’Twas ever a merry jest of mine with Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold that I had done well to hurry on my marriage, so as it took place when it did, for but two or three days later come the news of the death of his majesty King Charles, so that all our festivities was broke up, and had we not been already married, we had been forced in all seemliness to have put it off. But this necessity happily escaped, we did take up our abode at Ellswether with great happiness and contentment, and cared, I fear (and may God forgive us for’t), only too little for public events, considering but our own good fortune. And in this way that year—viz., 1685—passed away, the tidings of the troubles in the West Country and in France reaching us but distantly as rumours, my wife being busied with her household economy and I with the managing my estate, and each of us with the other, for in Dorothy I did continue to discern fresh excellences, such as commended her to me more and more the longer I knew her, and not the least of these in my eyes, the kindness and forbearance that she did continually maintain and increase towards me, her unworthy spouse.
Now as time went on, we did engage together in a very weighty enterprise, namely, the writing that book of mine whereby my name (if remembered at all) is now known to the world of polite letters. In so great a work as this I durst not trust my own judgment, but read to my wife all that I had wrote, and took her counsel thereupon, and so made her (says she) near as learned as myself in all that hath respect to the Indies. For it had long seemed to me that there was a prodigious lack of a book that should set forth plainly, yet in full, all that was to be known touching the East that might prove of service either to gentlemen proceeding thither or to persons interested in the matter in England. And this object I flatter myself that my work aforesaid, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East India,’ hath attained, for not only doth it treat at length of the manners of the Indians, whether Moors, Gentues, Parsies, or Black Jews, but it hath also a considerable account of all the Europe garrisons and factories, whether English, Dutch, French, or Portuguese, beside the Mogul Empire and the Moorish kingdoms only now destroyed, and likewise of the Moratty power. And this book we did inscribe, as was only meet, to my lord Duke of London, son to him that had done so much to embark me upon my Indian enterprise, and prefaced it with a neat dedicatory epistle in Latin, full of conceits after the classical style, which gave my wife and me a world of pains to write.
Now this book, being in due course printed, brought upon me so much notice, and so many letters from several ingenious and erudite persons (many of ’em making me very handsome compliments both upon my style and matter) as filled my wife with pride, and made my name to be known even at the court, where his majesty King James II. was pleased to commend the work very prettily. And this, as I can’t but think, determined my lord Duke of London, that was lord lieutenant of the county at that time, to place me upon the commission of the peace for Northamptonshire. And in all these matters the time did pass so quickly away that ’twas three years after our marriage before I had either leisure or desire to give more than a passing thought to my former friends that I had known in the Indies, and this only because an unlooked-for accident did restore them suddenly to my mind. And the chief of these friends were, as you may well guess, Madam Heliodora and her spouse. Yet must you not believe that we had quite forgot them, for we were wont often to wonder how they had fared in those troubles that followed the undoing of that famous Edict that made sure to the Protestants of France their liberties, called after the city of Nantes. But on making inquiries concerning ’em of such of the fugitives as we had acquaintance with, and also of those that knew more of the great number of them than we were able to attain to, we could not find any that were come out of their neighbourhood. And this being so, we were content to hope that the persecution had not reached their province, and that they remained unmolested, and so satisfied ourselves with sending such help as we could furnish to the great company of these poor people, and sought no more for news from Galampré.
But a period was put to our comfortable security one evening in the month of April 1688, when, as my wife and I was sitting in the parlour talking by the firelight, there come in Miles and says to me, “If you please, sir, Mr Duss is returned from the town, and would be glad to speak with your honour.”
“Bid him come hither,” says I, and laughed to myself, as I often did, to think of the esteem wherein Loll Duss was held by our servants and country-people, they verily conceiving him, as I believe, to be a prince in his own country, from all he told ’em touching the wearing of cotton stuffs every day and the like (though indeed calicut and muslin is as common with the Indosthans as linen and woollen with us). The villagers all called him the ’Squire’s black gentleman, though indeed he was but little blacker than themselves; and now that the maids had left off to hollow and run away if they chanced to meet him in the passages, the other servants did all take a pride in the air of distinction that he shed upon the household. These thoughts being in my mind, he came in, wearing a laced suit of my livery and a great turbant of cambric, very neat, and saluting us after the Indian fashion (which I always had him use, it having so much more noble an air than the customary bowings of our servants), awaited my pleasure.
“Well, Loll Duss,” says I, “what is’t?”
“Master,” says he, “at the inn in the town is the Ferringhee lord that come from Agra to Surat with your honour, and his lady, that are come from London in my Lady Harmarthwaite’s coach, going on a visit to her ladyship. But the Ferringhee lord was took very sick on his journey, so as they was forced to tarry at the inn, and the gentleman physician from the town hath been attending upon him, so that he is by now somewhat eased.”
“The viscount and Madam Heliodora here!” says I, and was so much astonished at the news that I could say no more, but only looked at my wife, who answered Loll Duss for me—
“Is my lord viscount very sick, Loll Duss, or will he and his lady continue their journey to-morrow?”
“The Ferringhee lord is somewhat amended, mistress,” says Loll Duss; “but I heard say at the inn that he must needs abide there some two or three days.”
“Perhaps ’twould be well for me to go see whether I can be of any service, my dear?” says I.
“Not to-night, sir,” says Dorothy. “ ’Twould but incommode his lordship at this hour. Pray return to the inn, Loll Duss, and inquire whether this house can furnish aught that may contribute to his lordship’s recovery, and say that Mr Carlyon and I will do ourselves the honour of waiting upon my lady viscountess in the morning, if it suit with her convenience.”
Loll Duss saluted us again, and departed, and Dorothy and I sat silent for a while. At the last she looked up suddenly.
“Ned,” says she, “should you now be happier if Madam Heliodora had—had never rejected your vows at St Thomas?”
“Why, Dorothy!” says I, “jealous?” But seeing that her eyes was full of tears, I made haste to assure her with great solemnity. “My dearest life,” says I, “I can say but this one thing, that from the first day that I returned to Ellswether until now, I have thanked God night and morning that she did so reject ’em, and thus leave me free to return to that duty which is my highest pleasure, and to the best and dearest wife that ever a man had. And this thanksgiving I look to renew to-night, and likewise every day until my life’s end.”
“My dear Ned,” says she, coming behind me and kissing me, “forgive me. ’Twas but that my foolish heart would not rest content without a fresh assurance of your love. You had not thought me so timorous, had you?” But I felt a tear drop on my forehead. Then I took her in my arms, and said to her much more than I could set down, or than ’twould be profitable so to do, until Miles brought in the candles, and my wife said that she must needs go to see that the babes were asleep, and to inquire how Mrs Skipwith found herself, she being kept to her chamber with a rheumatic fit.
Now the next morning the coach come round with great magnificence for to convey us to the inn, and my wife appeared wearing her best brocado gown—a thing that made me laugh.
“We go prodigious fine to-day, madam,” says I, handing her into the coach.
“I trust, sir,” says she, “that I know what is decent better than to go pay my respects to her ladyship in a camlet gown with muslin tuckers. Though she be in misfortune, I han’t no desire to insult over her,” and with that I must needs be content.
We were not long before we come to the inn, and the landlord welcomed us at the door, and carried us up-stairs with extraordinary great respect. The chamber whereto he brought us was of a moderate size, but cheerful enough in its aspect, and furnished very decently. Upon the settle, which was drawn up close beside the fire, lay my friend the viscount, so wasted and thin as it made my heart bleed to behold him, being worn, indeed, into the very ghost and shadow of a man. Sitting with her back towards the door was a lady in a gown of some black stuff and a high cornette cap, and she turning round, I saw it to be Madam Heliodora. At my first sight of her, her hair seemed to me to be powdered, and I wondered much that she should use so great ceremony thus early in the day; but coming into the light I saw that ’twas all turned grey, and her face was very thin. Yet in spite of this, and of the meanness of her attire, she still seemed one of the most beautiful women imaginable, and moved as queenly in that poor chamber as ever in my lord her father’s palace at St Thomas.
“ ’Tis the ’Squire and Madam Carlyon, madam, come to wait upon your ladyship,” says the landlord that had carried us up hither, and departed, and Madam Heliodora came forward to us.
“I take this very kind in you, sir,” says she, “to remember our ancient friendship so punctually. Pray do me the honour to present me to your lady, though indeed I may almost pretend to know her already from your discourse. I have long desired the felicity of meeting with you, madam.”
My poor Dorothy was so much took aback by Madam Heliodora’s noble air and her graciousness that she could do little but curtsey in reply; but my lady kissed her on the cheek, and took her hand for to lead her to a seat.
“Won’t you present me also to Madam Carlyon, Edward, my friend?” says the viscount from his couch. “Though I can’t rise to salute her as I should, yet I would fain make shift to kiss her hand, if she’ll permit me that honour.”
“I am rejoiced to find your lordship so much recovered,” said I, when he had kissed my wife’s hand with prodigious gallantry, and she and Madam Heliodora were withdrawn a little to talk apart.
“I an’t like ever to be able for much again,” says he. “I fear I am a poor useless wreck, and yet, if there should be any fighting for the Faith, as men say there shall be, I trust I shall be permitted to take a part in’t. But how goes the world with you, Edward? Better than when we bid each other farewell at Surat, I trust?”
“I am the happiest man in the world, sir,” says I.
“Why, then, there’s two of us,” says he, “for so am I.”
“You don’t look to have overmuch that should make you say so, sir,” quoth I.
“Why,” says he, “sure I am free, and not a prisoner—in England, and not in France—in a certain ease, and not in pain—and, best of all, I have my wife with me, in the stead of only catching glimpses of her through prison-bars, and that in itself should suffice to make a joyful man out of the poorest wretch in the world.”
I could not but admire the excellent spirit of my friend in thus remaining contented in spite of all his troubles, and I had fain asked him to tell me somewhat more fully of the trials he had endured, but that I feared to move him too much, and so refrained myself to do no more than speak of current events. But chancing to cast a look now and then toward my wife and Madam Heliodora, I perceived that the discourse between ’em was begun with much ceremony, and with many Your ladyships and Dear madams, but that as it went on, they did become much more free one towards the other, so that my wife laid her hand upon her ladyship’s, and they did mingle their tears together. Nay, when we come to depart, Dorothy did throw her arms about Madam Heliodora’s neck and kiss her, which seemed something to surprise my lady, but she kissed her on both cheeks very kindly in return.
“Madam,” says the viscount, as we were departing, “I trust yet to hold some discourse with you. I fear lest your spouse han’t never gave you a true relation of our escape from the Moguls. He saved my life with the risk of his own: you know so much?”
“Yes, my lord,” says Dorothy, looking upon me with her eyes shining.
“See now,” says he, “what a fine thing it is to be admired by one’s wife! For me, I can but content myself with admiring mine, but in that there’s so much to do as needs all my skill.”
“My friend!” says Madam Heliodora, laying her hand on his shoulder.
“An’t it true?” says he, kissing her hand, which was a very pretty sight, but seeing Madam Heliodora ready to chide him, we did withdraw.
“And your ladyship will send your servant to fetch the cordial water?” says Dorothy to Madam Heliodora, on her carrying us to the head of the stairs. “ ’Tis of my own distilling, and should, though I say it, be of much benefit to his lordship.”
“You are too good, madam,” said my lady. “Be assured that I will send for’t with much gratitude.”
So we two to our coach, the landlord bowing us out very officiously, and as soon as we were there, my wife fell a-weeping, to my much surprise. And I asking her what ailed her, she told me ’twas for Madam Heliodora that she wept.
“She is an angel,” says Dorothy, drying her eyes, though uselessly, “and she should by rights be dwelling in a palace, with all conveniences and luxuries secured to her. But she must needs wear a sorry camlet gown, and the lace of her ruffles all mended and darned. Yes, Ned, I saw ’em, though it han’t caught your eye. And she hath suffered such a quantity of misfortunes, with my lord in prison and sick, and near all their goods confiscate! And then, her babe died in Paris, so as she can’t even weep over its grave—think of that, Ned. Think if it had been our little Hal or Bob. Poor, poor lady!”
I did my best to comfort her, though indeed my own eyes wan’t free from tears, and asked her what it was that had brought so much sorrow upon our friends. But this she could not tell me particularly, and we resolved therefore to ask a full relation from their servant that was to be sent to fetch the cordial water. And he coming when we were gat home, we had him up, and found him a very honest fellow and a Hugonot, Andrew by name, and asked him of his master’s history since I had last beheld him.
“Sir and madam,” saith he in answer, “I’ll tell your honours what I can. You must know that when that evil deed was done of revoking the Edict, there was a permission granted to the Reformed to remain unmolested until they might convert, provided only that they did not exercise their worship in public, and my lord, confiding in the king’s honour, thought well to avail himself of this delay, at any rate until the spring. My lord’s estate is situate in a very remote part of the province, and we were left in peace all the winter. In the month of March was born the young lord, the heir that my lord and lady had so long desired, and it so chanced that just at that time my lord did give shelter in the castle to one of our pastors that was fleeing from the persecutors. This he did not tell to my lady, fearing to trouble her; but he had been wiser to do’t, for she suspected certain spies among the Popish servants, and would have warned him against ’em. But he suspected naught until there come a warning from one in authority that was friendly to my lord, bidding him beware, for that a troop of dragoons was about to be despatched against him. Now when my lady learned this she was very urgent with him to start immediately for the Swiss border. And she being so instant, the coach was had round and loaded with luggage, but my lord going into the village to bid farewell to his old nurse (that was of the Religion, like ourselves), the dragoons came upon us while he was away. And my lady receiving ’em with great civility (they not caring to hurt her, who was commonly reported to be yet a strong Papist), sent a boy into the village to bid my lord take a horse thence, and ride at once to the frontier. But my lady having no time to choose her messenger, she lit upon one that was scarce better than a fool, and he finding my lord, cried out to him in a prodigious terror that the castle was in the hands of the dragoons, and that my lady was keeping ’em in talk until he should escape. But he, not knowing that the commandant of the troop was an ancient comrade of his, and the one that had sent him warning of their coming (as afterwards appeared), would not hear of leaving my lady to their mercy, but returned at once, and was took prisoner.”
“Ah, noble heart!” cried I. “But prythee continue, Andrew.”
“My lady was permitted,” said Andrew, “to bear him company as far as to Thoulouse, and she was present through his trial, engaging in his defence the best advocates that might be obtained, and instructing ’em herself in their pleadings. But ’twas of no avail, as indeed it must in any case have been, unless some chance quibble in the law had turned to my lord’s advantage, as was little like to happen, and my lady, standing in the court, heard him sentenced to the galleys for his life, his preparations to escape being made much of against him, since they had found the coach ready loaded for to carry him to the Swiss border. My lady remained very firm and steadfast through it all, but their parting was so pitiful that even the officer that saw’t was moved at the sight, and Mary the nurse, that was suffered to bring the babe for his father to see, could never speak on’t without tears. But when my lord was carried to the city of Toulon, whither they would not suffer my lady to accompany him, she did set out at once for Paris, travelling almost night and day, and there besieged the king for at least a mitigation of his sentence. So instant was she in her entreaties as at last King Lewis was moved to cry out, Remove from me this Mad. de Galampré! She wearies my sight; and one of his councillors, whether impelled by kindness, or by the remembering that parable touching the Unjust Judge, advised that my lord’s sentence should be changed into imprisonment for life in one of the king’s fortresses. And this they did, so as my lady returned from Paris with that small grace, but leaving behind her her babe, that had fell sick and died in the city.”
“Alas, poor soul!” cried Dorothy. “Sure now she was desolate indeed, to have lost this also.”
“My lady turned her steps to Toulon,” went on Andrew, “and coming thither, was granted the favour to inform my lord her own self of the change in his sentence, when it fell to me to attend her to the dock-gates, that we might see pass us the galley-slaves on their return from a voyage. I won’t shock your ears, sir and madam, with the recital of the horrors we beheld that day, when we saw file after file of grey-clad slaves pass us, with here and there among ’em one of those scarlet doublets that proclaim the wearer to be, as we call it, a felon for the faith’s sake.[140] I could never have recognised my lord again, but my lady knew him the instant he came near, and thrust aside the soldiers, and threw herself upon him with tears of joy, knowing him in spite of his mean dress and his close-cropped hair, and the changes that his imprisonment had wrought. For you must know that the felons for the faith’s sake are worse entreated than any of their fellows, and their foul and heavy durance made harder than it need be, so as they die faster than the rest, but so many are the condemned that suffer for the Religion that the numbers are never too few. Then they took my lord out of that living death, where he had found the blasphemings and wickedness of the malefactors he was chained withal worse than any of the rest, but had supported it with meekness as his Master did, for his Master’s sake.”
“And sure his Master will reward him for’t!” cried Dorothy, the tears standing in her eyes.
“And before they took my lord to that fortress where he should be kept,” says Andrew, “they did tempt him with great promises to recant his faith (for the king, knowing his skill and training, desired much to confer upon him a place in his army, such as had made him rich and great at once), but he refused to listen to ’em, and even had he been otherwise minded, my lady had kept him firm. Act as your conscience bids you, sir (says she): if you can endure the sufferings that must follow, sure I can endure ’em for you, and so upheld him until their parting with such nobleness and constancy as made the Papists ’emselves wonder. And even when he departed to his imprisonment, she would not consent to yield him up altogether, but followed him, and hired a lodging for herself in a high house, whence she might enjoy a view of a certain gallery in the prison. Here, by the kindness of the commandant of the place, my lord was allowed to walk for a few minutes in every day, and thus he and my lady exchanged signals, and had a distant sight one of the other. But they in the fortress had received orders to use my lord with great severity, to the intent that they might the more easily bring him to recant, and by reason of his late and present sufferings he soon fell sick, for his sojourn in the Indies hath caused him to be extreme sensible to cold. And through this sickness ’twas thought that he must die, so desponding was he through the not beholding my lady daily any longer. But she found means to send him a message by the hand of an ancient priest that visited the prison (a very kindly person, that was said by those that were unfriendly to him to be one of the people called Jansenists), and it was this, Live for your God and for the Faith, my friend, and also for your wife, for they all need you. And upon the receiving this, my lord took heart again, and grew better. Then all became as before until this last month, when King Lewis, finding that he had no success among those of the Reformed that he had shut up in his fortresses (these heroic confessors being chiefly persons of great birth and riches, or noted for their distinguished parts), gave ’em a general releasement, banishing ’em all from his kingdom for their lives. And among these my lady also did receive back her lord, as though indeed, as Holy Scripture saith, he had been raised to life from the dead. Then they did take ship as soon as they could come to Bourdeaux, this being a nearer way than through Roan[141] and Dieppe, and came into England by way of the city of Bristow. And upon their landing there, my lady says very suddenly to my lord, Call me no more a Catholic, for I have seen too much their works. I am henceforth as thou art, thy people mine, and thy faith my faith. And this, says my lord, was a sufficient comfort to him for all his pains, to know that my lady was at one with him in their religion.”
“You’ve told us very handsomely all your tale,” says I to Andrew, when he was ended, and dismissed the good fellow with a present, while my wife dried her tears, saying that one ought rather praise God for such confessors than weep over ’em. And indeed, the more we saw of our friends, the more we learned to admire them, and could not but wonder both at their constancy in the past and their cheerfulness in the present. I made it my custom to go down every day to the inn and pass some time with the viscount, when we were wont to discourse very agreeably touching our former life in East India, while my wife carried Madam Heliodora for an airing in the coach. But of his own past trials would my friend never tell me, seeming to look back upon ’em with such aversion as he would not name them save to thank God that delivered him out of them, though he showed himself always ready to commend the virtues of my lady his wife. But though we did endeavour very earnestly to win them to leave the inn, and to take up their abode for the present with us, they refused constantly to do this, and we saw neither of them at Ellswether, until one forenoon Madam Heliodora walked up from the town, attended only by Andrew, and signified that she was come for to ask a favour.
“Lend me, dear madam,” says she to Dorothy, “your elder child for a few hours, if you’ll be so good, for the viscount do affect the company of children to an extraordinary great degree, and ’twould lighten his hours of pain to divert himself with your little son.”
“Madam,” says Dorothy, albeit none too gladly, for she feared letting her babes out of her sight for an hour, “sure you have but to desire, and if it lie in our power, the thing shall be done. My Harry shall wait on your ladyship home.”
But, nevertheless, my wife watched her Harry (named for my honoured father) depart on Andrew’s shoulder with no small uneasiness, and could not be happy until she had him home again, bringing in his hand a great cake for his little brother. She desired much to learn how he had fared, but though she set him on the table and questioned him particularly, yet she gat nothing but to hear that the pretty lady had wept, and that in the house where she took him there was a sick gentleman that did keep comfits in a gold box in his pocket, and that had promised to make him a coach and horses out of pasteboard. But when she heard tell of Madam Heliodora’s weeping, my wife looked at me.
“Sure our Harry must be near the same age as her babe that died should be by now,” saith she, as if conscience-smitten. “Well, if Harry’s company can avail anything to comfort either of these excellent persons, he shall visit upon ’em every day.”
But Dorothy’s compassion wan’t long tasked, for shortly afterwards the viscount was found sufficiently recovered to continue his journey, and he went on with his wife to my old Lady Harmarthwaite’s dower-house in the county of Cheshire. And here, as it chanced, they were thrown among those that were busy planning to preserve the Protestant faith in these realms by changing the then king for another, and were thus led to take a very forward part in their schemes. Nay, when his majesty that now is was securely established on the English throne, though not recognised save in this kingdom, the viscount, being now somewhat restored to health, and receiving the command of one of the regiments of French exiles then forming for service in Ireland, gained by his military exploits in that country the fame that now deservedly attends his name. For both at the battle of Boyne Water, and in numberless small engagements, he did win the reputation of a most valiant and redoubted soldier, and one no less artful and seen in his dispositions and stratagems, than brave in fighting. Yet through it all was he in almost perpetual bodily anguish, so that those that saw him marvelled at his hardihood in thus despising pain, and esteemed him as Christian in his fortitude as he was skilled in the military art. Now the war being ended, he was granted a decent estate in Ireland, the confiscated property of a rebel that was fled, but not being content to retire thither and live in idleness, he carried his regiment to the Low Countries in the war that there brake out, and duly supported his majesty in those campaigns that did bring us little glory but much honour. But at the battle of Landen he was struck by a cannon-shot and entirely disabled, so as he could never again mount his horse, and Madam Heliodora, hastening to his side, brought him to England, and so, borne in a litter by short stages, to his Irish estate, where he lives still, a shining model of contentment in spite of much adversity, her ladyship likewise, after all the changes of her life, completely happy in him.
But with regard to that change in our rulers whereof I spake but a few lines back, I must (though this be no chronicle of public events, but only my own history) devote some mention to’t, for ’twas a matter of moment to me, producing, as it did, the only quarrel I have ever had with my wife, or rather difference, since it never grew to a quarrel. And the ground of this difference was no light one, since I was desirous to take sword and horse for the Prince of Orange, while as Dorothy was hot for King James.
“My dear,” says I to her, when we were speaking of the matter, “I have seen so much of Popery as I am determined never to support it here. Sure you’ll have heard from the French fugitives what should have armed you against it. Had King James followed his own religion in peace, I had never murmured, but when he shows himself desirous to thrust it upon us, we have a right to resist him.” In which I was coming much nearer to the politics of my old acquaintance Substitution Darrell than ever I had at one time thought likely, but we live and learn.
“Alas!” cried Dorothy, the tears running down her face, “that I should live to hear my husband, my dear Sir Harry’s own son, speak thus! Sure ’tis enough to disturb your father in his grave, sir. If God will, can’t He protect us Protestants without any help of ours? and if it ben’t His will to save us, let us suffer, but don’t let us sin in rebelling against the Lord’s anointed.”
“I will have no hand in bringing in Popery,” says I in a great heat.
“Let us do the right, and care naught for what may come after,” says she.
“But sure that can’t be the right which should enslave our country, and bring over again the days of Bloody Mary,” says I.
“That can’t be the right which would take part against our lawful king, and set a stranger over us,” says Dorothy.
“Dorothy,” says I, after much further talk, “if you’ll agree, I’ll consent with you to meet you half-way. I won’t offer my sword to King James, but neither will I at present raise a troop for the Prince. Yet if we see the Protestant cause in danger, sure you must even let me go. Are we to have a Bloody Assize throughout all England?”
With this she was forced to be content, and I did my best to be so too, though I had fain joined the Prince’s standard even at Tor Bay, but refrained, being persuaded that I had no right altogether to dispose of myself without my wife’s consent. But by this course I pleased no one, neither the friends that advised me I was playing the part of Meroz in Holy Writ, for not seeking the Prince so soon as he landed, nor Dorothy, that would with the best heart imaginable have packed up for to go into exile with King James. I can only hope that by as much as this middle course was distasteful to me, by so much was it right and profitable, for ’twas altogether abhorrent to me thus to remain idle when I might have borne a part in this, the second and, as it seems to me, the only justifiable revolution of this age; but, as you know, the Protestant cause was saved without my help. But through all this time I was enabled not only to abstain from all wrangling or quarrelling with my wife, knowing that no talking should ever displace that loyalty that was grown up with her growth, and had been nourished in her mind during her lonely youth, but I also strove in all things to show her an increased honour and affection, to the end she might perceive that ’twas no caprice nor unkindness, but love of right, that moved me. For indeed it did cost me much to forsake the old cause, for the which my father and my uncles had fought so long and suffered such grievous loss, and that I myself also had loved so much, and for no other reason could I have done so but for this one—viz., that the safety of the Protestant Religion must be set before the advancement of a party, or even of a royal house. And although I had this grief, namely, to abandon my old party, and not to join myself to that one which did commend itself to me, yet the cause triumphed, and there come no dissension between my wife and myself. For she, perceiving the hardness of my case, came by degrees to respect, though she might not accept, my principle of action, and our opinions did not come between us. Nay, ’tis my belief that now (though no torments should bring her to confess this) she rejoices in the victory of the Protestant cause, though her heart still yearn over the House of Stewart.
Thus, then, I have set before you (as I trust, without malice or colouring) the history of my life, not hiding those things that reflect ill upon myself, but desiring to give a true relation of all that has befell me. Sure if any man had ever cause to render most sincere and hearty thanks to Almighty God for the mercies of a whole lifetime, I have more, for my situation is far above my deserts, and in nothing have I more cause to be thankful than for the dissipation in the course of time of that midsummer madness and raging fever of love that did once consume me for Madam Heliodora, to the temporary, though all too long, obscuration of my true love for her whose faithful spouse and servant I have the happiness to be, and do purpose to remain so long as life shall last,—my dear wife, Dorothy Carlyon.
Here then, my relation should have ended, and I had laid down my pen with joy to think that for this book, at least, there should be no further need of mending of quills and of buying fresh paper, when there come upon me those two good friends that stood by me through those troubles I am about to relate, and advised me that beside all I have done already, ’twere well also to set down a true account of the said troubles for the sake of those that shall come after me. Being taught, then, by experience, that my best hope lies in following the counsels of these two persons, I do my best to obey ’em, desiring that it may first be noted that I bear no malice against those that so lightly gave credence to reports to my discredit, for they had much excuse for’t. Nevertheless, I would warn my children to receive a lesson against the too hasty judging any person upon what they may hear said concerning him. But to my tale.
During the first six or seven years of the reign of his present majesty my wife and I lived very quiet and retired, being occupied with the bringing up our two sons, whereof the elder was nine years of age at the time of which I write. But in the year 1695, I was called suddenly to London, that I might give evidence before the Lords’ House of Parliament on the behalf of my old Company, in the matter of a petition brought against ’em by a certain person named Jameson. And in this matter, which did make some noise at the time, my evidence was considered to be of no small moment (insomuch that one of the lawyers present told me I had saved the Company, Jameson’s petition being dismissed), and in some way my name was brought to the king’s notice. His majesty, having been made acquainted also with my work, which I mentioned some while back, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East India,’ sent for me and talked with me very graciously, saying that I should by rights hold some office in the Company’s home establishment, having such knowledge of Eastern matters. But for this I had neither favour nor inclination, and so I told his majesty, who said that he would fain do me some pleasure his own self, and thus I did return home, expecting little from this flattering compliment. But the next year I found myself pricked for High Sheriff of the county, and perceived that ’twas this the king had signified when he spake of procuring me some advancement.
Now this honour I was by no means loath to accept, lacking, as I hope, neither the property nor the wit requisite for fulfilling the duties of the office, but I could not feel surprised that many gentlemen among my neighbours looked differently upon the matter. They were wont to regard me extreme distrustfully as a person of outlandish manners and given to innovation, likewise they did consider me to be but a lukewarm and half-hearted Whig (as was indeed the truth, saving only in the cause of the Protestant Faith), and we had also certain differences over the sentences that were wont to be passed by the bench of justices, whereof I was one, and did lean more to the side of mercy than suited with their minds. But that they would make any endeavour to hinder my accepting of the office (and that with a mighty strong show of reason on their side), I had never so much as imagined, and did remain in this secure and careless confidence until the very week when I was to be sworn to the punctual performance of my duties.
’Twas on a certain Tuesday, in the morning, that the blow fell upon me, when all the household was moved and stirred touching the great ball to be danced the next night at Puckle Acton, my lord Duke of London, the lieutenant of the county, coming over from Belfort with his duchess for to do honour to the occasion. For over two hours I had been busy in seeing that the coach and all the trappings of the horses and the men’s liveries likewise were in good order and neat, and I was preparing to ride abroad with my wife, when Loll Duss did bring me word that Sir Ambrose Spencer and Mr Waterdale desired to speak with me. And at this I was something astonished, for the first (a younger branch of the great house settled at Althorp in our county) was a very fanatical Whig, and had held little discourse with me since my remaining at home in the stead of joining King William’s army. But though amazed at his visiting at my house, I considered that he might by now be willing to be reconciled with me, and so went into the library, and found him there with his friend.
“Pray be seated, Sir Ambrose, and you, sir,” says I, when I had saluted these gentlemen, and inquired after the health of my Lady Spencer.
“Sir,” says Sir Ambrose, very stiff, “we are here on a business that can’t fail, I fear, to be disagreeable to you. May I inquire whether you be still minded to accept the honour of the shrievalty, or not?”
“So far as I am aware, sir,” says I, something angered at his air, “I am to be sworn on Friday of this week.”
“Then, sir,” saith he, “ ’twill be our disagreeable duty to acquaint my lord Duke, and through him his majesty, of certain facts that seem to us to unfit you, not only for this office, but even for the company of gentlemen.”
“You are prodigious flattering, sir,” says I, almost believing him mad. “Pray have you forgot what is the only answer I can offer to your words?”
“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, bringing a paper from his pocket, “before Sir Ambrose or any other gentleman can place his sword at your service, the charges wrote here must be disproved. This paper is the copy of a letter wrote to Sir Ambrose by a gentleman that had the honour of your acquaintance in the Indies.”
“And pray, sir,” says I, in great heat, “do you pretend to condemn me on the unsupported testimony of the letter of some adventurer that hath conceived himself disobliged by me?”
“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, “methinks you should rather thank Sir Ambrose for his present action than revile him, when you hear the full history on’t. Some two or three days past a number of gentlemen of this county was met together in Northampton upon the occasion of the horse-fair in that city. At the ordinary in the evening, your nomination to the post of High Sheriff was mentioned and discussed as a matter of common notoriety. On the first mention of your name in such a connection a certain gentleman that was the guest of Mr Willesford of Chipping Acton, and is, as I believe, a cousin of his, displayed great concern, and on being pressed, confessed that he had known you throughout your life in East India, and had been aware of many things in your character and history there that had ought to prevent your holding this office. Upon this the gentlemen that was there did advise him very earnestly to consider what he did before assailing in this manner the name of a person of your quality, to which he replied with great solemnity that he could prove all his charges, and would set ’em down in writing for to be shown to you. Then those there, having heard all he had to say, took counsel together to keep the matter a secret until you had been allowed to disprove the accusations made against you, if ’twere in your power so to do.”
“After this, sir,” says I, “you don’t need trouble yourself to mention the name of my accuser. I recognise the hand of Mr Vane Spender.”
“You have guessed well, sir,” says Sir Ambrose, “and you will now permit us, leaving this paper with you for your further consideration, to depart. We were loath to bring disgrace on the son of one so well-known and respected as Sir Harry Carlyon, and ’twas therefore agreed among us not to publish the matter abroad on your admitting the charges and excusing yourself from serving as sheriff.”
“I thank you for your delicacy and civility, sir,” says I. “And pray, what if I deny the charges and accept of the shrievalty?”
“Why, then, sir,” saith he, “we shall feel compelled to take some public notice of your conduct at the ball to-morrow night.”
“And what if by some miracle (considering the short time allowed me) I can disprove the charges?” said I.
“In that case, sir, we shall have great pleasure in acknowledging ourselves mistook,” says he, but not as though thinking it likely.
“I think, Sir Ambrose, that we have performed our office, and may now let this visit be closed,” said Mr Waterdale, and I carried ’em to the door, being mindful that, in spite of their errand, they were still my guests. As we crossed the hall, Dorothy come down the stairs in her riding-coat and hat, ready prepared to ride abroad with me, and both the gentlemen bowed and saluted her.
“Sure, Sir Ambrose,” says she, “you an’t minded to depart so soon? And you also, Mr Waterdale; it an’t so often we see you that we can suffer you to leave us after so short a visit. Pray stay and take dinner with us, or at least eat some little lunch before you ride home.”
“Madam,” said Mr Waterdale, with a mighty uncomfortable air, as Sir Ambrose had also, “you see us here on a prodigious disagreeable business, and ’twould ill beseem us to eat in your house while engaged in’t. But permit me to assure you, madam, that whatever be the issue of this affair, only the very greatest respect and kindness will be felt by all the county for yourself.”
“I don’t perceive your meaning, sir,” says Dorothy, casting upon him a look that seemed to render him doubly uneasy. “Pray, why do you separate my name from Mr Carlyon’s? Whatever blame or unkindness be awarded him, whether by the county or by his near neighbours, sure I shall share the half on’t. I’ll wish you a very good day, sir, and you also, Sir Ambrose.”
With that she swept into the chamber we had but just left, where, when I was returned from dismissing the gentlemen, I found her reading the paper that lay on the table. Looking up with a scared face on my entering, “What’s this, sir?” says she.
“Heaven only knows,” says I, “though I fear it brings grievous trouble upon us. Let us read it together, my dearest love, for sure, as you say, it concerns us both alike.”
Dorothy spread forth the letter on the table, and smoothed it out, then sitting down she did begin to read it, and I read it likewise over her shoulder. It was sufficiently long, and I verily could not forbear to marvel, as I looked upon the closeness of the writing, that he should have wrote it who most abhorred all use of pen and ink, and who had scarce been trusted at Surat even to make out an invoice correctly; but I suppose that bitter hate, like love, do lend assistance to persons in their designs.
“Honour’d Syr” (it began)—“In Obeediance too ye Commds. you lade vpn. mee at our last Meatg., I take up my Penn (tho’ litle usd. to soch Work), too lai befower yor. Honr. a full Act. of ye Dogs. of Mr Carrlyonn in ye Indes. ’Tis doubtls. Matter of comn. Rept. in Yor. County, yt. ys. Gent. tird. erly of ye Contrt. maid forr hym by his Fader wit. my Ld. Branndon’s Dghtr., & soght Occn. too escape, ys. comg. in Form of ye mistakn Kindnesse of a certn. Nobleman, who, beg. greiviously disseavd. in hym, innabld. himm to inter ye Servc. of ye Co. yt. I haue long hd. ye honr. to serue. ’Twas at ys. Tyme yt. I first fell inn wit. him, & likd. him letle yn., and lesse ye mower I knew of hym. Of hys injuryous Condct. toards My selfe I won’t speake, only sayg. yt. hee mayde him Self my Innemy at all Times, not scruplg. euen too attempt my Lyf on moer Occns. yn. one, especialy in ye Citty of Tangeer, wr. he did assault mee wit. soch Fury unarmd. and unprouoqd. as yt. he bad fare too sla me, bot was removd. fr. me by Force of ’em yt. was prest. Both in ye Vyage to ye Indis and at Surratt hee mayd him Self extream particular by his continuall Consortg. wit. low & blackgard Fellowes, Saylors and ye like, & proud. him Self a most pryg. & persistant Busie-Body, so yt. at last ye Councell was fayn too send him too Goa for to ridd ’em Self on hym, not wtht. hopg., perhaps, yt. hee might fall into som Troble yt. shd. make an End of him. Likewise at Goa he did continue hys evill Courses, frequentg. Places of comn. Amusemt. & dog. his best too becom a Faverit wit. ye Ladys, inn wh. hee did socceade to soche a Degre as too excyt ye Jalousy of one of ye wilde yong Gallts. yt. was of hys Acquayntc., & ys. Personn, watchg. hys Chance, soone discoverd. Mr Carrlion pryg. into ye Misterys of yr. Relign. wit. Intent to mak a Sport on ’em, & so dinowncd. hym too ye Inquisition, by ye wh. hee was arrested, & kept thre Yeares in Prisonn, not for hys Faith, wh. he was willg. to recant at once, bot as a Penaunce for his naughty Lyf. At ye Expiry of ys. Tym hee was dischargd. & mayd hys Wa on Bord of one of ye Hon. Co.’s Ships, wit. a Story of his haug. escapd. fr. a gret Burng., & ye Ship’s Maister, beg. one of ye simple Felows wit. whom hee had once ben frendly, did beleave his Tale, & tooke hym on his Voyage. Now ys. Vyage proud. one of grete Desaster, soe moche so as all on Board beleavd. they was punishd. by Heven for ye Sake of ys. one Sinner, bot weare at Leangth rileasd. by his discertg. ye Shipp wit. greate Effrontery at ye Towne cal’d St Thomass, wr. ye French yn. hd. a Post. Now at ys. Place Mr Carlion did carry it soe as too gaine ye Faver of ye French Captain-Generall, desclosg. to hym all ye Seacretts of ye Co. yt. hee knewe, & instroctg. hym how hee might best use ’em for ye Injurg. their Trade. So vsefull ded he proue him Silf, yt. ye French was abt. too adopt hym into there Seruice, wn. there was discouerd. yt. he hd. intangld. him Self in a disgracefull Manner wit. ye Genrall’s Doghter (ye same is now my Lady V. countesse Gallompry). Ys. yong Lady beg. of tendir Yeares, Mr Carlyonn had persuaded hir to fly wit. hym, & they was gone some Wai before they might bee stopt. ’Tis sayd by som yt. ye Lady her Selfe was veray forward in seekg. hys Lov, & ys. I haue herd Mr Carlyon repeat not once only nor twice, hee mockg. finely at hir for hir litle Moddesty, bot of ye Truthe of ys. I can’t speake. & upon ys. Discoverie, Mr Carrlion was expel’d wit. gret Contimpt fr. yt. Place, & did jurney to Bombaim thro’ Duccan disguysd. in ye Trayn of a certaine renegadoe Portugall, wit. whom hee was verrie frendly, so reachg. Surrat. & here, beg. forcd. by certn. of hys Frends, agst. ye Will of ye Rest of ye Councell, into a Place of Troste, he joynd. him Selfe too ye Factry at Amedavat, & their livd. for thre Yeares in a most naughty & ryotous Manner, so as to bee a Scandall too ye veray Heathens ’em Selfs. Norr was ys. all, forr ’twas credibly proud. yt. hee hd. defrawded ye Co. of grete Soms of Money, besides beg. soe slacke in hys Busynesse yt. he loste ’em moch mower. & after ys., vizittg. ye Citie of Agra wit. divers or. Gents. upon an Ambassage, hee did consort yr. wit. certn. vyle & dangerous Personns, Felons & Criminalls & ye like, & fynally, ’scapg. fr. ye Towne in greate Hast for to avoyd ye Reward of his evill Deedes, hee dyd carry wit. hym one of these, a renegado Cristian, tochg. whom no Good cd. by any Means be sayde, & conveyd. hym out of ye Country, too ye grete Hurt & Dammage of ye Imperour yt. rules therein. & ys. he did, rufflg. it so brauely as yt. hee come to Blows wit. ye Mogull Souldiers sent too fetch him, bot killg. som on ’em, brogt him off, wit. ye Ayd of a Gang of Torys his Helpers, and soe had him too Surratt, to ye gret Displesure of his Ma’tie’s Subjects yr., yt. must needs intertayn ys. escapd. Fellon untill hee might returne into hys owne Country. & agayn after ys. did Mr Carlyonn shew him Self an extream bad Servt. to ye Co., tho’ he managd. his Peckulacions wit. soch Art as ye greter Part on’t wan’t dyscouerd. untill hee was departed. Bot ’twas a comn. Report, & ye Cause of greate Scandall, yt. he went soe moch wit. Moores & or. Indians, so as many averr’d hee was a seacrett Renegadoe. Bot it beg. at length discoverd. (& I am nt. ashamd. too say, yt. ’twas I discoverd. ye same, forr ye wh. Cause he is greately increast in Enmity agst. mee), yt. he had applyd. large Soms of Mony too hys own Uses, & hd. forwarded to Europe much yt. hee was gat possesst of by no Right at all, ye Councell was advisd. too dismiss hym wit. Disgrace. Bot ye Frends yt. hee had disceavd. was still suffict. too influence ye Counsell, soe as all was don privily, and not made publiq. & he levg. thre Days later for England no moer was said, tho’ ’tis still perpetually found out yt. his Thefts was euen worse yn. yn. appear’d. I han’t herd no more concerng. hym for som Yeares, but beg. returnd. too England, & vizitg. upon my Cossen Willsford, I did heere by Chance yt. hee was prickt for Shirreff. Yn. beg. assurd. yt. ys. hd. not ought take Place, I did make yse. Matters publick, bot out of no Malis, bot only Lov of Right. Wit. ye highest Respect,
I haue ye Honor too be,
Sirr, Yor. Honr.’s most obedt. Servt.,
V. Spender.”
“Ned,” says Dorothy, “this is worse than the worst I had feared. Tell me, is there, in all that this person says, that one grain of truth, whereby he might hope to establish these charges?”
“None,” says I; “at least in the charges respecting money, and in the rest such twisting and turning of things innocent or at most only foolish as makes ’em appear crimes.” And this I said without any grief or bitterness that my wife should seem to doubt me, for in truth, after reading this letter that with such devilish cunning (for indeed no other word will name it fitly), sought to turn into evil all the deeds and intentions of my life, I could scarce myself believe but that I was guilty of the shameful things attributed to me.
“If they ben’t true, sure there’s some means to disprove ’em,” says Dorothy. “Let us see what those be.”
“To my rescue at Goa,” says I, “Captain Freeman can speak, but that is but a very small part of the whole. There’s no one nearer than Surat could testify the falsehood of those charges that concern my life and conversation there, and but one man even there that hath both the power and the will to do’t.”
“And who is that?” says she.
“Mr Martin,” said I; “but, as you know, my life, he seemed to have no present design of returning when he writ to me last, and I doubt whether a letter should serve this turn.” For my good friend had not yet carried out his purpose of retiring from the service, but remained still at Surat, whence, on hearing of our marriage, he had sent my wife a collar of pearls such as for their fineness and whiteness had not their equal in the county, and later, when we writ him word that we had named our second son for him, he did despatch to us, by the hand of a sea-captain of his acquaintance, a cap of goldsmith’s work for his godson, such as the Indian babes are wont to bear.
“And a letter should need a year and a half at the least, and more like two years, for to go and come back,” says Dorothy.
“We can scarce look for our enemies to hold over their threatened action for that time,” says I.
“No,” says Dorothy bitterly; “if you should now yield up the shrievalty for peace’ sake, and write to the Indies for proofs of your innocence, Mr Spender hath gained his point, for what will it profit if in two years you can show yourself guiltless? We know how ’twill be. ‘Wan’t there some strange tale touching ’Squire Carlyon?’ ‘Ay, indeed. Such strange things was said as my lord duke was forced to refuse him the shrievalty. ’Tis true, one heard they was contradicted later, but such things an’t said without some truth in ’em. Oh, be sure it wan’t all for nothing.’ Whatever we do must be done at once, Ned, for sure if the gentlemen cut you at the ball, and refuse to grant you satisfaction, the mischief is done.”
“And since we can’t do nothing at once,” says I, “and, on your own showing, what is done two years hence is done too late, sure ’twere well to resign all effort, and accept the judgment of Sir Ambrose and his friends.”
“Shame on you, Mr Carlyon!” cried my wife, rising and standing in the window, and lashing her petticoat angrily with the whip she held; “sure something must be done. Will you condemn your wife and children and yourself to infamy? Prythee, play the man, and don’t show yourself a coward before the first misfortune that comes upon you.”
“But what’s to be done?” said I.
“Why, that’s for you to resolve,” says she. “Sure you, that’s seen so many climates, and passed through so many strange chances, ought be able to think of what should be done now. Go post to London if you will, and carry thence hither Captain Freeman or any other person that may be able to support your word. Spare no expense. What signifies money in such a case? If disgrace be escaped, poverty is naught.”
“Spoke like my Lord Brandon’s own daughter!” says I. “Well, Dorothy, I’ll do as you would have me (though I am well persuaded that ’twill advantage me nothing in this present matter), since I would not that you should believe that I slight your counsel. I han’t so many friends that I can afford to lose any of ’em.”
“Ned,” cries Dorothy, running back to me and casting her arms about my neck, “prythee, don’t think me hard. I did but desire to rouse you from that despondency which is wont to seize upon you and forbid you to act. Let us at least do what we can, for sure the weakest effort is better than none at all, and when we have done our utmost, it may be heaven will send us what other help we need.”
“Sure heaven hath done much already in giving me such a wife,” says I, and kissed her, feeling that I was indeed blessed above my deserts.
“Hush!” says Dorothy on a sudden, going again to the window. “Here come our sons. There’s no need for ’em to hear of this trouble.”
Almost as she spake, the door was burst open, and our little Bob ran in.
“Oh, madam!” says he to his mother, “I had been looking for you. May I have a ride on my papa’s horse? I ran on before Hal and Mr Tilney on purpose that I might ask you.”
“We han’t gone riding this morning, my son,” says I. “But what’s that coming up the fir-walk?”
“Oh, ’tis a coach,” says Bob, “as fine as ours but not so large, and splashed all over with mud. There’s an old gentleman inside, that shook his stick at me when he saw me run, and a servant like Loll Duss riding behind.”
“Is this another messenger of disaster?” says I to Dorothy.
“Or a messenger of hope?” says she. “Do you know the gentleman, Bob?”
“No, madam, but I heard him call to Hal and bid him take a seat in the coach with Mr Tilney, since he desired to speak with him. ‘Are you the son of my old friend Ned Carlyon, my little man?’ says he, and Hal says he was.”
Dorothy and I looked one at the other, for the same thought was come in both our minds, but seemed too good to be true. But now the coach had reached the door, and there come into the parlour Mr Tilney, the boys’ governor, a very ingenious young man and one of excellent parts, that had passed through his studies at the University with infinite credit to himself, and was glad to hold this respectable place in my family until he should have some hopes of preferment in the Church offered him.
“Sir,” says he, “there’s a gentleman without that says he is a friend of your honour’s, but don’t desire to send in his name. I have bid Master Harry entertain him until I could find you.”
Still wondering whether our thought might be right, Dorothy and I went out into the hall in time to see our son Harry assisting out of the coach with great civility an ancient gentleman with a great white peruke and a heavy gold-headed cane, an Indian servant standing beside the coach-door with his master’s cloak. Seeing us, the old gentleman held out both his hands with a merry laugh.
“Ha, Ned!” says he, “here I am, and do hope you are but half so pleased to behold me as I to meet you again. Love and lordship like no fellowship, ’tis said, but methought you would find room for your old friend for a day or two. Pray, is this my fair friend Mrs Carlyon?—my friend, I say, though I never yet saw her, from my hearing so much touching her. Madam, I could well believe, but for the presence of these young gentlemen, that you were married but a year at most. And pray, where is my godson? Is he that naughty rogue I saw run on but now when his governor called him back? Fie, lad, fie! Did you never hear that He that will not be rul’d by his owne dame, must bee ruled by his step-dame? this signifying that a harder discipline must be used where a milder fails. Nay, Ned, my dear lad, I an’t Methusalem!”
This because Dorothy and I had now conveyed him into the parlour (he talking fast all the time, for to keep back the tears that were near his eyes), and were desiring him to sit and rest himself in my father’s great chair, that was never used by us, but stood ready with its cushions even as he had last left it. But my dear Mr Martin was like a father to me, and I would fain have him sit in Sir Harry’s chair. And here at last we gat him seated, when he looked round upon us with a prodigious happiness in his face.
“You will remain with us, dear sir?” says Dorothy.
“If you’ll put up with a peevish old man, madam,” says he.
“For shame, sir!” says she. “Hal, go bid Mr Martin’s coachman drive round to the stables, and tell Loll Duss and Miles who is arrived.”
“May I go with Hal, madam, and see the horses put up?” says Bob.
“See here, my little man,” says Mr Martin, “if your governor will suffer you, go to my servant Rum Cunder, and ask him to let you see a certain beast that he hath in a cage. Maybe you han’t neither of you often seen his like.”
“Oh, sir, please come at once,” says Bob in a great hurry, and departs with his brother and Mr Tilney. Mr Martin turned to my wife and me when the door was once shut—
“You were in some trouble when I arrived, Ned, and you also, my dear madam. I saw so much in your faces. If you had rather that I tarried at the inn, and not here, don’t scruple to tell me so. A friend is never knowne till a man have need, and what good is he if a man don’t dare tell him when he would fain not entertain him?”
“On the contrary, sir,” says I, “though we should at any time be ready to welcome you with delight, yet now especially are we in such a case as we had as soon see you as an angel from heaven.”
“An enemy hath but just made most shameful charges against my husband, sir,” says Dorothy, “and he is in some degree minded to submit and make no attempt to clear himself.”
“Well,” saith Mr Martin, “Every man as he loveth, as the good man said, when hee kist his cow; but in this case I would say that if these charges may be disproved, they should be so. And pray, madam, what may they be, and who is’t brings ’em?”
For answer we did lay before him Mr Spender’s letter, which Mr Martin read through very carefully, and then sat for some time considering, with his chin on his hand.
“Well, sir?” saith Dorothy at last.
“I think, madam,” says he slowly, “that you were right to suppose that I might furnish you with weapons against this person’s accusations. When must your answer be returned to the charge, Ned?”
I told him of the ball to be danced on the next evening, and of the threats of public insult there that I had received.
“Then this,” said he, “is my counsel. Send word at once to Sir Ambrose, begging him and the other gentlemen that are interested in the matter, and in especial Mr Spender himself, to meet you in a private room at the inn an hour before the dancing begin. Say that you hope to have an answer to the charges, but make no mention of me, and bid your servants not betray my arrival to any one in the town. ’Tis well I came from the t’other side of you, and so had no need to pass through Puckle Acton.”
“Then you can confute this man Spender, sir?” asks Dorothy.
“Madam,” says he, “I make no doubt but to-morrow we shall see a very pretty comedy played in the inn-parlour. The False Charge, or the Accuser Unmasked, hath an agreeable sound, han’t it? They say, He that mischief hatcheth, mischief catcheth, and methinks Mr Vane Spender won’t find it otherwise.”
“You are indeed an angel, sir,” says Dorothy, and kissed him on the forehead.
“Nay,” says he, “though I could wish I were, if I should always be rewarded thus.” And so, with much laughter, to the business of writing a billet for Loll Duss to carry to Sir Ambrose his house, and this despatched, to talking of Surat and the sore changes there, and likewise the great ambition and strange doings of the Emperor Auren Zeeb in his wars in Duccan, which all was as a breath of native air to me, and filled me with great contentment to speak on’t. And thus the day passed agreeably enough, and the earlier part of the next likewise, until it was high time to prepare for the ball. And for this we dressed ourselves with prodigious care, not choosing by any lack of neatness in our apparel to give cause for them that saw us to say that we had lost confidence in the justice of our cause, and so sought to move pity by our neglected aspect. And indeed, when my wife was dressed, she looked as well as I have ever seen her, wearing a gown of very rich brocado, the colours blue and gold, and her lace prodigious fine. Likewise also she was wearing the pearls that Mr Martin had sent her on our marriage, and this piece of gentle flattery did please our old friend mightily.
Now when we were dressed, we set forth to the town my wife and Mr Martin in the coach, and I riding beside them. And coming to the cross-roads, whom should we meet but my lord duke and the two duchesses, his mother and his lady, coming from Belfort, the which was done with no small difficulty, the ways being so miry as it was hard to get the coach along ’em. And I seeing that his grace was clearly acquainted already of the particulars of my fancied dishonour (though he did greet me with all kindness), thought it well to confide to him the whole matter, and engage his help for the completer discomfiting Mr Spender. And upon this he waxed very merry, promising himself a huge enjoyment in the comedy we purposed to ourselves, and showed himself very friendly towards me. Likewise the ladies also did make much of my wife, kissing her when they met, and making her a handsome compliment on her brave attire, bidding her also come to visit upon them at Belfort, the which any gentlewoman in the county would be proud to do. And being now arrived at the inn, Dorothy did wait upon their ladyships to the chamber they had bespoke, while my lord duke engaged the help of the landlord, and so brought Mr Martin up-stairs into the room where the colloquy should be held, and placed him secretly there in a window, being hid from those in the chamber.
The other gentlemen then coming in one by one, his grace sat down at the head of the table, with Sir Ambrose and Mr Spender on either hand beside him, and so opened the business. And I, as Mr Martin had bid me, did proceed (Mr Spender having declared himself willing to answer all reasonable interrogatories) to examine him straitly upon the terms of his letter, and soon perceived, as I had expected, that he had given himself only to invent a history that should sound likely and convenient for the present season, looking forward to a period of two years or thereabouts before I could obtain my justification from East India, but had taken no thought to forge any false papers that might maintain his slander longer. And this I considered extremely prudent in him, since he might well believe that some traces of the accusations would always remain against me, as Dorothy had said, though nothing plain and clear could be alleged. But when he had finished declaring the truth of all that he had wrote, as also of all that he had now said, and all the gentlemen was beginning to look very black upon me, there was a sound in the window as of a chair’s being pushed back, and Mr Martin came out from the curtains, at sight of whom Mr Spender turned pale, and made as though he would have fled, but that Mr Waterdale bid him angrily remain.
“Gentlemen,” says I, “this is Mr Martin, lately in the Hon. East India Company’s service as Accountant at Surat, which post is, I may tell you, second only to the President himself. He hath been of my acquaintance since first I went to the Indies, and will answer any question you may be pleased to put to him.”
“But first,” says Mr Martin, “with your leave, gentlemen, I would fain put one only question to Mr Spender—namely, whether he consider it prudent for a person dismissed the Company’s service for unlawful trafficking with interlopers to bring such charges as those in this letter that I hold?”
The gentlemen present, not knowing the nature of the Company’s business, did not understand this question, saving his grace, and did ask of Mr Martin what it meant.
“The Honourable Company,” saith he, “hath the monopoly of the East India trade in its own ports, and all those infringing this monopoly are termed interlopers. Not two years ago it was discovered that there was many of these interlopers trading in the Company’s ports by virtue of permissions signed by the President of the Indies, now at Bombaim, and upon inquiry being made, it was found that these were obtained from Mr Spender in return for a genteel sum of money, he acting secretary to the President, and placing by sleight of hand these papers among those that were to be signed, without his honour’s perceiving it. Upon this Mr Spender was dismissed the Company’s service in disgrace, and I scarce think that this record do entitle him to credit from you.”
The gentlemen all looked much disturbed on hearing this, and next Mr Martin took the letter in hand, refuting each particular in turn as he came to’t, some upon the testimony of Captain Freeman and others, but most of ’em upon his own recollection. The few charges that he could not treat from his personal knowledge was so small as they mattered little beside those he was able to confute, and so great was the contrast between his reverend aspect and the shamefaced air of Mr Spender, that none could doubt whether of the two should be believed.
“Now, sir,” says my lord duke, “what have you to say in answer to this gentleman?” looking for some further bravado from my accuser.
“I must regret that I was misinformed, your grace,” stammered he, and did push back his chair for to depart.
“You do well to leave us, sir, indeed,” says his grace coldly. “I presume, gentlemen, that there an’t no doubt in any of your minds but that Mr Carlyon hath fully vindicated his honour?”
“If you desire satisfaction from me, Mr Carlyon, I shall be happy to receive any friend of yours,” says Sir Ambrose gruffly.
“And so shall we all,” says another gentleman, Mr Spender and his cousin Mr Willesford being by this time departed.
“Nay, gentlemen,” says Mr Martin, very earnestly, “I do entreat you to entertain no thought of having recourse to that most foolish and unchristian custom of the duello. My lord duke, sure your grace must agree with me. Is it reasonable that Mr Carlyon, who hath but just vindicated his honour, should now be forced to peril his life against each of these gentlemen in turn, through no fault of his own? Sure there’s no pagans would behave so wildly.”
“You are right, sir,” says his grace, “Mr Carlyon’s honour is now established beyond a doubt, and I think he won’t deny but these gentlemen have all acted in good faith. ’Tis my express desire that you be all reconciled, and that the matter drop here. Pray give me your hand, my good cousin Carlyon.”