“But pray, sir, tell me more of this person.”
“Why, madam, what little I could tell you would be as displeasing for you to hear as for me to relate.”
I went as red as fire, I am sure. “Oh, sir, pray pardon me if I have trespassed on your patience. I know I’m a sad creature for asking questions, and I fear you’ll think I’m intruding into matters too high for a young woman to concern herself with.”
For I remembered, Amelia (how can I ever forget it?), that dreadful day at Holly-tree House, when the Rector brought his brother, the Admiral, to wait on our instructresses. You’ll know with what spirit the dear good gentleman described the last fleet action in which he had taken part, and how I was carried away by my excitements, and asked him all sorts of questions about the ships and their disposition. He saluted me at parting, you’ll remember, and said to Mrs Eustacia, “I dare be bound, madam, this pretty little Miss could write as fair an account of the fight as any clerk I ever had on board ship,” which piece of kindness puffed me up not a little. But when he was gone away with his brother, I was sent for to Mrs Eustacia, and chidden for meddling in matters with which I had no concern. There was nothing, said the good lady, that was so much disliked by gentlemen as the affectation of masculine knowledge in a young woman, and if I was so unhappy as to be cursed with a taste for severe learning, it behoved me to conceal it as I would the plague. And so I have always strove to do, aided by the kind condescension that prompts most gentlemen to turn the answer to a lady’s question into a compliment to her eyes or her smile, but this inquisitive spirit of mine (what am I to do with it, my dear?) is perpetually leading me wrong. But Captain Colquhoun was more tender to my fault than Mrs Eustacia had been.
“Indeed, madam,” he said, “I could wish there was more of our ladies here with your laudable desire of knowledge. If they took these things into account, there might be less of that grasping and grinding for money, which is making us (saving your presence) to stink in the nostrils of the Indians. But when every one is seeking to outshine her neighbours, and luxury is come to such a pitch among us that Rome herself can’t scarce have been worse, what wonder that money is sought by the sale of dussticks[15] and in other irregular ways, to the great damage of the Nabob and our eternal discredit?”
“Then you look for a judgment upon this place, sir?”
“I look for an invasion sooner or later of our territory on the part of the Chuta Nabob, madam, unless heaven should interpose and raise one of the other claimants to the soubahship[16] in his place. And when that invasion comes, here are we, with the Fort all tumbling to pieces, the guns useless, no powder, and a militia that don’t know one end of their muskets from t’other.”
“And is this the fault of the Company, sir?”
“No, madam. The Company sent out orders for the drilling of the militia by the Godolphin four years ago, and this year they have ordered positively the repair of the fortifications on two separate occasions, chiefly on account of the threatened war with France. But Colonel Scott, who prepared the complete plan of defence which was ordered to be carried out, is dead, and Mr Drake and the gentlemen of the Presidency won’t listen to any one of less responsible station. So the work is hung up, as the lawyers say, and when the place is plunged in one common ruin, all will suffer alike, though with different deserts.”
This and some further conversation to the same effect has made me (as I may without shame confess to my Amelia) almost afraid to sleep in my bed, lest I should find myself aroused at midnight by the terrors of a Moorish invasion. Here, where there’s no Whigs nor Tories, I am become as strong a party-woman, to use Mr Addison’s phrase, as any of the ladies of whom he wrote; and should the fashion arise, as in his days, of wearing hoods differing in colour according to the politics of the wearers, I should be among the first to adopt it. Let me see: our side would choose red, I suppose, as signifying our desire for warlike preparations, while the ladies of Mr Drake’s party would wear the Quaker gray. I think our party would have the best of it, Amelia; don’t you?
Calcutta, September ye 21st.
’Tis time, indeed, that I brought this letter to a close; but there’s one or two things I must first put down, though at the risque of my dear girl’s thinking me a sad tedious scribbler. I have found the way, Amelia, into my stepmother’s favour—a thing that would be altogether charming, were it not that the means thereto are such as, to borrow a phrase from our great but neglected British poet, would leave me poor indeed. But you shall hear. On Saturday, then, my trunks, which had been in the hold of the Orford, were brought to the house, and I was extraordinary well pleased, for I had feared to be forced to stay from church the next day for want of a suitable gown. Mrs Freyne was to the full as glad as I, and shut herself up with me in my chamber to see the trunks unpacked, telling the banyan, who performs such services of ceremony here, to deny her to her visitants, using the phrase “The door is shut,” which is so understood by everybody. Well, as Marianna unfolded and laid out one gown after another, I could see that Mrs Freyne became less and less contented, and at last she burst out with—
“I vow, miss, you have a prodigious great store of clothes. Pray how much did Mr Freyne send home for providing you with ’em?”
“I don’t know, madam,” I said, and I was thankful to be able to say so. “The gentlewomen at Holly-tree House were bid to provide them, and account to Mr Freyne, within a certain sum.”
“You might have been coming out as a married woman,” says my stepmother, smoothing the satin of my white quilted petticoat. “I never saw a young Miss so absurdly well provided. Look you there now; you have three—four—silk night-gowns, and questionless a dozen or two of muslin ones.”
“No, madam, I have none of muslin. Mrs Abigail said they would be made cheaper here, and the limit of the money not exceeded.”
Mrs Freyne’s countenance cleared. “Why then,” she said, “I’ll show you what’s to be done. You shall give me two of these silk night-gowns, and I’ll have half a dozen muslin ones made for you from stuff that I have lying by, and so you’ll be properly dressed and not over-furnished.”
“As you please, madam,” said I. But I was glad she left me the white damask and the yellow lustring, and took the blue and the green, which, as you know, I was not so pleased with. But I trembled when I saw her considering my blush-coloured paduasoy with the silver lace. If she had laid hands on it, I must have ventured to suggest to her that the hue was not becoming to ladies of such a delicate complexion as hers, but only to brown girls with a high colour, like your Sylvia. But she passed it over, and after requesting of me such trifles as an apron or two and a French necklace,[17] came to my head-clothes.
“Indeed you’re not badly off for lace!” she said. “Three heads,[18] as I’m alive—two Brussels and a Mechlin. I’m sure you can’t want this Brussels mob, miss.”
“Oh, pray, madam,” I said in a great taking, “you are welcome to the other two, but leave me that one.”
“I think it’s very ill-natured in you, miss, to say that when you know I have set my heart on it. How can you be so unamiable? I like to see a young woman facetious[19] to those about her.”
“Indeed I can’t give it you, madam,” I said, “for the lace was my mother’s, but if you’ll accept of the loan of it——”
“I see you en’t so disobliging as I thought,” said she graciously, and carried off the cap, though I would have given almost any of my other clothes to have kept it. But she has treated me much more obligingly since, and now that I know the way into her good graces, I shan’t forget the lesson, though to practise it might cost me all my favourite gowns, even to my mother’s white brocade flowered with gold. But no, I had forgot. She won’t want that, though she was mightily taken with the fashion of it (it was made over after the pattern of the Princess Emily’s gown for the last Birth-night,[20] my dearest friend will remember), for she said the stuff might have come out of Noah’s Ark.
The next day we went to church in state, all of us in our palanqueens, with the peon marching before, and boys with fans and so on following behind. I was wearing my paduasoy, with the ribbons to match in my cap, and before we started my papa was so very kind as to place round my neck a collar of pearls, so large and white and fine that a queen might wear them, and I could scarce believe they were really designed for me. Mrs Freyne wore a very fine flowered satin, with the embroidered apron she had from me, and her diamonds made me wink to look at them. Forgive me, my dear, for entering into such particulars on such an occasion. I can’t tell why it should be that the Calcutta people should make such a show and parade of one’s first appearance at church, any more than why we in England should do the same on the Sunday after a wedding, but it is to them as important as an appearance at Court. I must tell you that I had devised a little plan with Miss Hamlin, which she succeeded in carrying out with the greatest exactness imaginable. Our respective processions (I can’t find any other word for it) approaching from opposite directions, we reached the church compound (which means an enclosure) at the same time, but at different gates, so that the gentlemen who were waiting to catch sight of the newly-arrived ladies were drawn two ways at once, and divided their forces. Still, there were enough of them to cause me great uneasiness, as they all pressed round to help me from the palanqueen, desiring to be allowed to hand me into church, or to carry a prayer-book, a fan, or even a handkerchief. I was so pressed and pestered that I didn’t know what to do, and suddenly catching sight of Captain Colquhoun on the outskirts of the crowd, I beckoned to him with my fan (I hope it wasn’t very forward in me), and he came and lent me his hand into the church. As we entered, in came Miss Hamlin at the opposite door, and handing her was the very gentleman we had seen standing in the gateway of the Fort on our arrival. We made our honours to each other as we passed to our pews, and there, with the Indian boys flapping us with feather fans, and the eyes of half the congregation fixed on one whenever the time came to stand up, I did my best to compose my thoughts suitably to the solemnity of the service. I am ashamed to say that I never found it so hard in my life.
After an excellent discourse from good Mr Bellamy (I had now commanded my thoughts sufficiently to be able to listen to it with attention), we passed out into the church porch, and there was such a bowing and curtseying and whispering and staring as you never saw. Every moment it was, “Pray, sir, present me to your lovely daughter,” or, “Do, dear madam, make me acquainted with this charming Miss,” and kind things enough said to confuse a London beauty, much more a poor girl just fresh from her boarding-school, as Miss Hamlin has so great a fancy for reminding me. And, indeed, Amelia, I was so flurried and flustered with trying to curtsey all ways at once, and with saying, “Sir, you’re most obliging”—“Madam, you are too good”—“Dear sir, you overpower me”—“Pray, madam, don’t make me blush with your kindness” (though I think it far from kind, and quite barbarous, to praise a young creature’s looks to her very face, till she don’t know whither to turn her eyes),—that I don’t know what would have happened if it had not been for Miss Hamlin. This extraordinary young lady had been receiving the compliments of the gentlemen with all the composure of a queen, though now and then she would lift her eyes and reply with a witty sentiment that set all but one of her admirers laughing at that one; but now, when we were both beset by some twenty importunate persons, all crying, “Madam, permit me the honour”—“Allow me, madam”—“Madam, your most obedient,” desiring to hand us to our palanqueens, she stepped across suddenly to me, and, seizing my hand, led me down the steps. “We can’t allow you all the pleasure and the honour, gentlemen,” she said, holding up her fan to shelter her from the sun. “Sure you won’t none of you grudge a little of it to Miss Freyne and me?”
I heard the gentlemen shout with laughter at the whimsical drollery of her tone, and I laughed myself, though I made sure we should not find our palanqueens among those at the foot of the steps, and should be forced to beg one of the gentlemen we had scorned to go in search of them. But there, to my surprise, they were, and Miss Hamlin handed me in with the most graceful air in the world.
“Oh dear, miss,” said I, “what should we have done if this had not happened so pat?”
“Happened?” says she. “I had it happen, sweet innocence. I gave my uncle’s peon his orders before church, and let me tell you, miss, that if that blackfellow think it safe to disobey any one’s orders at our house, it en’t those of the Chuta Beebee.”
“But shan’t we discommode Mr and Mrs Hamlin by bringing ’em to this door, miss?”
“No, indeed, miss. Why, we are all coming to tiffing at your papa’s, and our elders ought to thank me for ridding ’em so soon of the gentlemen.”
But we were not yet rid of the gentlemen, for they came down the steps in a body, headed by our fellow-passenger, Mr Ranger, and by Mr Ensign Bellamy, the Padra’s son, and with much raillery about the rival beauties, and the pretence of devoted friendship to deceive the looker-on, proceeded to escorte us home, marching before and behind our palanqueens, which they insisted should be carried exactly abreast. On reaching the house, we were handed out with great ceremony by our chief cavaliers, the rest of the gentlemen standing and bowing, and my papa, who had reached home by a shorter way, invited them all into the varanda to drink our healths. For indeed he was pleased to be charmed, not only with the honour the gentlemen had done us, as they considered it, but with Miss Hamlin’s action on the church-steps, and said afterwards that she was a fine, handsome, sprightly girl, and he would not be sorry to see me with a touch of her spirit, but my stepmother called her a bold-faced slut.
The things I have mentioned all happened the day before yesterday, and last evening, finding Mrs Freyne about to set forth to an assembly at my Lady Russell’s house in the Rope-walk, I wondered whether she would bid me attend her there, since I was now introduced into the world of Calcutta. But she said nothing of taking me with her, and started alone, while I sat down and wrote these sheets to my Amelia, since my papa was gone to sup with the Governor at the Company’s house on the other side of the Fort. To my surprise, however, he returned home early in the evening, and testifying some vexation on finding me alone, offered to carry me for an airing in the budgero on the water in the moonlight. You’ll guess that I accepted his kindness with transports of gratitude, and sure the occasion had been a charming one, even if it had not brought the added pleasure of his dear company. But as it fell out, he was good enough to speak to me in so tender and affecting a manner as I could describe to no one but my dearest friend.
“Has any one here remarked to you that you are like your mother, miss?” he asked me.
“No, sir; no one but yourself.”
Mr Freyne. And yet to me every turn of your head, every motion of your arm, recalls her to mind. But I suppose few would remember her.
Sylvia. It must be near eighteen years since she left Fort William, sir.
Mr F. True, my girl, and our generations are but short ones in Bengall. Yet it seems to me, seeing you, only yesterday that I took leave of my Sally on the deck of the Sunderland (for I had accompanied her out to sea as far as I might go). The iya stood behind her, holding her infant (that was you, miss), christened by the Padra in haste that very day. Your mother would have you named Sylvia, saying that her own name was so ugly she would choose a sweet pretty one for her baby, and ’twas as much for your sake as her own that she embarked upon that voyage to the Cape of Good Hope which the physician said would save both your lives, for that season was a prodigious unhealthy one at Fort William. The Company’s rule forbids its servants to leave their posts unless sent on business by the Council here, and I durst not throw up the Service if I did not wish us all to starve. So I went back to my work, and managed to scrape together a sufficiency of money to enable me to hire the house we now have from Omy Chund, the Gentoo shroff[21] that owns half Calcutta. ’Twas an agreeable place enough, and cooler than my old quarters in the Fort, and I watched for the coming of the ships from home, which should bring my Sally back to me from the Cape. Instead of that, the first that arrived brought me the news of her death. She had died at sea, and the child was gone on to England with its nurse, to be bred up, as its mother had desired, by the two French gentlewomen who had instructed herself. Does my girl recollect anything of that voyage?
Sylvia (weeping). Nothing, sir. I was barely a year old when I reached Holly-tree House.
Mr F. And you knew as little of your papa as he of you. In mourning my lost charmer I forgot the sweet little pledge of our loves which she had left me. Was there anything to remind you that you possessed a living parent, child?
Sylvia. Indeed, dear sir, there was not much. The other young Misses could talk of their papas’ kindness to them in their holidays, but all times were the same to me. Once or twice you were good enough to say in your letters to Mrs Eustacia, “I hope Miss is a good girl, and minds her book,” and I’ll assure you the school could scarce contain me, I was so proud to be remembered so far away.
Mr F. At times I could almost wish that I had left the Service five years ago, and gone home to settle down somewhere with my girl. But, no; I had not money enough, and must make more. And make it I did, and am making it every day more and more—for Madam to spend.
Sylvia. Sure, sir, Mrs Freyne lays it out with great elegance.
Mr F. Questionless, miss. But I had as lief the money and the elegance had been some other man’s. There’s a pleasing quality of your sex, that they can’t endure for any one to be indifferent towards ’em. When Miss Harriet Quinion from Madrass came to visit her relations here, and had the whole place at her feet, sure ’twas more than kind in her to take no satisfaction in the admiration she received because there was one old fellow that had no part in it. I dare avouch that Henry Freyne’s coldness piqued her more than all her conquests pleased her. At any rate, she was determined to overcome it, and brought all her feminine artillery to bear on the man that was still wedded to the memory of a wife dead these fifteen years. All the ladies gave her their assistance, of course—they love to hunt down one that they believe a contemner of their sex—and you don’t need telling what the event was, which gave me the honour of keeping Mrs Freyne in gowns and equipages, and blessed you, miss, with the tender care of a stepmother, for which I don’t doubt you have often thanked me with tears.
Sylvia. Oh pray, dear sir, don’t think I have ventured to cavil at anything you may choose to do. En’t it your right to please yourself?
Mr F. To please myself! Quite so, and I did it, you would say, miss? But it did not please Madam to have you out here at all, not knowing your dutiful inclinations towards her. Indeed, I was almost resolved, for your own sake, to request your instructresses to see you married at home, with no question of coming out, but Madam over-reached herself there. Knowing nothing of my intentions, she kept up such a clamour at me about you, that hearing Mrs Hamlin was to bring out her niece this year, I took a sudden determination, and wrote that you should come with her.
Sylvia. How can I ever thank you enough, dear sir?
Mr F. What, you were glad to come? But how long am I to keep you, miss, pray? Are you to be married to-morrow or the day after?
Sylvia (trembling). Oh, dear sir, if I might venture to entreat——
Mr F. (roughly). Out with it, miss. Are you married already?
Sylvia. Oh no, no, sir. All I desired was to ask that I might be permitted to lead a single life for the present, and devote myself to my dear papa, of whom I have seen so little.
Mr F. (looking stern). This means, miss, that you’re entertaining some lover whom you don’t dare present to me.
Sylvia. Forgive me, dear sir, but you wrong me. My papa will believe me when I assure him that there’s no one I could marry sooner than another.
Mr F. Then pray, miss, what does all this mean that Madam has been telling me, having heard it from Mrs Hamlin, about some nephew of Captain Colquhoun’s?
Sylvia. I don’t know, sir, I’m sure, what you may have heard from Mrs Freyne, but the only relative of the Captain with whom I am acquainted is the humble servant of another lady.
Mr F. It en’t an unheard-of thing for a lover to change his divinity.
Sylvia. Indeed, sir, I can assure you that the very last time I saw him the gentleman protested to me his unaltered devotion to his original charmer.
Mr F. Then Madam has been trying to make mischief, curse me if she hasn’t! Give me a kiss, my girl. You deserve something for answering with so much sense and calmness questions over which most young Misses would have fallen into fits, and you shan’t be drove into any marriage to please her. You may have this coming cold weather to look about you and decide whom you’ll have. But mind you, there’s to be no coquetting first with one and then with another. The first sign I see of that, I vow I’ll marry you off next day to the oldest and ugliest gentleman of my acquaintance. I won’t have half the young sparks of Calcutta killing t’other half in duels about my daughter.
Sylvia. ’Twill be no hardship to me to obey you, sir. I believe I prefer the elder gentlemen to the younger. If you choose, I’ll adopt Captain Colquhoun as my cavalier whenever he’s present.
Mr F. As you did yesterday? By all means, miss. But you’re not to set yourself to break the poor Captain’s heart because you think him old and ugly. He’s the most respectable person in Calcutta, save Padra Bellamy and one or two more, and also the most foolish and the worst treated.
Sylvia. You surprise me, sir.
Mr F. He’s the most foolish because, in company with Captain Jones of the Train,[22] he persists in running his head against a stone wall. Only last week they were told not to come troubling the Council with their nonsense, having been pressing them for the hundredth time to put the place into a state of defence. And he’s also foolish because, when he might have been transferred two years ago to the Carnatic he refused to go, lest he should seem to be running away from his enemies here, and you won’t wonder that he’s ill-treated after what I have told you.
This, my Amelia, ended our conversation, which has filled me with a hundred grateful thoughts of my dear papa. One thing only troubles me, but surely I am not called upon to confess my foolishness in the matter of Mr Fraser? To admit that he gave me cause to think him my lover would mean that my papa would insist upon quarrelling with him, while surely the poor man en’t to blame if a silly girl took his undoubted kindness to mean other than it did. No, the history of my mistake shall still be confided only to the faithful bosom of my Amelia, and I’ll hope more fervently than ever that winds and tides and the public service may combine to keep the Tyger, and in especial her fourth lieutenant, away from Bengall. My deepest love and gratitude are owed to my dear papa for his goodness, which is beyond what I had dared to hope, and will enable me to triumph over Miss Hamlin, whose prophecies have been so signally belied.
Calcutta, March ye 10th, 1756.
What! (I think I hear my Amelia cry, when her eye lights upon the date of this letter,) no word for close upon six months, and this from the friend who swore that her most secret thoughts should lie open to me? Indeed, I must confess that I have been sadly remiss in writing to my dear girl, and what’s worse, I have no valid excuse for’t, but only two or three weak ones. For whether I plead that I have begun a letter two or three times over, and torn it up because it seemed that there was nothing but trifles to tell, or that at another time I delayed because I thought that I could describe the life of this place better when I had had more experience of it, it but goes to prove that I deserve no pardon. Nevertheless, I can satisfy my Amelia in one thing. My idleness en’t due to any alteration in my friendship for her, nor yet to any change in my own condition. Your friend is Sylvia Freyne still. But oh, my dear, prepare for a surprise; your Sylvia is become a toast! Now, indeed, you’ll laugh, and well you may. When the gentlemen come thronging about me, ’tis as much as I can do not to cry out to them, “Good sirs, you are pleased to commend me so highly, I wonder what you would say if I could exhibit my Miss Turnor to you?” ’Tis all my English colour, Amelia; my stepmother has told me so again and again (although, as you’ll remember, she was of the contrary opinion at first), and when that’s gone, as it will go in this coming hot weather, I shan’t be able so much as to find a gentleman that will hand me to my chair. But this I don’t believe, for young women are sufficiently scarce in Calcutta to receive polite attention however plain they be, and for this cold season, at any rate, I have had my fill of homage.
Don’t charge me with boasting when I tell you, merely in order to exhibit the absurdity of the whole affair, that I am now quite accustomed to be guarded home at night from a ball or assembly by a troop of gentlemen with drawn swords, who force every European they meet to uncover and stand humbly aside, and every Indian to take off his shoes and bow himself to the ground before my palanqueen. Day after day, too, I find my dressing-table covered with chitts (which are small notes or billets) and salams (by which is meant nosegays of flowers, and other tributes of admiration), all of which Marianna sweeps aside with the greatest coolness in the world, as though she had not accepted a rupee (and I’m much mistaken if it was not a sicca[01] one) for placing each of them there. Sure, my dear, these things are enough to make one feel silly, and indeed I thought myself the greatest fool imaginable at first, but by this time I have learnt to practise the carriage which becomes a Calcutta beauty. Why, Amelia, I would not lift a finger to brush a fly from my dress if there was a gentleman (or at the worst a servant) within call to do it for me; and as for taking the trouble to fan myself—! No, your Sylvia has learned the lesson of elegant languor which befits these climates, and even Miss Hamlin would hardly call her a boarding-school Miss now. The gentlemen say, I am told, that your friend has the coldest heart (and the finest eyes, they are pleased to add) in Calcutta, and they choose to resent my preference for a single life so fiercely that they have bound themselves together against me, all agreeing to support any one of their number who can show that he possesses good hopes of capturing the fortress. Now en’t this a quantity of silly stuff for a young creature to write that piques herself on her good sense? Forgive me, Amelia; your Sylvia’s head en’t quite turned, though it has often bid fair to be with all this violent admiration.
But what, you’ll say, of Miss Hamlin? Is she married yet? No, my dear, she is not, and all because, as she says, she won’t allow herself to be outdone by a chit of a girl like your friend. If Miss Freyne has sufficient strength of mind to refuse to be made a slave of before she choose, so has she. But she has promised her suitors (and they are many) that her wedding, when it comes, shall be like none that was ever solemnised in Calcutta before, so that the mere honour of being present shall be sufficient consolation to every man but the bridegroom. “And as for him,” says she, “if he be so adventurous as to marry Charlotte Hamlin, he will deserve the punishment he’ll get.” This piece of pleasantry was repeated all over Calcutta before it had been two hours uttered, but none of the gentlemen appeared to be deterred by it from continuing to press his suit. For if your Sylvia be a toast, Miss Hamlin is a queen, and the more sternly she rules, the more eagerly do her subjects crowd forward to place themselves under her yoke. This strange girl and I have never quarrelled, in spite of constant provocations. We differ in opinion fifty times in an hour, we bicker and squabble as often as we meet, and yet, next to my Amelia, there’s no female friend I would sooner find at my side in trouble than Miss Hamlin.
But now to let you know something of the course of my life here. I rise early, as does all the world, and take a light breakfast with my papa in the varanda. My Amelia will understand how agreeable these morning hours, spent in the company of the most venerable of men, are to me. I should never have dared to offer myself as Mr Freyne’s companion, but it so happened that one day he asked me why I never came near him in the mornings, although he heard me moving about the house.
“Indeed, dear sir,” I said, “I was afraid to interrupt your conversations with Mrs Freyne.”
“Pray, miss,” said my papa, with much displeasure, “don’t be pert. You wasn’t used to be when you landed.”
“Pardon me, sir, but indeed I feared to intrude.”
“If Mrs Freyne were to do me the honour to leave her bed and sit opposite me, miss, I should see nothing but a dirty wrapper and the point of my wife’s nose, covered in with five or six nightcaps. But she don’t.”
“Then may I really attend you at breakfast, sir?”
“You may, miss. I’ll be hanged if I know why I should be deprived of my girl’s company for the sake of Madam’s punctilio.”
And thus it has happened that all this cold weather I have enjoyed the advantage of listening to my dear papa’s conversation, which he has been good enough to direct especially to my improvement, encouraging me to ask questions, and rewarding my inquisitiveness (which you’ll say needed no such spur) with an infinity of curious information. After the remark he was pleased to pass on Mrs Freyne’s morning undress, you may guess how careful I am never to wait upon him in a wrapper, far less in a bedgown[02] and petticoat, such as is worn by some of our ladies here as late as the middle of the day. When my Amelia and I entered into a resolve to emulate the example of the excellent Clarissa, and never appear outside our chambers unless fully dressed for the day, we did not think that I should have so much reason to be grateful for the forming of this good habit in a climate where it’s only too easy to fall into idle ways.
Well, when my papa has finished his breakfast, which he takes at his ease in his nightcap and gown and slippers, he returns to his chamber to dress, while I go into the garden and give directions to the molly[03] or gardener, who don’t understand half I say, and never by any chance obeys what he does understand. My papa comes down the steps while I am speaking, and tells the man in Moors[04] what I want, when the rascal bows to the ground and says, “Very good, master,” but obeys his master no more than he does me. The garden is very neatly laid out in our English style, with alleys of brick and statues and pavilions, not like most of the gardens here, which are sad untidy places, and Mr Freyne and I explore the entire extent of it every morning, in order to admire the ingenious manner in which the gardener has contrived to disobey his orders of the day before. In these airings we have sometimes the company of Captain Colquhoun, who comes in after his morning parade, in which he is the exactest person I ever saw, and far more punctual in his duties than any of the other captains here. Then my papa goes away to his dufter-conna,[05] or place of business, at the Fort, and I occupy myself in reading or needlework. Captain Colquhoun is good enough to lend me books from his library, which treat chiefly of wars and sieges, but must tend admirably to the improving of the mind, and good Padra Bellamy has promised to extend to me the same favour when the Captain’s store shall have come to an end. As for my needlework, I had so many new gowns when I arrived that it seemed absurd to set to work on any more clothes for myself, but I had the happy thought to embroider a set of robings for Mrs Freyne as a present at the New Year, and she was so vastly pleased that I was well content, though it took me all my time. I am at work now on another set that I design for Miss Hamlin, but as she don’t intend to marry yet, there’s no hurry about it.
Did I mention to you in my first letter from this place, my dear, that none of the Calcutta ladies take any oversight of their households? The servants manage everything, under the orders of the banyan, and the mistress knows nothing of the œconomy of her dwelling. It grieved me so deeply to see that Mrs Freyne did not so much as wash her own best China tea-dishes herself, but left them to the servants, that I begged my papa to inform her I would gladly take upon myself any household duties that she found too much for her; but he laughed very heartily, and told me that European ladies had no household duties in Bengall.
“But sure, sir,” said I, “their households must go to ruin.”
“And if they do, miss, their spouses pay the bill. Why, en’t it sufficient honour for us that while we climb the pagoda-tree, the ladies are good enough to recline in the shade on couches of shawls and permit us to shake the gold mohrs into their laps? Would you have us make slaves of the lovely creatures in this climate? Go to, miss; you’re a traitor to your sex.”
My dear papa is so droll!
At nine o’clock is the late breakfast, to which Mr Freyne returns with a boy holding over his head a great umbrella called a kittesan, and at which every one appears in an elegant undress of white muslin, and you may wear a mob or not, as you please. When my papa is returned to his business, and Mrs Freyne to her chamber, where she looks over her jewels, or devises with her iya new fashions of garments, or, it may be, receives her intimates, I turn to my music or drawing, accomplishments which are both very highly regarded here. At noon comes tiffing, which is a cold luncheon (sure it must seem that we do nothing but eat, but indeed, my dear, one has no great appetite in Bengall), and after that all those who have been long in the country retire to rest; while silly persons like your Sylvia, who can’t reconcile themselves to sleeping in the middle of the day, lie down in their cool chambers and look out at the heat in the garden and think of Britain. They tell me that in the hot weather I shan’t be able to endure even to draw aside a corner of the blind; but perhaps I shall have learned to sleep at midday by that time.
Dinner is at three, and for this meal every one is dressed with all the exactness imaginable, for ’tis the rarest thing in the world for us to take it alone. One must pay special attention to one’s hair, for in this matter the Calcutta ladies are very punctilious; and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the present simple and elegant mode of wearing it. Should it be, as you’ll remember we heard was to be the case, that the cumbrous style of head-dress which is rallied so often in the ‘Spectator’ were to come again into vogue, these ladies would adopt it without a moment’s delay, I’m positive, and suffer the torments of martyrs owing to its weight and heat. The gentlemen, all wearing white jackets, have an air of the most agreeable coolness, and behind all our chairs stand boys with flappers or fans,—so that, in spite of the excessive seasoning of the food (the favourite dish being meat or vegetables dressed in a currey with spices), we suffer less from the heat than might be expected. But then, as I am perpetually being told, this is only the cold weather yet.
After a second short rest comes the season for going abroad. One may go fishing or fowling on the river, walk in the park called the Loll Baug,[06] and listen to the band of music that plays beside the great tank or pond, ride out in a chaise or a palanqueen, or take the air in a budgero; and there’s continual parties made to spend the evening in some garden at a little distance from the town, whether that of the Armenians, or Surman’s, or those of two rich Gentoos, called Omy Chund and Govinderam Metre, close to the Morattoe-ditch. Sometimes I am called to attend Mrs Freyne to an outcry, which in Britain would be styled a sale by auction, either of the goods of some deceased person or of a parcel of toys which have been brought from China or the great islands by some gentleman travelling on the Company’s occasions. This last is what pleases me best, for it seems to me sadly unfeeling to go bidding for the possessions of a person to whom you may have been talking two days before without a thought of sickness, far less death; but every one here cares infinitely more for the commonest Europe goods than for the most delicate toys from the East. This I could not understand; but one day Miss Dorman came to visit me, and found me setting up in my chamber the things I had bought with a handful of rupees which my papa was so good as to throw into my lap, knowing that I could not bring myself to write a chitt for the value, as is always done in Calcutta.
“What do you think of my toys, miss?” I said to the young lady.
“Vastly pretty,” she said. “But do you really care for ’em, miss?”
“Sure they’re prodigious delicate and strange,” said I.
“Why, yes; but they are all country-made,” she said. “I used to be pleased with such things once, but in the hot weather I longed to throw ’em all away, and put up the commonest English stuff in their place; and at last I bid my iya take them somewhere so that I should never see them again.”
Do you think I shall be like that soon, Amelia? How melancholy must life appear when one can take no delight in such beauties as are to be observed around one, and all for thinking of those upon which one placed but little value when one possessed ’em! But sure the whole polite world, and not only the unhappy exiles that, like myself, have most probably bid farewell to Britain for ever, would cry shame on me for comparing the poor barbarous works of the pagans here with the handiwork of Europe.
But to my day, which bids fair to be as long as some of those of which our Clarissa or Miss Byron write. It sometimes happens that neither Mr nor Mrs Freyne desire my attendance in the evenings, and on these occasions I call for my palanqueen (I have plenty of assurance now, you see), and go to pass the time with Miss Hamlin, who has desired me always to visit her when I have nothing better to do, since the gentlemen are then able to wait upon us both at the same time, and are not torn in two by an anxiety to rush away to the further side of Calcutta. ’Tis seldom, indeed, that we are left alone for long—but oh, my dear, I must tell you of the adventure that befell me the first time that I rid out in a palanqueen by myself. I had given the peon (which is the servant that walks before you with a silver-headed stick) the direction of Mr Hamlin’s house, and as he speaks English, I thought myself safely embarked. But scarcely had my equipage left my papa’s door, when I became conscious that the bearers were uttering the most affecting groans and sighs imaginable. At first I paid no attention, thinking that this might be only their way at starting, as I have heard say of the camel; but on the continuance of the sounds, I could not resist putting my head out of the palanqueen and calling to the peon to know what ailed his fellows.
“These gwallers[07] poor weak men, Beebee,” said he, speaking English after his fashion; “not got enough to eat.”
“I’m sure I’m sorry to hear it,” said I; “but what ails them in particular just now?”
“Beebee too much heavy,” replied the wretch. Was it not mortifying, my dear? You know I was never used to be counted a great weight, and I could not believe that the voyage had changed me much in this respect, but since I had plunged into the discussion of these men’s misfortunes, I could not well do less than request the peon to hire an extra bearer or two. But this wasn’t what he wanted.
“If Beebee give buxie money,” he said, “gwallers buy good supper to-night; carry Beebee all right to-morrow.”
“But how will that help them now?” I asked, taking out with hesitation one of my rupees.
“Beebee give me the buxies, I show the gwallers, and keep it till we go home. Then gwallers so pleased, not cry any more.”
“Pray try it,” said I, “for these noises are most distressing.”
His fingers closed upon the rupee, but he made no effort to display it to the bearers. Instead he laid about him heavily with his rattan, reviling the rest, so far as I could judge, for their idleness, and menacing them with Mr Freyne’s displeasure; and all this to such good purpose that they shouldered their poles and went on again without any more groans. But I have never been able, my dear Miss Turnor, to divest my mind of the persuasion that the abandoned wretch kept the rupee for himself, and made the poor creatures believe that I had paid it to him for his assiduity in beating them. This suspicion I have not dared to unfold even to my papa, for fear he would never cease laughing at me; but it has long haunted me, and now I share the horrid thing with my Amelia.
Well, after all this, our days commonly end with either an assembly or a ball. Such a thing as a small party is unknown, and would indeed have but a mean appearance in these vast saloons. There’s a good deal of music and singing (some of it, if I may be censorious in my Amelia’s hearing, not of the very best), and an extraordinary quantity of cards. Of this amusement Mrs Freyne is passionately fond, but play runs so high in Calcutta that my papa has forbid her to go beyond rupee points in his house. In this he is considered vastly singular, as also in forbidding my stepmother and me to accept shawls or other presents offered us by the Indians with whom he has to do in his business—a means by which some of our ladies here have amassed incredible numbers of these beautiful fabrics; but he lays no restraint upon Mrs Freyne’s doings abroad, and ’twould not surprise me if she takes her revenge there. There’s a certain set of persons with whom she plays very commonly, and of one of them I am horridly afraid my Amelia will hear more in the future. This gentleman is a Mr Menotti, a Genoese by birth, but settled here so long that he speaks English like ourselves, who does your Sylvia the honour to regard her with favour, and who has got Mrs Freyne upon his side. Secure in the justice and complaisance of my good papa, I could look upon this odious person with contempt, were it not that he’s perpetually forcing himself upon me, and seems to regard my displeasure as an object worth living for.
But enough of this detestable subject. There’s one thing I must tell you about the balls here that will surprise you. The first of these to which I attended my stepmother was before the end of the hot weather, and I was apprehensive lest I should expire of discomfort in my stiff brocade and monstrous hoop. I knew there would be no rest for me so long as I remained in the ballroom; for all persons of fashion in Calcutta are prodigiously addicted to dancing, and there are so few ladies in proportion to the gentlemen that they are scarce allowed even time for dessert.[08] Mrs Freyne did not offer to relieve my apprehensions; but after the ball had been opened very ceremoniously with a minuet, I was surprised to see all the ladies preparing to depart. “Come,” thought I, “this is better than I had hoped,” but I found that the object of this interval was to allow the ladies to change their clothes. Disencumbered of our hoops and dressed suits, we returned to the ballroom wearing muslin nightgowns elegantly trimmed with lace and ribbons, and danced until we were as tired as—oh, my dear, I am sure I have never been so tired in my life, nor so consumed with the heat.
There’s my day for you, Amelia, ending ordinarily at midnight, but sometimes not till three in the morning, which is, indeed, another day. Now you will find it possible at any hour to imagine just what your Sylvia is doing, not forgetting always to think of her especially on rising, as she does of you. I have writ this long tale in several parts, but the greatest piece of it this evening, when, my papa fearing an attack of fever, I entreated to be permitted to stay at home with him, and so denied myself to visitors. I had hoped to try and cheer him by singing or by reading aloud some entertaining book; but Captain Colquhoun dropping in, I perceived how much Mr Freyne must prefer his solid conversation to his girl’s foolish chatter, and so withdrew into a corner to write, though remaining within earshot in case I should be called. So far as I can discover, the two dear gentlemen have been occupied with but one topic the entire time, to the discussion of which they have, as usual, brought despair on the Captain’s part, and an easy confidence on my papa’s. Did I tell you that I was once saucy enough to ask Captain Colquhoun how he could be so friendly with Mr Freyne when they agreed so badly? “Madam,” says he very solemnly, “your father has one fault, an extravagant hopefulness, and of that ’tis the business of my life to cure him.”
Well, but to this mighty matter. I told you once, I’m sure, of the Nabob of Bengall, Mohabut Jing, and of the apprehensions felt here by many as to his successor. The venerable potentate is in but poor health of late, and requires the utmost assiduity and watchfulness on the part of Mr Forth, the surgeon of our Cossimbuzar factory, who is admitted to attend him. Thanks to the care of this humane gentleman, there seems at present no reason for anticipating a fatal issue to the Nabob’s illness, but there is great excitement in his Court. It seems that there are two possible claimants of the Soubahship besides the infamous young rake who has been designated the old Nabob’s successor, and these are Surajah Dowlah’s cousin Sucajunk, the Phousdar of Purranea,[09] and Moradda Dowlett,[10] the son of his deceased brother Pachacoolly Cawn, who has been adopted by his great-aunt, the Nabob’s daughter, a widow lady named Gosseta or Gauzeetee, who is commonly called the Chuta Begum. Of these, the Purranea Nabob, they say, has no hope of success; but if Gosseta Begum play her cards well, she may look to place her adopted son on the musnet, since she is very rich and of a most intrepid spirit. But what, you will say, has this to do with the Presidency? Why, this, my dear, that we English have much more to hope for from the Chuta Begum than from the Chuta Nabob, and that Mr Watts, the head of the Cossimbuzar factory, reports that she has made overtures of friendship through him to the Company. More than this, it seems that the lady’s servants are desirous to avail themselves already of our protection, since Mr Watts asks leave for one of them, the son of Radjbullubdass, her duan, or high steward, to tarry some days in Calcutta. This son of the duan, Kissendasseat by name, had started to sail down the river on a pilgrimage to the pagoda of Juggernaut, which is a pagan idol worshipped somewhere in Orixa. Notwithstanding his pious object, the gentleman don’t seem to travel light, for he brings with him a vast quantity of treasure in several boats, and his father’s entire seraglio, which the Gentoos call ginanah.[11] One of the women was taken ill on the journey, which is the reason for their stay here; though why they brought her so far when they were able at the commencement of their voyage to obtain Mr Watts’ letter asking shelter on her account, I don’t know. The whole train arrived after dusk this evening, and Captain Colquhoun had seen them disembark.
“Fifty-three sacks of gold and jewels alone, sir!” said he to Mr Freyne.
“Kissendass is a lucky dog, then,” says my papa.
“Kissendass is an—eternal schemer, sir. Can you be so blind as not to see through the trickery of the whole affair?”
“You would have me infer that the treasure belongs to the Chuta Begum, and is brought to us on her account?”
“Brought to us, sir? No. But brought within our bounds to embroil us with the Chuta Nabob, yes. ’Tis no more Gosseta Begum’s doing than mine.”
“Then you would say, Captain, that the admirable Kissendass is making off with his mistress’s property? They say his father. has never rendered any accounts since he first got his duanry, and he may think it well not to risque his gains, whatever the Begum may choose to do.”
“My papa thinks this Gentoo is like a rat that forsakes a sinking ship,” I put in, using a saying I had picked up from Mr Fraser[12]—I mean, I had heard it from some one.
“Oho, saucebox, are you listening?” says Mr Freyne.
“With all respect to Miss and to you, sir,” says the Captain, “the matter, I opine, is worse than you think. Whether Radjbullubdass is seeking to place his ill-gotten gains in safety, or whether the Chuta Begum is providing against a possible reverse of fortune, don’t concern us now. Whichever it be, Kissendass had no need to come here, recommended by a letter from Mr Watts, and bringing with him the treasure he is ostentatiously removing out of Surajah Dowlah’s reach. The thing is a deep-laid plot. Who met the fellow at the wharf? Omy Chund’s banyan. Who settled him in a convenient house belonging to himself? Omy Chund. And who was dismissed from his service as the contractor for cloth to the Company, after forty years of cheating? Omy Chund again. He and his friend Govinderam Metre, who also has his grudge against Mr Holwell for turning him out of the zemindary he had enjoyed for so many years, have long been watching to catch us tripping, and now they have found their chance. Mark my words, sir, this plausible scoundrel Kissendass will yet prove our ruin.”
“The ruin won’t be unexpected, then,” said my papa. “Why did you not warn the Presidency, Captain?”
“I’m the right man to warn them, en’t I, sir? Finely they have listened to my warnings in the past! But even so, the President was down at Ballisore when Mr Watts’ letter arrived, and Mr Manningham in authority, all agog to curry favour with the Chuta Begum and make himself a friend at Dacca. This evening Holwell’s people at the waterside send to ask whether Kissendass and his troop are to be admitted, and Mr Warehouse-keeper Manningham sends to meet ’em with open arms almost. Could anything I might hope to say avail to turn him from his dreams of sharing in those sacks of treasure?”
“Gently, Captain. It en’t well to speak evil of those in high places before Miss Pert here, for she notes down all she hears as sharp as any shorthand writer, and sends it home to her dearest friend, in letters long enough to reach from here to the Downs. Don’t you, miss?”
“’Twill serve all the better to prove the truth of my words when my prophecy of ill is come to pass,” says the Captain, bowing to me.
“True, man, so it will. And my saucy girl shall gather your prophecies into a book, and call ’em the ‘Sayings of the Cassandra of Fort William.’ Such a pother about a set of blackfellows and their wenches!”
Calcutta, April ye 9th.
Oh, my beloved Amelia, what a hateful misfortune has occurred to your friend since she began this letter to you! On what a sea of troubles is she now embarked! I am all of a tremble, my dear. I can’t sleep; I can’t even lie down quietly. Like the heroine of a novel I am employing in writing the hours that should be sacred to sleep, but alas! I know only too well that my behaviour has not been that of a heroine, but of a foolish, untaught girl.
But I shall alarm my Amelia. Be still, my throbbing heart, and allow me to recount in order the history of my misfortunes, of which twelve hours ago I had not the smallest anticipation. This evening was the occasion of an entertainment given by Mr President in the Fort, for some reason that I have forgot, when we were diverted, as at all state ceremonies here, with a notch. I say diverted, because the exhibition is designed to be diverting, although some have chose to find it improper. But my Amelia may take my word for it, there’s nothing improper in the affair, but only the most infinite dulness that it’s possible to experience. Well, after this, we all departed in our palanqueens to the Company’s gardens, not far off, which are prettily laid out with trees and shrubs brought from the most distant regions, as well as with such flowers as flourish in this climate. Entering at the gate, my papa was so good as to hand me out of my machine, since Mrs Freyne was already attended by Lieutenant Bentinck, a young gentleman who affects her company pretty frequently, and as he did so, up comes Captain Colquhoun.
“Mr Holwell tells me that the Indians in the Buzars[13] are saying the Soubah is dead, sir,” says he.
“So they have been saying every other day for these two years,” said Mr Freyne. “When do they pretend the event happened?”
“To-day,” said the Captain.
“And you believe that the news could have reached Calcutta by this time? Why, my good sir, ’tis a two days’ journey from Muxadavad, even when the messengers are hastened by every conceivable means. This is but another piece of Buzar lying.”
“The Indians have ways of conveying news that we en’t acquainted with, sir. I fear the curtain has rose upon a tragedy for the English in Bengall.”
“What, Captain, still croaking?” says Mr Eyre, my papa’s chief friend in the Council, a very cheerful and sprightly gentleman, coming up. “It’s well for you that public affairs go so contrary, for otherwise you’d have nothing to do. But come, sir, come, Mr Freyne, the President has just received important despatches from Bombay, and would have us wait on him to hear ’em read. You must hand your lovely Miss over to one of the young fellows, Mr Freyne. I vow you’ll have no difficulty in finding her a cavalier.”
Ensign Bellamy, who was the nearest gentleman, sprang forward to offer me his hand, and conducted me to a raised seat in one of the illuminated pavilions, where I sat like a queen, and the crowd of gentlemen (without whom your vain Sylvia would scarce know herself nowadays) gathered round. One of them had catched some hint of the contents of the despatches, and told me that they were from the hand of Admiral Watson, to inform Mr Drake that his ships, acting in concert with the forces of Colonel Clive, had captured a town named Gyria,[14] the stronghold of some robber or pirate-chief. I’ll confess to my dearest girl that my thoughts did stray to the only person on board of Mr Watson’s fleet that I had much concern with, and I wondered whether he had shared in this feat of arms, and even whether he had been wounded, but as I live, Amelia, I went no further than that. Judge, then, my dear, of my feelings when two gentlemen advanced through the crowd that filled the place, and I saw that one of them was Mr Fraser, wearing the blue and white dress in which I had seen him last at Madrass. Pity me, Amelia, despise me if you will—you can’t think more meanly of me than I think of myself—a great wave seemed to sweep over me, there was a singing in my ears, and—oh, my dear, I could beat myself when I remember it, if that would do any good—for a moment I leaned back against the column behind me, quite faint. I did not fall into a fit—for that at least I may be thankful—and as all the gentlemen were looking towards Mr Fraser, my indisposition might have escaped notice, had it not been for the odious Mr Menotti, who had brought him to the place.
“Sure Miss is ill!” cried the wretch, springing forward in the most officious manner. “Sweetest madam,” such was his presumptuous address, “what may I do for you?”
“Nothing, I thank you, sir,” I said, finding all the gentlemen regarding me with great concern. “I was never better in my life.” You will think this a horrid fib, Amelia, but I vow I was as hot now as I had been cold the moment before, and conscious of a strange rising of the spirits. “Pray, Mr Fraser,” I cried, beckoning to him with my fan, “don’t remain at such a distance. We have met one another before.”
“Indeed, madam, I was scarcely daring to hope you’d remember it,” said he, with an air of finding something to displease him in what he saw. There was that in his carriage which made me angry.
“Have you yet paid your respects to the fair Araminta, sir?” said I.
“I have seen her, madam.”
“I hope you found her in good spirits, sir?”
“I had been better pleased, madam, to have found her in worse.”
“For shame, sir! Come, gentlemen,” I turned to those around, “Araminta is the poetical name of the lady to whom Mr Fraser’s allegiance is vowed. What do you think of the lover that can coldly declare he had preferred to find his mistress’s health—it may be even her looks—impaired by reason of his long absence, instead of rejoicing to behold her in good spirits?”
“Why, madam,” says Ensign Bellamy, “we’re all relieved to hear that the gentleman worships at another altar than Miss Freyne’s. Now we can welcome him to our company without fearing to find another added to the band of adorers who must one day be made miserable for life—all but one. Since this is secured, we must in gratitude leave him to settle his quarrels with his mistress as he will.”
“Nay,” said another young gentleman, Mr Fisherton. “Mr Fraser is questionless guilty of a treason against love. Here’s his mistress, as we can’t doubt, surrounded by other suitors, each importuning her to grant him her favours. She’s steadfast in refusing ’em; but what lady in such a situation would find her spirits fail? Her entire existence is a series of triumphs.”
“Yet Penelope suffered from melancholy in the absence of Ulysses,” says Mr Fraser.
“Oh, sir,” says Ensign Bellamy, “she was persuaded that her spouse was living. There was no merit in resisting her suitors; ’twas a necessity.”
“And Ulysses came back to her from sea,” says Mr Menotti, in his mincing style, as though he spoke without thinking, but looking from Mr Fraser to me and back again. All the gentlemen smiled. As for me, I rose and allowed my hoop to spread itself with great exactness, watching it over my shoulder as though I had no other care.
“Come, gentlemen,” I said, when my gown satisfied me, “let us take a turn in the gardens, if you please. Mr Fraser shall conduct me, because he’s the greatest stranger, if his Araminta don’t require his presence, and we’ll request him to be so good as to give us some account of this great victory he has brought us intelligence of.”
Perhaps I was a little cruel, Amelia, for I gave Mr Fraser no chance for half an hour or more of speaking of anything but the capture of Gyria, and the gentlemen seconded me to the best of their ability, continually pouring in fresh questions when he seemed to have come to the end of all he had to tell. But he took his revenge upon me, for when we were in that part of the garden which is laid out in knots,[15] he succeeded in distancing our companions, and turning into another path. So apprehensive was I on finding myself alone with him, that I conceived my sole hope to lie in setting the tone of the conversation myself.
“And how is it you’re able to visit Calcutta, sir?” I asked him.
“Why, madam, it so happened that I had a chance to pleasure Admiral Watson, and he asked me afterwards how he might serve me. Miss Freyne won’t pretend to be ignorant what my request was, and that it was granted is shown by my presence here.”
“Indeed, sir, I should have looked to find you elsewhere, I’ll assure you.”
“Perhaps, madam, you had been better pleased so?”
“I protest, sir, I don’t understand you. You’ll allow me to say that you have used me to-night in a style for which I have given you no warrant.”
“Questionless, madam, that is so. ’Tis no affair of mine that I find you surrounded with a crowd of chattering fools, that think themselves at liberty to prate of the favour in which they stand with a lady who, when I had the honour of meeting her first, could not hear the word love mentioned without a blush.”
“I vow, sir, this outrage is too much! I have endured a vast amount from you——”
“Only from me, madam? All these gentlemen in their laced clothes, with their talk of love and favour—has any one of ’em ever laid his heart and fortune at your feet?”
“Yes, sir, every one, and some more than once.” Oh, Amelia, if you could guess how I triumphed at that moment, forgetting, as I saw him stand confounded, the resolution I had taken never to boast of the honour done me by the gentlemen whose partiality I could not return. Supposing, even, that the fellow had cause to be ill-pleased with his Araminta, why should he vent his spleen on me? I drew my hand from his, and was turning away, with my head well in the air, when he hastened after me.
“Madam, dearest madam, pardon me, I was wrong; I have abused your goodness. Pray, madam, give me the chance to justify myself so far as may be. You’ll permit me to wait upon you to-morrow?”
I think he would have said more, but we were now in sight of the rest of the company. I was not minded to allow him to imagine that ’twas to him all the other gentlemen owed their ill success; and I said, very sedately—
“Mrs Freyne receives company to-morrow afternoon, sir. I don’t doubt but she’ll be pleased to see you.”
“But you’ll allow me the honour of speaking to you in private, madam?”
“No, sir, I won’t. Permit me to recommend you to spend the time in the company of the lady to whom you owe it. And now I see my papa looking for me.”
“Cruellest of charmers!” said the perfidious, taking my hand to conduct me to Mr Freyne (you may be sure, Amelia, that I gave him no more than the very tips of my fingers), “surely you must know that ’tis you alone——”
He durst not finish his sentence, for I turned upon him a glance in which I trust he read the anger and contempt that filled my soul. Was it not enough, my dear, for this person to set himself up as a schoolmaster over me, and claim the right of directing my most ordinary diversions, without going on to insult me further by protestations of an affection that he has taken pains to render incredible? ’Twas all I could do to bring my lips to pronounce his name to my papa when he desired me to present to him my new cavalier; and I could almost have cried my thankfulness aloud when, on Mr Freyne’s learning that he was Captain Colquhoun’s cousin and inviting him to tiffing on the morrow, he was forced to excuse himself on the score of having already accepted Mr President’s invitation to the Company’s house.
“So that’s the young gentleman who is the humble servant of another lady!” says Mr Freyne, when Mr Fraser had taken his leave, reproaching me with his eyes. “Was the other lady present to-night, miss?”
“I don’t know, sir. Mr Fraser told me he had seen her.”
“She’s a lady of an easy temper, en’t she, miss?”
“Really, sir, I don’t know. I have no acquaintance with her.”
“By choice or by necessity, miss?”
“Mr Fraser’s friends are no concern of mine, sir. But if I’m to tell the truth, I have no notion who the lady may be.”
“What, miss? Han’t your heart warned you of the existence of a rival as soon as she entered your presence?”
“I know nothing of any rivalry, sir, and I could wish you would be pleased not to jest on such a topic.”
“Heyday, miss, will you prescribe to your papa the subjects of his discourse?”
“Oh, dear sir, forgive me!” I cried, cut to the heart to think that I had vented my vexation upon the best of fathers. “If you only knew all the mortifications I have endured this evening——” and I burst into tears, sobbing as I clung to Mr Freyne’s arm. My dear papa was infinitely disturbed.
“Come, come, my girl, don’t make such a commotion about a hasty word! Dry your tears quick, and don’t let Madam see ’em. What, torn your gown?” raising his voice: “that’s nothing to cry about. You shall have a new one to-morrow.”
“Torn your gown, miss?” cried Mrs Freyne. “You may well weep, indeed. Of all the careless and thoughtless young bodies that ever wasted their parents’ money, you are the worst. I have lost patience with you.”
I cared little for the loss of Mrs Freyne’s patience, but the thought of my pertness to my dear papa made me miserable, and I could not go to my chamber without stealing back to catch him alone. “Dear sir,” I cried, falling on my knees, “pardon your sullen girl. I’ll tell you anything you are so good as to ask me.” But my papa laughed at me, and bade me go to bed for a silly puss, saying that he had no wish to pry into my secrets. “When you think I can help you, Miss Sylvy,” he said, “tell me anything you please, but otherwise I won’t hear a word of it. Now be off with you,” and he embraced me and pushed me out of the room. Oh, Amelia, what should I have done throughout the past winter but for the kind countenance of this dearest of men? I have striven to hide my real sentiments, even from my Amelia (yes, I’ll confess it. When Mr Fraser’s name found itself somehow in my letter to you t’other day, I stroked it out with all the art imaginable), but I can’t conceal from myself the nature of the feeling I have had for—for the person I have mentioned. ’Twas not love—how could it be that after what he has done?—but if there had been any explanation of his behaviour, any real extenuation to be offered, I think it might have become even that. Alas! to what is your Sylvia Freyne sunk, when she can give utterance to such a confession on the very day that the person concerned has conducted himself in so strange, so unaccountable a manner?