Like Another Helen

The hour so long dreaded is at length almost arrived, my Amelia, and your Sylvia weeps to remember that this is her last night on British soil. To-morrow, in the company of strangers, she leaves the only home she has ever known, her native land and all its dear inhabitants—and who is the best beloved of them, her sweet girl knows well—for an unfamiliar region, parents hitherto unseen, and a new manner of life. Ill would it become her to consecrate these last precious moments to anything but the duties of friendship, and in fulfilment of the promise that her latest thoughts on quitting England should be her dearest friend’s, she takes the opportunity to begin this letter. It will reach you, as she understands, from about the neighbourhood of the Isle of Wight, since she expects to finish it on board the Orford, in time to entrust its posting to the pilot who steers the ship down the Channel.

But how, you will ask, has your friend contrived to learn so soon these particulars of her journey? The answer to that question, my Amelia, belongs to the history of the day’s travelling, of which you saw only the heartrending commencement. Sure no young creature ever left Holly-tree House with a heart so heavy as mine! When I had kissed the hands of our venerable instructresses, and had received Mrs Eustacia’s warning against neglecting the polite accomplishments, in the practice of which (she was good enough to say) I had gained so considerable a proficiency, and Mrs Abigail had begged of me not to read romances and to beware of listening to the flatteries of men, the worst was still to come. Was it not enough to encounter the tearful farewells of all the dear Misses, that I must experience the crowning grief of beholding my Amelia fallen into a fit,[01] and carried away by Mrs Abigail and the governess, thus depriving me of the last fond glance I had anticipated? Oh, my dearest Miss Turnor, when the good Rector stopped me on the footpath as I was hurrying to hide my tears in the chaise, and bade God bless me, and wished me an obliging spouse and a great fortune (hateful word!), I was hard put to it not to burst out sobbing in his face. Once seated in the chaise, however, the polite concern and surprised countenances of Mrs Hamlin and her niece assisted me to restrain my tears, and we drove off in the genteelest style imaginable, with Miss Hamlin’s brother, the lieutenant of dragoons, riding beside the chaise.

As soon as she saw me a little more composed, Miss Hamlin began to rally me on the grief I displayed to quit my school, and charged me with leaving a dear friend behind me there. “And I’m certain,” says she, “that I have discovered this friend. Pray, miss, wasn’t it the handsome young lady in the blue lustring nightgown[02] who was so overcome by her feelings that she fainted away? Sure you must have observed her, brother?”

“That I did,” says Mr Hamlin; “and a monstrous fine girl she was, too.”

More to this effect was said, and my Amelia will guess how these compliments to my friend warmed my heart, and placed me on the best of terms with Mr and Miss Hamlin, while their aunt, who seems a very agreeable, good sort of a woman, did her best to set your timid Sylvia at her ease. As often as the thoughts natural to my situation threatened to overcome my composure, the ladies were ready to divert my mind to some fresh topic, the elder with infinite good humour, and her niece with the greatest archness in the world. My Amelia must not imagine herself in the smallest degree forgot when I tell her that I am persuaded I shall find Miss Hamlin a vastly agreeable companion, in spite of the difference between her constitution and mine. At midday we abated our journey at an inn, where we found the advantage of Mr Hamlin’s company, since every one was agog to serve him. No sooner had he entered the place in his laced scarlet coat, with the King’s ribbon[03] in his hat, than there was all manner of rushing hither and thither, and it was, “What does your honour please to desire?” and “What will the noble Captain[04] take?” on every side.

Miss Hamlin rallied her brother very pleasantly on the matter during the meal, and I was thankful that she was thus engaged, since I could scarce eat a morsel. On returning to the post-chaise, Mrs Hamlin fell asleep, and her niece confided to me in whispers many points of extraordinary interest touching the clothes she is taking out to Bengal with her—confidences which I did my best to return, although I can’t hope to rival them. We reached Deal about four in the afternoon, and Mrs Hamlin ordered tea immediately in the private parlour she had engaged beforehand, whither we repaired. Presently up comes Mr Hamlin, who had been seeing our trunks brought in, and acquainted his aunt that there were lodging in the inn two young gentlemen of whom he had some slight knowledge, and who were to be our fellow-passengers to India on board the Orford, adding that if we could come to an agreement with them to share a boat on the morrow, we might reach our vessel at far less cost.

“Well thought of!” cries Mrs Hamlin. “Pray, Henry, request the gentlemen to step upstairs and drink a dish of tea with us here.”

“With all my heart, madam,” says the Captain, and down he goes, returning quickly with the two gentlemen, who differed considerably from each other in appearance. The first, whom Mr Hamlin presented to his aunt as Lieutenant Colvin Fraser, of his Majesty’s ship Tyger, was tall and very well made, but a degree too thin for his height, his complexion ruddy, his eyes grey, his hair, which was his own, of a reddish colour. He wore the King’s ribbon, but a plain fustian suit of a dark blue. The other gentleman, who was of a smaller and slighter figure and a dark complexion, and with whom Mr Hamlin had a much better acquaintance than with Lieutenant Fraser, was introduced as Mr Ensign Ranger, of the Hon. Company’s Bengall European Regiment. The gentlemen were presented to us severally, and both entered into conversation in a very genteel manner, modest without being bashful, although it seemed to me that Mr Ranger was the more assured, and Lieutenant Fraser the more cautious.

“Come, gentlemen,” says Mrs Hamlin at last, “since we are to be fellow-travellers for so long, let us begin, like the personages in the romances, by telling each other our histories. As for myself, you will have guessed that I am sailing to rejoin my spouse, who was until lately head of the Company’s house at Ballisore, and that during the journey I have the charge of Miss Freyne, whose papa is a member of Council at Calcutta, as well as of my niece, who will reside with her uncle and me when we reach Bengall.”

“And questionless you’ll also have guessed that both ladies are sailing to seek their fortunes—with spouses attached to ’em,” says Mr Hamlin.

“Oh, fie, brother!” cries Miss Hamlin. “See how Miss Freyne is out of countenance for your freedom. Pray, miss, don’t heed the Captain. He has no delicacy of mind.”

“And pray, miss, why are you going, if not in the hope of getting married?” demanded Mr Hamlin. “How silly must these gentlemen think it in you to be so nice in denying what’s the truth!”

Before Miss Hamlin could reply, Lieutenant Fraser took up the dispute with great warmth, saying that for his part, not only would he not venture to suggest to a lady the terms she should employ in speaking, but he thought that man a sad coxcomb who would presume to do so, more especially in a matter of such delicacy as had just been touched upon. Mr Hamlin, though astounded by this outburst, was about to reply warmly, when his aunt interfered, reproved both disputants for the heat they were displaying, and desired them to return to the topic on which she had requested information.

“You, Lieutenant Fraser,” she said, “shall be the first to recount to us your history. How is it, pray, that we find a King’s officer taking passage in an Indiaman?”

“Indeed, madam,” says he, fetching a heavy sigh, “my situation can’t appear stranger to you than it did irksome to myself until a few minutes ago. Sure you see before you the victim of a series of the cruellest misfortunes that ever baulked a man of his most reasonable desires. You’ll be already aware, questionless, that in February the King despatched Admiral Watson to the East Indies with the Kent and Salisbury and others of his Majesty’s ships, in the anticipation that when war next breaks out with France, much will hang upon the situation in the Decan, where our nation and the French have been so continually at strife of late years. You will be at no loss to imagine that the recent exploits and successes of Colonel Clive have stirred up such a spirit of emulation in both the sea and land services that the Admiral might have had his pick of the whole nation either as officers or volunteers on board of his ships, but it so happened that having been fortunate enough to gain his approbation when serving with him before (for I was bred up under him from my earliest youth at sea), I had his promise to take me with him if he could in any way compass it. But now, madam, came in the first of the distressing accidents I have mentioned. Not only did I find my applications continually set aside in favour of gentlemen who possessed greater interest than I could boast, but Mr Watson’s own desires were thwarted with a like persistence. And all this was in spite of the many signal services rendered by my father to the Government in the rising of the Highlands nine years back, so true is the saying that good offices are seldom remembered unless their repetition is looked for.”

“Pray, sir,” cries the Captain, “stick to your tale, and don’t weary the ladies with pieces of musty wisdom that you’ve picked up from some long-winded divine.”

“Pray, nephew Henry,” says Mrs Hamlin, seeing that Lieutenant Fraser, although out of countenance by reason of the interruption, was looking very fierce; “don’t break into the gentleman’s history, which we all love to hear him tell in his own style. Sure you ought to know that though you fine London sparks may make a boast of your ignorance, every Scottish gentleman prides himself on possessing a store of polite learning and reflections, and if Mr Fraser is good enough to display his for our entertainment, he is to be commended, and not blamed. Pray, sir, continue.”

“I’ll do my best not to be tedious, madam,” says the Lieutenant, with a bow. “You may conceive then my mortification when the squadron set sail without me, although I was a little comforted by the Admiral’s assuring me that he had left my case in the hands of a friend of his that had interest at the India House, and would see that my name was brought before the Admiralty if there were any question of sending out reinforcements to him. If my distress had been extreme at the rude blasting of my hopes, it was equalled by my delight when in the month of May I received my commission as fourth lieutenant of the Tyger. You may not, madam, have heard at the time that Admiral Watson met with such severe weather in the Channel that he was forced to send back part of his fleet disabled from Kingsale, where he had put in for the purpose of taking on board Colonel Adlercron’s regiment of foot[05] for service in the Carnatic. On hearing of this disaster the Government determined to fit out and despatch immediately the Tyger and the Cumberland, which might take on board the remainder of the soldiers, and endeavour to overtake Mr Watson, who had continued his voyage without regarding the smallness of his force. No words can paint my delight on receiving this news, but making the best of my way to join my ship at Plymouth, I was so unfortunate as to spend the night at an inn where a man lay sick of the small-pox. Although I did not approach him, as you may well guess, it seems that the air of the place must have carried the infection, for I was seized with the malady the day before that on which the Tyger and her consort were to sail. The disorder of my mind, on seeing my hopes again overthrown, aggravated my sufferings to such a degree that I barely escaped with my life, and only left the hospital after an extraordinary long bout of sickness. As soon as I was fairly recovered, I made haste to open my affairs to the Admiralty, who, compassionating my hard case, gave me leave to proceed at my own costs to the East Indies, where, if I find my post aboard the Tyger filled up, I must even offer my services as a volunteer.”

“Unless your ill-fortune should pursue you so far as to prevent your sailing with us to-morrow, sir,” says Mrs Hamlin.

“Sure, madam, in the company in which I now am no ill fortune can prevail to touch me.”

“I protest, sir, you are too flattering. Pray, sir,” and Mrs Hamlin looked towards the second gentleman, “tell us your history now.”

“Alas, madam!” says Mr Ranger, heaving a prodigious sigh, in extravagant imitation of that with which his friend had commenced his recital; “I have no tale to tell that will bring the moisture of compassion to the eye of beauty, as that of Mr Fraser has been happy enough to do. My sufferings are of too ordinary a nature to do more than excite the tribute of a pitying glance. I can but say that I had the honour to serve his Majesty in the regiment which your nephew, my esteemed friend here, so justly adorns, and that the modest fortune I inherited proved insufficient to support the dignity with which I desired to invest my situation. I need not wound the tender hearts of the young ladies by describing the disagreeable results of this unfortunate disproportion; it is enough to remark that I was thankful to accept the offer of my uncle, who is an India director, to make interest to obtain for me a pair of colours in the Bengall Regiment.”

“Indeed, sir, you en’t in no way to be pitied,” says Mrs Hamlin, with some coldness. “Are you aware how many worthy young gentlemen, each of whom has spent several years as a private man in the Company’s forces, carrying a musket and mounting guard in the Select Piquet,[06] will be disobliged by this placing you over their heads?”

“No, indeed, madam,” said he; “and for the sake of my own peace of mind, I’ll beg you won’t acquaint me of their exact number. I’ll assure you that I have a very feeling heart, and to wound it would in no way advantage these unfortunate gentlemen, while it would be prodigiously disagreeable to me. To conclude my story, madam; I fell in with Lieutenant Fraser in Leadenhall Street, and learning that we were travelling by the same vessel, we agreed to post to Dover in company, by which means I enjoy the happiness of being at your service to-night.”

This whimsical reply, delivered with infinite good humour, to her reproof, put Mrs Hamlin into some difficulty not to laugh, and turning again to Mr Fraser, she enquired of him how soon our vessel was likely to sail?

“I heard but an hour back, madam,” he answered, “that those on board were much concerned to lose so much of this fair wind—as indeed I would be, in their case—and that the passengers should all be in their places by eleven o’clock to-morrow, when the captain, who is posting from town, is looked for.”

“La!” says Miss Hamlin, with the most engaging vivacity, “what a pity to waste time in this way! I’m all anxiety to be well on my way to India.”

“Because you know nothing about it, child,” says her brother. “Ask my aunt whether she finds a voyage as agreeable as you think. I’ll lay you a guinea you’ll be in a fine pickle before you reach Bengall, with no chance of getting at your ‘things,’ as you call ’em, to divert yourself with.”

“Brother, you’re a sad bear,” said Miss Hamlin very gravely. “Gentlemen, now that we have drank our tea, I have been waiting in vain for one of you to suggest a promenade. Must I make the proposal myself?”

“Pray permit me to wait on you out of doors, madam,” said both the strange gentlemen in a breath.

“Well, indeed,” says Mrs Hamlin, “I think we shan’t do wrong in hiring a boat to take us on board to-morrow, since our time is like to be so short, and though it be dark already, the lights on the water afford a vastly agreeable prospect if we take a short stroll. You’ll accompany us, Miss Freyne?”

But I excused myself on the plea of fatigue, and sat down to begin this letter, which diverted Miss Hamlin excessively when she came back into the parlour in her capuchin[07] to look for her muff.

“I protest, miss, you’re quite an author!” she cried. “Sure you must be emulating the practice of the divine Clarissa?”

“You’re right, miss,” said I. “Like Miss Harlowe, I am writing to the best of friends.”

She went away laughing, and I employed myself all the time of their absence in writing these pages, which would not be so many had I not desired to fulfil my promise of making my Amelia acquainted with the companions of our voyage. This shocking scribble that follows is wrote in my chamber before going to rest, for I must tell you of some droll things that Mrs Hamlin has been saying. She is, my dear, the oddest kind of woman! Coming in with her niece about half-an-hour before supper, leaving the gentlemen downstairs, she sat down upon the settee, and requested me to spare her a moment. You may be sure I lost no time in complying, more especially since I catched a very whimsical glance from Miss Hamlin as I shook the sand over my paper.

“I don’t doubt but you was a good deal surprised, miss,” says Mrs Hamlin, motioning me to take my place in the window-seat opposite her, “by my admitting those two young gentlemen to our company?”

“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I never ventured——”

“You thought I was a good easy body, questionless, and no prude, and you passed remarks upon my discretion in your mind, perhaps?” I had no chance to answer, Amelia, for she went on without stopping: “Then I would have you know, miss, that you was mistaken. My complaisant behaviour is dictated altogether by policy, and I will go so far as to open to you my mind in the matter, the more so since I am persuaded you are a young woman of sense.”

“I shall hope to deserve your good opinion, madam.”

“As for my niece Hamlin,” continued the good lady, “she has been bred up by her grandmamma, who was a toast in her youth, and even in her genteel retirement has not forgot the manners of the great world, so that she has, questionless, furnished her granddaughter with a whole battery of defensive arts. You han’t enjoyed this advantage, miss, but I don’t doubt the respectable gentlewomen who instructed you have warned you against the ways of Men?”

“Indeed, madam, they have spoke to me of little else for some months past, and their very last words——”

“Why, that’s very well,” says she, “for I must think better of you than to imagine that after such sedulous care you, any more than my Charlotte, could fall a prey to the wiles of the designing creatures. Pray, miss, what do you think was my intention in presenting the gentlemen to you two young women to-day?”

“Indeed, madam, I don’t know,” for what dark political meaning there could be in so natural an act, I could not imagine.

“Why, then,” says Mrs Hamlin, “I desired to provide you both with agreeable cavaliers for the voyage, without the fear of falling in love on either side.”

“Sure, madam, you’re very kind,” Miss Hamlin puts in.

Mrs Hamlin. Don’t be pert, miss. I observed just now, Miss Freyne, that you was put out of countenance by a foolish remark of my nephew’s, which his sister very properly reproved. Such sensibility does you honour, but I would have you learn to take such sayings in good part, since, though it be true that a man of fine manners would not allude to the fact so freely, ’tis yet undeniable that both you and my niece are going to Bengall to be married, as my poor Henry said.

Sylvia. Sure, madam, ’tis but the action of a woman of spirit to protest against such a view, and endeavour to discredit it?

Mrs H. I see, miss, that, like other romancical young ladies, you cherish the notion that you would prefer to lead a single life. I don’t fancy you would remain long in that mind in Britain—since we en’t Papists, and if I may say so to your face, you are reasonable well-looking—but in India such a resolution could not hold for a single day. When you have seen, as I have, the numerous crowds of gentlemen in respectable, if not in affluent circumstances, that will hasten to the Gott[08] to see the European ladies disembark, and rush to hand you out of your palanqueen and into church on Sunday, you will perceive that no woman could be so cruel as to keep so many worthy persons pining in suspense. I have known a young lady—and she not a creature of any figure—who was married, within two hours of her landing, to a gentleman she had never seen before.

Sylvia. I hope, madam, you don’t anticipate such a fate for me?

Mrs H. I don’t doubt, miss, but you’ll consider your punctilio demands a longer time for choice. But if you’ll reflect for a moment, you’ll see that there’s no forwardness, as you seem to imply, but rather the truest kindness on the part of their parents and guardians, in this sending out young ladies to find spouses. The Company’s service is for life, and a gentleman can’t come home to seek a suitable wife for himself. Imagine, then, his joy and gratitude when an agreeable match presents itself, and the assiduous complaisance with which he will behave to the lady who has done him the honour of selecting him out of so many suitors! I hope, miss, that you’ll do credit to your bringing-up in the choice you make, and that the gentleman’s fortune will be worthy of the advantages you bring him.

Sylvia (smiling). I have studied my ‘Spectator,’ dear madam, too closely to be ignorant that an honest life and an obliging temper are more to be regarded in the marriage state than a great fortune.

Mrs H. The ‘Spectator,’ miss? Sure he’s the person that tells a tale of some old Roman,[09] who said he had rather marry his daughter to a man without an estate than to a great estate without a man. The good gentleman was certainly mad. Such a marriage as that would be the happiest that could befall most young women. But, indeed, miss, I would have you look at the whole matter from a judicious standpoint. There’s some prudes that affect horror when they hear of a young lady’s doing well for herself, not considering that she has but placed out her capital, which is herself, to the best advantage. Think of your good papa. He has sunk a great sum of money in sending you home to be brought up, and he’ll look for a handsome return on his investment. You’ll have a tolerable fortune—unless, indeed, it be true, as I heard said on my voyage home, that your papa has made such large settlements on the present Mrs Freyne as leaves but little for you. She was a Quinion—one of the Quinions of Madrass, and they have a sharp eye in money matters, and would get all they could from Mr Freyne.

Sylvia. Oh, pray, madam, don’t use these terms of my papa. Sure he has every right to please himself in the disposition of his own property.

Mrs H. Very true, miss, but all the same it’s fortunate for you that gentlemen in India ask less in the way of fortune with their wives than in England. I can but hope that you’ll marry a man of wealth sufficient to give Mr Freyne a solid return upon his expenditure. And that brings me to the question on which I had purposed to speak to you. You may have heard a silly jest to the effect that young ladies sent out to India by their parents to marry great fortunes commonly disappoint their anticipations by entering into engagements of marriage with such young cadets and writers as may have pleased their fancy on the voyage out.

Sylvia. I had not heard it, madam.

Mrs H. You will, questionless, hear it often in the future. Well, miss, this unfortunate state of affairs is due, in my mind, to the injudicious severity of the ladies who have the charge of these young women. By forbidding them to converse with, or even to glance at, any of the gentlemen about them, they force them to appear either shy or uncivil, while by engaging the authority of the captain on their side they deliver a direct challenge to the young gentlemen to evade their prohibitions, so that it becomes the dearest wish of the young people to make each other’s acquaintance, and this they’ll succeed in doing by foul means, if not by fair. Ah! I could tell you of some sad unhappy marriages that have come about in this way, and also of many cases in which the young lady has seen her folly, and wedded the person selected for her by her guardians, after infinite trouble and foolish behaviour on the part of the suitor she has abandoned! Now I design to place no restriction upon you and my Charlotte, Miss Freyne. I have treated you as reasonable creatures, and I look to you to requite my kindness, mixing with these gentlemen, and any others I may introduce to your notice while on board, as young women of sense should do, and giving them no cause for presumption, nor others for talk. I leave the matter with your own consciences, requesting you to consider the pains taken with your bringing-up, and to remember that you would be actually robbing your relatives if you married below the rank they have a right to expect.

Sylvia. Pray, madam, would it be impossible for us to confine ourselves chiefly to female society, while conversing with these gentlemen so far as civility demands?

Miss Hamlin. La, miss! would you have an Indiaman a floating nunnery?

Mrs H. Your suggestion, miss, is extremely proper, but ’twould be impossible to carry it out on board ship. You’ll find it almost necessary to have a gentleman at hand who will run your errands, and wait upon you on deck when the weather is fresh. But I can rely upon you to let the acquaintance go no further, and to preserve in your carriage such a distance as may keep your cavalier on the humble footing that becomes him.

It appeared to me, my Amelia, that there was scant tenderness shown for the feelings of the gentlemen in this device, but indeed I am so confused with all I have heard that I can scarce be sure my pity en’t chiefly for myself. How humbling is it to a young creature’s pride (I had almost said, how wounding to her delicacy), to find herself regarded in the light of a bale of merchandise, to be knocked down to the highest bidder! And why do our instructors recommend to our perusal the mild counsels of the excellent Mr Addison, if the most important action of our future life is to give them the lie in every particular? But Mrs Abigail would say that I was passing judgment on my elders; I will cease, therefore, and only hope that my papa may be of a different spirit from Mrs Hamlin.

The gentlemen joined us at supper, and Lieutenant Hamlin demanded of his sister to give him some music afterwards—a request that was very heartily seconded by both the others—but on Mrs Hamlin’s declaring that she was dog-tired, and would fain be early a-bed, the company broke up. Miss Hamlin very good-naturedly waited upon me to my chamber, and when she had set down the candlestick, I thought would have taken her leave, but to my surprise she shut the door, saying—

“Pray, miss, what is your opinion of my aunt’s great piece of policy?”

“Sure I’m grateful to be treated as a reasonable creature, miss,” said I.

“And for that,” says she, “you may thank my aunt’s love of ease. She is desirous to pass her time agreeably in playing whisk[10] and brag with her friends, reading romances, or slandering her neighbours—not in looking after two young women that happen to be placed in her charge.”

“Indeed, miss, you make vastly free with your aunt’s name.”

“And therefore,” Miss Hamlin went on without heeding me, “she throws the burden on the young women themselves, and thinks she has done all her duty when she has placed it on their consciences. Pray, miss, was you born with a heart?”

“Sure I don’t understand you, miss,” said I, staggered, as they say, by so sudden and particular[11] a question.

“Because I was not,” said this strange girl; “or if I were, it has been bred out of me—without it be like the coquette’s heart at the dissection of which your dear ‘Spectator’ says he attended. But you, miss, if I don’t mistake, are burdened with this useless and improper possession. Pray understand that by the time you reach Bengall it must be gone, and replaced either by a purse of gold or a chest of toys and laces, or else the determination to outshine your neighbours, if you are ever to cut a figure in Calcutta. The voyage is your opportunity of practising for its removal.”

“Indeed, miss——” said I, bewildered, but she interrupted me.

“I have pointed out to you your work for the next eight or nine months, miss, and I shall hope to see you fashionably heartless when we land in India. But for the present, which of the two gentlemen that have been designated as our bond-slaves for the voyage will you attach to your service?”

“Oh, pray, miss, oblige me by choosing first,” said I.

“Then I choose Mr Ranger,” said she, quickly.

“I’m quite content to take Mr Fraser,” said I, well pleased.

“That’s as I should have guessed. I have chose Mr Ranger because he is the more entertaining to me, but if I were acting the part of a true friend by you, miss, I should have taken the Lieutenant.”

“Indeed, miss, I’ll assure you he pleases me vastly the better of the two.”

“So I foresaw. A witty blade like Mr Ranger would have no charms for you, miss, but this Scottish gentleman, with his tags of philosophy and his turn for relating his troubles in a moving style, is a dangerous person to meet a young lady that possesses a heart and has but just left her boarding-school.”

“I hope, miss, you wasn’t intending a sneer at my bringing-up?”

“Not for the world, though I will say that my grandmamma is a better instructor for adventurers like you and me than the venerable ladies I saw this morning. But tell me, miss, do you purpose to inform your Fraser of the terms on which he is permitted the honour of your acquaintance—that he is to run your errands and not fall in love with you?”

“Pray, miss, do you look for me to suggest to the gentleman that I expect him to do any such thing?”

“But you’ll allow that such a thing is at least possible? Come, miss, prudence should lead you to anticipate calamities, you know. What is to happen if Mr Fraser should have the presumption to lay his heart at your feet, or even—an extraordinary wild supposition, I grant you—if your heart should betray you, and you fall in love with him?”

My Amelia will guess I was so horridly confused by these remarks that I was at a loss how to answer Miss Hamlin, but at last I got out something to the effect that I hoped I should do my duty in any case.

“But will you break the poor fellow’s heart as well as your own, miss?” persisted my tormentor.

“I trust, miss,” said I, “that there’ll be no question of such an unhappy event. I give you free leave to warn me, and Mr Fraser also, if you will, if you think either of us to be in danger.”

“I promise you I will,” says she; “and finely you’ll hate me when ’tis done.”

With that she left me, and I sat up to write this. But here I must cease, for my candle is burning low in its socket, and Miss Hamlin has just tapped again at my door to ask me whether I desire to make my last night in Britain memorable by setting the inn afire.

Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, off Hastings, Nov. ye 28th.

I am adding these few last lines in lead pencil to my great pacquet in haste, since Mr Fraser assures me that once past Beachy Head we shall find ourselves in rough water. I can’t at present call myself indisposed, though I am not quite at my ease, as I ought to be, since Mr Fraser says the wind is so light as to be almost a calm. The space on board is very much confined, particularly since the decks are still lumbered up with all kinds of packages, but I learn that these will before long be stowed away below. Pray, my dear friend, pardon these seaman’s phrases. My head is too confused to remember the correct terms. You would smile to see how we are all lodged here, the gentlemen in the great cabin, on shelves like those in a draper’s shop, and only large enough to hold a small mattress, and we in another apartment, similarly furnished. There are two ladies on board besides ourselves, but neither of them young, and both married, and about a dozen gentlemen. I had intended to write something of the day and a half since we left Deal, but find that the end of my paper is all but reached. You shall receive a long letter by the first opportunity that offers of sending one. Adieu, my dearest, dearest Emily.[12] Rest assured that you was ever in my thoughts from the moment of our parting.

CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE INCONSTANCY OF MAN.

Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, Fonchial[01] Harbour, Dec. ye 31st.

Since despatching my first letter to my Amelia by the hands of the pilot, I have passed through such an experience as I should not care to repeat. Ah, my dear, we thought it at school a simple thing to hear that Britain is an island, but ’tis a fact one learns to appreciate when it is being fixed in one’s mind by a sea-voyage. For over three weeks, my dearest friend, was your Sylvia pent up in the narrow floating prison which is called the ladies’ cabin, enduring, for the greater part of the time, such protracted torments as she could not have dreamed the human frame would be able to support. You may smile to hear that I had willingly relinquished all the future glories of Bengall, and even the hope of a meeting with my papa, for the sake of a grave on dry land, where, at least, there would be no more shaking and tumbling, but had the exchange been offered me, I don’t dare say that I would not have accepted it gladly. Imagine, my Amelia, your unfortunate friend confined with four other females in a narrow chamber lighted only by a ship’s lantern (for the weather was so bad that the ports, by which is signified the small windows of the vessel, were forced to be closed), each extended on a wooden shelf about the size, so I should think, of a coffin. To the sufferings caused by illness, add the terrors of a storm, when the hatches were battened down, as they say (this means that heavy coverings were fastened over the only openings by which light and air can visit the lower decks, lest they should admit water as well), and the howling of the wind and roaring of the waves as they dashed over the ship was attempted to be drowned by the hoarse shouting of the seamen. I’ll assure you that I never expected to see dry land again, and as I have said, I was glad to think so. But how, you’ll say, did my companions support the trials which were so painful to your Sylvia? Truly, my dear, they supported them with as bad a grace as I did. Miss Hamlin, indeed, never lost her sprightly humour, and diverted herself, even in the extremity of our sufferings, by rallying the other ladies on the dangers they apprehended, but her aunt had no spirit to do more than lie upon her shelf and groan, which she did in the most moving style. As for the other two ladies, whose husbands were on board, they seemed to consider that the bad weather was to be laid to the fault of their spouses. These unfortunate gentlemen had betaken themselves to their shelves in the great cabin (as, indeed, had all the male passengers, with the exception I shall presently mention), and lay there as miserable as ourselves, but their ladies were persuaded that they were employing themselves in drinking and playing high with the officers of the ship, and many were the messages of rebuke sent to them through the steward. This was a stout fellow, of the most unfeeling temper, who brought in our broth or tea when the black women that Mrs Hamlin and the other ladies are taking back to India with them were too ill to move, and never failed to assure us that we should find ourselves quite recovered if we would but pluck up courage to put on our clothes and go on deck.

We did not, as my Amelia will imagine, follow the advice of this odious person, but when the storm had ceased, and we were able to rest on our shelves without holding perpetually by the edges, he brought a message from Mr Fraser, asking if he might have the honour of waiting upon any of the ladies on deck. Now the Lieutenant, who was the exception I have mentioned to the general rule of illness among the gentlemen, had shown great consideration for us poor women during the storm, coming frequently to the door of the cabin to assure us that all was well, and had gone so far as to promise that he would bring us instant warning if any grave danger threatened the vessel, so that I thought it only civil to make some effort to respond to his politeness.

“Pray, miss,” I said to Miss Hamlin, “have you any fancy to rise? Shall we ask the gentleman to attend us both?”

“Why, no, miss,” says she. “’Tis your fellow sends the invitation, not mine. Pray beg the Lieutenant to inform Mr Ranger that I am dependent upon his civilities, and that I look to him to attend me on deck to-morrow.”

“But you would not have me go on deck alone?” I said.

“No, miss, I would have you go with Mr Fraser. Sure the poor man must be pining for a sight of your face after so long a deprivation of it.”

This sly hint made me so angry that I was about to say I would not go, but being unwilling to allow Miss Hamlin so much power over me as this would imply, I made shift to dress myself with infinite trouble (although I did not attempt to appear in anything but an undress, as you may imagine), and with my hair huddled into a mob[02] under my capuchin, tottered out into the passage, where I found Mr Fraser awaiting me. He expressed great concern at my altered looks (for you may guess that one’s face is not at its best after three weeks of such misery as we have been enduring), and gave me his hand on deck. There, while I stood holding to a rail, scarce able to keep my feet, he devised a seat for me in a corner sheltered from the wind, and having placed me there covered with a great watch-coat of his own, stood looking at me very kindly, and asked me how I did? I was so much overcome by the sudden return to air and daylight that I could hardly answer him, and perceiving this, he began to point out to me the different parts of the vessel, and tell me their names. The bales and cases which had encumbered the deck when I had last seen it were now removed, and the ship, though her upper works had suffered in places from the violence of the waves, had a much more spacious and agreeable air.

“But pray, sir,” said I, when I had recovered my intellects, “tell me whether you was ever in so terrible a storm in all your life hitherto?”

“So terrible a storm, madam?” says he, as if surprised. “What storm?”

“Why, the storm that is but just subsided, sir?”

“There was no storm, madam. We met with some dirty weather in the Bay, but every seaman looks for that.”

“Dirty weather!” said I. “In what way could a storm be worse, sir?”

Before Mr Fraser could answer, a person who had been walking up and down the deck paused in front of us. He wore a watch-coat and an oil-skin cover to his hat, and carried a marine glass under his arm.

“So, young gentleman!” he said; “dancing attendance on the ladies, hey? More likely work for a King’s officer than soiling his hands with horrid tarry ropes, en’t it? Your servant, madam. Trust a navy gentleman to know a pretty face when he sees one, but when you get tired of your present convoy, you hoist signals, and I’ll find you a fresh consort in no time.”

“Sir,” says Mr Fraser (I was so confounded by this address that I knew not how to reply), “I would think better of you if you kept your insults for company in which I could resent ’em on the spot.”

“I vow, sir, you’re right!” cried the stranger, with an oath. “It en’t pretty behaviour to seek to lower a man in the eyes of a lady he desires to stand well with, and you show a proper spirit in rebuking it. Don’t be afraid that I’ll try to cut out the little craft from under your guns. King’s officer or Company’s, a gentleman should have his fair chance where the ladies are concerned.”

“Pray, sir,” said I, as this person departed with a very ceremonious bow, “who is the gentleman, and what’s the meaning of his talk?”

“Why, madam,” says Mr Fraser, “I regret to say that your being in company with me has exposed you to a share of the ill humour with which I am regarded on board here.”

“But how have you aroused this gentleman’s resentment, sir?”

“I have the honour to wear the King’s uniform, madam.”

“But is that a cause for subjecting you to insult, sir?”

“Unfortunately, madam, it is—at least among the low-bred persons that are placed in authority on board such vessels as this. You may not know that among merchant seamen there’s always a certain jealousy of us who belong to his Majesty’s service, and they take a pleasure in gratifying their dislike at the expense of any navy officer that comes in their way.”

“And this disagreeable humour is entirely unprovoked?” said I. “You, sir, would entertain no objection to meet the captain of a merchant-vessel on board of a ship of war?”

“Madam,” says Mr Fraser with great haughtiness, “if such a person were by any chance to find himself aboard one of his Majesty’s ships, he would be entirely beneath my notice.”

I was forced to hold my fan before my face to hide a smile, for it seemed to me that the merchant-captain was not altogether without cause of complaint, but lest the Lieutenant should think I was laughing at him, I made haste to say, “I fear, sir, your life has been but a disagreeable one since we left Deal?”

“Say rather, madam, since we passed Beachy Head, and you went below,” he replied. (Was it not neatly put, Amelia?) “The worst point in my situation was that I could do nothing to please. When during the rough weather I offered my services to help in cutting away the wreck, or otherwise endeavoured to make myself of use, I was bid by the mate there not to thrust my nose in where I was not wanted, while if I stood back, I was cursed for a lazy lubber and a long-legged Scotch loon, with many other insulting terms.”

“I marvel, sir, that you was able to leave such rudeness unresented,” I could not help saying, remembering Mr Fraser’s readiness to take offence at a word while we were at the inn. His face reddened somewhat.

“I owe my meekness to you, madam. Every captain has supreme authority on his own ship, but I fear that even that reflection would not have restrained me had I not remembered that if I gave Mr Wallis occasion to put me in irons as a mutineer, which he had gladly done, I would have little hope of being of any service to you afterwards.”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, “I’m happy to have been of use to you.”

At this point the steward came to announce that dinner was served, and Mr Fraser asked if he might attend me to the cuddy.[03] But this I refused, both because I had no desire to be the only lady at table, and because I felt little inclination for food, and remaining where I was, I dined sumptuously on some broth and toasted bread which the Lieutenant was so obliging as to bring me. I stayed on deck during the greater part of the afternoon, and the next day Miss Hamlin joined me, on receiving assurances that Mr Ranger would count it an honour to hold himself at her service. Since then there has been but one day when we were forced by rough weather to remain below, and even Mrs Hamlin and the other ladies are now sufficiently recovered to come on deck. As for the rest of the gentlemen, they nearly all made their appearance the day after Mr Ranger, and have done their best to prove themselves an agreeable set of fellows. The weather is grown continually hotter. Miss Hamlin and I were not long in exchanging our capuchins for beaver bonnets and short cloaks, but to-day we have taken to wearing gipsy hats and India scarves, though it is mid-winter! But when we reach Bengall, so Mrs Hamlin says, we shall find that none of the ladies wear either hats or hoods when they ride abroad, but only lace caps trimmed with ribbons and flowers, as we do in the evening, and that one don’t need so much as to throw a handkerchief over one’s shoulders out of doors. Sure either the heat must be far greater than we can imagine, or the constitution of these ladies must be extremely hardy.

While I pen these lines to my Amelia, our ship is lying in the Bay of Fonchial, in the Madeiras, where we remain for a week to take in water and fresh provisions, and also to give us poor passengers an opportunity of remembering that there is such a blessed thing as firm ground. Each morning we visit the land in a boat from the shore, which is constructed, so Mr Fraser informs me, in a special manner on account of the force of the waves, and ride up the beach in the oddest fashion. What do you say to a frame of boards, like the sledges of which we read in Sweden and Poland, and drawn by oxen? Two or three of the gentlemen (you’ll guess that the Lieutenant is one) refuse to ride in this machine, as a slight to their dignity, and prefer to crawl up the beach in the stifling heat. Arrived in the town, which has many very genteel houses, we spend some time on the Parade, which is here called the Praza. To me it recalls memories of the time I spent with my Amelia at Tunbridge Wells, but the trees here are orange-trees, and the company, though very polite, is nothing near so elegant as that we used to watch. Later in the day the gentlemen devise some party of pleasure, to which they invite the ladies, generally in some garden near the town, where the time passes agreeably enough, and we return to the Orford by moonlight.

Yesterday we visited a certain convent, which is considered (why, I don’t know) to be one of the sights of the place. The appearance of the nuns, who are nearly all ladies of a discreet age, was vastly disappointing to the gentlemen, and Mr Ranger declared roundly that they had certainly immured themselves from necessity rather than choice. These religious persons occupy their leisure in making small articles, such as cockades and sword-knots, of silk and gold thread, which they are permitted to sell to visitors, passing them through the double grating by means of a cleft stick. Among these toys was a handsome fan-girdle, which I coveted for my Amelia, very neatly made with tassels, but my purse refused to allow me the pleasure of purchasing it. I had contented myself with a plainer sort, which I handed to Mr Fraser to carry for me, but when we sat down under the trees on the Parade to look over our purchases, what was my surprise when he presented me with the girdle I had first admired! Assuring the Lieutenant that there was some mistake, he told me that ’twas not so, but he had made bold to secure for me the article I desired. ’Twas a civil thought, was it not? and I could have found it in my heart to wish it were possible to accept the poor man’s courtesy, but I desired him very seriously to restore me my own property. He was very highly offended, but I persisted in my demand, with which at last he complied, though with an excessively bad grace. The plain girdle I am sending to my dearest friend with this letter. I could wish it had been t’other, but I know my Amelia Turnor will prefer a smaller gift to a greater purchased at the sacrifice of her Sylvia’s punctilio.

At Mynheer Brouncker’s House, Cape Town, April ye 8th, 1755.

Behold me now, my dear, with the half part of my journey passed, spending with delight a few days on shore in Holland—yet at the furthest extremity of the African continent. This is a sweet pretty place, the houses flat-roofed, and painted white or some bright colour, and the streets prodigiously regular and crossing one another at right angles with the most surprising neatness, and in the middle of the town a fine handsome square. Along each street are planted rows of trees, vastly symmetrical, and beside them are water-courses or small canals fed from springs, which are very agreeable for their coolness. This house (belonging to a private person who, like most of the better sort here, is glad to lodge and board us English for a rix-dollar a-day apiece, so that the sight of a British vessel entering the harbour is hailed with the most extravagant demonstrations of joy), though not what we in England should count luxurious, is almost incredible in its cleanliness, all the chamber-maids and servants being blacks. These people are called Hottentots, and the Dutch boors, which seems not to be understood here as a term of contempt. Our windows command a charming prospect of the great mountain overlooking the town, which from its flatness is called the Table. At times one sees the clouds descend and spread themselves upon its summit, and this, Mr Fraser tells me, is called by seamen, “the devil laying his table-cloth.” Seamen are droll creatures, en’t they, Amelia? And this reminds me to say that Messieurs Fraser and Ranger, with several other gentlemen from the Orford, are lodged in the same house as ourselves.

But you’ll demand some account of our voyage since I last put pen to paper in the Madeiras. Alas, my Amelia, your Sylvia is a sad lazy girl! And yet, how could it engage your interest to hear that for so many days we lay becalmed off the coasts of Guinea, and at other times met baffling winds that threw us out of our course, and on a very few occasions found ourselves making good progress with the aid of a favouring breeze? or that we touched at Ascension Island, and waited there while the seamen catched twenty great turtles for us to take on board—horrid sprawling creatures, and their fat green when it is cooked? But all these delays, you’ll say, afforded me only the more time for writing to you. True, my dear, but what should be the subject? My beloved girl knows that I love her, and to waste paper in repeating assurances of that would be to outdo even a lover’s folly. When the history of one day is told, you have ’em all. Know then that the mornings have been spent seated under the awning on deck, we ladies with our embroidery at hand, to give us a decent semblance of industry, but really occupied in watching for distant sails, or the sight of land, or flying-fishes, or a change of wind, or any of the important nothings that appear of so much moment to the traveller on board ship. The gentlemen, meanwhile, busy themselves in fishing for creatures with such odd names as albacores, bonitoes, and doradoes, catching the smaller ones with hooks and lines, and the larger with fish-gigs or harpoons, in the casting of which Mr Fraser is particularly skilful. There are also many birds which venture near enough to the vessel to be caught, as albatrosses (but these the seamen protect, through some sentiment of superstition), tropic-birds, which are about the size of a hawk, with one extravagantly long feather in the tail, and booties and noddies, whose names (so Mr Fraser says, but I’m sure I can’t see how) express their natural foolishness. The afternoon is passed like the morning, unless one of the gentlemen be so obliging as to deprive himself of the excitement of fishing in order to read aloud to us females as we work. Then comes the evening, when there’s really nothing in the world to do (owing to the dimness of the lights provided for us below), but remain on deck and watch the sea, which indeed shows the strangest and most extraordinary fiery ripples and waves, unless the captain think fit to call up one of the seamen that plays the fiddle, and bid us set to for a dance. But this is rarely more than once a-week, and we call such occasions our assembly nights, when we dress ourselves with more attention than at other times, and the gentlemen wear their wigs, or have their hair curled and powdered.

But in general, as I have said, there’s nothing to do but talk, and I can’t pretend that the style of the conversation is altogether as ceremonious as the venerable Mrs Eustacia would desire. For instead of the ladies all sitting in a circle, with the gentlemen standing behind their chairs, and each endeavouring to contribute some piece of wit or information for the advantage of all, the passengers seem naturally to divide themselves into small groups, often, I must confess, containing as few as two persons. At least, this is my experience. Nay, I’ll go so far as to say (for I see my Amelia’s eyes asking the question), that I am not much in the habit of changing my companion on these occasions. ’Tis very seldom that my cavalier is not Mr Fraser, and this not only because I find his discourse always modest and agreeable, but because I am in continual alarm lest he should involve himself in some quarrel when he is not with me. You may have observed that this gentleman is of a somewhat fiery temper, and since the officers of the ship continue to treat him in the same offensive manner as I have already described to you, I am kept in a perpetual fear. Not that he is altogether without self-command, as I remarked one day when I looked to him to take the part of one of the crew who was knocked down and kicked by the second mate. These unfortunate seamen, who are kidnapped or inveigled by the Hon. Co. on board of their ships, and there forced to serve without hope of release, are handled with the most shocking barbarity by those in authority, and sometimes injured in a horrible manner. Knowing that Mr Fraser, as he had told me, had learned from his former commander, Mr Watson, to behave with justice and humanity to those serving under him,[04] I was not surprised to see him step forward with his hand raised, as though about to lay the wretch on the deck by the side of his victim. But dropping his hand and returning to my side, he said, in answer to my mute expostulation, “Pray, madam, pardon my disobliging you, but I have learnt by this time that my interference on behalf of these poor wretches only serves to ensure them a worse treatment, if not the being placed in irons forthwith.”

Pleased with this care of his for the unfortunate seamen, I ceased to expect Mr Fraser to interpose himself on such occasions, and you may imagine that I take none the less pleasure in conversing with him. He has told me that he is the third son of a Scots gentleman of quality, who was granted the confiscated estate of a cousin that was a rebel in consideration of his services to the Government in the affair of the ’15, services which he repeated in the rebellion nine years ago, but for which, as I understand, no recompense has as yet been awarded him. You’ll be surprised to hear that a son of the cousin who was thus dispossessed is serving in the Company’s army at Bengall, and that Mr Fraser declares it his purpose to seek him out if he can obtain leave to visit Calcutta. This seems to me conduct scarce to be expected from a delicate mind, but Mr Fraser laughed when I hinted as much.

“Any port in a storm,” says he; “and after all, madam, blood is thicker than water.”

Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, Madrass Road, Aug. ye 20th.

I must be content to permit my Amelia to scold me as she will, for not only have I allowed a long time to pass without adding to my bulky pacquet, but I confess freely that I had not sat down to write to-day had I been able to find anything else to do. In fine, my dear, I have the vapours very badly, and know not whether it be more disagreeable to look forward to arriving at Bengall or to look back upon our voyage. But how? why? what? you’ll cry; I can see you trembling with eagerness to unfold this puzzle. Must I acknowledge that I have felt tempted to allow my letter to end with that part I writ at the Cape, and to shroud in oblivion all that has happened since? But I picture my Amelia reading the long sheets through with a face full of suspicion. “What’s this?” she cries; “Mr Fraser here, Mr Fraser there, and again Mr Fraser, and all at once he disappears as though he had never been!” I could not resolve to sacrifice the pages wrote at so much trouble, and telling, moreover, of such quiet happiness as I can’t look to see again; but be sure, my dearest friend, that nothing but the memory of the dreadful compact by which I bound myself to my Amelia, promising never to conceal from her any point soever, even the most intricate or delicate, of any transaction in which I should chance to engage, would lead me to disclose even to you the history of the past two months. I see you, when you read this, shake your head wisely, and cry, “Ah, I knew it—the old story, a devoted lover, a dutiful daughter, a hated elderly suitor in the background. Sure there’s nothing new nor strange here!” By no means, Amelia, but wait until you hear what I have to say.

After leaving the Cape of Good Hope, everything continued in the same agreeable course as before until we were past the island of St Johanne.[05] We had taken in water early in the day, and weighed anchor in good time, in order to avoid the dangerous reefs guarding the harbour, and in the evening we were sailing on an agreeable breeze which was sufficient to fill the sails, without making the ship heel over. (Pardon these nautical terms, my dear. They will come to my pen, even now.) Mr Fraser and I were sitting near the binnacle (which is an odd sort of stand on which the mariner’s compass is placed), and the Lieutenant was reckoning out very seriously how much time must elapse before he might decently ask for leave to visit his cousin at Calcutta, supposing that he found his ship in harbour when we arrived at Madrass, and was permitted to rejoin her. Having satisfied (or perhaps I should rather say dissatisfied) himself on this head, he asked whether he might have the honour of paying his respects to me at my papa’s house. To this I could say nothing but that it wasn’t for me to dictate to Mr Freyne what persons he should repulse from his doors; but Mr Fraser, seeming not to be content with this, seized my hand suddenly, and was vastly urgent with me to say whether it would cause me any pleasure should he come. The more warmly he demanded an answer, the more rigidly I refused one (for you know one can’t always yield to these fellows, my dear; their conceit is already so enormous), and he was going on to denounce me as a cruel coquette that lived but to torment him, when Miss Hamlin, who had been sitting upon the steps of the poop, drew near with Mr Ranger. I won’t deny that I considered her coming unnecessary, but I had no heart to think of that when once she began to speak.

“You was assisting Mr Fraser to reckon up the time that must pass before he visits Bengall, miss, was you not?” said she. “Now I would prophesy that the gentleman will arrive in Calcutta just in time for the wedding-day of the lovely and accomplished daughter of Henry Freyne, Esq.”

I would have given worlds not to blush, my Amelia; but the words were accompanied with so provoking and malicious a glance that I felt the traitorous red rise all over my face and neck. Miss Hamlin, marking it, smiled, and addressed herself to Mr Fraser.

“I fear, sir,” she said, “that Miss Freyne han’t exhibited to you the full merit of her conduct in undertaking this voyage to the Indies. You must know that she and I are not bent upon seeking pleasure for ourselves, but on laying out what my aunt Hamlin calls our fortunes to the best advantage. Our parents (or guardians) intend—and we are fully determined to second their efforts—to marry us to a couple of frightful old Nabobs, each with a face as yellow as his guineas, and a liver as large as his money-bags. Now pray, miss,” turning suddenly to me, “shriek out and fall into a fit at the indelicacy of my language; pray do!”

I was ready enough to faint, though not for that reason; but meeting her eye, I forced a smile, and she went on:—

“Sure you don’t know, sir, that Miss Freyne is of so provident a constitution that she has even brought her wedding clothes with her, like myself. Her wedding-suit is of silver tissue, and the dear creature has embroidered it with her own fair hands in wreaths of violets. Thus, you see, her native modesty exhibits itself in a transaction against which both her heart and her punctilio must revolt. Now my gown is of a light pink, worked so stiff (but not by my fingers, oh no!) with gold flowers that it would stand up of itself.”

“Pray, miss, how will these clothes interest Mr Fraser?” I asked, though I felt as if my lips and throat were parched with thirst.

“You should allow the gentleman to declare his want of interest for himself, miss. Shall we see you as bride-man at that wedding, sir? I would claim you as my partner if I were to be bride-maid; but Miss Freyne and I are resolved to deny ourselves that pleasure, since both could not enjoy it, and neither of us would be favoured at the expense of the other, and therefore we are to be married on the same day. You look pale, Mr Fraser. I fear I have wearied you. Perhaps, after all, you won’t be at the wedding? But you will—you must—be present when the happy pair first show themselves in church on the Sunday after. ’Twill be a sight not to be missed. Pray figure to yourself the fortunate spouse—shall we call him Mr Solmes, miss?—in his new laced clothes, making him look yellower than ever, handing in his lady, in the largest hoop and the richest lace and the finest diamonds in Calcutta! And Madam will pretend to hide her blushes with a fan painted all over with cupids, while the entire time she will be watching through the sticks to see what effect her clothes are producing on the other ladies of the congregation. Did you speak, miss?”

I think I had cried out to her to stop. I know I tried to rise, but she put her hand on my shoulder and kept me down. “Hold your tongue, miss,” she said in a whisper; “if you have to endure it, what harm can there be in speaking of it beforehand?”

I sat down again, but I had dropped my fan, and Mr Fraser restored it to me. His hand as it touched mine was cold, and he moved further away from me before he spoke, with difficulty, as it seemed to me.

“Sure, madam,” he said, “the friends of a lady of Miss Freyne’s high merits need have no fear as to her future course. If she’ll follow the dictates of her own heart, they will be found to be those of reason and virtue.”

“By no means, sir,” says Miss Hamlin, quickly. “The dictates of reason and virtue will be found to be those of Miss Freyne’s papa. Sure you are forgetting, as was pointed out to Miss Freyne and me before we embarked on this adventure, the huge sums of money which have been spent on our education, and which must be proved to have been put out at good interest. No, no, sir; we have the sad history of the divine Clarissa to warn us of the fate of an undutiful daughter, even though she behave so from the highest motives. The Lovelaces don’t have it all their own way nowadays. Miss Freyne will marry her Solmes, and with the air of a martyr will feel that she has done her duty.”

She laughed again, and beckoning to Mr Ranger with her fan, tripped away. I would have accompanied her, if I had found strength to rise. I seemed so strangely tired, Amelia. But Mr Fraser, who had been leaning against the mast, turned suddenly towards me, and said hastily, though with some measure of hesitation, like a man who takes a resolution at the moment—

“I would not, madam, have presumed to touch on such delicate matters as Miss Hamlin has thought fit to introduce; but since that has been done, I’ll make bold to enlist your sympathy on behalf of a lady who is in a like case with yourself—that is, she is the daughter of wealthy parents at Bengall, who will, questionless, desire to make up a good marriage for her.”

I felt myself grow cold all over, though I had thought I was cold already. “You—you cherish an interest in this lady, sir?”

“Madam, I adore her. My whole life and endeavour—saving only my duty to his Majesty—had gone to make her happy, if she would have permitted it.”

“And she refuses to accept of your devotion, sir? But in what way can I assist you? Is it likely I shall meet the lady?”

“I imagine you’ll often be in company with her, madam.”

“And what is her name, sir?”

“Her surname, madam, I think ’twould be scarce delicate in me to reveal, even to a lady of your discernment. Her given name I don’t know, but to me she’ll always be the peerless Araminta.”

“But how am I to plead your cause with her, sir, if you won’t tell me her name?” I may have laughed, Amelia, but I felt as though I had died an hour ago.

“I’ll hope to plead my own cause, madam, when I make that journey to Calcutta to visit my cousin of which we have been talking. I was rather desirous to engage your help for myself, and during the remainder of our voyage here. I can’t help, madam, being conscious that I am a sadly rough and clumsy creature to pretend to the hand of so fine a lady as my Araminta, and you have shown me so much kindness that I would venture to ask you to assist me in rendering myself less unfit to approach her.”

“I hope you’ll command me, sir.” I could not help being struck with the oddity of the notion, and the coolness of the young gentleman, even at such a moment.

“Why, madam, if you’d be so good, I would entreat you to take—in so far as may be—the part of my Araminta, so long as our voyage lasts. She is still unaware of my passion, but I understand there’s many ways in which a lover may recommend himself to the object of his respectful adoration, even before he presume to declare his devotion by word of mouth. If Miss Freyne would condescend to suffer my awkward attempts to serve her, and would do me the favour of suggesting any improvement in my carriage that she might think called for, ’twould set my mind more at ease when I come at last to face the lovely and awful presence of my charmer. Am I asking too much, madam?”

“Why, no, sir; only it seems to me I have been doing what you ask all the voyage already.”

“Precisely, madam. It did not strike me until to-night that perhaps I ought to have revealed to you earlier the existence of my Araminta.”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t desire to pry into your private concerns.” I spoke with much severity, but seeing the Lieutenant’s visage fall, I called up a smile, and giving him my hand, promised heartily to render him all the service in my power. Could I have said less, Amelia? Had I displayed any reluctance to oblige him, he might have thought—well, who can tell what the fellow might have thought?

Going below to the ladies’ cabin, I found Miss Hamlin there alone. She came to meet me with a face full of curiosity.

“Well, miss, and don’t you hate me now?” she said.

“Why should I hate you, miss? You desired to spoil the pleasure you saw me take in Mr Fraser’s company, and you’ve done it, but it don’t advantage you in any way that I can see.”

“You don’t add that you yourself gave me permission to do it if I found it necessary, miss, but you did. I was sorry that I had no time to prepare you, but I saw that if I waited any longer Fraser would have declared his passion, and laid his heart at your feet.”

“Indeed, miss, you was mistaken, then. Mr Fraser worships at the shrine of another lady.”

“Impossible, miss! Who has put such a notion into your head?”

“Mr Fraser himself, miss;” I told her what he had said.

“It sounds likely enough,” she said, “but I must question him. If it be true, I shall recommend to the other lady to look after him better. There’s just the possibility——” she shook her head and looked wise. “But pray, miss, where did you get that book?” She pointed to the first volume of Mr Henry Fielding’s ‘History of Amelia,’ which I had seen Mr Fraser reading, and had taken up from the table of the cuddy as I passed. “Have you read much of it?”

“Only the first chapter,” I said. “I was charmed by the title, which recalled to me my dear Miss Turnor.”

She said no more, but after she had left the cabin again I missed the book. When she returned, I had climbed to my shelf, and was, I fear, feigning sleep, but she came and whispered to me—

“I have asked your Fraser about the divine Araminta, and he confesses to the truth. But such a sweet pretty name! Why did you not tell it me, miss? And how do you like the thought of playing Araminta to Araminta’s humble adorer? ’Twill be as good as a play for us who look on.”

With that she left me, and I won’t grieve my Amelia’s tender heart by telling her how I spent the hours of that night. But I must close this huge letter, and tell you more of my misfortunes in the next.

CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH MISS FREYNE ENTERS CALCUTTA, BUT NOT IN TRIUMPH.

Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, Hoogly River, Sept. ye 2nd.

My last letter to my Amelia was finished writing in the roadstead of Madrass, where our vessel was lying, but now I am got so far in my voyage that I can date this almost within sight of Culpee,[01] at which place all we passengers leave the Orford, and embark in smaller boats to perform the concluding stage of our journey. But remembering where I left off, I know that my dearest friend will be in the most cruel anxiety for her Sylvia’s peace of mind, and I hasten, now that we have fairly left the ocean behind us, to satisfy her concern, although I have but little to say that’s agreeable.

Awaking from a troubled sleep on the morning after the shock I have described to you, Amelia, it seemed to me at first that ’twould be well to plead indisposition, and remain below, thus avoiding the performance of the hard task Mr Fraser had laid upon me. But I feared lest he should believe my illness caused by anything he had said, and rose determined to preserve my punctilio jealously, and carry the matter off with a bold face.

“You’re rightly punished, miss,” said I to myself, as I combed my hair. “You have pleased yourself imagining that the gentleman sought your company for your own sake, and now you find that he regarded you but as in some sort a picture of his Araminta. You was a silly creature to be so taken in, and I hope you’ll be wiser in the future. Pray, miss,” I said to Miss Hamlin, who was watching me from her shelf, “what have you done with my book?”

“Why, miss, I didn’t know ’twas yours. I took it up to look at, and finding it prodigiously dull, carried it back to Mr Fraser. I’m sure I thought it was his.”

“Oh, that’s quite right,” said I, but I made up my mind to ask the Lieutenant for the book again. This I did later in the day, but he met me with so many excuses that I was tired at last. It seemed as though every gentleman on board of the vessel had been promised to read ‘Amelia’ before I might so much as see it again.

“Indeed, sir,” I said to Mr Fraser, before retiring to the ladies’ cabin that night, “I should be failing in my duty to the lovely Araminta if I put up with this discourtesy any longer. I don’t care what you say to the gentlemen, but if you can’t place the book at my service in the morning you’ll please be good enough to keep out of my sight,” and I refused to hear a word from him.

“Well, sir, where’s the book?” I asked my disobliging cavalier in the morning.

He seemed distressed. “Alas, madam——” he began.

“No more, sir,” said I. “If my wishes—say rather those of your Araminta—have so little weight with you, they shall by all means cease to be imposed upon you.”

“Indeed, madam, you wrong me. I had recovered the book from the person to whom I lent it, but while the decks were being washed before the ladies were risen, I happened to be skylarking, as we call it on board ship, with Mr Ranger, and the first volume, as it chanced, fell overboard and sunk. The others are at your service.”

“And all the gentlemen to whom it was promised?”

“Why, madam, I fear they must bear the loss.”

“Sir, you threw that book overboard of set purpose, knowing that I wished to read it.”

“I am not saying you are wrong, madam.”

“Do you venture to confess that you desired to disoblige me, sir?”

“Well, no, madam, I was seeking to oblige myself.”

“Then you desired I should not see that part of the book? I vow, sir, your assurance is prodigious! Pray, who bid you direct my reading?”

“Indeed, dear madam, I would not presume so far.”

“You have presumed too far already, sir. No, pray leave me alone. I don’t desire your company.”

“Ah, madam, if you knew how that majestic air recalls my Araminta to me!”

I started as if I had been stung. Araminta had been forgotten, but now I recollected my determination. If I persisted in banishing the Lieutenant, he would questionless (these men have so horridly high a conceit of themselves) have imagined that I was moved by pique owing to the announcement of the night before.

“Have you anything to urge in your defence, sir?”

“Nothing, madam. It was the impulse of a mad moment, and I acted upon it. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.”

“Do you desire to offer any promise of amendment, sir?”

“Questionless, madam. The crime won’t be repeated (unless upon the same provocation), and if there be a copy of the book in India, I’ll hope to lay it at your feet in due time.”

“When your purpose has been served, sir?”

“Pray, madam, don’t try to drive me into confessing the deed to have been premeditated. A prisoner can’t be forced to criminate himself.”

And in this foolish posture I was constrained to leave the matter. But I desire to charge my Amelia to procure the book, and to read it carefully, as she values her Sylvia’s friendship, and to tell her what there is in it that could have any bearing upon the present complexion of affairs. True, this relief can’t reach me for fifteen, perhaps even eighteen months, but at least I shall know it to be on the way, and some means may offer to make use of it. This gentleman appears to me to be what they call a wag; I would have him see for once how it feels to have a joke played on himself.

I have little more to tell you about the voyage, Amelia. My very fear lest Mr Fraser should suspect any change in me if I altered my carriage towards him forced me to continue in the old ways, so that by times I even forgot what had happened, but only to awake again to the bitter remembrance. I can’t tell why it should be so disagreeable to me to do those things in the character, so to speak, of Araminta, which I had had no thought of doing for any advantage of my own, but so it was, though I’ll confess that my pupil was an apt one. You must not imagine that in advancing his conversation (as Sir R. Steele phrases it in the ‘Guardian’) I was in the habit of pointing out Mr Fraser’s faults in any vulgar or scolding manner. When I observed any awkwardness in his address, I would get out the ‘Spectator’ from my trunk, and request my scholar to be so good as to read a certain number aloud for the entertainment of the ladies. In this way he learned to see what was wrong and to correct it, and I never found it necessary to repeat the lesson. Whether he learned to expect a covert reproof whenever he saw me bring out the ‘Spectator’ I don’t know, but at least the plan was successful. Sometimes I fancied that he was a good deal diverted by my care of him, but between my own discomfort and my fear of his penetration I had no time to think of that. It seemed to me, however, that as we neared Madrass his air became noticeably more serious, and that he appeared to desire to say something to me, which yet he could not compass. I had it in my head that he was determined to reveal to me the real name of his Araminta, and to bespeak my friendship for her, and I must confess I did my best to avoid the disclosure, for indeed, my dear Miss Turnor, I have no curiosity to know who the lady is. But as we sat on the poop-steps the night before reaching Madrass, I felt a sudden impulse to say—

“I hope, sir, that the amiable Araminta won’t despise the result of my efforts when she beholds you again. Pray contrive some means of letting me know whether she observe any change in you.”

“Indeed, madam, if I am so happy as to reach Calcutta, you’ll hear all that I can tell you of myself.”

“Oh, pardon me, sir. That privilege belongs to your Araminta. I desire but to hear the lady’s opinion, if she’ll be so good as to permit you to acquaint me of it.”

I could not hear what Mr Fraser said, but I believed that he cursed Araminta under his breath, and this made me vastly angry. Was it not enough that the fellow should break my—I mean, should pester me for so long about his Araminta, that he should suddenly turn traitor to her name?

“Oh, sir, I fear you’re unworthy of the lady’s regard. Perhaps you’ll permit me to observe, without swearing at me, that whether she have remained constant to you or not, she surely merits your highest respect.”

“Madam, I protest you’re right. Whether she be mine or not, my charmer will always be as far above me as an angel. But, madam, I——”

“Pray, sir and madam, why this heat?” says Miss Hamlin. “En’t the weather hot enough for you? Here have Mr Ranger and I felt constrained to cross the deck to prevent your falling to blows.”

“Sure I saw no danger of that, miss,” said I.

“Who should expect you to, miss? You’re too close to the thunderstorm to perceive its force. But pray continue your quarrelling. Mr Ranger and I will see fair, and rescue you if it be needful.”

“Oh, madam,” says Mr Ranger, “Miss Freyne is too nice to quarrel in a public place.”

“Pray, sir, what do you know of Miss Freyne? En’t you aware that she writes down all the events of every day to send to her dear friend in England? You see we are all living in public, so to speak, so that none of us need be squeamish about quarrelling before others. Look you there now, how dainty a chronicle must that be which the admirable Miss Turnor receives from her adored Sylvia—all the scandal of the ship set down in the finest hand imaginable!”

“I’ll thank you, miss, not to make so free with my name,” said I.

“So your name is Sylvia, madam?” says Mr Fraser.

“And what if it be, sir?” cried Miss Hamlin. “Han’t you just heard Miss Freyne rebuke me for taking the sacred word on my lips? Pray understand that it en’t for you and me to take liberties with the lady’s Christian name.”

She appeared so much offended by my hasty remark that I forbore to ask her pardon, in the hope that she and her humble servant would leave us again; but this they refused to do, so that I could never discover what it was that Mr Fraser had been about to say to me. The next day we entered the Madrass Road, and found several great ships lying at anchor, which when Mr Fraser saw, “Here’s the fleet, then!” he cried; but I thought his voice was not altogether joyful. Yet I could not be sure of this, for he began at once to be very busy in pointing out to us which was his own ship, the Tyger, and which was the Kent, on which Admiral Watson wore his flag, and so on. Then when we came to an anchor, he went below to change his dress, saying that he must go on board at once to report himself, and so left our vessel, making a very fine figure in a blue uniform faced with white. He returned about an hour later, when we were all in a bustle with making ready to go on shore, and had but time to tell us that both Captain Latham and the Admiral had received him very kindly, promising to restore him to his post on board the Tyger, since the gentleman who had supplied his place had failed to fulfil its requirements, and he was bid to get to his ship at once. He parted from us on the deck, promising to come and pay his respects before the Orford left Madrass, and we had little leisure to think of anything but transporting ourselves to the shore, for this was only to be accomplished by means of one of the country boats, called mussoulas, which pass in the most incredible manner over the surf which breaks on the beach. When we were once landed, after a passage that I scarce venture to look back upon, we found ourselves welcomed by a gentleman of Mrs Hamlin’s acquaintance, who was come by desire of his wife to invite us to lie at their house so long as the Orford continued in the roadstead. This we did; and such a time of merry-making it was as I had scarce imagined possible. Every sort of party of pleasure was devised, either by the officers of his Majesty’s ships or by the gentlemen of the factory, and every one that had any pretensions to gentility might be sure of finding himself elegantly entertained every day. In all this, however, we saw Mr Fraser very little, for having been so long absent from his ship, it fell naturally to him to relieve the rest of the officers of a good part of their duties; while the ladies were again so few in number compared with the gentlemen, that only the officers of the highest rank were able to enjoy the honour of handing one of us.

We had spent near a week at Madrass when it was suggested that we should make a party to St Thomas’s Mount, which lies about three miles from Fort St George, and at its foot the Company has a very fine garden. Here is the Company’s garden-house, which we in England should call a mansion standing in its own grounds, and likewise the garden-houses of the gentlemen of the greatest figure in the factory, and the proposition was that we should lie a night at the Mount, and return to Madrass in the cool of the morning. ’Twas an agreeable jaunt enough, and the general enjoyment was not marred but by the anxiety of the navy gentlemen, to whom the Admiral had only granted leave to be present on the condition that they returned at once should they hear a cannon fired as a signal of recall. This seemed to most of us only a pleasant jest on Mr Watson’s part, to tease his officers by reminding them of the insecure foundation of their present joys; but before it was light in the morning we were all awaked by the sound of a great gun, and on jumping out of bed and peering through the checks[02] (which are a sort of blind made of slips of wood), we saw the gentlemen all rushing together from the different summer-houses where they had been lodged, calling for their servants, and shouting for their horses or palanqueens. How they managed it I can’t pretend to say, but all the officers were equipped and gone in a quarter of an hour, leaving the garden as quiet as it had but just now been full of noise. Some two hours later, when the young lady who shared my room was taking with me the slight meal which is served here on rising, we heard another gun.

“Sure that will be to call in the stragglers,” says my companion. “The fleet must be going out with the morning tide.”

A horrid sinking feeling seized me on hearing this, and I need not hide from my Amelia that it was caused by the thought that Mr Fraser, who had not been of the party to visit the Mount, should be departing without ever being able to tell me what he had desired to make known. But calling to mind the tales I had heard of the Admiral’s jesting humour, I reflected that he was, questionless, only trying the obedience of his officers by this sudden summons, and that we should find the fleet still at anchor when we reached Madrass. But when we were in the act of returning, and I looked out of my palanqueen towards the roadstead, there were no vessels there save the Orford and a few country ships, while far out at sea was a disappearing sail or two. Forcing myself not to manifest my discomposure, I waited impatiently until I could take leave of my companion at the steps of the house where we were staying, and run indoors to find Miss Hamlin, who had remained in Madrass by her own request to keep our hostess company. I found her reclined in the varanda, on an odd sort of Chinese couch made of the bamboo reed, and would you believe it, my dear, the provoking creature would do nothing but ask questions, such as whether we had danced all night, and whether the notch[03] with which Mr President had entertained us was a fine one.

“Pray, miss,” I cried at last, “do you know the fleet has sailed?”

“Oh, the fleet has sailed, has it? I guessed as much.”

“How, miss? You knew of Mr Watson’s design?”

“Well, two nights back, when he was my partner at Government House, he let drop a hint, which he did his best immediately to conceal.”

“And you never told me, miss?”

“Pray, miss, would you have me betray a State secret learnt in such a manner?”

“Then you stayed behind here on purpose when we went to the Mount?”

“I did, miss. I thought it was better I should stay than you.”

“I—I don’t understand you, miss,” I stammered.

“I stayed here,” said Miss Hamlin, looking at the wall, “because I believed that Mr Fraser would come to pay his respects, and I desired to see him.”

“And—and did he come?”

“He did come, miss—soon after daybreak. I had expected that, and was dressed to receive him. He desired his most humble thanks to you for all your kindness to him.”

“And that was all, miss?”

“That was all, miss. I refused to charge myself with any more.”

“But did he purpose saying more? That message—What have you there, miss?” I had discerned a slip of paper that had catched in the robings of her gown, and seized it. It was part of a torn letter, and there was “To Mrs Sylvia Freyne” wrote upon it.

“Oh, dear! I thought I had got rid of it all,” says Miss Hamlin, with the calmest air in the world.

“You destroyed Mr Fraser’s letter to me, miss?”

“I tore it up in his presence, miss, and defied him to send you another. And in that I was your true friend.”

“Sure it could only have been some message that he desired me to deliver to his Araminta,” I said, half unwillingly.

“And for whose sake would you have kept it, miss—for Araminta’s or your own?”

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t receive a letter designed to reach me, miss.”

“Yes, miss, there is, if it come from Fraser. As I said, I have stood your friend in this. Perhaps you have forgot the plans which your parents have for you, and the good nature with which my aunt, before our voyage began, left it with you to remember ’em. You’re a young woman of prudence and good sense, though you know nothing of the world but what a boarding school can teach—which is vastly little, and that topsy-turvy—and you’ll accept this escape of yours with thankfulness when you think upon it calmly. Fraser has behaved to you in a monstrous cavalier fashion—leading all around you to believe that he had laid his heart at your feet, when he was enamoured the entire time of another lady. You remember, miss, your tenderness for the fellow’s feelings when my aunt first presented him to you as your humble servant for the voyage; pray, will you have people say that you are fallen into the trap yourself while he’s escaped?”

I saw the justice of her contention, but I have been very low-spirited ever since that morning, so much so that after leaving Madrass I kept my cabin for two or three days, suffering from a serious enough indisposition, from which I am now recovered, though still unhappy in mind. Yet I don’t know what I could have expected had I been able to bid Mr Fraser farewell. He could have said nothing to bring me any complacence, since had he even desired to transfer his allegiance from Araminta to myself, what answer could I have made to such a perjured lover? No, my Amelia knows enough of her Sylvia’s heart to be sure she would never entertain a thought in favour of one who could act in so base a manner. Ah, my dear Miss Turnor, I am rightly punished. I am a very wicked girl, for though Miss Hamlin thought I had forgot my parents’ designs for me, they came often to my mind in the first part of our voyage, until I had contrived to drive them away, resolving to enjoy while I had it the pleasure of Mr Fraser’s company. And now I will answer the question which I see trembling on my dearest friend’s lips. Do I confess, then, you’ll say, that my heart is engaged on this gentleman’s behalf? and to this I can answer, No. How could either my heart or my judgment take sides with one who could act, as I can’t help perceiving, with so much unkindness—I had almost added, so much duplicity—both towards the amiable Araminta and myself? But this I’ll acknowledge, that had matters been otherwise, had he been the honest man I thought him, I could have loved him.

So there, Amelia, you have the worst of it—the dreadful, the humiliating confession—and I’ll beg you won’t mention the subject again, as I shall hope to let this be the last page of my writing on which Mr Fraser’s name appears. Miss Hamlin has used me kindly enough, yet with the contemptuous kindness that says nothing better could be expected from a boarding-school miss, and I must do my best to find happiness in the future in a strict obedience to the commands of my dear papa. But oh, Amelia, if only Mr Freyne were a Papist, as Mrs Hamlin once said! Sure you’ll think I am gone mad, but I mean that in that case he might suffer me to follow my own inclinations, and lead a single life. Why is it that parents will never allow their daughters in this mode of life? We hear continually of the difficulty of making up good marriages, and of the monstrous fortunes demanded with brides, and yet no young woman of our quality is permitted to remain single, even if she desire it. Or if she be afflicted with such a want of looks that no one will take her, even for the sake of her guineas, how hardly do her parents give up their search! How many proposals of marriage sent to the friends of reluctant gentlemen, how many treaties broken off when all but arranged, before she can be allowed to follow her own inclinations!

At Mr Freyne’s house in the Cross-road, Calcutta, Sept. ye 12th.

At last I am able to address my Amelia from my papa’s house, if only to describe the disconcerting adventures I met with in reaching it. Sure, my dear, your Sylvia is the most unlucky girl alive, so extraordinary are the mortifications that assail her! But to take up my history from the point where I left off. In twelve days after sailing from Madrass, for at this time of the year the winds are favourable to those approaching Bengall, we came to the factory at Ballisore, where we expected to find Mr Hamlin waiting for us, but learned that business had kept him at Fort William, and that he would await us at Culpee. Taking on board a pilot (these persons are provided by the Hon. Company for the better navigation of their vessels in these dangerous channels), we entered the Hoogly River, passing the island called Sawgers.[04] Here Mr Marchant, the chief mate, whom I believe I have mentioned before, chanced to be entertaining Miss Hamlin and me with tales of his travels, and told us that this island is much pestered with tygers, as indeed are all in this neighbourhood; but that it is considered a place of great sanctity by the pagans, insomuch that in the months of November and December very many Gioghis,[05] which is a name given to holy men among the Gentoos,[06] go there on pilgrimage. This they do that they may wash themselves in the salt water, and Mr Marchant declared that an incredible number of them perish in the performance of this fancied duty. More times than he could tell, he said, had he beheld a great tyger crouching on the shore and licking his lips, while he watched one of these poor wretches in the water as a cat watches a mouse. ’Twas in vain that the unfortunate should seek to escape; if he would not be drowned he must return to the shore, and there the beast met him. I was expressing my horror on hearing this, and asking Mr Marchant why he had not made haste to kill the tyger and so save the poor Indian, when Miss Hamlin nudged me smartly with her elbow, and when the mate was gone, told me that he was merely rallying me. I was very angry, as you may conceive, at this piece of presumption on the part of such a person, and when he next spoke to us, asserting that the great danger to our ship in sailing up the river arose from the fact that the shoals and currents, nay, the very banks themselves, were continually changing their shape and direction, I allowed him to perceive the disbelief I accorded to his words. But this time, so Miss Hamlin assures me, he was telling nothing but the truth, so that I had been credulous and incredulous at the wrong times. Is not that hard, Amelia?

At Culpee, which overlooks a broad reach of the river, the Orford was met by a huge number of boats, variously called, as I learned, budgeroes, wollacks, and ponsways. The budgeroes are like our state barges, but far exceeding them in neatness and magnificence, the rowers, who are called dandies, and the mangee or helmsman, all dressed in white, with sashes and ribbons of the colour of their masters’ liveries. Mrs Hamlin had assured me that my papa’s budgero would come to meet me here, and my dearest friend won’t be at a loss to imagine with what turmoil of heart I looked at all the gentlemen on board the barges, hoping and yet dreading to find that each one of them was Mr Freyne. But I could perceive no one that I could guess to be my papa, nor did any of them appear to recognise me, so that at last I turned back to Mrs Hamlin, with whom was now standing her spouse, a somewhat stout and red-faced gentleman, but agreeable enough, in a suit of white clothes.

“Here’s a pretty to-do!” says Mrs Hamlin, as soon as she sees me. “My dear Miss Freyne, your good papa, hearing we could not be in before to-morrow, has taken his journey to Dacca on the Company’s occasions, and won’t return until to-night, and Mrs Freyne han’t thought fit to send to meet you.”

“Why no, my dear,” says Mr Hamlin, “sure you forget what I just told you, that Mrs Freyne desired to use the budgero herself to-day, and asked me to give Miss Freyne a passage in ours as far as the Gott, where she will find a palanqueen waiting for her. You wasn’t grudging the young lady a seat in the boat?”

“No, sir,” says Mrs Hamlin, “and Miss Freyne knows me better than to think so. I am vexed that the lady should treat her daughter’s punctilio so lightly as to deny her their boat, while she goes off on some jaunt of her own.”

“Oh fie, my dear! You’re too hard on a little innocent gaiety. Pray, Miss Freyne, can you tell me why ladies are always so severe when there’s a handsome woman in the case?”

“I don’t know, sir. Are they so?”

“Oh, come, madam, han’t you found it so?” And the man bowed so that I might not fail to perceive he had intended a compliment.

“When you are ready, Mr Hamlin,” said his spouse, “we’ll go into the budgero.”

“Quite so, my dear. Have you bestowed all your buxies[07] on the steward and his mates? Does our Miss Freyne know that word yet? If she don’t, she will soon. Buxies, madam, is a gift of money, made by a man that don’t desire to give it, to a set of rascals that don’t deserve it. No Indian will work that can help it, so that he needs buxie money to enable him to live.”

Talking in this way, so fast that I could scarce understand him, Mr Hamlin accompanied us to wait upon the captain, whom he thanked very genteelly for his care of us during the voyage, and bade visit him at his garden-house on the way to Surmans[08] as often as he should be in Calcutta. Having bid farewell to the mates of the ship and our fellow-passengers, and avoided the importunities of the extraordinary great number of gentlemen that had come aboard in their budgeroes, and would have had Mr Hamlin present them to us, he replying that they should wait till Sunday, we descended into our boat, and so set out with great magnificence. During this second short voyage, Mr Hamlin showed himself very obliging in pointing out to us the places we passed by, as Fultah, where the Dutch have a factory, seated on the most unhealthy spot in the country, and Buzbudgia,[09] which is a fortress belonging to the Moors,[10] as also is the place called Tanners,[11] on the opposite bank. When we were past Tanners, Mr Hamlin bade us look alive, for we should soon find ourselves on British soil, and coming to a piece of water called Govindpoor’s Reach,[12] he showed us on the shore a little pyramid in stonework, which, said he, marked the boundary of the Company’s territory. My dearest friend will comprehend how fast my heart beat at this spectacle. Now at last, Sylvia (I said to myself), thou art to find a parent and a home. But Mr Hamlin, seeing how much I was moved, refused to give me any leisure for meditation, and went on pointing out all the objects we passed, now the garden called Surmans, and the garden-houses of the Company’s servants beyond it, then the Company’s docks and the garden of the Armenians on t’other side of the river, and lastly the town itself, with Fort William and the church. On our exclaiming at the odd aspect of the sacred edifice, which seemed to have lost its upper parts, Mr Hamlin told us that in a great storm near twenty years ago[13] the whole of the steeple, which was of the most elegant proportions imaginable, was blown down by a frightful gust of wind, and driven fifteen feet or so into the earth without breaking. But this I have since seen reason to doubt, for in such a case, sure the gentlemen of the factory would have restored the steeple to its place, or at least have preserved it where it lay, on account of the strangeness of its fate, but there’s no sign of it, wherefore I believe that when it reached the ground ’twas in ruins, and fell speedily into decay. Of the Fort, Mr Hamlin bade us mark the crumbling state of the walls, and the many fine cannons that lay on the ground, without their carriages and useless, outside them, observing that we might now see the trust entertained by the gentlemen of the Presidency in the innocency of their lives and the justice of the Soubah (this was all Greek to me, but I’ll tell you the explanation later).

“We have the felicity, madam and niece Charlotte,” said the good gentleman, “to live under a President that would not with his goodwill hurt a fly. Nay, if a wasp should sting him, he would sooner beseech it to depart than kill it in an angry fit. Sure he should by rights have been born a Quaker, which is the name by which he is known here, for all his tastes lie that way.”[14]

We were now fast approaching the steps of the Gott, which is to say the landing-stage, and became aware of a second great crowd of gentlemen, who flocked out of the Fort and from the streets near, some to greet friends that were landing from other budgeroes that had arrived before our own, and others to stare and whisper at us two poor girls as we were handed ashore. Miss Hamlin looked at me with a malicious smile, and whispered me to make my choice, for all the young sparks of Fort William were there paraded before me.

“Nay, miss,” said I, not to be outdone; “you first, if you please.”

“Why, then, I choose the respectable person there at the Fort gate,” she said, pointing with her fan; and we both laughed, for although the gentleman she indicated was somewhat advanced in years, his coat of yellow silk was richly laced, and he seemed to take no small pride in his appearance. “A man that has such care for his own dress would not be niggardly over that of his spouse,” says Miss Hamlin; but just then her uncle, who had pushed on through the press, came posting back to us, apparently in some disturbance of mind.

“I fear, madam,” says he to me, “you’ll have but a poor opinion of our Calcutta manners, or at least of our memories, for I can’t perceive your papa’s servants anywhere, and the gentlemen tell me they han’t seen his liveries to-day, and how you are to get home I don’t know.”

“What did I tell you, sir?” asked Mrs Hamlin, with an air of triumph.

“Pray, sir,” said I, “don’t trouble yourself about me. If Miss will be so good as to let me share her palanqueen, sure I can be dropped at Mr Freyne’s door without incommoding anybody.”

“Why, so you could, madam,” says he, “but for the little trifling fact that Mr Freyne’s house lies out Chitpore way, which is in the opposite direction from Surmans.”

“Oh pray, sir,” I said in great uneasiness, “let me hire a coach or a chair, and so relieve you of the charge of me.”

“There en’t no such things here, miss,” says Mrs Hamlin. “No, you must please to take my niece’s palanqueen to go home in, and we’ll wait here in the sun until you’re done with it.”

By this time, Amelia, I was ready to cry, for the good lady’s tone was sharp enough, and indeed the sun was hot, though I hadn’t perceived it before; but I had no time to bewail my misfortunes, for Mrs Hamlin cried out suddenly—

“As I live, there’s Captain Colquhoun! Pray, Mr Hamlin, go and fetch him hither. He’ll take Miss off your hands.”

As Mr Hamlin hurried to obey her, she whispered to me, “Pray observe, miss, how careful I am of your punctilio. I wouldn’t for the world place you under an obligation to any of these young gentlemen here, that are all on fire to offer their services in any way; but Captain Colquhoun is your papa’s closest friend, and would take it most unkind if we didn’t appeal to him.”

“Sure the gentleman bows for all the world like a ramrod breaking in two!” says Miss Hamlin in my ear, as we watched Mr Hamlin press through the crowd a second time and accost a person in a military dress that had paused on the outskirts to watch the landing. I could not forbear smiling, though the tears had been at my eyes the moment before, for not only did Captain Colquhoun hold himself like a ramrod, but he moved as stiffly as if his limbs were worked by springs, like those of a Dutch baby.[15] His face was burnt red with the sun, and was so rough and hard in its features that it might have been cut out of a block of wood, and his dress was as plain as his rank would allow, without any of that foppery about the sword-knot and cockade that so many military officers affect.

“Why don’t the gentleman ride in his palanqueen, since he has it with him?” I whispered back to Miss Hamlin, pointing to it as I spoke.

“Why, that’s the Calcutta punctilio, miss. To be without a palanqueen argues you to be a person of no figure, and therefore, even if a gentleman don’t ride in his, it must be carried after him.”

“’Tis all the better for me,” I said, just as Mrs Hamlin brought up the captain, who bowed so low that I could almost fancy I heard the springs creaking.

“Now, what could be more charming than this?” the good lady was saying. “Miss Freyne, you took pleasure in the company of our good Lieutenant Fraser, I know, and you won’t feel strange with Captain Colquhoun when you learn that he’s his cousin. Questionless, Mr Fraser has often mentioned him to you?”

That dreadful name again, when I thought I was done with it for ever! I was ready to sink into the ground, but the Captain relieved me by saying—

“The young lady need not burden her conscience with fibs for my sake, madam. My cousin had questionless far more agreeable matters to discuss, and at best he knows as little of me as I of him. Difference of politics has separated our families for many years.”

This was little enough to say, when one remembers that Mr Fraser’s father holds the estates that should by right be Captain Colquhoun’s, and I was ashamed to recollect how lightly Mr Fraser had spoken of demanding his cousin’s hospitality should he visit Calcutta. But Mrs Hamlin was speaking again.

“We won’t talk of these disagreeable matters, Captain. Your friendship with Miss Freyne’s papa is a stronger claim on your kindness than her acquaintance with your relation. Our good Captain Colquhoun is so kind as to offer you the use of his palanqueen to convey you home, miss, and he will himself be your cavalier. I’ll wish you a happy meeting with your papa and Mrs Freyne.”

“We shall meet on Sunday, miss!” says Miss Hamlin with her drollest air, as we curtseyed; and then Captain Colquhoun lent me his hand to lead me to the palanqueen, which was of a kind common in Calcutta, though I had not met with it before—like an armchair supported on poles, with a roof over it, and not like a covered bed, such as those I had seen at Madrass. I was forced to let down the checks to keep out the afternoon sun, but I could hear Captain Colquhoun walking stiffly beside me, and reproving the bearers when they stumbled. Then the machine was carried in at a gateway and set down, and the Captain raised the blind for me.

“Permit me, madam, to bid you welcome to your home!” said he.

CHAPTER IV.
SHOWING HOW MISS FREYNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SURROUNDINGS.

Calcutta, September ye 14th.

I looked round with great eagerness when Captain Colquhoun handed me out of the palanqueen, but discovered nothing in my home that was different from other houses in East India. It is of two storeys, with a flat roof, and surrounded with a varanda, which is a sort of penthouse shelter supported on poles, and all closed in with long checks, like what we call Venetian blinds. There is a handsome flight of stone steps leading to the front door, but the house itself is built of pucca, which is a sort of cement made of dust and lime mixed with molasses and chopped-up hemp. A whole parcel of servants came gliding from all quarters as we mounted the steps, and the Captain addressed them in English.

“Where’s the Beebee?”[01] he said.

One of the servants, who seemed the chief, made some answer in his own language, which I understood to signify that the Beebee was out.

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the Captain, very angry. “Here’s the chuta Beebee” (this means young lady, Amelia), “your master’s daughter, just arrived off her journey, and no one to receive her! What’s that you say?” for the servant had proposed something in a very humble style. “Yes, send for her iya[02] by all means.”

I knew that iya meant maid-servant, and I looked on with great curiosity as the servant brought back with him a yellow-faced woman in gay clothes.

“Here, Bowanny,” said Captain Colquhoun, but stopped suddenly. “Sure you en’t the woman that was to come to wait on Miss Freyne with my Lady Russell’s good word?”

“No, sir,” says the woman, and I observed that she did not say saeb,[03] like the other servants. “Me Madam’s servant before, but when she see Bowanny, she choose her, and set me to wait on Missy.”

“And what do you call yourself?”

“Me Marianna da Souza, sir—good Portugal blood.”

“Indeed!” says the Captain, somewhat rudely, as I thought. “Well, madam,” turning to me, “this person is your attendant, you’ll perceive. I trust you’ll find her obliging and obedient. For your comfort I may say that Mrs Freyne has always been counted the best dressed woman in Calcutta. And now, unless I can serve you further, I’ll take my leave. Your cabin trunks will arrive shortly. I placed ’em in charge of a couple of cooleys.”

“Oh, pray, sir,” said I, “permit me to express the deep obligation you have laid me under by your kindness——” but he was departing.

“I am promised to sup with Mr Freyne to-night, madam,” he said on the steps, “and I’ll hope to find you recovered from your fatigues.”

Indeed, my Amelia, I felt ready to drop as I followed the woman into the house, which seemed dark and hot instead of bright and hot like the air outside. Marianna desired to show me the chamber where I should lie, and to bring me a dish of tea there, and you may guess I did not refuse it. The chamber to which she led me was large enough, and would have been airy had there been any air moving. There was but little furniture, and that of Chinese make, in quaint and pleasing shapes fashioned out of the bamboo. But the bed—ah, there was a disappointment for me! To understand my feelings, you must know that during all these weary months on shipboard I have comforted myself perpetually for the bare and narrow shelves of the cabin with the prospect of finding at my papa’s house such a bed as we should consider good in England. And, indeed, the bedstead was sufficiently genteel, the posts elegantly carved and inlaid with ivory, but instead of the feather-bed and pillows I had pictured to myself, there was only a meagre mattress and cushion such as we had used on board ship. And the curtains! no substantial woollen stuff—such as those within whose ample shade my Amelia and I have often exchanged confidences far into the night, holding our breath while Mrs Abigail prowled about outside, lest she should discover our wakefulness and peer in upon us with, “Pray, young ladies, are you asleep?” (Do you remember, Amelia, that once I innocently answered, “Oh yes, indeed, madam, we are”?)—the curtains, I say, were not of this sort, but a flimsy kind of muslin or fine netting, apt enough to keep out the musketoes, but admitting freely every current of air. I was the more disturbed to observe this, since the windows were defended only by screens of woven reeds, and not by glass.

“Sure,” I said to Marianna, “it must be vastly dangerous to the health to admit the night air so freely?”

“If Missy not have air in Bengall, Missy die,” was her answer, and this in as smiling and complaisant a tone as if she had uttered the most charming prophecy imaginable.

“With what cheerfulness and philosophy do these poor people contemplate death!” I reflected, somewhat ashamed to have exhibited my apprehensions before her, as she went to fetch my tea, but since I did not choose that my first night at Bengall should also be my last, I resigned myself to this outlandish style of sleeping. Before I had drunk my dish of tea my trunks arrived, and I was able to change my clothes and put on a silk nightgown instead of my travelling-suit, which was a huge refreshment. And after that I am ashamed to say that I dozed on my couch, while Marianna unpacked my clothes, moving about the chamber with the lightest tread in the world, until I was awakened by the noise of palanqueens’ setting down in the courtyard, and presently a message came that Mrs Freyne desired me to attend her in the saloon. My dearest Miss Turnor will be at no loss to imagine my apprehension as I followed Marianna, and will guess that my heart was in my mouth when I stepped into the saloon, where three ladies were seated enjoying an elegant collation of fruits and sweetmeats. I divined at once which was Mrs Freyne, and at the first glance I determined that my stepmother was a very beautiful young woman, but this opinion did not last. My Amelia won’t think me censorious, for I experienced a feeling of disappointment that a face which seemed at first sight extraordinary handsome should come so far short of beauty. There’s a general something, that I can’t express, which spoils it. No one feature is bad, but none is quite good. The eyes are a little too small and far apart, and of a blue a little too light, as the hair is of somewhat too pale a golden; the nose is a little too short, the lips a little too thin, and the chin a little too much pointed. Such trifles as all these are, yet they spoil the face. For her clothes, my stepmother was wearing a very fine nightgown of white gauze striped with gold, and a Brussels mob trimmed with French flowers, and this dress was well designed to show off the air of great elegance and languor which I observe to be the peculiar[04] of all the Calcutta ladies.

“So you’re arrived, miss!” she said to me. “Had you a short voyage?”

“A monstrous long one, madam. Near ten months.”

“It don’t seem to have done you no harm. I see you’ve brought a pair of red cheeks with you, which is thought vastly ungenteel in Bengall.”

My cheeks were red at that moment, Amelia, I’ll assure you, and I was grateful to one of the other ladies, who seemed a good-natured sort of body, and made room for me on the settee beside her. There I sat, like a good little Miss out of the nursery, to be seen and not heard, and listened to all that was said, while nobody spoke to me, until Miss Dorman, the lady next me, turned and said—

“Have you unpacked your gowns yet, miss? All Calcutta will be agog to see ’em, I’ll assure you.”

“Oh, indeed,” says Mrs Freyne, in a great to-do, “Miss is only just off her journey, and too tired to go showing her clothes this evening. I won’t hear of it. You shall see ’em in good time, miss, I promise you.”

Miss Dorman smiled in rather a droll fashion as she rose to take her leave.

“Pray, miss,” says my stepmother to me, “attend the ladies to their palanqueens,” and I obeyed her.

“Don’t let Madam frighten you, dear Miss,” whispered Miss Dorman to me in the hall. “An English colour is excessively admired in Calcutta, I can tell you, and the plainest woman will pass for a beauty so long as she keeps it. I did, so I know.”

I was sorry for her as she offered me this kind consolation, for sure she’s no beauty now, though well enough, and I began to perceive why young ladies going to Bengall should be in such haste to get married. Not that this consideration changed my feelings on the matter, for indeed I would get rid of my English colour to-morrow, if that would serve me as a protection. Well, I saw the ladies into their palanqueens, and then returned to the parlour, where I looked at Mrs Freyne, and she at me.

“I would have you know, miss,” said she, “that I don’t purpose to put myself out for you in any way. If Mr Freyne had been guided by me, he would have instructed his friends in England to set on foot a treaty of marriage for you with some respectable person there, instead of dragging you half round the world to find a spouse. But since he has chose to bring you out here, pray understand that I won’t carry you at my apron-string to every party of pleasure I may attend.”

“Indeed, madam,” I said, “I don’t doubt but I shall be able to make myself happy at home when you don’t please to take me out with you. I hope I shall always be ready to oblige my mamma in any way I can.” I was resolved to get the word out (though I hated to utter it), both because I was anxious to do my duty, and because I hoped it might render her better inclined towards me. But this was not the case.

“Never let me hear you call me that again, miss!” she said. “En’t it enough to have to take about with me a great creature near as old as I am and half a head taller, without her insulting me by making out she’s my daughter? You must know that I would never have married Mr Freyne if I had thought he would insist on bringing you out, so it behoves you to be as meek as possible.”

“I’ll do my best to oblige you, madam,” I said.

“Well, I must change my dress for supper,” she said, as a black woman came and stood silently at the door. “Your nightgown and mob will do well enough, miss, so don’t change ’em. We are only a small company to-night.”

She went out, and I sat aghast for a moment, then looked round for some diversion, for in fact, my dearest friend, I was too great a coward not to seek to occupy my mind. I durst not think. There were two books on a table near me, and I took them up. One was a French novel, which did not please me, the other a volume of Archbishop Tillotson’s sermons, but with half the leaves torn out, and the rest all singed with curling-tongs. I was turning them over, wondering who could have so misused such a book, when I heard voices, and jumped up all in a fright, for the one voice was Captain Colquhoun’s, and I could not doubt but the other was my papa’s. If I had been disturbed at the prospect of meeting my stepmother, what was the state of my feelings now? My heart swelled, and was thumping fit to burst, as a fine portly gentleman came in at the door, following the Captain.

“Why, who’s this?” he cried.

“Your daughter, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, and hearing my doubts resolved, I could forbear no longer, but ran across the room and threw myself at my papa’s feet, seizing his hand and bedewing it with my tears. I fear my agitation must have disturbed Mr Freyne, for all he could say was, “Hey, Sylvy? hey, my girl?” touching my hair with his other hand.

“Oh, won’t my papa bestow his blessing on his child?” I sobbed, looking up at him with eyes streaming with tears. He failed to understand what I said.

“Hang me if I know what the girl would be at!” he said, gruffly.

“I believe, sir, that Miss is entreating your blessing,” says Captain Colquhoun, with his stiffest air.

“There, there, child! God bless you!” says my papa. “Get up, and don’t cry. I want to have a look at my girl.”

I rose as he bade me, and dried my eyes as well as I could, and he led me to the window, to look into my face with the aid of the wax candles which were now set alight under glass shades on the varanda. “The living image of my lost charmer!” he said, kissing me kindly. “Han’t my girl got a kiss for her old father?”

I put my arms about his neck, and was bold enough to kiss him two or three times, but it did not seem to displease him, for he blessed me again, and I think there was tears in his eyes. “I could believe that I saw your mother alive again, child,” he said. “But there’s no need to let Madam know that. ’Twould vex her sorely, poor woman, and we should never hear the end of it. Your coming out has been a sad trial to her, miss.”

Captain Colquhoun coughed somewhat loudly, and Mr Freyne remembered his presence. “Come in, Captain, come in,” he cried. “I want to present you to my daughter.”

“I have had the honour already of meeting Miss, sir, and of offering her some slight service in a sufficiently disagreeable situation, for she was landed at the Gott from Mr Hamlin’s budgero with no means of getting here.”

“What! wasn’t my budgero sent for her, nor so much as a palanqueen to the Gott?” cried my papa, and turned upon Mrs Freyne, who came into the parlour very fine, as I saw to my surprise, in a dressed suit and a fly cap.[05] “Pray, madam, how is it you showed such neglect towards my daughter? Must I be at the pain of giving all my orders myself when I leave home for three or four days? Wasn’t it understood when I married you that you was to relieve me of all these points of ceremony? What else did I do it for?”

I took the words as a jest, though they seemed to me harsh enough to hear even then, but Mrs Freyne shut her fan with a snap that bade fair to break the sticks, and said, “Indeed, sir, I can’t guess, no more than I can tell why I married you.”

“Oh yes, madam, you can,” says my papa, “or your clothes and jewels would tell it for you.” He seemed about to continue, but I catched his hand boldly.

“Oh, pray, sir, dear sir, don’t let me be a cause of dissension between you and Mrs Freyne,” I said, and I think my face must have exhibited to him the agony I felt.

“Don’t be a fool, child,” he said, but not roughly. “When you are married, you’ll know better than think every hasty word a tragedy. But sure you don’t look to get a husband if you come to supper in an undress? We’ll pardon a nightgown and mob this first evening, but the Calcutta ladies go very fine, and I don’t want my girl to fall behind them.”

“O’ my conscience, sir, you are on monstrous familiar terms with your daughter already,” said Mrs Freyne. “Perhaps you’ll forgive my asking who it is you expect to supper?”

“Why, two or three fine gentlemen that all chanced to have business at this end of the town, and to be passing just at the time I came home, madam. They had never heard that I had a handsome daughter just landed from England, of course—hey, Miss Sylvy? And as I came through the town I met the Zemindar and the Padra, and asked them in.”

“Which Padra?” asked Mrs Freyne. (This is the name by which all clergymen are known here, Amelia.)

“Why, the old Padra, madam, our good Mr Bellamy.”

“That man!” cried Mrs Freyne. “I do think, Mr Freyne, that if you must invite a divine, you might oblige me so far as to let it be Mr Mapletoft.”

“But I don’t think so, madam. Be sure Parson Mapletoft is far better in the bosom of his family than rustling about here in his best cassock, and flourishing his white hands to show off his fine lace and his diamond ring.”

“The chuta Padra is a person of taste and spirit,” says Mrs Freyne. “Mr Bellamy is no better than any of the gentlemen of the place.”

“I am thankful if I’m no worse than Mr Bellamy, madam,” says my papa, and some of the guests arriving, we moved into the dining-parlour. Mr Bellamy, who is the senior chaplain of the factory, a cheerful and respectable person, handed Mrs Freyne, and I found myself taken in by Mr Holwell, whom every one called the Zemindar, a gentleman of a serious and somewhat troubled aspect. He spoke little to me, but I found abundant entertainment in listening to the general conversation, although there was much that I could not understand. But as you know, my dear, your Sylvia is afflicted with an invincible desire to know all that there is to be known, and as soon as supper was over, and we were gone out on the varanda, where the checks were drawn up, so that we could see the stars, I seized upon Captain Colquhoun. “Pray, sir,” I said, “be so good as to tell me the meaning of all those words I hear the gentlemen use.”

“All of them, madam? Are they so many, then?”

“Why, yes, sir. I can think of nothing but the letter with which the East India officer confounded the pedant in the last volume of ‘Sir Charles Grandison.’ Pray, sir, who is Mohabut Jing, and the Chuta Nabob, and what is a Zemindar and a Go-master? I know what Moors and Gentoos are, but what are To-passes and Fringys? What are hummums and soosies, and seersuchers and kenchees, and by what names are all these tribes of servants called that I see everywhere?”

“Why, madam, you have set me a task indeed. To tell you the offices of all your servants alone would take me pretty near the whole night. There’s your papa’s mohurry, who is his clerk for the Company’s business, and his banyan, who is both his private clerk and his chief servant. There’s his secar, who keeps his money and pays the wages; and his compidore, who goes a-marketing and helps the banyan; and the kissmagar, that stands behind his master’s chair and looks after his clothes. There’s the consummer, who in England would be called the butler; and the peon, who guards his master and beats the other servants. There’s the mussall chye, that runs before the palanqueen o’ nights; and the pyke, that watches in the varanda and lets no robbers in but his own friends. And there’s a whole parcel more, down to the sweeper and the harry, which is the wench that brings water, but sure a longer list will but incommode you at present.”[06]

“I’ll do my best to make sure of these, sir, and then I’ll ask you for more.” And I am setting the names down here, both to assist me in remembering them, and also that my Amelia may learn them too. For I foresee that before I have been long at Bengall, I shall use these outlandish words without thinking of them, as do the ladies and gentlemen here, and I had as lief not puzzle my dearest friend more than I can help. “But, pray, sir,” I continued, “tell me some of the other words I asked you.”

“Why, indeed, madam, as for soosies and kenchees and the like, they are different kinds of cloths made in this country, of which I en’t merchant enough to give you a particular account. The To-passes (called so because they wear topees or hats) are the country-born Portuguese, like your serving-wench yonder; and Fringys[07] is a vulgar Moorish name for Frenchmen and other Europeans, and also the Armenians. Then I fancy you desired to know what is a Zemindar, such as our good friend Mr Holwell. He is both Judge of the Court of Cutcherry, which decides all matters in dispute among the Indians in the Company’s bounds, and he collects the taxes on merchandises and articles manufactured in the Presidency. A Go-master is an Indian agent, who is sent into the country to buy the cloth for the Company from the brokers, who buy it from those who weave it. Until five or six years back this business was done by other Indians working on their own account, called Dadney merchants, who should have dealt honestly with the Company, and did not, to their own damage, for the work was put under European superintendence, just as the corruption and dishonesty of the former black Zemindar led to his being deprived of his office, to the great advantage of the place. Was there anything more you desired to know, madam?”

“Why, yes, sir. About the persons with the strange names, to be sure.”

“I ask your pardon for my negligence, madam. Mohabut Jing, whom some call Ally Verdy Cawn, is the Nabob of Bengall, and dwells at Muxadavad,[08] a great city lying close to our factory of Cossimbuzar.[09] The term Nabob signifies a deputy, or what the Portuguese call a viceroy, and Mohabut Jing affects to consider the Mogul Emperor of Delly[10] his master, though in reality he rules for himself alone. Having attained his present situation by violence, he has held it with a strong hand, though unable to resist the encroachments of the Morattoes,[11] a fierce pagan nation from the Decan. These came so far as to invade Bengall some thirteen years ago, at which time the Indian inhabitants of the Company’s territory sought leave, in a panic, to dig a great ditch all round the place at their own charges. Three miles of this fortification was made, and then stopped as unnecessary, for the Nabob came to an accommodation with the Morattoes, giving up to them the province of Orixa,[12] and consenting to pay them a tribute, which they call chout, for sparing Bengall. This he did, fearing lest the European factories would take the side of the Morattoes, and so drive him out; for he goes very much in fear of us, and desired to have leisure to humble our pride. And this he has done by forbidding any hostilities in Bengall when there was war at home, and also in the Carnatic, between Britain and France—a prohibition which was, as you may guess, the most irksome thing in the world to us. ’Tis his aim to reduce our trade to the level of that of the Armenians, which is carried on merely on sufferance, whereas we are here in virtue of the phirmaunds and husbulhookums[13] granted to us by several of the emperors.”

“But sure, sir, Britons would never submit to such a spoliation?”

“I am not saying they would, madam. But Ally Verdy en’t our worst enemy, for he’s a man of sense and of some honour, if I may speak so of a Moor. But he has lately raised to the musnet,[14] or as we would say, adopted as his heir, his grandson, a youth of the vilest disposition, called Surajah Dowlah, and from him we have little better to hope than we would from a tyger. He is the Chuta Nabob concerning whom you was pleased to inquire.”

“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.

CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH DESPATCHES FROM ADMIRAL WATSON REACH CALCUTTA.

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?

CHAPTER VI.
SHOWING HOW CALCUTTA FOUND FOOD FOR TALK.

Calcutta, April ye 12th.

Is my Amelia anticipating a more cheerful epistle than that with which I saddened her tender heart three days ago? Alas, my dear girl! the expectation is vain. These three days have brought your Sylvia’s affairs into such a coil that she, poor simpleton! can see no way of getting ’em straight again. But to begin at the beginning. Last Saturday, which was the day after my sudden meeting with Mr Fraser at the Gardens, I passed my time in fear and trembling, dreading lest the young gentleman should come to the house and force his way into my presence. For oh, Amelia, remember that Mrs Freyne knows nothing as yet of all my troubles. When she learns of them, I fancy I shall begin to think that until then I had no troubles at all. It seemed, however, that Mr Fraser was so much offended by my words to him the evening before that he would not condescend even to pay his respects to my papa, and I tried to assure myself that he would incommode me no more. We were engaged that night to attend Mrs Hamlin’s assembly, and very early in the evening, before I had thought of going to dress, there came a servant bringing me a chitt from Miss Hamlin to beg that I would come early. This has happened pretty often before, chiefly when Miss Hamlin has devised a new mode of dressing her hair, or has desired to consult me as to the most elegant style of making over a gown. I hurried into my fine clothes, therefore, and started off in my palanqueen at least an hour before my papa and Mrs Freyne. Mrs Hamlin met me in her varanda, and, after saluting me in what I thought a rather conscious manner, carried me to Miss Hamlin’s chamber, begging me in a whisper to do what I could to keep her niece’s spirits up. I could imagine no less than that the tailor had ruined Miss’s new gown in the making, or her iya spilt a bottle of pomatum over it; but on entering I found my friend, not weeping in her wrapper, as I had expected, but standing before the mirror in a gown of light peach-coloured satin, laced with gold at all the seams, the finest I have ever seen.

“Why, miss, a new gown!” said I, “and you’ve never showed it me.”

“It’s never been unpacked,” says she. “What does my Miss Freyne think of it?”

“’Tis fit for a queen,” said I, “or a wedding.”

“Come, miss, you’re sprightly to-night. It is my wedding-gown.”

“La, miss! Are you going to be married? When is it to be?”

“To-night,” says she, as solemn as you please.

“To-night? and you never told me? I take this very unkind in you, miss. Has Sylvia Freyne deserved it at your hands?”

“’Twas not in my power to tell you what I didn’t know myself, miss. No one knows it yet. The bridegroom himself don’t know it.”

“Dear miss, you must have got a touch of the fever,” I said, for I could no longer doubt but her intellects were disordered. “Let me help you take off that gown and assist you to bed, while someone runs for Dr Knox.”

“Dear miss,” said she, mimicking me, “your concern for my health en’t needed, I’ll assure you. I tell you solemnly that I’m to be married to-night, if the bridegroom don’t desire to shame me before all Calcutta.”

“But who’s the gentleman?” I cried.

“Mr Hurstwood, of course,” said she. Now Mr Hurstwood was the gentleman that we had seen in the gate of the Fort on our landing, and that Miss Hamlin had declared to me then and ever since to be her destined spouse, whenever I sought to discover whether her heart inclined in any particular direction, so that this fresh piece of pleasantry made me angry.

“Oh well, miss, if you choose to rally me at so solemn a moment——” said I.

“You’re like the good people that refused to believe the shepherd-lad when he cried ‘Wolf!’ miss. All I can say is that Mr Hurstwood is to have the chance of marrying me to-night. If he won’t take it, that’s his fault.”

“But there’s been no engagement of marriage between you. You was saying just now he knew nothing about it,” said I, excessively perplexed.

“Oh, pardon me, miss, I said the gentleman didn’t know the time I had fixed. To tell truth, I have been testing him. He—he pestered me so with his proposals that I accepted ’em to be rid of him, but I imposed my conditions. There was to be no public announcement, and I was to have the direction of everything, and I bade him have no hope of marrying me for at least a year.”

“Then he’s happier than you permitted him to expect, miss?”

“He made my life a burden to me with his importunities, miss. I have never had a peaceful moment but when I was in company.”

“Oh, miss,” I cried, “why try to deceive your friend any longer? There was a traitor in the camp. Your heart was on the gentleman’s side.”

“What’s all this galimatias about?” says she, but she turned her face away, and played with the lace on her sleeve. “Han’t I told you long ago that I had no heart? The worst you can say of me is that I’m marrying him to please him.”

“True, miss—and the best is that you’re marrying him to please yourself.”

“You’re a piece of impudence,” says she. “Do you realise that in an hour or so I shall be a married woman? I protest I’ll teach you your place, Miss Sylvia Freyne. To please myself, indeed!”

But I went round softly, and, lifting her chin, looked into her face. “Don’t tell me that it don’t please you, miss,” I said, “for your own countenance would give you the lie. There!” and I embraced her very heartily, “you have sought to deceive me long enough. Now tell me the whole truth.”

“Why, what can I tell you?” says she, meekly. “You know I promised the gentlemen that my wedding should be such as had never been seen in Calcutta before (and I can tell you, miss, I would not have left you still single to triumph over me for anything less), and sure it’s true, for there’s not a soul knows of it but my uncle and aunt Hamlin and the Padra, and yourself.”

“But not Mr Hurstwood, miss—truly?”

“Truly. ’Tis my final test for him, whether he’ll marry me all on a sudden, with no time to devise a new suit of clothes for the ceremony. All he knows is that he may at any moment find himself summoned to the trial.”

“But where’s the wedding to be, miss?”

“In the saloon here, of course.”

“Oh, miss, not in the church? These chamber-marriages seem to me to lack something—I don’t know what. I can understand them in the case of persons objecting to public notice, but you’ve no reason for that. I should scarce feel that I was married if ’twas not done in church.”

“The very arguments of the excellent Pamela, I vow!” Miss Hamlin had recovered her usual coolness. “Well, child, when you’re married, I’ll make it my business to see that everything be done according to your mind. I fear it’s useless my offering you a share in good Mr Bellamy’s services this evening?”

“Indeed, miss—” I said, and could not get out another word for the foolish tears that would come. Miss Hamlin did not perceive ’em at first.

“The Padra rejected the notion of taking the world by surprise for some time,” she went on, “but consented to perform the ceremony on condition that all the dancing and jollity should be over by midnight, so as not to interfere with the Sabbath. But what, miss? Have I vexed you? I hoped—no, I can’t say that I hoped—but I heard Mr Fraser was here. Han’t he set things right?”

“How can he?” I cried. “Oh, dear miss, if you can tell me anything to unravel this dreadful mystery, pray relieve my mind. Is there any plea that can acquit Mr Fraser of the most unmanly behaviour?”

“Why, if there is, it en’t for me to advance it,” says she. “Give the gentleman a hearing, miss, if you desire him to justify himself. I never thought to offer you such advice, but my heart is foolishly soft to-night, and my dear Miss Freyne seems to have taken the affair much more hardly than I had hoped. Let him speak if he will, and if he won’t, don’t waste another thought on him. Has Menotti persecuted you again of late, by the way?”

“He never ceases his importunities, miss.”

“So I thought. Well, should the fellow go so far as to address himself to your papa, refer Mr Freyne to me. I can tell him why Mrs Freyne supports Menotti’s suit, and ’tis a reason won’t commend itself to him. But now, miss, we must join the company. I look to you to support me on this trying occasion. You and Polly Dorman will be my sole bride-maids, but sure there never was a wedding with such a quantity of bride-men.”

But I catched her by the sleeve. “Oh pray, miss, tell me what this secret is that you offer me as a weapon against Mr Menotti. If it be anything that would injure my papa’s credit, or wound his heart, I would not use it—no, not though I were standing at the altar with the wretch.”

“It en’t so bad as that, though Mr Freyne will take it hard enough. Have you never wondered that your stepmother managed to play so continually without asking your papa for money, which she knows he’d refuse her?”

“I thought she was a great fortune when my papa married her.”

“Only so-so. I’ll be bound she costs Mr Freyne more than ever she brought with her. But as to her debts of honour, she borrows the money to pay ’em from Menotti. What consideration he is to receive you can guess as well as I.”

“But this has been going on a great while, miss—before we landed.”

“So it has. I hadn’t thought of that.” Miss Hamlin looked thoughtful. “But at least we can guess a portion of the consideration. The rest we may discover some day. At any rate, keep the secret carefully. It may help you yet. And now let us illumine the company with the splendour of our presence.”

But as we passed along the varanda, Miss Hamlin slipped suddenly into a small closet where Mr Hamlin keeps his boots and whips, and sat down upon a bench that stood there.

“Come, miss,” she said to me, as I looked at her in surprise, “you must be love’s messenger, and fetch me Mr Hurstwood here. He shall know of the punishment in store for him, and if he show the slightest sign of hesitation, why, he shall have his congé, and no one the wiser.”

I could not help smiling to myself to see Miss Hamlin giving way to the tremors and apprehensions natural to a young woman on such an occasion, and seeking to avoid the possibility of finding Mr Hurstwood backward in acceding to her wishes in the presence of the general company, but I went willingly enough to seek the happy man. There was a good few people already in the saloon, and Mrs Hamlin was looking excessively flurried and uneasy.

“My niece han’t changed her mind, miss, has she?” she asked me, eagerly.

“Oh no, madam. She is most excellently well disposed towards Mr Hurstwood.”

“I’m glad of it. The fact is, my dear miss, I felt it my duty to give the gentleman a slight hint of the happiness that might be coming his way—nothing clear, of course, but just sufficient to let him set about getting his house in order. Young creatures don’t think of that sort of thing, but Charlotte would have been fairly put about without the new table equipage and the chaise and pair of horses that I hear he has been buying. After that I should never have held up my head again if she had sent him about his business.”

The next person that stopped me was Mr Hamlin, who seemed—positively, Amelia, he did—ready to burst with the greatness of the secret. When I catched sight of him he was exciting the wonder of his guests with promising them a diversion of quite a new sort, and hinting, with many nods and winks, at the extraordinary great surprise they should shortly receive. When he saw me, breaking away from those who surrounded him—

“And how is our dear Charlotte, miss? I trust her spirits are pretty fair? Was you with her until just now? Did you ever hear of a young woman’s behaving so strangely? Why, positively, I am forbid to speak about this—this charming event until the ceremony’s over!”

Admiring the subjection to which Miss Hamlin had reduced her relations, and their efforts to release themselves from her yoke, I succeeded at last in finding Mr Hurstwood, who was standing apart from the rest of the company, and signified to him that I bore a message from Miss Hamlin. With the greatest eagerness imaginable he desired to know where he might attend me, and I led him out into the varanda, and so in at the window of the closet where Miss was sitting among her uncle’s boots. You may guess, Amelia, that I was excessively gratified to remark that the splendour of her appearance so disconcerted him that he could not utter a word (for indeed, in figure and air, she is quite the finest woman I ever saw, when she chooses to assume the dignity that sits so well upon her), but only bow, with his hand on his heart.

“Pray, sir,” says his mistress, striving hard for her old rallying tone, “do you know why I have sent for you this evening?”

“Why, madam,” he said, finding his tongue, “I’ll confess that I did experience a hope that you might be about to name the day which is to make me the happiest of men, but now that I behold you, I can but wonder at the goodness that grants me even the distant prospect of calling so lovely and majestic a creature mine.”

“I see,” said Miss Hamlin. “You are contented with your present situation then, sir, since the prospect is so distant?”

“No, indeed, madam. Endure it I must, since anything else would be so far beyond my deserts, but I defy any man to call me contented.”

“But, sir, contentment is a virtue. Sure it would be wrong in me to deprive you of so good a chance of acquiring it?”

“Ah, madam, if there was any mercy for me in your heart when you called me here, don’t do yourself such an injustice as to feign that you summoned me only to torment me.”

“Why, then, I won’t, sir. If you’ll take me to-night, you shall have me; if not, you shan’t have me at all.”

“Do you look for me to hesitate, madam? Though my mind be reeling under this unexpected happiness, it is sufficiently sound not to refuse it. Dear madam, the happiest man in India is at your feet at this moment.”

I was prodigiously relieved, since Miss Hamlin’s heart was so much set on the matter, to see that the gentleman played his part with such dexterity, neither startling her by too extravagant expressions of delight, nor wounding her punctilio by revealing the hints he had received from her aunt. And indeed, my dear, he is a most respectable person, of a high character, and polite and easy in his manners, and entirely devoted, as one may perceive, to his whimsical mistress. Not that I think Miss will find him like wax in her hands, for though he has borne so patiently with her strange notions hitherto, I can’t fancy he admires her humoursome ways, and I expect she’ll lay ’em aside of her own free-will to please him.

Well, when my pair of lovers had brought things to this happy conclusion, I hurried off to whisper to Mrs Hamlin to keep Mr Bellamy under her eye, and not suffer him to wander away into the gardens and talk politics with Mr Eyre and Mr Holwell. Dear me, Amelia! how much I was occupied with politics a day or two ago, and now I have no thought of the Soubahship, or anything but love-affairs. Next I sought out Miss Dorman, and startled her nearly out of her wits by telling her the part she was to play, though she retained sense enough to lament that she had not known of the wedding in time to put on her newest gown, and we two entered the saloon from the varanda with Miss Hamlin, Mr Hurstwood going round to the door. Advancing towards his bride as he entered, he took her hand with the finest bow imaginable, and led her up the room to Mr Bellamy, who had stationed himself beside a table. Warned by Mr Hamlin’s hints, the rest of the company perceived what was on foot, and came crowding round, all eagerness, although, thanks to the fierceness with which the good Padra glanced round on the assembly, the utmost decorum was preserved, as much as if the marriage had been performed in church. But never will I consent to a chamber-wedding when I am to be married, Amelia. The moment that Mr Bellamy ceased speaking, the tongues of the company began to wag, and almost before Mr Hurstwood had saluted his bride, she turned to the bystanders, and cried—

“Well, gentlemen, was I not right when I promised you such a wedding as was never seen in Calcutta before?”

“Why yes, madam,” said some one. ’Twas the vile Menotti. “But saving your presence, your promise en’t all fulfilled yet. We were assured that Calcutta was to be drove to desperation by beholding both its charmers wedded at one time, but Miss Freyne don’t seem in any hurry to carry out her part of the compact. Sure we ought not to leave this charming spectacle uncompleted. Sooner than that, I would put myself forward as the needed bridegroom.”

The horrible assurance of the man took me so entirely by surprise that I could only stare stupidly at him, but Mr Ranger was obliging enough to call out—

“Not so fast, sir! Who talks of a needed bridegroom when there en’t a man in the room but would be proud to stand up with Miss Freyne before the Padra? If it be the lady’s pleasure to end this surprising business in a manner still more surprising, let us draw lots for the honour of becoming her spouse, and so give every gentleman a fair chance.”

My dear, I was dazed with horror. It seemed to me that in a minute or two I should find myself married to some chance bridegroom, without having a word or a will in the matter. Of course, now that I can think over it quietly, I know that Mr Bellamy would never have consented to such a course, even had my papa not been within call, but at the moment I stood staring like a fool, unable to utter a word. It was the bride who ran forward and tore from Mr Ranger’s hand the piece of paper on which he was beginning to write down the gentlemen’s names.

“I admire your assurance, gentlemen!” she cried. “Is it possible that you’ve all missed the finest point in the surprise I designed for you? En’t there a solitary man that remembers a lady is privileged to change her mind? Have I permitted you all the honour of waiting upon me for six months, and yet not one of you perceives that when I say I’ll wait to marry until my Miss Freyne does, ’tis only a device to steal a march upon her? Oh, I have no patience with you! No, you’ll have no second wedding to-night, trust me. I don’t doubt but Miss Freyne will astonish you all another day, for she’s a most ingenious young lady, but when she does, she won’t permit you the honour of attempting to surprise her first.”

Thus was your poor trembling Sylvia saved, for the gentlemen all laughed prodigiously, saying they had feared lest Mrs Hurstwood should be in league with Mr Menotti, and they did not intend him to anticipate them in a matter which was now doubly near their hearts since Mr Hurstwood had carried off my only rival. But in such a state of apprehension was the simpleton who now writes to you, that she was forced to sit down on a couch, and suffer herself to be fanned by Captain Colquhoun, who finds himself perpetually in debt for new fans to the ladies for whom he performs this service, since he does it with all the lightness and grace of a blacksmith hammering on an anvil, though with the best will in the world. ’Twas not at first that I saw his cousin was standing behind him, close behind the couch to which I had retreated, but then I remembered that in the moment of silence after Mr Menotti’s speaking I had heard some one draw a sword, which some one else had thrust back into its scabbard. How I knew that it was Mr Fraser who had drawn his sword, and Captain Colquhoun that had forced him to put it up, I can’t tell, for I durst not look at either of them, but I was certain of it, and the sick terror which had seized me gripped me tighter still all the time that the gentlemen of the company were occupied in saluting the bride, and the bridegroom the ladies present. After that I had to rise, for it was time for the dancing to begin, and I could not be too thankful that my partner was Captain Colquhoun, who with Mr Holwell were to act as bride-men to us two poor maids, even though the good man is a vile dancer, and though he found himself obliged for very shame to crush the broken remnants of my fan into his pocket and promise to bring me a new one in a day or two.

And now comes the most mortifying event of this dreadful evening. Oh, my dearest Amelia, if Providence should never see fit to place you in the high situation which my dearest girl’s beauty and merits would so charmingly adorn, let me beg of you not to repine; for sure it’s a terrible thing to find oneself a toast. Your talents, my dear, would questionless enable you to manage better than I, but you know what a sad bungler I am by nature, and the trials of the evening had made of me an actual idiot. Well, we went through the minuet decorously enough (though if my partner and I, he so stiff and I so much alarmed, did not move the room to laughter, it must have been that the company had other things to think of), and we ladies retired to change our dresses for the country-dances. And here I may say that I wondered the less at Miss Hamlin’s strange fancy for forbidding her uncle and aunt to speak of her approaching marriage, when I heard the free talk in which Mr Hamlin was indulging with his guests. This gentleman’s jests are not like my good papa’s, which could never bring a blush to any the most modest cheek, and Mrs Hamlin’s talk with the married ladies was no less disagreeable, although there was no jest in it, but the most solemn earnest, indeed. Sure, my dear, this habit of free conversation is a dreadful evil, and I could wish that some of our moralists would direct their attention to it. Indeed, I am not sure that if I were in England I would not write under a feigned name to the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ in order that some more powerful pen might be inspired to treat the subject, as was done forty years back in the ‘Spectator.’ But to our country-dances. I have told you, my dear, what difficulties a lady here lies under if she wish to satisfy all the gentlemen who ask her to dance, but I’m not certain whether I mentioned that to grant a second dance to one gentleman is a proof of such high favour on her part that the happy man pretty frequently finds himself with several duels on his hands, for which reason this favour is never granted by any one that prides herself on her discretion.

Well, we had danced a long time, and I had snatched a moment’s rest, deaf to the entreaties of the gentlemen that crowded round me. When at length I owned myself refreshed, every one desired to be my next partner. Among them was Mr Fraser, whom I refused with some sharpness, having danced with him already when Captain Colquhoun presented him to me. Next came Mr Menotti, with whom I was determined not to dance, for if a poor creature may not protect herself in the way she dispenses her favours, who shall help her? but not to appear too particular, I turned my head before he could speak to me, intending to satisfy the importunities of Ensign Bellamy, who I thought was at my elbow. He had been separated from me in the crush, however, and giving him my hand, as I imagined, what was my mortification to find that I had chosen Lieutenant Bentinck, to whom I had given a dance before. It was too late to tell him that I had thought him to be some one else when he had led me out, though if I could properly have done so I would, such puppy airs did the creature put on when he found himself, as he believed, so highly distinguished. My Amelia may be sure that I did not make this mistake a second time, though my mind was so busy and confused that I almost wonder I did not, for I was persuaded that Mr Fraser would resent my contemptuous usage of him (as it must appear), and all the rest of the evening I was apprehensive lest he should assail me with reproaches in public. This he had the grace not to do (I’ll assure my dear girl that I was properly grateful for his forbearance, since I had no expectation of it), but just before midnight, when we were all waiting in the varanda to attend the bride and bridegroom home, I heard a voice behind me, very cold and haughty.

“May I presume, madam, to ask the reason of the public affront you was pleased to put upon me just now?”

“Indeed, sir, I had no design to affront you. It en’t the custom here for a lady to grant more than one dance to the same gentleman.”

“And therefore, madam, you took pains to show special favour to the modest and highly obliged person whom you preferred to honour with your hand?”

“There was no preference in the matter, sir. I had intended to dance with Mr Bellamy, and found Mr Bentinck at my elbow instead. I hope you’ll believe that no slight was intended you, as should be proved by my offering you this explication, which you had no right to demand.”

“No right, madam, when a man believes himself publicly insulted? Sure it had gone hard with Mr Fopling Bentinck if the explication had not been granted.”

“I did not look for such a piece of unpoliteness from you, sir, as an attempt to bluster a lady into compliance with your unreasonable demands.”

“Unreasonable, madam? Are you seeking to drive me into fighting the fool? I’ll assure you that I had picked a quarrel with him in the dance itself if I hadn’t feared to disoblige you. But perhaps you’re one of those ladies that love to know that swords are drawn and blood shed for their sakes?”

“Now, sir, you’re insulting me. If you pick a quarrel with Mr Bentinck, rest assured that you have spoken for the last time with Sylvia Freyne.”

“But indeed, madam, you han’t permitted me to speak with you at all as it is. If I obey you in this, may I wait upon you on Monday in the morning?”

“As you please, sir,” said I, very carelessly, though I could have bit my tongue out with vexation to think of the way he had catched me, and turned away.

“Where’s my Miss Freyne and my scarf?” cried the bride, coming to the door, followed by the rest of the company, who had been making her their final compliments; and remembering my duty, I went to take the scarf from Miss Dorman and throw it round Mrs Hurstwood’s shoulders.

“I shall see you in church to-morrow, miss?” I said, forgetting the changes of the day until I saw every one laughing at my mistake.

“Why, I hope so,” said she; “but pray understand, miss, that a married woman en’t to be browbeaten by you. You may call me Charlotte, if you choose, but don’t otherwise try to put me off with less than madam.”

She tripped laughing down the steps to her palanqueen, followed by the bridegroom, and attended by the whole company in their own equipages. I can assure you, my dear, that I was glad Mr Hurstwood’s house lay on our road home, for otherwise I think there would have been little rest for us that night. As it was, Sunday was well begun when I got to bed, only to dream over again with added discomfort the strange events of the evening.

My Amelia will guess with what joy I welcomed the Sabbath, as a pleasing respite from those cares which have agitated my mind of late. There was little at first to mark it from the former Sundays I have spent here, although it startled me at first to see my Charlotte (I must call her so, I suppose) curtseying to me from Mr Hurstwood’s pew instead of her uncle’s, and to observe that she was wearing the pink gown worked with gold flowers of which she had spoken to Mr Fraser on that night of our voyage when, with a kindness that seemed cruel at the time, she opened my eyes to see whither I was drifting. Her place in Mr Hamlin’s pew was filled by Mr Fraser himself, and I wondered to see him there, since I had determined the night before that the mysterious Araminta who has caused me so much uneasiness could be no other than my fellow-bridemaid, Miss Dorman. Not, indeed, that I had observed Mr Fraser to be much engaged with her, but that Miss is almost the only young person of our sex unmarried in Calcutta. There he sat, however, and I was pleased to notice that he did not put himself forward to hand me into church before service, but only bowed genteelly, and without too great particularity, from his place as I entered. I was thankful indeed for the high walls of the pew during the sermon, for Mr Mapletoft, the junior chaplain, who preached it, thought fit to address us on the duties of the married state, with special reference to the event of the night before, as though he believed that the good Mr Bellamy had let slip his opportunity at the time, and I think I should have died of shame if those who knew how nearly I had been married myself had been able to see me.

It may be, however, that my timidity was unnecessary, for on coming out of church it seemed that every one had other matters to think of. Some one declared that Mr President had received letters from Muxadavad, and there was much talk on the subject, though no one could tell what they contained. ’Twas only to be expected, therefore, that the elder gentlemen should appear occupied and somewhat gloomy, but I was surprised to see that the younger, whom I have never known before to pretend any knowledge of public affairs or concern with them, seemed to be fully as much taken up. There was about them an air of mystery, and a strange absence of that rallying humour which generally distinguishes them, and which was replaced by an affectation of meeting one another with dignity, even with distance. Not that this involved any want of ceremony towards myself, for they were all even more than usually forward to offer me civility, but ’twas all done with so precise and particular an air that I could almost have found it in my heart to be alarmed, had it not been for assuring myself that the young fellows were ashamed of the freedom with which they had treated my name last night, and desired to display their penitence to me. Even Ensign Bellamy, who had taken no part in my mortification, seemed afraid to trust himself near me, and only approached in order to present to me a newcomer in the place, to wit, a young French gentleman of the name of Mons. le Beaume, who was until lately an officer at the factory of Chandernagore, belonging to that nation, but has quitted it on a point of honour, and chosen to throw in his lot with us. This gentleman had much to say of the felicity he experienced in being presented to the loveliest lady in Calcutta (so the foolish, flattering fellow phrased it, my dear), and would have had me believe that ’twas the report of my charms which had drawn him from Chandernagore hither. To this extravagant speech I returned a suitable reply, not ridiculing his words, but allowing him to see that I penetrated their excessive homage, and knew it merely for politeness, and was passing on, when I heard him cry out—

“Ah, sir, do I meet you here? What pleasure, to find in a strange place a gentleman whose face is so familiar to me.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Mr Menotti (he was in my train, of course, the wretch!), very stiffly; “I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”

“A thousand pardons!” cried the Frenchman. “But—but surely I have seen you at Chandernagore, in the company of our directeur?”

“Indeed, sir, when I have visited Chandernagore (which is very rarely) I han’t pretended to such high company as Mons. Renault’s, I’ll assure you.”

“Pray pardon me, sir. My eyes have played me false,” says Mr le Beaume, and the matter dropped. I don’t know why I have set it down, save that I am always longing for anything to happen that might relieve me from Menotti’s pursuit, and that for the moment I was so uncharitable as to hope he might be proved to have been in correspondence with our natural enemies.

In the course of the afternoon we heard something of the letters from Muxadavad which had caused such a commotion, for Captain Colquhoun looked in to tell Mr Freyne that they contained no confirmation of the death of the Soubah, mentioning only his great weakness. The communication was a private one from Mr Watts to the President, but it had got abroad that he warned Mr Drake very solemnly of the unfriendliness shown towards the factory at the Court of the Nabob, where all the talk concerned only the weakness of the defences of Calcutta, and the ease with which even a small army might overcome ’em. More than this, Mr Watts declared that our town is filled with the spies of Surajah Dowlah, and that every word and motion of ours is reported at Muxadavad. He recommended Mr Drake very earnestly to make search for these persons and turn them out of our bounds, and counselled him also to get rid of the Gentoo Kissendasseat and his family, who have remained in Calcutta on one pretext or another for a whole month, and whose sheltering has given great umbrage to the Chuta Nabob. But the effect of this excellent advice the good man spoiled by mentioning that the opinion at Muxadavad seemed to be favourable to the claims of Gosseta Begum to the throne rather than those of Surajah Dowlah; for this has strengthened the Council in their resolution to wait and see what happens before taking any steps.

This news gave us a troubled Sunday, as my Amelia will readily believe; but at least we enjoyed an interval of rest from our private woes, which were to burst upon us this morning with greater violence than ever before. Surely, Amelia, I must be either a very guilty or a very unfortunate creature, for not only am I in perpetual tribulation myself, but I bring trouble upon all connected with me. I was at work with my pen and ink in the varanda after breakfast, copying to the best of my power a fine print in one of the books Mr Bellamy had lent me, when I heard at the gate the boisterous cry of “Tok! Tok!” by which the bearers of a palanqueen announce their approach. My first impulse was to fly to my chamber, for the only likely visitor I could think of was Mr Fraser; but remembering that he had not been long enough in Calcutta to insist on riding such short distances, I waited where I was, and presently ran to assist Mrs Hamlin out of her machine.

“Then it en’t true!” she said, looking at me as if in surprise.

“What en’t true, madam?” I asked her.

“I’ll tell you, miss.” She mounted the steps and sank upon a couch, unpinning her cap-strings and panting. “They said you was gone off with Mr Bentinck.”

“Me, madam?” I stared at her. “With Mr Bentinck?”

“They did indeed, miss. Of course I contradicted it at once. ‘Miss is much too dutiful and well brought up a young woman to do anything of the sort,’ I told ’em; ‘and with such a dear good papa, too, that would indulge her in anything she set her heart on, where would be the use of it?’ But the duel and all that has given such an occasion for talk that you can’t be surprised at ’em.”

“Dear madam, you torture me!” I cried, all manner of horrors tumbling over one another in their haste to rush into my mind. “Who has fought a duel, and what was the reason of it, and what have I to do with it?”

“Why, miss, ’twas Lieutenant Bentinck and the sea officer, Captain Colquhoun’s cousin, who came out with us.” I gasped. “Dear me, you do look badly! Sit down, my dear miss. ’Twas my nephew Grayson that told me about it, but not hearing the quarrel itself, he could only say what others had told him, and you shall hear it just as he related it.”

“But the Lieutenant, madam?” I cried in an agony. “Was any one hurt?”

“Which Lieutenant, child? They were both of ’em hurt, though not more than enough to be a lesson to them in the future; but no one was killed, which is better than they deserved. It began on Saturday night—and sorry I am that my niece Hurstwood’s wedding should have such an ending—as the young gentlemen went back to their quarters. They left Mr Menotti at his house on their way to the Fort, and it was as they were bidding him good-night that the quarrel occurred. How it began I don’t know, but ’twas in some dispute between Mr Bentinck and Mr Fraser about you. My nephew was told by one person who was there that ’twas because Mr Fraser had heard you promising to run off with Mr Bentinck, and declared he had a better right to you; but some one else said that Mr Bentinck was boasting of the favour you had shown him that night, and saying he had but to hold up his finger and you would marry him, for you had always rolled your eyes at him when he visited at your papa’s house, and shown him by smiles and signs and tricks that you wasn’t indifferent to him——”

(“Rolled my eyes at him!” What a horrid vulgar phrase, Amelia! Smiles and tricks, indeed! Oh, the base slandering coxcomb! Was ever a poor creature so served by a man that called himself a gentleman?)

“But the duel, madam? the duel?”

“Why, miss, Mr Fraser contradicted t’other gentleman vastly warmly, so this second person said, and swords were drawn there and then. But Mr Menotti and Mr Fisherton and some others persuaded the two gentlemen of the impolicy of fighting at night and in a public place, and it was resolved to decide the matter at dawn this morning, and at the usual spot, the entire affair being kept a secret from Calcutta. For a set of feather-headed young fellows, they kept their secret well, I will say that for ’em; and Mr Fraser and Mr Bentinck met this morning under the trees by the race-course. They fought with swords, and while Mr Bentinck was run through the leg, Mr Fraser escaped with a scratch on his arm. It was understood, said my nephew Grayson, that Mr Bentinck withdrew in the most genteel manner whatever pretensions or remarks he had advanced; but not knowing for certain what these were, he could not be sure.”

“For this at least I may be thankful, that the false accuser was confounded,” I cried; “dreadful as were the means by which his vile slanders were exposed.”

“La, my dear miss! you are too nice,” says Mrs Hamlin. “Sure you think too much of the little innocent freedoms which were all that the poor Captain imputed to you, according to the less alarming account. There’s nothing so vastly shocking in a young lady’s permitting a gentleman to guess that she returns his sentiments, if it go no further than that.”

“But I don’t return Mr Bentinck’s sentiments, madam!” I cried. “He don’t cherish any sentiments towards me, that I know of, so how could I return ’em, even with the best will in the world, which I’m sure is wanting in me?”

“Pray, don’t be so warm about it, miss. Sure no one will ever impute to a young lady of your delicacy more than an easy frankness, whose very innocence may render her liable to be misunderstood. Of course ’tis always a pity for a young woman to get herself talked about, and it might have been better that you was married before this, but it can’t be helped, and you have in me, I’ll assure you, a friend always ready to put the best construction on all you do.”

What could I say, Amelia? A pretty friend, indeed, this good lady had proved herself, if I was right in discovering something of disappointment in her air when she found I was not run away; and as for her kind interpretation of my actions, what had she just done but charge me with the most culpable levity, and with allowing such freedoms as I have always believed to be quite incompatible with modesty? To tell her that I had never spoken with Lieutenant Bentinck but in a general company, and that I was as far from desiring to exchange signals of intelligence with him as he with me, would be of no avail, since she had made up her mind on the matter, and I attempted nothing more than to entreat her, as I waited on her to her palanqueen, to contradict any report she might hear of any partiality I had for him. In answer, she assured me that she was all discretion, and that I should find her constantly active in silencing any talk to my disadvantage, and so rode away, nodding and smiling at me as though we had established an understanding together. I know my dear friend would have pitied her unhappy Sylvia could she have seen me as I returned to the varanda. I tried to compose myself again to my work, but my hands were hot and cold by turns, and shook as if I was in an ague-fit, while the pen slipped about all over the paper, so that I could not draw a straight line.

“Sure the plague’s in the thing!” I cried at last, speaking very loud and bold, as though to give myself courage; “or perhaps I have catched a fever. I have felt vapourish once or twice of late.”

I rose to go to my chamber and fetch some hartshorn, but glancing out towards the gate I saw Mr Fraser entering. I can’t tell you what a state the sight of him threw me into. My limbs trembled so frightfully that I had to sit down again, and pulling my drawing towards me I began to work so hard at it that in two minutes I had spoiled the work of weeks, while all the time my heart was beating as though it would jump up into my throat and choke me. I durst not run away even if I had been able, but I know I wished that the roof of the varanda might fall and cover me. I think I must have fallen into a fit if it had not been for a mischance that happened to Mr Fraser as he entered, announced by the banyan. Coming out of the sunlight into the shade of the varanda, and groping his way, I suppose, towards me (for I could not advance a step towards him, holding one hand on my heart to still its tumultuous beating, and supporting myself by a pillar with the other); as he approached, I say, this white figure in the distance, he was so unfortunate as to strike against my table, and down it went, the ink pouring over my drawing and on the floor. I could have found it in my heart at any other time to pity the poor young gentleman for making such an entry, but now I could only be thankful for the interruption caused by calling in the servants to wipe up the mess, and by Mr Fraser’s apologies. But breaking off abruptly in his expressions of sorrow—

“Dear madam,” he said, “you look sadly disturbed. I fear my clumsiness has startled you more than you’ll own. Permit me to lead you to a seat.”

“I thank you, sir—no, I am quite well, believe me—I’m sadly vapourish to-day—pray, sir, excuse this sorry welcome.” Silly, stammering words, were they not, Amelia? but indeed I had so great an inclination to weep, coupled with so strong a resolve not to do so, that I could scarce speak at all.

“You’ll pardon me, madam,” says Mr Fraser, standing before me very civilly, “for forcing myself upon your retirements at such an hour, but I have no time to spare. Mr President is leaving for Ballisore this evening, and he is obliging enough to offer me a passage in his barge to that place, where I can pick up the country junk I came in from Madrass. My dearest Miss Freyne won’t think me, I hope, unmannerly in pressing for an interview with her as I did, when she knows the reason of my eagerness.”

Now, strangely enough, there was something in this speech that made me more inclined to cry than ever, so that ’twas the most fortunate thing in the world that I remembered I was very angry with Mr Fraser, and had every reason to be more angry still.

“I hope you have left Mr Bentinck at his ease, sir?” I said. He started.

“Had I known that his health was an object of interest to you, madam, I would have inquired about it more particularly than I did.”

“Why,” said I, very lightly, “when two gentlemen are so good as to make a lady’s name the subject of a public brawl, sure she has some concern with the issue?”

“Pardon me, madam; my dispute with Mr Bentinck, with which you appear to be acquainted, related to the respective merits of the King’s officers and the Company’s, as he also will tell you if you’ll ask him.”

This comforted me a little at first, but I soon shook my head.

“Ah, sir, you should have settled your subject of debate earlier, if you desired to throw dust in the eyes of Calcutta. Now ’tis too late.”

“Indeed, dear madam,” he said, very earnestly, “I’m at a loss to know how you can have experienced the uneasiness you hint at in the few hours since my meeting with Mr Bentinck; but rest assured that my sword is at your service to fight all Calcutta if any one would breathe a word to your prejudice.”

“Oh, sir, you mistake me!” I cried. “Alas that I should have to say it, your sword has done me too much harm already. Why should you, who had no reason to resent ’em, call attention to words which would never have been remarked—which would have been forgot as soon as uttered—if it had not been that your precipitancy fitted too well with the spiteful schemes of one that is ever on the watch to mortify me?”

“I vow, madam, I don’t understand you. I had no right to resent Mr Bentinck’s words, you say? Sure any gentleman is bound to resent a disparagement of the lady he esteems above all others?”

“Questionless, sir; but your Araminta is that lady.”

“But sure you’re Araminta, madam.”

I thought my ears must have deceived me, as I stared at Mr Fraser, but his countenance was so full of contrition and earnestness that I was taken aback. “I am Araminta, sir?”

“Sure, madam, you must have penetrated my expedient before? So often as you have rallied me upon the subject of Araminta—you could not be in earnest?”

“Indeed, sir, I have but sought to hold you to your duty.”

“My duty is owed to you, madam, and to no other lady.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. It seemed to me, Amelia, that some one else was speaking, and not I, the voice had so strange a sound.

“Indeed, madam—” the young gentleman had the grace to look ashamed—“I fear I must ask your kind allowance, for maybe the trick wasn’t altogether a fair one. When I had the honour of spending a considerable time in your company, in our voyage to Madrass, the constant intercourse with so much beauty and virtue produced upon my heart the effect that might have been anticipated——”

“Pray, sir, spare me your flattery,” I said, with some impatience, I fear.

“I’ll assure you, madam, I’m incapable of flattering you, even were the thing possible. But I must spin my yarn in my own style, if you please, or I will never get to the end of it. Well, madam, you must know that I became consumed with a desire to penetrate your true sentiments for me. Many and many a plot did I lay to surprise you, if possible, into some avowal that might justify me in believing that you entertained a partiality for me, but you was always at once so sprightly and so sedate, so reserved and so open, that I was in despair. Then one evening Miss Hamlin revealed the design with which you was going to Bengall—perhaps, madam, you recollect the occasion of her speaking?”

(He asked me that, Amelia, as though I could ever forget it!)

“The young lady’s words troubled me inexpressibly, madam,” he went on. “I have a cursed Scots pride about me” (yet I am well assured that Mr Fraser is proud of that pride, for all his calling it names), “that would not suffer the thought that I had been made a fool of. Such was the notion that came to me, madam, that you had been diverting yourself with my homage for the voyage, designing to throw me aside when ’twas over. But if the wound was bitter, the remedy was at hand. That very day I had been reading in ‘Amelia’ of the expedient by which Booth sought to prevent the discovery of his passion for the lady, in leading her to believe that he loved another. ‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘if my dearest Miss Freyne have any tenderness for me in her heart she must give me some hint of it now; and if my fears are truer than my hopes, yet I will come off with no apparent loss, and she without a triumph.’ The thought no sooner came to me than I acted upon it, as you, madam, know.”

“And so your punctilio was saved, sir!” I cried. “Indeed, it seems a mighty serious matter to be a Scotsman.”

“You wasn’t intending any reflection on my country, madam, I hope? But no, my dear Miss Freyne’s lips couldn’t utter such an unkindness. You know best, madam, how my scheme miscarried. Whether you did entertain any partiality for me, I won’t venture to say, but if so, you played your part with a cheerfulness and a spirit that left me no chance to discover it.”

(Hear him, Amelia, and applaud your Sylvia’s power of dissimulation!)

“In fine, madam,” he went on, “it was I who found myself perplexed, since either you had discovered my plot and resented it, or you was quite indifferent to me. This perplexity caused me so much misery that I resolved to end it, but unfortunately I waited too long. Your persistency in leading the conversation around to Araminta, whenever I sought to approach the tender subject, drove me off again and again, for I believed you was rallying me, and Miss Hamlin’s incessant watchfulness lost me other chances. Then I was called upon to quit Madrass suddenly, and, flying to your lodging on the wings of desperation, found only Miss Hamlin, who refused to bear any message for me. I entreated her to allow me to entrust a letter to her care, but she tore it up before my face, telling me that I had done my best to turn your heart, madam, against me, and that she was glad I had succeeded. I had no one else to whom to entrust a letter, and I dared not send one in the ordinary way, lest it might fall into the wrong hands, but I have watched for the chance, which appeared as though it would never arrive, of reaching your side, and when, after the taking of Gyria, the Admiral asked how he could pleasure me, I told him I would sooner carry his despatches to Calcutta than be made captain of the best ship in his fleet. And here, madam, I am, to lay my excuses before you.”

“And I’m sure, sir,” I said, rising and curtseying, “I am most grateful to you for your entertaining history. Nothing now remains, I think, but for me to bid you a very good morning.”

There! could my Amelia herself have bettered that? Oh, my dear, you never saw such a fool as the poor young gentleman looked, standing as though turned into stone. But what a plague are these feeble bodies of ours, that won’t second the heroical motions of the soul! My limbs trembled so frightfully that when I turned to reach the window leading to the saloon I had done no more than get my hand upon the antiporta, or curtain of reeds, before Mr Fraser was there to block my path.

“Pray, sir, let me pass,” said I, very haughtily.

“Not until I have your answer, madam. Was I right or wrong in fearing that you was indifferent to me?”

“Whatever you may once have been, sir, you have lost your right to an answer now.”

“Nevertheless, madam, I mean to have it.”

“Then you shall have it, sir.” This bold front, after such behaviour as Mr Fraser had been guilty of, made me both brave and angry. “I won’t deny there was once a time when I indulged a certain partiality for you, but that time is past. It became my duty to uproot from my heart any tenderness that might have found a lodging there for the humble servant of another lady, and if I had not done so, can you believe that your confession that the story was all a trick, designed to save your own punctilio from an imagined slight, is a likely passport to my favour? Sooner than expose yourself to the risk of a rebuff, which you should have known me well enough to be assured I would have made as gentle as possible, you seize upon a childish expedient which don’t prove able even to satisfy yourself. You force me unconsciously to deceive my dear good papa, and you expose me to most injurious suspicions from my acquaintances here. And for all this you offer me no amends——”

“Except my poor self.” He laughed harshly. “You’re right, madam. The compensation en’t by no means sufficient. Would it increase its value if it was deferred? If you would be pleased to set me a term of probation, I would do my best to atone for my fault, and to recommend myself to your favour.”

“I fear, sir, that my papa would scarcely look favourably on such——”

“Probably not, madam. Have you, by the way, any objection to telling me why you have persisted in refusing, ever since you reached here, to make any of your adorers happy?”

“That, sir, is entirely my own affair.”

“Oh, pardon me, madam. From something Mrs Hurstwood let drop, I picked up the notion that it might also be mine.”

Have you ever heard anything like the assurance of the man, my dear? “Sir,” I said, “I’m not answerable for what any one else may have told you, but I should be false to my sex if I showed any favour to one that has behaved as you have done, and testified so little penitence after it. You’ll allow me to say that a more contrite and humble carriage would have become you better this morning, and indeed, Sylvia Freyne’s own constitution en’t so meek as to offer much prospect of happiness to a gentleman that can come to entreat forgiveness with so stubborn and resolved an air.”

“You’re like your sex, madam, who wish to see all men their slaves.”

He spoke angrily, and turning away, but I fancied not so resolutely as before. I watched to see whether he would turn back. If he had—if by one word or glance he had shown his sorrow—why then, Amelia, your Sylvia would have thrown reserve to the winds, in spite of all her fine words. I’m not naturally exacting, I think, my dear—I don’t desire to humiliate the poor man; but what could one hope for from a person that could make an unhappy creature suffer, as he has made me, merely to glorify his own punctilio, and utter no word of regret? I would have given the world to call after him as he went down the steps, but if he’s proud—why, so am I.

I was still leaning against the wall (I don’t know how long Mr Fraser had been gone) when my papa comes back to tiffing.

“Well, miss,” he cried, as he came up the steps, “so all Calcutta is ringing with your doings, hey? Sure two dozen, at least, of my friends have been so obliging as to tell me that you’re about to present me Lieutenant Bentinck as a son-in-law. We all hear our own news later than the rest of the world.”

“If Mr Bentinck is to be your son-in-law, sir, you must have some other daughter than me, for I en’t going to be married to him.”

“And quite right too, miss. I would cut you off with an anna if you was, for making me father-in-law to a fool. But what’s happened to the young ’Squire of the Rueful Countenance that I met just now? Han’t he yet made his choice between you and t’other lady?”

“Oh, dear sir, he says there’s no one but myself,” I sobbed.

“And you’d prefer there should be some one else as well? Come, miss, I can’t have you take up with these pagan notions, though you be living among the Moors. Is the gentleman dismissed because he adores no one but you?”

“No, sir, but because he made me believe there was some one else.”

“Then, ’tis as well he’s gone, for he must be a fool too,” says Mr Freyne. “Come, cheer up, my girl, and don’t give way to these vapours. What, you want the fool back, do you? Your father’s to fetch him, I suppose, and tell him you’ll die if you don’t have him?”

“No, indeed, sir!” I cried, dashing away my tears. “I—I hate him!”

“Why, then you shan’t have him, miss,” says my papa.

CHAPTER VII.
WHICH TREATS OF TREASONS, STRATAGEMS, AND SPOILS.

Calcutta, April ye 15th.

Well, Amelia, Mr Fraser is departed, and I have not seen him since he turned his back on me and strode out of the varanda. I don’t know whether he desired me to understand his visit as a final and never-to-be-repeated offer of his affections, so that, once refused, the chance of gaining ’em would not present itself again, but his acts seem to give countenance to the notion. So then, my dear, your Sylvia finds herself deserted, but in such a mood, I am thankful to say, that she would not lower herself to call the young gentleman back, even were he descending the steps at this moment. My dear Miss Turnor won’t be surprised to hear that her friend has been busy summing up Mr Fraser’s defects, in order the more easily to fortify her mind against the reflection that she has lost him. Here’s a portion of the list: Item, the gentleman is proud; item, he is over-prudent; item, he resents the discovery of his faults; item, he wickedly risqued his own life and that of another person in a duel over a word; item—but the total would be too long. In short, your Sylvia is occupied, with extreme industry, in proving to herself that the grapes are sour.

I had just wrote this, my dear, when I heard my papa’s voice—

“Where are you, miss? What’s come to the girl?”

“Here, dear sir; here to serve you,” I cried, and ran to meet him.

“Why, miss,” says Mr Freyne, “here’s the rival prophets both coming up to the house at once. I must have you sit by with your sewing, as meek as if you had never passed a saucy remark on your betters in your life, and take down their doleful prophecies, so as we may laugh at ’em a year hence.”

My Amelia knows one of these prophets: ’tis good Captain Colquhoun. The other is a young gentleman of the name of Dash, one of the Company’s writers here, the son of an old friend of my papa’s, and commended to his favourable notice by his father. Mr Dash is one of those persons who feel themselves competent to direct the whole œconomy of any business in which they are interested, and who, since it han’t pleased Providence to place them in authority, bear a grudge against such as occupy the situation they would fain fill.

“So you see, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun to my papa, when the gentlemen were seated, “I was right in telling you the Soubah was dead.”

(So he is, Amelia. The news was confirmed on Monday, when I wrote you last, but my head was so full of other things that I forgot it.)

“If you’d be so obliging as to say who’s to succeed him, it might profit us not a little at this moment, sir,” says Mr Freyne.

“Since the Presidency is leaning towards the side of Gosseta Begum, I would lay my money on the Chuta Nabob,” says Mr Dash.

“The Presidency,” said the Captain, “is doing its best to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and that ends in destruction.”

“Sure, Captain,” said my papa, “you wouldn’t have the Council adopt precipitately either one side or t’other?”

“Sir, they have had time enough to make up their minds, and all they have decided is that while they hope the winner will be the Begum, they fear ’twill be Surajah Dowlah. If they had sufficient courage to support their desires, they might turn the scale in the lady’s favour, or possessing a little enterprise, they might bind the Nabob securely to their side; but they’ll do neither.”

“But, Captain,” said Mr Dash, “you would not have the Council embark on such enterprises as have brought us so much trouble in the Carnatic?”

“I would have them strong enough to support the right side if they chose, or to defend themselves if they remained neuter,” said the Captain. “At present they can’t make up their minds what to do in a situation in which it’s equally fatal to act too soon and to act too late.”

“Like myself, sir, you believe the Presidency will delay to support the young Nabob till too late, and then seek to curry favour with him?”

“Just so, sir; and the ladies and gentlemen here will be eating and drinking, and buying and selling, and marrying and giving in marriage, until the very day that the flood comes, and sweeps us all away.”

“Oh, fie, Captain! you’re alarming Miss. En’t you ashamed to have made the fairest cheek in Calcutta grow pale?”

“Miss is no more alarmed than you are, sir,” says Mr Freyne. “She has heard the Captain’s prophecies before.”

This turned the laugh against the Captain, who sat looking vastly stern and grim, and not a whit shaken in his predictions.

“The flood will sweep us all away,” he repeated, “and ’tis well it should. The luxury of our people is grown to an excessive pitch.”

“I vow, sir, you’re right,” said Mr Dash. “The establishments kept up by the President and most of the Council, and their manner of life, not to speak of the entertainments they give, are scandalous.”

“I was not pointing at any particular person, sir,” says the Captain, with a frown. “The evil is as marked in the case of the youngest writer, since too often he adds to his faults emulation of those above him.”

“But what would you have, Captain?” asked Mr Freyne. “Sure the Company can do no more than it does, sending out orders that the writers are to be deprived even of the indulgences most necessary in this climate. Rather than see the youngsters die for the want of these common things, we are forced to wink at their evasion of the orders, as when the writer at Madrass, who was forbid to be attended by a roundel-boy, changed the shape of his umbrella and called it a squaredel, and was waited on by his boy in peace. But the worst of this meddling on the Company’s part is that we can’t consistently enforce the salutary regulations against drinking, dicing, and debt, and such like, since we have suffered the infraction of the little foolish rules on which they insist so strongly.”

“Well,” said Mr Dash, “I would have the writers left alone. Some of them will die early, but the strongest will live on, and for them I would have the Company’s regulations strictly enforced, when they have reached the higher offices, that is. The election to these offices I would direct by the general vote, which should also have power to remove an office-holder in case of incapacity on his part.”

“Come,” says my papa, “Bengall will be the paradise of writers, indeed! though I can’t but pity the Members of Council when they shall hold their places at Tom Dash’s pleasure.”

“I’ll assure you, sir,” says Mr Dash, “the factory would be much better managed, and the Gentoos more friendly to us. At present both they and the Moors are nothing but so many spies on us for our enemies’ benefit. And talking of spies, what’s your opinion of the French gentleman from Chandernagore?”

“Young le Beaume? A very sprightly and agreeable person.”

“I am assured,” very mysteriously, “that he’s here as a spy on us. Mr Menotti tells me that he left Chandernagore secretly, having been imprisoned for taking a drubbing meekly from another officer, and that he looks to win his pardon by his reports as to our movements and intentions.”

“Then Mr Menotti has misinformed you, sir,” said Captain Colquhoun, contemptuously. “Mr le Beaume left Chandernagore because, having sent a challenge to a superior officer who he conceived had insulted him, he was accused of threatening his life, and put under arrest. He broke prison to come here, and he won’t return unless we deliver him up. I would far sooner believe Menotti to be a spy than him.”

“Sir! Mr Menotti is a gentleman of the highest respectability.”

“He’s nothing but an interloper, sir, and thirty years back would have been harried out of Calcutta. I’m much mistaken if all his wealth is the result of honest trading. He’s hand and glove with Omy Chund and the other Gentoos, visiting even at their private houses, which no other gentleman in the factory does, and the President finds him useful as a means of communicating with ’em. If he sells the secrets with which he has been injudiciously entrusted, we have a key to all that betraying of our plans to the Muxadavad Durbar which has gone on for years before poor le Beaume came here.”

“Come, Captain, don’t talk scandal,” says my papa, seeing my eyes fixed eagerly on Captain Colquhoun, for indeed I am perpetually on the watch for any chance of ridding myself of Mr Menotti. “We are as slanderous as any three old tabbies over their dish of tea, and Miss here is listening with all her ears.”

“And indeed, sir,” put in Mr Dash, “I can’t see that we have any reason to regret Mr Menotti’s friendliness with the Gentoos. Omy Chund and Govinderam Metre have both been hardly treated, and ’tis well they should be cultivated.”

“They are a pair of rascals, sir!” cried Mr Freyne, with a strong word, “and should have been turned out of the bounds when the Company’s service was rid of ’em.”

“Oh, come, sir, sure you must grant that the Zemindar used ’em with great hardness, worse even than the rest of the Indians he misrules.”

“No abuse of Mr Holwell here, sir, if you please.”

“But, sir, the place rings with tales of his injustice. There’s that affair of Rangeeboom Coberage, Raja Tillokchund of Burraduan’s[01] go-master—his entire possessions were sold for a debt of seven thousand rupees. That has inflamed the Gentoos, and ’tis not the only case.”

“When you have lived a little longer in Bengall, sir, you’ll understand that if King Solomon himself were judge in the Cutcherry Court, the losing side would infallibly declare he’d been bribed.”

“But ’tis well known, sir, that Mr Holwell increases the Company’s revenues by permitting persons of infamous character to settle here on payment of a price.”

“That’s Mr Holwell’s affair, sir, and if it be true, he must settle it with his conscience and the Company, which is for ever pressing him to raise more money. But I entirely disbelieve the report. Why, this very morning there was a dispute in the Council over some vagabond or other, whom Holwell desired to admit, while Drake and the other two were resolved to expel him. I suppose you’ll say that the Zemindar had took money from him?”

“Was you present at the Council, sir?” asked Captain Colquhoun.

“No, indeed, Captain. I had some notion of strolling in, but outside the door I heard the angry voices, and the peon told me what was going on, so I stayed away, knowing that poor Holwell and I could do nothing against Manningham and Frankland and the President. They won the day, of course, and as I came back to tiffing I saw a chubdar conducting the fellow, whoever he was, out of the place, with the usual rabble at his heels, pelting him with garbage and foul names.”

“Sir,” broke in the Captain, seemingly much moved, “that’s the fault I find in you, that having but one voice in the Council, you don’t exercise that one, but leave all things to be controlled by the Committee of Three.”

“You’re warm, Captain,” said my papa, “or you would scarce set to chide me in the presence of these young persons.”

“I ask your pardon, sir, but excuse you I can’t. Suppose (I say suppose, for I know no more of the matter than yourself) that this vagabond should be a hanger-on of Surajah Dowlah, how will you answer to the Company for your silence?”

“I shall answer with my life, sir, like all here, I suppose,” said Mr Freyne, smartly.

“And also with the lives of your wife and daughter, and all the women here, when the Nabob’s vengeance comes? Even your sole voice raised on Mr Holwell’s side might have brought the Three to reason, but you refused to give it.”

“Sure, Captain, you think a mighty great deal of Mr Holwell,” says Mr Dash.

“I think, sir, that he’s the one man of sense and honour in the Council, beyond a friend of mine that has the sense and honour, but won’t employ ’em, and one or two that are like him.”

“Well, sir, as I see the gentleman himself approaching, I won’t disturb your conversation with him,” said Mr Dash, rising and taking his departure in a very marked manner, though laughing.

“How has Holwell managed to disoblige the lad?” says my papa to Captain Colquhoun.

“I don’t know, sir, but I would judge he has made some effort to keep him in his place, for which he’ll pay dearly, I fear, if the young gentleman’s power ever equal his ill-will. Your servant, sir,” this to Mr Holwell, who came up looking more serious than ever.

“Good-day to you, gentlemen. Madam, your humble servant. I fear, Captain, that your prophecies are in a fair way to be fulfilled.”

“Hey-day!” cries Mr Freyne, “another prophet! Come, sir, what’s to do now?”

“You saw a Gentoo fellow drove out of the town this morning?”

“Questionless, sir; as villainous a countenance as I ever beheld.”

“Have either of you ever heard of Narransing,[02] gentlemen?”

“Narransing?” said the Captain, musing; “I seem to myself to know the name. Not Rajaram’s brother?”

“You’re right, sir. The brother of Ramramsing Hircara, the chief of the Chuta Nabob’s spies, was expelled from our bounds this morning with all possible ignominy.”

“If you’re surprised, sir, I’m not,” says the Captain.

“Tell us how it happened, sir,” said Mr Freyne.

“Last night between eight and nine,” says Mr Holwell, “I was surprised by a visit from Omy Chund, bringing with him another Gentoo, whom he presented to me as Narransing, saying that he entered the town in a European dress, and brought a letter from the Nabob. I received the fellow with the civility due to Rajaram’s brother, but refused to look at his perwannah, which was wrote by Huckembeg, the Nabob’s duan, as the President would be in town in the morning. The purport of the piece was to demand the delivery of Kissendasseat, with his women and treasure, on the ground that Radjbullob, his father, when ordered to produce his accounts, said that Kissendass had taken ’em away with him. In the morning I laid the matter before Mr President, with whom were Messieurs Manningham and Frankland, who regarded the affair as an insolent attempt to terrify us, since advices from all quarters report that Gosseta Begum is certain of success. Narransing’s coming in disguise, and his sneaking into the place under cover of night, seemed to support the notion, even if they did not show that he wasn’t an accredited messenger at all, and the Council would not choose to wait and see how things would turn out. Mr Manningham seemed to be of my way of thinking at first, but he soon agreed with his partner and Mr Drake, and they sent to turn Narransing out of the place. The servants, going beyond their orders, drove him out of the factory, and even off the shore, with menaces and insolence, which seemed somewhat to alarm the Council when they heard it, for they writ at once to Cossimbuzar to bid Mr Watts make things right with the Nabob.”

“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.

CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH MR FREYNE’S PATIENCE COMES TO AN END.

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?”

Like Another Helen

Like Another Helen

DEDICATION.

EPIGRAPH.

CONTENTS.