OF MY DEPARTING FROM EAST INDIA, AND RETURNING TO MY HOME AND DOROTHY.
Now after my friend was departed I did spend seven years, more or
less, in the service of the Company at Surat, serving them to the best
of my ability, and enjoying at the last the dignity of
warehouse-keeper, which is a place of some honour and profit. Yet I
wan’t, during all this time, tied, so to speak, to my desk in the
Factory, for I made three short voyages to the Further East on the
Company’s occasions, sailing once to Bengall, and again to Bantam in
the island of Java, and once again to the great kingdom of Syam, from
all of which journeys I did bring back experience and profit for
myself, as well as advantage to my employers.
Now it so happened that there was at Surat, at the time of our sailing
on the third of these voyages, a certain Popish priest, a Portugal,
that did take passage with us to one of the Portugals’ settlements
lower down the coast, and from this gentleman, that showed himself
very agreeable, and no bigot, in spite of his creed, I learned
somewhat touching an old friend that I had of late years (I shame to
say it) near forgot. For asking of him some question touching divers
persons at Goa, though cautiously lest he should recognise me and
denounce me to the Inquisition, and I should thus again come into
their hands, he told me of a band of Jesuit missionaries that was sent
to convert the savage people of a certain great island lying not far
from Java. Of these Paulistins (says my priest), there was one that
had shown himself extreme devoted, more than all the rest, and very
forward in all the work that was undertook, so that when the savages
turned against them and ill-treated them, as they did after the space
of some six months, they did torment him in especial with great
tortures, which did so work upon his frame that soon after, being
rescued by a Spanish ship of war, he died in great suffering and in
the odour of sanctity, and the name of this person was Theodorus.
Furthermore, it was whispered among the other fathers that this Father
Theodorus was wont to use himself thus hardly by reason of a certain
monstrous sin that he had once committed, and this (said my priest to
me in great confidence), was said to be some inadvertence or lightness
of speech of his whereby some heretic had been enabled to escape the
punishment due to his evil deeds, but this was gathered only from his
sayings on his deathbed, and could not be confirmed. But I, as you may
well guess, knew the truth of this matter, though I would not reveal
it to my friendly priest, and grieved myself much to think that the
good man should have conceived that this piece of kindness needed to
be so hardly atoned for. But the priest never knew that he had told
his tale to one so closely involved therein, and he left us at his
journey’s end without remark.
This, then, was a result of one of my journeys, but I wan’t idle now
when at home, even during the slack times of our business at Surat,
for I laid up great store of observations touching the Indians and
their ways, and also the Europe men settled among ’em, all to be
employed later in a way that I shall show you. And in all this I had
the help and countenance of my good friend Mr Martin, who displayed as
great an alacrity to assist me regain my earliest dispositions as many
men’s friends do to lead ’em into ruin, so as I must ever be grateful
to him. Likewise among the other gentlemen at the Factory, with but
few exceptions, I did find much kindness and friendship, and had also
another friend, that was a faithful though a humble one, in my servant
Loll Duss. This man, shortly before my leaving Surat, professed
himself openly a convert to Christianity, and was admitted into our
holy religion with the use of that form set forth of late years for
the baptising of natives in our plantations, and suchlike cases. The
minister of the Factory had willingly took him into his service when I
departed, but such a prodigious affection had this faithful fellow
conceived for me, that he must needs forsake his country and friends,
and follow me in my return to my native land, whereof I will now
unfold to you the particulars.
Now you must know that though I had, as in honour bound, wrestled with
and conquered my passion for Madam Heliodora, that was now my friend’s
wife, yet this had not wrought in me any reviving of my former
affection for my cousin Dorothy. Though I still persisted in my design
of marrying her, considering this to be my duty, I had not announced
it in my letters to Mr Sternhold, conceiving it to be only just that
she should have the chance to find a servant more to her liking, and
that loved her better, if she so willed it. Yet I did read with a
certain anxiety each epistle of the old lawyer, whereof he writ to me
regularly one in the year, and wan’t by no means displeased to
perceive therein that my cousin still remained a maid; for, strange
though it may appear, yet the thought of a life at Ellswether with
this beautiful and virtuous woman for my wife wan’t at all
disagreeable to me, though I loved her not. ’Twas a pleasant dream to
admire at times, when I had little else to do, and sat alone in my
chamber, but so little did it touch my heart that I was content to
work on year after year and never seek to go home, until a simple
chance awaked some spark in me, and kindled it to a flame. And that
you may perceive how this come about, it may be as well for me to
relate the substance of a discourse that was had one evening between
Mr Martin and myself.
“Ned,” says my friend, when I found him sitting in the gallery outside
his chamber on my return from a ride, “have you forgot that to-morrow
you must needs declare whether you will accept of the proffer of the
agency at Carwar, or not?”
“I han’t forgot it, sir,” says I, “and until to-day ’twas my design to
accept on’t, but (though I am almost ashamed to tell it you) I have
this evening been led altogether to change my mind.”
“Come!” says he, “sure this is a sudden determination, lad. What hath
led you to’t? and what do you purpose to do if you don’t accept of the
agency? It an’t every day that such places go a-begging.”
“Well, sir,” says I, “I don’t doubt but you will be prodigious
astonished to hear that I feel myself very strongly drawn towards
home.”
“Home? England?” saith he. “Why now, Ned, you do indeed astonish me. I
can’t blame you, and yet it seems strange you should desire to leave
the service so young.”
“Not so monstrous young, sir,” quoth I. “I am thirty-eight years old,
under your favour.”
“So you are,” says he. “’Tis twenty years and more since the day I met
you upon the landing-place at Swally. But prythee, Ned, tell me,
whence come this new plan?”
“Why, sir,” says I, “I am almost ashamed to tell you, as I said. But
indeed I was visiting upon our friend Mr Stokes but now, and entered
his house suddenly, sending no word of my approach. Coming then into
the inner court, I found him at supper with his wife and children
(for, as you know, he is married to a country-born woman, half
Portugal and half Gentue, and hath several children by her), and they
had no time, by reason of my hasty entrance, to retire, as is their
custom when his friends appear. And--(but this, sir, must appear to
you so strange and foolish that I ask your pardon for’t beforehand)
the sight seemed to breed in me a certain longing and desire for such
a home of my own, and recalled to me that I might have had such an one
now had I wished it, and in fine, it did awake in me a vehement design
of returning at once to England and espousing my cousin.”
“So, so!” says Mr Martin, looking upon me jestingly, “is this your
mind, lad? Well, _Every man knowes where his shooe wrings him_, but
I’ll own I han’t looked that yours should wring you here. You will
wait, I presume, for the Boscobel, that is expected every day at
Swally on her homeward voyage, or are your occasions so urgent that
you must needs charter a country junk, and perform your journey in
her?”
“Sir,” says I, “I perceive that you regard this sudden determination
on my part as foolish and laughable, and indeed I can scarce see it
otherwise myself. But give me leave to remind you that the purpose for
the accomplishing whereof I came hither is much more than performed,
for I have long since heard from my attorney that all the burdens and
mortgages on my father’s estates are paid off, through the sums that I
have remitted to him, and all necessary improvements effected, and now
I have a genteel competence assured me from my rents as well as from
the moneys I have put out to interest at home and adventured in divers
cargoes, &c., here. I have no desire for prodigious wealth, and do now
possess more than any of my family has done, though what I have
invested here must needs continue to increase, so long as our trade
subsist. Why, then, should I tarry longer in the Indies, becoming
strange to my own country and growing old and crabbed, when at
Ellswether I may live in modest comfort, cheered by the company of one
of the best women in the world?”
“Why,” says he, “your argument of your case is mighty convincing. But
I pray you remember, Ned, that _He that reckons without his host, must
reckon twice_. What if the lady of whom you speak don’t care to wed
you?”
“Oh, but that is understood, sir,” says I.
“Well, Ned,” says he, “go, and may you enjoy all the good fortune you
look for. ’Tis well you can disengage yourself from the pursuit of
wealth thus early, in the stead of toiling on for the mere sake of
toiling, as ’tis with others, and with me amongst ’em. How shall I do
without you, lad?”
“Nay, sir,” says I, “come home with me, and sure we will show the
world a modern example of that friendship which they say is now passed
away.”
“Nay,” said he, “not yet. I have no bride awaiting me, Ned, nor no
cause for haste. In five years or so, if it please God, I may come
home and pay you a visit. But Surat is as dear a place to me now as
any save one, and that I trust to see once more before I die. My
parents lie buried there, and one that I had hoped should be all, and
more than all, to me that Mrs Brandon is to you, lad. That spot I
would fain see again, but little time will be required for that, and I
look still to be of some use here. Though Mr Ned Carlyon ben’t my
fellow no longer, I may yet find some young writer but newly arrived
hither that will bear with an old man’s infirmities and listen to his
counsel. But your work lies at Ellswether, Ned, as I see now clearly,
and therefore I can but bid you go home to’t immediately. _Take time
when Time commeth, lest Time steale away._”
Now this advice assorting so well with my inclination, I made haste to
follow it, to the extent even of sending in my resignation of my place
to Mr President and the Council, and calling in such moneys as I had
that I did not design to leave in Mr Martin’s hands. Three days after
this sudden determination of mine, the Boscobel did cast anchor in
Swally Road, and up come Captain Freeman to the Factory, much moved by
the prospect of having my company on his voyage home. ’Twas his last
voyage also, says he, for he was growing old, and might no longer
depend on his bodily strength in any strait, as he had once done, and
therefore he was minded to ask a decent pension from the Company, and
with his savings build him a likely house by the riverside down
Deptford way, and live there with his old wife, laying down the law to
the younger skippers, and shaking his head with the old ones over the
new-fangled ways favoured by the officers of his majesty’s dockyard.
And here, said he, must I come to visit upon him, and we would smoke a
pipe together in an arbour by the water, with the smell of tar and
rope all about us, and talk of our former voyages in the Eastern Seas
the while we watched the king’s ships floating down with the tide. And
I was well pleased to humour my old friend in this simple dream of
his, so that we spake on’t many an evening on deck during our voyage.
For I was able to make an end of all my occasions before the ship
sailed, and therefore embarked in her, with Loll Duss my servant, and
many great chests and boxes filled with precious merchandises and
strange toys[134] that I had lit upon in my travels.
Thus, then, did I bid farewell to that most rich and pleasant town of
Surat, and to my fellow-servants of the Company there, that had showed
themselves, with scarce any exception, as genteel and agreeable
persons as any man need desire for his fellows. And I am right glad
now that I departed from East India before this famous city lost her
pre-eminence in our trade, the which was given over to that low and
sultry island of Bombaim, to the great scandal of all in the Factory.
But this, as I have said, happened only after I had left the place.
Now this last voyage of mine with Captain Freeman was a mighty
prosperous and agreeable one, so that from the day we left Swally to
that wherein we were able with our perspective glasses to discern the
white cliffs of our own island, we met with little rough weather, and
no calamitous accidents. And on this quietness and lack of danger our
captain did much felicitate me, saying that had the pirates and the
Barbary rovers, whom he feared, but known of the wealth that I brought
home with me, it had gone hard with them if they had not come against
us in so great force as to overpower us, when we must all have ended
our days as slaves in Algier or Sallee. But this danger, like the
others on our path, we passed without encountering ’em, and so arrived
safely at Graves-End, and there landed, where I had embarked more than
twenty years before, on the third day of October 1684.
Now in London I must needs repair to the Company’s House in Leadenhall
Street, and there give some account of myself, delivering, moreover,
the letters wherewith I had been charged by Mr President at Surat, and
’twas also only fitting that I should pay my respects to my lord Duke
of London, the son of my own learned and virtuous patron; and when
these things was done, and likewise much business of my own, with
respect to that merchandise I had with me, Captain Freeman would have
me visit him at his inn where he lodged, and make the acquaintance of
his wife and children. But I can declare to you that I hurried through
these duties with the greatest haste in the world, desiring nothing so
much as to have ’em over, and so feel myself free to ride into
Northamptonshire and seek my own home. For during all our voyage, that
longing that had seized me at Surat did but grow stronger and
stronger, so that Captain Freeman told me I was like a sailor-lad
coming home to his sweetheart, with so great eagerness did I watch for
favouring winds and desire the first sight of the shore. And now that
I was once more in town, and saw on every side the spots where I had
wandered as a lad, with my head full of glory and of Dorothy, the
spirit of those past days seemed to return upon me, and I could scarce
wait to complete my business before I bid Loll Duss have the horses
saddled for a start betimes one morning.
I had been careful to send to Ellswether no word of my coming, for I
desired to take my friends by surprise (alas! to what evil discoveries
hath this same desire led many!), and now I could scarce bring myself
to allow of the needful halts upon the road, nor to refrain from
riding our poor beasts to death. I had brought with me only such
things as was strictly necessary, that so we might travel the lighter,
and had bought two good horses for myself and Loll Duss and our
saddle-bags, and our journey wan’t thus a long one, though it seemed
so to me. ’Twas on an evening near the end of the month of October
that I reached Puckle Acton, and then found myself in such a heat and
excitement from being so near my journey’s end that I could not
resolve to lie there the night and ride to Ellswether in the morning
as I had purposed, but leaving Loll Duss and the horses at the inn,
set out to walk thither at once. Now this was a time when the town was
very quiet, and the people all agog for news, and ’twas quickly
reported amongst ’em that a strange gentleman with a blackamoor
servant was arrived at the inn, whereupon there come together a great
company of the lower sort for to talk with Loll Duss in the kitchen;
but I had bid him tell them nothing, and therefore he feigned not to
understand them, so that they were forced to let him alone, though
they tried him even with broken English, thinking to make him conceive
them easier, so that I laughed to hear them. And before I could get
away from the place, come the landlord with a message from certain
gentlemen that were wont to spend an hour or two of an evening in the
parlour there, asking the favour of my company to drink a bottle of
_Porto-Porto_ with ’em; but this I made haste to decline, though with
all due civility, saying that I had friends near that ’twas a great
concernment to me to see at once. And upon this the landlord, desiring
to know who these were, offered to guide me in case I knew not their
dwelling; but this also I did refuse, saying to him that I knew my way
well.
And thus at last I set out, but found to my surprise that there was so
many changes in the town since I had seen it last that I had been well
advised to accept of mine host’s offer, for I lost my way in the
darkness, and could not find it again. Seeing then an ancient person
coming along the street, very reverend in his bearing, and apparelled
with an air of great seemliness and prosperity, with his servant
carrying a lantern before him, I approached him and asked of him the
way to Ellswether, the which he told me very kindly.
“My house lies on that very road, sir,” says he, “and if you’ll give
yourself the pains to accompany me thus far, I can direct you from
thence with more conveniency than here. Pray, may I ask whether you be
charged with any letter or message for the ladies at Ellswether?”
“No letter, sir,” says I, “but a message, maybe.”
“Sir,” says he, looking into my face very hard, “your voice seems
known to me, but your features I can’t recall. You will pardon me if I
should know you.”
“You may well be pardoned, sir,” says I, “for twenty years’ absence is
like to change men beyond recognition.”
“Twenty years?” said he. “Tom, come hither. Sir, pardon my rudeness,”
and he took the lantern from the servant’s hand and held it up so as
the light thereof fell upon my face. “Why, as I live, ’tis Mr Carlyon!
Welcome home, sir; glad I am to be the first to greet your honour in
this place.”
“Sure ’tis a happy omen, sir,” says I, “that the first person to greet
me should be so tried and faithful a friend as yourself. Pray, how do
Mrs Sternhold and your daughters find ’emselves? I trust they are all
three in good health?”
“The best of health, sir, I thank you,” said Mr Sternhold, for he it
was. “My daughter Sisley is married to Frank Packworth, that your
honour was wont to fight with at the Grammar School, but is now my
partner, and a very worthy man. Diony dwells still with her mother and
me, and is the very light of our eyes.”
“I am rejoiced to hear your good news, sir,” says I. “Pray make my
most respectful compliments to the gentlewomen, and assure ’em that I
shall find myself impatient until I may be able to renew my
acquaintance with ’em.”
“You are very good, sir,” says Mr Sternhold. “May we hope that you are
now returned to abide among us as did your honoured father?”
“That is my design,” said I, “though I don’t dare hope to approach my
father’s virtues. Will it be surprising to you, sir, to learn that
after all my wanderings I am returned to my port of departure,
determined to marry my cousin and settle down in my place here?”
“I account, sir, that the question of your honour’s marriage hangs in
some slight degree upon Mrs Brandon’s inclinations?” says he, and
seemed to hint at something, though what I could not tell.
“Oh, without doubt, sir,” says I, carelessly enough.
“Ah, well,” says Mr Sternhold cautiously, “I can’t pretend to answer
for Mrs Brandon’s resentiments,” and with that he stopped, and I could
not frame to question him further on the point, though I had fain
known whether he sought only to check my too-eager assurance, as had
Mr Martin, or whether he did hint obscurely at some actual and
apparent rival. But now we were come to Mr Sternhold’s house, and
though he would fain have borne me company to the Hall, I would not
suffer it, accepting only his proffer of his servant and lantern for
to light me thither. And we walking on together--viz., the servant Tom
and I--I desired much to question him touching Dorothy, with the view
to learn the truth regarding the matter that puzzled me, but
refrained, thinking shame to encourage a serving-lad to play the spy
on my cousin. Arriving then at the gate, I dismissed him with a
present, and went on alone up the fir-walk, remembering how the last
time I had rid down it Dorothy had stood and cried to me, saying,
“True knight for true lady, Cousin Ned!” With these words of hers in
my ears, I rang the bell at the great hall-door, and presently heard
the bolts and bars undone within, and an ancient serving-man opened
the door a small space, and looked out for to see who was there. And I
seeing it to be Miles, that I had known well of old, it was in my mind
to play him a trick.
“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.