“Oh, my dear, I was sick in love, as I could be.”
“Why didn’t you make it up with him?”
“I hed several reasons for not doing so. My father hed sailed with Admiral Temple, and they were friends closer than brothers, for they hed saved each other’s lives—that was one reason. I was angry at my lover staying away a whole week. That was reason number two. Ten years afterwards I learned, quite accidentally, that his coming was prevented by circumstances it was impossible for him to control. Then my mother hed bragged all her fine words over the country-side, about the great marriage I was to make. That was another reason;—and I am a bit ashamed to say, the splendid jewels and the rich silks and Indian goods my new lover sent me seemed to make a break with him impossible. At any rate, I felt this, and mother and father niver spoke of the Admiral that they did not add another rivet to the bond between us. So at last I married my sailor, and I thank God I did so!”
“Did your lover break his heart?”
“Not a bit of it! He married soon after I was married.”
“Whom did he marry?”
“Sophia Ratcliffe, a varry pretty girl from the old town of Boroughbridge. I niver saw her. I went with the Admiral, by permission, to various ports, remaining at some convenient town, while he sailed far and wide after well-loaded ships of England’s enemies, and picking up as he sailed, any bit of land flying no civilized flag. I did not come back to Annis for five years. My father was then dead, my mother hed gone back to her awn folks, and my brother Antony was Squire of Annis.”
“Then did you meet your old lover?”
“One day, I was walking with Antony through the village, and we met the very loveliest child I iver saw in all my life. He was riding a Shetland pony, and a gentleman walked by his side, and watched him carefully, and I found out at once by his air of authority that he was the boy’s tutor. I asked the little fellow for a kiss, and he bent his lovely face and smilingly let me take what I wanted. Then they passed on and Antony said, ‘His mother died three months ago, and he nearly broke his heart for her.’ ‘Poor little chap,’ I said, and my eyes followed the little fellow down the long empty street. ‘His father,’ continued Antony, ‘was just as brokenhearted. All Annis village was sorry for him.’ ‘Do I know him?’ I asked. ‘I should think so!’ answered thy father with a look of surprise, and then someone called, ‘Squire,’ and we waited, and spoke to the man about his taxes. After his complaint had been attended to we went forward, and I remembered the child, and asked, ‘What is the name of that lovely child?’ And Antony said, “‘His name is Harry Bradley. His father is John Thomas Bradley. Hes thou forgotten him?’
“Then I turned and looked after the boy, but the little fellow was nearly out of sight. I only got a last glimpse of some golden curls lying loose over his white linen suit and black ribbons.”