Chapter XX

A CHAPTER EXTRAORDINARY, ADDED ON THE ADVICE OF THE AUTHOR’S FRIENDS, FOR TO DECLARE HOW IT COME ABOUT THAT THIS BOOK WAS WROTE.

Here then, my relation should have ended, and I had laid down my pen with joy to think that for this book, at least, there should be no further need of mending of quills and of buying fresh paper, when there come upon me those two good friends that stood by me through those troubles I am about to relate, and advised me that beside all I have done already, ’twere well also to set down a true account of the said troubles for the sake of those that shall come after me. Being taught, then, by experience, that my best hope lies in following the counsels of these two persons, I do my best to obey ’em, desiring that it may first be noted that I bear no malice against those that so lightly gave credence to reports to my discredit, for they had much excuse for’t. Nevertheless, I would warn my children to receive a lesson against the too hasty judging any person upon what they may hear said concerning him. But to my tale.

During the first six or seven years of the reign of his present majesty my wife and I lived very quiet and retired, being occupied with the bringing up our two sons, whereof the elder was nine years of age at the time of which I write. But in the year 1695, I was called suddenly to London, that I might give evidence before the Lords’ House of Parliament on the behalf of my old Company, in the matter of a petition brought against ’em by a certain person named Jameson. And in this matter, which did make some noise at the time, my evidence was considered to be of no small moment (insomuch that one of the lawyers present told me I had saved the Company, Jameson’s petition being dismissed), and in some way my name was brought to the king’s notice. His majesty, having been made acquainted also with my work, which I mentioned some while back, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East India,’ sent for me and talked with me very graciously, saying that I should by rights hold some office in the Company’s home establishment, having such knowledge of Eastern matters. But for this I had neither favour nor inclination, and so I told his majesty, who said that he would fain do me some pleasure his own self, and thus I did return home, expecting little from this flattering compliment. But the next year I found myself pricked for High Sheriff of the county, and perceived that ’twas this the king had signified when he spake of procuring me some advancement.

Now this honour I was by no means loath to accept, lacking, as I hope, neither the property nor the wit requisite for fulfilling the duties of the office, but I could not feel surprised that many gentlemen among my neighbours looked differently upon the matter. They were wont to regard me extreme distrustfully as a person of outlandish manners and given to innovation, likewise they did consider me to be but a lukewarm and half-hearted Whig (as was indeed the truth, saving only in the cause of the Protestant Faith), and we had also certain differences over the sentences that were wont to be passed by the bench of justices, whereof I was one, and did lean more to the side of mercy than suited with their minds. But that they would make any endeavour to hinder my accepting of the office (and that with a mighty strong show of reason on their side), I had never so much as imagined, and did remain in this secure and careless confidence until the very week when I was to be sworn to the punctual performance of my duties.

’Twas on a certain Tuesday, in the morning, that the blow fell upon me, when all the household was moved and stirred touching the great ball to be danced the next night at Puckle Acton, my lord Duke of London, the lieutenant of the county, coming over from Belfort with his duchess for to do honour to the occasion. For over two hours I had been busy in seeing that the coach and all the trappings of the horses and the men’s liveries likewise were in good order and neat, and I was preparing to ride abroad with my wife, when Loll Duss did bring me word that Sir Ambrose Spencer and Mr Waterdale desired to speak with me. And at this I was something astonished, for the first (a younger branch of the great house settled at Althorp in our county) was a very fanatical Whig, and had held little discourse with me since my remaining at home in the stead of joining King William’s army. But though amazed at his visiting at my house, I considered that he might by now be willing to be reconciled with me, and so went into the library, and found him there with his friend.

“Pray be seated, Sir Ambrose, and you, sir,” says I, when I had saluted these gentlemen, and inquired after the health of my Lady Spencer.

“Sir,” says Sir Ambrose, very stiff, “we are here on a business that can’t fail, I fear, to be disagreeable to you. May I inquire whether you be still minded to accept the honour of the shrievalty, or not?”

“So far as I am aware, sir,” says I, something angered at his air, “I am to be sworn on Friday of this week.”

“Then, sir,” saith he, “’twill be our disagreeable duty to acquaint my lord Duke, and through him his majesty, of certain facts that seem to us to unfit you, not only for this office, but even for the company of gentlemen.”

“You are prodigious flattering, sir,” says I, almost believing him mad. “Pray have you forgot what is the only answer I can offer to your words?”

“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, bringing a paper from his pocket, “before Sir Ambrose or any other gentleman can place his sword at your service, the charges wrote here must be disproved. This paper is the copy of a letter wrote to Sir Ambrose by a gentleman that had the honour of your acquaintance in the Indies.”

“And pray, sir,” says I, in great heat, “do you pretend to condemn me on the unsupported testimony of the letter of some adventurer that hath conceived himself disobliged by me?”

“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, “methinks you should rather thank Sir Ambrose for his present action than revile him, when you hear the full history on’t. Some two or three days past a number of gentlemen of this county was met together in Northampton upon the occasion of the horse-fair in that city. At the ordinary in the evening, your nomination to the post of High Sheriff was mentioned and discussed as a matter of common notoriety. On the first mention of your name in such a connection a certain gentleman that was the guest of Mr Willesford of Chipping Acton, and is, as I believe, a cousin of his, displayed great concern, and on being pressed, confessed that he had known you throughout your life in East India, and had been aware of many things in your character and history there that had ought to prevent your holding this office. Upon this the gentlemen that was there did advise him very earnestly to consider what he did before assailing in this manner the name of a person of your quality, to which he replied with great solemnity that he could prove all his charges, and would set ’em down in writing for to be shown to you. Then those there, having heard all he had to say, took counsel together to keep the matter a secret until you had been allowed to disprove the accusations made against you, if ’twere in your power so to do.”

“After this, sir,” says I, “you don’t need trouble yourself to mention the name of my accuser. I recognise the hand of Mr Vane Spender.”

“You have guessed well, sir,” says Sir Ambrose, “and you will now permit us, leaving this paper with you for your further consideration, to depart. We were loath to bring disgrace on the son of one so well-known and respected as Sir Harry Carlyon, and ’twas therefore agreed among us not to publish the matter abroad on your admitting the charges and excusing yourself from serving as sheriff.”

“I thank you for your delicacy and civility, sir,” says I. “And pray, what if I deny the charges and accept of the shrievalty?”

“Why, then, sir,” saith he, “we shall feel compelled to take some public notice of your conduct at the ball to-morrow night.”

“And what if by some miracle (considering the short time allowed me) I can disprove the charges?” said I.

“In that case, sir, we shall have great pleasure in acknowledging ourselves mistook,” says he, but not as though thinking it likely.

“I think, Sir Ambrose, that we have performed our office, and may now let this visit be closed,” said Mr Waterdale, and I carried ’em to the door, being mindful that, in spite of their errand, they were still my guests. As we crossed the hall, Dorothy come down the stairs in her riding-coat and hat, ready prepared to ride abroad with me, and both the gentlemen bowed and saluted her.

“Sure, Sir Ambrose,” says she, “you an’t minded to depart so soon? And you also, Mr Waterdale; it an’t so often we see you that we can suffer you to leave us after so short a visit. Pray stay and take dinner with us, or at least eat some little lunch before you ride home.”

“Madam,” said Mr Waterdale, with a mighty uncomfortable air, as Sir Ambrose had also, “you see us here on a prodigious disagreeable business, and ’twould ill beseem us to eat in your house while engaged in’t. But permit me to assure you, madam, that whatever be the issue of this affair, only the very greatest respect and kindness will be felt by all the county for yourself.”

“I don’t perceive your meaning, sir,” says Dorothy, casting upon him a look that seemed to render him doubly uneasy. “Pray, why do you separate my name from Mr Carlyon’s? Whatever blame or unkindness be awarded him, whether by the county or by his near neighbours, sure I shall share the half on’t. I’ll wish you a very good day, sir, and you also, Sir Ambrose.”

With that she swept into the chamber we had but just left, where, when I was returned from dismissing the gentlemen, I found her reading the paper that lay on the table. Looking up with a scared face on my entering, “What’s this, sir?” says she.

“Heaven only knows,” says I, “though I fear it brings grievous trouble upon us. Let us read it together, my dearest love, for sure, as you say, it concerns us both alike.”

Dorothy spread forth the letter on the table, and smoothed it out, then sitting down she did begin to read it, and I read it likewise over her shoulder. It was sufficiently long, and I verily could not forbear to marvel, as I looked upon the closeness of the writing, that he should have wrote it who most abhorred all use of pen and ink, and who had scarce been trusted at Surat even to make out an invoice correctly; but I suppose that bitter hate, like love, do lend assistance to persons in their designs.

“Honour’d Syr” (it began)--“In Obeediance too ye Commds. you lade vpn. mee at our last Meatg., I take up my Penn (tho’ litle usd. to soch Work), too lai befower yor. Honr. a full Act. of ye Dogs. of Mr _Carrlyonn_ in ye _Indes_. ’Tis doubtls. Matter of comn. Rept. in Yor. County, yt. ys. Gent. tird. erly of ye Contrt. maid forr hym by his Fader wit. my Ld. _Branndon’s_ Dghtr., & soght Occn. too escape, ys. comg. in Form of ye mistakn Kindnesse of a certn. Nobleman, who, beg. greiviously disseavd. in hym, innabld. himm to inter ye Servc. of ye Co. yt. I haue long hd. ye honr. to serue. ’Twas at ys. Tyme yt. I first fell inn wit. him, & likd. him letle yn., and lesse ye mower I knew of hym. Of hys injuryous Condct. toards My selfe I won’t speake, only sayg. yt. hee mayde him Self my Innemy at all Times, not scruplg. euen too attempt my Lyf on moer Occns. yn. one, especialy in ye Citty of _Tangeer_, wr. he did assault mee wit. soch Fury unarmd. and unprouoqd. as yt. he bad fare too sla me, bot was removd. fr. me by Force of ’em yt. was prest. Both in ye Vyage to ye _Indis_ and at _Surratt_ hee mayd him Self extream particular by his continuall Consortg. wit. low & blackgard Fellowes, Saylors and ye like, & proud. him Self a most pryg. & persistant Busie-Body, so yt. at last ye Councell was fayn too send him too _Goa_ for to ridd ’em Self on hym, not wtht. hopg., perhaps, yt. hee might fall into som Troble yt. shd. make an End of him. Likewise at _Goa_ he did continue hys evill Courses, frequentg. Places of comn. Amusemt. & dog. his best too becom a Faverit wit. ye Ladys, inn wh. hee did socceade to soche a Degre as too excyt ye Jalousy of one of ye wilde yong Gallts. yt. was of hys Acquayntc., & ys. Personn, watchg. hys Chance, soone discoverd. Mr _Carrlion_ pryg. into ye Misterys of yr. Relign. wit. Intent to mak a Sport on ’em, & so dinowncd. hym too ye _Inquisition_, by ye wh. hee was arrested, & kept thre Yeares in Prisonn, not for hys Faith, wh. he was willg. to recant at once, bot as a Penaunce for his naughty Lyf. At ye Expiry of ys. Tym hee was dischargd. & mayd hys Wa on Bord of one of ye Hon. Co.’s Ships, wit. a Story of his haug. escapd. fr. a gret Burng., & ye Ship’s Maister, beg. one of ye simple Felows wit. whom hee had once ben frendly, did beleave his Tale, & tooke hym on his Voyage. Now ys. Vyage proud. one of grete Desaster, soe moche so as all on Board beleavd. they was punishd. by Heven for ye Sake of ys. one Sinner, bot weare at Leangth rileasd. by his discertg. ye Shipp wit. greate Effrontery at ye Towne cal’d _St Thomass_, wr. ye _French_ yn. hd. a Post. Now at ys. Place Mr _Carlion_ did carry it soe as too gaine ye Faver of ye _French_ Captain-Generall, desclosg. to hym all ye Seacretts of ye Co. yt. hee knewe, & instroctg. hym how hee might best use ’em for ye Injurg. their Trade. So vsefull ded he proue him Silf, yt. ye _French_ was abt. too adopt hym into there Seruice, wn. there was discouerd. yt. he hd. intangld. him Self in a disgracefull Manner wit. ye Genrall’s Doghter (ye same is now my Lady V. countesse _Gallompry_). Ys. yong Lady beg. of tendir Yeares, Mr _Carlyonn_ had persuaded hir to fly wit. hym, & they was gone some Wai before they might bee stopt. ’Tis sayd by som yt. ye Lady her Selfe was veray forward in seekg. hys Lov, & ys. I haue herd Mr _Carlyon_ repeat not once only nor twice, hee mockg. finely at hir for hir litle Moddesty, bot of ye Truthe of ys. I can’t speake. & upon ys. Discoverie, Mr _Carrlion_ was expel’d wit. gret Contimpt fr. yt. Place, & did jurney to _Bombaim_ thro’ _Duccan_ disguysd. in ye Trayn of a certaine renegadoe _Portugall_, wit. whom hee was verrie frendly, so reachg. _Surrat._ & here, beg. forcd. by certn. of hys Frends, agst. ye Will of ye Rest of ye Councell, into a Place of Troste, he joynd. him Selfe too ye Factry at _Amedavat_, & their livd. for thre Yeares in a most naughty & ryotous Manner, so as to bee a Scandall too ye veray Heathens ’em Selfs. Norr was ys. all, forr ’twas credibly proud. yt. hee hd. defrawded ye Co. of grete Soms of Money, besides beg. soe slacke in hys Busynesse yt. he loste ’em moch mower. & after ys., vizittg. ye Citie of _Agra_ wit. divers or. Gents. upon an Ambassage, hee did consort yr. wit. certn. vyle & dangerous Personns, Felons & Criminalls & ye like, & fynally, ’scapg. fr. ye Towne in greate Hast for to avoyd ye Reward of his evill Deedes, hee dyd carry wit. hym one of these, a renegado _Cristian_, tochg. whom no Good cd. by any Means be sayde, & conveyd. hym out of ye Country, too ye grete Hurt & Dammage of ye Imperour yt. rules therein. & ys. he did, rufflg. it so brauely as yt. hee come to Blows wit. ye _Mogull_ Souldiers sent too fetch him, bot killg. som on ’em, brogt him off, wit. ye Ayd of a Gang of _Torys_ his Helpers, and soe had him too _Surratt_, to ye gret Displesure of his Ma’tie’s Subjects yr., yt. must needs intertayn ys. escapd. Fellon untill hee might returne into hys owne Country. & agayn after ys. did Mr _Carlyonn_ shew him Self an extream bad Servt. to ye Co., tho’ he managd. his Peckulacions wit. soch Art as ye greter Part on’t wan’t dyscouerd. untill hee was departed. Bot ’twas a comn. Report, & ye Cause of greate Scandall, yt. he went soe moch wit. _Moores_ & or. _Indians_, so as many averr’d hee was a seacrett Renegadoe. Bot it beg. at length discoverd. (& I am nt. ashamd. too say, yt. ’twas I discoverd. ye same, forr ye wh. Cause he is greately increast in Enmity agst. mee), yt. he had applyd. large Soms of Mony too hys own Uses, & hd. forwarded to _Europe_ much yt. hee was gat possesst of by no Right at all, ye Councell was advisd. too dismiss hym wit. Disgrace. Bot ye Frends yt. hee had disceavd. was still suffict. too influence ye Counsell, soe as all was don privily, and not made publiq. & he levg. thre Days later for _England_ no moer was said, tho’ ’tis still perpetually found out yt. his Thefts was euen worse yn. yn. appear’d. I han’t herd no more concerng. hym for som Yeares, but beg. returnd. too _England_, & vizitg. upon my Cossen _Willsford_, I did heere by Chance yt. hee was prickt for Shirreff. Yn. beg. assurd. yt. ys. hd. not ought take Place, I did make yse. Matters publick, bot out of no Malis, bot only Lov of Right. Wit. ye highest Respect,

I haue ye Honor too be,
Sirr, Yor. Honr.’s most obedt. Servt.,
V. Spender.”

“Ned,” says Dorothy, “this is worse than the worst I had feared. Tell me, is there, in all that this person says, that one grain of truth, whereby he might hope to establish these charges?”

“None,” says I; “at least in the charges respecting money, and in the rest such twisting and turning of things innocent or at most only foolish as makes ’em appear crimes.” And this I said without any grief or bitterness that my wife should seem to doubt me, for in truth, after reading this letter that with such devilish cunning (for indeed no other word will name it fitly), sought to turn into evil all the deeds and intentions of my life, I could scarce myself believe but that I was guilty of the shameful things attributed to me.

“If they ben’t true, sure there’s some means to disprove ’em,” says Dorothy. “Let us see what those be.”

“To my rescue at Goa,” says I, “Captain Freeman can speak, but that is but a very small part of the whole. There’s no one nearer than Surat could testify the falsehood of those charges that concern my life and conversation there, and but one man even there that hath both the power and the will to do’t.”

“And who is that?” says she.

“Mr Martin,” said I; “but, as you know, my life, he seemed to have no present design of returning when he writ to me last, and I doubt whether a letter should serve this turn.” For my good friend had not yet carried out his purpose of retiring from the service, but remained still at Surat, whence, on hearing of our marriage, he had sent my wife a collar of pearls such as for their fineness and whiteness had not their equal in the county, and later, when we writ him word that we had named our second son for him, he did despatch to us, by the hand of a sea-captain of his acquaintance, a cap of goldsmith’s work for his godson, such as the Indian babes are wont to bear.

“And a letter should need a year and a half at the least, and more like two years, for to go and come back,” says Dorothy.

“We can scarce look for our enemies to hold over their threatened action for that time,” says I.

“No,” says Dorothy bitterly; “if you should now yield up the shrievalty for peace’ sake, and write to the Indies for proofs of your innocence, Mr Spender hath gained his point, for what will it profit if in two years you can show yourself guiltless? We know how ’twill be. ‘Wan’t there some strange tale touching ’Squire Carlyon?’ ‘Ay, indeed. Such strange things was said as my lord duke was forced to refuse him the shrievalty. ’Tis true, one heard they was contradicted later, but such things an’t said without some truth in ’em. Oh, be sure it wan’t all for nothing.’ Whatever we do must be done at once, Ned, for sure if the gentlemen cut you at the ball, and refuse to grant you satisfaction, the mischief is done.”

“And since we can’t do nothing at once,” says I, “and, on your own showing, what is done two years hence is done too late, sure ’twere well to resign all effort, and accept the judgment of Sir Ambrose and his friends.”

“Shame on you, Mr Carlyon!” cried my wife, rising and standing in the window, and lashing her petticoat angrily with the whip she held; “sure something must be done. Will you condemn your wife and children and yourself to infamy? Prythee, play the man, and don’t show yourself a coward before the first misfortune that comes upon you.”

“But what’s to be done?” said I.

“Why, that’s for you to resolve,” says she. “Sure you, that’s seen so many climates, and passed through so many strange chances, ought be able to think of what should be done now. Go post to London if you will, and carry thence hither Captain Freeman or any other person that may be able to support your word. Spare no expense. What signifies money in such a case? If disgrace be escaped, poverty is naught.”

“Spoke like my Lord Brandon’s own daughter!” says I. “Well, Dorothy, I’ll do as you would have me (though I am well persuaded that ’twill advantage me nothing in this present matter), since I would not that you should believe that I slight your counsel. I han’t so many friends that I can afford to lose any of ’em.”

“Ned,” cries Dorothy, running back to me and casting her arms about my neck, “prythee, don’t think me hard. I did but desire to rouse you from that despondency which is wont to seize upon you and forbid you to act. Let us at least do what we can, for sure the weakest effort is better than none at all, and when we have done our utmost, it may be heaven will send us what other help we need.”

“Sure heaven hath done much already in giving me such a wife,” says I, and kissed her, feeling that I was indeed blessed above my deserts.

“Hush!” says Dorothy on a sudden, going again to the window. “Here come our sons. There’s no need for ’em to hear of this trouble.”

Almost as she spake, the door was burst open, and our little Bob ran in.

“Oh, madam!” says he to his mother, “I had been looking for you. May I have a ride on my papa’s horse? I ran on before Hal and Mr Tilney on purpose that I might ask you.”

“We han’t gone riding this morning, my son,” says I. “But what’s that coming up the fir-walk?”

“Oh, ’tis a coach,” says Bob, “as fine as ours but not so large, and splashed all over with mud. There’s an old gentleman inside, that shook his stick at me when he saw me run, and a servant like Loll Duss riding behind.”

“Is this another messenger of disaster?” says I to Dorothy.

“Or a messenger of hope?” says she. “Do you know the gentleman, Bob?”

“No, madam, but I heard him call to Hal and bid him take a seat in the coach with Mr Tilney, since he desired to speak with him. ‘Are you the son of my old friend Ned Carlyon, my little man?’ says he, and Hal says he was.”

Dorothy and I looked one at the other, for the same thought was come in both our minds, but seemed too good to be true. But now the coach had reached the door, and there come into the parlour Mr Tilney, the boys’ governor, a very ingenious young man and one of excellent parts, that had passed through his studies at the University with infinite credit to himself, and was glad to hold this respectable place in my family until he should have some hopes of preferment in the Church offered him.

“Sir,” says he, “there’s a gentleman without that says he is a friend of your honour’s, but don’t desire to send in his name. I have bid Master Harry entertain him until I could find you.”

Still wondering whether our thought might be right, Dorothy and I went out into the hall in time to see our son Harry assisting out of the coach with great civility an ancient gentleman with a great white peruke and a heavy gold-headed cane, an Indian servant standing beside the coach-door with his master’s cloak. Seeing us, the old gentleman held out both his hands with a merry laugh.

“Ha, Ned!” says he, “here I am, and do hope you are but half so pleased to behold me as I to meet you again. _Love and lordship like no fellowship_, ’tis said, but methought you would find room for your old friend for a day or two. Pray, is this my fair friend Mrs Carlyon?--my friend, I say, though I never yet saw her, from my hearing so much touching her. Madam, I could well believe, but for the presence of these young gentlemen, that you were married but a year at most. And pray, where is my godson? Is he that naughty rogue I saw run on but now when his governor called him back? Fie, lad, fie! Did you never hear that _He that will not be rul’d by his owne dame, must bee ruled by his step-dame_? this signifying that a harder discipline must be used where a milder fails. Nay, Ned, my dear lad, I an’t Methusalem!”

This because Dorothy and I had now conveyed him into the parlour (he talking fast all the time, for to keep back the tears that were near his eyes), and were desiring him to sit and rest himself in my father’s great chair, that was never used by us, but stood ready with its cushions even as he had last left it. But my dear Mr Martin was like a father to me, and I would fain have him sit in Sir Harry’s chair. And here at last we gat him seated, when he looked round upon us with a prodigious happiness in his face.

“You will remain with us, dear sir?” says Dorothy.

“If you’ll put up with a peevish old man, madam,” says he.

“For shame, sir!” says she. “Hal, go bid Mr Martin’s coachman drive round to the stables, and tell Loll Duss and Miles who is arrived.”

“May I go with Hal, madam, and see the horses put up?” says Bob.

“See here, my little man,” says Mr Martin, “if your governor will suffer you, go to my servant Rum Cunder, and ask him to let you see a certain beast that he hath in a cage. Maybe you han’t neither of you often seen his like.”

“Oh, sir, please come at once,” says Bob in a great hurry, and departs with his brother and Mr Tilney. Mr Martin turned to my wife and me when the door was once shut--

“You were in some trouble when I arrived, Ned, and you also, my dear madam. I saw so much in your faces. If you had rather that I tarried at the inn, and not here, don’t scruple to tell me so. _A friend is never knowne till a man have need_, and what good is he if a man don’t dare tell him when he would fain not entertain him?”

“On the contrary, sir,” says I, “though we should at any time be ready to welcome you with delight, yet now especially are we in such a case as we had as soon see you as an angel from heaven.”

“An enemy hath but just made most shameful charges against my husband, sir,” says Dorothy, “and he is in some degree minded to submit and make no attempt to clear himself.”

“Well,” saith Mr Martin, “_Every man as he loveth, as the good man said, when hee kist his cow_; but in this case I would say that if these charges may be disproved, they should be so. And pray, madam, what may they be, and who is’t brings ’em?”

For answer we did lay before him Mr Spender’s letter, which Mr Martin read through very carefully, and then sat for some time considering, with his chin on his hand.

“Well, sir?” saith Dorothy at last.

“I think, madam,” says he slowly, “that you were right to suppose that I might furnish you with weapons against this person’s accusations. When must your answer be returned to the charge, Ned?”

I told him of the ball to be danced on the next evening, and of the threats of public insult there that I had received.

“Then this,” said he, “is my counsel. Send word at once to Sir Ambrose, begging him and the other gentlemen that are interested in the matter, and in especial Mr Spender himself, to meet you in a private room at the inn an hour before the dancing begin. Say that you hope to have an answer to the charges, but make no mention of me, and bid your servants not betray my arrival to any one in the town. ’Tis well I came from the t’other side of you, and so had no need to pass through Puckle Acton.”

“Then you can confute this man Spender, sir?” asks Dorothy.

“Madam,” says he, “I make no doubt but to-morrow we shall see a very pretty comedy played in the inn-parlour. _The False Charge, or the Accuser Unmasked_, hath an agreeable sound, han’t it? They say, _He that mischief hatcheth, mischief catcheth_, and methinks Mr Vane Spender won’t find it otherwise.”

“You are indeed an angel, sir,” says Dorothy, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Nay,” says he, “though I could wish I were, if I should always be rewarded thus.” And so, with much laughter, to the business of writing a billet for Loll Duss to carry to Sir Ambrose his house, and this despatched, to talking of Surat and the sore changes there, and likewise the great ambition and strange doings of the Emperor Auren Zeeb in his wars in Duccan, which all was as a breath of native air to me, and filled me with great contentment to speak on’t. And thus the day passed agreeably enough, and the earlier part of the next likewise, until it was high time to prepare for the ball. And for this we dressed ourselves with prodigious care, not choosing by any lack of neatness in our apparel to give cause for them that saw us to say that we had lost confidence in the justice of our cause, and so sought to move pity by our neglected aspect. And indeed, when my wife was dressed, she looked as well as I have ever seen her, wearing a gown of very rich brocado, the colours blue and gold, and her lace prodigious fine. Likewise also she was wearing the pearls that Mr Martin had sent her on our marriage, and this piece of gentle flattery did please our old friend mightily.

Now when we were dressed, we set forth to the town my wife and Mr Martin in the coach, and I riding beside them. And coming to the cross-roads, whom should we meet but my lord duke and the two duchesses, his mother and his lady, coming from Belfort, the which was done with no small difficulty, the ways being so miry as it was hard to get the coach along ’em. And I seeing that his grace was clearly acquainted already of the particulars of my fancied dishonour (though he did greet me with all kindness), thought it well to confide to him the whole matter, and engage his help for the completer discomfiting Mr Spender. And upon this he waxed very merry, promising himself a huge enjoyment in the comedy we purposed to ourselves, and showed himself very friendly towards me. Likewise the ladies also did make much of my wife, kissing her when they met, and making her a handsome compliment on her brave attire, bidding her also come to visit upon them at Belfort, the which any gentlewoman in the county would be proud to do. And being now arrived at the inn, Dorothy did wait upon their ladyships to the chamber they had bespoke, while my lord duke engaged the help of the landlord, and so brought Mr Martin up-stairs into the room where the colloquy should be held, and placed him secretly there in a window, being hid from those in the chamber.

The other gentlemen then coming in one by one, his grace sat down at the head of the table, with Sir Ambrose and Mr Spender on either hand beside him, and so opened the business. And I, as Mr Martin had bid me, did proceed (Mr Spender having declared himself willing to answer all reasonable interrogatories) to examine him straitly upon the terms of his letter, and soon perceived, as I had expected, that he had given himself only to invent a history that should sound likely and convenient for the present season, looking forward to a period of two years or thereabouts before I could obtain my justification from East India, but had taken no thought to forge any false papers that might maintain his slander longer. And this I considered extremely prudent in him, since he might well believe that some traces of the accusations would always remain against me, as Dorothy had said, though nothing plain and clear could be alleged. But when he had finished declaring the truth of all that he had wrote, as also of all that he had now said, and all the gentlemen was beginning to look very black upon me, there was a sound in the window as of a chair’s being pushed back, and Mr Martin came out from the curtains, at sight of whom Mr Spender turned pale, and made as though he would have fled, but that Mr Waterdale bid him angrily remain.

“Gentlemen,” says I, “this is Mr Martin, lately in the Hon. East India Company’s service as Accountant at Surat, which post is, I may tell you, second only to the President himself. He hath been of my acquaintance since first I went to the Indies, and will answer any question you may be pleased to put to him.”

“But first,” says Mr Martin, “with your leave, gentlemen, I would fain put one only question to Mr Spender--namely, whether he consider it prudent for a person dismissed the Company’s service for unlawful trafficking with interlopers to bring such charges as those in this letter that I hold?”

The gentlemen present, not knowing the nature of the Company’s business, did not understand this question, saving his grace, and did ask of Mr Martin what it meant.

“The Honourable Company,” saith he, “hath the monopoly of the East India trade in its own ports, and all those infringing this monopoly are termed interlopers. Not two years ago it was discovered that there was many of these interlopers trading in the Company’s ports by virtue of permissions signed by the President of the Indies, now at Bombaim, and upon inquiry being made, it was found that these were obtained from Mr Spender in return for a genteel sum of money, he acting secretary to the President, and placing by sleight of hand these papers among those that were to be signed, without his honour’s perceiving it. Upon this Mr Spender was dismissed the Company’s service in disgrace, and I scarce think that this record do entitle him to credit from you.”

The gentlemen all looked much disturbed on hearing this, and next Mr Martin took the letter in hand, refuting each particular in turn as he came to’t, some upon the testimony of Captain Freeman and others, but most of ’em upon his own recollection. The few charges that he could not treat from his personal knowledge was so small as they mattered little beside those he was able to confute, and so great was the contrast between his reverend aspect and the shamefaced air of Mr Spender, that none could doubt whether of the two should be believed.

“Now, sir,” says my lord duke, “what have you to say in answer to this gentleman?” looking for some further bravado from my accuser.

“I must regret that I was misinformed, your grace,” stammered he, and did push back his chair for to depart.

“You do well to leave us, sir, indeed,” says his grace coldly. “I presume, gentlemen, that there an’t no doubt in any of your minds but that Mr Carlyon hath fully vindicated his honour?”

“If you desire satisfaction from me, Mr Carlyon, I shall be happy to receive any friend of yours,” says Sir Ambrose gruffly.

“And so shall we all,” says another gentleman, Mr Spender and his cousin Mr Willesford being by this time departed.

“Nay, gentlemen,” says Mr Martin, very earnestly, “I do entreat you to entertain no thought of having recourse to that most foolish and unchristian custom of the duello. My lord duke, sure your grace must agree with me. Is it reasonable that Mr Carlyon, who hath but just vindicated his honour, should now be forced to peril his life against each of these gentlemen in turn, through no fault of his own? Sure there’s no pagans would behave so wildly.”

“You are right, sir,” says his grace, “Mr Carlyon’s honour is now established beyond a doubt, and I think he won’t deny but these gentlemen have all acted in good faith. ’Tis my express desire that you be all reconciled, and that the matter drop here. Pray give me your hand, my good cousin Carlyon.”

He grasped my hand very heartily, and after him each of the gentlemen in his turn, and Mr Martin, with great joy, last of all.

“And now,” said his grace, “I’m well assured that the gentlewomen are believing us lost, or busy hatching a conspiracy, at the very least. If you be of my mind, let us rejoin ’em, and quiet their anxieties.”

So we all to find our wives, and then to the ball-room on the ground-floor of the inn, where was dancing kept up until very late, his grace leading out my wife, and she having such a radiant air by reason of her gladness as that all others, and not I alone, saw her to be the finest woman in the room. And so at last home, thanking God very heartily for His great goodness and mercy towards us.

Now the next day Mr Martin, in talking with my wife and me, did counsel me to write in full a history of my life, setting down in order all that was befallen me, to the intent that should these slanders be revived in later years, our children should find their answer ready to their hand, and so defend not my honour only, but that of Madam Heliodora, so foully assailed by my accuser. And this I have now done, writing all my history for my children’s sake with much time and labour, and designing to lay the book away safely in the cabinet wherein my wife keeps her most precious jewels, that so our sons may not be troubled with fears of evil should no necessity arise, and yet may have help at hand when they shall find the need on’t. And in this book, lest I should in any way obscure the truth, I have striven to extenuate nothing that might appear blameable in my own nature or carriage, but in like manner as I have faithfully set down the perverse humours and youthful passions that did lead me into wrong-doing, so also have I not scrupled to bring forward those things which, in my plainer judgment, may serve in some measure to account for, though by no means to excuse, my evil deeds. Such, then, was my design in the writing this history, and though the composure on’t have cost me infinite pains, yet I don’t consider the price to be too dear, but toil well expended, if, in addition to the good mentioned above, the perusing it may avail to keep any offspring of mine from any of those pitfalls wherein I fell.

E. CARLYON.

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_Notandum._--That I have read through this book, and do confirm all that is wrote in’t to be true, in so far as the matters therein related came under my cognisance, and for the rest, I am confident in the good faith of my friend, Mr Edward Carlyon.

And to this I set my hand and seal,
(Signed) Robt. Martin,
Of the Bathe, in the county of Somerset, gentleman.

At Ellswether, this 23_d day of September_ 1698.

APPENDICES.