“Make things right!” says the Captain.
“And more,” said Mr Holwell, “this morning, when I was about to punish the Jemmautdar[03] of the chokey,[04] where the fellow landed, for admitting a person in a European habit unknown to me, he said that the only European he admitted last night was not Narransing at all, but might be any of the gentlemen here. Narransing wore the dress of a common pycar,[05] but when they would have opposed his landing, Omy Chund’s servants came to say that he was a relation of their master’s, and must be let in. What do you make of this?”
“Why, that there’s an extraordinary great mystery somewhere, sir,” says my papa. “We’ll talk of this in the garden, gentlemen, if you please, for there’s one or two matters on which the Captain and I would fain have Mr Holwell’s opinion. Mind you’re not late in dressing for the Masquerade, miss.”
Oh, this Masquerade! Was ever any one in a frame of mind less suited to such a gathering, Amelia? I had hoped it might be put off by reason of the old Soubah’s death, but it seems that since Mr Drake has heard nothing in an official manner he can’t take notice of it; and though I have begged and prayed my papa to permit me to stay at home, he won’t hear of it, but insists on my attending him and Mrs Freyne to the Play-house.
April ye 16th.
More troubles and mysteries and perplexities, Amelia! Sure my dear Miss Turnor will begin to think that her Sylvia’s presence is as disastrous as that of Helen of Troy to the place she honours with her residence. But to my tale. Yesterday evening I went to my chamber early to dress for the masquerade, and turned sick at heart to look at the dress which Marianna had laid out upon the cott. (Did I tell you that a bed here is always called a cott?) It was made after the pattern of that worn by Miss Byron as an Arcadian princess, for Miss Hamlin and I had agreed to wear dresses of a more modern and distinctive sort than the usual nuns and shepherdesses one hears of every day. She chose, therefore, the dress worn by Lady Bella in the ‘Female Quixote,’ as the Princess Julia, daughter of Augustus Cæsar, and I that of the charming Harriet, although my pleasure in it was sadly damped by the rumour that reached me that Mr Menotti was having a vastly fine suit made for himself as Sir Charles Grandison. Imagine it, my dear! the desecration of so noble a character by this vile wretch’s impersonating it. Well, as I stood looking at my gown, I heard a palanqueen arrive, and presently in came Mrs Hurstwood, Miss Hamlin that was, in her ordinary clothes, and frightfully disturbed. The tailor that was making her gown for the evening had run off with the stuff, tempted, as is supposed, by the richness of the blue and silver brocade, and there was no time to make another. Indeed, the poor young lady was in a terrible state, fit to rave. As she sat and bewailed her loss, a thought came to me.
“Oh, dearest miss—Charlotte, I should say—” I cried, “wear my dress, I entreat you, and go in my place.”
“And what would Miss Freyne’s papa say to that?” said she.
“Questionless, he would be sadly displeased, for I have begged of him in vain to permit me to stay at home. But oh, miss, I have such a terror of masquerades”—“Drawn from Mr Richardson,” she put in—“and such a diversion is so ill-suited to my present thoughts and situation, and I am so apprehensive of being spoken to by my persecutor, and perhaps insulted, that if you would persuade Mr Freyne to excuse me, I should be for ever grateful to you. And I know that my papa has a vastly high esteem for Mrs Hurstwood.”
“And pray, miss,” says she, “will you prefer Calcutta to say you remain at home out of jealousy for my marriage, or grief for Mr Fraser’s departure, or sympathy with Lieutenant Bentinck?”
“You terrify me!” I cried. “Sure my papa was only kind in commanding me to appear, if this be the alternative. But,” for a sudden thought seized me, “I can’t wear this dress. I should feel like a tricked-out skeleton. Pray, miss, oblige me by putting it on. You may be taken for me, but I know you’ll hold your own with the boldest wretches in Calcutta”—“I thank you, miss,” said she.—“As for me, I’ll endeavour to strengthen and calm my mind by wearing the dress of the incomparable Clarissa, who was greater in her humiliation than in her happiest days. My white damask nightgown and satin petticoat, with a morning cap, and my hair in a dégagé style, will answer all purposes, and should save me from recognition.”
“I vow you’re mistaken, if you think an undress and the absence of a hoop will disguise the finest shape in Calcutta,” says my Charlotte; “but the notion of deceiving the fellows is agreeable enough. Well, miss, if you’re really in earnest, I’ll oblige you by wearing your dress.”
“I can never be grateful enough to my dear Mrs Hurstwood,” I said, and calling in Marianna, we soon had Charlotte dressed in the blue satin waistcoat and petticoat, laced and fringed with silver, the white silk scarf and the fantastical cap, so well known to all Mr Richardson’s readers. While I was hurrying into my own gown, my stepmother looked in at the door.
“What, miss! exchanging dresses?” she cried.
“A mishap has come to Mrs Hurstwood’s gown, madam,” said I, “and she is so good as to wear mine, which I have took a dislike to.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mrs Freyne. “And you are the divine Clarissa in the Sponging-house, I see. O’ my conscience, miss, I wonder at your preference! But your papa and I can’t wait for you. You’ll follow with Mrs Hurstwood, I suppose?”
“I expect my spouse every moment, madam,” says Charlotte, “and I’ll assure you we’ll both have an eye to Miss’s safety.”
Mrs Freyne went away, and I finished dressing in much better spirits. But what was my vexation when I arrived at the Play-house with the Hurstwoods to perceive that my naughty, unkind stepmother must have told Mr Menotti of my sudden change of intention, for he came stumping towards me as soon as I alighted from my palanqueen, in a greatcoat with a cape, the collar turned up and buttoned round his chin, a pair of coarse stockens drawn over his own, and an old tie-wig, the very image of the abandoned Lovelace when he forced himself in this disguise upon Clarissa’s retirements at Hampstead. I could have wept, Amelia. The sole consolation that offered itself to me (and it did give me a sensible pleasure, I’ll promise you) was the thought of the inconvenience the wretch must be suffering from the heat, and the mortification it must have cost him to lay aside his fine Grandison dress. There was no escaping him, for he was the first to observe our arrival, and I was forced to give him my hand, and to endure his talk, which was as free as that of Lovelace, but wanted the wit, until I hated him worse than ever, if that were possible, and seized the chance of our becoming entangled in a crowd of masques to rid myself of his company.
Anxious only to be free from the company of my too importunate Lovelace, I lent a ready ear to a masque who approached me in the habit of a French religious person, and whom I knew, by his air of gallantry, to be Mons. le Beaume. With him was a gentleman most elegantly dressed in a coat of red cloth of silver, buttoned with diamonds, and very richly laced, with waistcoat and breeches of satin. There was large diamond buckles in his shoes, which had monstrous high red heels, and he wore a great forked periwig, all in the mode of fifty years back. I observed this person particularly, because a few minutes ago he had come and tapped Mr Menotti on the shoulder, desiring him, as I think, to present him to me. His address seemed to put my persecutor out of countenance in an extraordinary manner, but he refused very vehemently to grant the request, though the other continued to urge it even with menaces, as I judged by his gestures.
“Fairest Clarissa,” says Mr le Beaume, bowing with great ceremony, “here’s his Most Christian Majesty the late King Lewis of France, whom the report of your virtues has reached in the other world, and brought him back to earth to show his admiration of ’em.”
“Sure his Majesty’s admiration of virtue is well known, sir,” said I.
“Madam,” says the strange gentleman in French, which also Mr le Beaume and I had used, “in his day virtue had not dwelt upon earth in the person of the divine Clarissa. With the good fortune of her example to guide him——”
“If your Majesty desire the divine Clarissa to guide you in the dance,” says Mr le Beaume, “there’s no time to lose. You can exchange fine phrases out of the romances afterwards.”
My cavalier offered his hand immediately, which I accepted, anticipating an agreeable contest of wits in forcing him to discover himself, for, what with his masque and his periwig, I was quite unable to recognise him as any of the gentlemen of the place, while his voice (and he spoke French as I had not thought any of our gentlemen could speak it) was also strange to me. So well did he present his character that he even danced in the French style, which is at once more ceremonious and displays greater vivacity than ours, until my curiosity was piqued in the highest degree. But ’twas not until we were sitting in the inner varanda after the dance, and my partner was fanning me, as is the custom here, that I had any chance to converse with him. His discourse suited less well with his disguise than his dancing had done; for although he made me several genteel compliments in the true romantic style, he turned quickly to speak of the ordinary affairs of the place, and among them of the matter of Kissendasseat. But here I stopped him.
“Pray, sir,” I said, “don’t mention that person’s name to me. For weeks there was nothing talked of in Calcutta but Kissendass and his women, his goods and his sacks of treasure, until I was tired to death of him.”
“His refuging here is much talked of, then?” asked the disguised.
“Really, sir, you must know that as well as I.”
“Pardon me, madam; how should I know that the ladies condescended to weary themselves with the trifles that interest us poor men? Yet I deserve the rebuke, for en’t the lady in this case Miss Clarissa Harlowe?”
“Sure you single me out unduly, sir. The ladies of Calcutta can’t be indifferent to events that might prove to be of so much moment to ’em.”
“Then has the President’s treatment of the Nabob’s messenger given rise to apprehension among the fair sex, madam?”
“’Tis but little known as yet, sir, but it’s natural there should be some misgivings as to the new Soubah’s acceptance of it.”
“Poh, poh!” says he. “The President knows what he’s about, madam. The Nabob has exposed his weakness by his method of proceeding. Why should he send his emissary to steal into the place in disguise, if it en’t that he hoped to gain secretly from the friendship of the Presidency what he knows he can’t demand openly and by force?”
“It may be so, sir; but if it be, the insults offered to his servant will give him but an indifferent notion of that friendship.”
“You’re too apprehensive, madam. You may take my word for it that the Nabob can’t afford to resent these insults. He’s encompassed with enemies, and he knows the strength of the factory too well to dream of attacking it.”
“You’re vastly positive, sir; I hope you may be justified. What I find alarming in this affair is the suggestion that there may be some deep conspiracy behind it.”
“Conspiracy, ha, ha! Forgive me, madam, but I perceive that even the greatest of her sex en’t free from the fault of meeting misfortune half-way. Trust me, in a month or so this alarm will be forgot, and Clarissa will be swallowed up in preparations for making her Lovelace the happiest of men.”
“I vow I don’t understand you, sir.”
“What! don’t we all know that in this case the lover possesses the support of his mistress’s friends? Happiest of men, indeed! since with the mind and temper of Solmes, he’s earned the reward of Lovelace.”
“If you’re in the confidence of the person at whom you hint, sir, allow me to say that you’ll do him no service by these free remarks. Will you be so good as to hand me back to the ballroom?”
“Nay, then,” said this strange man, with great warmth, placing himself in my path as he spoke, “is the report true that has reached me, that this pretended Lovelace is but Solmes in disguise? Is it true that his suit, while favoured by her mamma, is distasteful to the amiable Clarissa herself? Speak, madam, and enrol Lewis as your defender until death.”
By this time I was heartily frightened, as you may suppose, and anxious only to rid myself of my new tormentor. “Sure you forget yourself, sir, in thus intruding into family matters. I thank Heaven that I have already friends sufficient to protect me, as well as a will that has served me tolerably hitherto.”
“Nay, madam,” he cried again, seizing my gown as I sought to slip past him, “you’re in a trap, believe me. Your mamma is leagued with this Solmes or Lovelace—whichever he be—and resolved on handing you over to him. You’ll perceive before long the truth of my words. If you should then be moved to accept of my assistance, a billet addressed to me in character, and sent to the house of a respectable female in the Great Buzar, whom all the Indian servants know by the name of the Mother of Cosmetiques, will find me without loss of time.”
I was incensed against the man for his bare-faced proposition, and tore my gown from his hold. “Sure, sir,” I said angrily, “you forget the character I have assumed in thus acting up to your own. Be assured there’s no help I would not accept sooner than that offered in such a fashion,” and I pushed past him, and ran along the varanda towards the door. Here I came upon two gentlemen, who had been watching the dancing, and had stepped out to breathe the air, and to my delight I recognised them as my papa and Captain Colquhoun. I seized Mr Freyne’s arm. “Oh, sir——!” I gasped, and burst into tears, and so clung to him, looking like a fool, I make no doubt.
“Can I be of any service to you, madam?” asked my papa.
“Is it possible, sir, that you don’t recognise Miss Freyne?” said Captain Colquhoun, with the stiffest air in the world.
“How could a man know any one in that masque?” cried Mr Freyne. “Take the absurd thing off, miss, and tell me what’s the matter.”
“The—the person with whom I was dancing, sir,” I sobbed.
“Well, and what of him, miss? Who is he?”
“I don’t know, sir. Oh pray, don’t be so sharp with your girl. He—he said——”
“He has offered to insult you, madam?” demanded the Captain, in his sternest voice, which Mr Freyne took as a rebuke.
“I’ll manage my own family, sir, if you please, so pray don’t favour us with your strait-laced opinion of masquerades at this moment. What did this person say, miss?”
“I—I believe he invited me to run away with him, sir.”
“You en’t certain? Sure the girl’s a fool! She cries out that a person has insulted her, and she don’t know who he is, nor can’t tell what he said. Where is this gentleman?”
“I—I left him there, sir,” pointing to the settee where we had sat.
“And there en’t a living creature to be seen! I fear, miss, you are one of those that flee when no man pursueth.”
“Sure, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, coming to my help, “you can’t doubt but Miss Freyne’s delicacy has been wounded by the liberties of speech this person has permitted himself. If he have drunk too freely, he should be removed from the place, both for his own sake and others’, and will questionless see the propriety of offering an apology on the morrow. Was it the gentleman habited as King Lewis the Fourteenth, with whom I saw you dance not long ago, madam?”
“It was, sir, but I can’t imagine who he may be. He spoke only French.”
“You see, sir?” Captain Colquhoun turned to my papa. “I fear Miss has been exposed to the rudeness of one of those rascally fellows that make a practice of insulting ladies at gatherings of this sort, feeling secure of impunity through their disguises. Did he first accost you, madam?”
“No, sir. Mr le Beaume presented him in character.”
“Then he’ll know him, questionless. Excuse me for a moment, madam,” and returning to the ballroom he brought out Mr le Beaume and Ensign Bellamy, the latter wearing rams’ horns and an antique habit as Alexander the Great. The two young gentlemen had been dancing together, a thing which is not unfrequent at the Calcutta balls, owing to the small number of our sex that are present.
“Pray, sir,” says my papa to Mr le Beaume, “who was the person you presented just now to my daughter?”
“Why, sir, I’m sure I don’t know. I named him only by his character, as I heard was the custom at these gatherings, since all present were well acquainted with one another.”
“Then you know nothing of the fellow?”
“Nothing, sir, save that I chanced to jostle him in the crowd somewhat roughly, and begged his pardon, which he gave with a very good grace. ‘Say no more, Mons. l’Abbé,’ he said, speaking in character. ‘Do your King the honour of making him known to the divine Clarissa, and all is more than forgiven.’ I hope, sir, I han’t done any displeasure to the lady in granting his request?”
“Your King, as you call him, sir, has thought fit to use towards Miss a freedom that may be the mode at Chandernagore, but en’t so at Calcutta.”
“Do I understand you to imply, sir, that this person was an intimate of my own?”
“Come, Mr le Beaume,” it was Captain Colquhoun who spoke; “don’t be over ready to stand on your punctilio. You see that we must come at the truth of this affair, if only to save the ladies from annoyance in the future. I understand this person spoke nothing but French. To the best of your belief, had you ever met him before?”
“Never, Captain. I know all the officials of our factories at Chandernagore and Sydabad,[06] but he recalled none of ’em to my mind. But, gentlemen, this affair touches my honour. Pray allow me to seek out this person, and bring him here to entreat Miss’s pardon on his knees.”
“And I’m with you, sir,” said Ensign Bellamy. “Sure the matter touches me also, Captain, since I introduced Mr le Beaume as my guest.”
“And lent him also your father’s best cassock in which to appear?” said Captain Colquhoun. “What will our good Padra say to that, sir?”
“’Tis but his second best, sir,” pleaded the Ensign, “and Mr le Beaume passed his word to me to do it no discredit. But now, gentlemen, with your leave, we’ll set out to hunt this low fellow.”
“Go first to the peon at the door, young gentlemen,” said Mr Freyne, “and desire him to let you look at the chitts.” (These, Amelia, are the tickets of entrance, as we should say.) “By that means you’ll discover who ’twas that represented the French King.”
But the two gentlemen returning in a few minutes brought word that there was no such character mentioned on any of the chitts, neither could the peon recollect admitting such an one.
“Poh!” says my papa. “Buxies, that’s all! Did you discover whether the fellow be still in the place, gentlemen?”
“He’s not, sir,” they replied together; “but although several persons had remarked him in the ball-room, no one has seen him leave the Play-house.”
“Pray have the goodness to enquire further, gentlemen. There’s some mystery here.” I thought that he wished to be rid of the young gentlemen, for as soon as they were gone he turned to the Captain.
“What do you make of this, sir?” he asked.
“A spy, I fear. Perhaps from Chandernagore—but no, the lad le Beaume hath an honest countenance, Papist though he be.”
“A spy of the Soubah’s, then? Watts’ letter warned us the place is full of ’em. There’s Someroo,[07] that Prussian of Cossim Ally Cawn’s, might have got in among us.”
“True, but Mr le Beaume would be little likely to mistake a Prussian for one of his own nation. A spy the fellow must be, I believe. Do you recollect the confusion of Holwell’s Jemmautdar in speaking of the entry of the Nabob’s messenger? Look you there, now. There was two of ’em, after all—this fellow in a European habit, and Narransing in the disguise of a pycar.”
“There’s more in this than appears, Captain. Do you think this impudent intruder can be Bussy himself, stole hither from the Carnatic?”
“Bussy? My good sir, Bussy is besieging Savanore, and has his hands too full to leave the Decan at present. Besides, why risque discovery by annoying a lady?”
“To avert suspicion from his true object—I don’t else know why. Or perhaps his freedoms were only assumed to get rid of Miss while he put on another dress to escape in. He might wear a domino, or obtain some other disguise from one of the servants.”
“Perhaps, sir,” I ventured to observe, “Mr Menotti may be able to tell you something. He seemed to have some acquaintance with the wretch.”
“Pray, miss, why didn’t you say that before?” I saw a look pass between my papa and the Captain. “Put on your masque again, and come back to the ballroom with me.”
Once inside the Play-house, it was not long before Mr Menotti perceived us, and came to importune me for another dance, which I was charmed to refuse him.
“Miss has danced quite as much as is good for her health,” says my papa. “I won’t have her try another step this evening. You young fellows should have some mercy on these delicate creatures, for they en’t made of iron, and there’s none too many of ’em. By the way, sir, who was the gentleman that desired you to present him to Miss, but you refused?”
I was watching Mr Menotti with all my eyes from behind my masque, as you’ll guess, Amelia, and it seemed to me that he changed colour a very little. Yet he answered with the greatest unconcern imaginable, “Why, that I don’t know, sir, which was my reason for refusing him the honour he asked. He was vastly urgent with me, I’ll assure you, but I would not listen to him. I hope he han’t tried to force himself upon Miss?”
“Why, sir, he has alarmed her slightly by his importunity, I believe, but that only calls for greater gratitude for your care of her.”
Leaving Mr Menotti, we returned to the doorway, where Captain Colquhoun, with infinite kindness, turned the conversation to other matters, until the young gentlemen returned, having done wonders in the way of tracking the Unknown, but accomplished nothing. Learning from a late comer in the ballroom that on entering the place he had seen passing out a tall masque in the veil and robe of a Moor-woman (this was so unusual a habit as to excite his remark, for persons here entertain such a contempt for the Indians that it is the rarest thing in the world to see their dress, which is very handsome among those of quality, copied at these masquerades), they made enquiries among the servants waiting for their masters in the compound, and found that a person so habited had entered a hired palanqueen and departed. The only distinguishing mark that they could discover about this palanqueen was that one of the bearers had a lame leg, but with the aid of this sole clue Mess. Bellamy and le Beaume set out to trace it. After many false starts they were told by a certain Armenian that he had seen such a palanqueen carried into the house of Omy Chund, the Gentoo banker, but on enquiring there they found that it had contained only one of his women, who had gone out to visit her mother. Thus they returned discomfited, but all eagerness to find the stranger. Meanwhile my papa had learnt from me of the direction given by him at the old woman’s house in the Great Buzar, and the young gentlemen were very urgent with him to allow them to obtain an order from the Zemindar, and so search the place.
“How would that serve?” says Mr Freyne. “The fellow en’t in the house, you may be very sure, and the woman would deny any knowledge of him. Ladies of her trade have many clients whose secrets they are well paid to keep, and she may well have never seen him, and know only that she might possibly receive a letter for him.”
“But, sir,” ventured Ensign Bellamy, “perhaps Miss would be so good as to address a blank sheet of paper to the woman’s care, so that the messenger who came to fetch it might be watched and seized.”
“I thank you, sir, no,” said my papa. “Miss’s name has already been more mixed up in this affair than either she or I care for. I’ll speak to Mr Holwell, and get a watch set secretly on the house; but we can’t hope the rascal will venture there in person. You’ll undertake, young gentlemen, that the matter shan’t go beyond yourselves?”
“On my honour, sir,” said the two gentlemen, and we were left to muse in silence over this most disquieting affair. I don’t know what to think, my Amelia. A sudden sound terrifies me. I am ready to run away from the most harmless stranger. I screamed aloud this morning when I came suddenly upon the molly in the garden. Plots and conspiracies seem to be thick on every side of me. I fear, though I don’t dare hint this to my papa, that the words of the Unknown regarding Mrs Freyne’s compact with Mr Menotti may be true, and what a prospect then opens before me! I know how deeply my dear Miss Turnor will pity her unsuspicious Sylvia, who thus finds herself entangled in a web of mysteriousness.
Calcutta, April ye 17th.
Nothing has as yet been discovered respecting the mysterious affair of which I informed my Amelia in the letter I finished yesterday, and all our minds have been further disturbed by an event that has just occurred. About six o’clock this evening I was taking a dish of chocolate in the varanda before going to change my dress for a water-party to which I was to attend Mrs Freyne, when my papa and Captain Colquhoun joined me. The Captain was in an extraordinary sprightly frame of mind, and all because the Company’s ship Delawar, which arrived at Culpee this morning, had brought a warning from the Directors that war with France might be looked for very shortly, and therefore the Fort was to be put in a good state of defence, particularly the cannons on the west front, in case of an attack from the river. My papa rallied his friend on his eagerness, asserting that ’twas the news of a monstrous French fleet a-preparing at Brest, and designed to sail for the Indies under Count Lally to lay waste our factories, that delighted him, since now all his prophecies of evil were in a fair way to be fulfilled. The Captain defended himself with great spirit, saying that he should be thankful if we were not all prisoners to a less polite foe than the French long before Count Lally’s fleet arrived, condemning also the slowness of the Presidency in acting on the orders they had received.
“Had I been in command,” he said, “the plans for the repair of the defences should all have been put in hand to-day, and the work begun to-morrow, so that all had been done before the Nabob could get wind of our preparations and seek to stop us; but now here’s the Three disputing what’s to be done first, and whether it be necessary to do anything at all, with as much indifference as if they were considering the siege of Carthage. When the walls are falling to pieces, and the guns lying useless for want of carriages, one would think the Council might be willing to set to work on both the jobs at once.”
Mr Freyne made some jesting reply, and seeing that the gentlemen were well embarked on one of their political talks, I slipped away to dress. Marianna was waiting in my chamber, and asked me which necklace I would wear with my yellow gown. Coming to the dressing-table, where she had laid out the ribbons, I remarked something white under the edge of my hand-mirror, and lifting it pulled out a small billet wrote on gilt-edged paper and very finely scented. “A la très-belle et très-excellente Clarisse” was on the flap.
“Why, what’s this chitt, Marianna?” I said.
“Me not know, missy. Never see it before.”
I opened the letter. It was all in French, and signed “Clarissa’s slave till death,” while at the top stood these words, “Let the amiable goddess of my heart deign to read these lines in secret, and to keep them concealed from all the world.” Had the writer been there to watch me, he had questionless been chagrined by the effects of his words, for I did not stop even to read the billet, but ran back to the varanda in a prodigious hurry, and thrust the paper into my papa’s hands.
“Why, what’s this, miss?” he said, just as I had done.
“A chitt, sir—from the Unknown, I’m sure—he begs me to keep it secret, but I haven’t read a word of it. Oh, sir, who can he be?”
“Calm yourself, madam,” says Captain Colquhoun. “The billet may only be a jest on the part of one of our young gentlemen.”
This notion had not occurred to me, and I waited, something calmer, while Mr Freyne spread out the paper and pored over it, which was not long.
“I’ll be hanged if I can make head or tail of the gibberish!” he cried. “Here, miss,” throwing it back to me, “make a translate of the Mounseer’s love-letter for us, and see you don’t miss out none of the hearts and darts, nor abate the poor gentleman’s ardours. Read it out, pray; don’t wait to write the stuff down.”
Now was it not an odd business, my dear, to have to read aloud in the presence of two gentlemen a love-letter of whose contents I had not the slightest knowledge? nevertheless I began boldly enough: “‘To the coldest and most charming of ladies, the humblest of her worshippers indites with his heart’s blood these lines——’”
“I would the letter had been longer; then he might have bled to death,” growled my papa. “Go on, miss.”
“‘Such, madam, is the admiration I conceived for the incomparable Clarissa on that happy evening when her resplendent charms burst for the first time upon my enraptured gaze, that since she quitted me in anger I have neither ate nor drank nor slept——’”
“Come, if this go on, we shall kill him yet,” says Mr Freyne.
“‘That the failure of my attempts to conceal the passion with which she inspired me should have alarmed her delicacy were calamity enough, but that she should carry her apprehensions so far as to flee from the expression of my adoration is a punishment that would (I appeal to the charmer herself if this ben’t truth) be over severe for the most heinous of crimes. To the worm that was permitted to bask for a few brief moments in the sunshine of her smiles ’tis a veritable sentence of death. But, madam, he who now ventures to address himself to you en’t one to welcome death tamely. He’ll fight for his life, and such is the love he has for you that he’ll gratify it even though he must needs wade through rivers of blood, though Calcutta be razed to the ground in the course of the measures he’ll take, and the English swept out of Bengall. But he don’t desire to alarm Clarissa a second time by the warmth of the sentiments he entertains, and would therefore only hint that his charmer has it in her power not merely to attach to herself for ever a grateful adorer whom her condescension will have preserved from death, but to oblige her countrymen in the highest degree, and gain for herself a name greater than that of the victorious Mr Clive as the protector of the British settlements in the Indies. Let her but vouchsafe to free herself from the perils of a distasteful alliance that now beset her, and honour her devoted slave by confiding herself to his care. A Christian priest shall be at hand and remove the only scruple that a lady of Clarissa’s modesty and prudence might be troubled with in granting such a prayer, and in an hour after the lightest intimation of Clarissa’s pleasure has been conveyed to the house named to her two days ago, she shall be safe for ever from the persecutions of tyrannical parents and a tiresome lover.’”
“Well, indeed, miss!” says my papa, “I must make you my best compliments on the style of your adorer’s letter. Pray, does he expect love or fear to incite you most to grant his request? And the forethought of the gentleman! ‘A priest at hand’ in an hour! I vow you’re a lucky girl.”
“A mighty tasteful piece of writing, indeed!” says the Captain.
But I was in no mind to join in their pleasantry. “Oh, sir,” I cried, turning to my papa with the tears in my eyes, “is this a letter that should be sent to your daughter, who has never (if she may humbly venture to say so) given occasion to any to speak lightly of her? En’t it enough for me to be pestered with the detestable attentions of this wretch in a public place, that his vile missives must pursue me even into the retirements of my papa’s dwelling? Have I deserved this indifference which you, sir, are pleased to show in a matter of such singular moment to me?”
“There, there, Miss Sylvy,” says my dear papa, patting my neck in the kindest manner imaginable, while I sobbed like a fool; “don’t cry, for you shan’t be rallied any more. Don’t my girl trust her papa? Sure the Captain and I are both itching to have our swords at the fellow’s throat, but we had the same thought of making little of the matter for fear it might alarm Miss and prey upon her spirits. But since she accuses us of indifference, why, she shall know all that we do, and spur us on when our eagerness seems to her to flag. You say your iya knew nothing of this charming billet?”
“So she tells me, sir—oh, pray forgive my undutiful words.”
“Tut, tut, miss! I like your spirit. ’Tis well to see a young woman nice about what touches her honour. You’re your papa’s own girl. And now come, we’ll examine the household. Call the servants together, consummer.”
The butler, who had been summoned by Mr Freyne’s clapping his hands, went about his task in no small surprise, and presently had all the servants ranged before us, the upper in the varanda, and the lower remaining modestly in the compound. When they were all assembled, Mr Freyne held up the letter, folded as it had been at first, and asked each in turn whether he or she had laid it upon the Chuta Beebee’s dressing-table. Each of them denied it, whereupon my papa offered a reward of ten rupees to any one that could tell how it had got there—an offer that excited the liveliest eagerness, but brought no result. Next Mr Freyne asked what strangers had visited the house to-day, and while the servants were reckoning up beggars and pedlars and messengers bringing chitts, Marianna stepped suddenly to the front.
“Me know, sir!” she cried. “Mother of Cosmetiques here, two—tree hours ago, bring washes and essences for Burra Beebee. She bad old woman, often carry messages for gentlemen; pass Missy’s door as she go along varanda, put her hand in, put letter on table, no one see her.”
“Upon my word, I han’t a doubt but the wench is right!” cried my papa. “The Mother of Cosmetiques here, indeed, and after what we had heard before! Who has ventured to bring her to the house, I should be pleased to know?”
“There’s no difficulty about that, sir,” says Mrs Freyne, who had come from her dressing-room to see what all this assembly was about. “If you choose to bring out a daughter from home with a pair of red cheeks that make all Calcutta look faded, sure you can’t wonder that we poor matrons do what we can to hold our own.”
“Here, iya,” says my papa to Marianna, “here’s five rupees for you, and you shall have the other five if we can convict the hag. You can go now, and all the whole parcel of you. Pray, madam,” he turned to Mrs Freyne, “do I understand you to say you’re in the habit of employing this female?”
“Why, sir, I heard you talking about her with Miss and the Captain, and when I was at the President’s yesterday I asked some of the ladies who she might be. Mrs Mapletoft was so obliging as to favour me with her direction, and I lost no time in engaging her services.”
“Why, no indeed, madam, not even when you knew she was embarked on a plot against my daughter’s reputation. But you may take my word for it that you’ve employed her for the first and last time.”
“Indeed, Mr Freyne, we shall see about that. The woman’s an excellent worthy creature, and I won’t have her persecuted. You’ll find that she’s too useful to all the ladies here for ’em to permit you to drive her out of the place because she has had the misfortune to oblige me.”
“We shall see, madam,” says Mr Freyne again, and shouts to the servants for his hat.
“Captain, the favour of your hand to the palanqueen, if you please,” said Mrs Freyne. “I presume you don’t design to go out to-night, miss, as you en’t dressed, so I won’t wait for you.”
And she departed, while Captain Colquhoun and my papa went off together on foot, but not without arming two of the peons with swords and shields, and bidding ’em keep guard in front of the house, to quiet my apprehensions. The time passed without alarm, save in your Sylvia’s foolish bosom, as she divided her attention between scribbling a few words to her Amelia and listening fearfully to every chance sound. The gentlemen returned late, and not in the best of humours, though they had gone straight to Mr Holwell, and obtaining an order from him, had entered the old woman’s abode and found her at home. She made no difficulty about confessing that she had placed the billet on my table, but professed herself unable to say from whom she had received it. ’Twas a tall European gentleman, speaking the Moors language, she declared, but she should never know him again, for all Europeans are alike. (So the Indians say, Amelia, which is very odd to us, since we find it next to impossible to distinguish one of themselves from another.) Leaving a guard over the woman’s house, Mr Freyne and the Captain went to Mr Drake, and were very urgent with him to expel her from the bounds of the settlement at once. But (said my papa) the President, retiring for a moment in the course of the discussion, must have sought and received counsel from Mrs Drake, for he came back to say that he understood the female to be a useful adviser in cases of sickness, and not to be dispensed with by the ladies of the factory, so that he would content himself on this occasion with cautioning her, and promising that in case of repeating her offence she should be drove out of our bounds with ignominy. And this it was that had vexed the two gentlemen, as well it might, to find themselves mocked by a wicked person and his degraded instrument. But your Sylvia, the unhappy cause of all this pother, welcomed their return with delight, her mind having devised a new terror for itself in their absence.
“Do you think it possible, dear sir,” I said to my papa, “that this wicked man can be the Nabob himself?”
“What, and speak French like a Frenchman, and pass for a European?” cried Mr Freyne. “No, miss, I don’t. By all we hear, Surajah Dowlah is black for a Moor, and speaks no civilised language. But what then?”
“Only this, sir, that—that if this person should unhappily possess the power to carry out the cruel threats he utters in this letter, I thought—it might—might be my duty——”
“To oblige him?” cried Mr Freyne, with a strong word. “Sure the fellow has gauged your constitution monstrous skilfully, miss.”
“Oh pray, dear sir, don’t wrong your girl so far as to think such a measure would be agreeable to her. But to save the entire factory——”
“The entire factory may go hang before my girl saves it in any such style, and there’s an end of the matter!” cried my papa.
“Sure you’re no Roman papa, dear sir, or you would instantly sacrifice your daughter for the good of the State.”
“No, miss, I en’t a Roman papa, nor an Agamemnon neither, to sacrifice my daughter for any cause, whether on account of my own fault (though the Captain do always cast it in my teeth) or of the State’s.”
“Indeed, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, “I’m in the fullest accordance with you here. Miss don’t perceive that this is the wretch’s artfullest touch, to endeavour to lure her away by the hope of benefiting the Presidency, knowing that this will be to ruin her through the finest motions of her nature. ’Tis a flattering testimony to you, madam, though it speaks little for the fellow that uses it. As to his power to carry out his menaces, I don’t think it need alarm you. He would scarce brag of it if he meant to use it.”
“But, sir,” I said, “suppose he have the power, and do use it. What will you think of me then?”
“Why, that like another Helen, you’ve fired another Troy,” says my papa, quoting from one of the songs in the cantata sung at the Harmonic Society last night; “and, like the Trojan elders, we shall esteem you the more because we have suffered so much through you.”
Calcutta, April ye 21st.
My troubles en’t by no means ended yet, Amelia, although the dreadful Unknown has so far left me in peace since his billet of last Saturday. ’Tis his prophecy uttered at the Masquerade that now threatens to prove true. Passing through the parlour this afternoon, on my way to the varanda, I found my papa and Mrs Freyne there together—a thing unusual at any time, and particularly at that hour of the day, when Mrs Freyne is wont to retire to her chamber in order to fit herself by a second period of rest for the gaieties of the evening. That’s a pert remark for me to make, en’t it, my dear? I know my Amelia will say so. Questionless ’tis made because I can’t find it possible to sleep for two entire hours both before and after dinner, and therefore am jealous of one that can. But oh, my dear Miss Turnor, I wish I knew why my stepmother dislikes me so terribly. Perhaps you’ll tell me that ’tis because I am not so complaisant towards her as I ought to be. But indeed I do all I can to oblige her, though I must confess I don’t feel towards her as I should wish to be able to do. “See there!” you’ll say, “you wonder that Mrs Freyne should dislike you when she sees you dislike her.” True, my dear, but I was prepared when I came here to exhibit the greatest complaisance imaginable, while she (I must say it) did not even feign the slightest sentiment of kindness towards me. There, Amelia! your Sylvia is a saucy ill-mannered creature, passing judgments that don’t become her on her elders and betters, and accusing them of misusing her instead of bewailing her own failures in duty towards them. But indeed my mamma has done me an ill-turn this afternoon, as you shall hear.
“You’ll oblige me by telling me what you have against him, sir,” she was saying, when I came into the room. “I understand he’s a nobleman in his own country.”
“That’s very likely, madam. I have known several noblemen of that sort.”
“I’m sure he has money enough,” says Mrs Freyne, angrily.
“True, madam; too much. I should be glad to know how he gets it.”
“By honest trading, sir, of course. I wonder at your remark.”
“No interloper could make by honest trading in these days the fortune Mr Menotti boasts of,” says my papa. I jumped when I heard the name.
“I see it en’t no good my taking the poor man’s part, sir. You have conceived a spite against him.”
“You do me too much honour, madam. I’ll refer the question to the party it concerns most deeply. Here, miss, your mamma is pressing me to marry you to Mr Menotti. Will you have him?”
“No, sir, I thank you,” said I, with a curtsey.
“Then that settles the matter. My girl will never find me forcing her inclination when it jumps with my own,” and Mr Freyne laughed as he patted my neck. The laugh seemed to displease my stepmother.
“Perhaps you en’t aware of it, sir,” she said, “but you’ll be charmed to know you are the laughing-stock of Calcutta for your usage of Miss there. They say she turns you round her little finger.”
“She could not turn me round a prettier nor a smaller one, madam.”
“Oh, pray spare me these endearments, sir, which befit your age as little as they do your relation to Miss. You won’t listen to me now, but perhaps some day you’ll think of what I have said. Why don’t the girl get married all this time? The gentlemen come crowding to you, and you give ’em their congé one by one, and Miss Saucy-face sits in the corner and simpers. She’ll disgrace you one of these days running off with some blackfellow or other.”
“Pray, madam, remember you’re speaking of my daughter.”
“Am I likely to forget it, sir? Mr Freyne is so nice about his daughter that no one may use a free word in speaking of her, but his wedded wife might look far enough for his assistance if she desired it.”
“My sword is at your service, madam—whether to vindicate your honour or my own.” I had never heard my papa speak with so terrible a voice, and he stood before Mrs Freyne’s couch and looked down at her. She laughed lightly—but was it my fancy that it was also consciously?—as she rose and swept away.
“I won’t forget your obliging offer, sir, I’ll assure you; but I have a notion your sword may be needed first in a quarter more interesting to yourself. Do you know what all Calcutta is saying about your dear Miss, and the reason why she don’t marry? Because she don’t dare. She’s married secretly already, to some fellow she met on her voyage, by a Popish priest somewhere or other, and she has persuaded you that it’s owing to her extraordinary delicacy she can’t find any one in Bengall good enough for her.”
“Indeed, madam, your liberality is too great. Not content with robbing my daughter of her reputation—for your own benefit, I suppose—you make me a present of a son-in-law, all in one day.”
Mrs Freyne laughed again as she stepped out on the varanda. My papa watched her out of sight, then turned to me with a frowning brow—
“Is this true, miss?”
“Oh, dear sir, can you believe such a thing of your girl?”
“No prevarication, miss. Give me an honest yes or no.”
“Why, no, sir. There’s no truth in it.”
“Will you swear it, miss?”
“On my honour, sir.”
“No, miss, that won’t do. Sure I can’t accept an oath by the very thing that’s in dispute.”
“By your honour, then, sir, which is as dear to me as to yourself, and which will be stainless indeed if it receive no more disgrace than I have done it in the past.” I sobbed out this upon my knees, for my papa’s words cut me to the heart. At any other moment he would have sought industriously to comfort me, but now he was walking up and down the chamber with his brows knit and muttering to himself. Presently I could bear it no longer, and throwing myself in his way, catched his feet. “Oh, sir,” I cried, “don’t condemn your girl unheard. What have you ever found in her to justify you in believing she would deceive you? Ask me any question you choose, dear sir, and I’ll answer it on my knees. I have had many things to trouble me of late, but my papa’s countenance has helped me to endure them. If he forsakes me, what refuge have I but death?”
“Don’t talk of things you know nothing about, miss. I do accept your word, and it’s well for you I have no cause to do otherwise. But all Calcutta don’t know you as I do, and what’s to be done to convince ’em? The tale fits only too well with your constant refusal to marry. Why han’t you married, miss? You have had chances enough. I believe there en’t a man of suitable degree in the place but has laid himself at your feet. Pray, what are you waiting for—the Grand Turk or the Great Mogul? I can tell you this, you’ll marry the first honest man that asks you after to-day, and no more pother about it, by——”
“Oh, dear sir, don’t swear it!” I cried, and ventured to cling to his upraised arm. “Pray think that the wicked person who spread this slander may have anticipated this very resolve of yours, and counted on benefiting by it, and so you may hand me over to the most dreadful tyranny. Won’t my papa pity his girl at all?”
“If I was a person of sense,” says my papa, angrily, “I should refuse to be moved by that pert tongue of yours, miss, but I can’t hear my Sally’s girl pleading and remain unmoved. But Miss Sylvia Freyne may be sure of this, that I’ll find her a husband before another week is out.”
Calcutta, April ye 27th.
Oh, my dear, the husband has been found, and who do you think he is? But I’ll tell you the tale as it happened.
“What do you think of Captain Colquhoun, miss?” says my papa to me, as we were taking the air in the garden before breakfast this morning.
“Think of him, sir? Why, what could I think but that he’s a vastly agreeable and respectable person, and my papa’s most esteemed friend?”
“I’m charmed that your opinion’s so favourable, miss. The Captain is coming to see you this morning.”
“Coming—to—see—me—sir?”
“Why, yes, miss. He has done you the honour to ask you of me in marriage, and I desire you’ll entertain him as your future spouse.”
Was I very saucy, Amelia? I did not design to be so, but the words escaped my lips. “But, dear sir, I can’t!” I cried.
“And why not, miss, pray?”
Now here, Amelia, was your poor Sylvia in a pretty confusion. Why not, indeed? Even to myself I could not produce any reasons; I could only feel them.
“Sure it’s impossible, sir. I never dreamt—— The gentleman is surely a sworn bachelor. I esteem him most highly, I’ll assure you, but any closer tie—— Dear sir, the Captain’s age, his—his wisdom—he could never put up with an ignorant girl like me. Pray, sir——”
I could say no more, and my papa regarded me sternly.
“This charming prudishness won’t weigh with me, miss. I believe I have indulged you excessively, allowing you the whole of the cold weather to make your choice. I vow I never looked to keep you longer than a month, and I wish heartily I hadn’t done it. No, miss; this season of reigning as a queen, and holding all Calcutta in suspense, and setting all the young gentlemen at enmity, has lasted too long, and you may thank me for ending it before you find yourself excelled by the young ladies arriving this year from home. Not that you shall have the chance of calling me unreasonable. If there’s any gentleman in Calcutta that you would honestly prefer to the Captain as a spouse, name him, and I’ll set on foot a treaty with him at once.”
“Dear sir, there en’t one. But won’t you permit your girl——”
“No, miss, I won’t.” I could see by my papa’s face that he was hardening his heart against me. “I won’t have it said that my foolish desire to have your company at home has led me to spoil your chances of marrying. And what’s more, the injurious things that are being said about you demand that you should be married as soon as possible as their best contradiction. Why, it fell to me to-day to reprove a young fool of a writer, who had bribed a Popish priest to marry him to a country-born wench in the Portuguese quarter; and pointing out to him that his proceedings showed he was ashamed of what he was doing, or he would have sought to get married in the church by the Padra like an honest man, he told me that he was not alone in preferring a private wedding, for there was one of my own family that was commonly reported to have done the same. What do you make of that, miss?”
“Oh, sir——” I sobbed, and stopped. “Will he say this everywhere?”
“I think not,” said my papa, very grim. “I promised to cane him round the town if he did not instantly unsay his words, or if he ever repeated ’em, and he saw his error, and begged my pardon. But what he says, others are saying, and I don’t choose they should say it of my daughter. You may be as whimsical and as humoursome as you like, miss, and play off all your pretty airs and graces on me, but it won’t do you no good, nor advantage you one whit. I am acting for your good, and you know it; and I don’t despair that one day you’ll have the grace to thank me for it, when you judge that your punctilio has been satisfied by the proper amount of sulking.”
He made as though to leave me; but ’twas my last chance, and I could not see it slip away. Springing after him, I was bold enough to seize his arm. “Dear sir,” I said, “you have forbid me to plead for your girl, and she perceives she need expect no softness from her papa. But think at least of your friend. Is it acting a friendly part by him to seek to force into his arms an unwilling bride? That’s all I ask you.”
“But why should the bride be unwilling?” cried Mr Freyne, turning upon me angrily. “I offer her the whole of Calcutta from which to choose, and she’s still unwilling. There must be some limit even to a lady’s reluctance. Perhaps the cause lies outside Calcutta—hey, miss? Perhaps you’ll be so obliging as to tell me exactly what there is between you and the sea-officer, the Captain’s cousin, or perhaps you’re held back by an oath?”
“Why, no, sir, for there’s nothing to swear about. There’s nothing whatever between your daughter and Lieutenant Fraser.”
“Not so much as a promise? I had your word for it that there was no marriage.”
“Not even a promise, sir. I don’t deny that the gentleman came desiring to obtain one from me, but we parted in anger.”
My papa looked at me with a suspicion that convinced me I owed this strange harshness of his to some fresh tale of Mrs Freyne’s. (Don’t scold me, Amelia. Can you say that she don’t seek to separate my father and me by means of tales?) “And you wish the young gentleman fetched back, miss?”
“Why, no, sir, certainly not,” my cheeks aflame at the very thought.
“Then you would prefer to wait in case it might please him to come back, and so find you meekly ready for his arrival?”
“I don’t think your girl has merited these sarcasms, sir.”
“Then show it by marrying the Captain, miss.”
“If you command me to marry the Captain, sir, I will obey you.”
“No, miss, I don’t command you. I won’t give you that excuse for saying you was forced into a marriage by your father’s tyranny. You know that it’s my strong desire that you should marry the Captain, and as you have always shown yourself a dutiful daughter until now, I expect that desire to prevail with you in the absence of any weighty reason that might make your compliance wrong. If there be any such reason, I’ll hear it with patience. If not, I look to you to justify the consideration I have extended to you in the past by your behaviour now.”
“I’ll do my best to satisfy you, sir,” I said, sighing. For oh, my dear girl, who could continue to resist when urged in such a manner by such a father? Had the parents of the noble Clarissa treated her with so reasonable a kindness (for I know my papa is only cruel to be kind), sure she must have succumbed to their softness where she was firm against their invective. But perhaps you won’t agree with me. Then, Amelia, be very sure your Sylvia en’t a Clarissa. But then, neither is Captain Colquhoun a Solmes. He’s all that is excellent—his only fault that he is not Fraser. And indeed, my dear, that’s as well, for I should be sorry to think there was two men like the lieutenant in the world. There’s a double meaning here, you’ll say? Why, so there is. I will stop.
I take up my pen again at night. During breakfast my papa preserved the same unbending sternness towards me, so that I could scarcely eat, and was like to choke more than once. The only person at their ease was Mrs Freyne, who talked and laughed with the most charming sprightliness. When the meal was over, and your unhappy Sylvia was creeping away to her own chamber, Mrs Freyne called to me as I passed her door.
“So I hear you’ve added another to the list of your conquests, miss. ’Tis a little hard on the poor gentleman to have to pay so dear for merely taking up your defence in public, en’t it?”
“Sure, madam, you’re better informed than I.”
“Why,” says she, “it seems that after mess yesterday, when the gentlemen had perhaps drunk somewhat freely, your name was mentioned among ’em, and the story which is in the mouths of all Calcutta not obscurely hinted at. Up darts Captain Colquhoun, and calls on the speaker (’twas young Waring, I fancy they told me) to withdraw his words, which he had the best authority for knowing were altogether false. The young gentleman demands with great spirit what right the Captain had to interfere in the matter, to which he replied, quick as lightning, that his right was that of a suitor for the lady’s hand. On this Waring offers his apologies, and the matter drops; but coming to your papa’s ears, he jumps at the notion, and forces the Captain to turn his expedient into a reality.”
“I’m sure, madam, I am prodigious grateful to you for telling me this,” I said, as I went on my way. And indeed, Amelia, the history comforted me not a little, for if not the Captain’s heart, but only his politeness, was engaged, it should not, surely, be impossible to turn him aside from his object. Hence, when Marianna came to tell me that Captain Colquhoun was waiting for me in the saloon, I put a bold face on the matter, and having dried my eyes and settled my cap, walked into the apartment with as easy an air as I could assume, though my heart was thumping as if it would burst.
“Madam, your most obedient!” said he, with his stiff bow.
“Sir, you’re very welcome,” said I, as well as my trembling lips would allow me.
“Dearest madam, why this agitation?” said the kind gentleman, as he took my hand to lead me to a seat, and found it cold and shaking. “I hope I han’t incommoded Miss Freyne by so early a visit?”
“Indeed, sir, I had rather you came early,” I said, for I don’t know how I had lived the day through in anticipation of his coming.
“Questionless, madam, my good friend Mr Freyne has informed you of my object in waiting upon you this morning?”
“He has told me of the honour, sir—” I could not get out another word.
“And may I venture to hope that Miss Freyne shares in the kind opinion expressed by her papa?”
I saw my chance, Amelia, and rushed at it. “Dear sir,” I burst out, all in a flurry, “it’s been told me that you’re paying me these addresses out of a notion of honour, feeling yourself bound by a declaration you made in public yesterday. I can’t be too grateful for your defence of me, but it would give me infinite pain to think that you held it necessary to carry the matter any further.”
“Even though it gave me infinite pleasure, madam? Has my dear Miss Freyne never guessed that she had another humble servant besides the young sparks that flutter about her so gaily? Ah, madam, they see you only in company, outshining, it’s true, every other lady present, yet still one amongst many; but you have permitted me to behold you continually in the softer and more endearing character of a daughter in her father’s house, and the repeated sight has graven upon my heart an impression too deep to be effaced. Does Miss Freyne grudge having lost the triumph of enrolling a new admirer? I know her tender spirit would not seek to gratify itself with the spectacle of the distress of another hopeless lover, and that I have been since first I perceived my case. But the event of yesterday gave me fresh food for thought. When I had silenced the slanderer by the revelation of a passion of which no one had dreamt, the notion came to me, ‘What if this amiable lady would be willing to accept the devotion her Colquhoun would so gladly offer her? A genteel abode, a respectable competence, the protection of a husband, and all else that could be done or given by a man who would lay down his life to oblige her, would be at her service.’ Pray, madam,” for I had strove to speak, “hear me out. You don’t need to remind me that I am old, and scarred with long years of war both in Europe and the Carnatic—I know it too well. But, on my honour, I don’t think you would find me an unkind spouse. I would never seek to deprive you of the diversions natural to your sex and age; on the contrary, I would feel honoured in attending you to ’em. The desire for knowledge, which displays the ingenious bent of your mind, I would do my best to gratify. Your heart, as I know well, I can’t aspire to possess, but if respect and complaisance could win it, even that treasure would be mine—in short, if Miss Freyne could tolerate me as a spouse, it should go hard with me if she were not happy, or at least contented in her lot.”
“Oh, dear sir,” I cried out, “cease these too kind remarks before I am crushed to the dust under such a load of obligation. Every word you have spoken has planted a dagger in my heart. I entered this room almost resolved, as I had promised my papa, to accept your proposals, but now I can’t do it, when I see that your heart’s engaged in the matter, without telling you the truth. My heart is given to another. If I could have recalled it, the thing had long been done, but I can’t, and there the matter lies.”
“Is the gentleman alive, madam?”
“Oh yes, sir; but we have quarrelled.”
“I need not ask, madam, on whose side the fault lay.”
“Indeed, sir, he has used me cruelly, though I would tell this to no one but you.”
“Could you oblige me with this person’s name, madam?”
“Oh no, sir!” I went cold all in a moment at the thought that the Captain might seek out Mr Fraser and fight him, perhaps kill him. “I was over hasty. The blame was certainly in great part mine. The gentleman sought to test my sentiments for him by means of a fantastic device out of a novel, and I, not knowing his expedient, believed him false to me. Then, when next we met, he failed to express the contrition I fancied was called for, and I stood upon my punctilio, and refused to forgive him without it, whereupon he went away in a rage. You see that I am at least as much to blame as he.”
“No, madam; I see that the puppy has a stouter defender than he deserves, that’s all. But pardon my speaking so of one dear to Miss Freyne. You anticipate that this person will return to you?”
“No, sir, I have not the slightest cause for thinking so. My reason for mentioning the matter at all was a desire to deal fairly by you. I esteem you as the best person in the world, next to my papa, and with Heaven’s help I’ll do my best to make you a dutiful and, I hope, an obliging wife, but I can’t delude you into believing that Sylvia Freyne has still a heart to be won.”
“Do you know, madam, that you are placing me in a most cruel situation?”
“Dear sir, forgive me. I am a sad selfish creature, I fear.”
“My own heart, madam, would prompt me at once to leave you free, but such a course would only expose you the more to the tongues of the injurious busy-bodies of this place, as would your rejection of my proposals.”
“But I han’t rejected ’em, sir.”
“To accept them, madam, would be even more dreadful. Suppose this person, of whom you have told me, should in time repent of his behaviour, and return to find you married? I am not, I hope, a jealous man, I believe in your virtue beyond all possibility of doubt, but how should I feel to see two young persons, well qualified to make each other happy, condemned to an eternal separation, and all through me? The higher the virtue they displayed the more poignant would be my sufferings. What man of honour could endure such a situation with contentment, even with complacence?”
“Dear sir, you torture me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll obey you.”
“Why, madam, I don’t know myself. I will go back to my quarters and think the matter over, not forgetting to seek guidance where alone it is to be found, as I trust Miss Freyne will do also, and if I see a way out of the trouble I will wait upon you again this evening. Trust me, madam, you shan’t be forced into so repugnant an alliance if I can save you.”
I cried out against his words, but he was gone.