GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART
Within twelve days of the burial of my mother and the telling of the
story of his marriage to her by my father, I was ready to start upon my
search. As it chanced a vessel was about to sail from Yarmouth to
Cadiz. She was named the “Adventuress,” of one hundred tons burden, and
carried wool and other goods outwards, purposing to return with a cargo
of wine and 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 would risk upon my person, and obtained letters from the Yarmouth
firm of merchants to their agents in Cadiz, in which they were advised
to advance me such sums as I might need up to a total of one hundred
and fifty English pounds, and further to assist me in any way that was
possible.
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 to
Yarmouth, whither my baggage had gone already. Except one my farewells
were made, and yet that was the one I most wished to make. Since the
day when we had sworn our troth I had gained no sight of Lily except
once at my mother’s burial, and then we had not spoken. Now it seemed
that I must go without any parting word, for her father had sent me
notice that if I came near the Hall his serving men had orders to
thrust me from the door, and this was a shame that I would not risk.
Yet it was hard that I must go upon so long a journey, whence it well
might chance I should not return, and bid her no goodbye. In my grief
and perplexity I spoke to my father, 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
give my life for the honour of our name. Aid me then in this.”
“My neighbour Bozard means his daughter for your brother Geoffrey, and
not for you, Thomas,” he answered; “and a man may do what he wills with
his own. Still I will help you if I can, at the least he cannot drive
me from 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
speech with its master. The serving man looked at me askance,
remembering his orders, still he ushered us into the justice room where
the Squire sat drinking 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 will
not bind us closer. The lad rides to-night to take ship for Spain to
seek that man who murdered his mother. He goes of his own free will
because after the doing of the deed it was he who unwittingly suffered
the 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 strange
country,” 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 not
please you and cannot wonder at it, and for my own part I think it too
early for him to set his fancy in the way of marriage. But if he would
see the maid it can do no harm, for such harm as there is has been done
already. 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. He is
going far, and mayhap will return no more, and I do not wish that he
should think unkindly of me when I am dead. Go without, Thomas
Wingfield, and stand under yonder beech—Lily shall join you there and
you may speak with her for the half of an hour—no more. See to it that
you keep within sight of the window. Nay, no thanks; go before I change
my mind.”
So I went and waited under the beech with a beating heart, and
presently Lily glided up to me, a more welcome sight to my eyes than
any angel out of heaven. And, indeed, I doubt if an angel could have
been more fair than she, or more good and gentle.
“Oh! Thomas,” she whispered, when I had greeted her, “is this true that
you sail oversea to seek the Spaniard?”
“I sail to seek the Spaniard, and to find him and to kill him when he
is found. It was to come to you, Lily, that I let him go, now I must
let you go to come to him. Nay, do not weep, I have sworn to do it, and
were I to break my oath I should be dishonoured.”
“And because of this oath of yours I must be widowed, Thomas, before I
am 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 far
countries there are ladies great and fair, and how shall I hold my own
in 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 by
breaking 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 on
the earth. If so, then we must hope to meet in heaven. At the least be
sure of this, while I live I will be true to you, and father or no
father, I will die before I break my troth. I am young to speak so
largely, but it shall be as I say. Oh! this parting is more cruel than
death. Would that we were asleep and forgotten among men. Yet it is
best that you should go, for if you stayed what could we be to each
other while my father lives, and may he live long!”
“Sleep and forgetfulness will come soon enough, Lily; none must await
them for very long. Meanwhile we have our lives to live. Let us pray
that we may live them to each other. I go to seek fortune as well as
foes, and I will win it for your sake that we may marry.”
She shook her head sadly. “It were too much happiness, Thomas. Men and
women may seldom wed their true loves, or if they do, it is but to lose
them. At the least we love, and let us be thankful that we have learned
what love can be, for having loved here, perchance at the worst we may
love otherwhere when there are none to say us nay.”
Then we talked on awhile, babbling broken words of love and hope and
sorrow, as young folks so placed are wont to do, till at length Lily
looked 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 of
the old beech. And there I caught her in my arms and kissed her again
and yet again, nor was she ashamed to kiss me back.
After this I remember little of what happened, except that as we rode
away I saw her beloved face, wan and wistful, watching me departing out
of 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 me
and I have known other partings, some of them more terrible, but the
memory of this woman as she was then, and of her farewell look,
overruns them all. Whenever I gaze down the past I see this picture
framed in it and I know that it is one which cannot fade. Are there any
sorrows like these sorrows of our youth? Can any bitterness equal the
bitterness of such good-byes? I know but one of which I was fated to
taste in after years, and that shall be told of in its place. It is a
common jest to mock at early love, but if it be real, if it be
something more than the mere arising of the passions, early love is
late love also; it is love for ever, the best and worst event which can
befall a man or woman. I say 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 despair
behind the bole of the great beech, Lily drew a ring from her finger
and pressed it into my hand saying, “Look on this each morning when you
wake, and think of me.” It had been her mother’s, and to-day it still
is set upon my withered hand, gleaming in the winter sunlight as I
trace these words. Through the long years of wild adventure, through
all the time 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
stars illumining the lonely wilderness, that ring has shone upon my
hand, reminding me always of her who gave it, and on this hand it shall
go down into the grave. It is a plain circlet of thick gold, somewhat
worn now, a posy-ring, and on its inner surface is cut this quaint
couplet:
Heart to heart,
Though far apart.
A fitting motto for us indeed, and one that has its meaning to this
hour.
That same day of our farewell I rode with my father to Yarmouth. My
brother 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 was
said between us as to Lily Bozard and our wooing of her, though I knew
well enough that so soon as my back was turned he would try to take my
place at her side, as indeed happened. I forgive it to him; in truth I
cannot blame him much, for what man is there that would not have
desired to wed Lily who knew her? Once we were dear friends, Geoffrey
and I, but when we ripened towards manhood, our love of Lily came
between us, and we grew more and more apart. It is a common case
enough. Well, as it chanced he failed, so why should I think unkindly
of him? Let me rather remember the affection of our childhood and
forget the rest. God rest his soul.
Mary, my sister, who after Lily Bozard was now the fairest maiden in
the country 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 had
fallen on our affection. I comforted her as well as I was able, and
telling her all that had passed between me and Lily, I prayed her to
stand 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
the reason, I could see that she thought it possible that she might be
able to help us. As I have said, Lily had a brother, a young man of
some promise, who at this time was away at college, and he and my
sister Mary had a strong fancy for each other, that might or might not
ripen into something closer. So we kissed and bade farewell with tears.
And after that my father and I rode away. But when we had passed down
Pirnhow Street, and mounted the little hill beyond Waingford Mills to
the left of Bungay town, I halted my horse, and looked back upon the
pleasant valley of the Waveney where I was born, and my heart grew full
to bursting. Had I known all that must befall me, before my eyes beheld
that scene again, I think indeed that it would have burst. But God, who
in his wisdom has laid many a burden upon the backs of men, has saved
them from this; for had we foreknowledge of the future, I think that of
our own will but few of us would live to see it. So I cast one long
last look towards the distant mass of oaks that marked the spot where
Lily lived, and rode on.
On the following day I embarked on board the “Adventuress” and we
sailed. Before I left, my father’s heart softened much towards me, for
he remembered that I was my mother’s best beloved, and feared also lest
we should meet no more. So much did it soften indeed, that at the last
hour he changed his mind and wished to hold me back from going. But
having put my hand to the plough and suffered all the bitterness of
farewell, I would not return to be mocked by my brother and my
neighbours. “You speak too late, father,” I said. “You desired me to go
to work this vengeance and stirred me to it with many bitter words, and
now I would go if I knew that I must die within a week, for such oaths
cannot be lightly broken, and till mine is fulfilled the curse rests on
me.”
“So be it, son,” he answered with a sigh. “Your mother’s cruel death
maddened me and I said what I may live to be sorry for, though at the
best I shall not live long, for my heart is broken. Perhaps I should
have remembered that vengeance is in the hand of the Lord, who wreaks
it at His own time and without our help. Do not think unkindly of me,
my boy, if we should chance to meet no more, for I love you, and it was
but the deeper love that I bore to your mother which made me deal
harshly with you.”
“I know it, father, and bear no grudge. But if you think that you owe
me anything, pay it by holding back my brother from working wrong to me
and Lily Bozard while I am absent.”
“I will do my best, son, though were it not that you and she have grown
so dear to each other, the match would have pleased me well. But as I
have said, I shall not be long here to watch your welfare in this or
any other matter, and when I am gone things must follow their own fate.
Do not forget your God or your home wherever you chance to wander,
Thomas: keep yourself from brawling, beware of women that are the snare
of youth, and set a watch upon your tongue and your temper which is not
of the best. Moreover, wherever you may be do not speak ill of the
religion of the land, or make a mock of it by your way of life, lest
you should learn how cruel men can be when they think that it is
pleasing to their gods, as I have learnt already.”
I said that I would bear his counsel in mind, and indeed it saved me
from many a sorrow. Then he embraced me and called on the Almighty to
take me in His care, and we parted.
I never saw him more, for though he was but middle-aged, within a year
of my going my father died suddenly of a distemper of the heart in the
nave of Ditchingham church, as he stood there, near the rood screen,
musing by my mother’s grave one Sunday after mass, and my brother took
his lands and place. God rest him also! He was a true-hearted man, but
more wrapped up in his love for my mother than it is well for any man
to 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 of selfishness, and to cause him who bears it to think all
else of small account. His children were nothing to my father when
compared to my mother, and he would have been content to lose them
every one if thereby he might have purchased back her life. But after
all it was a noble infirmity, for he thought little of himself and had
gone through much to win her.
Of my voyage to Cadiz, to which port I had learned that de Garcia’s
ship was bound, there is little to be told. We met with contrary winds
in the Bay of Biscay and were driven into the harbour of Lisbon, where
we refitted. But at last we came safely to Cadiz, having been forty
days at sea.