as bertha came back, carefully carrying her jar of honey, she heard a considerable tumult in a street on her left hand, which led to the jews’ quarter of the city. in every town, the jews were shut up in a particular part of it; and after london itself, the towns in which the greatest number of jews lived were lincoln, york, norwich, oxford, and northampton. since the dreadful persecution arising from the (real or supposed) murder of little hugh, lincoln had been comparatively quiet from such tumults; and bertha was too young to know anything about it but from hearsay. wondering if some fresh commotion was going to arise, and anxious to be safe at home before it should begin, bertha quickened her steps. there were only three more streets to cross, one of which was a dark, narrow alley leading directly to the jews’ quarter. as bertha crossed this, she heard a low, frightened call upon her name, and a slight figure crept out and crouched at her feet.

“o bertha!” said a girl’s voice, broken by sobs and terrified catching of the breath, “you are kind-hearted; i know you are. you saved a little dog that the dreadful boys were trying to drown. will you save me, though i am beneath a dog in your eyes?”

“who are you?” asked astonished bertha.

“i am hester, the daughter of aaron,” said the girl, “and there is a deadly raid on our quarter. they accuse us of poisoning the wells. o bertha, they lay things to us that we never do! save me, for my womanhood’s sake!”

“poor soul!” said bertha, looking down at her. “come with me to aunt avice. maybe she will let thee tarry in some corner till the tumult is over. i dare say it will not be much.”

bertha spoke in rather contemptuous tones, though they were not wanting in pity. everybody in england was taught then to rank jews with vermin, and to look upon it as a weakness to show them any kindness.

the two girls reached the door in safety, and bertha led hester in.

“aunt avice,” she said, “there is a commotion in the jews’ quarter, and here is a jew maiden that wants to know if we will shelter her. i suppose she won’t hurt us much, will she?”

the very breath of a jew was fancied to be poisonous.

avice looked at the pale, terrified face and trembling limbs of the girl who had cast herself on her mercy.

“well, i dare say not,” said she; “at any rate, we will risk it. perhaps the good lord may not be very angry; or if he is, we must say more prayers, and beg our lady saint mary to intercede for us. come in, child.”

poor avice! she knew no better. she had been taught that the lord who died for her was a stern, angry judge, and that all the mercy rested in his human mother. and the jews had crucified christ; so, thought avice, he must hate them! perhaps, of such christians as she was, he may have said again, “father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

hester came in quietly. “may god bless you!” she said. “i will try not to breathe on you, for i know what you think.” and she sat down meekly on the floor, in a dark corner, not daring to offer any help, lest they should imagine that she would pollute anything she touched. avice threw her a cake of bread, as she might have done to a dog; and hester knew that it was a kinder act than she would have received from most of the christians around.

it was not yet quite bed-time, and bertha sat down again to her work, begging her aunt to finish the tale. they took no notice of hester.

“it is almost finished,” said avice; “there is little more to tell. the winter got over, but spring was scarcely begun when our little lady’s health failed again. the lord king was so anxious about her that when he was away from windsor, he bade the lady queen to send him a special messenger with news of her; and so delighted was he to hear of her recovery, that he commanded a good robe to be given to the messenger, and offered in thanksgiving an image of silver, wrought in the form of a woman, to the shrine of saint edward.”

“then she did recover, aunt?”

“ay, but it was for the last time. as the summer drew on, the lady queen asked master thomas if he thought it well that the little lady should have change again, and be sent into the country till the heat was past. master thomas answered that he reckoned it unnecessary; and the lady queen departed, well pleased. but as soon as she was gone, master thomas said to me and julian the rocker, who were tending our little lady—‘she will have a better change than to swallowfield.’ quoth julian, ‘say you so, master? whither do you purpose sending her?’ and he said, looking sadly on the child, ‘i purpose sending her? truly, good julian, no whither. but ere long time be over, the lord our god will send for her, by that angel that taketh no bribe to delay execution of his mandate.’ and then i knew his meaning: my darling was to die. but the steps of the angel were very slow. the autumn came and went. the child seemed languid and dull, and the lord king offered a chasuble of samite to the blessed edmund of pontigny at his altar at canterbury.”

edmund rich, afterwards called saint edmund of pontigny, was an archbishop of canterbury with whom king henry the third was at variance as long as he lived, much in the same way as henry the second had been with becket. now he was dead, a banished man, the pope had declared him a saint, and king henry made humble offerings at his shrine. but it is amusing to find that with respect to this offering at least, his majesty’s instructions were to buy the samite of the lowest price that could be found!

“it was all of no use,” pursued avice sorrowfully. “the angel had received the mandate. great feasts were held at easter—there were twenty beeves and fifty muttons, fifteen hundred pullets, and six hundred shillings’ worth of bread, beside many other things—but ere one month was over, the feast became a fast. when saint philip’s day dawned my darling lay in her bed, with her fair eyes turned up to heaven and her hands folded in prayer; and who may know what she said to god, or yet more what he told to her? she had never been taught to pray; she could not be.” avice’s only notion of prayer was repeating a form of words, and keeping time by a string of beads. “but i shall always think that in some way beyond our comprehension, my darling could speak to god. and on the evening of the invention of the cross”—which is may 3rd—“she spoke to him in heaven.”

“and did the lady queen sorrow very much, aunt? i suppose, though, great ladies like her would not care as much as poor people.”

“wouldst thou, child? ah, a mother is a mother, let her be a cottager or a queen. and she sorrowed so sorely that for weeks afterwards she lay ill, and all the skill of her physicians could avail nothing. the lord king, too, fell sick of a tertian fever, which held him many days, and i believe it was out of sheer anguish for his dearest child. he commanded a brass image of her to be placed on the tomb, but ere it was finished he would have one of silver: and he gave fifty shillings a year to the hermit of charing, for a priest to pray daily for her in the chapel of the hermitage.”

“do you think she is still in purgatory, aunt?”

avice’s religion, as taught not by the word of god, but the traditions of men, led her to be doubtful on that point. but her heart broke its way through the bonds.

“what, my white dove? my little unspotted darling, that never wilfully sinned against god and holy church? child, if our holy father the pope were to tell me himself that she was there, i would not believe him. do the angels go to purgatory? nay, i do verily believe that, seeing her infirmity, christ our lord did all the work of salvation for her, and that she sings now before our father’s face.”

poor avice! she could get no further. but we, who know god’s word, know that there is but one mediator between god and man, and that he has offered a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of the whole world. before bertha could reply, an answer came unexpectedly from the dark corner.

“your god must be hard to propitiate,” said the young jewess. “in old times, after the sacrifice was offered, a man was cleansed from sin. he had not to cleanse himself by his own pain.”

“but you are heathens,” said avice, feeling it a condescension to argue with a jew. “our religion is better than yours.”

“how?” was hester’s rejoinder.

“because we have been redeemed by our lord, who died to save us from hell.”

“it does not sound like it. then why had the little child to go there?”

“she did not go there! she went to purgatory.”

“she went to pain, if i understood you rightly. why did your messiah not finish his work, and keep her from going to pain altogether?”

“i cannot answer such wicked questions,” said avice. “the church teaches that god’s love purifies his servants in purgatory, and as soon as their souls are clean they go to heaven.”

“our god does better for us than that,” was hester’s quiet answer. “i do not know what ‘the church’ is. but i suppose god’s love is not for gentiles.”

and she relapsed into silence. avice sat and span—and thought. both of them were terribly ignorant; but avice did honestly desire to know god’s will, and such truth as was in hester’s words troubled her. and as she thought, other words came to her, heard years ago from the pulpit of lincoln cathedral, and from the long silent lips of that holy bishop grosteste whom she so deeply revered.

“by leaning on christ,” the bishop had said, “every true christian rises into true life, peace, and joy; he lives in his life, sees light in his light, is invigorated with his warmth, grows in his strength, and leaning on the beloved, his soul ascends upwards.”

then for those who loved christ and leaned on him, either he must be with them in purgatory, and then it would be no pain at all: or—avice shrank from the alternative that perhaps there was no purgatory at all! it is hard to break free from trammels in which we have been held all our lives. bertha did not follow the course of her aunt’s thoughts, and wondered why she said, after long silence—

“methinks god is enough for his people, wherever they are.”

hester also had been thinking, and to as much purpose.

“it is written, ‘in his name shall the gentiles trust,’” she said. “and i think, if he can love any gentiles, it must be kindly and merciful hearts like yours. perhaps the great sacrifice—the messiah himself—is meant for all men. but i think he will finish his work, and not leave it incomplete, as your priests seem to teach you.”

“he will do right by all men, if thou meanest our lord,” replied avice gently. “and what was right for all, and best for us, we shall know when we come to him.”

“then the little lady knows it now, aunt,” said bertha.

“yes, my darling knows it now. it may be she knows why her ears were sealed and her tongue bound, now that they are unstopped and loosed. and i marvel if any voice in the choirs of the angels can be so sweet as hers.”

there was silence for a little while. then hester rose.

“i thank you very much for your kindness,” she said. “i think i might go home. the streets seem quieter now.”

avice went to the door, unlatched it, and peered forth into the night.

“yes, there seems to be no noise in the direction of your quarter now. i think you will be safe. but if you feel uneasy, you can stay the night in this room.”

“no, thank you,” replied hester gratefully. “i will not put you to that trouble. you have been very good to me. may the god of israel bless you with his blessing!”

avice felt rather uneasy. she had always been taught that jews were idolaters, and she never imagined that hester could be blessing her in the name of the one living god. she fancied that the benediction of some horrible moloch was being called down upon her, and feared it accordingly. but she answered kindly, for unkindness was not in her simple, loving, god-fearing heart. hester went out, and latched the door behind her.

“i am glad she is gone,” said bertha. “i could not feel easy while she was here. yet i could not have borne to turn her away without asking you if you would take her in, aunt. i hope we have not done wrong!”

“i hope not, indeed,” replied avice, who was not quite easy in her own mind. “i wonder why it should be so wrong to pity jews, and be kind to them. it looks so different from all the other commands of our lord.”

different, most truly! but such causes for wonder were likely to be frequent enough, so long as men allowed the traditions of men to run alongside of the infallible word of god. and they had no power to read for themselves the real words of the lord, who had said to the father of all israel, “i will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee.”

but the influx of visitors was not yet over for the evening. hester had not been gone long when a heavy rap came on the door. “come in!” said avice; and uncle dan appeared.

“could you spare a chap a seat, think ye?” said he. “i’ve come for a bit o’ peace. we’ve got thunder and lightning and rain up at smithy. she’s thunder, and ankaret’s lightning, and mildred’s rain, for she’s a-crying: and el’nor and me, we ’re wet to skin wi’ ’t. so i put my cap on and come here to dry me a bit.”

avice laughed. “you’re always welcome, uncle dan, and i hope you know it,” said she. “bertha, my maid, bake a short-cake for thy father. there’s enough warmth in the bake-stone.”

“short-cake’s good,” said dan, “and i’ll not go to deny it; but love and peace are better. she can make short-cake wi’ anybody. it’s th’ jam as goes wi’ ’t i don’t like. she makes it so tart, and puts so much on. sure, if th’ fire had went out, she’d easy bake a cake a-top of her temper, and so could ankaret. eh, it do take a whole hive of honey to sweeten some folks. there’s bees in this world, for sure; but there’s many a waps to every bee.”

in the present day, “waps” is considered a vulgar way of pronouncing the word; but it was correct english at the time of which i am writing. “wasp” is really the corrupt pronunciation. in the same way, they said “claps” where we say “clasp.”

“uncle dan, i sometimes wonder you do not come and live in lincoln town.”

“dost thee? think i haven’t noise enough at smithy?”

“but i think you would make friends here, and find things pleasanter.”

“humph!” said dan, laying a big, hardened brown hand upon each knee. “it’s very plain to me, avice, as thou doesn’t live in a house where everything thou does turns to hot water. me make friends! she’d have ’em out o’ th’ door afore they’d a-comed in. they wouldn’t come twice, i reckon—nay, they wouldn’t. that’d be end o’ my friend-making, avice.”

“uncle dan, did you never try standing up to aunt filomena?”

“did i never try what? ay did i, once—and got knocked down as sharp as ninepins. standing up! i’d love to see thee try it. thou’d not be right end up long.”

bertha had gone upstairs, or avice perhaps would not have spoken so plainly, though the smith himself had long passed the stage of ignoring his wife’s failings in the presence of her children.

“but you are her husband, uncle dan.”

“i reckon i know that thou would, if she’d plucked as much of thy whiskers out as she has o’ mine.”

“and wives ought to obey their husbands.”

“thou’ll oblige me by saying so to her, and i’ll be glad to know if thou likes what thou’ll get.”

“you think she cannot be managed?”

“not without one o’ th’ archangels likes to try. i’ll not say he wouldn’t be sorry at after.”

“it does seem such a sad way for you to live,” said avice pityingly.

“grin and bide,” said dan philosophically. “grin while i can, and bide when i can’t. but i’ll tell thee what—if some o’ them fighting fellows as goes up and down a-seeking for adventures, ’d just take off ankaret and mildred—well, i don’t know about el’nor: she’s been better o’ late—and eh, but they couldn’t take her, or i’d ha’ given th’ cow into th’ bargain, and been right glad on’t—and if me and emma and bertha could ha’ settled down in a bit of a house somewhere, and been peaceable— come, it’s no use hankering over things as can’t be. elsewise, i’d ha’ said a chap might ha’ had a bit o’ comfort then.”

“uncle dan, did you ever think of praying that aunt filomena might have a better temper?”

“ever think of what?” demanded uncle dan in the biggest capitals ever seen on a placard.

“you know god could make her temper sweet, uncle dan.”

“thou believes that, does thou?”

“i do.”

“so will i—when i see’t. i reckon i’ll have a rare capful o’ larks by th’ sky falling, first.”

“the sky will fall some day, my son,” said the voice of father thomas, behind dan. his soft rap had been unheard through dan’s bass voice, and he had entered unperceived.

“well, father, you should know the rights on’t,” was dan’s answer, with a pull at his hair. “being a priest, i reckon you’re good friends wi’ th’ angels and th’ sky and all that sort of thing; but—i ask your pardon, father, but she belongs to t’other lot, and you don’t know her. eh, you don’t, so!”

and with an ominous shake of his head, and a good-night to avice and bertha, dan passed out.

“our lord could do that, father?” said avice softly.

“certainly, my daughter. ‘whatsoever the lord pleased, that did he—in the heavens, and in the earth, and in the sea, and in all depths.’”

father thomas had not much of the bible—only one gospel and a book of psalms—but what he had he studied well. and one page of the word of god will do a great deal for a man, with the spirit of god to bring it home to a willing ear and a loving heart.

“may i pray for aunt filomena? i am so sorry for uncle dan. he is not a bad man, and she makes his home unbearable.”

“god forgive her! by all means pray for both.”