But was I to enter into marriage with Meir and not tell him the truth? Was I to let such a secret lie between us, that my daughters had a living father?
We could not seek the advice of anyone, or so my father thought, and he brooded over the matter, not wanting me to proceed unless somehow this problem could be solved.
So what do you think I did? Without telling my father, I turned for counsel to the one man in all the world whom I most trusted and loved, and that was Godwin. To Godwin, who had become a living saint amongst his brothers in Paris, and a great scholar of the science of God, I wrote and put the question.
And writing the letter in Hebrew as I did so often, I told him the whole story. "Your daughters are beautiful in mind and heart and body," I told him, "but they believe themselves to be the children of a dead father, and the secret has been so well kept that Meir, who has proposed marriage to me, does not dream of the truth.
"Now I put it to you, you who are now well beyond the point where the birth of these children would cause you misery or worry, just as I assure you that these precious girls receive every blessing that they can, what should I do as to Meir's proposal? Can I become this man's wife without giving him a full account?
"How can one keep such a secret from a man who brings to the marriage nothing but tenderness and kindness? And now that you know, what is it that you, in your heart of hearts, want for your daughters? And accuse me now if you will, of failing to tell you that these peerless young women are your girls. Accuse me now before I enter into marriage with this man.
"I have told you the truth, and feel some great selfish relief in it, I must confess, but also a selfless joy. Should I tell my daughters the truth when they are of age, and what do I do with this good man, Meir, now?"
I implored him that this not be a shock to him, but that he give me his most pious advice on what I should do. "It is to Br. Godwin that I write," I told him, "the brother who has given himself to God. It is on him that I depend for an answer that is both loving and wise." I also told him that I had meant to deceive him, but could never resolve whether I had protected him or done him wrong.
I don't remember what else I wrote. Perhaps I told him how quick of wit were the two girls, and how well they had progressed in their own studies. I certainly told him that Lea was the quieter one, and Rosa had always something clever and amusing to say. I told him that Lea disdained all things of the world as not important, whereas Rosa could not have too many dresses, or too many veils.
I told him Lea was devoted to me, and clung to me, whereas Rosa peered out the window at the goings-on in Oxford or London whenever she was confined at home.
I told him that he was represented in all ways in both his daughters, in Lea's piety and discipline, and in Rosa's irrepressible gaiety and ready laugh. I told him that the girls had much property from their legal father, and that they would inherit from my father as well.
Now as I sent the letter off I feared that if I had angered or disappointed Godwin, I might have lost him forever. Though I no longer loved him as I had in my youth, as I no longer dreamed of him as a man, I loved him with all my heart and my heart was in every letter I wrote to him.
Well, what do you think happened?
I had to confess I had no idea what had happened, and there was so much running through my mind that it was with a great effort that I let Fluria go on. She had spoken of losing both her children. She was filled with emotion as she talked with me. And a great deal of this emotion had taken hold of me as well.
Chapter Eleven - Fluria Continues Her Story
IN TWO WEEKS, GODWIN CAME TOOXFORD AND APPEAREDat the door of our house.
He wasn't the Godwin, naturally enough, I had once known. He had lost the sharp edge of youth, the inveterate recklessness, and something infinitely more radiant had replaced it. He was the man I knew from our letters. He was mild when he spoke and gentle, yet filled with an inner passion that was difficult for him to restrain.
I admitted him, without telling my father, and at once brought in the two girls.
It seemed I had no choice now but to let them know that this man was in fact their father, and gently, kindly, this is what Godwin begged me to do.
"You've done no wrong, Fluria," he said to me. "You've borne a burden all these years that I should have shared. I left you with child. I didn't even think on the matter. And now let me see my daughters, I beg you. You have nothing to fear from me."
I brought the girls in to meet him. This was less than a year ago, and the girls were thirteen.
I felt an immense and joyful pride when I presented them, because they had become beauties without question, and they had inherited the radiant and happy expression of their father.
In a quavering voice, I explained to them that this man was in fact their father, and that he was the Br. Godwin to whom I wrote so regularly, and that up until these past two weeks, he had not known of their existence, but wanted only to lay eyes on them now.
Lea was shocked, but Rosa smiled immediately at Godwin. And in her usual irrepressible manner, declared that she had always known some secret surrounded their birth, and she was happy to lay eyes on the man who was her father. "Mother," she said. "This is a joyful time."
Godwin was stricken with tears.
He approached his daughters with loving hands, which he laid on both their heads. And then he sat weeping, overwhelmed, looking again and again at both of his daughters as they stood there, and giving way over and over to soundless sobs.
When my father realized he was in the house, when the elder servants told him that Godwin knew now about his daughters and they knew about him, my father came down and into the room and threatened to kill Godwin with his bare hands.
"Oh, but you are blessed that I'm blind, and can't find you! Lea and Rosa, I charge you, take me directly to this man." Neither of the girls knew what to do, and I stepped at once between my father and Godwin, and begged my father to be calm.
"How dare you come here on this errand!" my father demanded. "Your letters I've tolerated and even from time to time I've written to you. But now, knowing the extent of your betrayal, I ask how dare you be so bold as to come under my roof?"
As for me, he had equally harsh language. "You told this man these things without my consent. And what have you told Lea and Rosa? What do these children actually know?"
At once Rosa tried to calm him. "Grandfather," she said, "we have always sensed that some mystery surrounded us. We've asked in vain many times for the writings of our supposed father, or some keepsake by which we could remember him, but nothing ever came of this, except our mother's obvious confusion and pain. Now we know that this man is our father, and we can't help but be happy on account of it. He's a great scholar, Grandfather, and we have heard mention of his name all our lives."