“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.”