IN WHICH MR FREYNE’S PATIENCE COMES TO AN END.
Calcutta, _April ye_ 17_th._
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_ 21_st._
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_ 27_th._
Oh, my dear, the husband has been found, and who do you think he is?
But I’ll tell you the tale as it happened.
“What do you think of Captain Colquhoun, miss?” says my papa to me, as
we were taking the air in the garden before breakfast this morning.
“Think of him, sir? Why, what could I think but that he’s a vastly
agreeable and respectable person, and my papa’s most esteemed friend?”
“I’m charmed that your opinion’s so favourable, miss. The Captain is
coming to see you this morning.”
“Coming--to--see--me--sir?”
“Why, yes, miss. He has done you the honour to ask you of me in
marriage, and I desire you’ll entertain him as your future spouse.”
Was I very saucy, Amelia? I did not design to be so, but the words
escaped my lips. “But, dear sir, I can’t!” I cried.
“And why not, miss, pray?”
Now here, Amelia, was your poor Sylvia in a pretty confusion. Why not,
indeed? Even to myself I could not produce any reasons; I could only
feel them.
“Sure it’s impossible, sir. I never dreamt---- The gentleman is surely
a sworn bachelor. I esteem him most highly, I’ll assure you, but any
closer tie---- Dear sir, the Captain’s age, his--his wisdom--he could
never put up with an ignorant girl like me. Pray, sir----”
I could say no more, and my papa regarded me sternly.
“This charming prudishness won’t weigh with me, miss. I believe I have
indulged you excessively, allowing you the whole of the cold weather
to make your choice. I vow I never looked to keep you longer than a
month, and I wish heartily I hadn’t done it. No, miss; this season of
reigning as a queen, and holding all Calcutta in suspense, and setting
all the young gentlemen at enmity, has lasted too long, and you may
thank me for ending it before you find yourself excelled by the young
ladies arriving this year from home. Not that you shall have the
chance of calling me unreasonable. If there’s any gentleman in
Calcutta that you would honestly prefer to the Captain as a spouse,
name him, and I’ll set on foot a treaty with him at once.”
“Dear sir, there en’t one. But won’t you permit your girl----”
“No, miss, I won’t.” I could see by my papa’s face that he was
hardening his heart against me. “I won’t have it said that my foolish
desire to have your company at home has led me to spoil your chances
of marrying. And what’s more, the injurious things that are being said
about you demand that you should be married as soon as possible as
their best contradiction. Why, it fell to me to-day to reprove a young
fool of a writer, who had bribed a Popish priest to marry him to a
country-born wench in the Portuguese quarter; and pointing out to him
that his proceedings showed he was ashamed of what he was doing, or he
would have sought to get married in the church by the Padra like an
honest man, he told me that he was not alone in preferring a private
wedding, for there was one of my own family that was commonly reported
to have done the same. What do you make of that, miss?”
“Oh, sir----” I sobbed, and stopped. “Will he say this everywhere?”
“I think not,” said my papa, very grim. “I promised to cane him round
the town if he did not instantly unsay his words, or if he ever
repeated ’em, and he saw his error, and begged my pardon. But what he
says, others are saying, and I don’t choose they should say it of my
daughter. You may be as whimsical and as humoursome as you like, miss,
and play off all your pretty airs and graces on me, but it won’t do
you no good, nor advantage you one whit. I am acting for your good,
and you know it; and I don’t despair that one day you’ll have the
grace to thank me for it, when you judge that your punctilio has been
satisfied by the proper amount of sulking.”
He made as though to leave me; but ’twas my last chance, and I could
not see it slip away. Springing after him, I was bold enough to seize
his arm. “Dear sir,” I said, “you have forbid me to plead for your
girl, and she perceives she need expect no softness from her papa. But
think at least of your friend. Is it acting a friendly part by him to
seek to force into his arms an unwilling bride? That’s all I ask you.”
“But why should the bride be unwilling?” cried Mr Freyne, turning upon
me angrily. “I offer her the whole of Calcutta from which to choose,
and she’s still unwilling. There must be some limit even to a lady’s
reluctance. Perhaps the cause lies outside Calcutta--hey, miss?
Perhaps you’ll be so obliging as to tell me exactly what there is
between you and the sea-officer, the Captain’s cousin, or perhaps
you’re held back by an oath?”
“Why, no, sir, for there’s nothing to swear about. There’s nothing
whatever between your daughter and Lieutenant Fraser.”
“Not so much as a promise? I had your word for it that there was no
marriage.”
“Not even a promise, sir. I don’t deny that the gentleman came
desiring to obtain one from me, but we parted in anger.”
My papa looked at me with a suspicion that convinced me I owed this
strange harshness of his to some fresh tale of Mrs Freyne’s. (Don’t
scold me, Amelia. Can you say that she don’t seek to separate my
father and me by means of tales?) “And you wish the young gentleman
fetched back, miss?”
“Why, no, sir, certainly not,” my cheeks aflame at the very thought.
“Then you would prefer to wait in case it might please him to come
back, and so find you meekly ready for his arrival?”
“I don’t think your girl has merited these sarcasms, sir.”
“Then show it by marrying the Captain, miss.”
“If you command me to marry the Captain, sir, I will obey you.”
“No, miss, I don’t command you. I won’t give you that excuse for
saying you was forced into a marriage by your father’s tyranny. You
know that it’s my strong desire that you should marry the Captain, and
as you have always shown yourself a dutiful daughter until now, I
expect that desire to prevail with you in the absence of any weighty
reason that might make your compliance wrong. If there be any such
reason, I’ll hear it with patience. If not, I look to you to justify
the consideration I have extended to you in the past by your behaviour
now.”
“I’ll do my best to satisfy you, sir,” I said, sighing. For oh, my
dear girl, who could continue to resist when urged in such a manner by
such a father? Had the parents of the noble Clarissa treated her with
so reasonable a kindness (for I know my papa is only cruel to be
kind), sure she must have succumbed to their softness where she was
firm against their invective. But perhaps you won’t agree with me.
Then, Amelia, be very sure your Sylvia en’t a Clarissa. But then,
neither is Captain Colquhoun a Solmes. He’s all that is excellent--his
only fault that he is not Fraser. And indeed, my dear, that’s as well,
for I should be sorry to think there was two men like the lieutenant
in the world. There’s a double meaning here, you’ll say? Why, so there
is. I will stop.
I take up my pen again at night. During breakfast my papa preserved
the same unbending sternness towards me, so that I could scarcely eat,
and was like to choke more than once. The only person at their ease
was Mrs Freyne, who talked and laughed with the most charming
sprightliness. When the meal was over, and your unhappy Sylvia was
creeping away to her own chamber, Mrs Freyne called to me as I passed
her door.
“So I hear you’ve added another to the list of your conquests, miss.
’Tis a little hard on the poor gentleman to have to pay so dear for
merely taking up your defence in public, en’t it?”
“Sure, madam, you’re better informed than I.”
“Why,” says she, “it seems that after mess yesterday, when the
gentlemen had perhaps drunk somewhat freely, your name was mentioned
among ’em, and the story which is in the mouths of all Calcutta not
obscurely hinted at. Up darts Captain Colquhoun, and calls on the
speaker (’twas young Waring, I fancy they told me) to withdraw his
words, which he had the best authority for knowing were altogether
false. The young gentleman demands with great spirit what right the
Captain had to interfere in the matter, to which he replied, quick as
lightning, that his right was that of a suitor for the lady’s hand. On
this Waring offers his apologies, and the matter drops; but coming to
your papa’s ears, he jumps at the notion, and forces the Captain to
turn his expedient into a reality.”
“I’m sure, madam, I am prodigious grateful to you for telling me
this,” I said, as I went on my way. And indeed, Amelia, the history
comforted me not a little, for if not the Captain’s heart, but only
his politeness, was engaged, it should not, surely, be impossible to
turn him aside from his object. Hence, when Marianna came to tell me
that Captain Colquhoun was waiting for me in the saloon, I put a bold
face on the matter, and having dried my eyes and settled my cap,
walked into the apartment with as easy an air as I could assume,
though my heart was thumping as if it would burst.
“Madam, your most obedient!” said he, with his stiff bow.
“Sir, you’re very welcome,” said I, as well as my trembling lips would
allow me.
“Dearest madam, why this agitation?” said the kind gentleman, as he
took my hand to lead me to a seat, and found it cold and shaking. “I
hope I han’t incommoded Miss Freyne by so early a visit?”
“Indeed, sir, I had rather you came early,” I said, for I don’t know
how I had lived the day through in anticipation of his coming.
“Questionless, madam, my good friend Mr Freyne has informed you of my
object in waiting upon you this morning?”
“He has told me of the honour, sir--” I could not get out another
word.
“And may I venture to hope that Miss Freyne shares in the kind opinion
expressed by her papa?”
I saw my chance, Amelia, and rushed at it. “Dear sir,” I burst out,
all in a flurry, “it’s been told me that you’re paying me these
addresses out of a notion of honour, feeling yourself bound by a
declaration you made in public yesterday. I can’t be too grateful for
your defence of me, but it would give me infinite pain to think that
you held it necessary to carry the matter any further.”
“Even though it gave me infinite pleasure, madam? Has my dear Miss
Freyne never guessed that she had another humble servant besides the
young sparks that flutter about her so gaily? Ah, madam, they see you
only in company, outshining, it’s true, every other lady present, yet
still one amongst many; but you have permitted me to behold you
continually in the softer and more endearing character of a daughter
in her father’s house, and the repeated sight has graven upon my heart
an impression too deep to be effaced. Does Miss Freyne grudge having
lost the triumph of enrolling a new admirer? I know her tender spirit
would not seek to gratify itself with the spectacle of the distress of
another hopeless lover, and that I have been since first I perceived
my case. But the event of yesterday gave me fresh food for thought.
When I had silenced the slanderer by the revelation of a passion of
which no one had dreamt, the notion came to me, ‘What if this amiable
lady would be willing to accept the devotion her Colquhoun would so
gladly offer her? A genteel abode, a respectable competence, the
protection of a husband, and all else that could be done or given by a
man who would lay down his life to oblige her, would be at her
service.’ Pray, madam,” for I had strove to speak, “hear me out. You
don’t need to remind me that I am old, and scarred with long years of
war both in Europe and the Carnatic--I know it too well. But, on my
honour, I don’t think you would find me an unkind spouse. I would
never seek to deprive you of the diversions natural to your sex and
age; on the contrary, I would feel honoured in attending you to ’em.
The desire for knowledge, which displays the ingenious bent of your
mind, I would do my best to gratify. Your heart, as I know well, I
can’t aspire to possess, but if respect and complaisance could win it,
even that treasure would be mine--in short, if Miss Freyne could
tolerate me as a spouse, it should go hard with me if she were not
happy, or at least contented in her lot.”
“Oh, dear sir,” I cried out, “cease these too kind remarks before I am
crushed to the dust under such a load of obligation. Every word you
have spoken has planted a dagger in my heart. I entered this room
almost resolved, as I had promised my papa, to accept your proposals,
but now I can’t do it, when I see that your heart’s engaged in the
matter, without telling you the truth. My heart is given to another.
If I could have recalled it, the thing had long been done, but I
can’t, and there the matter lies.”
“Is the gentleman alive, madam?”
“Oh yes, sir; but we have quarrelled.”
“I need not ask, madam, on whose side the fault lay.”
“Indeed, sir, he has used me cruelly, though I would tell this to no
one but you.”
“Could you oblige me with this person’s name, madam?”
“Oh no, sir!” I went cold all in a moment at the thought that the
Captain might seek out Mr Fraser and fight him, perhaps kill him. “I
was over hasty. The blame was certainly in great part mine. The
gentleman sought to test my sentiments for him by means of a fantastic
device out of a novel, and I, not knowing his expedient, believed him
false to me. Then, when next we met, he failed to express the
contrition I fancied was called for, and I stood upon my punctilio,
and refused to forgive him without it, whereupon he went away in a
rage. You see that I am at least as much to blame as he.”
“No, madam; I see that the puppy has a stouter defender than he
deserves, that’s all. But pardon my speaking so of one dear to Miss
Freyne. You anticipate that this person will return to you?”
“No, sir, I have not the slightest cause for thinking so. My reason
for mentioning the matter at all was a desire to deal fairly by you. I
esteem you as the best person in the world, next to my papa, and with
Heaven’s help I’ll do my best to make you a dutiful and, I hope, an
obliging wife, but I can’t delude you into believing that Sylvia
Freyne has still a heart to be won.”
“Do you know, madam, that you are placing me in a most cruel
situation?”
“Dear sir, forgive me. I am a sad selfish creature, I fear.”
“My own heart, madam, would prompt me at once to leave you free, but
such a course would only expose you the more to the tongues of the
injurious busy-bodies of this place, as would your rejection of my
proposals.”
“But I han’t rejected ’em, sir.”
“To accept them, madam, would be even more dreadful. Suppose this
person, of whom you have told me, should in time repent of his
behaviour, and return to find you married? I am not, I hope, a jealous
man, I believe in your virtue beyond all possibility of doubt, but how
should I feel to see two young persons, well qualified to make each
other happy, condemned to an eternal separation, and all through me?
The higher the virtue they displayed the more poignant would be my
sufferings. What man of honour could endure such a situation with
contentment, even with complacence?”
“Dear sir, you torture me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll obey you.”
“Why, madam, I don’t know myself. I will go back to my quarters and
think the matter over, not forgetting to seek guidance where alone it
is to be found, as I trust Miss Freyne will do also, and if I see a
way out of the trouble I will wait upon you again this evening. Trust
me, madam, you shan’t be forced into so repugnant an alliance if I can
save you.”
I cried out against his words, but he was gone.