Earl Hubert's Daughter Part 26

A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez's blood curdle as she lay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than the angel.

"What an a.s.s 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 her mind 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 followed could 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 keep her long."

"I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what he and his catch-polls will say. Wouldn't there be a pretty ferment? Old man, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talking about lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I'll let thee know when I 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! Of course there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide to begin with, it he does not want to be carried down it."

"The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that she either became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thing more."

"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 them both?"

"It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not know why."

"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 a bag of duck's down. I'm going to sleep."

And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, with that uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen, with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It gradually dawned upon her that Licorice was going to "get it out of her," and was likewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She had not heard two sentences which pa.s.sed between her parents before she woke, or she might have been still more on her guard.

"Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I told her that Anegay was not her sister."

"Just what might have been expected of thee, my paragon of wisdom!

Well, never mind. I'll tell her she was her aunt. That will do as well."

When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were duly completed, Licorice made Belasez's heart flutter by a command to attend her in the little porch-chamber.

"Belasez," she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantly have suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing,--for Licorice's character was well known to her--"Belasez, I hear from thy father that thou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was a kinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thou shalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from thee further than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and I have not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abraham thy father, and therefore thine aunt."

Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father's sister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed that Abraham's references to the dead girl were made with far more indication of love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that this might be due to the existence of relations.h.i.+p on his part and not on hers. She now concluded that it was simply a question of character.

But who Anegay was, was a point left as much in the dark as ever.

"She was a great friend of mine, daughter, and I loved her very dearly,"

said Licorice, applying one hand to her perfectly dry eyes--a proceeding which imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her were generally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impression that she had hated her. "And at that time thy father dwelt at Lincoln-- it was before we were married, thou knowest--and Anegay, being an only and motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. I cannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, but Anegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name was Beatrice--"

A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feel especially doubtful of the truth of this part of the story.

"And who had a brother," pursued Licorice, "a young Christian squire, but as thou shalt hear, a most wicked and artful man."

Belasez at once set down the unknown squire as a model of all the cardinal virtues.

"Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practise the Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over all unfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within their influence."

There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more charges brought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believed similar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at Bury Castle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken and uprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction that Jews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of the same stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found in both camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom she chose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidence or communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in such different moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any.

Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was wholly uncultivated, 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 thought or feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came the nearest to it.

It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to have so little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold herself into more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheer impossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognition that it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her own fault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness of heart.

"It seems to me," continued Licorice, "that this bad young man, whose name 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 insect as one of the accursed Goyim?

"For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it was to all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of a marriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resource was to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forget all about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant of the Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy father were wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay with us."

Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: but how much of it was true? "And did she forget him, Mother?"

"Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty." Belasez privately thought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a duty as 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 died soon after the birth of her first child," said Licorice, glibly. "And was 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.