CHAPTER II
OF THE PARENTAGE OF THOMAS WINGFIELD
I, Thomas Wingfield, was born here at Ditchingham, and in this very roomwhere I write to-day. The house of my birth was built or added to earlyin the reign of the seventh Henry, but long before his time some kind oftenement stood here, which was lived in by the keeper of the vineyards,and known as Gardener's Lodge. Whether it chanced that the climate wasmore kindly in old times, or the skill of those who tended the fieldswas greater, I do not know, but this at the least is true, that thehillside beneath which the house nestles, and which once was the bankof an arm of the sea or of a great broad, was a vineyard in Earl Bigod'sdays. Long since it has ceased to grow grapes, though the name of the'Earl's Vineyard' still clings to all that slope of land which liesbetween this house and a certain health-giving spring that bubbles fromthe bank the half of a mile away, in the waters of which sick folks cometo bathe even from Norwich and Lowestoft. But sheltered as it is fromthe east winds, to this hour the place has the advantage that gardensplanted here are earlier by fourteen days than any others in the countryside, and that a man may sit in them coatless in the bitter month ofMay, when on the top of the hill, not two hundred paces hence, he mustshiver in a jacket of otterskins.
The Lodge, for so it has always been named, in its beginnings havingbeen but a farmhouse, faces to the south-west, and is built so low thatit might well be thought that the damp from the river Waveney, whichruns through the marshes close by, would rise in it. But this is not so,for though in autumn the roke, as here in Norfolk we name ground fog,hangs about the house at nightfall, and in seasons of great flood thewater has been known to pour into the stables at the back of it, yetbeing built on sand and gravel there is no healthier habitation in theparish. For the rest the building is of stud-work and red brick, quaintand mellow looking, with many corners and gables that in summer are halfhidden in roses and other creeping plants, and with its outlook onthe marshes and the common where the lights vary continually with theseasons and even with the hours of the day, on the red roofs of Bungaytown, and on the wooded bank that stretches round the Earsham lands;though there are many larger, to my mind there is none pleasanter inthese parts. Here in this house I was born, and here doubtless I shalldie, and having spoken of it at some length, as we are wont to do ofspots which long custom has endeared to us, I will go on to tell of myparentage.
First, then, I would set out with a certain pride--for who of us doesnot love an ancient name when we happen to be born to it?--that I amsprung from the family of the Wingfields of Wingfield Castle in Suffolk,that lies some two hours on horseback from this place. Long ago theheiress of the Wingfields married a De la Pole, a family famous in ourhistory, the last of whom, Edmund, Earl of Suffolk, lost his head fortreason when I was young, and the castle passed to the De la Poleswith her. But some offshoots of the old Wingfield stock lingered in theneighbourhood, perchance there was a bar sinister on their coat of arms,I know not and do not care to know; at the least my fathers and I areof this blood. My grandfather was a shrewd man, more of a yeoman thana squire, though his birth was gentle. He it was who bought this placewith the lands round it, and gathered up some fortune, mostly by carefulmarrying and living, for though he had but one son he was twice married,and also by trading in cattle.
Now my grandfather was godly-minded even to superstition, and strange asit may seem, having only one son, nothing would satisfy him but that theboy should be made a priest. But my father had little leaning towardsthe priesthood and life in a monastery, though at all seasons mygrandfather strove to reason it into him, sometimes with words andexamples, at others with his thick cudgel of holly, that still hangsover the ingle in the smaller sitting-room. The end of it was that thelad was sent to the priory here in Bungay, where his conduct was of suchnature that within a year the prior prayed his parents to take him backand set him in some way of secular life. Not only, so said the prior,did my father cause scandal by his actions, breaking out of the prioryat night and visiting drinking houses and other places; but, such wasthe sum of his wickedness, he did not scruple to question and makemock of the very doctrines of the Church, alleging even that therewas nothing sacred in the image of the Virgin Mary which stood in thechancel, and shut its eyes in prayer before all the congregation whenthe priest elevated the Host. 'Therefore,' said the prior, 'I pray youtake back your son, and let him find some other road to the stake thanthat which runs through the gates of Bungay Priory.'
Now at this story my grandfather was so enraged that he almost fell intoa fit; then recovering, he bethought him of his cudgel of holly, andwould have used it. But my father, who was now nineteen years of age andvery stout and strong, twisted it from his hand and flung it full fiftyyards, saying that no man should touch him more were he a hundred timeshis father. Then he walked away, leaving the prior and my grandfatherstaring at each other.
Now to shorten a long tale, the end of the matter was this. It wasbelieved both by my grandfather and the prior that the true cause of myfather's contumacy was a passion which he had conceived for a girl ofhumble birth, a miller's fair daughter who dwelt at Waingford Mills.Perhaps there was truth in this belief, or perhaps there was none. Whatdoes it matter, seeing that the maid married a butcher at Beccles anddied years since at the good age of ninety and five? But true or false,my grandfather believed the tale, and knowing well that absence is thesurest cure for love, he entered into a plan with the prior that myfather should be sent to a monastery at Seville in Spain, of whichthe prior's brother was abbot, and there learn to forget the miller'sdaughter and all other worldly things.
When this was told to my father he fell into it readily enough, beinga young man of spirit and having a great desire to see the world,otherwise, however, than through the gratings of a monastery window. Sothe end of it was that he went to foreign parts in the care of a partyof Spanish monks, who had journeyed here to Norfolk on a pilgrimage tothe shrine of our Lady of Walsingham.
It is said that my grandfather wept when he parted with his son, feelingthat he should see him no more; yet so strong was his religion, orrather his superstition, that he did not hesitate to send him away,though for no reason save that he would mortify his own love and flesh,offering his son for a sacrifice as Abraham would have offered Isaac.But though my father appeared to consent to the sacrifice, as did Isaac,yet his mind was not altogether set on altars and faggots; in short, ashe himself told me in after years, his plans were already laid.
Thus it chanced that when he had sailed from Yarmouth a year and sixmonths, there came a letter from the abbot of the monastery in Sevilleto his brother, the prior of St. Mary's at Bungay, saying that my fatherhad fled from the monastery, leaving no trace of where he had gone. Mygrandfather was grieved at this tidings, but said little about it.
Two more years passed away, and there came other news, namely, that myfather had been captured, that he had been handed over to the powerof the Holy Office, as the accursed Inquisition was then named, andtortured to death at Seville. When my grandfather heard this he wept,and bemoaned himself that his folly in forcing one into the Church whohad no liking for that path, had brought about the shameful end of hisonly son. After that date also he broke his friendship with the prior ofSt. Mary's at Bungay, and ceased his offerings to the priory. Still hedid not believe that my father was dead in truth, since on the last dayof his own life, that ended two years later, he spoke of him as a livingman, and left messages to him as to the management of the lands whichnow were his.
And in the end it became clear that this belief was not ill-founded, forone day three years after the old man's death, there landed at the portof Yarmouth none other than my father, who had been absent some eightyears in all. Nor did he come alone, for with him he brought a wife,a young and very lovely lady, who afterwards was my mother. She was aSpaniard of noble family, having been born at Seville, and her maidenname was Donna Luisa de Garcia.
Now of all that befell my father during his eight years of wandering Icannot
speak certainly, for he was very silent on the matter, though Imay have need to touch on some of his adventures. But I know it is truethat he fell under the power of the Holy Office, for once when as alittle lad I bathed with him in the Elbow Pool, where the river Waveneybends some three hundred yards above this house, I saw that his breastand arms were scored with long white scars, and asked him what hadcaused them. I remember well how his face changed as I spoke, fromkindliness to the hue of blackest hate, and how he answered speaking tohimself rather than to me.
'Devils,' he said, 'devils set on their work by the chief of all devilsthat live upon the earth and shall reign in hell. Hark you, my sonThomas, there is a country called Spain where your mother was born, andthere these devils abide who torture men and women, aye, and burn themliving in the name of Christ. I was betrayed into their hands by himwhom I name the chief of the devils, though he is younger than I am bythree years, and their pincers and hot irons left these marks upon me.Aye, and they would have burnt me alive also, only I escaped, thanks toyour mother--but such tales are not for a little lad's hearing; and seeyou never speak of them, Thomas, for the Holy Office has a long arm. Youare half a Spaniard, Thomas, your skin and eyes tell their own tale, butwhatever skin and eyes may tell, let your heart give them the lie. Keepyour heart English, Thomas; let no foreign devilments enter there. Hateall Spaniards except your mother, and be watchful lest her blood shouldmaster mine within you.'
I was a child then, and scarcely understood his words or what he meantby them. Afterwards I learned to understand them but too well. As for myfather's counsel, that I should conquer my Spanish blood, would that Icould always have followed it, for I know that from this blood springsthe most of such evil as is in me. Hence come my fixedness of purpose orrather obstinacy, and my powers of unchristian hatred that are not smalltowards those who have wronged me. Well, I have done what I might toovercome these and other faults, but strive as we may, that which isbred in the bone will out in the flesh, as I have seen in many signalinstances.
There were three of us children, Geoffrey my elder brother, myself, andmy sister Mary, who was one year my junior, the sweetest child and themost beautiful that I have ever known. We were very happy children, andour beauty was the pride of our father and mother, and the envy of otherparents. I was the darkest of the three, dark indeed to swarthiness, butin Mary the Spanish blood showed only in her rich eyes of velvet hue,and in the glow upon her cheek that was like the blush on a ripefruit. My mother used to call me her little Spaniard, because of myswarthiness, that is when my father was not near, for such names angeredhim. She never learned to speak English very well, but he would sufferher to talk in no other tongue before him. Still, when he was not thereshe spoke in Spanish, of which language, however, I alone of the familybecame a master--and that more because of certain volumes of old Spanishromances which she had by her, than for any other reason. From myearliest childhood I was fond of such tales, and it was by bribing mewith the promise that I should read them that she persuaded me to learnSpanish. For my mother's heart still yearned towards her old sunny home,and often she would talk of it with us children, more especially in thewinter season, which she hated as I do. Once I asked her if she wishedto go back to Spain. She shivered and answered no, for there dweltone who was her enemy and would kill her; also her heart was with uschildren and our father. I wondered if this man who sought to kill mymother was the same as he of whom my father had spoken as 'the chief ofthe devils,' but I only answered that no man could wish to kill one sogood and beautiful.
'Ah! my boy,' she said, 'it is just because I am, or rather have been,beautiful that he hates me. Others would have wedded me besides yourdear father, Thomas.' And her face grew troubled as though with fear.
Now when I was eighteen and a half years old, on a certain eveningin the month of May it happened that a friend of my father's, SquireBozard, late of the Hall in this parish, called at the Lodge on his roadfrom Yarmouth, and in the course of his talk let it fall that a Spanishship was at anchor in the Roads, laden with merchandise. My fatherpricked up his ears at this, and asked who her captain might be. SquireBozard answered that he did not know his name, but that he had seenhim in the market-place, a tall and stately man, richly dressed, with ahandsome face and a scar upon his temple.
At this news my mother turned pale beneath her olive skin, and mutteredin Spanish:
'Holy Mother! grant that it be not he.'
My father also looked frightened, and questioned the squire closely asto the man's appearance, but without learning anything more. Then hebade him adieu with little ceremony, and taking horse rode away forYarmouth.
That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursingchair, brooding over I know not what. As I left her when I went to mybed, so I found her when I came from it at dawn. I can remember wellpushing the door ajar to see her face glimmering white in the twilightof the May morning, as she sat, her large eyes fixed upon the lattice.
'You have risen early, mother,' I said.
'I have never lain down, Thomas,' she answered.
'Why not? What do you fear?'
'I fear the past and the future, my son. Would that your father wereback.'
About ten o'clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk intoBungay to the house of that physician under whom I was learning theart of healing, my father rode up. My mother, who was watching at thelattice, ran out to meet him.
Springing from his horse he embraced her, saying, 'Be of good cheer,sweet, it cannot be he. This man has another name.'
'But did you see him?' she asked.
'No, he was out at his ship for the night, and I hurried home to tellyou, knowing your fears.'
'It were surer if you had seen him, husband. He may well have takenanother name.'
'I never thought of that, sweet,' my father answered; 'but have nofear. Should it be he, and should he dare to set foot in the parish ofDitchingham, there are those who will know how to deal with him. But Iam sure that it is not he.'
'Thanks be to Jesu then!' she said, and they began talking in a lowvoice.
Now, seeing that I was not wanted, I took my cudgel and started downthe bridle-path towards the common footbridge, when suddenly my mothercalled me back.
'Kiss me before you go, Thomas,' she said. 'You must wonder what allthis may mean. One day your father will tell you. It has to do with ashadow which has hung over my life for many years, but that is, I trust,gone for ever.'
'If it be a man who flings it, he had best keep out of reach of this,' Isaid, laughing, and shaking my thick stick.
'It is a man,' she answered, 'but one to be dealt with otherwise than byblows, Thomas, should you ever chance to meet him.'
'May be, mother, but might is the best argument at the last, for themost cunning have a life to lose.'
'You are too ready to use your strength, son,' she said, smiling andkissing me. 'Remember the old Spanish proverb: "He strikes hardest whostrikes last."'
'And remember the other proverb, mother: "Strike before thou artstricken,"' I answered, and went.
When I had gone some ten paces something prompted me to look back, Iknow not what. My mother was standing by the open door, her statelyshape framed as it were in the flowers of a white creeping shrub thatgrew upon the wall of the old house. As was her custom, she wore amantilla of white lace upon her head, the ends of which were woundbeneath her chin, and the arrangement of it was such that at thisdistance for one moment it put me in mind of the wrappings which areplaced about the dead. I started at the thought and looked at her face.She was watching me with sad and earnest eyes that seemed to be filledwith the spirit of farewell.
I never saw her again till she was dead.
Montezuma's Daughter Page 3