Chapter XVI

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.