CHAPTER VI
GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART
Within twelve days of the burial of my mother and the telling of thestory of his marriage to her by my father, I was ready to start upon mysearch. As it chanced a vessel was about to sail from Yarmouth to Cadiz.She was named the 'Adventuress,' of one hundred tons burden, and carriedwool and other goods outwards, purposing to return with a cargo of wineand yew staves for bows. In this vessel my father bought me a passage.Moreover, he gave me fifty pounds in gold, which was as much as I wouldrisk upon my person, and obtained letters from the Yarmouth firm ofmerchants to their agents in Cadiz, in which they were advised toadvance me such sums as I might need up to a total of one hundred andfifty English pounds, and further to assist me in any way that waspossible.
Now the ship 'Adventuress' was to sail on the third day of June.Already it was the first of that month, and that evening I must ride toYarmouth, whither my baggage had gone already. Except one my farewellswere made, and yet that was the one I most wished to make. Since the daywhen we had sworn our troth I had gained no sight of Lily except onceat my mother's burial, and then we had not spoken. Now it seemed that Imust go without any parting word, for her father had sent me notice thatif I came near the Hall his serving men had orders to thrust me from thedoor, and this was a shame that I would not risk. Yet it was hard that Imust go upon so long a journey, whence it well might chance I should notreturn, and bid her no goodbye. In my grief and perplexity I spoke to myfather, telling him how the matter stood and asking his help.
'I go hence,' I said, 'to avenge our common loss, and if need be to givemy life for the honour of our name. Aid me then in this.'
'My neighbour Bozard means his daughter for your brother Geoffrey, andnot for you, Thomas,' he answered; 'and a man may do what he wills withhis own. Still I will help you if I can, at the least he cannot drive mefrom his door. Bid them bring horses, and we will ride to the Hall.'
Within the half of an hour we were there, and my father asked for speechwith its master. The serving man looked at me askance, remembering hisorders, still he ushered us into the justice room where the Squire satdrinking ale.
'Good morrow to you, neighbour,' said the Squire; 'you are welcome here,but you bring one with you who is not welcome, though he be your son.'
'I bring him for the last time, friend Bozard. Listen to his request,then grant it or refuse it as you will; but if you refuse it, it willnot bind us closer. The lad rides to-night to take ship for Spain toseek that man who murdered his mother. He goes of his own free willbecause after the doing of the deed it was he who unwittingly sufferedthe murderer to escape, and it is well that he should go.'
'He is a young hound to run such a quarry to earth, and in a strangecountry,' said the Squire. 'Still I like his spirit and wish him well.What would he of me?'
'Leave to bid farewell to your daughter. I know that his suit does notplease you and cannot wonder at it, and for my own part I think it tooearly for him to set his fancy in the way of marriage. But if he wouldsee the maid it can do no harm, for such harm as there is has been donealready. Now for your answer.'
Squire Bozard thought a while, then said:
'The lad is a brave lad though he shall be no son-in-law of mine. Heis going far, and mayhap will return no more, and I do not wish thathe should think unkindly of me when I am dead. Go without, ThomasWingfield, and stand under yonder beech--Lily shall join you there andyou may speak with her for the half of an hour--no more. See to it thatyou keep within sight of the window. Nay, no thanks; go before I changemy mind.'
So I went and waited under the beech with a beating heart, and presentlyLily glided up to me, a more welcome sight to my eyes than any angel outof heaven. And, indeed, I doubt if an angel could have been more fairthan she, or more good and gentle.
'Oh! Thomas,' she whispered, when I had greeted her, 'is this true thatyou sail oversea to seek the Spaniard?'
'I sail to seek the Spaniard, and to find him and to kill him when heis found. It was to come to you, Lily, that I let him go, now I must letyou go to come to him. Nay, do not weep, I have sworn to do it, and wereI to break my oath I should be dishonoured.'
'And because of this oath of yours I must be widowed, Thomas, before Iam a wife? You go and I shall never see you more.'
'Who can say, my sweet? My father went over seas and came back safe,having passed through many perils.'
'Yes, he came back and--not alone. You are young, Thomas, and in farcountries there are ladies great and fair, and how shall I hold my ownin your heart against them, I being so far away?'
'I swear to you, Lily--'
'Nay, Thomas, swear no oaths lest you should add to your sins bybreaking them. Yet, love, forget me not, who shall forget you never.Perhaps--oh! it wrings my heart to say it--this is our last meeting onthe earth. If so, then we must hope to meet in heaven. At the leastbe sure of this, while I live I will be true to you, and father orno father, I will die before I break my troth. I am young to speak solargely, but it shall be as I say. Oh! this parting is more cruel thandeath. Would that we were asleep and forgotten among men. Yet it is bestthat you should go, for if you stayed what could we be to each otherwhile my father lives, and may he live long!'
'Sleep and forgetfulness will come soon enough, Lily; none must awaitthem for very long. Meanwhile we have our lives to live. Let us praythat we may live them to each other. I go to seek fortune as well asfoes, and I will win it for your sake that we may marry.'
She shook her head sadly. 'It were too much happiness, Thomas. Men andwomen may seldom wed their true loves, or if they do, it is but to losethem. At the least we love, and let us be thankful that we have learnedwhat love can be, for having loved here, perchance at the worst we maylove otherwhere when there are none to say us nay.'
Then we talked on awhile, babbling broken words of love and hope andsorrow, as young folks so placed are wont to do, till at length Lilylooked up with a sad sweet smile and said:
'It is time to go, sweetheart. My father beckons me from the lattice.All is finished.'
'Let us go then,' I answered huskily, and drew her behind the trunk ofthe old beech. And there I caught her in my arms and kissed her againand yet again, nor was she ashamed to kiss me back.
After this I remember little of what happened, except that as we rodeaway I saw her beloved face, wan and wistful, watching me departing outof her life. For twenty years that sad and beautiful face haunted me,and it haunts me yet athwart life and death. Other women have loved meand I have known other partings, some of them more terrible, but thememory of this woman as she was then, and of her farewell look, overrunsthem all. Whenever I gaze down the past I see this picture framed in itand I know that it is one which cannot fade. Are there any sorrows likethese sorrows of our youth? Can any bitterness equal the bitterness ofsuch good-byes? I know but one of which I was fated to taste in afteryears, and that shall be told of in its place. It is a common jest tomock at early love, but if it be real, if it be something more than themere arising of the passions, early love is late love also; it is lovefor ever, the best and worst event which can befall a man or woman. Isay it who am old and who have done with everything, and it is true.
One thing I have forgotten. As we kissed and clung in our despairbehind the bole of the great beech, Lily drew a ring from her fingerand pressed it into my hand saying, 'Look on this each morning when youwake, and think of me.' It had been her mother's, and to-day it stillis set upon my withered hand, gleaming in the winter sunlight as I tracethese words. Through the long years of wild adventure, through all thetime of after peace, in love and war, in the shine of the camp fire,in the glare of the sacrificial flame, in the light of lonely starsillumining the lonely wilderness, that ring has shone upon my hand,reminding me always of her who gave it, and on this hand it shall godown into the grave. It is a plain circlet of thick gold, somewhat wornnow, a posy-ring, and on its inner surface is cut this quaint couplet:
Heart to heart, Though far apart.
That same day of our farewell I rode with my father to Yarmouth. Mybrother Geoffrey did not come with us, but we parted with kindly words,and of this I am glad, for we never saw each other again. No more wassaid between us as to Lily Bozard and our wooing of her, though I knewwell enough that so soon as my back was turned he would try to take myplace at her side, as indeed happened. I forgive it to him; in truth Icannot blame him much, for what man is there that would not have desiredto wed Lily who knew her? Once we were dear friends, Geoffrey and I, butwhen we ripened towards manhood, our love of Lily came between us, andwe grew more and more apart. It is a common case enough. Well, as itchanced he failed, so why should I think unkindly of him? Let me ratherremember the affection of our childhood and forget the rest. God resthis soul.
Mary, my sister, who after Lily Bozard was now the fairest maiden in thecountry side, wept much at my going. There was but a year between us,and we loved each other dearly, for no such shadow of jealousy hadfallen on our affection. I comforted her as well as I was able, andtelling her all that had passed between me and Lily, I prayed her tostand my friend and Lily's, should it ever be in her power to do so.This Mary promised to do readily enough, and though she did not give thereason, I could see that she thought it possible that she might be ableto help us. As I have said, Lily had a brother, a young man of somepromise, who at this time was away at college, and he and my sister Maryhad a strong fancy for each other, that might or might not ripen intosomething closer. So we kissed and bade farewell with tears.
And after that my father and I rode away. But when we had passed downPirnhow Street, and mounted the little hill beyond Waingford Mills tothe left of Bungay town, I halted my horse, and looked back upon thepleasant valley of the Waveney where I was born, and my heart grew fullto bursting. Had I known all that must befall me, before my eyes beheldthat scene again, I think indeed that it would have burst. But God, whoin his wisdom has laid many a burden upon the backs of men, has savedthem from this; for had we foreknowledge of the future, I think that ofour own will but few of us would live to see it. So I cast one long lastlook towards the distant mass of oaks that marked the spot where Lilylived, and rode on.
On the following day I embarked on board the 'Adventuress' and wesailed. Before I left, my father's heart softened much towards me, forhe remembered that I was my mother's best beloved, and feared also lestwe should meet no more. So much did it soften indeed, that at the lasthour he changed his mind and wished to hold me back from going. Buthaving put my hand to the plough and suffered all the bitternessof farewell, I would not return to be mocked by my brother and myneighbours. 'You speak too late, father,' I said. 'You desired me to goto work this vengeance and stirred me to it with many bitter words, andnow I would go if I knew that I must die within a week, for such oathscannot be lightly broken, and till mine is fulfilled the curse rests onme.'
'So be it, son,' he answered with a sigh. 'Your mother's cruel deathmaddened me and I said what I may live to be sorry for, though at thebest I shall not live long, for my heart is broken. Perhaps I shouldhave remembered that vengeance is in the hand of the Lord, who wreaksit at His own time and without our help. Do not think unkindly of me, myboy, if we should chance to meet no more, for I love you, and it was butthe deeper love that I bore to your mother which made me deal harshlywith you.'
'I know it, father, and bear no grudge. But if you think that you owe meanything, pay it by holding back my brother from working wrong to me andLily Bozard while I am absent.'
'I will do my best, son, though were it not that you and she have grownso dear to each other, the match would have pleased me well. But as Ihave said, I shall not be long here to watch your welfare in this or anyother matter, and when I am gone things must follow their own fate. Donot forget your God or your home wherever you chance to wander, Thomas:keep yourself from brawling, beware of women that are the snare ofyouth, and set a watch upon your tongue and your temper which is not ofthe best. Moreover, wherever you may be do not speak ill of the religionof the land, or make a mock of it by your way of life, lest you shouldlearn how cruel men can be when they think that it is pleasing to theirgods, as I have learnt already.'
I said that I would bear his counsel in mind, and indeed it saved mefrom many a sorrow. Then he embraced me and called on the Almighty totake me in His care, and we parted.
I never saw him more, for though he was but middle-aged, within a yearof my going my father died suddenly of a distemper of the heart in thenave of Ditchingham church, as he stood there, near the rood screen,musing by my mother's grave one Sunday after mass, and my brother tookhis lands and place. God rest him also! He was a true-hearted man, butmore wrapped up in his love for my mother than it is well for any manto be who would look at life largely and do right by all. For such love,though natural to women, is apt to turn to something that partakes ofselfishness, and to cause him who bears it to think all else of smallaccount. His children were nothing to my father when compared to mymother, and he would have been content to lose them every one if therebyhe might have purchased back her life. But after all it was a nobleinfirmity, for he thought little of himself and had gone through much towin her.
Of my voyage to Cadiz, to which port I had learned that de Garcia's shipwas bound, there is little to be told. We met with contrary winds inthe Bay of Biscay and were driven into the harbour of Lisbon, where werefitted. But at last we came safely to Cadiz, having been forty days atsea.
Montezuma's Daughter Page 7