Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majesty considerately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for the unusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of him to feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for the term of his natural life.

Only!

How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing us with every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do to pray for grace to enable them to forgive us!

Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that he registered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fall into his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold.

The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaret and her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections of whatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow. Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completely engrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endless search for the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and other equally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun to engage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they were approaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed a blessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into the snare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient was wanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That one ingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenth century.

Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers,—that except in the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Their search for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture of helpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to the idiotic 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 it complacently 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 thought that such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and she was rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at the discovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increase her sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third of June, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news might reasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from her point of view) happened than the birth of a Prince—afterwards to be Edward the First, who has been termed "the greatest of all the Plantagenets."

The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as a delightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, by the King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of the Plantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious event to all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden were not of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace. "God gave us this child," exclaimed a blunt Norman noble, "but the King sells him to us!"

Four days after the Prince's birth came another event, which to one at least 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 seen thee shed tears before."

The girl answered by a passionate gesture.

"'Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I 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 stood up and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed to the Countess worthy of some classic prophetess. "'Remember, O Adonai, what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!' 'O God, why hast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against the sheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more any prophet.' 'Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit all nations.'"

The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She could not comprehend it.

"My child, I do not understand," she said, kindly enough. "Has some relative 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 some such dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas. Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that low race. They are not thy people any longer."

Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feeling than 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. We are brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, and low! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does upon his crown,—yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! 'We are Thine; Thou never barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name.' But you do 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 dry thine eyes, my dear child; thou wilt make thyself ill. And really—"

The Countess was too kind to finish the sentence. But Beatrice could guess that she thought there was really nothing to weep over in the massacre of a few scores of Jews. She found little sympathy among the younger members of the family party. Margaret said she was sorry, but it was evidently for the fact that her friend was in trouble, not for the event over which she was sorrowing. Eva openly expressed profound scorn 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? Doucebelle alone seemed capable of a little sympathy.

But before the evening was over, Beatrice found there was one Christian who could enter into all her feelings. She was slowly crossing the ante-chamber in the twilight, when she found herself intercepted and drawn into Bruno's arms.

"My darling!" he said, tenderly. "I am sent to thee with heavy tidings."

Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father's breast, with the feeling that she had one friend left in the world.

"I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it with me."

"There are not many who will, I can guess," answered Bruno. "But, my child, 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, my daughter."

"Delecresse?" She thought him the most likely to be in London of any of the 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 was pitiful to hear.

"'My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!'"

Bruno let her weep passionately, until the first burst of grief was over. Then he said, gently, "Be comforted, my Beatrice. I believe that he sleeps in Jesus, and that God shall bring him with Him."

"He was not baptised?" asked Beatrice, in some surprise that Bruno should think so.

"He was ready for it. He had spoken to a friend of mine—one Friar Saher de Kilvingholme—on the subject. And the Lord would not refuse to receive him because his brow had not been touched by water, when He had baptised him with the Holy Ghost and with fire."

Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would have ventured 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 who choose 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 older and wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better the reason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light upon them, which you did not of old?"

"No, my child, I think not," was Bruno's answer. "If any thing, I should say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It is not less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of his father; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Father better; 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 land where we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied. Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, here and now."

"It is dark!" said Beatrice, with a sob.

"'The morning cometh,'" replied Bruno. "And 'in the morning is gladness.'"

Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob now and then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in a low, 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!"

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, the eldest 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, rather contemptuously. She looked down on Sir John supremely for four reasons, which in her own eyes at least were excellent ones. First, he was rather short; secondly, he was very silent; thirdly, he was not particularly handsome; and lastly (and of most import), he had remained proof against all Eva's attractions.

"I thank thee," was all he said now; and he walked into Margaret's bower, where he took a seat on the extreme end of the settle, and never said a word to any body whilst he stayed.

"The absurd creature!" exclaimed Eva, when he was gone. "What an absolute ass he is! He has not an idea in his head."

"Oh, I beg thy pardon, Eva," interposed Marie, rather warmly. "He's plenty of ideas. He'll talk if one talks to him. Thou never dost."

"He is clever enough to please thee, very likely!" was the rather snappish answer.

From that evening, Sir John de Averenches took to frequenting the bower occasionally, much to the annoyance of Eva, until the happy thought struck her that she might have captivated him at last. Mentally binding him to her chariot wheels, she made no further objection, but on the contrary, became so amiable that the shrewd little Marie noticed the alteration.

"Well, Eva is queer!" said that acute young lady. "She goes into the sulks if Sir William de Cantilupe so much as looks at any body; but she does not care how many people she looks at! I think she should be jealous on both sides!"

Eva's amenities, however, seemed to have no more effect on Sir John than her displeasure. Night after night, there he sat, never speaking to any one, 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 he guessed its meaning; but since the clue was one which he preferred not to pursue, he discreetly left matters to shape themselves, or rather, to be shaped by Providence, when the time should come.

That was a dreary winter altogether. The King had openly insulted his sister and Montfort, when they made their appearance at the ceremony of the Queen's "up-rising;" [Churching] and they had left England, pocketing the affront, but as concerned Montfort, by no means forgetting it.

The Pope made further encroachments on the liberties of the Church of England, 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 of Cornwall, who seems to have been not a true, living Christian (as there is reason to believe his son was), but simply a political opponent of the aggressions of Rome. The citizens of London were about equally disgusted with the King, who at this time received a visit from the Queen's uncle, Tomaso of Savoy, and in his delight, His Majesty commanded his loyal and grumbling subjects to remove all dirt from the streets, and to meet the Count in gala clothing, and with horses handsomely accoutred.

The hint thrown out by Levina had not been lost on the Countess. She thought a complete change might do good to the fading flower which was only too patently withering on its stem: and at her instance the whole household removed to Westminster at the beginning of this winter. They had hardly settled down in their new abode when a fresh storm broke on the now aged head of Earl Hubert.

Once more, all the old, worn-out charges were trumped up, including even that 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 the accusation was made.

"I was never a traitor to you, nor to your father!" said Hubert de Burgh, 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 let the Earl off very lightly. The sentence passed was, that he should only resign the four most valuable castles that he had. This, of course, was not because Hubert was guilty, but because His Majesty was covetous. Chateau Blanc, Grosmond, Skenefrith, and Hatfield, were given up to the Crown. Hubert bore it, we are told, very quietly and patiently. His own time could not be long now, for he was at least seventy; and the Benjamin 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, died rather suddenly at Viterbo. So grieved was the King, that he tore his royal mantle from his shoulders, and flung it into the fire. With that sudden and passionate reaction to the other side, often seen in weak natures, he now threw himself into the arms of the Predicants and Minorites—until he set up a new favourite, who was not long in appearing.

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 the miserable state into which England was sinking; and declaring that he loved his country so much, that he could not bear to stay and see it go to ruin, he prepared to head a fresh crusade. Perhaps it did not occur to him that love and patriotism would have been shown better by staying at home and trying to keep his country from going to ruin. That was reserved for another Richard—the young Earl of Gloucester.

Another comet, and a violent hurricane, in the spring, made the augurs shake their heads and prophesy worse calamities than ever. There was a fresh one on the way, in the shape of a Papal exaction of one-fifth of the property of foreign beneficed clerks in England, in order to support the war then waged by the Pope on the Emperor of Germany. The royal Council was stirred, and told its listless master that he "ought not to suffer England to become a spoil and a desolation to immigrants, like a vineyard without a wall, exposed to wild beasts." His Majesty, like a true son of holy Church, replied that he "neither wished nor dared to oppose the Pope in any thing." As if to make confusion worse confounded, the Archbishop of Canterbury (subsequently known as Saint Edmund of Pontigny) aspired to become a second Becket, and appealed to the Pope to do away with state patronage, which he of course considered ought to be vested in the Primate. King Henry, supine as he was, was roused at last, and sent a message to Rome to the effect that the appeal of the Archbishop was contrary to his royal dignity. The Pope declined to entertain the appeal: and the King, we are told (by a monk) "became more tyrannical than ever," and appointed Bonifacio of Savoy to the See of Winchester. The defeated Archbishop submitted to the Pope's demand of a fifth of his income: but when the Pope, emboldened by success, came, to an agreement with the Italian priests occupying English benefices, that on condition of their helping him against the Emperor, all benefices in his gift should be bestowed upon Italians, the Archbishop could bear no longer, and he left England, never to return. He died at Pontigny, his birthplace, on the sixteenth of November following; and not long afterwards, King Henry reverently knelt to worship at the tomb of the saint [Note 1] who had been a thorn in his side as long as he lived.

Then the English Abbots, cruelly mulcted by the Pope, appealed to their natural Sovereign, to be met by a scowl, and to hear the Legate told that he might choose the best of the royal castles wherein to imprison them. Twenty-four Roman priests came over to fill English benefices: and at last, when the Legate left England (for which "no one was sorry but the King"), it was calculated that with the exception of church plate, he carried out of England more wealth than he left in it.

But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outside calamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towards summer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the white lily 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 disease that he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of Saint Dominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable.

There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longer thought it strange that God should have made her young life short and bitter. The lesson was learned, at last.

So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just when it came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to sit up, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quiet that it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was.

Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bed when dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and in all the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine.

Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in the festivities.

"Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?" she said, answering Doucebelle'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 it is 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 become of me if I had not some diversion."

Beatrice and Doucebelle stayed with Margaret: Doucebelle from a sort of inward sensation, she hardly knew what or why; Beatrice from a remark made 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 had preceded 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 were where I could hardly see it—somewhere above this world, and all the things that are in the world. Father, have you any idea what there will be 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 scarcely capable of guessing. Only, His will is that His people shall behold it and share it. It must be something that He thinks worth seeing—He, who has 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 He forgives—like a king."

Like what king?—was the thought in Doucebelle's mind. Not like the one of whom she knew any thing—who was responsible before God for that death which was coming on so quietly, yet so surely.

Beatrice had left the room a few minutes before, and she was now returning to it through the ante-chamber. The dusk was rapidly falling, and, not knowing of any presence but her own, she was extremely startled to find herself grasped by the shoulder, by a firm hand which evidently had no intention of standing any trifling. She looked up into the face of a stranger, and yet a face which was not altogether strange. It was that of a tall, handsome man, with fair hair, and a stern, pained compression 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 have screamed.

"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 a reverential compassion for that faithful love which had brought him there 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 and none 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 much convinced as overwhelmed. "It will startle her if she be not told beforehand."

Richard's only answer was to release Beatrice from his grasp. She passed into Margaret's bower, and, was surprised to see a strange gleam in the eyes of the dying girl.

"Beatrice, Richard is here. I know I heard his voice. Bring him to me."

"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 came through the closed door. Half an hour passed in total silence. At last Bruno 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 extremely improper! She must go in and put a stop to it that minute.

Hawise tapped at the door, but no answer came. She opened it, and stood, silenced and frightened by what she saw. Richard de Clare bent over the bed, pouring passionate, unanswered kisses upon dead violet eyes, 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 sounded almost like an execration of some one. "God gave me this white dove, to nestle in my bosom and to be the glory of my life. Who took her from me? Does one of you dare to say it was God? It was man!—a man who shall pay for it, if he coin his heart's blood to do so. And if the payment cost my heart's blood, it will be little matter, seeing it has cost my heart already."

He drew his dagger, and bending down again, severed one of the long soft tresses of the cedar hair.

"Farewell, my dove!" he murmured, in a tone so altered that it was difficult to recognise the same voice. "Thou at least shalt suffer no more. Thy place is with the blessed saints and the holy angels, where nothing may ever enter that shall grieve or defile. But surely as thou art safe housed in Heaven, and I am left desolate on earth, thy death shall be avenged by fair means or by foul!"

"'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,'" softly quoted Bruno as 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 bower with 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 be nursed back to life and diligently cared for. But all was over for the night, and Doucebelle and Beatrice were beginning to think of bed, before Eva made her appearance. Of course the news had to be told again.

"Oh dear, how shocking!" said Eva, putting down her bouquet. "How very distressing! (I am afraid those flowers will never keep till morning.) Well, do you know, I am really thankful I was not here. What good could it 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 a wink. I sha'n't get over it for a week,—if I do then! Oh, how very shocking! 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 her coffin? Horrid! Really, Dulcie, I think that is great waste. And the bouquet is so nicely made up,—it would be such a pity to pull it to pieces! I spent half an hour at least in putting it together, and Brimnatyn de Hertiland helped me. Of course thou canst have them if thou must,—but—"

Doucebelle quietly declined the gift so doubtfully offered.

"I wish, Doucebelle, thou wouldst have more consideration for people's feelings!" said Eva in a querulous tone, smoothing the petals of her flowers. "I am sure, whenever I look at a bouquet for the next twelvemonth, I shall think of this. I cannot help it—things do take such 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 quiet cloisters of Westminster Abbey, and the King who had been an accessory to her end followed her bier. Hers was not the only life that his act had shortened. Earl Hubert had virtually done with earth, when he saw lowered into the cold ground the coffin of his Benjamin. He survived her just two years, and laid down his weary burden of life on the fourth of May, 1243.

When Margaret was gone, there was no further tie to Bury Castle for Bruno and his daughter. Bishop Grosteste was again applied to, and responded as kindly as before, though circumstances did not allow him to do it equally to his satisfaction. The rich living originally offered to Bruno had of course been filled up, and there was nothing at that moment in the episcopal gift but some very small ones. The best of these he gave; and about two months after the death of Margaret, Bruno and Beatrice took leave of the Countess, and removed to their new home. It was a quiet little hamlet in the south of Lincolnshire, with a population of barely three hundred souls; and Beatrice's time was filled up 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 calm stretch of life, all to themselves.

One evening towards the close of summer, as Bruno came home to his little parsonage, where the dog-roses looked in at the windows, and the honeysuckles climbed round the porch, a sight met him which assured him that his period of peace and content was ended. On the stone bench in the porch, alone, intently examining a honeysuckle, sat Sir John de Averenches.

Bruno de Malpas was much too shrewd to suppose that his society was the magnet which had attracted the silent youth some fifty miles across the country. He sighed, but resigning himself to the inevitable, lifted his biretta as he came up to the door. Sir John rose and greeted him with evident cordiality, but he did not appear to have any thing particular to 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 Beatrice made her appearance; and Bruno noticed that the unexpected presence of a third person evoked no expression of surprise on her part. The preparations for supper were made by Beatrice and her attendant handmaiden Sabina; and after the meal was over, Bruno discreetly went off, with the interesting observation that he was about to visit a sick person at the furthest part of the parish. Sir John had taken his seat on the extreme end of a form, and Beatrice came and sat with her embroidery at the other end. Ten minutes of profound silence intervened.

"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 needle with blue.

"Ask my father."

"How does he know what thou thinkest?"

"Well, he always does," said Beatrice, calmly fastening the blue silk on the 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 materially lessened.

"Then thou dost not want to be rid of me?"

"I can work while I am talking," replied Beatrice, in her very coolest manner.

"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 went in instead, while the end of the blue thread was carefully secured in Beatrice's left hand for future use.

"One, two, three, four,"—Beatrice was half audibly counting her stitches.

"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 out with 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, and rethreaded 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. It might 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 by so many pauses, that Bruno appeared before it had progressed further. He glanced at the pair with some amusement in his eyes, not unmixed with sadness, for he had a decided foreboding that he was about to lose his Beatrice. But no more was said that night.

The next morning, Sir John de Averenches made the formal appeal which Bruno was fully expecting.

"I am not good at words, Father," he said, with honest manliness; "and I know the maiden is fair beyond many. You may easily look higher for her; but you will not easily find one that loves her better."

"Truly, my son, that is mine own belief," said Bruno. "But hast thou fully understood that she is of Jewish descent, which many Christian knights 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 will say. It will be hard to part with her."

"Why should you, Father? Will she not still want a confessor?—and could she have a better than you?"

"Thank you, Father!" said Beatrice demurely, when Bruno told her that his consent was given, contingent upon hers. "Then I will begin my wedding-dress."

In this extremely cool manner the fair maiden intimated her intention of becoming a matron. But Bruno, who knew every change of her features and colour, 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 was worn about the beginning of winter, and once more Bruno resigned his parish duties, and became, as his son-in-law had wisely suggested, a family confessor.

They heard from Bury that the marriage of Eva de Braose took place about the same time. And the general opinion in the Lincolnshire parsonage was rather, as respected Sir William de Cantilupe, one of condolence than of congratulation.

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Eighteen years after that summer, a solitary traveller was approaching the city of Tewkesbury. He sat down on a low wall which skirted the road, and wiped his heated brow. He was a tall, fine-looking man, with a dark olive complexion, and clustering masses of black hair. There was no one in sight, and the traveller began to talk in an undertone to himself, as solitary men are sometimes wont to do.

"A good two hours before sunset, I suppose," he said, looking towards the sun, which was blazing fiercely. "Pugh! where does that horrid smell come from? Ah, that is the vesper bell, as they call it—the unclean beasts that they are! Well, we at least are pure from every shadow 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 girl live—the girl that Belasez loved. Well! she is one of the creeping things now. She—our Belasez! This is a cross-grained, crooked sort of world. Faugh! that smell again!

"I suppose this is the wall of Tewkesbury Castle. Is my Lord the Earl at home, I wonder? How I did hate that boy!

"What is coming yonder, with those jingling bells? A string of pilgrims to some accursed shrine, most likely. May these heathen idolaters be all confounded, and the chosen people of Adonai be brought home in peace! I could see, I dare say, if I stood on the wall. They may have some 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 as to catch a glimpse of the religious procession which he supposed to be approaching, when suddenly he slipped and fell backwards. A wild cry for "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 just managed so far to raise himself as to get his head free. And then the dreadful 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 needed help any the less, nor that he was less conscious of it, but because he remembered 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 dropped below the horizon. At any rate, Delecresse, sternest of Pharisees to his 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 thou art, to bring or send me something on which I can rest till sunset, and then help me forth."

"The saints be blessed! a jolly place to fall into. But why, in the name 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 it worth while pulling a Jew out?—what sayest thou, Anselm?"

"He is a man, poor soul!" returned a second voice. "Nay, let us not leave him to such a death as that."

"Look here, old Jew! I will go and fetch a ladder and rope. I should pull 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 gracious Lord what we shall do."

A strange feeling crept over Delecresse when he heard his fate, for life or 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 his report. "He saith, Let the cur be, if he will not be plucked forth until Monday morning: for if Saturday be his Sabbath, Sunday is mine, and what will defile the one will defile the other." [This part of the story 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 out now, or not? If not now, then not at all."

For one moment, the heart of Delecresse grew sick and faint within him as 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, and he heard their footsteps grow faint in the distance, and knew that he was left to die as horrible a death as can befall humanity. Only one other cry arose, and that was not for the ears of men. It was the prayer of one in utter error, yet in terrible extremity: and it was honestly sincere.

"Adonai! I have sinned and done evil, all my life long. Specially I have sinned against this man, who has left me to die here in this horrible place. Now therefore, O my God, I beseech Thee, let the sufferings of Thy servant be accepted before Thee as an atonement for his sin, and let this one good deed, that I have preferred death rather than break Thy law, rise before Thee as the incense with the evening sacrifice!"

Yes, it was utter error. Yet the Christians of his day, one here and there excepted, could have taught him no better. And what had they offered him instead? Idol-worship, woman-worship, offerings for the dead,—every thing which the law of God had forbidden. In the day when the blood of the martyrs is demanded at the hand of Babylon, will there be no reckoning for the souls of those thousand sons of Israel, whom she has persistently thrust away from Christ, by erecting a rood-screen of idols between Him and them?

When day dawned on the Monday, they pulled out of the cess-pool the body of a dead man.

One month later, in the chapter-house at Canterbury, King Henry the Third stood, an humble and helpless suppliant, before his assembled Barons. There he was forced, utterly against his will and wish, to sign an additional charter granting liberties to England, and binding his own hands. 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 the pen into the unwilling fingers of the cowering King, and who held out the Evangelisterium for the swearing of his hated oath. King Henry looked up into the cold steel-like glitter of those stern blue eyes, and the firm set expression of the compressed lips, and realised in an instant that in this man he would find neither misgiving nor mercy. It was a great perplexity to him that the man on whom he had showered such favours should thus take part against him. He had forgotten all about that April morning, twenty-three years before; and had no conception that 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 Richard returned his good Damascus blade to its scabbard, he murmured within his heart to ears that heard not—

"I have avenged thee at last!"

But Richard never knew that his heaviest vengeance had been exacted one month sooner, when, with that bitter mirth which Anselm had misnamed, he left an unknown Jew to perish in misery.

The sun was setting that evening over Lincoln. Just on the rise of Steephill stood a handsome Norman house, with a garden stretching behind. In the garden, on a stone settle, sat an old priest and a very handsome middle-aged lady. Two young sisters were wandering about the garden with their arms round each other's waists; a young man stood at the ornamental fountain, talking playfully to the hawk upon his wrist; while on the grass at the lady's feet sat two pretty children, their laps full of flowers. A conversation which had been running was evidently coming to a conclusion.

"Then you think, Father, that it is never lawful, under any circumstances, to do evil that good may come?"

"God can bring good out of evil, my Beatrice. But it is one of His prerogatives."

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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 some genealogists attempt to derive him from Herlouin de Conteville, and his wife Arlette, mother of William the Conqueror), was probably born about 1168-70, and created Justiciary of England, June 15, 1214. He was also Lord Chancellor and Lord Chamberlain, with abundance of smaller offices. He was created Earl of Kent, February 11, 1227. After all the strange vicissitudes through which he had passed, it seems almost surprising 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: dates unknown. (Hubert had previously been contracted, April 28, 1200, to Joan, daughter of William de Vernon, Earl of Devon; but the marriage did not 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 two elder sisters: affianced by her father to John, Count of Mortaigne [afterwards King John], at Windsor, September 28, 1176; married to him at 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 the husband who had repudiated her, for the sum of twenty thousand marks, in 1213. In the wars of the Barons, she threw all her influence into the scale against the King; but she showed that her enmity was personal, not political, by at once returning to her allegiance on the accession of Henry the Third. She was then given in marriage (3) to Hubert de Burgh, into whose hands the manor of Walden was delivered, as part of her dower, August 13, 1217; the marriage probably took place shortly before that date, and certainly before the 17th of September. Isabel was Hubert's wife for so short a time, that some writers have doubted the fact of the marriage altogether; but it is amply authenticated. She was dead on the 18th of November following, as the Close Rolls bear witness; and the Obituary of Canterbury Cathedral and the Chronicle of Rochester agree in stating that she died October 14, 1217. She was buried in Canterbury Cathedral.

D. Margaret, eldest daughter of William the First, King of Scotland, surnamed The Lion; affianced, 1196, to Otho of Brunswick; commuted to the care of King John of England in 1209; married at York, June 25, 1221; died 1259, leaving no surviving issue. [Character inferentially historical.]

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 before November 21, 1234; died 1249; buried at Colchester. [Character imaginary.]

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 probably 1222; married at Bury Saint Edmund's "when the Earl was at Merton"— probably January 11-26, 1236,—clandestinely, but with connivance of mother, to Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester; divorced 1237; livery of her estates granted to brother John, May 5, 1241; therefore died shortly before that date. Most writers attribute to Earl Hubert another daughter, whom they call Magotta: but the Rolls show no evidence of any daughter but Margaret. Magotta, or Magot, is manifestly a Latinism of Margot, the French diminutive for Margaret; the Earl's gifts to monasteries for the souls of himself and relatives, include "M. his daughter," but make no mention of two; and the grants made by the King to 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, for which no evidence is forthcoming.]

RICHARD DE CLARE.

He was the eldest son of Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester and his wife Isabel Marshal (who married, secondly, the King's brother, Richard Earl of Cornwall): born 1222, the same year as that which probably saw the birth of Margaret de Burgh. King Henry obliged him to marry, in or about January, 1239, Maud de Lacy, daughter of John, Earl of Lincoln, by whom (after the death of Margaret) he had a family of three sons and three daughters. His eldest daughter he named after his lost love; but she proved a far less amiable character. Earl Richard was one of several noblemen who died, we are told, from poison, in consequence of dining with Queen Eleonore's cousin, Count Pietro of Savoy, June 14, 1262. He was buried in Tewkesbury Abbey. Richard stood foremost of the 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 they dictated, 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 the characters ascribed to them are imaginary.

The dreadful end of Delecresse is thus far true,—that a Jew was thus treated by Richard de Clare. But who it really was who revealed to King Henry the clandestine marriage of Richard and Margaret, is one of the inscrutable mysteries of which no evidence remains.