“Who’s there,” says Miles, peering at me, I standing before him on the step.
“An honest traveller,” says I, “with news from East India.”
“This an’t no inn,” says he. “Why not bring your news in the daytime?”
“Because I an’t but just arrived in the town,” quoth I. “Prythee, good fellow, let me in, and give me speech of Mrs Brandon, for I am come to bring her word of an old friend.”
“From the Indies?” saith he, opening the door wider. “Why, then, give me your message, so I may take it to Mrs Dorothy, and ask her if she will please to see you.”
“Nay,” says I, “I’ll give my message to none but Mrs Brandon herself.”
“I see you are an impudent fellow,” says he. “If I may not serve you, sure you may go whistle for Mrs Brandon, for I won’t disturb her nigh upon supper-time for to come to the door on a fool’s errand.”
“You lack a master here, indeed!” said I, in some heat, but ceased suddenly, for I beheld a lady come down the great oaken staircase, who stood still on a sudden at the sound of our wrangling, and looked towards us. As she stood there, holding a great candlestick of silver in her hand, I could almost have thought her a painted portrait, framed in the doorway of the gallery behind her, so clearly could I mark her gown of flowered tabby and black satin petticoat, her dark hair curled under a high cap with lace, and even the silver buckles on her shoes. Though I could see all this so well, ’twas but for a moment that she stood thus, her face wearing a quick, eager look, then came down the stairs, and setting her candle on the table, came towards us.
“What is this, Miles?” says she. “Why do you keep this gentleman at the door?”
“Gentleman do you say, madam?” says Miles, very angry, and would have grumbled on, but she cut him short and turned to me—
“Sir, I entreat of you to pardon this incivility, and to give yourself the pain to come within. You have a message for one here, I believe. May I ask whether your business lie with Mrs Skipwith or myself?”
“I count, madam,” says I, “that I have the honour of speaking with Mrs Brandon? This being so” (and she made a sign of assent), “I may tell you that I am come from the Indies, and that I have been asked to bring you news of the welfare of your cousin, Mr Edward Carlyon.”
“You are my cousin’s friend, without doubt, sir?” says she. “Pray give us the happiness of your company to supper, and let us know all your news. My friend Mrs Skipwith will rejoice to hear it as well as I.”
“Madam,” says I, “your commands is too agreeable not to be obeyed,” and thereupon I followed her into the parlour, where was an old gentlewoman sitting, dressed very seemly in black, with a white cap and handkercher.
“Madam,” says Dorothy, “this gentleman is a friend of Mr Carlyon’s, that is come from the Indies with news of him. Sir, allow me to present you to Mrs Sophronia Skipwith.”
“Sir,” says Mrs Skipwith, when I had saluted her very civilly, “any friend of Mr Carlyon can’t but be always welcome to us. Dorothy, my dear, pray bid Miles hasten with the supper.”
Being invited by Mrs Skipwith, I sat down beside her, discovering that she was grown very deaf and that her eyes were become dim, and did set myself, when Dorothy was returned, to answer their questions in the best way I might. They would fain know when I saw Mr Carlyon last, how he looked, whether he had any thought of returning soon to England, and the like, and these all wan’t troublesome to answer. But presently Mrs Skipwith saith all on a sudden—
“And pray, sir, is Mr Carlyon yet wedded?”
I would not choose to look at Dorothy, but I saw her start and catch her breath, and made haste to reply—
“Mr Carlyon hath altogether abandoned the hopes he once cherished in a certain very high quarter, madam. The lady to whose hand he pretended hath for some years past been the wife of another.”
“Ah,” says Mrs Skipwith, with an air of much contentment, “hath she jilted him, sir? No doubt ’twas the best thing could happen to him. ’Tis ever a mistake for young persons to look too high in marriage. Not that I would say”—she seemed to remember that she must needs uphold the honour of the house to a stranger—“that a French countess is over high for a Carlyon of Ellswether, but when——”
“An’t you afraid of wearying this gentleman with our family matters, dear madam?” says Dorothy quickly, as though she feared what the old gentlewoman might say next; “should we not do well to speak of things more entertaining to him? But here is Miles to tell us supper is ready. Sure we must delay for a time the rest of our discourse.”
And in truth, there stood Miles at the door, still glum enough of aspect from his late defeat, and announced supper. Then I, by no means loath to escape from the questions that I found wellnigh as disagreeable as did Dorothy, did offer my hand to Mrs Skipwith for to lead her into the dining-room, my cousin following. The chamber was still altogether as I remembered it, save that the portraits in little[135] of my father and mother hung now on either side of the chimney. The table was set as I had always been wont to see it, with the state and dignity that my father had accounted essential to his quality, and covers was laid for Mrs Skipwith and Dorothy at the head and foot, and for me at the side. Noting this, I handed Mrs Skipwith to her seat, and turned to lead Dorothy to hers. She accepted of the civility, but when we reached the place, dropped my hand suddenly, and with a courtesy—
“Take your own place, Cousin Ned,” says she.
Then, as I can assure you, there was a noise indeed. Mrs Skipwith weeping and laughing both together, and crying out that ’twas a mighty pretty piece of fooling, and she had known the truth all along (which indeed she had not, nor even guessed it distantly), and Miles begging my pardon and cursing himself for his dulness, and then crying out to the other servants that the young master was come home, until they all come for to see the sight—cook and maids and the boy that helped in the garden, and all—and wept and talked and remarked upon me until I was fain to shake hands with ’em all round and to send ’em back to their kitchen, saying that I was hungry and desired my supper. But first I saluted a second time Mrs Skipwith, that did weep over me again, and call Miles to witness that when I was a young urchin newly sent to school she had prophesied that I should be just the man I was to-day. And then I came to Dorothy, that sat in her place by the table, very white and pale, and though I would fain have took and kissed her as I had been used to do, I durst not offer it, so noble and unbending was her air, but kissed instead on’t the hand she held forth to me, and felt that this was above my deserts. So then we sat down to supper, a right merry party, for Dorothy had thrown aside her ceremony and talked and laughed with the best, so that she seemed to me to be indeed again the little cousin that I had loved so long before; but in all her mirth this I noted, namely, that she would not meet my eye, and when she found me looking at her, turned away her head as though displeased. And this caused me some slight apprehension, remembering Mr Sternhold’s words; but I did quickly put it aside, being resolved to enjoy to the full this the first night of my return to my ancient home.
Now after supper we returned again to the parlour, and talked there until it was late, and the more my eye rested upon Dorothy, and the more I heard her speak, the more she seemed to me to be the same as ever, and never to have lost her former place in my heart. But when I would have showed somewhat of this in my discourse, calling her “Little cousin,” and “Sweet Doll,” I was grieved to perceive that she turned from me again, as showing that she had no liking for such familiar fashions of address. But this, says I to myself, was doubtless but the effect of our long absence and estrangement one from the other, and after that I had bid her good night, I did thank God for the prospect of happiness opening before me, not knowing that I was about to pass through some of the sorest trouble of my life. But nevertheless, this I did perceive, that whereas it had seemed to me when in East India, and even on the voyage and since I was arrived in England, easy enough to offer to Dorothy myself and my lands, though without my love, yet now this should seem to me, as to her, an outrage, and I determined with myself to wait and say naught until she should know me better.
Now in pursuance of this resolve of mine, I did determine to watch and study Dorothy, and so to perceive how I might best recommend myself to her favour. And with this view I did take care to spend great part of my time in company with her and Mrs Skipwith, hearing from them of all the changes that had took place since my departure, and telling them such things as they desired to know touching East India and my travels there. But since I had begun this procedure as a matter of calculation and prudence, I was surprised, when no long time had passed, to find myself hanging upon my cousin’s least word, and seizing every occasion of offering myself as her cavaliero. And perceiving this, I was startled. “Can this,” says I to myself, “be all repentance towards Dorothy for my former hard usage of her? and if it ben’t that, what is’t? Come now,” says I, “let me examine and see how I should regard her were I but to fall in with her in company as a stranger, and what resentiments I should entertain towards her.”
And this I set myself to do, but in the course on’t Dorothy did discover so many new beauties, both of person and of heart, that I was long in the doing; but setting down coldly all my observations, this is the sum of them. She was of an excellent middle stature, neither low nor over-high, and in all her motions an easy sprightliness that compared well even with the slow grace of Madam Heliodora. Her eyes was dark, bright, and piercing, her hair not far removed from black, her complexion of the last degree of loveliness, mingling, as it did, the pleasing tints of the lily and the rose. But you could not rightly admire her features for your admiration of the mind that informed them, and rather than her face you would observe her mien of sweet contentment, such as a good conscience and a worthy life alone can furnish, though overspread with an air of chastened melancholy, which did but contribute to enhance her charms.
And this also I perceived during this time, that whereas Mrs Skipwith was never backward to ask questions of me, and likewise to pass her judgment on those things I told her, Dorothy spake little, but such words as she did say, was marked with such sense and gravity as did charm me mightily, reminding me at first of Madam Heliodora. But I soon perceived a great difference between these two ladies, yet such as wrought in no way to the disadvantage of either. For Madam Heliodora had been wont to utter her thought in its fulness, with a certain noble modesty, and yet with assurance, as knowing it was well worth our hearing, and that she had the right to say all she desired; but with Dorothy I had always the belief that she uttered only some small portion of her thought, and that there was much more behind, the which ’twould indeed enrich me to hear, could I but win upon her to give it forth. But this with all my art I could not attain unto, which did tease and allure me mightily, making me cry to myself, “Sure how happy will be that person to whom Dorothy shall open her whole heart!” and more and more did I learn to desire that it might fall to me to be that person.
But, strange though it may appear to you, the more I grew to value at their proper price my cousin’s beauties of mind and heart, the further from her I seemed to be,—nay, I was become so low and mean in my own sight, that that proposition which I had designed to make her, and which I had postponed on my first returning, lest the coldness on’t should shock her sensibilities, seemed now to me so rude and insulting as I might not dare to offend her ears therewith. For, says I to myself, how can I say calmly to such a woman as this, that I have wasted the best part of my life in a passion for that which belonged to another, and that all love is dead in my heart, and yet ask her to share with me my dignity and wealth, out of consideration for an ancient contract that I myself was the first to set aside? Sure ’twere profaneness and sacrilege to speak to a creature like this of marriage without love. Let me rather, says I, try to discover what manner of life, and shared with what person, she should esteem most to her taste, and endeavour to secure it for her, and then live out the remainder of my lonely existence happy in her happiness. But the more I reasoned thus with myself, the more I felt that that ideal or phantasm of wedded life that had presented itself to me at Surat was the only thing that could promise me earthly happiness, and that, without Dorothy were mine, this ideal could never be. And though I chid my foolish heart almost hourly, demanding on’t now how I could be so insensible as not to love a creature of such transcendent excellence, and now how could I expect to love her when love and the power thereof was dead within me, yet my resentiments were never a whit diminished in this way, but rather increased, so that I walked abroad daily in a mighty turmoil and confusion of mind, until that chanced which confirmed the fear that had been aroused in my heart by Mr Sternhold’s words on our first meeting.
For ’twas my custom at this time to ride over a certain part of my estates every day, visiting the farmers and cottagers and making myself known to ’em, and everywhere I received the greatest kindness and a prodigious warm welcome, and many also, hearing that I wan’t wedded to any gentlewoman in foreign parts, believed me to be returned with the intent to marry Dorothy, and so encouraged me thereto, heaping many blessings on her head. Now one afternoon, when I was returning from such a visit as this, I felt a desire for solitude and communing with myself, and so sent my horse back to Ellswether by Loll Duss, that rid after me, and walked on by myself. But I wan’t doomed to enjoy my solitude long, for scarce had I walked a quarter of a mile before I heard the sound of wheels in the mire, and looking back, saw a neat coach come along behind me, with a lady beckoning to me with her fan from the window on’t. And I going to see what she would have with me, found her to be my ancient acquaintance, Mrs Packworth, and with her Mrs Sternhold her mother, and not having yet seen either of these gentlewomen since my return, save only in church, they did desire of me to come into the coach with ’em, and they would carry me home, while I told them concerning myself and my travels. And this I wan’t by no means loath to do, finding my single meditations little comforting, and so entered the coach and sat opposite to them, and for a time we were very merry, the two gentlewomen asking me questions, and I answering them.
And when all their questions was done, I said to them that ’twas my turn to ask, and they consenting that this was only fair, I did begin; but no sooner had I touched, though in the most delicate way imaginable, upon Dorothy, than Mrs Sternhold looked upon me as though grieved and astonished for the hardness of my heart, and Mrs Packworth seemed all at once to become angry and contemptuous of me.
“Come, sir,” says she, “sure you need discover no interest in Mrs Brandon, for we all know that you have resigned all pretension to her.”
“Sisley, my dear daughter!” says her mother, but Mrs Packworth would not agree to withdraw from her position. “An’t it true?” she says to me.
“Madam,” says I, “perhaps you’ll allow me, speaking in confidence, to say that ’tis possible for any person to repent of his early sins and follies, and, having been duly punished for ’em, to do his best to amend ’em.”
“I presume, sir, that Mrs Brandon’s inclinations will carry some weight in such a matter?” cries she, just as had her father.
“I think, madam,” says I, “that you can scarce deem me likely to wish to force Mrs Brandon’s inclinations? Nevertheless, ’tis allowable in me to cherish a hope that, while demanding no more favour at starting than any other person, I may be able to show my regret for my former carriage, and perhaps in due time to enlist her heart in my cause.”
“And in what kind of cause is that?” says she. “Can you dare to hope, sir, can you even wish, that Mrs Brandon should give her heart into the keeping of a person that han’t so much as a heart, though never such a poor one, to give her in return, since his own was lost in foreign parts long ago? Nay, madam,” for her mother was showing herself desirous to arrest her in her discourse, “prythee let me speak. ’Tis but just that Mr Carlyon should hear the truth. There an’t none at the Hall will tell it him, and ’tis well he should know how Mrs Dorothy’s friends regard him. Pray, sir, do you think that Mrs Brandon is your property, like your horse or your blackamoor, that having once cast her aside, you may gain her again at your conveniency?”
“Indeed, madam,” quoth I, “I am but too much sensible of my faithless and evil conduct in the past, and yet at times I entertain such confidence in Mrs Brandon’s gentle and forgiving spirit as I am almost ready to believe she will admit me to her favour again upon assurance of my sincere repentance.”
Now this indeed was that very thing whereof I was perpetually doubting nowadays, and nothing was further from my intention than to make such a boast, but yet I could not resist giving utterance thereto, being somewhat heated by Mrs Packworth’s condemnation of me. But she was a better fighter than I.
“Welladay!” she cries, “that I should live to hear a gentleman affirm coolly that he desires and expects a lady to receive him into her favour when not only he don’t offer her any love, but glories in having none to offer!”
“In truth, madam,” says I, mighty uncomfortable, “you know more of my heart than I, for it is so prodigiously tumbled up and down that no pains will enable me to read it aright.”
“Is that so, sir?” saith she. “Then pray listen to me, for I have that to tell you which shall quickly resolve your doubts as to the nature of your resentiments for Mrs Brandon. Two or three minutes back you seemed (though little as if you feared any such thing) to remember that ’twas possible Mrs Brandon might entertain other views for the disposal of her hand. Now thus much I can tell you, that there is a certain gentleman in whose cause her heart is very deeply engaged, so much so, that I am well assured she should never entertain with pleasure a proposition of marriage from any other. And I don’t say this out of malice only, for ’tis absolute truth, as my mother will assure you.”
“And this gentleman’s name?” said I, with an air of as great calmness as I could assume, though it seemed to me as if a sudden thick darkness were spread all around me.
“That I must not tell you,” says she. “Nay, mother, I’ll not have you speak, if you please. What! shall we betray Mrs Dorothy’s confidence that she hath reposed in us?”
“I can’t tell,” said I, though slowly and with difficulty, “who this person may be. Hath he visited upon my cousin since my return?”
“Not since your return, sir,” saith Mrs Packworth mighty demurely, but with something of mystery in her air that I could not understand.
“I must needs inquire his intention,” says I, scarce knowing what I said.
“Sure, sir,” says Mrs Sternhold, “your best course were to inquire of Mrs Brandon herself. She would be little like to relish our making a common talk of her matters, but she could scarce refuse to grant you such satisfaction as you may desire touching ’em from her own lips.”
“I must needs follow your counsel, madam,” says I. “Meanwhile, may I entreat of you and Mrs Packworth to dispense here with my further attendance? I see we are arrived at the path leading to the Hall through the woods, and I would fain hasten home.”
Thus speaking, and making apologies that I understood not while I did utter ’em, I left the coach, standing uncovered until it was departed, and hearing the voices of the two gentlewomen in contention, as though Mrs Sternhold desired to tell me that which her daughter had refused me. I could not doubt but they were triumphing over me, but I cared not a whit for their triumph. Though they had done no more, they had at the least fulfilled their purpose, in showing me my own heart, and they had doubtless rejoiced to have beheld me hasten into the wood, and cast myself, in my anguish, on the ground. And this because Mrs Packworth’s discourse had revealed to me on a sudden that I had misread my resentiments, and that, so far from my heart’s being dead, it was alive, and loved Dorothy. And this seemed to me so ironical a stroke of fate that I groaned aloud, namely, that when she had been free and waiting for me I had rejected her, but that now, when her love was given to another, I was returned, and had learned to love her. Thus I could not deny that I was rightly served, and could blame no one but myself, that had behaved so foolishly both in the one case and in the other.
And this led me to perceive that ’twould be prodigious unjust in me to cause Dorothy and her servant to suffer for either the one or the other of my faults, and that ’twas my duty to give all my pains henceforth to render them happy. And this arrived at, I did rise up from the ground, somewhat ashamed of this outburst of unmanly despair, and did turn my steps towards home, revolving many things in my mind. For I determined that if Dorothy’s unknown servant should prove a convenient match for her, as I could scarce doubt but he should, I would see them safely married and resign to them Ellswether for to dwell in, and return myself with Loll Duss to East India, entreating the Company to have me appointed to Bombaim or Bengall, whither few do go by choice, these places being esteemed deadly for the English. And musing upon these plans, I could not resist comparing ’em with my joyous anticipations in returning home, and bewailing myself therefor, and so wandered on (having forgot that I had told Mrs Packworth I must needs hasten home), until the darkness began to overtake me while I was yet in the wood. And upon this I made haste to find the right path, fearing lest it should become pitch-dark, and I miss my road. Hastening on, then, in the way I had chosen, I saw in front of me the form of a woman wrapped in a hooded cloak, hurrying very fast as though in fear. I could scarce believe my eyes, but yet to me that shape wan’t to be mistook, and I come up with the woman quickly, and touched her on the arm. She turned round with a face that was white even in the twilight, but cried out with delight for to see me.
“Oh, Ned, ’tis only you!” she said, and took my hand, for all the world as though we had been children together again.
“What do you here, cousin, at this hour and alone?” said I.
“I have been to see Jobson’s wife,” says she, “and to carry her some broth.”
“Jobson the poacher?” says I.
“Ay,” says she, “but poachers’ wives have need of meat and physic as well as other men’s.”
“I don’t chide you for that, cousin,” says I, “but for your coming here alone. ’Tis commonly known that Jobson is a rude and dangerous fellow, and much given to strong liquors, and I would not have you fall in with him when he is in his cups. Sure Miles should have been with you, with a lantern and a cudgel.”
“He was ready to come,” said she, “but I preferred to be alone, and so bid him go back.”
“Would Mrs Skipwith approve of this, cousin?” I asked.
“I never asked her,” says Dorothy. “I an’t a small child, Cousin Ned, to be bid where to go, and chid for all I do.”
“No, indeed,” says I. “I can well remember, Doll, the time when Mrs Skipwith was governess to you, but now you do seem to me to govern her.”
She laughed, yet not all pleasantly. “I am well ruled, none the less,” said she.
“And it seems to me that it an’t unneeded,” says I. “See you here, cousin, if you find it irksome to be without any fellow[136] save Mrs Skipwith, I will endeavour to seek out some young damsel of agreeable conditions that shall bear you company, and assist you to divert yourself; but since you are in my house, I must beg that you won’t walk abroad unless attended suitably to your quality. Sure you must perceive that this is only right.”
But Dorothy snatched her hand from mine, and walked on with her head held high, as she had done when we had last passed through this wood together.
“ ’Tis very courteously done in you, to remind me of my situation as a dependent in your house, cousin,” she cried, and stopped as though too angry to continue.
“Cousin,” says I, “your are unjust toward me. I desire naught save your honour and advantage,” but she would not vouchsafe neither to answer me nor speak to me, and we came home in silence. And all that evening would she scarce say a word to me, nor even look at me. And though you would think that I should rejoice in this, inasmuch as ’twould enable me the more easily to conquer my love for her, yet it wan’t so, but I must needs offer all the courtesies in my power, and follow her with my eyes, silently demanding pardon for my unwitting offending of her. But all this moved her not a whit, so that I went to bed very unhappy, but loving her more than ever.
And the next day, which was prodigious wet and stormy, Dorothy busied herself all the morning with the maids up-stairs, scrubbing and cleaning and doing other such things, and raising such a noise and dust as that she was fain at dinner-time to abide in her own chamber, saying that she was attacked with a fit of the megrims.[137] And after dinner, the weather mending somewhat, I rid out after my usual fashion, with Loll Duss behind me, very unhappy by reason of the damp, and I much more unhappy, by reason of the turmoil in my mind. But coming in after dark, prodigious weary and miserable, I found an agreeable surprise to await me, for casting myself with a sigh upon the oaken settle beside the great fire in the hall, thinking no one to be near me, I did behold Dorothy sitting opposite to me in the shadow, when my eyes grew accustomed to the light.
“You han’t been abroad to-day, cousin?” said I.
“No,” said she. “Mrs Skipwith is gone to drink a dish of thea with Mrs Sternhold, and Miles is attending upon her.”
“I’ll wait upon you with pleasure, cousin, whithersoever you may desire,” says I, “and esteem it an honour if you’ll accept of my services.”
“I thank you, cousin,” says she, “but I han’t no list to walk abroad to-night.”
And with that we were silent again, I watching Dorothy curiously when the firelight revealed her face to me, and wondering whether I might now trust myself to ask her concerning her servant. But on a sudden my eyes lit upon a certain great old book in a brown binding that lay beside her on the settle, half hid by her gown, and stretching out my hand I took it up.
“Why, here is the ‘Arcadia’!” says I, undoing the silver clasps. “Have you been diverting yourself with the pretty fancies of the gentle knight, cousin?”
“I chanced upon the old book up-stairs this morning,” says she, “and brought it hither for to recall old days withal.”
“Suffer me also to recall ’em,” says I, and opening the book, sought out that pathetical piece of the parting of Argalus and Parthenia, over the which we had so often mingled our tears when we was children, and thereafter the moving scene wherein Parthenia is slain by Amphialus, the which did draw tears from Dorothy even now. And as for me, I found it hard to read, for the remembrance of the early days was so strong upon me that I conceived a double meaning in all the words, seeing Dorothy in Parthenia when she cries to Argalus, saying, Woe is me; what shall become of me, if you thus abandon me? And in this I wan’t alone, for I perceived that my cousin was much moved by those other words of Parthenia—viz., O Life, O Death, answer for me, that my thoughts have not so much as in a dreame tasted any comfort since they were depriv’d of Argalus. “Sure,” says I to myself, “I am a worse murderer than ever was Amphialus, and should experience a greater remorse, since I have slain that sweet love and confidence that my cousin once reposed in me.” But this was when I had ended my reading, and Dorothy was wiping away her tears.
“ ’Tis all one as though we was children again,” she said, as though excusing herself. “We have sat here so often just as now, and you have read Argalus and Parthenia by the firelight.”
“I have wished more than once, cousin,” says I, “that we might be Polyxandra and Cleombrocles again, with all our troubles but a phantasy.”
“And so have I,” she said, and was silent, and neither she nor I spake one word for some time. Then Dorothy rose up suddenly.
“ ’Tis a foolish wish, cousin,” says she. “We an’t babes now, but man and woman grown, and as our lives are, so we have made ’em, and so they must be lived.”
And thus saying, she left me, I feigning still to read in the old book, but seeing none of the words in its pages. For I knew that my cousin was not wont to be thus difficult and bitter, as in these last two days, except upon occasion, and I could well conceive that this occasion arose upon the trouble in which she found herself with regard to her servant, she not knowing whether I would entertain his suit with favour or not. I being then mighty grieved to cause so much sorrow not only to myself but to her, did determine to learn from Mrs Skipwith this gentleman’s name and quality, and so invite him to visit me, when I might endeavour so to order matters as to lead to their happiness. But as it chanced, I could do no more that night, for there come from London by waggon all my heavy chests of toys and suchlike bought in the Indies, and I had much ado to stow them all away. I was minded at first to open them, but in the first that come to hand was there naught but jewellery and other furniture that I had bought with an eye to Dorothy, at that time when I so foolishly and presumptuously believed that if I did but return home and ask her, she should be ready to marry me on the instant. And these I could not now bear to see, both from the shame and the sorrow that possessed me, so that I thrust ’em back into their box, and had ’em all put out of sight at once. And after that was there only time for my one game of chess with Mrs Skipwith, and then to bed, very weary and prodigious unhappy.
And in the morning, reflecting that when a disagreeable piece of business is to be done, it were as well done sooner as later, I sought Mrs Skipwith at an hour when I knew that Dorothy was wont to be in the kitchen or the still-room overlooking the maids. And first of all I made her a compliment upon my cousin’s figure and her good breeding, saying that sure no country lady had ever such elegant manners before. But this, says I, was evidently to be traced to the excellence of her instructress in the same line. And at this Mrs Skipwith smiled and bridled, conceiving herself highly flattered, and declared that she and Mrs Sternhold had ofttimes said one to another that ’twas a thousand pities that so divine a creature should be so little seen and admired.
“Do I understand you to intend, madam,” says I, “that my cousin han’t seen no genteel company, such as her quality and her breeding alike fit her to adorn?”
“Nay, sir,” says Mrs Skipwith, “there is several gentlewomen, the ladies of persons of substance in the county, that have shown ’emselves prodigious kind to Mrs Brandon, and I have often waited upon her to their houses. ’Twas your honoured father’s desire that she should enjoy all the diversion she might properly obtain, and this in especial after that letter of your honour’s come from that French place,—some Popish name it had, but I have forgot it. But, as I was a-saying, Sir Harry says to me, on his receiving this letter, that Mrs Dorothy must needs have her chance, for ’twas indeed her right, and if she should meet with any gentleman of suitable fortune that wan’t disagreeable to her, he would not keep ’em from marrying. And sure she had her chance, if ever a young damsel did, for there wan’t a gentleman in these parts (that was unwedded, I would say) that did not seek her company, and there was very many made proposals of marriage to Sir Harry for her.”
“And pray, madam,” says I, groaning within myself to perceive how many were desirous to obtain the treasure that I had been so ready to cast away, “in the cause of which of these gentlemen was my cousin’s heart the most engaged?”
“Why, sir, for none of ’em,” quoth she very quickly, as though in astonishment; “not even my Lord Harmarthwaite nor my lord Duke of London (that are both wedded now, and very high indeed), could touch her heart. The second (as I know, for Sir Harry told me on’t, though Mrs Brandon never a word) was very urgent with her to wed him, saying that she was designed by nature to be the star of the Court, and not to be lost here in the country, but she thanked him very modestly for the honour he had wished to do her, and begged him to pardon her refusing his proposals. And touching my Lord Harmarthwaite, I think Mr Sternhold writ to you, sir, for he was very well affected towards him, and thought Mrs Brandon a fool for her pains in refusing him.”
“Then,” said I, cursing myself once again for my folly in rejecting the happiness that had once been mine for the asking, “I must ask you, madam, to make clear for me a certain matter. ’Tis told me that my cousin entertains a preference for a gentleman whose name is unknown to me. Who is this person? and where did Mrs Brandon fall in with him if not in company?”
But upon this Mrs Skipwith seemed confused and out of countenance.
“I’ll answer for’t that she han’t met with him in company,” was all I might prevail upon her to say.
“But pray, madam,” says I, “how am I to discover this gentleman if you won’t be good enough to tell me his name? Must I ask it of my cousin herself?”
“Sir,” says she, “I can’t doubt but you’ll find that your best course, for I hold no authority to give you any news of this person.”
“Pray, madam,” says I, somewhat angry, “am I to understand that my cousin hath forbid you to touch on this topic with me?”
“Truly, sir,” quoth she, “you wan’t far wrong in understanding that I am promised to tell you naught of Mrs Dorothy’s private matters.”
“But surely, madam,” said I, “the mere name of her servant——”
“And pray, sir, an’t that Mrs Dorothy’s private matter?” says she, and I could not deny it. Wherefore I found myself compelled to resort to Dorothy herself for that I did desire to know, since none of her friends would vouchsafe to tell it me, and this I did most especially dread, lest in treating of her love I should reveal my own, and thus disturb and trouble her. But since this measure could not be avoided, I resolved that it should be undertook on the morrow, and so rid abroad a long way in the afternoon, seeking to escape from myself and my own thoughts, and succeeding not at all in either design. Then in the evening, having twice begun my game of chess with Mrs Skipwith, and been routed with great loss, so that she declared I was surely losing my intellectuals, and I was fain to believe the same, I left trying to play, and sat in a corner staring at Dorothy, not knowing that I did it until I saw her turn from red to white and change countenance before me. And upon this I was mightily ashamed, and leaving the parlour, went out into the stormy night, and began walking up and down the fir-walk in the darkness by myself, hearing the branches of the trees creak in the wind overhead, and watching, though without any purpose of so doing, the dark clouds scud across the face of the moon. And thus walking, I did begin to rebuke myself very heartily.
“Come, Ned Carlyon,” says I to myself, “is this your courtesy towards this poor woman, to stare her out of countenance until she can’t so much as lift her eyes in your presence? An’t it your desire to carry yourself as a gentleman, as the person that loves Dorothy Brandon (though without any hope of winning her favour) should do? What right have you, that owe all your miseries to your own blindness, to endeavour to involve her in ’em? Be a man, and find your happiness in hers. If the contemplation of so lovely and gracious a creature enjoying all the felicity that she deserves can’t content you, you are a sorry fellow, and the more that ’tis in your own power in some measure to bring about and ensure this felicity. Be thankful, then, for that, and accept of your troubles as your rightful punishment. Remember the sweetness and cheerfulness wherewith the viscount, your friend, endured the long separation from his love—nay, the noble constancy and equanimity of Madam Heliodora herself—and model your actions upon ’em.”
Thus then I reasoned with myself, but only arrived at remembering that the viscount and Madam Heliodora were confident each in the other’s constancy, and might look forward to a time when this should be rewarded, which I might not do. And so, little comforted, to bed, resolving to speak with Dorothy on the morrow. And in the morning, being purposed not to suffer her to escape me, I laid wait for her on the stairs, when she come down with a great posy of dry lavender in her hand, intended, as I suppose, for some use in her household economy, and begged of her to come with me into the garden. And this entreaty she granted (though not without some alarm, as it seemed to me), and tying quickly a great straw hat over her cap, she threw a scarf about her shoulders, and joined me, when we walked along the terrace-walks in the pleasure-garden. Now the night had been extreme boisterous, and the wind had torn from the trees the few fading leaves that were left them, so that they lay about our feet golden and brown and red, or fluttered feebly upon the grass lawn.
“Sure this is a picture of my life,” says I, looking upon ’em; “a stormy dawn, ending in desolation, and more storms to come.”
“Nay, cousin,” says Dorothy, “you have tarried so long in the Indies that you have forgot your English weather-wisdom. By the tokens of the sky I prophesy a fair day and a calm sunset.”
“Be it so,” said I. “The omen is yours, cousin, and I am glad on’t, though the compassing your happiness may mean my further undoing.”
“You speak in riddles, cousin,” says she, looking at me with some indignation.
“I hope,” says I, “that my cousin Dorothy believes that I set her happiness above my own.”
“And I hope,” says she, “that my cousin Ned don’t think so meanly of me as to believe that I would buy my happiness at the cost of his.”
“Alas, Doll!” says I, “you would not, but it an’t any longer in your power to buy or refuse. And this very matter is’t that I would fain treat with you this morning. I had been better pleased to have settled it all to your liking without troubling you thereabout, but all your friends do show ’emselves so prodigious tender of your punctilio that they will none of ’em tell me that which ’tis needful for me to know. I ask your pardon beforehand, cousin, if I offend you in this straightforward dealing, in spite of all my precaution.”
“Pray tell me your meaning, cousin Ned,” says she, as though perplexed.
“I am told, cousin,” said I, “that there’s a certain gentleman addressing you, in whose suit your heart is deeply engaged. Pray pardon my roughness” (for she seemed to be about to say somewhat, but her face was turned away from me and I could not see it, wherefore I did continue), “but sure you must know that I desire above all things your good, and would fain see you happy with this gentleman, though it were to prove my own perpetual misery.”
“Pray, cousin,” says she, with a sound as of a sob in her voice, “an’t you a little hard towards a person that can scarce have injured you? Sure the poor man’s happiness need not inconvenience you, nor far less cause you perpetual misery.”
“Nay, Dorothy,” I cried, amazed at her misreading of me, “you are unjust towards me, and to clear myself I must needs reveal that which I had determined to keep hid. At least pity me, for though I have wronged you, yet now I am punished for’t. If I have despised you in my blindness, I have learned to love you when too late, and have been given to know my love in vain. The victory lies with you, cousin, only use it mercifully. ’Tis my desire to show myself not unworthy of loving you, and I would not prove a churl. I hope yet to see you happily wedded to your servant, and settled here at Ellswether, if this should please you, for I purpose returning again to East India.”
“Ned, my dear cousin!” she cried, turning upon me her eyes full of tears, “but why not remain here?”
“Nay,” said I, “I an’t a stone, Dorothy, and I fear lest my melancholical humour should cloud your happiness. But let that pass. You know, cousin, that though I han’t any real authority over you, yet in the eyes of the world I am your guardian, and that it rests with me to order all things with your servant. Tell me his name, then, if you please, that so I may have some commerce with him.”
“But that I can’t tell you—no, never,” says Dorothy, beginning to twist the edge of her scarf with her fingers.
“An’t this an excess of sensibility, cousin?” said I.
“But how can I?” says she, very red. “Sure you are too hard upon me, Cousin Ned. A plague on all those good people that meddle in my matters! Here’s a pretty pass they have brought me to.”
“Surely, cousin,” said I, “only his name, to give me to know who he is?”
“Ask yourself, sir,” says Dorothy, and runs away from me, leaving me as much at a loss as ever. And no further occasion did she vouchsafe me for to inquire of her, for she was among the maids all morning, and at dinner she sat with eyes cast down and blushing face, nor never looked at me once, so that after I did go out in despair.
Now after dinner I did set out as usual upon my ride, but I was come no further than to Puckle Acton when I found that my horse had cast a shoe. And for this there was evidently naught to be done save to chide Loll Duss for his not looking better to his duty, and to bid him carry the horse at once to the smithy and have the blacksmith look to him, while as I walked on by myself. And after walking through the town and turning back, I came by another way to Mr Sternhold’s house, and there found Mrs Diony in the garden, with a scarf thrown over her cap, overseeing the gardener that was at work sweeping up the dead leaves and broken twigs on the paths. Now Mrs Diony was ever my favourite of Mr Sternhold’s two daughters, and had been wont to show great kindness to Dorothy and myself in our childhood, so that it seemed to me that she might give me some help in my perplexity. And for this reason I wan’t sorry when she, coming to the gate for to inquire of me concerning Mrs Skipwith’s disease in her eyes, that was become an extraordinary great trouble to her of late, begged of me to come within, saying that she had scarce so much as caught sight of me since my return. Now after some discourse had betwixt us on indifferent topics, she did begin to rally me upon my mournful looks, saying that it wan’t by no means becoming to a gentleman but just come home to a fair estate and a sufficient fortune to bear such a melancholical air. And upon this I did open to her my trouble, showing her how my fair estate and my sufficient fortune was as naught to me without the woman that might have been mine had I not slighted her, and passing that over, pointed out how that all my plans for my cousin’s happiness were made of no avail by this strange conspiracy wherein all her friends were entered for to keep her servant’s name a secret.
“Ay,” says Mrs Diony, “I have heard something on’t from my sister Packworth.”
“All the world knows on’t save myself,” says I. “Pray, madam, do me the favour to tell me the gentleman’s name.”
And here I thought I must have success at last, but Mrs Diony shook her head, and looked at me with an air of pleasantry.
“I scarce think Mrs Brandon would be well pleased if I so did,” says she. “No, sir, take the advice of one that knows your cousin as well, I may say, as any, and put your question to her again. I believe I don’t err in saying that she regrets this misunderstanding as much as yourself, and I would counsel you to take her apart as soon as you can, and ask her what you desire to know, refusing to let her depart until she have given you an answer.”
“ ’Tis passing strange,” says I, “that all my acquaintance should combine to keep me in the dark concerning such a simple matter. But I’ll follow your counsel, madam, though I had fain evaded another privy talk with my cousin, for this perpetual pleading in favour of another person is become very irksome to me, and I care little to be forced to work so long at perfecting my own future misery.”
And with that I took my leave and departed, refusing even to drink a dish of jockolate with Mrs Diony (though she assured me it was of the best, and brought from London by Frank Packworth in his late journey thither), for I was desirous to end this matter and be done with it. But I wondered much that no one seemed fully to understand my reasonable unhappiness, yea, even Mrs Diony herself, though she essayed much to comfort me, yet I am sure that I heard her laugh as I went my way. But I was in no mood neither to turn back for to upbraid her, nor yet to seek for any other counsellor, but went on straight towards Ellswether, being minded to get over my business with Dorothy so soon as might be. And coming towards the house through the small coppice that abuts on the pleasure-garden, I saw before me my cousin Dorothy, sitting on a grotesque wooden seat there, and weeping. And seeing this, I quickened my pace, my heart smiting me for unkindness and impatience towards her in the morning, but before I came up with her (my footsteps making no sound upon the turf), she rose up from her seat, and drying her eyes with prodigious care and art, began to walk towards the house. And I overtaking her, she turned towards me with great cheerfulness (such is the strength of mind in woman), and seemed prepared to discourse very pleasantly.
“I trust, cousin, that you have passed an agreeable afternoon?” says she.
“I trust yours has been a better one, cousin,” says I.
Then we walked in silence for a time, until we come on to the terrace.
“Sure we shall have rain again to-morrow,” says Dorothy, looking at the sunset.
“Your prophecy of a fair afternoon is come true, cousin,” says I. “But now that we are again arrived upon the same theme, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to vouchsafe to resolve the mystery beneath which I am labouring. I think you must perceive, cousin, that I am anxious to assure your happiness, so far as lies in my power, but this I can’t do without you tell me your servant’s name.”
“Will you assure me, upon your word and honour, that you can’t imagine it, cousin?” says she, looking at me very hard.
“Upon my word and honour, cousin, I han’t the slightest hint on’t,” says I, and was surprised to see Dorothy laugh, though her eyes were full of tears.
“Was ever man so blind?” she said, “and was ever poor woman in so hard case? Oh, Cousin Ned, I am afraid to entrust my secret to you, you are so prodigious dull concerning it. You would have me use you pitifully, you say, but how are you using me, in forcing me through pity to disclose to you so delicate a matter? Sure you must promise me that should you afterward repent of this day’s work you’ll bear me out that ’twas undertook at your earnest entreaty, and not through any forwardness of mine. Have you thought me forward, cousin?”
“Never!” says I. “The very strictest prude is forward in comparison with you, cousin.”
“That relieves my conscience,” says she. “Now, must I needs tell it, Ned? But no,” she stopped, and I saw her lips was all trembling, “I can’t tell it abroad here. The birds might chance to hear it, or the herbs in the borders,—who knows? Come with me into the oaken gallery. Maybe I can speak there easier.”
So we two come into the gallery by the outside stair (the same whereby my grandfather had once escaped from a band of Roundhead soldiers sent for to apprehend him), and Dorothy did lead the way to the further end on’t, until we come opposite to the pictures of her parents, and the spot where we had once stood together near one-and-twenty years before. She went and stood between the portraits, needing now no chair to bring her pale face (whereon the light of the sunset did shine through the window) to a level with the painted faces on the wall behind her,—faces superior to hers neither in the beauty nor in the courage depicted therein.
“Ned,” says she, fixing her eyes upon me, “methinks I can tell you my tale easier here than elsewhere. More than twenty years ago, my servant and I met in this place, and he passed me his word to return and marry me if certain conditions that he imposed were fulfilled. I can’t tell whether they be fulfilled or no,—so far as I might, I have strove to carry ’em out, and if I han’t succeeded, prythee blame my power or my wit, and not my will. I wan’t loath to wait for my servant, even though ’twere for many years, for I loved him, and I was often wont to steal away hither, and repeat with myself that discourse I had with him, desiring naught so much as his return and approbation. But for that, Ned, I have waited twenty years.”
“Dorothy!” I cried in an agony, “spare me this recital, though I grant you ’tis well deserved. Consider how much more I am tried in losing you, than you in failing of me,—you, moreover, that have your favoured servant to supply my place. Why torture me with the remembrance that hath already near drove me mad, instead of ending the business that brought us here? For pity’s sake, tell me this gentleman’s name.”
“Mr Edward Carlyon,” saith she, dropping her eyes and standing as though guilty before me.
“But the other gentleman, cousin?” I cried, seizing her hand.
“There never was no other,” saith she. “The whole tale was devised by my good friends, thinking to do I don’t know what good turn to me. Nay, Ned! Cousin! I do entreat you—sir! without so much as leave asked or given——”
For I had not been able to refrain from embracing her, when it come to me all at once that these ladies, whose words had so sorely perturbed me, had been pointing all the time at myself, when they signified my cousin’s preoccupation in behalf of a certain gentleman, designing at the same time to punish my faithlessness and to increase my ardour, though this, indeed, wan’t necessary. But upon Dorothy’s remonstrance I did perceive my hastiness (though I can’t say that I repented on’t), and begged her pardon very humbly, when she relenting gave to me her hand for to kiss. And thereafter my love and I stood long at that window in the gallery, where we had stood so long before, and talked of many things. And Dorothy told me that on my return she had perceived that my ancient love for her was dead, and did therefore determine to hide and conceal her own, lest I might turn to her again out of pity; but whether she would have succeeded in this design, or would later have penetrated into my true sentiments, can’t now be known, since her friends were advised to practise that strange piece of artifice which had brought us happily together at last.
Now at supper-time, going together into the parlour, we found Mrs Skipwith fallen into a grievous trouble of mind touching us, in that she had missed us both, and there was none could tell her where we were, nor did she, knowing the posture of affairs between us, once suppose us to be together, which, had she thought on’t, had set her mind to rest. And she springing up from her chair to greet us with great joy, I did lead Dorothy to her.
“Mrs Dorothy desires to present her servant to you, madam,” says I.
“Her servant!” cried the old lady, looking from the one of us to the other in no small bewilderment, “but who is he? I had understood that she loved you, sir.”
“Oh, madam, pray don’t betray my secrets,” says Dorothy in her saucy way; “han’t I leave to change my mind?”
“Madam,” says I, “I’ll hope Mrs Dorothy han’t changed her mind since she gave you that assurance, for she hath done me the honour to accept of me as her servant for the space of my whole life.”
’Twas still some little time before Mrs Skipwith might be brought to conceive the truth properly, but when she did so, she fell a-kissing us both with great delight, and did entertain us mightily at supper by the reciting both of all her hopes and fears with respect to us, and also with divers pretty tales of the courtship of my honoured father and mother, and of my Lord and Lady Brandon. And seeing what delight this manner of talk gave to the good old gentlewoman, we did indulge her in’t, but when afterwards she waxed drowsy, and nodded in her chair, I gave my hand to Dorothy, and we did creep into the hall, and sat there upon the settle by the fire, hand in hand, as if we were children again. And here in the firelight, I did make to Dorothy a full confession of all those things whereof you know already, not sparing, as I hope, myself, for indeed I had no design to do this, but declaring the honour and esteem I still cherished towards Madam Heliodora, to whom, as I told Dorothy, I must remain humbly devoted all my days. For though I did, and shall throughout my life, thank God for her refusing of my suit, and her for showing me so clearly and plainly my duty, yet her image remained enthroned in my mind like the figure of some queen or saint, the pattern and model of all good women. But this Dorothy would have it that she did not desire to see changed (though she said merrily that I must not seek to mould her upon the figure of this paragon of mine), declaring that she loved Madam Heliodora from my character of her, and that she would be well pleased to see her ladyship at some time, and hold discourse with her. And both of us being thus content, we were silent awhile, and then fell to talking of my life at St Thomas, when I found courage to put to Dorothy a question that I had lacked boldness to ask her before. And indeed, though she made shift to answer it then, and though I have always been wont to study and admire the histories of the marvellous patience and kindness of good women towards most unworthy men, yet I can never cease wondering when I ask myself that question yet.
“Tell me, sweet Doll,” says I, “how is’t that your love for me hath thus wondrously outlived these many years of sorrow and unkindness since we parted?”
“Nay, Ned,” says Dorothy, leaning her chin on her hand, and looking into the fire, “who can tell how love grows and is nourished up? Sure I had known and loved you all your life until your setting forth, and the remembrance of you, so far from becoming faint, did but grow stronger and more fond by reason of your letters and the compliments made to Sir Harry on the possession of such a son by good Mr Martin, when he took occasion to write to him. For that which I recollected not, my fancy wan’t idle, and truly I think I loved you as well, though absent, as if you had been always with me, for, possessing you, I seemed to be lifted up above the cares and hopes of the other young gentlewomen of my acquaintance. There was many of ’em handsomer and richer than I, but there was none had such a servant as I had in you. Sure you will laugh when I tell you that the confidence I reposed in you had been huge even in a romance, and could have borne any strain save the breaking of our bond by your own hand. ’Twas this confidence sustained me when we heard that you was fallen into the hands of the Inquisition, and your misfortune did but increase my love, for sure I must have loved you then, though I had never seen you in my life. Before that time, Ned, you had been to me a hero, but now a martyr and a saint. I don’t know whether I prayed most for your enlargement, or thanked God for your steadfastness, but sure the happiest time of my life was when Sir Harry received your letter sent by Captain Freeman, telling of your marvellous deliverance and escape.”
“And thereafter, Dorothy?” says I, when she ceased, having told me this not all at once, but with divers arrests and pauses.
“After that,” she said, “I enjoyed a space of the most delectable contentment that ever young damsel passed through. But what came next, I won’t tell you, for fear it make you too proud. I beg that you won’t question me touching the time that passed after that day when Sir Harry called me into the parlour, and showing me your letter wrote from St Thomas, bid me think no more of you.”
“Alas, wretch that I am!” I cried, “to have entreated so hardly such a woman as you, and such a father as I had. Sure I deserved that he should lay his curse upon me for ever.”
“Nay, Ned, my dear Ned,” says she, laying her hand upon my arm the while I covered my face and groaned in my grief. “Sir Harry never did that. True, he was grievously vexed at the way you carried it; but he softened much towards you in his latter days, and blamed himself that he had sent you, while yet young and tender, into so great temptation. Also he sent you his blessing at the last, as you know.”
“Ay,” says I, “and I can well guess through whose intercession he did so, Dorothy, my dear. But tell me,” for a sudden thought was come to me, “what that signified which you writ to me in that letter telling me of my father’s death? You said that he bid me be worthy, and there stopped. Worthy of you, Doll, and of your faithful love—wan’t that what he would say?”
“My dear Sir Harry said many kind things that I han’t set down,” says Dorothy, but I knew that I was right.
“That you could love me still, after my evil usage of you, is more than I could have supposed,” I says to her.
“I loved you, Ned,” says she, as though this were reason enough. “Not perhaps the Edward that my fancy portrayed, but still——”
“Yes,” says I, “not the hero and the saint, but the poor sinner that was fallen into temptation. Little though he deserved it, yet he moved your pity, Doll, and so in some way your love.”
“I might always pray for you,” she says slowly. “Though I strove at first to pluck this love from my heart, knowing that you should soon be the husband of another, yet my prayers have ever been yours, Ned.”
“Tell me again, Doll,” I cried, remembering on a sudden that vision or apparition of her that I had beheld at St Thomas, and that had wrought so mightily with me, even withholding me from yielding to my lord marquis his will, “have you any particular recollection of a certain night” (naming the year and the day) “when you might have had intelligence of me in a dream?”
“In a dream?” says she. “Why, Ned, I have often dreamt of you, so that would be no strange thing. But intelligence, do you say? I do indeed remember that one night, about the time whereof you speak, I had a very clear and distinct sight of you. I was about saying my prayers in my chamber, and it seemed afterwards as though I was fallen asleep as I knelt, for I had a vision of you, Ned, though I might not perceive plainly where you were, knowing only that I saw you, and that ’twas in my mind that you were threatened by great danger of dishonour. And so, looking upon you, I cried out to beg of you that you would resist the dishonour that was hanging over you, and then immediately awoke, and Mrs Skipwith, hearing me cry out, came into my chamber and chid me for sitting up too late a-reading romances.”
And this seemed to me, though I can’t pretend to explain the matter, to be connected, without any possibility of doubt, with that vision of mine, and I wondered much, and do still, at the strange providence that did vouchsafe these visions to both of us at that very time when I stood in so great need of some such warning, showing me distinctly the very face and form of Dorothy, then far removed from me in England, and making me to hear her very words. And of this matter we spake much, admiring prodigiously the action of Providence therein, but arrived at no explication on’t more satisfactory to the scoffer than that ’twas a particular interposition of God in our favour.
And this determination come to, we talked on divers other topics, and I learnt, though only slowly and in part, something of what should have seemed to me the slow and deadly dulness of the life that Dorothy had led at Ellswether. Sure ’twas naught but a truly religious spirit and a steadfast devoting of herself to duty that could have bound down a young woman to such a course of life at that age when young persons are most wont to covet new scenes, and this in especial when they are possessed of such wit and parts as was she. And for this sad and sober life I blamed myself, as for her many other undeserved sorrows, until she was moved to rally me on the matter, and ask me what sort of wife I counted to have had in her if all her days had been gay and joyful—yea, even to ask me if I now liked her so ill that I had desired another fashion of breeding for her. And to this I could have but one answer—viz., that I liked her so well that I would not have one feature nor one condition in her altered, whereupon she laughed, and bid me be content with the present, and not seek to meddle with the past. And so with great profit and contentment we did talk until late at night.
Now meditating the next day on my good fortune, it seemed to me that there wan’t no reason why we should hold back, and not be married so soon as our banns might be asked. But opening my mind to Dorothy, she laughed at me for my haste, saying—
“I must know more of your conditions, Master Ned, before I wed you. Nay,” says she, but dropping her jesting air when she saw my face troubled, “do you look for me to give up my servant so soon? ’Tis little chance to rule that any woman hath, and I can’t agree to be choused of mine. Trust me, Ned, we shall be the happier for learning to know each other better before we wed.”
Nevertheless, she did suffer me, upon my very instant entreaty, to lay the matter before our friends, Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold, for to decide, I looking that they should have given the case at once in my favour, but instead on’t they consented to give judgment against me. And more, they showed me, with many words and great plainness of speech, that I was an absolute barbarian for carrying it so, and that Dorothy might not by any possibility be wed before the spring, she having no wedding clothes ready. And to this I replied that wedding clothes wan’t no concernment at all to me, but only Dorothy alone, and that if she would marry me at once, I would carry her to London, and there buy her whatever she might desire. But at this they cast up their hands in horror that my Lord Brandon’s daughter should be wedded without any convenient preparation, and did beseech me almost with tears to suffer all to be duly done. And upon this I bid ’em make what preparation they should consider seemly, only to have it over speedily, and demanded of them what sum of money should buy all that was needed in as short a space as was possible, for that I would pay it at once, that they might begin straightway.
But at this proposition again they did testify great dismay, assuring me that ’twas right against all decency for me to have to do with the matter, and that Dorothy’s punctilio required that she should furnish all her wedding clothes herself. And I resenting this as a thing contrary to that right of propriety[138] I had acquired in her, and further objecting that she had naught wherewith to furnish ’em, they showed me that my father had been wont always to give to Mrs Skipwith for her use and Dorothy’s the money gained by the sale of small matters within their province, as honey, poultry, and the like (such as many of our gentlewomen use to have for their own spending), and that she had now by this means a considerable sum laid by, and all this was to be spent for wedding clothes. And the end of this then was, that Dorothy and Mrs Diony rid up to town in my new coach, I waiting upon ’em, and there did choose and buy such things as seemed to them to be needed. And very merry were we during that time, though ’twere too long to tell of all that we did, or of all the sights that we saw.
For we visited upon Captain Freeman, now dwelling in a neat house at Deptford, with a garden reaching as far as the river, and a flagstaff of the bigness of a ship’s mainmast, whereon he was wont to hoist up the St George’s Cross and the Company’s ancient on holidays, and he conceived a high esteem for Dorothy, and told her much touching the voyages we had sailed together. And likewise we went to see the lions in the Tower, and walked in the Park and Spring Gardens for to behold the court ladies and gallants in all their bravery, and resorted to the New Exchange and divers other places of public assembly, which pleased the two gentlewomen mightily. And meeting one day with my lord Duke of London (Dorothy’s ancient servant) and his Duchess (that was formerly my Lady Barbary[139] Harrington, of the Duchess of York’s household), they bade us to an assembly at their house, where was many fine clothes and very pretty dancing, and so many persons of quality as I never saw, but among all the ladies not one that could compare with Dorothy, nor came near to do so. And moreover, my old lady Duchess (widow to my own noble patron, and she that had aforetime hindered him from doing any kindness to Dorothy, as he had purposed) was so much taken with my dear love, both with respect to her beauty and her breeding, as nothing would serve but she must come down to our wedding, though in the month of February, and this she did, diverting the country people mightily with her great coach and her London apparel and manners. And being thus honoured with the presence of so great a lady, we were married on the fourth day of the month under very happy auspices, our friends filling the church, and testifying extraordinary great kindness towards us on the occasion of that happy event, the which (and I do most heartily thank God therefore) I have never found cause once to regret, nor my wife neither, as she assures me. And this though we have passed through certain trials, whereof one (that hath been the cause of the composing this book), was most heavy and grievous, as I shall show in due time.