Now I know well that there is a God, for my own story proves it
to my heart. In truth, what man can look back across a long life and say
that there is no God, when he can see the shadow of His hand lying deep
upon his tale of years?
On this sad day of which I write I knew that Lily, whom I loved,
would be walking alone beneath the great pollard oaks in the park of
Ditchingham Hall. Here, in Grubswell as the spot is called, grew, and
indeed still grow, certain hawthorn trees that are the earliest to blow
of any in these parts, and when we had met at the church door on the
Sunday, Lily said that there would be bloom upon them by the Wednesday,
and on that afternoon she should go to cut it. It may well be that she
spoke thus with design, for love will breed cunning in the heart of the
most guileless and truthful maid. Moreover, I noticed that though she
said it before her father and the rest of us, yet she waited to speak
till my brother Geoffrey was out of hearing, for she did not wish to
go maying with him, and also that as she spoke she shot a glance of her
grey eyes at me. Then and there I vowed to myself that I also would
be gathering hawthorn bloom in this same place and on that Wednesday
afternoon, yes, even if I must play truant and leave all the sick of
Bungay to Nature's nursing. Moreover, I was determined on one thing,
that if I could find Lily alone I would delay no longer, but tell her
all that was in my heart; no great secret indeed, for though no word
of love had ever passed between us as yet, each knew the other's hidden
thoughts.
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