OF MY SETTING TO REAP THE HARVEST I HAD SOWN.
Now in pursuance of this resolve of mine, I did determine to watch
and study Dorothy, and so to perceive how I might best recommend
myself to her favour. And with this view I did take care to spend
great part of my time in company with her and Mrs Skipwith, hearing
from them of all the changes that had took place since my departure,
and telling them such things as they desired to know touching East
India and my travels there. But since I had begun this procedure as a
matter of calculation and prudence, I was surprised, when no long time
had passed, to find myself hanging upon my cousin’s least word, and
seizing every occasion of offering myself as her _cavaliero_. And
perceiving this, I was startled. “Can this,” says I to myself, “be all
repentance towards Dorothy for my former hard usage of her? and if it
ben’t that, what is’t? Come now,” says I, “let me examine and see how
I should regard her were I but to fall in with her in company as a
stranger, and what resentiments I should entertain towards her.”
And this I set myself to do, but in the course on’t Dorothy did
discover so many new beauties, both of person and of heart, that I was
long in the doing; but setting down coldly all my observations, this
is the sum of them. She was of an excellent middle stature, neither
low nor over-high, and in all her motions an easy sprightliness that
compared well even with the slow grace of Madam Heliodora. Her eyes
was dark, bright, and piercing, her hair not far removed from black,
her complexion of the last degree of loveliness, mingling, as it did,
the pleasing tints of the lily and the rose. But you could not rightly
admire her features for your admiration of the mind that informed
them, and rather than her face you would observe her mien of sweet
contentment, such as a good conscience and a worthy life alone can
furnish, though overspread with an air of chastened melancholy, which
did but contribute to enhance her charms.
And this also I perceived during this time, that whereas Mrs Skipwith
was never backward to ask questions of me, and likewise to pass her
judgment on those things I told her, Dorothy spake little, but such
words as she did say, was marked with such sense and gravity as did
charm me mightily, reminding me at first of Madam Heliodora. But I
soon perceived a great difference between these two ladies, yet such
as wrought in no way to the disadvantage of either. For Madam
Heliodora had been wont to utter her thought in its fulness, with a
certain noble modesty, and yet with assurance, as knowing it was well
worth our hearing, and that she had the right to say all she desired;
but with Dorothy I had always the belief that she uttered only some
small portion of her thought, and that there was much more behind, the
which ’twould indeed enrich me to hear, could I but win upon her to
give it forth. But this with all my art I could not attain unto, which
did tease and allure me mightily, making me cry to myself, “Sure how
happy will be that person to whom Dorothy shall open her whole heart!”
and more and more did I learn to desire that it might fall to me to be
that person.
But, strange though it may appear to you, the more I grew to value at
their proper price my cousin’s beauties of mind and heart, the further
from her I seemed to be,--nay, I was become so low and mean in my own
sight, that that proposition which I had designed to make her, and
which I had postponed on my first returning, lest the coldness on’t
should shock her sensibilities, seemed now to me so rude and insulting
as I might not dare to offend her ears therewith. For, says I to
myself, how can I say calmly to such a woman as this, that I have
wasted the best part of my life in a passion for that which belonged
to another, and that all love is dead in my heart, and yet ask her to
share with me my dignity and wealth, out of consideration for an
ancient contract that I myself was the first to set aside? Sure ’twere
profaneness and sacrilege to speak to a creature like this of marriage
without love. Let me rather, says I, try to discover what manner of
life, and shared with what person, she should esteem most to her
taste, and endeavour to secure it for her, and then live out the
remainder of my lonely existence happy in her happiness. But the more
I reasoned thus with myself, the more I felt that that ideal or
phantasm of wedded life that had presented itself to me at Surat was
the only thing that could promise me earthly happiness, and that,
without Dorothy were mine, this ideal could never be. And though I
chid my foolish heart almost hourly, demanding on’t now how I could be
so insensible as not to love a creature of such transcendent
excellence, and now how could I expect to love her when love and the
power thereof was dead within me, yet my resentiments were never a
whit diminished in this way, but rather increased, so that I walked
abroad daily in a mighty turmoil and confusion of mind, until that
chanced which confirmed the fear that had been aroused in my heart by
Mr Sternhold’s words on our first meeting.
For ’twas my custom at this time to ride over a certain part of my
estates every day, visiting the farmers and cottagers and making
myself known to ’em, and everywhere I received the greatest kindness
and a prodigious warm welcome, and many also, hearing that I wan’t
wedded to any gentlewoman in foreign parts, believed me to be returned
with the intent to marry Dorothy, and so encouraged me thereto,
heaping many blessings on her head. Now one afternoon, when I was
returning from such a visit as this, I felt a desire for solitude and
communing with myself, and so sent my horse back to Ellswether by Loll
Duss, that rid after me, and walked on by myself. But I wan’t doomed
to enjoy my solitude long, for scarce had I walked a quarter of a mile
before I heard the sound of wheels in the mire, and looking back, saw
a neat coach come along behind me, with a lady beckoning to me with
her fan from the window on’t. And I going to see what she would have
with me, found her to be my ancient acquaintance, Mrs Packworth, and
with her Mrs Sternhold her mother, and not having yet seen either of
these gentlewomen since my return, save only in church, they did
desire of me to come into the coach with ’em, and they would carry me
home, while I told them concerning myself and my travels. And this I
wan’t by no means loath to do, finding my single meditations little
comforting, and so entered the coach and sat opposite to them, and for
a time we were very merry, the two gentlewomen asking me questions,
and I answering them.
And when all their questions was done, I said to them that ’twas my
turn to ask, and they consenting that this was only fair, I did begin;
but no sooner had I touched, though in the most delicate way
imaginable, upon Dorothy, than Mrs Sternhold looked upon me as though
grieved and astonished for the hardness of my heart, and Mrs Packworth
seemed all at once to become angry and contemptuous of me.
“Come, sir,” says she, “sure you need discover no interest in Mrs
Brandon, for we all know that you have resigned all pretension to
her.”
“Sisley, my dear daughter!” says her mother, but Mrs Packworth would
not agree to withdraw from her position. “An’t it true?” she says to
me.
“Madam,” says I, “perhaps you’ll allow me, speaking in confidence, to
say that ’tis possible for any person to repent of his early sins and
follies, and, having been duly punished for ’em, to do his best to
amend ’em.”
“I presume, sir, that Mrs Brandon’s inclinations will carry some
weight in such a matter?” cries she, just as had her father.
“I think, madam,” says I, “that you can scarce deem me likely to wish
to force Mrs Brandon’s inclinations? Nevertheless, ’tis allowable in
me to cherish a hope that, while demanding no more favour at starting
than any other person, I may be able to show my regret for my former
carriage, and perhaps in due time to enlist her heart in my cause.”
“And in what kind of cause is that?” says she. “Can you dare to hope,
sir, can you even wish, that Mrs Brandon should give her heart into
the keeping of a person that han’t so much as a heart, though never
such a poor one, to give her in return, since his own was lost in
foreign parts long ago? Nay, madam,” for her mother was showing
herself desirous to arrest her in her discourse, “prythee let me
speak. ’Tis but just that Mr Carlyon should hear the truth. There an’t
none at the Hall will tell it him, and ’tis well he should know how
Mrs Dorothy’s friends regard him. Pray, sir, do you think that Mrs
Brandon is your property, like your horse or your blackamoor, that
having once cast her aside, you may gain her again at your
conveniency?”
“Indeed, madam,” quoth I, “I am but too much sensible of my faithless
and evil conduct in the past, and yet at times I entertain such
confidence in Mrs Brandon’s gentle and forgiving spirit as I am almost
ready to believe she will admit me to her favour again upon assurance
of my sincere repentance.”
Now this indeed was that very thing whereof I was perpetually doubting
nowadays, and nothing was further from my intention than to make such
a boast, but yet I could not resist giving utterance thereto, being
somewhat heated by Mrs Packworth’s condemnation of me. But she was a
better fighter than I.
“Welladay!” she cries, “that I should live to hear a gentleman affirm
coolly that he desires and expects a lady to receive him into her
favour when not only he don’t offer her any love, but glories in
having none to offer!”
“In truth, madam,” says I, mighty uncomfortable, “you know more of my
heart than I, for it is so prodigiously tumbled up and down that no
pains will enable me to read it aright.”
“Is that so, sir?” saith she. “Then pray listen to me, for I have that
to tell you which shall quickly resolve your doubts as to the nature
of your resentiments for Mrs Brandon. Two or three minutes back you
seemed (though little as if you feared any such thing) to remember
that ’twas possible Mrs Brandon might entertain other views for the
disposal of her hand. Now thus much I can tell you, that there is a
certain gentleman in whose cause her heart is very deeply engaged, so
much so, that I am well assured she should never entertain with
pleasure a proposition of marriage from any other. And I don’t say
this out of malice only, for ’tis absolute truth, as my mother will
assure you.”
“And this gentleman’s name?” said I, with an air of as great calmness
as I could assume, though it seemed to me as if a sudden thick
darkness were spread all around me.
“That I must not tell you,” says she. “Nay, mother, I’ll not have you
speak, if you please. What! shall we betray Mrs Dorothy’s confidence
that she hath reposed in us?”
“I can’t tell,” said I, though slowly and with difficulty, “who this
person may be. Hath he visited upon my cousin since my return?”
“Not since your return, sir,” saith Mrs Packworth mighty demurely, but
with something of mystery in her air that I could not understand.
“I must needs inquire his intention,” says I, scarce knowing what I
said.
“Sure, sir,” says Mrs Sternhold, “your best course were to inquire of
Mrs Brandon herself. She would be little like to relish our making a
common talk of her matters, but she could scarce refuse to grant you
such satisfaction as you may desire touching ’em from her own lips.”
“I must needs follow your counsel, madam,” says I. “Meanwhile, may I
entreat of you and Mrs Packworth to dispense here with my further
attendance? I see we are arrived at the path leading to the Hall
through the woods, and I would fain hasten home.”
Thus speaking, and making apologies that I understood not while I did
utter ’em, I left the coach, standing uncovered until it was departed,
and hearing the voices of the two gentlewomen in contention, as though
Mrs Sternhold desired to tell me that which her daughter had refused
me. I could not doubt but they were triumphing over me, but I cared
not a whit for their triumph. Though they had done no more, they had
at the least fulfilled their purpose, in showing me my own heart, and
they had doubtless rejoiced to have beheld me hasten into the wood,
and cast myself, in my anguish, on the ground. And this because Mrs
Packworth’s discourse had revealed to me on a sudden that I had
misread my resentiments, and that, so far from my heart’s being dead,
it was alive, and loved Dorothy. And this seemed to me so ironical a
stroke of fate that I groaned aloud, namely, that when she had been
free and waiting for me I had rejected her, but that now, when her
love was given to another, I was returned, and had learned to love
her. Thus I could not deny that I was rightly served, and could blame
no one but myself, that had behaved so foolishly both in the one case
and in the other.
And this led me to perceive that ’twould be prodigious unjust in me to
cause Dorothy and her servant to suffer for either the one or the
other of my faults, and that ’twas my duty to give all my pains
henceforth to render them happy. And this arrived at, I did rise up
from the ground, somewhat ashamed of this outburst of unmanly despair,
and did turn my steps towards home, revolving many things in my mind.
For I determined that if Dorothy’s unknown servant should prove a
convenient match for her, as I could scarce doubt but he should, I
would see them safely married and resign to them Ellswether for to
dwell in, and return myself with Loll Duss to East India, entreating
the Company to have me appointed to Bombaim or Bengall, whither few do
go by choice, these places being esteemed deadly for the English. And
musing upon these plans, I could not resist comparing ’em with my
joyous anticipations in returning home, and bewailing myself therefor,
and so wandered on (having forgot that I had told Mrs Packworth I must
needs hasten home), until the darkness began to overtake me while I
was yet in the wood. And upon this I made haste to find the right
path, fearing lest it should become pitch-dark, and I miss my road.
Hastening on, then, in the way I had chosen, I saw in front of me the
form of a woman wrapped in a hooded cloak, hurrying very fast as
though in fear. I could scarce believe my eyes, but yet to me that
shape wan’t to be mistook, and I come up with the woman quickly, and
touched her on the arm. She turned round with a face that was white
even in the twilight, but cried out with delight for to see me.
“Oh, Ned, ’tis only you!” she said, and took my hand, for all the
world as though we had been children together again.
“What do you here, cousin, at this hour and alone?” said I.
“I have been to see Jobson’s wife,” says she, “and to carry her some
broth.”
“Jobson the poacher?” says I.
“Ay,” says she, “but poachers’ wives have need of meat and physic as
well as other men’s.”
“I don’t chide you for that, cousin,” says I, “but for your coming
here alone. ’Tis commonly known that Jobson is a rude and dangerous
fellow, and much given to strong liquors, and I would not have you
fall in with him when he is in his cups. Sure Miles should have been
with you, with a lantern and a cudgel.”
“He was ready to come,” said she, “but I preferred to be alone, and so
bid him go back.”
“Would Mrs Skipwith approve of this, cousin?” I asked.
“I never asked her,” says Dorothy. “I an’t a small child, Cousin Ned,
to be bid where to go, and chid for all I do.”
“No, indeed,” says I. “I can well remember, Doll, the time when Mrs
Skipwith was governess to you, but now you do seem to me to govern
her.”
She laughed, yet not all pleasantly. “I am well ruled, none the less,”
said she.
“And it seems to me that it an’t unneeded,” says I. “See you here,
cousin, if you find it irksome to be without any fellow[136] save Mrs
Skipwith, I will endeavour to seek out some young damsel of agreeable
conditions that shall bear you company, and assist you to divert
yourself; but since you are in my house, I must beg that you won’t
walk abroad unless attended suitably to your quality. Sure you must
perceive that this is only right.”
But Dorothy snatched her hand from mine, and walked on with her head
held high, as she had done when we had last passed through this wood
together.
“’Tis very courteously done in you, to remind me of my situation as a
dependent in your house, cousin,” she cried, and stopped as though too
angry to continue.
“Cousin,” says I, “your are unjust toward me. I desire naught save
your honour and advantage,” but she would not vouchsafe neither to
answer me nor speak to me, and we came home in silence. And all that
evening would she scarce say a word to me, nor even look at me. And
though you would think that I should rejoice in this, inasmuch as
’twould enable me the more easily to conquer my love for her, yet it
wan’t so, but I must needs offer all the courtesies in my power, and
follow her with my eyes, silently demanding pardon for my unwitting
offending of her. But all this moved her not a whit, so that I went to
bed very unhappy, but loving her more than ever.
And the next day, which was prodigious wet and stormy, Dorothy busied
herself all the morning with the maids up-stairs, scrubbing and
cleaning and doing other such things, and raising such a noise and
dust as that she was fain at dinner-time to abide in her own chamber,
saying that she was attacked with a fit of the megrims.[137] And
after dinner, the weather mending somewhat, I rid out after my usual
fashion, with Loll Duss behind me, very unhappy by reason of the damp,
and I much more unhappy, by reason of the turmoil in my mind. But
coming in after dark, prodigious weary and miserable, I found an
agreeable surprise to await me, for casting myself with a sigh upon
the oaken settle beside the great fire in the hall, thinking no one to
be near me, I did behold Dorothy sitting opposite to me in the shadow,
when my eyes grew accustomed to the light.
“You han’t been abroad to-day, cousin?” said I.
“No,” said she. “Mrs Skipwith is gone to drink a dish of _thea_ with
Mrs Sternhold, and Miles is attending upon her.”
“I’ll wait upon you with pleasure, cousin, whithersoever you may
desire,” says I, “and esteem it an honour if you’ll accept of my
services.”
“I thank you, cousin,” says she, “but I han’t no list to walk abroad
to-night.”
And with that we were silent again, I watching Dorothy curiously when
the firelight revealed her face to me, and wondering whether I might
now trust myself to ask her concerning her servant. But on a sudden my
eyes lit upon a certain great old book in a brown binding that lay
beside her on the settle, half hid by her gown, and stretching out my
hand I took it up.
“Why, here is the ‘Arcadia’!” says I, undoing the silver clasps. “Have
you been diverting yourself with the pretty fancies of the gentle
knight, cousin?”
“I chanced upon the old book up-stairs this morning,” says she, “and
brought it hither for to recall old days withal.”
“Suffer me also to recall ’em,” says I, and opening the book, sought
out that pathetical piece of the parting of Argalus and Parthenia,
over the which we had so often mingled our tears when we was children,
and thereafter the moving scene wherein Parthenia is slain by
Amphialus, the which did draw tears from Dorothy even now. And as for
me, I found it hard to read, for the remembrance of the early days was
so strong upon me that I conceived a double meaning in all the words,
seeing Dorothy in Parthenia when she cries to Argalus, saying, _Woe is
me; what shall become of me, if you thus abandon me?_ And in this I
wan’t alone, for I perceived that my cousin was much moved by those
other words of Parthenia--viz., _O Life, O Death, answer for me, that
my thoughts have not so much as in a dreame tasted any comfort since
they were depriv’d of Argalus_. “Sure,” says I to myself, “I am a
worse murderer than ever was Amphialus, and should experience a
greater remorse, since I have slain that sweet love and confidence
that my cousin once reposed in me.” But this was when I had ended my
reading, and Dorothy was wiping away her tears.
“’Tis all one as though we was children again,” she said, as though
excusing herself. “We have sat here so often just as now, and you have
read Argalus and Parthenia by the firelight.”
“I have wished more than once, cousin,” says I, “that we might be
Polyxandra and Cleombrocles again, with all our troubles but a
phantasy.”
“And so have I,” she said, and was silent, and neither she nor I spake
one word for some time. Then Dorothy rose up suddenly.
“’Tis a foolish wish, cousin,” says she. “We an’t babes now, but man
and woman grown, and as our lives are, so we have made ’em, and so
they must be lived.”
And thus saying, she left me, I feigning still to read in the old
book, but seeing none of the words in its pages. For I knew that my
cousin was not wont to be thus difficult and bitter, as in these last
two days, except upon occasion, and I could well conceive that this
occasion arose upon the trouble in which she found herself with regard
to her servant, she not knowing whether I would entertain his suit
with favour or not. I being then mighty grieved to cause so much
sorrow not only to myself but to her, did determine to learn from Mrs
Skipwith this gentleman’s name and quality, and so invite him to visit
me, when I might endeavour so to order matters as to lead to their
happiness. But as it chanced, I could do no more that night, for there
come from London by waggon all my heavy chests of toys and suchlike
bought in the Indies, and I had much ado to stow them all away. I was
minded at first to open them, but in the first that come to hand was
there naught but jewellery and other furniture that I had bought with
an eye to Dorothy, at that time when I so foolishly and presumptuously
believed that if I did but return home and ask her, she should be
ready to marry me on the instant. And these I could not now bear to
see, both from the shame and the sorrow that possessed me, so that I
thrust ’em back into their box, and had ’em all put out of sight at
once. And after that was there only time for my one game of chess with
Mrs Skipwith, and then to bed, very weary and prodigious unhappy.
And in the morning, reflecting that when a disagreeable piece of
business is to be done, it were as well done sooner as later, I sought
Mrs Skipwith at an hour when I knew that Dorothy was wont to be in the
kitchen or the still-room overlooking the maids. And first of all I
made her a compliment upon my cousin’s figure and her good breeding,
saying that sure no country lady had ever such elegant manners before.
But this, says I, was evidently to be traced to the excellence of her
instructress in the same line. And at this Mrs Skipwith smiled and
bridled, conceiving herself highly flattered, and declared that she
and Mrs Sternhold had ofttimes said one to another that ’twas a
thousand pities that so divine a creature should be so little seen and
admired.
“Do I understand you to intend, madam,” says I, “that my cousin han’t
seen no genteel company, such as her quality and her breeding alike
fit her to adorn?”
“Nay, sir,” says Mrs Skipwith, “there is several gentlewomen, the
ladies of persons of substance in the county, that have shown
’emselves prodigious kind to Mrs Brandon, and I have often waited upon
her to their houses. ’Twas your honoured father’s desire that she
should enjoy all the diversion she might properly obtain, and this in
especial after that letter of your honour’s come from that French
place,--some Popish name it had, but I have forgot it. But, as I was
a-saying, Sir Harry says to me, on his receiving this letter, that Mrs
Dorothy must needs have her chance, for ’twas indeed her right, and if
she should meet with any gentleman of suitable fortune that wan’t
disagreeable to her, he would not keep ’em from marrying. And sure she
had her chance, if ever a young damsel did, for there wan’t a
gentleman in these parts (that was unwedded, I would say) that did not
seek her company, and there was very many made proposals of marriage
to Sir Harry for her.”
“And pray, madam,” says I, groaning within myself to perceive how many
were desirous to obtain the treasure that I had been so ready to cast
away, “in the cause of which of these gentlemen was my cousin’s heart
the most engaged?”
“Why, sir, for none of ’em,” quoth she very quickly, as though in
astonishment; “not even my Lord Harmarthwaite nor my lord Duke of
London (that are both wedded now, and very high indeed), could touch
her heart. The second (as I know, for Sir Harry told me on’t, though
Mrs Brandon never a word) was very urgent with her to wed him, saying
that she was designed by nature to be the star of the Court, and not
to be lost here in the country, but she thanked him very modestly for
the honour he had wished to do her, and begged him to pardon her
refusing his proposals. And touching my Lord Harmarthwaite, I think Mr
Sternhold writ to you, sir, for he was very well affected towards him,
and thought Mrs Brandon a fool for her pains in refusing him.”
“Then,” said I, cursing myself once again for my folly in rejecting
the happiness that had once been mine for the asking, “I must ask you,
madam, to make clear for me a certain matter. ’Tis told me that my
cousin entertains a preference for a gentleman whose name is unknown
to me. Who is this person? and where did Mrs Brandon fall in with him
if not in company?”
But upon this Mrs Skipwith seemed confused and out of countenance.
“I’ll answer for’t that she han’t met with him in company,” was all I
might prevail upon her to say.
“But pray, madam,” says I, “how am I to discover this gentleman if you
won’t be good enough to tell me his name? Must I ask it of my cousin
herself?”
“Sir,” says she, “I can’t doubt but you’ll find that your best course,
for I hold no authority to give you any news of this person.”
“Pray, madam,” says I, somewhat angry, “am I to understand that my
cousin hath forbid you to touch on this topic with me?”
“Truly, sir,” quoth she, “you wan’t far wrong in understanding that I
am promised to tell you naught of Mrs Dorothy’s private matters.”
“But surely, madam,” said I, “the mere name of her servant----”
“And pray, sir, an’t that Mrs Dorothy’s private matter?” says she, and
I could not deny it. Wherefore I found myself compelled to resort to
Dorothy herself for that I did desire to know, since none of her
friends would vouchsafe to tell it me, and this I did most especially
dread, lest in treating of her love I should reveal my own, and thus
disturb and trouble her. But since this measure could not be avoided,
I resolved that it should be undertook on the morrow, and so rid
abroad a long way in the afternoon, seeking to escape from myself and
my own thoughts, and succeeding not at all in either design. Then in
the evening, having twice begun my game of chess with Mrs Skipwith,
and been routed with great loss, so that she declared I was surely
losing my intellectuals, and I was fain to believe the same, I left
trying to play, and sat in a corner staring at Dorothy, not knowing
that I did it until I saw her turn from red to white and change
countenance before me. And upon this I was mightily ashamed, and
leaving the parlour, went out into the stormy night, and began walking
up and down the fir-walk in the darkness by myself, hearing the
branches of the trees creak in the wind overhead, and watching, though
without any purpose of so doing, the dark clouds scud across the face
of the moon. And thus walking, I did begin to rebuke myself very
heartily.
“Come, Ned Carlyon,” says I to myself, “is this your courtesy towards
this poor woman, to stare her out of countenance until she can’t so
much as lift her eyes in your presence? An’t it your desire to carry
yourself as a gentleman, as the person that loves Dorothy Brandon
(though without any hope of winning her favour) should do? What right
have you, that owe all your miseries to your own blindness, to
endeavour to involve her in ’em? Be a man, and find your happiness in
hers. If the contemplation of so lovely and gracious a creature
enjoying all the felicity that she deserves can’t content you, you are
a sorry fellow, and the more that ’tis in your own power in some
measure to bring about and ensure this felicity. Be thankful, then,
for that, and accept of your troubles as your rightful punishment.
Remember the sweetness and cheerfulness wherewith the viscount, your
friend, endured the long separation from his love--nay, the noble
constancy and equanimity of Madam Heliodora herself--and model your
actions upon ’em.”
Thus then I reasoned with myself, but only arrived at remembering that
the viscount and Madam Heliodora were confident each in the other’s
constancy, and might look forward to a time when this should be
rewarded, which I might not do. And so, little comforted, to bed,
resolving to speak with Dorothy on the morrow. And in the morning,
being purposed not to suffer her to escape me, I laid wait for her on
the stairs, when she come down with a great posy of dry lavender in
her hand, intended, as I suppose, for some use in her household
economy, and begged of her to come with me into the garden. And this
entreaty she granted (though not without some alarm, as it seemed to
me), and tying quickly a great straw hat over her cap, she threw a
scarf about her shoulders, and joined me, when we walked along the
terrace-walks in the pleasure-garden. Now the night had been extreme
boisterous, and the wind had torn from the trees the few fading leaves
that were left them, so that they lay about our feet golden and brown
and red, or fluttered feebly upon the grass lawn.
“Sure this is a picture of my life,” says I, looking upon ’em; “a
stormy dawn, ending in desolation, and more storms to come.”
“Nay, cousin,” says Dorothy, “you have tarried so long in the Indies
that you have forgot your English weather-wisdom. By the tokens of the
sky I prophesy a fair day and a calm sunset.”
“Be it so,” said I. “The omen is yours, cousin, and I am glad on’t,
though the compassing your happiness may mean my further undoing.”
“You speak in riddles, cousin,” says she, looking at me with some
indignation.
“I hope,” says I, “that my cousin Dorothy believes that I set her
happiness above my own.”
“And I hope,” says she, “that my cousin Ned don’t think so meanly of
me as to believe that I would buy my happiness at the cost of his.”
“Alas, Doll!” says I, “you would not, but it an’t any longer in your
power to buy or refuse. And this very matter is’t that I would fain
treat with you this morning. I had been better pleased to have settled
it all to your liking without troubling you thereabout, but all your
friends do show ’emselves so prodigious tender of your punctilio that
they will none of ’em tell me that which ’tis needful for me to know.
I ask your pardon beforehand, cousin, if I offend you in this
straightforward dealing, in spite of all my precaution.”
“Pray tell me your meaning, cousin Ned,” says she, as though
perplexed.
“I am told, cousin,” said I, “that there’s a certain gentleman
addressing you, in whose suit your heart is deeply engaged. Pray
pardon my roughness” (for she seemed to be about to say somewhat, but
her face was turned away from me and I could not see it, wherefore I
did continue), “but sure you must know that I desire above all things
your good, and would fain see you happy with this gentleman, though it
were to prove my own perpetual misery.”
“Pray, cousin,” says she, with a sound as of a sob in her voice, “an’t
you a little hard towards a person that can scarce have injured you?
Sure the poor man’s happiness need not inconvenience you, nor far less
cause you perpetual misery.”
“Nay, Dorothy,” I cried, amazed at her misreading of me, “you are
unjust towards me, and to clear myself I must needs reveal that which
I had determined to keep hid. At least pity me, for though I have
wronged you, yet now I am punished for’t. If I have despised you in my
blindness, I have learned to love you when too late, and have been
given to know my love in vain. The victory lies with you, cousin, only
use it mercifully. ’Tis my desire to show myself not unworthy of
loving you, and I would not prove a churl. I hope yet to see you
happily wedded to your servant, and settled here at Ellswether, if
this should please you, for I purpose returning again to East India.”
“Ned, my dear cousin!” she cried, turning upon me her eyes full of
tears, “but why not remain here?”
“Nay,” said I, “I an’t a stone, Dorothy, and I fear lest my
melancholical humour should cloud your happiness. But let that pass.
You know, cousin, that though I han’t any real authority over you, yet
in the eyes of the world I am your guardian, and that it rests with me
to order all things with your servant. Tell me his name, then, if you
please, that so I may have some commerce with him.”
“But that I can’t tell you--no, never,” says Dorothy, beginning to
twist the edge of her scarf with her fingers.
“An’t this an excess of sensibility, cousin?” said I.
“But how can I?” says she, very red. “Sure you are too hard upon me,
Cousin Ned. A plague on all those good people that meddle in my
matters! Here’s a pretty pass they have brought me to.”
“Surely, cousin,” said I, “only his name, to give me to know who he
is?”
“Ask yourself, sir,” says Dorothy, and runs away from me, leaving me
as much at a loss as ever. And no further occasion did she vouchsafe
me for to inquire of her, for she was among the maids all morning, and
at dinner she sat with eyes cast down and blushing face, nor never
looked at me once, so that after I did go out in despair.