Chapter XVIII

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.