SHOWING HOW MISS FREYNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SURROUNDINGS.
Calcutta, _September ye_ 14_th._
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?”[4.01] 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_[4.02] 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_,[4.03] 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[4.04] 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.[4.05] “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.”[4.06]
“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[4.07] 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,[4.08] a great city lying close to our factory of
Cossimbuzar.[4.09] The term Nabob signifies a deputy, or what the
Portuguese call a viceroy, and Mohabut Jing affects to consider the
Mogul Emperor of Delly[4.10] 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,[4.11] 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,[4.12] 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_[4.13] 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_,[4.14] 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_[4.15] 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_[4.16] 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_ 21_st._
’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,[4.17] came to my head-clothes.
“Indeed you’re not badly off for lace!” she said. “Three heads,[4.18]
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[4.19] 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,[4.20] 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_[4.21] 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,[4.22] 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.