or from his heart. "

"Delecresse, thou _shalt not_ touch the Damsel Margaret, if that be themeaning of those terrible words. "

"I am not going to touch her, " replied Delecresse, scornfully, "evenwith the tongs he took to my cap. I would not touch one of the vileinsects for all the gold at Norwich!"

"But what dost thou mean?"

"Hold thou thy peace. I was a fool to tell thee. "

"What art thou going to do?" persisted Belasez. 

"What thou wilt hear when it is done, " said Delecresse, walking away. 

He left poor Belasez in grief and terror. Some misery, of what sort shecould not even guess, was impending over her poor friend Margaret. Howwas it possible to warn her?--and of what was she to be warned?

A few minutes were spent in reflection, and then Belasez's work washastily folded, and she went in search of her father. Abraham listenedwith a perplexed and annoyed face. 

"That boy always lets his hands go before his head! But what can I do, daughter? In good sooth, I would not willingly see any injury done tothe Christians that have been so kind to thee. Where is Cress?"

"He went into the kitchen, " said Belasez. Abraham shuffled off in thatdirection, in the loose yellow slippers which were one of the recognisedsigns of a Jew. 

"Delecresse is just gone out, " he said, coming back directly. "I willtalk to him when he comes in. "

But twelve days elapsed before Delecresse returned. 

"Cress, thou wilt not do anything to Sir Richard of Gloucester?"earnestly pleaded Belasez, when she found him alone. 

"No, " said Delecresse, with a glitter in his eyes which was notpromising. 

"Hast thou done any thing?"

"All I mean to do. "

"O Cress, what hast thou done?"

"Go to bed!" was the most lucid explanation which all the eagerentreaties of Belasez could obtain from her brother. 

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Note 1. The feminine singular of the Hebrew word rendered, in the A. V. , "creeping things. " Dr Edersheim tells us that this flattering term iscommonly employed in speaking of a Gentile. 

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 mischief 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 might 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. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Priest. All Jews named Cohen are sons of Aaron. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

PAYING THE BILL. 

 "'Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow, Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow. "

 _Leigh Hunt_. 

Father Bruno was walking slowly, with his hands one in the other behindhim, about a mile from Bury Castle. It was a lovely morning in April, and, though alone, he had no fear of highwaymen; for he would have beena bold sinner indeed who, in 1236, meddled with a priest for his harm. An absent-minded man was Father Bruno, at all times when he was free toindulge in meditation. For to him:--

 "The future was all dark, And the past a troubled sea, And Memory sat in his heart Wailing where Hope should be. "

He was given to murmuring his thoughts half aloud when in solitude; andhe was doing it now. They oscillated from one to the other of twosubjects, closely associated in his mind. One was Belasez: the otherwas a memory of his sorrowful past, a fair girl-face, the likeness towhich had struck him so distressingly in hers, and which would neverfade from his memory "till God's love set her at his side again. "

"What will become of the maiden?" he whispered to himself. "So like, solike!--just what my Beatrice might have been, if--nay, Thou art wise, OLord! It is I who am blind and ignorant. Ay, and just the same age!She must be the infant of whom Licorice spoke: she was then in thecradle, I remember. She said that if Beatrice had lived, they mighthave been like twin sisters. Well, well! Ay, and it is well. ForAnegay has found her in Heaven, safe from sin and sorrow, from tempestand temptation, with Christ for evermore. 

"`_O mea, spes mea, O Syon aurea, ut clarior oro_!'

"And what does it matter for me, during these few and evil days that areleft of this lower life? True, the wilderness is painful: but it willbe over soon. True, my spirit is worn and weary: but the rest of theNew Jerusalem will soon restore me. True, I am weak, poor, blind, ignorant, lonely, sorrowful: but my Lord is strength, wealth, light, wisdom, love, and joyfulness. Never canst thou be loveless, Bruno deMalpas, while the deathless love of Christ endureth; never canst thou belonely and forlorn, whilst thou hast His company who is the sunlight ofHeaven. Perhaps it would not have been good for me, had my belovedstayed with me. Nay, since He saw it good, it can be no perhaps, but acertainty. I suppose I should have valued Him less, had my jewel-casketremained full. Ay, Thou hast done well, my Lord! Pardon Thy servant ifat times the journey grows very weary to his weak human feet, and helongs for a draught of the sweet waters of earthly love which Thou hastpermitted to dry up. Grant him fresh draughts of that Living Waterwhereof he that drinketh shall thirst no more. Hold Thou me up, and Ishall be safe!

"Was I right in refusing to baptise the maiden? Verily, it would havebeen rich revenge on Licorice. I had no right, as I told her, to sufferthe innocence of her chrism to be soiled with the evil passions whichwere sin in me. Yet had I any right to deny her the grace of holybaptism, because I was not free from evil passions? Oh, how hard it isto find the straight road!

"Poor little maiden! What will become of her now? I fear theimpressions that have been made on her will soon be stifled in thepoisonous atmosphere into which she is gone. And I cannot bear to thinkof her as a lost soul, with that face so like my Anegay, and thatvoice--

"Now, shame upon thee, Bruno de Malpas! Is Belasez more to thee than toHim that died for her? Canst thou not trust Him who giveth unto Hissheep eternal life, not to allow this white lamb to be plucked out ofHis hand? O Lord, increase my faith!--for it is very low. I am one ofthe very weakest of Thy disciples. Yet I am Thine. Lord, Thou knowestall things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!"

During the time occupied by these reflections, Bruno had beeninstinctively approaching the Castle, and he looked up suddenly as hewas conscious of a clang of arms and a confused medley of voices, not invery peaceful tones, breaking in upon his meditations. He now perceivedthat the drawbridge was thronged with armed men, the portcullis drawnup, and the courtyard beyond full of soldiers in mail. 

"What is the matter, friend William?" asked Bruno of the porter at theouter gate. 

"Nay, the saints wot, good Father, not I: but of this am I very sure, that some mischance is come to my Lord. You were a wise man if you keptaway. "

"Not so, " was Bruno's answer, as he passed on: "it is the hireling, notthe shepherd, that fleeth from the wolf, and leaveth the sheep to bescattered. "

He made his way easily into the hall, for no one thought of staying apriest. The lower end was thronged with soldiers. On the dais stoodSir Piers de Rievaulx and half-a-dozen more, confronting Earl Hubert, who wore an expression of baffled amazement. Just behind him stood theCountess, evidently possessed by fear and anguish; Sir John de Burgh, with his hand upon his sword; Doucebelle, very white and frightened; andfurthest in the background, Sir Richard de Clare, who clasped in hisarms the fainting form of Margaret, and bent his head over her with alook of agonised tenderness. 

"Words are fine things, my Lord of Kent, " was the first sentencedistinguishable to Father Bruno, and the spokesman was Sir Piers. "ButI beg you to remember that it is of no earthly use talking to _me_ inthis strain. If you can succeed in convincing my Lord the King that youhad no hand in this business, well!"--and Sir Piers' shoulders went uptowards his ears, in a manner which indicated that result to be far fromwhat he expected. "But those two young fools don't attempt to deny it, and their faces would give them the lie if they did. As for my Lady--"

The Countess sprang forward and threw herself on her knees, clinging tothe arm of her husband, while she passionately addressed herself toboth. 

"Sir Piers, on my life and honour, my Lord knew nothing of this! It wasdone while he was away with the Lord King at Merton. --It was my doing, my Lord, mine! And it is true, what Sir Piers tells you. My daughterhas gone too far with Sir Richard de Clare, ever to be married toanother. " [Note 1. ]

Sir Piers stood listening with a rather amused set of the lips, as if hethought the scene very effective. To him, the human agony before hiseyes was no more than a play enacted for his entertainment. Of courseit was in the way of business; but Sir Piers' principle was to get asmuch diversion out of his business as he could. 

"Very good indeed, Lady, " said that worthy Minister. "Your confessionmay spare you some annoyance. But as to your Lord, it will do nothing. You hardly expect us to swallow this pretty little fiction, I suppose?If you do, I beg you will undeceive yourself. --Officers, do your duty. "The officers had evidently received previous instructions, for they atonce laid their hands on the shoulders of Earl Hubert and Sir Richard. The half-insensible Margaret was roused into life by the attempt to takeher bridegroom from her. With a cry that might have touched any heartbut that of Sir Piers de Rievaulx, she flung her arms around him andheld him close. 

Apparently the officers were touched, for they stopped and looked attheir chief for further orders. 

"Coward loons as ye are!--are ye frightened of a girl?" said Sir Pierswith a harsh laugh, and he came forward himself. "Lady Margaret, thereis no need to injure you unless you choose. Please yourself. I amgoing to arrest this young knight. "

But for one second, Sir Piers waited himself. Those around mistook itfor that knightly courtesy of which there was none in him. They did notknow that suddenly, to him, out of Margaret's pleading eyes looked theeyes of the dead sister, Serena de Rievaulx, and it seemed to him asthough soft child-fingers held him off for an instant. He had neverloved any mortal thing but that dead child. 

With one passionate, pleading gaze at Sir Piers, Margaret laid her headon the breast of Sir Richard, and sobbed as though her heart werebreaking. 

"My Lord, my Lord!" came, painfully mixed with long-drawn sobs, from thelips of the young bride. "My own, own Richard! And only two monthssince we were married!--Have you the heart to part us?" she cried, suddenly turning to Sir Piers. "Did you never love any one?"

"Never, Madam. " For once in his life, Sir Piers spoke truth, Never--except Serena: and not much then. 

"Brute!" And with this calumnious epithet--for brutes can love dearly--Margaret resumed her former attitude. 

"Lady Margaret, I must trouble you, " said Sir Piers, in tones ofhardness veneered with civility. 

"My darling, you must let me go, " interposed the young Earl ofGloucester, who seemed scarcely less miserable than his bride. 

"Magot, my child, we may not stay justice, " said the distressed tones ofher father. 

Yet she held tight until Sir Piers tore her away. 

"Look to the damsel, " he condescended to say, with a glance atDoucebelle and Bruno. "Oh, ha!--where is the priest that blessed thiswedding? I must have him. "

"There was no priest, " sobbed the Countess, lifting her head from herhusband's arm, where she had let it sink: "it was _per verbadepresenti_. "

"That we will see, " was the cool response of Sir Piers. "Take all thepriests, Sir Drew. --Now, my Lady!"

"Fare thee well, my jewel, " said Earl Hubert, kissing the brow of theCountess. "Poor little Magot!--farewell, too. "

"Sir Hubert, my Lord, forgive me! I meant no ill. "

"Forgive thee?" said the Earl, with a smile, and again kissing hiswife's brow. "I could not do otherwise, my Margaret. --Now, Sir Piers, we are your prisoners. "

"These little amenities being disposed of, " sneered Sir Piers. "Isuppose women must cry over something:--kind, I should think, to givethem something to cry about. --March out the prisoners. "

Father Nicholas had been discovered in his study, engaged in the deepestmeditation on a grammatical crux; and had received the news of hisarrest with a blank horror and amazement very laughable in the eyes ofSir Piers. Master Aristoteles was pounding rhubarb with his sleevesturned up, and required some convincing that he was not wantedprofessionally. Father Warner was no where to be found. The threepriests were spared fetters in consideration of their sacred character:both the Earls were heavily ironed. And so the armed band, with theirprisoners, marched away from the Castle. 

The feelings of the prisoners were diverse. Father Nicholas was simplyastonished beyond any power of words to convey. Master Aristoteles wasconvinced that the recent physical disturbances in the atmosphere weremore than enough to account for the whole affair. Earl Hubert felt surethat his old enemy, the Bishop of Winchester, was at the bottom of it. Earl Richard was disposed to think the same Father Bruno alone lookedupwards, and saw God. 

But assuredly no one of them saw the moving cause in that tall, stern, silent Jewish youth, and the last idea that ever entered the mind ofRichard de Clare was to associate this great grief of his life with theboyish trick he had played on Delecresse two years before. 

For the great grief of Richard's life this sorrow was. Through thesix-and-twenty years which remained of his mortal span, he never forgotit, and he never forgave it. 

It proved the easiest thing in the world to convince King Henry that hehad not intended Richard to marry Margaret. Had his dearly-beloveduncle, the Bishop of Valentia, held up before him a black cloth, andsaid, "This is white, " His Majesty would merely have wondered what couldbe the matter with his eyes. 

The next point was to persuade that royal and most deceivable individualthat he had entertained an earnest desire to see Richard married to aPrincess of Savoy, a cousin of the Queen. This, also, was notdifficult. The third lesson instilled into him was that, Richard havingthought proper to render this impossible by choosing for himself, he, King Henry, was a cruelly-injured and unpardonably insulted man. HisMajesty swallowed them all as glibly as possible. The metal being thusfused to the proper state, the prisoners were brought before theiraffronted Sovereign in person. 

They were tried in inverse order, according to importance. Father Brunocould prove, without much difficulty, that the obnoxious marriage hadtaken place, on the showing of the prosecution itself, before he hadentered the household. His penalty was the light one of discharge fromthe Countess's service. That he deserved no penalty at all was nottaken into consideration. The Crown could not so far err as to bring acharge against an entirely innocent man. The verdict, therefore, inFather Bruno's case resembled that of the famous jury who returned astheirs, "Not Guilty, but we hope he won't do it again. "

Master Aristoteles was next placed in the dock, and had the honour ofamusing the Court. His asseverations of innocent ignorance were somixed up with dissertations on the virtues of savin and betony, andlamenting references to the last eclipse which might have warned him ofwhat was coming on him, that the Court condescended to relax into asmile, and let the simple man go with the light sentence of six months'imprisonment. At a subsequent period in his life, Master Aristoteleswas wont to say that this sentence was the best thing that ever happenedto him, since the enforced meditation and idleness had enabled him tothink out his grand discovery that the dust which gathered on beams ofchestnut wood was an infallible specific for fever. He had sincetreated three fever patients in this manner, and not one of them haddied. Whether the patients would have recovered without the dust, andwith being so much let alone, Master Aristoteles did not concernhimself. 

Next came Father Nicholas. A light sentence also sufficed for him, noton account of his innocence, but because his friend the Abbot of Ham wasa friend of the Bishop of Winchester. 

Earl Hubert of Kent was then tried. The animus of his accusers wasplainly shown, for they brought up again all the old hackneyed chargeson account of which he had been pardoned years before--for some of themmore than once. The affront offered to the King by the Earl's marriagewith Margaret of Scotland, the fact that she and his third wife werewithin the forbidden degrees, and that no dispensation had beenobtained; these were renewed, with all the other disproved and spitefulaccusations of old time. But the head and front of the offending, inthis instance, was of course the marriage of his daughter. It did notmake much difference that Hubert calmly swore that he had never known ofthe marriage, either before or after, except what he had learned fromthe simple statement of the Countess his wife, to the effect that it hadbeen contracted at Bury Saint Edmund's, during his absence at Merton. The fervent intercession of Hubert's friends, moved by the passionateentreaties of the Countess, did not make much difference either; butwhat did make a good deal was that the Earl (who knew his royal master)offered a heavy golden bribe for pardon of the crime he had notcommitted. King Henry thereupon condescended to announce that inconsideration of the effect produced upon his compassionate heart by thepiteous intercession of the prisoner's friends, --

 "His fury should abate, and he The crowns would take. "

Earl Hubert therefore received a most gracious pardon, and was permittedto return (minus the money) to the bosom of his distracted family. 

But the heaviest vengeance fell on the young head of Richard de Clare, and through him on the fair girl with the cedar hair, whose worst crimewas that she had loved him. It was not vengeance that could be weighedlike Hubert's coins, or told on the clock like the imprisonment of hisphysician. It was counted out, throb by throb, in the agony of twohuman hearts, one fiercely stabbed and artificially healed, and theother left to bleed to death like a wounded doe. 

The King's first step was to procure a solemn Papal sentence of divorcebetween Richard and Margaret. Their consent, of course, was neitherasked nor thought needful. His Majesty's advisers allowed him--andRichard--a little rest then, before they thought it necessary to do anything more. 

The result of the trial was to leave Father Bruno homeless. He returnedto his monastery at Lincoln, and sought the leave of his Superior to betransferred to the Convent of the Order at Norwich. His heart stillyearned over Belasez, with a tenderness which was half of Heaven andhalf of earth. Yet he knew that in all probability he would never findit possible to cross her path. Well! let him do what he could, andleave the rest with God. If He meant them to meet, meet they must, though Satan and all his angels combined to bar the way. 

"Wife!"

"May thy beard be shaven! I was just dropping off. Well?"

It had taken Abraham a long while to summon up his courage to make whathe felt would be to Licorice an unwelcome communication. He was ratherdismayed to find it so badly received at the first step. 

"Do go on, thou weariest of old jackdaws! I'm half asleep. "

"I have spoken to the child, Licorice. "

"As if thou couldst not have said that half an hour ago! Well, how domatters stand?"

"There is one person in particular whom she is sorry to leave. "

"Of course there is! I saw that as plain as the barber's pole acrossthe street. Didn't I tell thee so? Is it some young Christian gallant, and who is he? Blessed be the memory of Abraham our father!--why did weever let that girl go to Bury?"

"It is not as thou art fearing, wife. But--it is worse. "

"Worse!" Licorice seemed wide awake enough now. "Why, what could therebe worse, unless she had married a Christian, or had abjured her faith?"

"Wife, this is worse. She has seen--him. "

"De Malpas?" The name was almost hissed from the lips of Licorice. 

"The same. It was to be, Licorice. Adonai knows why! But it isevident they were fated to meet. "

"What did the viper tell her?"

"I do not gather that he told her any thing, except that she brought aface to his memory that he had known of old. She fancies--and so ofcourse does he--that it was her sister. "

A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez's blood curdle as shelay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than theangel. 

"What an ass he must be, never to guess the truth!"

"She wants to know the truth, wife. She asked me if she might not. "

"Thou let it alone. I'll cook up a nice little story, that will set hermind at rest. "

"O Licorice!--more deception yet?"

"Deception! Why, wouldst thou tell her the truth? Just go to her now, and wake her, and let her know that she is--"

Belasez strained her ears to their utmost, but the words which followedcould not be heard from her mother's dropped tones. 

"What would follow--eh?" demanded Licorice, raising her voice again. 

"Adonai knows!" said Abraham, sadly. "But I suppose we could not keepher long. "

"I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what heand his catch-polls will say. Wouldn't there be a pretty ferment? Oldman, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talkingabout lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I'll let thee know whenI think there's any danger of it), and show a little spice of prudence, like a craftsman of middle earth as thou art. More deception! Ofcourse there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide tobegin with, it he does not want to be carried down it. "

"The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that sheeither became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thingmore. "

"Who told her Anegay's name?"

"I cannot imagine. It might be Bruno. "

"We have always been so careful to keep it from her hearing. "

There was a pause. 

"Didst thou find the Christian dog had tampered with her faith?"

"I don't know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her. "

"Then he has, no doubt. I'll get it out of her. "

Belasez trembled at the threat. 

"Any thing more, old man? If not, I'll go to sleep again. "

"Licorice, " said Abraham in a low voice, "the child said she loved him--as she loves me. "

"May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to themboth?"

"It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not knowwhy. "

"Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!"

"I doubt if it do, " was Abraham's dry answer. 

"Such a rabbit as thou art!--as frightened as a hare, and as soft as abag of duck's down. I'm going to sleep. "

And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, withthat uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen, with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It graduallydawned upon her that Licorice was going to "get it out of her, " and waslikewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She hadnot heard two sentences which passed between her parents before shewoke, or she might have been still more on her guard. 

"Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I toldher 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 aswell. "

When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were dulycompleted, Licorice made Belasez's heart flutter by a command to attendher in the little porch-chamber. 

"Belasez, " she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantlyhave suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing, --for Licorice'scharacter was well known to her--"Belasez, I hear from thy father thatthou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was akinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thoushalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from theefurther than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and Ihave not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abrahamthy father, and therefore thine aunt. "

Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father'ssister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed thatAbraham's references to the dead girl were made with far more indicationof love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that thismight be due to the existence of relationship on his part and not onhers. 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 proceedingwhich imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her weregenerally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impressionthat 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 onlyand motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. Icannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, butAnegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name wasBeatrice--"

A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feelespecially 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 thecardinal virtues. 

"Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practisethe Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over allunfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within theirinfluence. "

There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more chargesbrought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believedsimilar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at BuryCastle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken anduprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction thatJews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of thesame stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found inboth camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom shechose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidenceor communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in suchdifferent moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any. Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was whollyuncultivated, and whose imagination all ran into cunning and deceit. Belasez was an article of much finer quality, both mentally and morally. The only person in her own family with whom she could exchange thoughtor feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came thenearest to it. 

It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to haveso little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold herselfinto more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheerimpossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognitionthat it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her ownfault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness ofheart. 

"It seems to me, " continued Licorice, "that this bad young man, whosename was De Malpas, must have cast a spell on our poor, unhappy Anegay. For how else could a daughter of Israel come to love so vile an insectas one of the accursed Goyim?

"For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it wasto all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of amarriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resourcewas to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forgetall about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant ofthe Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy fatherwere wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay withus. "

Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: buthow much of it was true? "And did she forget him, Mother?"

"Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty. " Belasez privatelythought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a dutyas this would be extremely hard to do. 

"Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?"

"She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and diedsoon after the birth of her first child, " said Licorice, glibly. "Andwas she really happy, Mother?"

"Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else. "

Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced. 

"Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits toBury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to betrusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities availthee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom aChristian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years shecould not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do notmistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee. "

And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of theinterview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religiousquestion for another time. 

"May I ask one other question, Mother?--what became of the maidenBeatrice and her brother?"

Licorice's eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on theprinciple of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where theroad did not lead. 

"The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not knowwhat became of the maiden. "

Licorice disappeared. 

"The squire was not killed, I am sure, " said Belasez to herself. "It isFather Bruno. "

Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay wasnot her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno wassure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him wasonly too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the veryexistence of Beatrice, were in Belasez's eyes purely fictitious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted thelatter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to thatgleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she waslaunching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction. Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she werenot a real person. 

But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all theallusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, asthey recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heardnothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it inthe least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling thatsomething was left behind which had not been told her?

Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a momentafter, she sprang to a sitting posture. 

Yes, there was something behind!

What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham andLicorice their lives? What had she heard which explained thosemysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story?Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that onepoint which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know, --whichLicorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?

There was not much sleep for Belasez that night. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took thewhole blame upon herself. 

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 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 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. 

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 myfathers. For this child, if she can believe it, --well: she is morethine than mine, --_ay Dios_! And perhaps there is this much change inme, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not beidolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? Weknow so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easilytransplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oakalone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son, --a maiden whomI should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew maybow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, butwhich seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave isbound 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 ofeither of you. "

"But thou believest all these?" said Abraham. 

"I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very littlematter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another manthink he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before God. ForMary, 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 theChurch, --why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, towhom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, thenthey have no right to be hers. "

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

"It is better, " said Belasez softly. 

"Father, my Christianity is Christ. I concern not myself with othermen, except to save them, so far as it pleases God to work by me. "

"Well, well! May Adonai forgive us all!--My son, what dost thou mean todo with the child? It is for thee to decide now. "

"My father, I shall endeavour to obtain absolution from my vows, and tobecome once more a parish priest, so that my Beatrice may dwell with me. Until then, choose thou whether she shall remain with thee, or go backto Bury Castle. I am sure the Lady would gladly receive her. "

"Nay, Bruno, do not ask me to choose! If the child be here whenLicorice returns, she will never dwell with thee. I believe she wouldwell-nigh stab us both to the heart sooner than permit it. And I fearshe may come any day. "

"Then she had better come with me to Bury. "

"`It is Adonai!' So be it. "

"But I shall see thee, my father?" asked Belasez, addressing Abraham. 

"Trust me for that, my Belasez! I can come to thee on my tradejourneys, so long as it pleases the Holy One that I have strength totake them. And after that--He will provide. My son, wilt thou come forthe child to-morrow? I will let thee out at the postern door; for thouhadst better not meet Delecresse. "

And Abraham drew back the bolt, and opened the baize door. 

"Father Jacob!" they heard him instantly ejaculate, in a very differenttone from that of his last words. 

"What hast thou been about now?" demanded the shrill voice of Licoricein the passage outside. "When folks are frightened at the sight oftheir lawful wives, it is a sure sign they have been after somemischief. Is there any one in yon chamber except thyself?--Ah, Belasez, I am glad to see thee; 'tis more than I expected. But, child, thoushouldst have set the porridge on half an hour ago; go down and look toit. --Any body else? Come, I had best see for myself. "

And Licorice pushed past her husband, and walked into the room whereBruno was standing. He came forward to meet her, with far more apparentcalmness than Abraham seemed to feel. 

"Good even, my mother, " he said courteously. 

"If I were thy mother, I would hang myself from the first gable, " hissedLicorice between her closed teeth. "I know thee, Bruno de Malpas, thouvile grandson of a locust! Nay, locust is too good for thee: they areclean beasts, and thou art an unclean. Thou hare, camel, coney, night-hawk, raven, lobster, earwig, hog! I spit on thee seven times, "--and she did it--"I deliver thee over to Satan thy master--"

"That thou canst not, " quietly said Bruno. 

"I sweep thee out of my house!" And suiting the action to the word, Licorice caught up a broom which stood in the corner, and proceeded toapply it with good will. Bruno retreated, as was but natural he should. 

"Licorice, my dear wife!"

"I'll sweep _thee_ out next!" cried Licorice, brandishing her broom inthe very face of her lord and master. "I'll have no Christians, norChristian blood, nor Christian faith, in my house, as I am a livingdaughter of Abraham! Get you all out hence, ye loathsome creepingthings, which whosoever toucheth shall be unclean! Get ye out, I say!--Belasez, bring me soap and water. I'll not sleep till I've washed thefloor. I'd wash the air if I could. "

"Your pardon, Mother, but if you will have no Christian blood in yourhouse, you must sweep me out, " answered Belasez, with a mixture ofdignity and irrepressible amusement. 

Licorice turned round to Abraham. 

"Thou hast told her?"

"It was better she should know, wife. "

"I'll chop thy head off, if I hear thee say that again!--And dost thoumean to be a Christian, thou wicked girl?"

"I do, Mother. And I mean to go with my father. "

"Go, then--like to like!--and all the angels of Satan go with thee!"

And the broom came flying after Belasez. 

"Nay, wife, give the child her raiment and jewels. "

"I'll give her what belongs to her, and that's a hot iron, if she doesnot get out of that door this minute!"

"Wife!"

"I'll spoil her pretty face for her!" shrieked Licorice. "I never likedthe vain chit overmuch, nor Anegay neither: but if she does not go, I'llgive her something she won't forget in a hurry!"

"Come, my Beatrice, --quick!" said Bruno. 

"Go, go, my Belasez, and God keep thee!" sobbed Abraham. 

And so Belasez was driven away from her old home. She had hardlyexpected it. It had always been a trouble to her, and a cause ofself-reproach, that she and Licorice did not love each other better: andshe was not able to repress a sensation of satisfaction in making thediscovery that Licorice was not her mother. Yet Belasez had not lookedfor this. 

"What are we to do, Father?" she asked rather blankly. 

"I must lodge thee with the Sisters of Saint Clare, my child; there isnothing else to be done. I will come and fetch thee away so soon as myarrangements can be made. "

Beatrice, --as we must henceforth call her, --did not fancy thisarrangement at all. Bruno detected as much in her face. 

"Thou dost not like it, my dove?"

"I do not like being with strangers, " she said frankly. "And I amafraid the nuns will think me a variety of heathen, for I cannot do allthey will want me. "

"They will not, if I tell the Abbess that thou art a new convert, " saidBruno. "They may very likely attempt to instruct thee. "

"Father, why should there be any nuns?"

Beatrice did not know how she astonished Bruno. But he only smiled. 

"Thine eyes are unaccustomed to the light, " was all he answered. 

"But, Father, among our people of old, --I mean, " said Beatricehesitatingly, "my mother's people--"

"Go on, my Beatrice. Let it be `our people. ' Speak as it is nature tothee to do. "

"Thank you, my father. Among our people, there were no nuns. So farfrom it, that for a woman to remain unwed was considered a reproach. "

"Why?--dost thou know?"

"I think, because every woman longed for the glory of being the motherof the Messiah. "

"True. Therefore, Christ being come, that reproach is done away. Leteach woman choose for herself. `If a virgin marry, she hath notsinned. ' Nevertheless, `she that is unmarried thinks of the things ofthe Lord, that she may be holy, body and soul. '"

"Father, do you wish _me_ to be a nun?"

"Never!" hastily answered Bruno. "Nay, my Beatrice; I should not havesaid that. Be thou what the Lord thinks best to make thee. But I donot want to be left alone again. "

Beatrice's heart was set at rest. She had terribly feared for a momentlest Bruno, being himself a monk, might think her absolutely bound to bea nun. 

They soon reached the Franciscan Convent. The Abbess, a ratherstiffly-mannered, grey-haired woman, received her young guest withsedate kindliness, and committed her to the special charge of SisterEularia. This was a young woman of about twenty-five, in whose mindcuriosity was strongly developed. She took Beatrice up to thedormitory, showed her where she was to sleep, and gave her a seat on theform beside her at supper, which was almost immediately served. Beatrice noticed that whenever Eularia helped herself to any thingedible, she made the sign of the cross over it. 

"Why dost thou do that?" asked the young Jewess. 

"It is according to our rule, " replied the nun. "Surely thou knowesthow to cross thyself?"

"Indeed I do not. And I do not see why I should. "

"Poor thing!--how sadly thou lackest teaching! Dost thou not know thatour Lord Christ suffered on the cross?"

"Oh yes! But why must I cross myself on that account?"

"In respect to Him!" exclaimed Eularia. 

"Pardon me. If one whom I loved were slain by the sword, I should notcourtesy to every sword I saw, because I loved him. I should hate thevery sight of one. "

Eularia was scarcely less puzzled than Beatrice. 

"It is the symbol of our salvation, " she said. 

"I should look on it rather as the symbol of His suffering. "

"True: but He suffered for us. "

"For which reason I should still less admire that which made Himsuffer. "

Eularia shrugged her shoulders. 

"Thou art very ignorant. "

The discussion slumbered until they rose from supper; when Eulariaseated Beatrice beside her on the settle, and offered to instruct her inthe use of the rosary. 

"What a pretty necklace! I thought nuns did not wear ornaments?"

"Ornaments! Of course not. "

"Then what do you do with that?"

"We pray by it. "

"Pray--by--it! I do not understand. "

"We keep count of our prayers. "

"Count!--why?"

"Why, how could we remember them else?"

"But why should you remember?"

"Poor ignorant child! When thou comest to make confession, thou wiltfind that the priest will set thee for penance, so many Aves and so manyPaternosters. "

"What are those?"

"Dost thou never pray?" gasped Eularia. 

"I never say so many of one thing, and so many of another, " answeredBeatrice, half laughing. "I never heard anything so absurd. The holyprophets did not pray in that way. "

"Of course they did!" exclaimed Eularia. "How could they obtain help ofour Lady, without repeating Ave and Salve?"

"How could they, indeed, before she was born?" was the retort. 

"Oh dear, dear!" said Eularia. "Why, thou knowest nothing. "

Beatrice privately thought that she would prefer not to know all thatrubbish. Plenty of it was served up to her before she left the convent, by the holy Sisters of Saint Clare. 

It was nearly three weeks before Bruno came for her, and very weary ofher hosts she was. They were no less astonished and dismayed by her. The ignorant heathen would not worship the holy images, would not useholy water, would not kneel before the holy Sacrament, would not dothis, that, and the other: and, not content with this series ofnegations, she actually presumed to reason about them!

"What dost thou believe?" despairingly demanded Sister Eularia at last. 

"I believe in God, " said Beatrice gravely. "And I believe that Jesus ofNazareth was the Sent of God. "

"And in the Holy Ghost?" asked Eularia. 

"If I understand you, certainly. Is it not written, `The Spirit of Godhath made me'?"

"And in holy Church?"

"I do not know. What is it?"

"How shocking! And in the forgiveness of sins?"

"Assuredly. "

"And in the resurrection and eternal life?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"And in the invocation of the holy saints?"

"I believe that there have been holy men and women. "

"And dost thou invoke them?"

"Do you mean, pray to them?"

"Dost thou beg of them to intercede for thee?"

"No, indeed, not I!"

"Did I ever see such ignorance! And thou wilt not learn. "

"I will learn of my father, and no one else. I am sure he does notbelieve half the rubbish you do. "

"_Sancta Hilaria, or a pro nobis_!"

"What language is that?" innocently asked Beatrice. 

"The holy tongue, of course. "

"It is not our holy tongue. "

"Have Jews a holy tongue?" responded Eularia, in surprise. 

"Yes, indeed, --Hebrew. "

"I did not know they believed any thing to be holy. Have they anyrelics?"

"I do not know what those are. "

Eularia led the way to the sacristy. 

"Look here, " she said, reverently opening a golden reliquary set withrubies. "Here is a small piece of the holy veil of our foundress, SaintClare. This is the finger-bone of the blessed Evangelist Matthew. Hereis a piece of the hoof of the holy ass on which our Lord rode. Now thouknowest what relics are. "

"But what can make you keep such things as those?" asked Beatrice, opening wide her lustrous eyes. 

"And this, " enthusiastically added Eularia, opening another reliquaryset with emeralds and pearls, "is our most precious relic, --one of thesmall feathers from the wing of the holy angel, Saint Gabriel. "

To the intense horror of Eularia, a silver laugh of unmistakableamusement greeted this holy relic. 

"Beatrice! hast thou no reverence?"

"Not for angels' feathers, " answered Beatrice, still laughing. "Well, Idid think you had more sense!"

"I can assure thee, thou wilt shock Father Bruno if thou allowestthyself to commit such improprieties. "

"I shall shock him, then. How excessively absurd!"

Eularia took her unpromising pupil out of the sacristy more hastily thanshe had led her in. And perhaps it was as well for Beatrice that FatherBruno arrived the next day. 

They reached Bury Castle in safety. The Countess had been very muchinterested in Father Bruno's story, and most readily acceded to hisrequest to leave Beatrice as her visitor until he should have a home towhich he could take her. And Beatrice de Malpas, the daughter of abaronial house in Cheshire, was a very different person in theestimation of a Christian noble from Belasez, daughter of the Jewpedlar. 

Rather to her surprise, she found herself seated above the salt, thatis, treated as a lady of rank: and the embargo being over which hadconfined her to Margaret's apartments, she took her place at the Earl'stable in the banquet-hall. Earl Hubert's quick eyes soon found out theaddition to his supper-party, and he condescended to remark that she wasextremely pretty, and quite an ornament to the hall. Beatrice herselfwas much pleased to find her old friend Doucebelle seated next to her, and they soon began to converse on recent events. 

It is a curious fact as concerns human nature, that however long friendsmay have been parted, their conversation nearly always turns on what hashappened just before they met again. They do not speak of whatdelighted or agonised them ten years ago, though the effect may haveextended to the whole of their subsequent lives. They talk of lastweek's journey, or of yesterday's snow-storm. 

Beatrice fully expected Doucebelle's sympathy on the subject of relics, and she was disappointed to find it not forthcoming. Doucebelle wasrather inclined to be shocked than amused. The angel's feather, in hereyes, was provocative of any thing rather than ridicule: and Beatrice, who had anticipated her taking the common-sense view of the matter, feltchilled by the result. 

Life had fallen back into its old grooves at Bury Castle. Grief, withthe Countess, was usually a passionate, but also a transitory feeling. Her extremely easy temper led her to get rid of a sorrow as soon as evershe could. Pain, whether mental or bodily, was in her eyes not anecessary discipline, but an unpleasant disturbance of the proper orderof events. In fact, she was one of those persons who are always popularby reason of their gracious affability, but in whom, below the fair flowof sweet waters, there is a strong substratum of stony selfishness. Sheobjected to people being in distress, not because it hurt them, butbecause it hurt her to see them. And the difference between the two, though it may scarcely show at times on the surface, lies in an entireand essential variety of the strata underneath. 

It was only natural that, with this character, the Countess shouldexpect others to be as little impressed by suffering as herself. Shereally had no conception of a disposition to which sorrow was not aneasily-healed scratch, but a scar that would be carried to the grave. In her eyes, the calamity which had happened to her daughter was adisappointment, undoubtedly, but one which she would find no difficultyin surmounting at all. There were plenty of other men in the world, quite as handsome, as amiable, as rich, and as noble, as Richard deClare. If such a grief had happened to herself, she would have weptincessantly for a week, been low-spirited for a month, and in a yearwould have been wreathed with smiles, and arranging her trousseau for awedding with another bridegroom. The only thing which could really havedistressed her long, would have been if the vacant place in her life had_not_ been refilled. 

But Margaret's character was of a deeper type. For her the world heldno other man, and life's blossom once blighted, no second crop ofhappiness could grow, at least on the same tree. To such a character asthis, the only possibility of throwing out fresh bloom is when the treeis grafted by the great Husbandman with amaranth from Heaven. 

Yet it was not in Margaret's nature--it would have been in hermother's--to say much of what she felt. Outwardly, she showed nodifference, except that her _coeur leger_ was gone, never to return. She did not shut herself up and refuse to join in the employments oramusements of those around her. And the majority of those around neversuspected that the work and the amusement alike had no interest for her, nor would ever have any: that she "could never think as she had thought, or be as she had been, again. "

One person only perceived the truth, and that was because he was cast ina like mould. Bruno saw too plainly that the hope expressed by theCountess that "Magot was getting nicely over her disappointment" was nottrue, --never would be true. In his case the amaranth had been graftedin, and the plant was blossoming again. But there was no such hope forher, at least as yet. 

Beatrice was unable to enter into Margaret's feelings, not so muchthrough want of capacity as of experience. Eva was equally unable, being naturally at once of a more selfish and a less concentrateddisposition: her mind would have been more easily drawn from hersorrow, --an important item of the healing process. Doucebelle camenearest; but as she was the most selfless of all, her grief in like casewould have been rather for the sufferings of Richard than for her own. 

Beatrice soon carried the relic question to her father for decision;though with some trepidation as to what he would say. If he should notagree with her, she would be sorely disappointed. Bruno's smile halfreassured her. 

"So thou canst not believe in the genuineness of these relics?" said he. "Well, my child, so that thou hast full faith in Christ and Hissalvation, I cannot think it much matters whether thou believest acertain piece of stuff to be the veil of Saint Clare or not. NeitherSaint Clare nor her veil is concerned in thine eternal safety. "

"But Doucebelle seems almost shocked. She does believe in them. "

"Perhaps it will not harm her--with the like proviso. "

"But, Father!--the honour in which they hold these rags and bones seemsto me like idolatry!"

"Then be careful thou commit it not. "

"But _you_ do not worship such things?"

"Dear child, I find too much in Christ and in this perishing world, tohave much time to think of them. "

Beatrice was only half satisfied. She would have felt more contentedhad Bruno warmly disclaimed the charge. It was at the cost of somedistress that she realised that what were serious essentials to her werecomparatively trivial matters to him. The wafts of polluted air wereonly too patent to her, which were lost in the purer atmosphere, at thealtitude where Bruno stood. 

The girls were gathered together one afternoon in the ante-chamber ofMargaret's apartments, and Bruno, who had come up to speak to hisdaughter, was with them. Except in special cases, no chamber of anyhouse was sacred from a priest. Eva was busy spinning, but it would bemore accurate to say that Marie, who was supposed to be spinning also, was engaged in breaking threads. Margaret was employed ontapestry-work; Doucebelle in plain sewing; and Beatrice with herdelicate embroidery. 

"Father, " said Beatrice, looking up suddenly, "I was taught that it wassin to make images of created things, on account of the words of thesecond commandment. What do you say?"

"`_Non fades tibi sculptile, neque omnem similitudinem_, '" murmuredBruno, reflectively. "I think, my child, that it depends very much onthe meaning of `_tibi_' Ah, I see in thy face thou hast learned noLatin. `Thou shalt not make _to thee_ any sculptured image. ' Then asculptured image may be made otherwise. The latter half of thecommandment, I think, shows what is meant. `_Non adorabis ea, nequecoles_'--`thou shalt not worship them. ' At the same time, Saint Paulsaith, `_Omne autem, quod non est ex fide, peccatum est_'--`all that isnot of faith is sin;' and `_nisi ei qui existimat quid commune esse, illi commune est_': namely, `to him who esteemeth a thing unclean, tohim it is unclean. ' If thou really believest it sin, by no means allowthyself to do it. "

"But, Father, suppose we cannot be sure?" said Doucebelle. 

"Thou needst not fear that thou wilt ever walk _too_ close to Christ, daughter, " quietly answered Bruno. 

"But, Father I are we bound to give up all that can possibly be sin, oreven can become sin?" asked Eva, in a tone which decidedly indicateddissent. 

"I should like to hear thy objection, daughter. "

"Why, we should have to give up every thing nice!" said Eva, disconsolately. "There are all sorts of delightful things, which arenot exactly sins, but--"

"Not quite virtues, " interposed Beatrice, with an amused expression, asEva paused. 

"Well, no. Still they are not wrong--in themselves. But they make onewaste one's time, or forget to say one's beads, or be cross to one'ssister, --just because they are so delightful, and one does not want togive over. And being cross is sin, I suppose; and so it is when oneforgets to say one's prayers: I don't know whether wasting time isexactly a sin. "

"I see, " said Bruno, in the same quiet tone. "Had our Lord sent thee toclear His Temple of the profane who desecrated it by traffic, thouwouldst have overthrown the tables of the money-changers, but not theseats of them that sold doves. "

Beatrice and Doucebelle answered by a smile of intelligence; Eva lookedrather dissatisfied. 

"But it is not a sin to be happy, Father?" asked Margaret in a lowvoice. 

"Not if God give thee the happiness. "

"That is just it!" said Eva, discontentedly. "How is one to know?"

"My child, " answered Bruno, ignoring the tone, "God never means Hischildren to put any thing into the place of Himself. The moment thoudost that, that thing is sin to thee. "

"But when do we do that, Father?" asked Doucebelle. 

"When it makes thee forget to say thy prayers, I should think, " drilyobserved Beatrice. 

"When it comes in the way between Him and thee, " said Bruno. 

"And is it a sin to waste time, Father?" queried Eva. 

"It is a sin to waste any thing, " answered Bruno. "But if it be more asin to waste one thing than another, surely it is to waste life itself. "

He rose and went away. Eva shrugged her shoulders with a wry face. 

"There never was any body so precise as Father Bruno! I would ratherask questions of Father Nicholas, ten times over. "

"Well, I don't like asking questions of Father Nicholas, " respondedDoucebelle, "because he never answers them. He never goes down to thebottom of things. "

"_Ha, chetife_!" cried Eva. "Dost thou want to get to the bottom ofthings? That is just why I like Father Nicholas, because he neverbothers one with reasons and distinctions. It is only, `Yes, thoumayest do so, ' or `No, do not do that, '--and then I am satisfied. Now, Father Bruno will persist in explaining why I am not to do it, and thatsometimes makes me want to do it all the more. It seems to leave it inone's own hands. "

Beatrice broke into a laugh. "Why, Eva, thou wouldst rather be a chairto be moved about, than a woman to be able to go at pleasure. "

"I would rather have a distinct order, " said Eva, a little scornfully. "`Do, ' or `Don't, ' I can understand. But, `Saint Paul says this, ' or`Saint John says that, ' and to have to make up one's own mind, --I detestit. "

"And I should detest the opposite. "

"I am afraid, Beatrice, thou art greatly wanting in the virtue of holyobedience. But of course one can make allowances for thine unhappyeducation. "

Eva had occasion to leave the room at the conclusion of thisunflattering speech: and Beatrice indulged in a long laugh. 

"Well, what I am afraid of, " she said to Margaret and Doucebelle, "isthat Eva is rather wanting in the virtue of common-sense. But whether Iam to lay that on her education, I do not know. "

There was no answer: but the thoughts of the hearers were almostopposites. Margaret considered Beatrice rash and self-satisfied. Doucebelle thought heartily with her, and only wished that she had asmuch courage to say so. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

WHAT IS LOVE?

 "She only said, `My life is dreary, He cometh not, ' she said: She said, `I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!'"

 _Tennyson_. 

It was fortunate for Bruno de Malpas that he had a friend in BishopGrosteste, whose large heart and clear brain were readily interested inhis wish to return from regular to secular orders. He smoothed the pathconsiderably, and promised him a benefice in his diocese if thedispensation could be obtained. But the last was a lengthy process, andsome months passed away before the answer could be received from Rome. 

It greatly scandalised Hawise and Eva--for different reasons--to see howvery little progress was made by Beatrice in that which in their eyeswas the Christian religion. It was a comfort to them to reflect thatshe had been baptised as an infant, and therefore in the event of suddendeath had a chance of going to Heaven, instead of the dreadful certaintyof being shut up in Limbo, --a place of vague locality and vaguercharacter, being neither pleasant nor painful, but inhabited by all thehapless innocents whose heathen or careless Christian parents sufferedthem to die unregenerated. But both of them were sorely shocked todiscover, when she had been about two months at Bury, that poor Beatricewas still ignorant of the five commandments of the Church. Nor was thisall: she irreverently persisted in her old inquiry of "What is theChurch?" and sturdily demanded what right the Church had to givecommandments. 

Hawise was quite distressed. It was not _proper_, --a phrase which, withher, was the strongest denunciation that could be uttered. Nobody hadever asked such questions before: _ergo_, they ought never to be asked. Every sane person knew perfectly well what the Church was (though, whengently urged by Beatrice, Hawise backed out of any definition), and nogood Catholic could possibly require telling. And as to so shocking asupposition as that the Church had no right to issue her own commands, --well, it was not proper!

Eva's objection was quite as strong, but of a different sort. Shereally could not understand what Beatrice wanted. If the priest--or theChurch--they were very much the same thing--told her what to do, couldshe not rest and be thankful? It was a great deal less trouble thaneverlastingly thinking for one's self. 

"No one of any note ever thinks for himself, " chimed in Hawise. 

"Then I am glad I am not of any note!" bluntly responded Beatrice. 

"You a De Malpas! I am quite shocked!" said Hawise. 

"God made me with a heart and a conscience, " was the answer. "If He hadnot meant me to use them, He would not have given them to me. "

At that point Beatrice left the room in answer to a call from theCountess; and Hawise, turning to her companions, remarked in a whisperthat it must be that dreadful Jewish blood on the mother's side whichhad given her such very improper notions. They were _so_ low! "For mypart, " she added, "if it were proper to say so, I should remark that Icannot imagine why Father Bruno does not see that she understandssomething of Christianity--but of course one must not criticise apriest. "

"Speak truth, my daughter, " said a voice from the doorway which ratherdisconcerted Hawise. "Thou canst not understand my actions--in whatrespect?"

"I humbly crave your pardon, Father; but I am really distressed aboutBeatrice. "

"Indeed!--how so?"

"She understands nothing about Christian duties. "

"I hope that is a little more than truth. But if not, --let herunderstand Christ first, my child: Christian duties will come after. "

"Forgive _me_, Father--without teaching?"

"Not without His teaching, " said Bruno, gravely. "Without mine, it maybe. "

"But, Father, she does not know the five commandments of holy Church. Nay, she asks what `the Church' means. "

"If she be in the Church, she can wait to know it. Thy garments willnot keep thee less warm because thou hast never learned how to weavethem. "

Hawise did not reply, but she looked unconvinced. 

A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she hadbeen so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex offeminine ambition. 

"I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe. "

Margaret sighed. 

"Dost thou like him?" asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, whichwas sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into askingdirect questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate toleave unasked. 

Eva blushed and simpered. 

"I'll tell thee, Beatrice, " said little Marie, dancing up. "She's overhead and ears in love--so much over head, "--and Marie's hand went ashigh as it would go above her own: "but it's my belief she has tumbledin on the wrong side. "

"`The wrong side'!" answered Beatrice, laughing. "The wrong side oflove? or the wrong side of Eva?"

"The wrong side of Eva, " responded Marie, with a positive little nod. "As to love, I'm not quite sure that she knows much about it: for Idon't believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares forbeing married. That's the grand thing with her, so far as I can makeout. And that's not my notion of love. "

"Thou silly little child of twelve, what dost thou know about it?"contemptuously demanded Eva. "Thy time is not come. "

"No, and I hope it won't, " said Marie, "if I'm to make such a goose ofmyself over it as thou dost. "

"Marie, Marie!"

"It's true, Margaret!--Now, Beatrice, dost thou not think so? She makesa regular misery of it. There is no living with her for a day or twobefore he comes to see her. She never gives him a minute's peace whenhe is here; and if he looks at somebody else, she goes as black as athunder-cloud. If he's half an hour late, she's quite sure he isvisiting some other gentlewoman, whom he loves better than he loves her. She's for ever making little bits of misery out of nothing. If he wereto call her `honey-sweet Eva' to-day, and only `sweet Eva' to-morrow, she would be positive there was some shocking reason for it, instead of, like a sensible girl, never thinking about it in that way at all. "

Beatrice and Doucebelle were both laughing, and even Margaret joined ina little. 

"Of course, " said Marie by way of postscript, "if Sir William had beenbadly hurt in a tournament, or anything of that sort, I could understandher worrying about it: or if he had told her that he did not love her, Icould understand that: but she worries for nothing at all! If he doesnot tell her that he loves her every time he comes, she fancies hedoesn't. "

"Marie, don't be so silly!"

"Thanks, I'll try not, " said Marie keenly. "And she calls that love!What dost thou think, Beatrice?"

"Why, I think it does not sound much like it, Marie--in thydescription. "

"Why, what notion of love hast thou?" said Eva scornfully. "I have notforgotten how thou wert wont to talk of thy betrothed. "

"But I never professed to love Leo, " said Beatrice, looking up. "Howcould I, when I had not seen him?"

"Dost thou want to see, in order to love?" sentimentally inquired Eva. 

"No, " answered Beatrice, thoughtfully. "But I want to know. I mighteasily love some one whom I had not seen with my eyes, if he were alwayssending me messages and doing kind actions for me: but I could not lovesomebody who was to me a mere name, and nothing more. "

"It is plain thou hast no sensitiveness, Beatrice. "

"I'd rather have sense, --wouldn't you?" said little Marie. 

"As if one could not have both!" sneered Eva. 

"Well, if one could, I should have thought thou wouldst, " retortedMarie. 

"Well! I don't understand you!" said Eva. "I cannot care to be lovedwith less than the whole heart. I should not thank you for just thelove that you can spare from other people. "

"But should not one have some to spare for other people?" suggestedMarie. 

"That sounds as if one's heart were a box, " said Beatrice, "that wouldhold so much and no more. Is it not more like a fountain, that can giveout perpetually and always have fresh supplies within?"

"Yes, for the beloved one, " replied Eva, warmly. 

"For all, " answered Beatrice. "That is a narrow heart which will holdbut one person. "

"Well, I would rather be loved with the whole of a narrow heart thanwith a piece of a broad one. "

"O Eva!"

"What dost thou mean, Doucebelle?" said Eva, sharply, turning on her newassailant. "Indeed I would! The man who loves me must love mesupremely--must care for nothing but me: must find his sweetest rewardfor every thing in my smile, and his bitterest pain in my displeasure. That is what I call love. "

"Well! I should call that something else--if Margaret wouldn't scold, "murmured Marie in an undertone. 

"What is that, Marie?" asked Margaret, with a smile. 

"Self-conceit; and plenty of it, " said the child. 

"Ask Father Bruno what he thinks, Beatrice, " suggested Margaret, after agentle "Hush!" to the somewhat too plain-spoken Marie. "Thou canst doit, but it would not come so well from us. "

"Dost thou mean to say I am conceited, little piece of impertinence?"inquired Eva, in no dulcet tones. 

"Well, I thought thou saidst it thyself, " was the response, for whichMarie got chased round the room with the wooden side of an embroideryframe, and, being lithe as a monkey, escaped by flying to the Countess'srooms, which communicated with those of her daughter by a privatestaircase. 

Father Bruno came up, as he often did, the same evening: but beforeBeatrice had time to consult him, the small Countess of Eu appeared fromnowhere in particular, and put the crucial question in its crudest form. 

"Please, Father Bruno, what is love?"

"Dost thou want telling?" inquired Bruno with evident amusement. 

"Please, we all want telling, because we can't agree. "

Bruno very rarely laughed, but he did now. 

"Then, if you cannot agree, you certainly do need it. I should ratherlike to hear the various opinions. "

"Oh! Eva says--" began the child eagerly; but Bruno's hand, laid gentlyon her head, stopped her. 

"Wait, my child. Let each speak for herself. "

There was silence for a moment, for no one liked to begin--except Marie, whom decorum alone kept silent. 

"What didst thou say, Eva?"

"I believe I said, good Father, that I cared not for the love of anythat did not hold me first and best. Nor do I. "

"`Love seeketh not her own, '" said Bruno. "That which seeks its own isnot love. "

"What is it, Father?" modestly asked Doucebelle. 

"It is self-love, my daughter; the worst enemy that can be to the truelove of God and man. Real love is unselfish, unexacting, and immortal. "

"But love can die, surely!"

"Saint Paul says the contrary, my daughter. "

"It can kill, I suppose, " said Margaret, in a low tone. 

"Yes, the weak, " replied Bruno. 

"But, Father, was the holy Apostle not speaking of religious love?"suggested Eva, trying to find a loophole. 

"What is the alternative, --irreligious love? I do not know of such athing, my daughter. "

"But there is a wicked sort of love. "

"Certainly not. There are wicked passions. But love can never bewicked, because God is love. "

"But people can love wickedly?" asked Eva, looking puzzled. 

"I fail to see how any one can _love_ wickedly. Self-love is alwayswicked. "

"Then, Father, if it be wicked, you call it self-love?" said Eva, leaping (very cleverly, as she thought) to a conclusion. 

"Scarcely, " said Bruno, with a quiet smile. "Say rather, my daughter, that if it be self-love, I call it wicked. "

The perplexed expression returned to Eva's face. 

"My child, what is love?"

"Why, Father, that is just what we want to know, " said Marie. 

But Bruno waited for Eva's answer. 

"I suppose, " she said nervously, "it means liking a person, and wishingfor his company, and wanting him to love one. "

"And I suppose that it is caring for him so much that thou wouldst countnothing too great a sacrifice, to attain his highest good. That is howGod loved us, my children. "

Eva thought this extremely poor and tame, beside her own lovely ideal. 

"Then, " said Marie, "if I love Margaret, I shall want _her_ to be happy. I shall not want her to make me happy, unless it would make her so. "

"Right, my child, " said Bruno, with a smile of approbation. "To dootherwise would be loving Marie, not Margaret. "

"But, Father!" exclaimed Eva. "Do you mean to say that if my betrothedprefers to go hawking rather than sit with me, if I love him I shallwish him to leave me?"

"Whom wouldst thou be loving, if not?"

"I could not wish him to go and leave me!"

"My child, there is a divine self-abnegation to which very few attain. But those few come nearest to the imitation of Him who `pleased notHimself, ' and I think--God knoweth--often they are the happiest. Let usall ask God for grace to reach it. `This is My commandment, that yehave love one to another. '"

And, as was generally the case when he had said all he thought necessaryat the moment, Bruno rose, and with a benediction quitted the room. 

"Call that loving!" said Eva, contemptuously, when he was gone. "Poortame stuff! I should not thank you for it. "

"Well, I should, " said Doucebelle, quietly. 

"Oh, thou!" was Eva's answer, in the same tone. "Why, thou hast noheart to begin with. "

Doucebelle silently doubted that statement. 

"O Eva, for shame!" said Marie. "Doucebelle always does what every bodywants her, unless she thinks it is wrong. "

"Thou dost not call that love, I hope?"

"I think it is quite as like it as wishing people to do what they don'twant, to please you, " said Marie, sturdily. 

"I don't believe one of you knows any thing about it, " loftily returnedEva. "If I had been Margaret, now, I could not have sat quietly to thatbroidery. I could not have borne it!"

Margaret looked up quickly, changed colour, and with a slightcompression of her lower lip, went back to her work in silence. 

"But what wouldst thou have done, Eva?" demanded the practical littleMarie. "Wouldst thou have stared out of the window all day long?"

"No!" returned Eva with fervent emphasis. "I should have wept my lifeaway. But Margaret is not like me. She can get interested in work andother things, and forget a hapless love, and outlive it. It would killme in a month. "

Margaret rose very quietly, put her frame by in the corner, and left theroom. Beatrice, who had been silent for some time, looked up then withexpressive eyes. 

"It is killing her, Eva. My father told me so a week since. He says heis quite sure that the Countess is mistaken in fancying that she isgetting over it. "

"She! She is as strong as a horse. And I don't think she ever felt itmuch! Not as I should have done. I should have taken the veil thatvery day. Earth would have been a dreary waste to me from that instant. I could not have borne to see a man again. However many years I mighthave lived, no sound but the _Miserere_--"

"But, Eva! I thought thou wert going to die in a month. "

"It is very rude to interrupt, Marie. No sound but the _Miserere_ wouldever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should anyraiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blightedheart!"

"I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth, " put inthe irrepressible little Lady of Eu. 

"But what good would all that do, Eva?"

"Good, Beatrice! What canst thou mean? I tell thee, I could not haveborne any thing else. "

"I don't believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever sucha fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck andrubbed it, and Levina ran a ribbon down to keep it off thee. "

"Don't be impertinent, Marie. Of course, in such a case as that, Icould not think of mere inconveniences. "

"Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, Iwould try to make less fuss over them when I was happy. "

"I am not happy, foolish child. "

"Why, what's the matter? Did Sir William look at thee only twenty-ninetimes, instead of thirty, when he was here?"

"Thou art the silliest maiden of whom any one ever heard!"

"No, Eva; her match might be found, I think, " said Beatrice. 

Marie went off into convulsions of laughter, and flung herself on therushes to enjoy it with more freedom. 

"I wonder which of you two is the funnier!" said she. 

"What on earth is there comical about _me_?" exclaimed Eva, the more putout because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie'samusement. 

"It is of no use to tell thee, Eva, " replied Beatrice; "thou wouldst notbe able to see it. "

"Can't I see any thing you can?" demanded Eva, irritably. 

"Why, no!" said Marie, with a fresh burst: "canst thou see thine ownface?"

"What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!"

"No, Eva, " said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased byMarie's witticism: "the child is any thing but silly. "

"Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you anymore, " retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she wasanswered only by a third explosion from Marie. 

Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startledto find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden inthe coverlet, and her sunny cedar hair flowing over it in disorder. 

"Why, what--Magot! my darling Magot! what aileth thee, my white dove?"

Margaret lifted her head when her mother spoke. She had not beenshedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan andwoeful if she had done so. 

"Pardon me, Lady! I came here to be alone. "

The Countess sat down in the low curule chair beside her bed, and drewher daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on hermother's knee, and cowered down again at her feet. 

"And what made thee wish to be alone, my rosebud?"

"Something that somebody said. "

"Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?"

"No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of thesort. But--things sting--when people do not mean it. "

The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood theexplanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this sheunderstood and felt full sympathy with--that her one cherished darlingwas in trouble. 

"Who was it, Magot?"

"Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. Andnobody intended to hurt me. "

"What did she say?"

"She said, "--something like a sob came here--"that I was one who couldsettle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lostlove. But, she said, it would kill her in a month. "

"Well, darling? I began to hope that was true. "

"No, " came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial likethat of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. "No. O Mother, no!"

"And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?"

"I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say--dying. "

"Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!"

"It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do notthink it will be over in a month. "

The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking thesoft hair. 

"Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with. "

"When what is done with?" asked the Countess, in a husky tone. 

"Living, " said the girl. "This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may liedown to sleep and not wake to-morrow, --I feel as if that were the onlything which would ever make me glad any more. "

"My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?"

"I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But Icannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scentany more. It is not me, --me, your Margaret--that works, and talks, anddoes all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite sofast as my soul. My heart is dead already. "

"My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I reallyhoped thou wert getting over it. "

"It is of no use trying to keep me, " she answered quietly. "You hadbetter let me go--Mother. "

The Countess's reply was to clap her hands--at that time the usualmethod of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, insteadof bidding her enter, her mistress spoke through it. 

"Tell Master Aristoteles that I would speak with him in this chamber. "

The mother and daughter were both very still until the shuffling of thephysician's slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countessroused herself and answered the appeal with "Come in. "

"My Lady desired my attendance?"

"I did, Master. I would fain have you examine this child. She has astrange fancy, which I should like to have uprooted from her mind. Sheimagines that she is going to die. "

"A strange fancy indeed, if it please my Lady. I see no sign of diseaseat all about the damsel. A little weakness, and low spirits, --no realcomplaint whatever. She might with some advantage wear the fleminum[Note 1], --the blood seems a little too much in the head: and warmfomentations would help to restore her strength. Almond blossoms, pounded with pearl, might also do something. But, if it please myLady--let my Lady speak. "

"I was only going to ask, Master, whether viper broth would be good forher?"

"A most excellent suggestion, my Lady. But, I was about to remark, thephysician of Saint Albans hath given me a most precious thing, whichwould infallibly restore the damsel, even if she were at the gates ofdeath. Three hairs of the beard of the blessed Dominic [Note 2], whomour holy Father hath but now canonised. If the damsel were to take oneof these, fasting, in holy water, no influence of the Devil could haveany longer power over her. "

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried the Countess, clasping her hands. "Magot, mylove, this is the very thing. Thou must take it. "

"I will take what you command, Lady. "

But there was no enthusiasm in Margaret's voice. 

"Then to-morrow morning, Master, do, I beseech you, administer thisprecious cordial!"

"Lady, I will do so. But it would increase the efficacy, if the damselwould devoutly repeat this evening the Rosary of the holy Virgin, withtwelve Glorias and one hundred Aves. "

"Get thee to it, quickly, Magot, my darling, and I will say them withthee, which will surely be of still more benefit Master, I thank youinexpressibly!"

And hastily rising, the Countess repaired to her oratory, whitherMargaret followed her. Father Warner was there already, and he joinedin the prayers, which made them of infallible efficacy in the eyes ofthe Countess. 

At five o'clock the next morning, in the oratory, the holy hair was dulyadministered to the patient. All the priests were present except Bruno. Master Aristoteles himself, after high mass, came forward with theblessed relic, --a long, thick, black hair, immersed in holy water, in agolden goblet set with pearls. This Margaret obediently swallowed (ofcourse exclusive of the goblet); and it is not very surprising that afit of coughing succeeded the process. 

"Avaunt thee, Satanas!" said Father Warner, making the sign of the crossin the air above Margaret's head. 

Father Nicholas kindly suggested that a little more of the holy watermight be efficacious against the manifest enmity of the foul Fiend. Master Aristoteles readily assented; and the additional dose calmed thecough: but probably it did not occur to any one to think whether unholywater would not have done quite as well. 

When they had come out into the bower, the Countess took her daughter inher arms, and kissed her brow. 

"Now, my Magot, " said she playfully--it was not much forced, for herfaith was great in the blessed hair--"now, my Magot, thou wilt get wellagain. Thou must!"

Margaret looked up into the loving face above her, and a faint, sadsmile flitted across her lips. 

"Think so, dear Lady, if it comfort thee, " she said. "It will not befor long!"

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Note 1. A garment which was supposed to draw the blood downwards fromthe brain. 

Note 2. "Hairs of a saint's beard, dipped in holy water, and takeninwardly, " are given by Fosbroke (Encyclopaedia of Antiquities, page479) in his list of medieval remedies. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

FATHER BRUNO'S SERMON. 

 "And speak'st thou thus, Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, And of the Heaven that lieth far from thee? Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door, Whose footprints leave no print across the snow. Thy Sun has risen with comfort in His face, The smile of Heaven to warm thy frozen heart, And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long To wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go. Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait? Thou shalt not wait. `This night, this night, ' He saith, `I stand at the door and knock. '"

 _Jean Ingelow_. 

Earl Hubert went very pale when his wife told him of the conversationwhich she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of hisold age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. Butthe blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in afigurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been, physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after thatevent. 

The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weighquite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girlweighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, shetried to bolster up her own hopes by appeals to every other person. 

"Father Nicholas, do you think my daughter looks really ill?"

Father Nicholas, lost at the moment in the Aegean Sea, came slowly backfrom "the many-twinkling smile of ocean" to the consideration of thequestion referred to him. 

"My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well, --lookingill? I cannot say, Lady, that I have studied the noble damsel's looks. Perhaps--is she a little paler than she used to be? Ah, my Lady, acourse of the grand old Greek dramatists, --that would be the thing toset her up. She could not fail to be interested and charmed. "

The Countess next applied to Father Warner. 

"The damsel does look pale, Lady. What wonder, when she has notconfessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will seeshe will be another maiden. "

"She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well, " saidLevina, who was the third authority. "It strikes me, under my Lady'spleasure, that she would be the better for a change. "

This meant, that Levina was tired of Bury Saint Edmund's. 

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with her!" said Eva, testily. "Shenever takes things to heart as I do. She'll do well enough. "

"Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret, " was Doucebelle'scontribution. "I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish Iknew what to do for her. "

Beatrice looked up with grave eyes. "Lady, I would so gladly say No!But I cannot do it. "

The last person interrogated was Bruno; and by the time she came to him, the Countess was very low-spirited. His face went grave and sad. 

"Lady, it never does good to shut one's eyes to the truth. It is worsepain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying. "

"Dying!" shrieked the unhappy mother. "Dying, Father Bruno! You said_dying_!"

"Too true, my Lady. "

"But what can I do? How am I to stop it?"

"Ah!" said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. "There is a `Talitha Cumi'from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He hascalled her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only tooplain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility ofdisobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead tolife. "

"But how am I to help it?" repeated the poor Countess. 

"You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only doour utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going. "

"Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains ofPurgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give everypenny and every jewel that I have!"

"Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His handswithout whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better thanyou. "

"Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!"

"He has died for her, " answered Bruno, softly. "And He is the Amen, theLiving One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. Shecannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the headof every child of His. "

"But where will she be?--what will she be?" moaned the poor mother. 

"If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him. "

"But He does not need her, and I do!"

"Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strongsheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, throughthe wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest. But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early. It is far better. "

"For her, --well, perhaps--if she can be got past Purgatory. But forme!"

"For each of you, what she needs, Lady. "

"O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!"

"Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for hersalvation?"

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One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abrahamof Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civilenough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on thisoccasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly notintended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it. Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination toquarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever. She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall. 

"My Belasez, light of mine eyes!" said the old man fervently, as hefolded her in his arms and blessed her. "Ah, there is not much lightfor the old pedlar's eyes now!"

"Dost thou miss me, my father?"

"Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gonedown, and the heavens are covered with clouds. "

"Was my mother very angry after I went away?"

It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name. 

"Don't mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, untilDelecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, andcursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelvetribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child. "

The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor. 

"Is she satisfied now?"

"Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all thesitten [Note 1] porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can'teat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can. "

Beatrice could not help laughing. 

"My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make theporridge for thee. "

"Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldstscarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now. --Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Ladylacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blueCyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs aswell. "

"I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have littledoubt she will buy. "

"How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave toabandon his vows?"

"He hopes to receive it in a few days. "

"Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows werealways terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if othermen were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washedourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the streetwhenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a sidelane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. Inever knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came fromSatan. " [Note 2. ]

"Well, we all wash ourselves here, " said Beatrice, laughing, "unless itbe Father Warner; I will not answer for him. "

"This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes andcrookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!--"

Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking. 

"Is Cress come with thee, my father?"

"No--not _here_, " answered the old Jew, emphatically. "And he nevercan. "

"Why?"

"Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee. "

"O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?"

It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother. 

"Ay, child, wrong enough!" said Abraham sadly. 

"Is he so ill, my father?"

"Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of thebody. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child, hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of thedamsel's marriage--she that is the Lady's daughter?"

"Margaret? I never could tell how it was. "

"It was Delecresse who told him. "

"Delecresse!"

"Ah, yes--may the God of Israel forgive him!"

"But how did Delecresse know?"

"I fancy he guessed it, partly--and perhaps subtly extracted some avowalfrom thee, in a way which thou didst not understand at the time. "

"But, Father, I could not have told him, even unwittingly, for I did notknow it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as wepassed through the hall, --yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed hima grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached toMargaret. "

"What didst thou say?"

"That I thought it might be so; but I did not know. "

"Well! I am thankful thou couldst tell him no more. I suppose hepieced things together, and very likely jumped the last yard. Howbeit, he did it. My son, my only one! If there were an altar yet left inIsrael, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him. "

"All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think allGentiles fair prey. "

"What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady hadbeen kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head sheloved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made ourbond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I mightfree her without an instant's suspense. "

"Yes, my father, _thou_ wouldst, " answered Beatrice, affectionately. "But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of ournation do. "

"Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove'sheart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, morethan thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hatedwhat she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?"

Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she lookedup and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordialnow. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits ofLicorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression cameinto his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse. 

"Keep it quiet, my father, " he said. "The Lord will repay. May it benot in justice, but with His mercy!"

Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchasesmade of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walkedwith him across the yard, and as they clasped hands in farewell, suddenly asked him what he thought of the damsel Margaret. 

"Can there be any question?" answered Abraham, pityingly. "Hath notAzrael [the Angel of Death] stamped her with his signet?"

"I fear so. Wilt thou pray for her, my father?"

Abraham looked up in amazement. 

"A Christian ask the prayers of a Jew!" exclaimed he. 

"Why not?" replied Bruno. "Were not Christ and all His apostles Jews?And thou art a good and true man, my father. The God of Israel heareththe prayers of the righteous. "

"Canst thou account a Jew righteous?--one who believes not in thyMessiah?"

"I am not so sure of that, " said Bruno, his eyes meeting those ofAbraham in full. "I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, butthou art afraid to declare it. "

Abraham's colour rose a little. 

"May Adonai lead us both to His truth!" he replied. 

But Bruno noticed that he made no attempt to deny the charge. 

Bruno's chief wish now was to get hold of Margaret, and find out theexact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him byasking him to hear her confession. Bruno rose at once. 

"Now?" said Margaret, with a little surprise. 

"There is no time but now, " was the reply. 

They went into the oratory, and closed the door on curious ears; andMargaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart. 

"I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you wouldunderstand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; Iam not sure that they do: and Father Warner at least thinks it weakness, if not sin. And now tell me, have you any balm for such a sorrow asmine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I donot think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If Ionly knew where it is that I am going!"

"Let the where alone, " answered Bruno. "Daughter, to whom art thougoing? Is it to a Stranger, or to Him whom thy soul loveth?"

Not unnaturally, she misunderstood the allusion. 

"No; he will not necessarily die, because I do. "

She was only thinking of Richard. 

"My child!" said Bruno, gently, "thou art going to the presence of theLord Jesus Christ. Dost thou know any thing about Him?"

"I know, of course, what the Church teaches. "

"Well; but dost thou know what He teaches? Is He as dear to thee asthine earthly love?"

"No. " The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was nohesitation about it. 

"Is He as dear to thee as the Earl thy father?"

"No. "

"Is He as dear to thee as any person in this house, whomsoever it be, --such as thou hast been acquainted with, and accustomed to, all thylife?"

"Father, " said the low, sad voice, "I am afraid you are right. I do notknow Him. "

"Wilt thou not ask Him, then, to reveal Himself to thee?"

"Will He do it, Father?"

"`Will He'! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wertbrought to Him in baptism?"

"But He can never fill up this void in my heart!"

"He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world. I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather theeearly into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold. "

"Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, if _he_ werenot there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest andsilence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have inHeaven, --Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I wouldrather stay on earth--where Richard is. "

"Poor child!" said Bruno half involuntarily. "My daughter, it is verynatural. It must be so. `Where is thy treasure, there is also thineheart. '"

"And, " the low voice went on, "if I could know that he had given overloving me, I fancy it would be easier to go. "

Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channelthan to encourage them to flow in it. 

"My child, Christ has not given over loving thee. "

"That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is notRichard!"

"Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to sufferthine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying tothee in this very sorrow, `Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest'?"

"It would be rest, if He would give me Richard, " she said. "There isbut that one thing for me in all the world. "

Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he hadsupposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it wasrebellious. She was hardening herself against God. 

"No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peacebetween the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret deBurgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King's mercy. "

"Father!" said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise andalarm. 

"Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditionalsubmission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst faindictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into Histerms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even forthee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thineheart. Listen to His voice, --`It is hard _for thee_ to kick against thepricks. ' It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thineallegiance. "

The answer was scarcely what he expected. 

"Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course;but it does me no good. My heart is numb. "

"Thou art right, " gently replied Bruno. "The south wind must blow uponthe garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord--I will ask Himalso--to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost. "

"How many Paters?" said the girl in a weary tone. "One will do, mydaughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it. "

"I can put my heart into nothing. "

"Then say to Him this only--`Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thoumayest give it life. '"

She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating alesson. "How long will it take?"

"He knows--not I. "

"But suppose I die first?"

"The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish forsalvation. He wants it more than thou. "

"He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wantsthee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly?Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none besidethee. "

"I did not think I was that to any one--except my parents and--andRichard. "

"Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the LordJesus. "

The momentary exhibition of feeling was past. 

"Well!" she said, with a dreary sigh. "It may be so. But I cannot careabout it. "

Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret. 

"Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she maylive! Save her in spite of herself!"

There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution, and the confession was over. 

The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon aftervespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached atall, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. FatherWarner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both wereconcerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. FatherNicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues--drearyclassical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a GoodFriday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion. 

But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topicfrom any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a muchmore interesting sound than Father Nicholas's drowsy monotone, or FatherWarner's dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; noone could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant haddied away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had givendue notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice inparticular) was prepared to listen to him. 

The text itself--to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture--wasrather a startling one. 

"`O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow likeunto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press, in the day of the wrath of His anger. '"

Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of herown heart. She at least was likely to be attentive. 

Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even havethought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words. From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome havebeen enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay, blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmlyarrogated to herself--without even offering proof of it--that right tothe promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs ina higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to theliteral and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: forin her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies thelower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any nationalrestoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be trueor false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome. 

With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become socustomary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its originalapplication to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten. 

But here, Bruno's Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. Hedelighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of thepassage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable tothe Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been anothersorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared--towhich no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for amoment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours'darkness that might be felt--of that "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani" intowhich was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since thebeginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight intothe heart's depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each oneof those hearts, "This was your doing!" He told them that for every sinof every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: andthat if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was notChrist's fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper forevery pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were notthere, it would be because he had refused the invitation. 

Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked thatevery man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow liketo his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only tobe had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bearthe weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins andsorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear anysorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, "_My_ will bedone, " he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him. "Not my will, but Thine, " must always precede the sending of thestrengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent griefto them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him nopleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children ofmen. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health:and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at theright time. 

"And now, " said Bruno at last, "ye into whose hands the Great Physicianhath put this wholesome yet bitter cup, --how are ye going to treat it?Will ye dash it down, and say, `I will have none of this remedy?' Forthe end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, onlybecause ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue, blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; itwill work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving onyour lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will isbetter than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no mancan know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spareyou? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbedfrom lips that cannot keep still for sorrow. 

"And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. `Death there shall be nomore, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more. ' [Note3. ] We who are Christ's shall be there before long. "

He ended thus, almost abruptly. 

The chapel was empty, and the congregation were critical. Earl Hubertthought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preachan excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a differentsubject: it was so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man hadbeen wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just whatwas proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva wasastonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuffas that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; shehad enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, anddreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons. 

There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too fullfor speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. Onthat lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, andhad said, "Live!"

Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew thatHis best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her awayfrom the evil to come. 

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Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish totaste twice. 

Note 2. "These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to asaint's filthiness--Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience, that the devils. . . Were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seducethe wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls arein the dirtiest bodies. . . Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectlypious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this speciesof mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose BrotherJuniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were atthe due point. "--Disraeli's _Curiosities of Literature_, Volume One, page 92. 

Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course takenfrom the Vulgate, except those made by Jews. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

EVIL TIDINGS. 

 "Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and cling To One that standeth by with outstretched hand; Too tired to hold Him, if He hold not me: Too tired to long but for one heavenly thing, -- Rest for the weary, in the Promised Land. "

Permission for Bruno to lay aside the habit of Saint Augustine reachedBury Castle very soon after his sermon. And with it came two otheritems of news, --the one, that Bishop Grosteste offered him a rich livingin his diocese; the other, that the Bishop's life had been attempted bypoison. It was not to be wondered at in the least, since Grosteste hadcoolly declared the reigning Pope Innocent to be an exact counterpart ofAnti-Christ (for which the head of the Church rewarded him by terminghim a wicked old dotard), and his attachment to monachism in general wasnever allowed to stand in the way of the sternest rebuke to disorderlymonks in particular. He also presumed to object to his clergy havingconstant recourse to Jewish money-lenders, and especially interferedwith their favourite amusement of amateur theatricals, which he was sounreasonable as to think unbecoming the clerical office. 

Bruno hastened to the Countess with the news, accompanying it by warmthanks for the shelter afforded to himself and his daughter, andinforming her that he would no longer burden her with either. But shelooked very grave. 

"Father Bruno, " she said, "I have a boon to ask. "

"Ask it freely, Lady. I am bound to you in all ways. "

"Then I beg that you and Beatrice will continue here, so long--_ha, chetife_!--so long as my child lives. "

Father Bruno gravely assented. He knew too well that would not be long. Yet it proved longer than either of them anticipated. 

Stormy times were at hand. The Papal Legate had effected between EarlHubert and the Bishop of Winchester a reconciliation which resembled aquiescent volcano; but Hubert was put into a position of sore peril byhis royal brother-in-law of Scotland, who coolly sent an embassy to KingHenry, demanding as his right that the three northernmost counties ofEngland should be peaceably resigned to him. After putting him off fora time by an evasive message, King Henry consented to meet Alexander atYork, and discuss the questions on which they differed. His BritannicMajesty was still vexing his nobles by the favour he showed toforeigners. At this time he demanded a subsidy of one-thirtieth of allthe property in the kingdom, which they were by no means inclined togive him. As a sop to Cerberus, the King promised thenceforth to abideby the advice of his native nobility, and the subsidy was voted. Buthis next step was to invite his father-in-law, the Count of Provence, and to shower upon him the gold so unwillingly granted. The nobles weremore angry than ever, and the King's own brother, Richard Earl ofCornwall, was the first to remonstrate. Then Archbishop Edmund ofCanterbury took a journey to Rome, and declined to return, even whenrecalled by the Legate. But the grand event of that year was the finaldisruption of Christendom. The Greek Church had many a time quarrelledwith the Latin, chiefly on two heads, --the worship of images and theassumption of universal primacy. On the first count they differed withvery little distinction, since the Greek Church allowed the full worshipof pictures, but anathematised every body who paid reverence tostatues, --a rather odd state of things to Protestant eyes. Oncealready, the Eastern Church had seceded, but the quarrel was patched upagain. But after the secession of 1237, there was never to be peacebetween East and West again. 

The new year came in with a royal marriage. There were curiouscircumstances attending it, for the parties married in spite of theKing, who was obliged to give away the bride, his sister Alianora, "right sore against his will:" and though the bride had taken the vow ofperpetual widowhood, [Note 1] they did not trouble themselves about aPapal dispensation till they had been married for some weeks. Thebridegroom was the young Frenchman, Sir Simon de Montfort, whom the Kingat last came to fear more than thunder and lightning. The Englishnobility were extremely displeased, for they considered that thePrincess had been married beneath her dignity; but since from first tolast she had had her own wilful way, it was rather unreasonable in thenobles to vent their wrath upon the King. They rose against himfuriously, headed by his own brother, and by the husband of the PrincessMarjory of Scotland, till at last the royal standard was deserted by allbut one man, --that true and loyal patriot, Hubert, Earl of Kent, --theman whom no oppression could alienate from the Throne, and whom nocruelty could silence when he thought England in danger. But now hisprestige was on the wane. The nobles were not afraid of him, on accountof his old age, his wisdom, and a vow which he had taken never to beararms again. In vain King Henry appealed privately to every peer, askingif his fidelity might be relied on. From every side defiant messagescame back. The citizens of London, as their wont was, wereexceptionally disloyal. Then he sent the Legate to his brother, urgingpeace. Cornwall refused to listen. At last, driven into a corner, theKing begged for time, and it was granted him, until the first Monday inLent. When that day came, the nobles assembled in grand force atLondon, to come to a very lame and impotent conclusion. Earl Richard ofCornwall, the King's brother, suddenly announced that he and his newbrother-in-law, Montfort, had effected a complete reconciliation. Theother nobles were very angry at the desertion of their leader, andaccused him, perhaps not untruly, of having been bribed into thisconduct: for Cornwall was quite as extravagant, and nearly asacquisitive, as his royal brother. Just at this time died Joan, Queenof Scotland, the eldest sister of King Henry, of rapid decline, while onher way home from England; and her death was quickly followed by that ofHubert's great enemy, the Bishop of Winchester. The filling up of thevacant see caused one of the frequent struggles between England andRome. The Chapter of Winchester wished to have the Bishop ofChichester: the King was determined to appoint the Queen's uncle, Guglielmo of Savoy; and, as he often did to gain his ends, Henry sidedwith Rome against his own people. 

The disruption between the Greek and Latin Churches being now anaccomplished fact, the Archbishop of Antioch went the length ofexcommunicating the Pope and the whole Roman Church, asserting that ifthere were to be a supreme Pontiff, he had the better claim to thetitle. This event caused a disruption on a small scale in Margaret'sbower, where Beatrice scandalised the fair community by wanting to knowwhy the Pope should not be excommunicated if he deserved it. 

"Excommunicate the head of the Church!" said Hawise, in a horrifiedtone. 

"Well, but here are two Churches, " persisted Beatrice. "If the Pope canexcommunicate the Archbishop, what is to prevent the Archbishop fromexcommunicating the Pope?"

"Poor creature!" said Hawise pityingly. 

"The Eastern schism is no Church!" added Eva. 

"Oh, I do wish some of you would tell me what you mean by a Church!"exclaimed Beatrice, earnestly, laying down her work. "What makes onething a Church, and another a schism?"

But that was just what nobody could tell her. Hawise leaped the chasmdeftly by declaring it an improper question. Eva said, "_Si bete_!" anddeclined to say more. 

"Well, I may be a fool, " said Beatrice bluntly: "but I do not think youare much better if you cannot tell me. "

"Of course I could tell thee, if I chose!" answered Eva, with loftyscorn. 

"Then why dost thou not?" was the unanswerable reply. 

Eva did not deign to respond. But when Bruno next appeared, Beatriceput her question. 

"The Church is what Christ builds on Himself: a schism is bred in man'sbrain, contrary to holy Scripture. "

In saying which, Bruno only quoted Bishop Grosteste. 

"But, seeing men are fallible, how then can any human system claim to beat all times The Church?" asked Beatrice. 

"The true Church is not a human system at all, " said he. 

"Father, Beatrice actually fancies that the Archbishop of Antioch couldexcommunicate the holy Father!" observed Hawise in tones of horror. 

"I suppose any authority can excommunicate those below him, in theChurch visible, " said Bruno, calmly: "in the invisible Jerusalem above, which is the mother of us all, none excommunicates but God. `Everybranch in Me, not fruit-bearing, He taketh it away. ' My daughters, itwould do us more good to bear that in mind, than to blame either thePope or the Archbishop. "

And he walked away, as was his wont when he had delivered his sentence. 

That afternoon, the Countess sent for Beatrice and Doucebelle to her ownbower. They found her seated by the window, with unusually idle hands, and an expression of sore disturbance on her fair, serene face. 

"There is bad news come, my damsels, " she said, when the girls had madetheir courtesies. "And I do not know how to tell my Magot. Perhaps oneof you might manage it better than I could. And she had better be told, for she is sure to hear it in some way, and I would fain spare the childall I can. "

"About Sir Richard the Earl, Lady?" asked Beatrice. 

"Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice. "

"To whom, Lady?" asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered anejaculation under her breath. 

"To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is nofault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the Kinghas made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln hasgiven him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, andhas remitted a debt of thirteen hundred more. A good thing for him!--and it may be quite as well for Richard. But my poor child! I cannotunderstand how it is that she does not rouse up and forget herdisappointment. It is very strange. "

It was very strange, to the mother who loved Margaret so dearly, and yetunderstood her so little. But Doucebelle silently thought that anything else would have been yet stranger. 

"And you would have us tell her, Lady?"

"It would be as well. Really, I cannot!"

The substratum was showing itself for a moment in the character of theCountess. 

"Dulcie would do it better than I, " said Beatrice, "I am a bad hand atbeating about the bush. I might do it too bluntly. "

"Then, Dulcie, do tell her!" pleaded the Countess. 

"Very well, Lady. " But all Doucebelle's unselfishness did not preventher from feeling that she would almost rather have had any thing else todo. 

She went back slowly to Margaret's bower, tenanted at that moment by noone but its owner. Margaret looked up as Doucebelle entered, and readher face as easily as possible. 

"Evil tidings!" she said, quietly enough. "For thee, or for me, Dulcie?"

Doucebelle came and knelt beside her. 

"For me, then!" Margaret's voice trembled a little. "Go on, Dulcie!Richard--"

She could imagine no evil tidings except as associated with him. 

Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort. 

"Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The--"

"Is he dead?" asked Margaret, hurriedly. 

"No. "

"I thought, if it had been that, "--she hesitated. 

"Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?"

"Something--what? I see!" and her tone changed. "It is marriage. "

"Yes, Sir Richard is married to--"

"No! Don't tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I donot want to do that. "

Doucebelle was silent. 

"Was it his doing, " asked Margaret in a low voice, "or did the Lord Kingorder it?"

"Oh, it was the Lord King's doing, entirely, the Lady says. "

"O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be morelikelihood of his being happy: but I cannot--I cannot!"

"My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!" answered Doucebelle tenderly. 

"Is it very wicked, " added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, "not to beable to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To beshut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else letin! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!"

"My poor darling!" was all that Doucebelle could say. 

"Father Bruno said, that so long as we kept saying, `My will be done, 'we must not expect God to comfort us. Yet how are we to give over? ODulcie, I thought I was beginning to submit, and this has stirred all upagain. My heart cries out and says, `This shall not be! I will nothave it so!' And if God will have it so!--How am I to learn to bend mywill to His?"

Neither of the girls had heard any one enter, and they were a littlestartled when a third voice replied--

"None but Himself can teach thee that, my daughter. If thou canst notyet give Him thy will, ask Him to take it in spite of thee. "

"I have done that, already, Father Bruno. "

"Then thou mayest rest assured that He will do all that is lacking. "

That night, Bruno said to Beatrice, --"That poor, dear child! I am sureGod is teaching her. But to-day's news has driven another nail into hercoffin. "

Would it have been easier, or harder, if the veil could have been liftedwhich hid from Margaret the interior of Gloucester Castle? To the eyesof the world outside, the young Earl behaved like any other bridegroom. He brought the Lady Maud to his home, placed her in sumptuousapartments, surrounded her with obsequious attendants, provided her withall the comforts and luxuries of life: but there his attentions ended. For four years his step never crossed the threshold of the tower whereshe resided, and they met only on ceremonial occasions. Wife she neverwas to him, until for twelve months the cold stones of Westminster Abbeyhad lain over the fair head of his Margaret, the one love of his triedand faithful heart. 

Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majestyconsiderately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for theunusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of himto feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for theterm of his natural life. 

Only!

How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing uswith every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do topray for grace to enable them to forgive us!

Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that heregistered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fallinto his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold. 

The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaretand her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections ofwhatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow. Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completelyengrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endlesssearch for the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and otherequally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun toengage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they wereapproaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed ablessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into thesnare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient waswanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That oneingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenthcentury. 

Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers, --that exceptin the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Theirsearch for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture ofhelpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to theidiotic conclusion that they were the descendants of a jelly-fish. 

Oh, this much-extolled, wise, learned, supercilious Nineteenth Century!Is it so very much the superior of all its predecessors, as itcomplacently assumes to be?

King Alexander of Scotland married his second wife in the May of 1239, to the great satisfaction of his sisters. The Countess of Kent thoughtthat such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and shewas rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at thediscovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increaseher sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third ofJune, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news mightreasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from herpoint of view) happened than the birth of a Prince--afterwards to beEdward the First, who has been termed "the greatest of all thePlantagenets. "

The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as adelightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, bythe King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of thePlantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious eventto all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden werenot of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace. "God gave us this child, " exclaimed a blunt Norman noble, "but the Kingsells him to us!"

Four days after the Prince's birth came another event, which to one atleast in Bury Castle, was enough to account for any portentous eclipse. The Countess found Beatrice drowned in tears. 

"Beatrice!--my dear maiden, what aileth thee? I have scarcely ever seenthee shed tears before. "

The girl answered by a passionate gesture. 

"`Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, thatI might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!'"

"_Ha, chetife_!--what is the matter?"

"Lady, there has been an awful slaughter of my people. " And she stoodup and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed tothe Countess worthy of some classic prophetess. "`Remember, O Adonai, what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!' `O God, whyhast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against thesheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more anyprophet. ' `Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit allnations. '"

The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She couldnot comprehend it. 

"My child, I do not understand, " she said, kindly enough. "Has somerelative of thine been murdered? How shocking!"

"Are not all my people kindred of mine?" exclaimed Beatrice, passionately. 

"Dost thou mean the massacre of the Jews in London?" said the Countess, as the truth suddenly flashed upon her. "Oh yes, I did hear of somesuch dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas. Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that lowrace. They are not thy people any longer. "

Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feelingthan sorrow had suddenly driven back the tears. 

"`If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning!'Lady, thou canst not fathom the heart of a Jew. No Christian can. Weare brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, andlow! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does uponhis crown, --yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! `We are Thine; Thounever barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name. ' But youdo not understand, Lady. "

"No, --it is very strange, " replied the Countess, in a dubious tone. "Jews do not seem to understand their position. It is odd. But drythine eyes, my dear child; thou wilt make thyself ill. And really--"

The Countess was too kind to finish the sentence. But Beatrice couldguess that she thought there was really nothing to weep over in themassacre of a few scores of Jews. She found little sympathy among theyounger members of the family party. Margaret said she was sorry, butit was evidently for the fact that her friend was in trouble, not forthe event over which she was sorrowing. Eva openly expressed profoundscorn of both the Jews and the sorrow. 

Marie wanted to know if some friend of Beatrice were among the slain:because, if not, why should she care any thing about it? Doucebellealone seemed capable of a little sympathy. 

But before the evening was over, Beatrice found there was one Christianwho could enter into all her feelings. She was slowly crossing theante-chamber in the twilight, when she found herself intercepted anddrawn into Bruno's arms. 

"My darling!" he said, tenderly. "I am sent to thee with heavytidings. "

Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father's breast, with thefeeling that she had one friend left in the world. 

"I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it withme. "

"There are not many who will, I can guess, " answered Bruno. "But, mychild, I am afraid thou dost not know all. "

"Father!--what is it?" asked Beatrice, fearfully. 

"One has fallen in that massacre, very dear to thee and me, mydaughter. "

"Delecresse?" She thought him the most likely to be in London of any ofthe family. 

"No. Delecresse is safe, so far as I know. "

"Is it Uncle Moss?--or Levi my cousin?"

"Beatrice, it is Abraham the son of Ursel, the father of us all. "

The low cry of utter desolation which broke from the girl's lips waspitiful to hear. 

"`My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsementhereof!'"

Bruno let her weep passionately, until the first burst of grief wasover. Then he said, gently, "Be comforted, my Beatrice. I believe thathe sleeps in Jesus, and that God shall bring him with Him. "

"He was not baptised?" asked Beatrice, in some surprise that Brunoshould think so. 

"He was ready for it. He had spoken to a friend of mine--one FriarSaher de Kilvingholme--on the subject. And the Lord would not refuse toreceive him because his brow had not been touched by water, when He hadbaptised him with the Holy Ghost and with fire. "

Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would haveventured so far as to say that. 

"Oh, this is a weary world!" sighed Beatrice, drearily. 

"It is not the only one, " replied her father. 

"It seems as if we were born only to die!"

"Nay, my child. We were born to live for ever. Those have death whochoose it. "

"A great many seem to choose it. "

"A great many, " said Bruno, sadly. 

"Father, " said Beatrice, after a short silence, "as a man grows olderand wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better thereason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light uponthem, which you did not of old?"

"No, my child, I think not, " was Bruno's answer. "If any thing, Ishould say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It isnot less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of hisfather; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Fatherbetter; we learn to trust and wait. `What I do, thou knowest not now:but thou shalt know hereafter. ' And He has told us that in that landwhere we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied. Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, hereand now. "

"It is dark!" said Beatrice, with a sob. 

"`The morning cometh, '" replied Bruno. "And `in the morning isgladness. '"

Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob nowand then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in alow, troubled voice, she said--

"There is no one to call me Belasez now!"

Bruno clasped her closer. 

"My darling!" he said, "so long as the Lord spares us to each other, thou wilt always be _belle assez_ for me!"

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Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, theeldest brother of the husband of Marjory of Scotland. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

AT LAST. 

 "Joy for the freed one! She might not stay When the crown had fallen from her life away: She might not linger, a weary thing, A dove with no home for its broken wing, Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land's melodies. From the long heart-withering early gone, She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done!"

 _Felicia Hemans_. 

"Now, Sir John de Averenches, what on earth dost _thou_ want?"

"Is there no room, Damsel?"

"Room! There is room enough for thee, I dare say, " replied Eva, rathercontemptuously. She looked down on Sir John supremely for four reasons, which in her own eyes at least were excellent ones. First, he wasrather short; secondly, he was very silent; thirdly, he was notparticularly handsome; and lastly (and of most import), he had remainedproof against all Eva's attractions. 

"I thank thee, " was all he said now; and he walked into Margaret'sbower, where he took a seat on the extreme end of the settle, and neversaid a word to any body whilst he stayed. 

"The absurd creature!" exclaimed Eva, when he was gone. "What anabsolute ass he is! He has not an idea in his head. "

"Oh, I beg thy pardon, Eva, " interposed Marie, rather warmly. "He'splenty of ideas. He'll talk if one talks to him. Thou never dost. "

"He is clever enough to please thee, very likely!" was the rathersnappish answer. 

From that evening, Sir John de Averenches took to frequenting the boweroccasionally, much to the annoyance of Eva, until the happy thoughtstruck her that she might have captivated him at last. Mentally bindinghim to her chariot wheels, she made no further objection, but on thecontrary, became so amiable that the shrewd little Marie noticed thealteration. 

"Well, Eva is queer!" said that acute young lady. "She goes into thesulks if Sir William de Cantilupe so much as looks at any body; but shedoes not care how many people she looks at! I think she should bejealous on both sides!"

Eva's amenities, however, seemed to have no more effect on Sir John thanher displeasure. Night after night, there he sat, never speaking to anyone, and apparently not noticing one more than another. 

"He's going out of his mind, " suggested Marie. 

"Not he!" said Eva. "He's none to go out of!"

The mystery was left unsolved, except by Bruno, who fancied that heguessed its meaning; but since the clue was one which he preferred notto pursue, he discreetly left matters to shape themselves, or rather, tobe shaped by Providence, when the time should come. 

That was a dreary winter altogether. The King had openly insulted hissister and Montfort, when they made their appearance at the ceremony ofthe Queen's "up-rising;" [Churching] and they had left England, pocketing the affront, but as concerned Montfort, by no means forgettingit. 

The Pope made further encroachments on the liberties of the Church ofEngland, by sending over a horde of Italians to fill vacant benefices. The nobles blazed out into open wrath "that the Pope, through avarice, should deprive them of their ancient right to the patronage of livings!"They were headed, as usual, by the King's brother, Richard Earl ofCornwall, who seems to have been not a true, living Christian (as thereis reason to believe his son was), but simply a political opponent ofthe aggressions of Rome. The citizens of London were about equallydisgusted with the King, who at this time received a visit from theQueen's uncle, Tomaso of Savoy, and in his delight, His Majestycommanded his loyal and grumbling subjects to remove all dirt from thestreets, and to meet the Count in gala clothing, and with horseshandsomely accoutred. 

The hint thrown out by Levina had not been lost on the Countess. Shethought a complete change might do good to the fading flower which wasonly too patently withering on its stem: and at her instance the wholehousehold removed to Westminster at the beginning of this winter. Theyhad hardly settled down in their new abode when a fresh storm broke onthe now aged head of Earl Hubert. 

Once more, all the old, worn-out charges were trumped up, including eventhat by which the Princess Margaret's name had been so cruelly aspersed. A flash of the early fire of the old man blazed forth when theaccusation was made. 

"I was never a traitor to you, nor to your father!" said Hubert deBurgh, facing his ungrateful King and pupil of long ago: "If I had been, under God, you would never have been here!"

It was true, and Henry knew it, best of all men. 

The King, in the fulness of his compassionate grace, was pleased to letthe Earl off very lightly. The sentence passed was, that he should onlyresign the four most valuable castles that he had. This, of course, wasnot because Hubert was guilty, but because His Majesty was covetous. Chateau Blanc, Grosmond, Skenefrith, and Hatfield, were given up to theCrown. Hubert bore it, we are told, very quietly and patiently. Hisown time could not be long now, for he was at least seventy; and theBenjamin of his love was dying of a broken heart. 

King Henry himself was not without sorrow, for about All Saints' Day, Guglielmo of Savoy, the beloved uncle who had moulded him like wax, diedrather suddenly at Viterbo. So grieved was the King, that he tore hisroyal mantle from his shoulders, and flung it into the fire. With thatsudden and passionate reaction to the other side, often seen in weaknatures, he now threw himself into the arms of the Predicants andMinorites--until he set up a new favourite, who was not long inappearing. 

Before the winter was over, a second sorrow fell upon Richard de Clare, in the death of his mother, Isabel, wife of the King's brother. Cornwall grieved bitterly both for the loss of his wife and for themiserable state into which England was sinking; and declaring that heloved his country so much, that he could not bear to stay and see it goto ruin, he prepared to head a fresh crusade. Perhaps it did not occurto him that love and patriotism would have been shown better by stayingat home and trying to keep his country from going to ruin. That wasreserved for another Richard--the young Earl of Gloucester. 

Another comet, and a violent hurricane, in the spring, made the augursshake their heads and prophesy worse calamities than ever. There was afresh one on the way, in the shape of a Papal exaction of one-fifth ofthe property of foreign beneficed clerks in England, in order to supportthe war then waged by the Pope on the Emperor of Germany. The royalCouncil was stirred, and told its listless master that he "ought not tosuffer England to become a spoil and a desolation to immigrants, like avineyard without a wall, exposed to wild beasts. " His Majesty, like atrue son of holy Church, replied that he "neither wished nor dared tooppose the Pope in any thing. " As if to make confusion worseconfounded, the Archbishop of Canterbury (subsequently known as SaintEdmund of Pontigny) aspired to become a second Becket, and appealed tothe Pope to do away with state patronage, which he of course consideredought to be vested in the Primate. King Henry, supine as he was, wasroused at last, and sent a message to Rome to the effect that the appealof the Archbishop was contrary to his royal dignity. The Pope declinedto entertain the appeal: and the King, we are told (by a monk) "becamemore tyrannical than ever, " and appointed Bonifacio of Savoy to the Seeof Winchester. The defeated Archbishop submitted to the Pope's demandof a fifth of his income: but when the Pope, emboldened by success, came, to an agreement with the Italian priests occupying Englishbenefices, that on condition of their helping him against the Emperor, all benefices in his gift should be bestowed upon Italians, theArchbishop could bear no longer, and he left England, never to return. He died at Pontigny, his birthplace, on the sixteenth of Novemberfollowing; and not long afterwards, King Henry reverently knelt toworship at the tomb of the saint [Note 1] who had been a thorn in hisside as long as he lived. 

Then the English Abbots, cruelly mulcted by the Pope, appealed to theirnatural Sovereign, to be met by a scowl, and to hear the Legate toldthat he might choose the best of the royal castles wherein to imprisonthem. Twenty-four Roman priests came over to fill English benefices:and at last, when the Legate left England (for which "no one was sorrybut the King"), it was calculated that with the exception of churchplate, he carried out of England more wealth than he left in it. 

But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outsidecalamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towardssummer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the whitelily had faded at last, and the star was going out. 

The trial of patience had been long for Margaret but it was over now. 

Master Aristoteles could not understand it. The maiden had no diseasethat he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of SaintDominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable. 

There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longerthought it strange that God should have made her young life short andbitter. The lesson was learned, at last. 

So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just whenit came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to situp, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quietthat it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was. 

Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bedwhen dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and inall the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine. 

Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in thefestivities. 

"Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?" she said, answeringDoucebelle's face. "Margaret will not be any better because I am here. And then, when I come in at night, I can tell her all about it. And itis no use talking, Doucebelle! I really cannot bear this sort of thing!I get so melancholy, you have no idea! I don't know what would becomeof me if I had not some diversion. "

Beatrice and Doucebelle stayed with Margaret: Doucebelle from a sort ofinward sensation, she hardly knew what or why; Beatrice from a remarkmade by Bruno the night before. 

"It will not be long, now, at least, " he had said. 

The day wore slowly on, but it seemed just like twenty days which hadpreceded it. Bruno paid his daily visit towards evening. 

"Are the streets very full of holiday-makers?" asked Margaret. 

"Very full, my daughter. There is a great crowd round the May-pole. "

"I hope Eva will enjoy herself. "

"I have no doubt she will. "

"It seems so far off, now, " said Margaret, dreamily. "As if I werewhere I could hardly see it--somewhere above this world, and all thethings that are in the world. Father, have you any idea what there willbe in Heaven?"

"There will be Christ, " answered Bruno. "And what may be implied in`His glory, which God hath given Him, '--our finite minds are scarcelycapable of guessing. Only, His will is that His people shall behold itand share it. It must be something that He thinks worth seeing--He, whohas beheld the glory of God before the worlds were. "

"Father, " said Margaret, with deep feeling, "it seems too much that _we_should see it. "

"True. But not too much that He should bestow it. He gives, --as Heforgives--like a king. "

Like what king?--was the thought in Doucebelle's mind. Not like the oneof whom she knew any thing--who was responsible before God for thatdeath which was coming on so quietly, yet so surely. 

Beatrice had left the room a few minutes before, and she was nowreturning to it through the ante-chamber. The dusk was rapidly falling, and, not knowing of any presence but her own, she was extremely startledto find herself grasped by the shoulder, by a firm hand which evidentlyhad no intention of standing any trifling. She looked up into the faceof a stranger, and yet a face which was not altogether strange. It wasthat of a tall, handsome man, with fair hair, and a stern, painedcompression of brow and lips. 

"Is it true?" he said in a husky voice. 

"Is what true?" Beatrice was too startled to think what he meant. 

The grasp upon her shoulder tightened till a weaker woman would havescreamed. 

"Belasez, do not trifle with me! Is she dying?"

And then, all at once, Beatrice knew who it was that asked her. 

"It is too true, Sir Richard, " she said sadly, pityingly, with almost areverential compassion for that faithful love which had brought himthere that night. 

"I must see her, Belasez. "

"Is it wise, Sir Richard?"

"Wise!"

"Pardon me--is it right?"

"Right!--what is the wrong? She is my wife, in God's sight--she andnone other. What do I care for Pope or King? Is not God above both?We plighted our vows to Him, and none but He could part us. "

"Let me break it to her, then, " said Beatrice, feeling scarcely so muchconvinced as overwhelmed. "It will startle her if she be not toldbeforehand. "

Richard's only answer was to release Beatrice from his grasp. Shepassed into Margaret's bower, and, was surprised to see a strange gleamin the eyes of the dying girl. 

"Beatrice, Richard is here. I know I heard his voice. Bring him tome. "

"God has told her, " said Bruno, in an undertone, as he left the room, with a sign to Beatrice and Doucebelle to follow. 

They stood in the ante-chamber, minute after minute, but no sound camethrough the closed door. Half an hour passed in total silence. At lastBruno said--

"I think some one should go in. "

But no one liked to do it, and the silence went on again. 

Then Hawise same in, and wanted to know what they were all doing there. She was excessively shocked when Doucebelle told her. How extremelyimproper! She must go in and put a stop to it that minute. 

Hawise tapped at the door, but no answer came. She opened it, andstood, silenced and frightened by what she saw. Richard de Clare bentover the bed, pouring passionate, unanswered kisses upon dead violeteyes, and tenderly smoothing the tresses of the cedar hair. 

"The Lord has been here!" said Beatrice involuntarily. 

"O Lord, be thanked that Thou hast given Thy child quiet rest at last!"was the response from Bruno. 

Richard stood up and faced them. 

"Is this God's doing, or is it man's?" he said, in a voice which soundedalmost like an execration of some one. "God gave me this white dove, tonestle in my bosom and to be the glory of my life. Who took her fromme? Does one of you dare to say it was God? It was man!--a man whoshall pay for it, if he coin his heart's blood to do so. And if thepayment cost my heart's blood, it will be little matter, seeing it hascost my heart already. "

He drew his dagger, and bending down again, severed one of the long softtresses of the cedar hair. 

"Farewell, my dove!" he murmured, in a tone so altered that it wasdifficult to recognise the same voice. "Thou at least shalt suffer nomore. Thy place is with the blessed saints and the holy angels, wherenothing may ever enter that shall grieve or defile. But surely as thouart safe housed in Heaven, and I am left desolate on earth, thy deathshall be avenged by fair means or by foul!"

"`Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord, '" softly quoted Brunoas Richard passed him in the doorway. 

"He will, --by my hands!"

And Richard de Clare was seen no more. 

It was hard to tell the poor mother, who came into her Margaret's bowerwith a bright smile, guessing so little of the terrible news in store. Tenderly as they tried to break it, she fainted away, and had to benursed back to life and diligently cared for. But all was over for thenight, and Doucebelle and Beatrice were beginning to think of bed, before Eva made her appearance. Of course the news had to be toldagain. 

"Oh dear, how shocking!" said Eva, putting down her bouquet. "How verydistressing! (I am afraid those flowers will never keep till morning. )Well, do you know, I am really thankful I was not here. What good couldit have done poor dear Margaret, you know?--and I am so easily upset, and so very sensitive! I never can _bear_ scenes of that sort. (Dear, I had no idea my shoes were so splashed!) As it is, I shall not sleep awink. I sha'n't get over it for a week, --if I do then! Oh, how veryshocking! Look, Doucebelle, aren't these cowslips sweet?"

"Eva, wilt thou let me have some of the white flowers--for Margaret?"said Doucebelle. 

"For Margaret!--why, what dost thou mean? Oh! To put by her in hercoffin? Horrid! Really, Dulcie, I think that is great waste. And thebouquet is so nicely made up, --it would be such a pity to pull it topieces! I spent half an hour at least in putting it together, andBrimnatyn de Hertiland helped me. Of course thou canst have them ifthou must, --but--"

Doucebelle quietly declined the gift so doubtfully offered. 

"I wish, Doucebelle, thou wouldst have more consideration for people'sfeelings!" said Eva in a querulous tone, smoothing the petals of herflowers. "I am sure, whenever I look at a bouquet for the nexttwelvemonth, I shall think of this. I cannot help it--things do takesuch hold of me! And just think, how easily all that might be avoided!"

"I beg thy pardon, Eva. I am sorry I asked thee, " was the soft answer. 

It was not far to Margaret's grave, for they laid her in the quietcloisters of Westminster Abbey, and the King who had been an accessoryto her end followed her bier. Hers was not the only life that his acthad shortened. Earl Hubert had virtually done with earth, when he sawlowered into the cold ground the coffin of his Benjamin. He survivedher just two years, and laid down his weary burden of life on the fourthof May, 1243. 

When Margaret was gone, there was no further tie to Bury Castle forBruno and his daughter. Bishop Grosteste was again applied to, andresponded as kindly as before, though circumstances did not allow him todo it equally to his satisfaction. The rich living originally offeredto Bruno had of course been filled up, and there was nothing at thatmoment in the episcopal gift but some very small ones. The best ofthese he gave; and about two months after the death of Margaret, Brunoand Beatrice took leave of the Countess, and removed to their new home. It was a quiet little hamlet in the south of Lincolnshire, with apopulation of barely three hundred souls; and Beatrice's time was filledup by different duties from those which had occupied her at Bury Castle. The summer glided away in a peaceful round of most unexciting events. There had been so much excitement hitherto in their respective lives, that the priest and his daughter were only too thankful for a calmstretch of life, all to themselves. 

One evening towards the close of summer, as Bruno came home to hislittle parsonage, where the dog-roses looked in at the windows, and thehoneysuckles climbed round the porch, a sight met him which assured himthat his period of peace and content was ended. On the stone bench inthe porch, alone, intently examining a honeysuckle, sat Sir John deAverenches. 

Bruno de Malpas was much too shrewd to suppose that his society was themagnet which had attracted the silent youth some fifty miles across thecountry. He sighed, but resigning himself to the inevitable, lifted hisbiretta as he came up to the door. Sir John rose and greeted him withevident cordiality, but he did not appear to have any thing particularto say beyond two self-evident statements--that it was a fine evening, and the honeysuckles were pretty. 

"Is Beatrice within?" said the priest, feeling pretty sure that he knew. 

Sir John demurely thought not. It was another half-hour before Beatricemade her appearance; and Bruno noticed that the unexpected presence of athird person evoked no expression of surprise on her part. Thepreparations for supper were made by Beatrice and her attendanthandmaiden Sabina; and after the meal was over, Bruno discreetly wentoff, with the interesting observation that he was about to visit a sickperson at the furthest part of the parish. Sir John had taken his seaton the extreme end of a form, and Beatrice came and sat with herembroidery at the other end. Ten minutes of profound silenceintervened. 

"Beatrice!"

"Yes. "

Another minute of silence. 

"Beatrice!"

"Well?"

"Beatrice, what dost thou think of me?"

Beatrice coolly cut off an end of yellow silk, and threaded her needlewith blue. 

"Ask my father. "

"How does he know what thou thinkest?"

"Well, he always does, " said Beatrice, calmly fastening the blue silk onthe wrong side of the material. 

"Wilt thou not tell me thyself?"

"I should, if I wanted to be rid of thee. "

The distance between the two occupants of the form was materiallylessened. 

"Then thou dost not want to be rid of me?"

"I can work while I am talking, " replied Beatrice, in her very coolestmanner. 

"Why dost thou think I came, Beatrice?"

"Because it pleased thee, I should think. "

The needle was drawn from the blue silk, and a needleful of scarlet wentin instead, while the end of the blue thread was carefully secured inBeatrice's left hand for future use. 

"One, two, three, four, "--Beatrice was half audibly counting herstitches. 

"It did please me, Beatrice. "

"Five, six--all right, Sir John--seven, eight, nine--"

"Does it please thee?"

"Thirteen, fourteen--it is pleasant to have some one to talk to--fifteen, sixteen--when I am not counting--seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. "

And in went the needle, and the scarlet silk began to flow in and outwith rapidity. 

"Do I interrupt thee, Beatrice?"

"Thanks, I have done counting for the present. "

"Would it interrupt thee very much to be married?"

"Well, I should think it would. " Beatrice stopped the scarlet, andrethreaded the blue. 

"More than thou wouldst like?"

"That would depend on circumstances. "

"What circumstances?" inquired the bashful yet persistent suitor. 

"Who was to marry me, principally. "

"Suppose I was?"

"Thou canst not, till thou hast asked my father. "

There was a gleam in the dark eyes veiled with their long lashes. Itmight be either resentment or fun. 

"May I ask him, Beatrice?"

"Did I not tell thee so at first?"

This curious conversation had taken so long, and had been interrupted byso many pauses, that Bruno appeared before it had progressed further. He glanced at the pair with some amusement in his eyes, not unmixed withsadness, for he had a decided foreboding that he was about to lose hisBeatrice. But no more was said that night. 

The next morning, Sir John de Averenches made the formal appeal whichBruno was fully expecting. 

"I am not good at words, Father, " he said, with honest manliness; "and Iknow the maiden is fair beyond many. You may easily look higher forher; but you will not easily find one that loves her better. "

"Truly, my son, that is mine own belief, " said Bruno. "But hast thoufully understood that she is of Jewish descent, which many Christianknights would count a blot on their escocheons?"

"Being a Christian, that makes _no_ difference to me. "

"Well! She shall decide for herself; but I fancy I know what she willsay. It will be hard to part with her. "

"Why should you, Father? Will she not still want a confessor?--andcould she have a better than you?"

"Thank you, Father!" said Beatrice demurely, when Bruno told her thathis consent was given, contingent upon hers. "Then I will begin mywedding-dress. "

In this extremely cool manner the fair maiden intimated her intention ofbecoming a matron. But Bruno, who knew every change of her features andcolour, was well aware that she felt a great deal more than she said. The mask was soon dropped. 

The wedding-dress was a marvel of her own lovely embroidery. It wasworn about the beginning of winter, and once more Bruno resigned hisparish duties, and became, as his son-in-law had wisely suggested, afamily confessor. 

They heard from Bury that the marriage of Eva de Braose took place aboutthe same time. And the general opinion in the Lincolnshire parsonagewas rather, as respected Sir William de Cantilupe, one of condolencethan of congratulation. 

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Eighteen years after that summer, a solitary traveller was approachingthe city of Tewkesbury. He sat down on a low wall which skirted theroad, and wiped his heated brow. He was a tall, fine-looking man, witha dark olive complexion, and clustering masses of black hair. There wasno one in sight, and the traveller began to talk in an undertone tohimself, as solitary men are sometimes wont to do. 

"A good two hours before sunset, I suppose, " he said, looking towardsthe sun, which was blazing fiercely. "Pugh! where does that horridsmell come from? Ah, that is the vesper bell, as they call it--theunclean beasts that they are! Well, we at least are pure from everyshadow of idolatry. 

"Yet are we pure from sin? I do think, now, it was a pity--a mistake--that visit of mine to Sir Piers de Rievaulx. I might have let that girllive--the girl that Belasez loved. Well! she is one of the creepingthings now. She--our Belasez! This is a cross-grained, crooked sort ofworld. Faugh! that smell again!

"I suppose this is the wall of Tewkesbury Castle. Is my Lord the Earlat home, I wonder? How I did hate that boy!

"What is coming yonder, with those jingling bells? A string of pilgrimsto some accursed shrine, most likely. May these heathen idolaters beall confounded, and the chosen people of Adonai be brought home inpeace! I could see, I dare say, if I stood on the wall. They may havesome vile idol with them, and if I do not get out of the way--"

He had sprung upon the parapet, and stood trying so to twist himself asto catch a glimpse of the religious procession which he supposed to beapproaching, when suddenly he slipped and fell backwards. A wild cryfor "Help!" rang through the startled air. Where was he going? Down, down, plunging overhead into some soft, evil-odoured, horrible mass, from which, by grasping an iron bar that projected above, he justmanaged so far to raise himself as to get his head free. And then thedreadful truth broke upon him, and his cries for help became piercing. 

Delecresse had fallen into the open cess-pool of Tewkesbury Castle. 

Suddenly he ceased to shriek, and all was still. Not that he neededhelp any the less, nor that he was less conscious of it, but because heremembered what at first he had forgotten in his terror and disgust, that until sunset it was the rest of the holy Sabbath unto the Lord. Perhaps, by clinging to the iron bar, he could live till the sun droppedbelow the horizon. At any rate, Delecresse, sternest of Pharisees tohis heart's core, would not profane the Sabbath, even for life. 

But now there was a little stir outside, and a voice shouted--

"What ho!--who cried for help?"

"I. "

"Who art thou, and where?"

"I have fallen into the cess-pool; I pray thee, friend, whoever thouart, to bring or send me something on which I can rest till sunset, andthen help me forth. "

"The saints be blessed! a jolly place to fall into. But why, in thename of all the Calendar, dost thou want to wait till sunset?"

"Because I am a Jew, and until then is the holy Sabbath. "

A peal of laughter answered the explanation. 

"Hope thou mayest enjoy it! Well, if ever I heard such nonsense! Is itworth while pulling a Jew out?--what sayest thou, Anselm?"

"He is a man, poor soul!" returned a second voice. "Nay, let us notleave him to such a death as that. "

"Look here, old Jew! I will go and fetch a ladder and rope. I shouldpull my dog out of that hole, and perhaps thou mayest be as good. "

"I will not be taken out till sunset, " returned Delecresse stubbornly. 

"The fellow's a mule! Hie thee, Anselm, and ask counsel of our graciousLord what we shall do. "

A strange feeling crept over Delecresse when he heard his fate, for lifeor death, thus placed in the hands of the man whose life he had wrecked. Anselm was heard to run off quickly, and in a few minutes he returned. 

"Sir Richard the Earl laughed a jolly laugh when I told him, " was hisreport. "He saith, Let the cur be, if he will not be plucked forthuntil Monday morning: for if Saturday be his Sabbath, Sunday is mine, and what will defile the one will defile the other. " [This part of thestory is historical. ]

"Monday morning! He will be a dead man, hours before that!"

"So he will. It cannot be helped, except--Jew, wilt thou be pulled outnow, or not? If not now, then not at all. "

For one moment, the heart of Delecresse grew sick and faint within himas he contemplated the awful alternatives presented to his choice. Then, gathering all his strength, he shouted back his final decision. 

"No! I will not break the Sabbath of my God. "

The men outside laughed, uttered an expression of contemptuous pity, andhe heard their footsteps grow faint in the distance, and knew that hewas left to die as horrible a death as can befall humanity. Only oneother cry arose, and that was not for the ears of men. It was theprayer of one in utter error, yet in terrible extremity: and it washonestly sincere. 

"Adonai! I have sinned and done evil, all my life long. Specially Ihave sinned against this man, who has left me to die here in thishorrible place. Now therefore, O my God, I beseech Thee, let thesufferings of Thy servant be accepted before Thee as an atonement forhis sin, and let this one good deed, that I have preferred death ratherthan break Thy law, rise before Thee as the incense with the eveningsacrifice!"

Yes, it was utter error. Yet the Christians of his day, one here andthere excepted, could have taught him no better. And what had theyoffered him instead? Idol-worship, woman-worship, offerings for thedead, --every thing which the law of God had forbidden. In the day whenthe blood of the martyrs is demanded at the hand of Babylon, will therebe no reckoning for the souls of those thousand sons of Israel, whom shehas persistently thrust away from Christ, by erecting a rood-screen ofidols between Him and them?

When day dawned on the Monday, they pulled out of the cess-pool the bodyof a dead man. 

One month later, in the chapter-house at Canterbury, King Henry theThird stood, an humble and helpless suppliant, before his assembledBarons. There he was forced, utterly against his will and wish, to signan additional charter granting liberties to England, and binding his ownhands. It was Simon de Montfort who had brought matters to this pass. But Simon de Montfort was not the tall, fair, stately man who forced thepen into the unwilling fingers of the cowering King, and who held outthe Evangelisterium for the swearing of his hated oath. King Henrylooked up into the cold steel-like glitter of those stern blue eyes, andthe firm set expression of the compressed lips, and realised in aninstant that in this man he would find neither misgiving nor mercy. Itwas a great perplexity to him that the man on whom he had showered suchfavours should thus take part against him. He had forgotten all aboutthat April morning, twenty-three years before; and had no conceptionthat between himself and the eyes of Richard de Clare, floated

 "A shadow like an angel's, with bright hair, "

nor that when that scene in the chapter-house was over, and Richardreturned his good Damascus blade to its scabbard, he murmured within hisheart to ears that heard not--

"I have avenged thee at last!"

But Richard never knew that his heaviest vengeance had been exacted onemonth sooner, when, with that bitter mirth which Anselm had misnamed, heleft an unknown Jew to perish in misery. 

The sun was setting that evening over Lincoln. Just on the rise ofSteephill stood a handsome Norman house, with a garden stretchingbehind. In the garden, on a stone settle, sat an old priest and a veryhandsome middle-aged lady. Two young sisters were wandering about thegarden with their arms round each other's waists; a young man stood atthe ornamental fountain, talking playfully to the hawk upon his wrist;while on the grass at the lady's feet sat two pretty children, theirlaps full of flowers. A conversation which had been running wasevidently coming to a conclusion. 

"Then you think, Father, that it is never lawful, under anycircumstances, to do evil that good may come?"

"God can bring good out of evil, my Beatrice. But it is one of Hisprerogatives. "

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Note 1. _Rot. Exit. , Past_. , 41 Henry Third. 

APPENDIX. 

Historical Appendix. 

FAMILY OF DE BURGH. 

Hubert De Burgh, whose ancestry is unknown with certainty (though somegenealogists attempt to derive him from Herlouin de Conteville, and hiswife Arlette, mother of William the Conqueror), was probably _born_about 1168-70, and created Justiciary of England, June 15, 1214. He wasalso Lord Chancellor and Lord Chamberlain, with abundance of smalleroffices. He was created Earl of Kent, February 11, 1227. After all thestrange vicissitudes through which he had passed, it seems almostsurprising that he was allowed to die in his bed, at Banstead, May [4?], 1243, aged about 74, and surviving his daughter just two years. [Character historical. ] He married--

A. Margaret, daughter and heir of Robert de Arsic or Arsike: datesunknown. (Hubert had previously been contracted, April 28, 1200, toJoan, daughter of William de Vernon, Earl of Devon; but the marriage didnot take place. )

B. Beatrice, daughter and sole heir of William de Warenne of Wirmgay, and widow of Dodo Bardolf: apparently _married_ after 1209, and _died_in or about 1214. 

C. Isabel, youngest daughter and co-heir of William Earl of Gloucester, made Countess of Gloucester by King John, to the prejudice of her twoelder sisters: affianced by her father to John, Count of Mortaigne[afterwards King John], at Windsor, September 28, 1176; married to himat Salisbury, August 29, 1189: divorced on her husband's accession, 1200, on pretext of being within the prohibited degrees. She married(2) Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, to whom she was sold by thehusband who had repudiated her, for the sum of twenty thousand marks, in1213. In the wars of the Barons, she threw all her influence into thescale against the King; but she showed that her enmity was personal, notpolitical, by at once returning to her allegiance on the accession ofHenry the Third. She was then given in _marriage_ (3) to Hubert deBurgh, into whose hands the manor of Walden was delivered, as part ofher dower, August 13, 1217; the marriage probably took place shortlybefore that date, and certainly before the 17th of September. Isabelwas Hubert's wife for so short a time, that some writers have doubtedthe fact of the marriage altogether; but it is amply authenticated. Shewas dead on the 18th of November following, as the Close Rolls bearwitness; and the Obituary of Canterbury Cathedral and the Chronicle ofRochester agree in stating that she died October 14, 1217. She wasburied in Canterbury Cathedral. 

D. Margaret, eldest daughter of William the First, King of Scotland, surnamed The Lion; affianced, 1196, to Otho of Brunswick; commuted tothe care of King John of England in 1209; _married_ at York, June 25, 1221; _died_ 1259, leaving no surviving issue. [Character inferentiallyhistorical. ]

_Issue of Earl Hubert_. 

A. _By Margaret Arsic_. 

John, knighted Whit Sunday, 1229; _died_ 1274-75, leaving issue. _Married_:--

Hawise, daughter and heir of Sir William de Lanvalay: _married_ beforeNovember 21, 1234; _died_ 1249; _buried_ at Colchester. [Characterimaginary. ]

2. _Hubert_, living 1281-82; ancestor of the Marquis of Clanricarde. Whom he married is not known. 

D. _By Margaret of Scotland_:--

Margaret, or Margery--she bears both names on the Rolls--_born_ probably1222; _married_ at Bury Saint Edmund's "when the Earl was at Merton"--probably January 11-26, 1236, --clandestinely, but with connivance ofmother, to Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester; divorced 1237; liveryof her estates granted to brother John, May 5, 1241; therefore _died_shortly before that date. Most writers attribute to Earl Hubert anotherdaughter, whom they call Magotta: but the Rolls show no evidence of anydaughter but Margaret. Magotta, or Magot, is manifestly a Latinism ofMargot, the French diminutive for Margaret; the Earl's gifts tomonasteries for the souls of himself and relatives, include "M. Hisdaughter, " but make no mention of two; and the grants made by the Kingto Earl Hubert and Margaret his wife, and Margaret their daughter, certainly imply that Margaret was the sole heir of her mother. [Character inferentially historical, except as regards religion, forwhich no evidence is forthcoming. ]

RICHARD DE CLARE. 

He was the eldest son of Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester and his wife IsabelMarshal (who married, secondly, the King's brother, Richard Earl ofCornwall): _born_ 1222, the same year as that which probably saw thebirth of Margaret de Burgh. King Henry obliged him to _marry_, in orabout January, 1239, Maud de Lacy, daughter of John, Earl of Lincoln, bywhom (after the death of Margaret) he had a family of three sons andthree daughters. His eldest daughter he named after his lost love; butshe proved a far less amiable character. Earl Richard was one ofseveral noblemen who _died_, we are told, from poison, in consequence ofdining with Queen Eleonore's cousin, Count Pietro of Savoy, June 14, 1262. He was _buried_ in Tewkesbury Abbey. Richard stood foremost ofthe English nobles in the wars of the Barons against Henry the Third, and with his own hand forced the King to swear to the terms theydictated, in 1259, as is stated in the story. [Character historical. ]

FICTITIOUS CHARACTERS. 

These are, the priests at Bury Castle; the various Jews introduced;Levina; Doucebelle de Vaux. 

Eva de Braose, Marie de Lusignan, Sir John de Burgh and his wife Hawise, are historical so far as their existence is concerned, but thecharacters ascribed to them are imaginary. 

The dreadful end of Delecresse is thus far true, --that a Jew was thustreated by Richard de Clare. But who it really was who revealed to KingHenry the clandestine marriage of Richard and Margaret, is one of theinscrutable mysteries of which no evidence remains.