Montezuma's Daughter

  CHAPTER IV

  THOMAS TELLS HIS LOVE

  Having made the Spaniard as fast as I could, his arms being bound to thetree behind him, and taking his sword with me, I began to run hard afterLily and caught her not too soon, for in one more minute she would haveturned along the road that runs to the watering and over the bridge bythe Park Hill path to the Hall.

  Hearing my footsteps, she faced about to greet me, or rather as thoughto see who it was that followed her. There she stood in the eveninglight, a bough of hawthorn bloom in her hand, and my heart beat yetmore wildly at the sight of her. Never had she seemed fairer than as shestood thus in her white robe, a look of amaze upon her face and inher grey eyes, that was half real half feigned, and with the sunlightshifting on her auburn hair that showed beneath her little bonnet. Lilywas no round-checked country maid with few beauties save those of healthand youth, but a tall and shapely lady who had ripened early to her fullgrace and sweetness, and so it came about that though we were almost ofan age, yet in her presence I felt always as though I were the younger.Thus in my love for her was mingled some touch of reverence.

  'Oh! it is you, Thomas,' she said, blushing as she spoke. 'I thought youwere not--I mean that I am going home as it grows late. But say, why doyou run so fast, and what has happened to you, Thomas, that your arm isbloody and you carry a sword in your hand?'

  'I have no breath to speak yet,' I answered. 'Come back to the hawthornsand I will tell you.'

  'No, I must be wending homewards. I have been among the trees for morethan an hour, and there is little bloom upon them.'

  'I could not come before, Lily. I was kept, and in a strange manner.Also I saw bloom as I ran.'

  'Indeed, I never thought that you would come, Thomas,' she answered,looking down, 'who have other things to do than to go out maying like agirl. But I wish to hear your story, if it is short, and I will walk alittle way with you.'

  So we turned and walked side by side towards the great pollard oaks,and by the time that we reached them, I had told her the tale of theSpaniard, and how he strove to kill me, and how I had beaten him with mystaff. Now Lily listened eagerly enough, and sighed with fear when shelearned how close I had been to death.

  'But you are wounded, Thomas,' she broke in; 'see, the blood runs fastfrom your arm. Is the thrust deep?'

  'I have not looked to see. I have had no time to look.'

  'Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound. Nay, I willhave it so.'

  So I drew off the garment, not without pain, and rolled up the shirtbeneath, and there was the hurt, a clean thrust through the fleshy partof the lower arm. Lily washed it with water from the brook, and bound itwith her kerchief, murmuring words of pity all the while. To say truth,I would have suffered a worse harm gladly, if only I could find her totend it. Indeed, her gentle care broke down the fence of my doubts andgave me a courage that otherwise might have failed me in her presence.At first, indeed, I could find no words, but as she bound my wound,I bent down and kissed her ministering hand. She flushed red as theevening sky, the flood of crimson losing itself at last beneath herauburn hair, but it burned deepest upon the white hand which I hadkissed.

  'Why did you do that, Thomas?' she said, in a low voice.

  Then I spoke. 'I did it because I love you, Lily, and do not know how tobegin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved asI always shall love you.'

  'Are you so sure of that, Thomas?' she said, again.

  'There is nothing else in the world of which I am so sure, Lily. What Iwish to be as sure of is that you love me as I love you.'

  For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast, thenshe lifted it and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before.

  'Can you doubt it, Thomas?' she said.

  And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memoryof that kiss has gone with me through my long life, and is with me yet,when, old and withered, I stand upon the borders of the grave. It wasthe greatest joy that has been given to me in all my days. Too soon,alas! it was done, that first pure kiss of youthful love--and I spokeagain somewhat aimlessly.

  'It seems then that you do love me who love you so well.'

  'If you doubted it before, can you doubt it NOW?' she answered verysoftly. 'But listen, Thomas. It is well that we should love each other,for we were born to it, and have no help in the matter, even if wewished to find it. Still, though love be sweet and holy, it is not all,for there is duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this,Thomas?'

  'I do not know, Lily, and yet I can guess. I am sure, sweet, that hewishes you to take my brother Geoffrey, and leave me on one side.'

  'Then his wishes are not mine, Thomas. Also, though duty be strong, itis not strong enough to force a woman to a marriage for which she has noliking. Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriagefor which her heart pleads--perhaps, also, it should have been strongenough to hold me back from the telling of my love.'

  'No, Lily, the love itself is much, and though it should bring no fruit,still it is something to have won it for ever and a day.'

  'You are very young to talk thus, Thomas. I am also young, I know, butwe women ripen quicker. Perhaps all this is but a boy's fancy, to passwith boyhood.'

  'It will never pass, Lily. They say that our first loves are thelongest, and that which is sown in youth will flourish in our age.Listen, Lily; I have my place to make in the world, and it may take atime in the making, and I ask one promise of you, though perhaps it is aselfish thing to seek. I ask of you that you will be faithful to me, andcome fair weather or foul, will wed no other man till you know me dead.'

  'It is something to promise, Thomas, for with time come changes. Still Iam so sure of myself that I promise--nay I swear it. Of you I cannotbe sure, but things are so with us women that we must risk all upon athrow, and if we lose, good-bye to happiness.'

  Then we talked on, and I cannot remember what we said, though thesewords that I have written down remain in my mind, partly because oftheir own weight, and in part because of all that came about in theafter years.

  And at last I knew that I must go, though we were sad enough at parting.So I took her in my arms and kissed her so closely that some blood frommy wound ran down her white attire. But as we embraced I chanced to lookup, and saw a sight that frightened me enough. For there, not five pacesfrom us, stood Squire Bozard, Lily's father, watching all, and his facewore no smile.

  He had been riding by a bridle-path to the watering ford, and seeing acouple trespassing beneath the oaks, dismounted from his horse to huntthem away. Not till he was quite near did he know whom he came to hunt,and then he stood still in astonishment. Lily and I drew slowly apartand looked at him. He was a short stout man, with a red face and sterngrey eyes, that seemed to be starting from his head with anger. For awhile he could not speak, but when he began at length the words camefast enough. All that he said I forget, but the upshot of it was that hedesired to know what my business was with his daughter. I waited tillhe was out of breath, then answered him that Lily and I loved each otherwell, and were plighting our troth.

  'Is this so, daughter?' he asked.

  'It is so, my father,' she answered boldly.

  Then he broke out swearing. 'You light minx,' he said, 'you shall bewhipped and kept cool on bread and water in your chamber. And for you,my half-bred Spanish cockerel, know once and for all that this maidis for your betters. How dare you come wooing my daughter, you emptypill-box, who have not two silver pennies to rattle in your pouch! Gowin fortune and a name before you dare to look up to such as she.'

  'That is my desire, and I will do it, sir,' I answered.

  'So, you apothecary's drudge, you will win name and place, will you!Well, long before that deed is done the maid shall be safely wedded toone who has them and who is not unknown to you. Daughter, say now thatyou have finished with him.'

  'I cannot say that, father,' she replied, plucking at her robe.
'If itis not your will that I should marry Thomas here, my duty is plain andI may not wed him. But I am my own and no duty can make me marry where Iwill not. While Thomas lives I am sworn to him and to no other man.'

  'At the least you have courage, hussey,' said her father. 'But listennow, either you will marry where and when I wish, or tramp it for yourbread. Ungrateful girl, did I breed you to flaunt me to my face? Now foryou, pill-box. I will teach you to come kissing honest men's daughterswithout their leave,' and with a curse he rushed at me, stick aloft, tothrash me.

  Then for the second time that day my quick blood boiled in me, andsnatching up the Spaniard's sword that lay upon the grass beside me,I held it at the point, for the game was changed, and I who had foughtwith cudgel against sword, must now fight with sword against cudgel. Andhad it not been that Lily with a quick cry of fear struck my arm frombeneath, causing the point of the sword to pass over his shoulder,I believe truly that I should then and there have pierced her fatherthrough, and ended my days early with a noose about my neck.

  'Are you mad?' she cried. 'And do you think to win me by slaying myfather? Throw down that sword, Thomas.'

  'As for winning you, it seems that there is small chance of it;' Ianswered hotly, 'but I tell you this, not for the sake of all the maidsupon the earth will I stand to be beaten with a stick like a scullion.'

  'And there I do not blame you, lad,' said her father, more kindly. 'Isee that you also have courage which may serve you in good stead, and itwas unworthy of me to call you "pill-box" in my anger. Still, as I havesaid, the girl is not for you, so be gone and forget her as best youmay, and if you value your life, never let me find you two kissingagain. And know that to-morrow I will have a word with your father onthis matter.'

  'I will go since I must go,' I answered, 'but, sir, I still hope tolive to call your daughter wife. Lily, farewell till these storms areoverpast.'

  'Farewell, Thomas,' she said weeping. 'Forget me not and I will neverforget my oath to you.'

  Then taking Lily by the arm her father led her away.

  I also went away--sad, but not altogether ill-pleased. For now I knewthat if I had won the father's anger, I had also won the daughter'sunalterable love, and love lasts longer than wrath, and here orhereafter will win its way at length. When I had gone a little distanceI remembered the Spaniard, who had been clean forgotten by me in allthis love and war, and I turned to seek him and drag him to the stocks,the which I should have done with joy, and been glad to find some oneon whom to wreak my wrongs. But when I came to the spot where I had lefthim, I found that fate had befriended him by the hand of a fool, forthere was no Spaniard but only the village idiot, Billy Minns by name,who stood staring first at the tree to which the foreigner had been madefast, and then at a piece of silver in his hand.

  'Where is the man who was tied here, Billy?' I asked.

  'I know not, Master Thomas,' he answered in his Norfolk talk which Iwill not set down. 'Half-way to wheresoever he was going I should say,measured by the pace at which he left when once I had set him upon hishorse.'

  'You set him on his horse, fool? How long was that ago?'

  'How long! Well, it might be one hour, and it might be two. I'm noreckoner of time, that keeps its own score like an innkeeper, withoutmy help. Lawks! how he did gallop off, working those long spurs he woreright into the ribs of the horse. And little wonder, poor man, and hedaft, not being able to speak, but only to bleat sheeplike, and fallenupon by robbers on the king's roads, and in broad daylight. But Billycut him loose and caught his horse and set him on it, and got this piecefor his good charity. Lawks! but he was glad to be gone. How he didgallop!'

  'Now you are a bigger fool even than I thought you, Billy Minns,' I saidin anger. 'That man would have murdered me, I overcame him and made himfast, and you have let him go.'

  'He would have murdered you, Master, and you made him fast! Then why didyou not stop to keep him till I came along, and we would have haled himto the stocks? That would have been sport and all. You call me fool--butif you found a man covered with blood and hurts tied to a tree, and hedaft and not able to speak, had you not cut him loose? Well, he's gone,and this alone is left of him,' and he spun the piece into the air.

  Now, seeing that there was reason in Billy's talk, for the fault wasmine, I turned away without more words, not straight homewards, for Iwished to think alone awhile on all that had come about between me andLily and her father, but down the way which runs across the lane to thecrest of the Vineyard Hills. These hills are clothed with underwood,in which large oaks grow to within some two hundred yards of this housewhere I write, and this underwood is pierced by paths that my motherlaid out, for she loved to walk here. One of these paths runs along thebottom of the hill by the edge of the pleasant river Waveney, and theother a hundred feet or more above and near the crest of the slope, orto speak more plainly, there is but one path shaped like the letter O,placed thus [symbol of O laying on its side omitted], the curved ends ofthe letter marking how the path turns upon the hill-side.

  Now I struck the path at the end that is furthest from this house, andfollowed that half of it which runs down by the river bank, having thewater on one side of it and the brushwood upon the other. Along thislower path I wandered, my eyes fixed upon the ground, thinking deeplyas I went, now of the joy of Lily's love, and now of the sorrow ofour parting and of her father's wrath. As I went, thus wrapped inmeditation, I saw something white lying upon the grass, and pushed itaside with the point of the Spaniard's sword, not heeding it. Still, itsshape and fashioning remained in my mind, and when I had left it somethree hundred paces behind me, and was drawing near to the house, thesight of it came back to me as it lay soft and white upon the grass,and I knew that it was familiar to my eyes. From the thing, whatever itmight be, my mind passed to the Spaniard's sword with which I had tossedit aside, and from the sword to the man himself. What had been hisbusiness in this parish?--an ill one surely--and why had he looked asthough he feared me and fallen upon me when he learned my name?

  I stood still, looking downward, and my eyes fell upon footprintsstamped in the wet sand of the path. One of them was my mother's. Icould have sworn to it among a thousand, for no other woman in theseparts had so delicate a foot. Close to it, as though following after,was another that at first I thought must also have been made by a woman,it was so narrow. But presently I saw that this could scarcely be,because of its length, and moreover, that the boot which left it waslike none that I knew, being cut very high at the instep and verypointed at the toe. Then, of a sudden, it came upon me that the Spanishstranger wore such boots, for I had noted them while I talked withhim, and that his feet were following those of my mother, for they hadtrodden on her track, and in some places, his alone had stamped theirimpress on the sand blotting out her footprints. Then, too, I knew whatthe white rag was that I had thrown aside. It was my mother's mantillawhich I knew, and yet did not know, because I always saw it setdaintily upon her head. In a moment it had come home to me, and withthe knowledge a keen and sickening dread. Why had this man followed mymother, and why did her mantilla lie thus upon the ground?

  I turned and sped like a deer back to where I had seen the lace. All theway the footprints went before me. Now I was there. Yes, the wrappingwas hers, and it had been rent as though by a rude hand; but where wasshe?

  With a beating heart once more I bent to read the writing of thefootsteps. Here they were mixed one with another, as though the two hadstood close together, moving now this way and now that in struggle. Ilooked up the path, but there were none. Then I cast round about likea beagle, first along the river side, then up the bank. Here they wereagain, and made by feet that flew and feet that followed. Up the bankthey went fifty yards and more, now lost where the turf was sound, nowseen in sand or loam, till they led to the bole of a big oak, and wereonce more mixed together, for here the pursuer had come up with thepursued.

  Despairingly as one who dreams, for now I guessed all and grew mad withfear, I looked this wa
y and that, till at length I found more footsteps,those of the Spaniard. These were deep marked, as of a man who carriedsome heavy burden. I followed them; first they went down the hilltowards the river, then turned aside to a spot where the brushwood wasthick. In the deepest of the clump the boughs, now bursting into leaf,were bent downwards as though to hide something beneath. I wrenched themaside, and there, gleaming whitely in the gathering twilight was thedead face of my mother.