Montezumas Daughter | Page 7

was
quenched in tears.
'What is it, wife?' I asked astonished.
'It is hard,' she answered, 'that I must bear to listen to such talk from
your lips, husband. Was it not enough that, when all men thought you
dead, I wore my youth away faithful to your memory? though how
faithful you were to mine you know best. Did I ever reproach you
because you had forgotten me, and wedded a savage woman in a distant
land?'
'Never, dear wife, nor had I forgotten you as you know well; but what I
wonder at is that you should grow jealous now when all cause is done
with.'
'Cannot we be jealous of the dead? With the living we may cope, but
who can fight against the love which death has completed, sealing it for
ever and making it immortal! Still, THAT I forgive you, for against this
woman I can hold my own, seeing that you were mine before you
became hers, and are mine after it. But with the children it is otherwise.
They are hers and yours alone. I have no part nor lot in them, and
whether they be dead or living I know well you love them always, and
will love them beyond the grave if you may find them there. Already I
grow old, who waited twenty years and more before I was your wife,
and I shall give you no other children. One I gave you, and God took it
back lest I should be too happy; yet its name was not on your lips with
those strange names. My dead babe is little to you, husband!'
Here she choked, bursting into tears; nor did I think it well to answer
her that there was this difference in the matter, that whereas, with the
exception of one infant, those sons whom I had lost were almost
adolescent, the babe she bore lived but sixty days.
Now when the Queen first put it in my mind to write down the history
of my life, I remembered this outbreak of my beloved wife; and seeing

that I could write no true tale and leave out of it the story of her who
was also my wife, Montezuma's daughter, Otomie, Princess of the
Otomie, and of the children that she gave me, I let the matter lie. For I
knew well, that though we spoke very rarely on the subject during all
the many years we passed together, still it was always in Lily's mind;
nor did her jealousy, being of the finer sort, abate at all with age, but
rather gathered with the gathering days. That I should execute the task
without the knowledge of my wife would not have been possible, for
till the very last she watched over my every act, and, as I verily believe,
divined the most of my thoughts.
And so we grew old together, peacefully, and side by side, speaking
seldom of that great gap in my life when we were lost to each other and
of all that then befell. At length the end came. My wife died suddenly
in her sleep in the eighty-seventh year of her age. I buried her on the
south side of the church here, with sorrow indeed, but not with sorrow
inconsolable, for I know that I must soon rejoin her, and those others
whom I have loved.
There in that wide heaven are my mother and my sister and my sons;
there are great Guatemoc my friend, last of the emperors, and many
other companions in war who have preceded me to peace; there, too,
though she doubted of it, is Otomie the beautiful and proud. In the
heaven which I trust to reach, all the sins of my youth and the errors of
my age notwithstanding, it is told us there is no marrying and giving in
marriage; and this is well, for I do not know how my wives,
Montezuma's daughter and the sweet English gentlewoman, would
agree together were it otherwise.
And now to my task.
CHAPTER II
OF THE PARENTAGE OF THOMAS WINGFIELD
I, Thomas Wingfield, was born here at Ditchingham, and in this very
room where I write to-day. The house of my birth was built or added to
early in the reign of the seventh Henry, but long before his time some

kind of tenement stood here, which was lived in by the keeper of the
vineyards, and known as Gardener's Lodge. Whether it chanced that the
climate was more kindly in old times, or the skill of those who tended
the fields was greater, I do not know, but this at the least is true, that
the hillside beneath which the house nestles, and which once was the
bank of an arm of the sea or