"Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits to Bury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to be trusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities avail thee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom a Christian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years she could not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do not mistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee."

And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of the interview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religious question for another time.

"May I ask one other question, Mother?--what became of the maiden Beatrice and her brother?"

Licorice's eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on the principle of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where the road did not lead.

"The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not know what became of the maiden."

Licorice disappeared.

"The squire was not killed, I am sure," said Belasez to herself. "It is Father Bruno."

Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay was not her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno was sure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him was only too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the very existence of Beatrice, were in Belasez's eyes purely fict.i.tious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted the latter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to that gleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she was launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction.

Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were not a real person.

But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that something was left behind which had not been told her?

Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment after, she sprang to a sitting posture.

Yes, there was something behind!

What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story?

Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,--which Licorice 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 the whole 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 silk which he was packing.

"Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul but 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 her to carry infection to him?"

"What is to be done?" demanded Abraham, blankly. "Could not Pucella be had, or old c.u.n.tessa?"

"Old c.u.n.tessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich usurer, and Pucella would be no good,--she's as frightened of the fever as 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 tremendously afraid of thee."

"Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it."

"_Ay de mi_, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art."

"Bats don't tear their garments, wife."

"They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou."

"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-a.s.s, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!"

And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an att.i.tude of pitying astonishment.

"I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas were to walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, 'Here she is, O my Lord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.'"

"I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him break his for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers--What wicked thing 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 a daughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, 'Ye shall not give her unto the heathen'?"

"I do not think De Malpas was a heathen."

"Hast thou been to the creeping thing up yonder and begged to be baptised to-morrow?"

This was a complimentary allusion to that Right Reverend person, the Bishop 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 thee say so." And Licorice pretended to make a close examination of her skirt, 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 for eighteen 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."