OF MY ATTAINING MY DESIRED HAVEN AFTER LONG TRIAL OF STORMY SEAS.
Now after dinner I did set out as usual upon my ride, but I was come
no further than to Puckle Acton when I found that my horse had cast a
shoe. And for this there was evidently naught to be done save to chide
Loll Duss for his not looking better to his duty, and to bid him carry
the horse at once to the smithy and have the blacksmith look to him,
while as I walked on by myself. And after walking through the town and
turning back, I came by another way to Mr Sternhold’s house, and there
found Mrs Diony in the garden, with a scarf thrown over her cap,
overseeing the gardener that was at work sweeping up the dead leaves
and broken twigs on the paths. Now Mrs Diony was ever my favourite of
Mr Sternhold’s two daughters, and had been wont to show great kindness
to Dorothy and myself in our childhood, so that it seemed to me that
she might give me some help in my perplexity. And for this reason I
wan’t sorry when she, coming to the gate for to inquire of me
concerning Mrs Skipwith’s disease in her eyes, that was become an
extraordinary great trouble to her of late, begged of me to come
within, saying that she had scarce so much as caught sight of me since
my return. Now after some discourse had betwixt us on indifferent
topics, she did begin to rally me upon my mournful looks, saying that
it wan’t by no means becoming to a gentleman but just come home to a
fair estate and a sufficient fortune to bear such a melancholical air.
And upon this I did open to her my trouble, showing her how my fair
estate and my sufficient fortune was as naught to me without the woman
that might have been mine had I not slighted her, and passing that
over, pointed out how that all my plans for my cousin’s happiness were
made of no avail by this strange conspiracy wherein all her friends
were entered for to keep her servant’s name a secret.
“Ay,” says Mrs Diony, “I have heard something on’t from my sister
Packworth.”
“All the world knows on’t save myself,” says I. “Pray, madam, do me
the favour to tell me the gentleman’s name.”
And here I thought I must have success at last, but Mrs Diony shook
her head, and looked at me with an air of pleasantry.
“I scarce think Mrs Brandon would be well pleased if I so did,” says
she. “No, sir, take the advice of one that knows your cousin as well,
I may say, as any, and put your question to her again. I believe I
don’t err in saying that she regrets this misunderstanding as much as
yourself, and I would counsel you to take her apart as soon as you
can, and ask her what you desire to know, refusing to let her depart
until she have given you an answer.”
“’Tis passing strange,” says I, “that all my acquaintance should
combine to keep me in the dark concerning such a simple matter. But
I’ll follow your counsel, madam, though I had fain evaded another
privy talk with my cousin, for this perpetual pleading in favour of
another person is become very irksome to me, and I care little to be
forced to work so long at perfecting my own future misery.”
And with that I took my leave and departed, refusing even to drink a
dish of _jockolate_ with Mrs Diony (though she assured me it was of
the best, and brought from London by Frank Packworth in his late
journey thither), for I was desirous to end this matter and be done
with it. But I wondered much that no one seemed fully to understand my
reasonable unhappiness, yea, even Mrs Diony herself, though she
essayed much to comfort me, yet I am sure that I heard her laugh as I
went my way. But I was in no mood neither to turn back for to upbraid
her, nor yet to seek for any other counsellor, but went on straight
towards Ellswether, being minded to get over my business with Dorothy
so soon as might be. And coming towards the house through the small
coppice that abuts on the pleasure-garden, I saw before me my cousin
Dorothy, sitting on a grotesque wooden seat there, and weeping. And
seeing this, I quickened my pace, my heart smiting me for unkindness
and impatience towards her in the morning, but before I came up with
her (my footsteps making no sound upon the turf), she rose up from her
seat, and drying her eyes with prodigious care and art, began to walk
towards the house. And I overtaking her, she turned towards me with
great cheerfulness (such is the strength of mind in woman), and seemed
prepared to discourse very pleasantly.
“I trust, cousin, that you have passed an agreeable afternoon?” says
she.
“I trust yours has been a better one, cousin,” says I.
Then we walked in silence for a time, until we come on to the terrace.
“Sure we shall have rain again to-morrow,” says Dorothy, looking at
the sunset.
“Your prophecy of a fair afternoon is come true, cousin,” says I. “But
now that we are again arrived upon the same theme, perhaps you’ll be
so kind as to vouchsafe to resolve the mystery beneath which I am
labouring. I think you must perceive, cousin, that I am anxious to
assure your happiness, so far as lies in my power, but this I can’t do
without you tell me your servant’s name.”
“Will you assure me, upon your word and honour, that you can’t imagine
it, cousin?” says she, looking at me very hard.
“Upon my word and honour, cousin, I han’t the slightest hint on’t,”
says I, and was surprised to see Dorothy laugh, though her eyes were
full of tears.
“Was ever man so blind?” she said, “and was ever poor woman in so hard
case? Oh, Cousin Ned, I am afraid to entrust my secret to you, you are
so prodigious dull concerning it. You would have me use you pitifully,
you say, but how are you using me, in forcing me through pity to
disclose to you so delicate a matter? Sure you must promise me that
should you afterward repent of this day’s work you’ll bear me out that
’twas undertook at your earnest entreaty, and not through any
forwardness of mine. Have you thought me forward, cousin?”
“Never!” says I. “The very strictest prude is forward in comparison
with you, cousin.”
“That relieves my conscience,” says she. “Now, must I needs tell it,
Ned? But no,” she stopped, and I saw her lips was all trembling, “I
can’t tell it abroad here. The birds might chance to hear it, or the
herbs in the borders,--who knows? Come with me into the oaken gallery.
Maybe I can speak there easier.”
So we two come into the gallery by the outside stair (the same whereby
my grandfather had once escaped from a band of Roundhead soldiers sent
for to apprehend him), and Dorothy did lead the way to the further end
on’t, until we come opposite to the pictures of her parents, and the
spot where we had once stood together near one-and-twenty years
before. She went and stood between the portraits, needing now no chair
to bring her pale face (whereon the light of the sunset did shine
through the window) to a level with the painted faces on the wall
behind her,--faces superior to hers neither in the beauty nor in the
courage depicted therein.
“Ned,” says she, fixing her eyes upon me, “methinks I can tell you my
tale easier here than elsewhere. More than twenty years ago, my
servant and I met in this place, and he passed me his word to return
and marry me if certain conditions that he imposed were fulfilled. I
can’t tell whether they be fulfilled or no,--so far as I might, I have
strove to carry ’em out, and if I han’t succeeded, prythee blame my
power or my wit, and not my will. I wan’t loath to wait for my
servant, even though ’twere for many years, for I loved him, and I was
often wont to steal away hither, and repeat with myself that discourse
I had with him, desiring naught so much as his return and approbation.
But for that, Ned, I have waited twenty years.”
“Dorothy!” I cried in an agony, “spare me this recital, though I grant
you ’tis well deserved. Consider how much more I am tried in losing
you, than you in failing of me,--you, moreover, that have your
favoured servant to supply my place. Why torture me with the
remembrance that hath already near drove me mad, instead of ending the
business that brought us here? For pity’s sake, tell me this
gentleman’s name.”
“Mr Edward Carlyon,” saith she, dropping her eyes and standing as
though guilty before me.
“But the other gentleman, cousin?” I cried, seizing her hand.
“There never was no other,” saith she. “The whole tale was devised by
my good friends, thinking to do I don’t know what good turn to me.
Nay, Ned! Cousin! I do entreat you--sir! without so much as leave
asked or given----”
For I had not been able to refrain from embracing her, when it come to
me all at once that these ladies, whose words had so sorely perturbed
me, had been pointing all the time at myself, when they signified my
cousin’s preoccupation in behalf of a certain gentleman, designing at
the same time to punish my faithlessness and to increase my ardour,
though this, indeed, wan’t necessary. But upon Dorothy’s remonstrance
I did perceive my hastiness (though I can’t say that I repented on’t),
and begged her pardon very humbly, when she relenting gave to me her
hand for to kiss. And thereafter my love and I stood long at that
window in the gallery, where we had stood so long before, and talked
of many things. And Dorothy told me that on my return she had
perceived that my ancient love for her was dead, and did therefore
determine to hide and conceal her own, lest I might turn to her again
out of pity; but whether she would have succeeded in this design, or
would later have penetrated into my true sentiments, can’t now be
known, since her friends were advised to practise that strange piece
of artifice which had brought us happily together at last.
Now at supper-time, going together into the parlour, we found Mrs
Skipwith fallen into a grievous trouble of mind touching us, in that
she had missed us both, and there was none could tell her where we
were, nor did she, knowing the posture of affairs between us, once
suppose us to be together, which, had she thought on’t, had set her
mind to rest. And she springing up from her chair to greet us with
great joy, I did lead Dorothy to her.
“Mrs Dorothy desires to present her servant to you, madam,” says I.
“Her servant!” cried the old lady, looking from the one of us to the
other in no small bewilderment, “but who is he? I had understood that
she loved you, sir.”
“Oh, madam, pray don’t betray my secrets,” says Dorothy in her saucy
way; “han’t I leave to change my mind?”
“Madam,” says I, “I’ll hope Mrs Dorothy han’t changed her mind since
she gave you that assurance, for she hath done me the honour to accept
of me as her servant for the space of my whole life.”
’Twas still some little time before Mrs Skipwith might be brought to
conceive the truth properly, but when she did so, she fell a-kissing
us both with great delight, and did entertain us mightily at supper by
the reciting both of all her hopes and fears with respect to us, and
also with divers pretty tales of the courtship of my honoured father
and mother, and of my Lord and Lady Brandon. And seeing what delight
this manner of talk gave to the good old gentlewoman, we did indulge
her in’t, but when afterwards she waxed drowsy, and nodded in her
chair, I gave my hand to Dorothy, and we did creep into the hall, and
sat there upon the settle by the fire, hand in hand, as if we were
children again. And here in the firelight, I did make to Dorothy a
full confession of all those things whereof you know already, not
sparing, as I hope, myself, for indeed I had no design to do this, but
declaring the honour and esteem I still cherished towards Madam
Heliodora, to whom, as I told Dorothy, I must remain humbly devoted
all my days. For though I did, and shall throughout my life, thank God
for her refusing of my suit, and her for showing me so clearly and
plainly my duty, yet her image remained enthroned in my mind like the
figure of some queen or saint, the pattern and model of all good
women. But this Dorothy would have it that she did not desire to see
changed (though she said merrily that I must not seek to mould her
upon the figure of this paragon of mine), declaring that she loved
Madam Heliodora from my character of her, and that she would be well
pleased to see her ladyship at some time, and hold discourse with her.
And both of us being thus content, we were silent awhile, and then
fell to talking of my life at St Thomas, when I found courage to put
to Dorothy a question that I had lacked boldness to ask her before.
And indeed, though she made shift to answer it then, and though I have
always been wont to study and admire the histories of the marvellous
patience and kindness of good women towards most unworthy men, yet I
can never cease wondering when I ask myself that question yet.
“Tell me, sweet Doll,” says I, “how is’t that your love for me hath
thus wondrously outlived these many years of sorrow and unkindness
since we parted?”
“Nay, Ned,” says Dorothy, leaning her chin on her hand, and looking
into the fire, “who can tell how love grows and is nourished up? Sure
I had known and loved you all your life until your setting forth, and
the remembrance of you, so far from becoming faint, did but grow
stronger and more fond by reason of your letters and the compliments
made to Sir Harry on the possession of such a son by good Mr Martin,
when he took occasion to write to him. For that which I recollected
not, my fancy wan’t idle, and truly I think I loved you as well,
though absent, as if you had been always with me, for, possessing you,
I seemed to be lifted up above the cares and hopes of the other young
gentlewomen of my acquaintance. There was many of ’em handsomer and
richer than I, but there was none had such a servant as I had in you.
Sure you will laugh when I tell you that the confidence I reposed in
you had been huge even in a romance, and could have borne any strain
save the breaking of our bond by your own hand. ’Twas this confidence
sustained me when we heard that you was fallen into the hands of the
Inquisition, and your misfortune did but increase my love, for sure I
must have loved you then, though I had never seen you in my life.
Before that time, Ned, you had been to me a hero, but now a martyr and
a saint. I don’t know whether I prayed most for your enlargement, or
thanked God for your steadfastness, but sure the happiest time of my
life was when Sir Harry received your letter sent by Captain Freeman,
telling of your marvellous deliverance and escape.”
“And thereafter, Dorothy?” says I, when she ceased, having told me
this not all at once, but with divers arrests and pauses.
“After that,” she said, “I enjoyed a space of the most delectable
contentment that ever young damsel passed through. But what came next,
I won’t tell you, for fear it make you too proud. I beg that you won’t
question me touching the time that passed after that day when Sir
Harry called me into the parlour, and showing me your letter wrote
from St Thomas, bid me think no more of you.”
“Alas, wretch that I am!” I cried, “to have entreated so hardly such a
woman as you, and such a father as I had. Sure I deserved that he
should lay his curse upon me for ever.”
“Nay, Ned, my dear Ned,” says she, laying her hand upon my arm the
while I covered my face and groaned in my grief. “Sir Harry never did
that. True, he was grievously vexed at the way you carried it; but he
softened much towards you in his latter days, and blamed himself that
he had sent you, while yet young and tender, into so great temptation.
Also he sent you his blessing at the last, as you know.”
“Ay,” says I, “and I can well guess through whose intercession he did
so, Dorothy, my dear. But tell me,” for a sudden thought was come to
me, “what that signified which you writ to me in that letter telling
me of my father’s death? You said that he bid me be worthy, and there
stopped. Worthy of you, Doll, and of your faithful love--wan’t that
what he would say?”
“My dear Sir Harry said many kind things that I han’t set down,” says
Dorothy, but I knew that I was right.
“That you could love me still, after my evil usage of you, is more
than I could have supposed,” I says to her.
“I loved you, Ned,” says she, as though this were reason enough. “Not
perhaps the Edward that my fancy portrayed, but still----”
“Yes,” says I, “not the hero and the saint, but the poor sinner that
was fallen into temptation. Little though he deserved it, yet he moved
your pity, Doll, and so in some way your love.”
“I might always pray for you,” she says slowly. “Though I strove at
first to pluck this love from my heart, knowing that you should soon
be the husband of another, yet my prayers have ever been yours, Ned.”
“Tell me again, Doll,” I cried, remembering on a sudden that vision or
apparition of her that I had beheld at St Thomas, and that had wrought
so mightily with me, even withholding me from yielding to my lord
marquis his will, “have you any particular recollection of a certain
night” (naming the year and the day) “when you might have had
intelligence of me in a dream?”
“In a dream?” says she. “Why, Ned, I have often dreamt of you, so that
would be no strange thing. But intelligence, do you say? I do indeed
remember that one night, about the time whereof you speak, I had a
very clear and distinct sight of you. I was about saying my prayers in
my chamber, and it seemed afterwards as though I was fallen asleep as
I knelt, for I had a vision of you, Ned, though I might not perceive
plainly where you were, knowing only that I saw you, and that ’twas in
my mind that you were threatened by great danger of dishonour. And so,
looking upon you, I cried out to beg of you that you would resist the
dishonour that was hanging over you, and then immediately awoke, and
Mrs Skipwith, hearing me cry out, came into my chamber and chid me for
sitting up too late a-reading romances.”
And this seemed to me, though I can’t pretend to explain the matter,
to be connected, without any possibility of doubt, with that vision of
mine, and I wondered much, and do still, at the strange providence
that did vouchsafe these visions to both of us at that very time when
I stood in so great need of some such warning, showing me distinctly
the very face and form of Dorothy, then far removed from me in
England, and making me to hear her very words. And of this matter we
spake much, admiring prodigiously the action of Providence therein,
but arrived at no explication on’t more satisfactory to the scoffer
than that ’twas a particular interposition of God in our favour.
And this determination come to, we talked on divers other topics, and
I learnt, though only slowly and in part, something of what should
have seemed to me the slow and deadly dulness of the life that Dorothy
had led at Ellswether. Sure ’twas naught but a truly religious spirit
and a steadfast devoting of herself to duty that could have bound down
a young woman to such a course of life at that age when young persons
are most wont to covet new scenes, and this in especial when they are
possessed of such wit and parts as was she. And for this sad and sober
life I blamed myself, as for her many other undeserved sorrows, until
she was moved to rally me on the matter, and ask me what sort of wife
I counted to have had in her if all her days had been gay and
joyful--yea, even to ask me if I now liked her so ill that I had
desired another fashion of breeding for her. And to this I could have
but one answer--viz., that I liked her so well that I would not have
one feature nor one condition in her altered, whereupon she laughed,
and bid me be content with the present, and not seek to meddle with
the past. And so with great profit and contentment we did talk until
late at night.
Now meditating the next day on my good fortune, it seemed to me that
there wan’t no reason why we should hold back, and not be married so
soon as our banns might be asked. But opening my mind to Dorothy, she
laughed at me for my haste, saying--
“I must know more of your conditions, Master Ned, before I wed you.
Nay,” says she, but dropping her jesting air when she saw my face
troubled, “do you look for me to give up my servant so soon? ’Tis
little chance to rule that any woman hath, and I can’t agree to be
choused of mine. Trust me, Ned, we shall be the happier for learning
to know each other better before we wed.”
Nevertheless, she did suffer me, upon my very instant entreaty, to lay
the matter before our friends, Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold, for to
decide, I looking that they should have given the case at once in my
favour, but instead on’t they consented to give judgment against me.
And more, they showed me, with many words and great plainness of
speech, that I was an absolute barbarian for carrying it so, and that
Dorothy might not by any possibility be wed before the spring, she
having no wedding clothes ready. And to this I replied that wedding
clothes wan’t no concernment at all to me, but only Dorothy alone, and
that if she would marry me at once, I would carry her to London, and
there buy her whatever she might desire. But at this they cast up
their hands in horror that my Lord Brandon’s daughter should be wedded
without any convenient preparation, and did beseech me almost with
tears to suffer all to be duly done. And upon this I bid ’em make what
preparation they should consider seemly, only to have it over
speedily, and demanded of them what sum of money should buy all that
was needed in as short a space as was possible, for that I would pay
it at once, that they might begin straightway.
But at this proposition again they did testify great dismay, assuring
me that ’twas right against all decency for me to have to do with the
matter, and that Dorothy’s punctilio required that she should furnish
all her wedding clothes herself. And I resenting this as a thing
contrary to that right of propriety[138] I had acquired in her, and
further objecting that she had naught wherewith to furnish ’em, they
showed me that my father had been wont always to give to Mrs Skipwith
for her use and Dorothy’s the money gained by the sale of small
matters within their province, as honey, poultry, and the like (such
as many of our gentlewomen use to have for their own spending), and
that she had now by this means a considerable sum laid by, and all
this was to be spent for wedding clothes. And the end of this then
was, that Dorothy and Mrs Diony rid up to town in my new coach, I
waiting upon ’em, and there did choose and buy such things as seemed
to them to be needed. And very merry were we during that time, though
’twere too long to tell of all that we did, or of all the sights that
we saw.
For we visited upon Captain Freeman, now dwelling in a neat house at
Deptford, with a garden reaching as far as the river, and a flagstaff
of the bigness of a ship’s mainmast, whereon he was wont to hoist up
the St George’s Cross and the Company’s ancient on holidays, and he
conceived a high esteem for Dorothy, and told her much touching the
voyages we had sailed together. And likewise we went to see the lions
in the Tower, and walked in the Park and Spring Gardens for to behold
the court ladies and gallants in all their bravery, and resorted to
the New Exchange and divers other places of public assembly, which
pleased the two gentlewomen mightily. And meeting one day with my lord
Duke of London (Dorothy’s ancient servant) and his Duchess (that was
formerly my Lady Barbary[139] Harrington, of the Duchess of York’s
household), they bade us to an assembly at their house, where was many
fine clothes and very pretty dancing, and so many persons of quality
as I never saw, but among all the ladies not one that could compare
with Dorothy, nor came near to do so. And moreover, my old lady
Duchess (widow to my own noble patron, and she that had aforetime
hindered him from doing any kindness to Dorothy, as he had purposed)
was so much taken with my dear love, both with respect to her beauty
and her breeding, as nothing would serve but she must come down to our
wedding, though in the month of February, and this she did, diverting
the country people mightily with her great coach and her London
apparel and manners. And being thus honoured with the presence of so
great a lady, we were married on the fourth day of the month under
very happy auspices, our friends filling the church, and testifying
extraordinary great kindness towards us on the occasion of that happy
event, the which (and I do most heartily thank God therefore) I have
never found cause once to regret, nor my wife neither, as she assures
me. And this though we have passed through certain trials, whereof one
(that hath been the cause of the composing this book), was most heavy
and grievous, as I shall show in due time.