Читать книгу Like Another Helen - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 9

Table of Contents

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?