TREATING OF LOVERS AND FRIENDS.
Calcutta, _April ye_ 28_th._
To continue the history, in which I know my dearest Amelia is most
painfully interested, I returned to my own chamber after the Captain’s
departure, and did my best to comply with his desire, though with
little faith, I fear, in the possibility of obtaining an answer to my
prayers. For indeed, Amelia, what plan could be devised whereby might
be satisfied not only my papa’s punctilio and Captain Colquhoun’s
honour, but also the prying eagerness of the scandal-mongers of this
place? I told myself that there could be none, and endeavoured to
bring my mind into a state of resignation--a task that was rendered
far harder by the recollections of Mr Fraser that had persisted in
forcing themselves upon me all morning. For this is the worst of my
misfortunes, that I can’t fail to perceive in the Captain a nobler
spirit and a more obliging disposition than in Fraser, and yet (a
plague on Sylvia Freyne’s perversity!) I love the meaner man and not
the greater. I scolded myself for this preference. I sought to reason
myself out of it, but all in vain, for the whole time I knew that if
by some miracle Fraser should return at that very hour, and declare
his repentance by the smallest word, or even with a look--aye, perhaps
without even that--I should forgive him and love him, not better, that
were impossible, but with a far more respectful affection than before.
I am fully sensible that many writers, and in especial the ingenious
Mr Richardson, would counsel me that ’twas my duty to resist a wilful
passion of this sort, and endeavour to uproot it, and I should have
hoped to do so, had time been allowed me. ’Tis the entering on new and
all-important duties with a mind thus preoccupied that I dread, for
fear lest, after all, my efforts should fail. “You can but try,” says
everybody; but, my dear, it seems to me an extraordinary grave thing
to make this sort of experiment, as I may say, in our lives, whereof
we have but one apiece, whether to be gained or lost. For if we lose,
what then, Amelia?
Spending my morning in reflections of this sort, my dearest girl will
readily guess that when the hour for tiffing arrived I was in no state
to make a public appearance. Sending Marianna to beg Mrs Freyne to
excuse me from attending her at the meal, I turned over on my couch,
and sought to cool my hot face with Hungary water. While thus
occupied, in comes my papa.
“What, miss, sullen?” he said angrily, seeing me all in a heap on the
couch, with my hair about my face and my cap awry.
“Indeed, indeed, sir,” I cried, rising from the couch and falling on
my knees before him, “I am trying to mould my mind to your will,
believe me. Only remember how your goodness has always indulged your
girl in the past, and you’ll perceive how difficult she finds it to
accommodate her behaviour to your present awful severity. Pray, sir,
don’t think I regard it as ill deserved--I believe I know my
faults--but bear with me for to-day, I beg of you.”
“You’re a strange unaccountable hussy,” says my papa, but not so
harshly. “What do you want, miss, I should like to know? Well, cry
your eyes out to-day, if you will have it so, but mind, no sulking
to-morrow, on pain of my gravest displeasure.”
I heard him sigh impatiently as he went away, and (undutiful wretch!
you’ll say) the sound rejoiced me, for I knew that whatever my
stepmother’s arts had been, they had not availed to estrange my papa’s
heart from his girl. My next visitor was Mrs Freyne herself, who came
creeping in, with her finger to her lip, after my papa was gone back
to his _dufter-conna_.
“So you’re to marry the Captain, miss?” she said in a half-whisper; “I
hope you’re pleased with the prospect?”
I could not think of any answer to make, and she went on, “Now, miss,
I know you’ve often taken it vastly unkind in me that I’ve chanced to
disoblige you now and then, but I’ll assure you I en’t really
ill-natured. I won’t see you drove into a distasteful marriage without
offering you a hope of escape. What do you say to marrying a rich and
handsome young gentleman that’s dying for you, instead of your
solemn-faced, miserly old Scotchman?”
“Who’s the gentleman, if you please, madam?”
“As though you needed to ask! ’Tis Menotti, of course, with the most
elegant residence and keeping the best company in Calcutta. Come,
miss, a chitt from me will bring him here in ten minutes, and Padra
Mapletoft with him, and you shall be married quietly in your chamber,
with no fuss or confusion. Then you can go home with him at once if
you please, or if you choose still to play the prude and torment the
poor man, he’ll be content not to claim you until you’re reconciled to
the notion. Here’s pen and ink, I see--shall I write?”
Now it may appear strange to my Amelia, but this proposition of Mrs
Freyne’s went far to reconcile me to quite another notion than hers.
’Twas possible, then, to meet a worse fate than to be compelled to
marry an excellent good man that one did not love--even to lay oneself
under an eternal obligation of the same nature to a wicked person that
one hated.
“I thank you, madam,” I said, “but if I must marry one or other of the
gentlemen, I’ll choose the Captain.”
“Then you’re a fool,” says she, “to choose a poor beggarly captain of
Company’s troops, with whom you may be grateful if you get a silk gown
once in ten years, in preference to one that will load you with the
finest jewels and richest stuffs that can be had. I wonder, miss,
where the obliging disposition is, with which the gentlemen all credit
you, when you can doom to despair an adorer that has worshipped you so
long with the utmost devotion, and for no reason at all?”
“Indeed, madam, I have my reasons. Mr Menotti’s manner of life, his
free language even in the company of ladies, and the indifferent
esteem in which he is held by persons of honour, are sufficient reason
for me.”
“Well,” says Mrs Freyne, as she left the room, “if you’ll do me the
favour to look at yourself in the glass, miss, I think you’ll say that
if Mr Menotti saw you now, your looks would be a sufficient reason for
his not marrying you.”
“Ah,” I thought, “I see now why Mr Freyne has been urged on to force
me into marrying the Captain, and why I have been sought to be
privately dissuaded from the match. The Unknown was a true prophet.”
Now this slight encounter with Mrs Freyne proved a huge refreshment to
me, so that I rose and summoned Marianna to dress my hair and help me
change my gown. And, indeed, it was well that I did so, for before
dinner, while it was still the heat of the day, I was told that
Captain Colquhoun was again awaiting me in the saloon. I sought in
vain to read his face when I entered the room, but as he led me to a
seat I observed that he had a letter in his hand, which he presently
opened, showing me that it had another enclosed in it.
“This pacquet,” madam, he said, “I found lying at my quarters when I
returned from attending you this morning. I have brought it here
because I fancied Miss Freyne might be able to help me respecting its
contents.”
“Indeed, sir, I hope you’ll command me,” I said, out of measure
astonished at such a sudden change of address.
“It comes,” he said, “from my cousin, the young gentleman that was
staying with me a fortnight or so back. He begs me to deliver the
enclosure to a lady of whom he is enamoured, and whom--so far as I can
make out--he offended grievously before his departure, but he don’t
mention the lady’s name. ’Tis a wild fantastical piece of writing, but
he appears to consider I would know his mistress. Yesterday I would
have returned him the paper, having no notion who the divinity might
be, but this day has taught me more things than one. Have you any
knowledge of the lady, madam?”
“Oh, sir,” all impatience, “pray, pray give it me.” The Captain laid
the letter in my hand, but I delayed to open it, partly through a real
misgiving, partly through a foolish readiness to tease myself by
postponing my happiness. “It en’t directed to me, sir.”
“If you think it en’t designed for you, madam, pray hand it back to me
with the seal unbroken,” says the Captain, in a severe voice of
rebuke; but that I could not do. The horrid doubt that I might find
the letter wrote after all to some other lady made my hands shake as I
tore it open, but then I cried out with joy. Oh, the dear, blessed
words, Amelia! fantastical, if you will (sure poor Fraser must have
gathered ’em from a novel, as he did that unlucky expedient of his),
but for all that the sweetest, the most charming that ever assured the
fearful heart of a poor creature that had sad cause to mistrust her
lover. I copy them for my dear friend:--
“To the incomparable Mrs Sylvia Freyne.
“If, madam, you deign to permit your eyes to rest upon the lines which
the wretch who now addresses himself to you has dared to trace, it may
perhaps serve to mitigate your just resentments when you learn that
ever since he parted from you he has been a prey to the pangs of that
remorse and contrition which is properly his lot. ’Tis true, he
quitted your presence with an air of hardihood and bravado, as tho’ he
had the effrontery to believe that he might remain unscathed by those
arrows which had been planted in his guilty heart by your reproof of
him, and this tho’ the wounds they caused (which have never ceased to
throb and smart) were even then beginning to fester. The suffering
wretch has no art to alleviate his pains, and in his despair he throws
himself at the feet of the righteously offended charmer, to ask
whether she who inflicted the hurts will be so divinely obliging as to
chase ’em away. That the punishment is merited he dares not deny (yet
not with such an affectation of humility as might seem to seek to
disarm the just wrath of the lady to whom he applies himself), but
will Miss Freyne’s tender heart permit her to use her suppliant as the
savages of the Virginias their enemies--viz., to set ’em up and shoot
arrows into them, and leave them to expire in their agony? Since
quitting Calcutta, the miserable object of her displeasure has failed
to enjoy a moment of ease from the torment of these cruel barbs in his
vitals, and now, his vessel being forced by the stress of a storm to
seek shelter in the port of Vizagapatnam, he gazes across the raging
billows in the direction of the city that holds his mistress, and
longs for the power of throwing himself in reality at her feet, where
he might demand pardon too urgently to be withstood, and receive the
assurance of his felicity from the kindest lips in the world. But
honour draws him back to Madrass, for his orders were strict against
lingering on the road, and the lady he ventures to adore would be the
last to desire to lure him away from his duty. Won’t the amiable
Sylvia grant her Fraser a word of kindness, whether traced by her own
fair hand, or confided to the mediation of his kinsman, that may salve
his wounds and send him victorious to fight his nation’s battles?
“_P.S._--Dearest madam, I love you with all my heart and better than
my life. Forgive my unlucky trickery, and also my cursed rudeness, and
rejoice your most humble and devoted servant,
C. Fraser.”
My happy tears fell fast (indeed I could not restrain ’em), on this
charming, charming post-scriptum. “Oh, sir,” I cried to the Captain,
“how shall I ever thank you for handing me this dear, this affecting
letter?” But no sooner were the words out of my mouth (as they say)
than I remembered, what my foolish ecstasy had made me forget, the
present posture of my affairs. “Dear sir,” I said, “pray forgive me.
What must you think of me?”
“Nay, madam,” was the Captain’s reply, “’tis of my cousin Fraser I am
thinking. Sure the lad should have been named Jacob, and not Colvin,
for he and his have supplanted me these two times.”
“Oh, sir,” I said, “you do me wrong, and your cousin also. See,” and I
made as though to tear up Mr Fraser’s letter, but could not bring
myself to do it, and only crushed it in my hand, “this late though
happy repentance on his part can make no difference to the engagement
into which I entered with you this morning. My dear Captain Colquhoun
won’t grudge me, I’m sure, the happiness of knowing that I had
misjudged one so nearly related to him, but that pleasure is in itself
sufficient. I am yours, sir, and it shall be my constant effort, I’ll
assure you, that what you have just witnessed shall never be recalled
to your mind.”
“Nay, madam,” said he again, with what Charlotte and I have been used
to call his wooden smile (oh, my dear, how the memory of our pert
jests concerning the noblest of men shames me now!) “when Jacob hath
gained both the birthright and the promise, what remains for poor Esau
but to flee into the wilderness from the face of his brother?”
“Dear sir, what do you purpose doing?” I cried in great alarm.
“Nothing that need terrify you, madam; merely to withdraw my
pretensions in favour of him who has the best right to your hand,
since for him your heart goes with it, and to endeavour to find my
happiness in that of the lady I most admire and of the man who must
needs be worthy since Miss Freyne prefers him to so high a place in
her esteem.”
“Sure, dear sir, you must be a philosopher?”
“I am more concerned to be a Christian, madam. But,” seeing that I was
much abashed, “don’t let my sour humour put Miss Freyne out of
countenance. Be assured, madam, that when I leave you ’twill be to set
my wits at work to devise a means of escape from this situation that
shall satisfy both Mr Freyne’s punctilio and yours, and if I find a
chance to throw in a good word for your Fraser, it shan’t be lost.”
“Oh, sir, dear sir, if there was anything I could do!”
“There’s nothing, madam. Miss Freyne’s kind heart must not concern
itself with the old man’s misfortunes. ‘Serves the old fool right for
falling in love at his age!’ the world will say, but Alexander
Colquhoun himself thinks no shame of it, and he is tough enough to
bear the consequences without whimpering. Nay, madam, I protest you
honour me too much----”
For when he stooped to kiss my hand, I had seized his and kissed it
instead. And, indeed, Amelia, even now that I am cool, I will defend
my hasty action to you or any other person. Would not you have been
proud to kiss the hand of Sir Charles Grandison? and though you may
smile to think that I should have discovered the features of that
great and good man in a poor captain of Company’s troops, yet I defy
you to produce any person of this age whose disposition will more
nearly approach that of Mr Richardson’s noblest and most elevated
character.
As I returned to my own chamber a little later, I met my papa.
“Well, miss, and where’s the Captain?” he asked me.
“I believe he’s gone back to his quarters, sir.”
“And what’s settled, hey?”
“I think the Captain will wait upon you to-morrow morning, sir.”
“Pray, miss, why don’t you answer my question? Is all right between
you and the Captain?”
“I--I don’t know, sir,” and I burst into tears, which displeased my
papa so much that he ordered me to go to my chamber, and not to show
myself in his sight for the rest of the day.
The remainder of the afternoon I spent in scribbling these pages to my
Amelia, until my eyes ached so badly I could write no more, and also
(I’ll confess it) in reading again and again the dear delightful
letter that assured me of Fraser’s penitence and faithfulness. My
beloved girl will wonder that I could take so much pleasure in that
which had so sadly disobliged the dear kind gentleman I had seen so
lately, and indeed I was ashamed of my own delight, and astonished at
it. I put the letter in my bosom at last, and crept like a mouse into
the saloon, which was not lighted, since Mrs Freyne was spending the
evening abroad. But outside in the varanda sat my papa, meditating, I
fear, on the humours of his troublesome girl, and though he had forbid
me his presence I could not endure not to be near him. Seated,
therefore, on the straw matting (this is used instead of a carpet),
close to the open door that leads on the varanda, and sheltered by the
_antiporta_, I ventured to watch him, with all the love and reverence
in my gaze that ought to, and does, fill my grateful heart on the
slightest thought of him. He appeared troubled, and I knew that he
felt the want of the Captain’s company, who is so often with him of an
evening, but before very long Mr Dash was announced, and the two
gentlemen sent for their _hookers_[9.01] (have I said that these are
a strange sort of tobacco-pipe, with a vessel of water and a long tube
like a serpent and all manner of outlandish additions belonging to
’em?) and began to smoke.
“I looked in at the Captain’s quarters as I passed,” says Mr Dash
after a while, “thinking he would be coming to pass the evening with
you, sir.”
“And you found him abroad?”
“No, sir, but he was too busy to stir a foot. Questionless that
sergeant of his has been in trouble again, and is condemned to pass
the night in the black hole for brawling, after smuggling a jar or two
of arrack into the guard-room, and the Captain’s preparing a new
scheme for his reformation.”
I knew well what Mr Dash meant, for Captain Colquhoun had often told
me of this man, who is an extraordinary good soldier so long as he can
resist the influence of strong liquors, and had even requested my
opinion on the possibility of depriving him altogether of the
indulgence, which in this climate is so often abused; but I did not
believe that ’twas this matter which was exercising the Captain’s mind
this evening. I sat listening while my papa and Mr Dash spoke of the
overbearing and threatening carriage of the new Soubah towards us, and
wondered whether he would permit himself to be appeased by the genteel
congratulatory letter sent him by the President as soon as he was
formally proclaimed in Calcutta. My papa made sure that all would be
well, since the Nabob had received the letter favourably, and shown no
resentment for the injurious treatment of his messenger in the matter
of Kissendasseat, but Mr Dash pointed out that Surajah Dowlah had
already seized and imprisoned one of his rivals, namely, Gosseta
Begum, his uncle’s widow, and was commonly reported to be about to
march against t’other, his cousin the Purranea Nabob, so that he was
destroying his enemies one by one, “and after Sucajunk,” says the
young gentleman, “our turn will come.”
My papa made some jesting answer to the effect that Mr Dash had taken
the infection of Captain Colquhoun’s apprehensions, and after that I
believe I must have fallen asleep where I was crouched, for I woke up
with a great start and my heart thumping, to find Mr Dash gone and Mr
Menotti shouting on the varanda, while my papa sought to quiet him.
“I tell you, sir,” he cried, “I found one of Omy Chund’s peons (and I
believe ’twas Juggermunt Sing, their Jemmautdar and the biggest rascal
of ’em all, but I could not make sure in the darkness) lurking in your
grounds, with a billet upon him addressed to Miss.”
“Sure the fellow must be the biggest fool of ’em all if he handed the
chitt to you, sir, in mistake for Miss,” says my papa.
“Sir,” says Mr Menotti, with a very haughty air, “I addressed myself
to the rogue with authority, demanding what he was doing in such a
place.”
“Ah, and what did you say the place was, sir, by the bye?”
“Why, sir, the great thicket opposite Miss’s window.”
“Indeed, sir! and may I ask what you was doing in such a place?”
I thought Mr Menotti seemed confounded for a moment, but he answered
quickly, with a monstrous effrontery, “Why, sir, I saw the fellow
sneaking into the shadow of the thicket, and thinking I knew his
villainous countenance, my concern for your interests induced me to
follow him. Recognising me as an acquaintance of his master’s, he was
so imprudent as to declare his errand, when my regard for Miss’s
honour at once put me upon getting hold of the letter he carried,
which I did by promising to deliver it to the proper person. The
wicked wretch had been haunting the spot for hours without being able
to have speech of Miss, and being a simple sort of fellow, one of
those Sykes[9.02] from the Mogul’s dominions, and not a Gentoo, he
was easily persuaded to deliver it up.”
“Sir, your concern for my honour and my family’s does prodigious
credit to the goodness of your heart. Did you dismiss the fellow in
peace?”
“Why, no, sir; the billet once in my hands, it was no longer needful
to dissemble the fury that possessed me, passing all bounds when I
perceived the nature of the vile piece. For seeing that the letter was
from the hand of the abandoned deceiver, whose shameless attempts have
twice been frustrated by your vigilance, and that it contained a
condolence with Miss on the tyranny by which you, sir, was
endeavouring to force her into marriage with an elderly suitor, and an
invitation to her to meet the writer on that spot at a certain hour
this very night, with a view to eloping with him, I fell upon the
messenger in my rage, and kicked and cuffed him so soundly that he may
be thankful to have escaped with his life.”
“Sir, you lay me under an ever-increasing debt of obligation. The
Unknown must be but new at his work to send his letter open and
unfolded.”
“Indeed, sir, it was folded and sealed, but my transports of
indignation would not permit me to hand the vile scrawl to Miss.”
“Nor to me neither, I suppose, sir? Perhaps, having perused it at your
leisure, you’ll now pass it on to me.”
“Why, sir, I tore it into a thousand pieces and scattered ’em abroad.
Would you have it pollute the sight of any but myself?”
“Sir,” says my papa, with his most awful air of severity, “I would
have you act as a person of honour, if it be in your power. I have
such confidence in my daughter that I’m persuaded, had the billet
reached her, it would be in my hands at this moment. You have thought
fit, not only to open and read, but to destroy, a letter addressed to
a lady with whose actions you have not the smallest concern, and by
alarming the messenger, to prevent our having any hope of catching his
villainous principal in his own trap. You’ll oblige me excessively if
you’ll inform your friend Omy Chund that my gardens en’t designed as
lurking-places for his peons, and you’ll double the obligation by
taking the same information to heart for the future with regard to
yourself. I will wish you a very good evening, sir.”
Never, Amelia, have I seen a person look so foolishly confounded as Mr
Menotti when my papa bowed him off the varanda, and called to the
servants to conduct him to the gate. But oh, my dear, how fearful is
this proof that the Unknown has not yet ceased his wicked attempts
upon the reputation of your poor friend! Observe how quickly the news
of my papa’s pressing on me the Captain’s suit has reached him (though
I might give a guess as to the means, since Marianna tells me that Mrs
Freyne’s iya Bowanny was despatched to the Mother of Cosmetiques this
morning on an errand for some lipsalve), and how promptly the vile
wretch acts. My mind is filled with terror by these continual plots
against my peace (for what, pray, was Mr Menotti doing in the
garden?). The only ray of hope that I can see is the chance that the
second vile wretch, desiring to better his position with my papa, may
have invented the whole affair. But this hope is destroyed by what I
hear this morning (for I have not added a new date, since I desired to
keep all the events of yesterday together), that Mr Menotti has
quarrelled with his friend Omy Chund, and that the two, each
threatening to betray some damaging fact that was come to his
knowledge about the other, were with difficulty separated without
bloodshed by the bystanders.
_April ye_ 29_th._
Rising at my usual hour this morning, I dressed myself very carefully,
putting on the carnation-coloured ribbons that are always my papa’s
favourites, and a gown of printed muslin that he had brought me
himself from Dacca. So fearful was I of meeting Mr Freyne, or at least
of displeasing him by anything in my carriage or appearance, that I
loitered before the mirror, altering a bow here and a knot there,
until the bearer (who is as we should say Mr Freyne’s gentleman, but
black, of course) came to tell Marianna that his master was waiting.
Then you will guess, Amelia, how I hurried out, but slackened my haste
as I approached my papa, my feet almost refusing to carry me, such was
my state of apprehension. What was my relief when Mr Freyne saluted me
most kindly and pleasantly, and bade me pour him a dish of tea before
it all became cold. My fears were almost vanished under the influence
of my dear papa’s agreeable conversation, when (the meal being ended
and the servants retired) he sent me cold all over with--
“I must make you a compliment on the state of your affairs, miss. What
with your modesty and your reserves, you’ve brought ’em to a pretty
pass!”
“Indeed, dear sir, pardon me--I can’t help it,” I stammered.
“I had the Captain here last night,” says my papa.
“Last night, sir? the Captain? and what--what--?”
“What was you thinking about, miss, to tell him you loved another?”
“I durst not deceive him, sir.”
“Do you know you’re a troublesome, humoursome baggage, miss? What do
you think your whimsies have cost the poor Captain?” He threw a great
parcel of papers into my lap. “There, take ’em, and see what they come
to. On my life, I’m ashamed to touch ’em.”
I unrolled the papers. They were Indian bonds of great sums, three
hundred and five hundred pounds, and the like. I sought to reckon up
their value, as my papa bade me, but could not come at it in my
confusion.
“Pray, sir, what’s all this money?” I said, trying to speak calmly.
“Why, that’s your ransom, miss, to deliver you from the Captain’s
clutches, though why he should have to pay it puzzles me.”
“Sure, sir, you must be jesting, and yet it en’t like my papa to rally
me on so sorrowful a subject.”
“Sorrowful indeed, miss. I would pay down myself that sum you hold if
it would free me from the reproach of having brought so much
misfortune upon a man that I esteem the very chiefest of my friends,
when I thought only to do him good.”
“But, dear sir, is it I that have done him harm?”
“Yes, miss, you, and that long Scotch lad of yours, and the tattlers
and scandal-mongers of this place, and I myself, as I said.”
“You terrify me, sir. What’s happened to the Captain?”
“Oh, nothing, miss,” says my papa; “only that he has been robbed of
his mistress and a matter of five thousand pounds besides.”
“This money that’s here, sir?”
“Yes, miss; the sum he makes over to you to compensate you for
breaking off his addresses.”
I was filled with horror. “But you would not dream of accepting it,
sir?”
“Why, miss, I must; that’s the cursed part of the business. Say that
the Captain breaks off his courtship, which is become the common talk
of all Calcutta. Did you refuse him? Then the gossip was true, and you
was bound by some earlier engagement, so as you durst not marry him.
Did he withdraw from his suit? Then you may be assured that he had
discovered some spot on the lady’s reputation. Did I put an end to the
affair? Why then, I was aware of something improper, and as a person
of honour, refused to permit my friend to sacrifice himself. The
lady’s in the wrong, you see, however you take it.”
“But, sir, how can this horrid, this dreadful money make things
better?”
“Why, just in this way, miss. The Captain came to me last night, and
told me you had received his addresses with the dutiful acceptance I
had prepared him to expect in you. ‘But presently,’ says he, ‘talking
with Miss, I discovered that if she honoured me with her hand, I could
not hope to make her as happy as a lady of her beauty and merits has a
right to expect. To force myself upon so charming a creature without
that assurance which I failed to obtain would be to inflict undeserved
misery on her, and a richly merited remorse on myself, but I am
sensible that I would do her only a less harm by withdrawing from my
suit. As a testimony, then, of my regard for the lady’s worth, and a
compensation to her for the breaking-off of the match, I desire to
make over to you for her use the sum of five thousand pounds, to be
settled strictly upon herself,[9.03] whomsoever she may marry, and I
will take it kindly in you, sir, to allow her to exercise her own
choice in that particular.’ That I promised him at once, for ’twas all
I could do for him, and indeed he has found the only way out of the
difficulty.”
“Oh, sir,” my voice was choked, “forgive me, but mayn’t it be said
that the dear gentleman paid down the money sooner than marry me?”
“No, miss, it mayn’t; for what man in his senses would allow himself
to be forced into paying down such a sum without a fight at the law?
And having paid it, would he be likely to remain friendly with the
lady and her family? or more, would he use his best efforts to marry
her to a relation of his own?”
“Oh, sir!” This took me quite aback, as the sailors say.
“Yes, indeed, miss. There was an understood condition attached to the
gift that if Mr Fraser should pay you his addresses, and they were
agreeable to you, I should offer no objection to your marrying. I
hadn’t been aware hitherto that I was such a tyrannical parent that
’twas necessary to buy my consent to my daughter’s marrying the man
she had a fancy for, but I suppose I can bear the blame if it’s to
pleasure the Captain. And now, miss, let me know your thoughts on the
subject. Do you desire to marry the fellow?”
“Oh, sir!” again covering my burning face with my hands.
“Come, miss, there’s no need to play the prude with me, is there? You
told me once you hated the gentleman; am I to understand that you love
him now?”
“Sure, sir, that’s a question should be asked by Mr Fraser himself if
your girl is to answer it,” I began, pertly enough, but burst into
tears, and cried bitterly, only finding words to entreat my papa to
return the money to the Captain, for I could not endure to lie under
such an obligation to him. But this Mr Freyne refused, very gently and
patiently, pointing out that to return the money would not only
disoblige Captain Colquhoun, but also set about again all those
injurious rumours which he had been at such pains to silence, and
adding that if the Captain could sacrifice the best part of his
savings to endow me with the money, I might at least mortify my pride
so far as to accept the sacrifice gracefully.
“Though I shall be forced to raise an army to protect this girl of
mine,” says my papa, “for after all her adventures (no, miss, I don’t
intend it unkindly) hitherto, what will it be now that she’s a fortune
as well as a beauty? ’Twill be necessary to fortify the house,
questionless, and hire a garrison of _buxerries_.”[9.04] (These are
the Indian mercenary soldiers that fight for pay.)
This was said while my papa was comforting me with great kindness, and
in his rallying style bidding me never again show myself so strange
and obstinate as I had during the last two days, for it had cost him
so much to be stern with his girl that he could not hope to achieve it
a second time. “And indeed,” he said, “we can’t look to find every day
a gentleman that’s willing to pay five thousand pounds for the
privilege of being refused by Miss Sylvia Freyne, so pray, miss, make
sure of your own mind before the next suitor comes.”
“Why, sir,” I said, “’tis my misfortune that I did know my own mind,
for sure I must otherwise have been captivated by the justice and
nobility of the Captain’s sentiments. But, sir, the dear gentleman has
certainly failed in generosity in this one particular of the money,
for how can a poor creature that’s crushed under such a weight of
obligation ever make proper acknowledgments to him?”
“Nay, there you’re wrong, miss,” says Mr Freyne. “The Captain gave it
as his particular request that I should entreat you never to mention
the matter in his presence, nor even to hint at it, since otherwise
you’ll force him to cease those visits here which are the great
happiness of his life.”
Was there ever such a man, Amelia? The kindness, the delicacy of this
behaviour--but no, I shall weep again if I write more on this topic,
and I have wept so much of late. But there the Captain sits in the
varanda with my papa at this moment, and makes his stiff bow and
smiles his wooden smile if I interrupt them, as though nothing had
happened between now and a week ago.
_May ye_ 11_th._
This morning I went to pay a visit to my dear Mrs Hurstwood, whom I
have hardly seen for a month. In the very week after her wedding, the
dear creature was seized with fever (owing to a chill taken at the
Masquerade, said Dr Knox), and as soon as she was a little recovered,
her attentive spouse carried her by boat to Ballisore, so that I have
lacked her sprightly counsel for some time. I was all eagerness to
visit her as soon as I heard she was returned, and my papa having
occasion to drive as far as Surman’s, offered to take me with him in
the chaise, and fetch me again when he passed in the evening. It so
happened that when we reached Mr Hurstwood’s house the good man
himself was standing on the steps, about to depart to his business at
the Fort, and welcomed us with great warmth, complimenting Mr Freyne
on his horses, and declaring that he should no longer be apprehensive
for his Charlotte’s cheerfulness since he could leave me to spend the
day with her. My papa continued his ride, and Mr Hurstwood carried me
to Charlotte’s closet, where she was lying upon a couch. She jumped up
on seeing me, and we embraced one another very tenderly, while her
worthy spouse rubbed his hands with delight and made us both as many
foolish compliments as if he had been Miss Grandison’s Lord G.
himself. He displayed a monstrous anxiety lest I should imagine he had
neglected or ill-used his Charlotte, which made us both laugh, for
indeed I believe if the dear girl had a fancy for the Peacock Throne
of Delly he would beggar himself to obtain it for her.
“Ah,” says Mrs Hurstwood, with the longest face imaginable, as the
good man still lingered, “you don’t know all my trials, miss. Mr
Hurstwood is trying to get rid of me.”
“My dearest life!” cries the poor gentleman, quite confounded.
“Why, yes, sir. Did you never hear of the woman who was killed with
kindness?”
“Ah, madam,” says Mr Hurstwood, with a broad smile that he sought in
vain to restrain spreading over his visage, “our dear Charlotte’s
sprightly wit is like our mangoes here, which are only disagreeable
before you are arrived at their full flavour.”
“I vow, sir, you’re a sad flatterer,” cried she. “Pray get you gone to
your business, or my talk with Miss Freyne will never be done. Oh, we
have extraordinary weighty matters to discuss, I’ll assure you.”
“And how does my Charlotte find herself?” I asked her, when her spouse
had at last withdrawn, with many bows and scrapes and farewells, and
she had sent away the iya that we might talk with the more freedom.
“Why, I’m as well as my Sylvia,” she said; “but it pleases Mr
Hurstwood to sit and look at me reclining here, instead of spending
the evenings abroad, and I’m lazy enough to pleasure him. But I won’t
give way no longer, or I doubt I shall grow like some of our ladies
here that rarely stir from their couches. I shall be taking to a
_hooker_ next to soothe the mind, as they say. Has my Sylvia ever
catched Polly Dorman enjoying hers? I don’t know when I have laughed
more, to see her so excessively happy. But no, my dear, I shall go
into company and take you about, for from all I hear you want a duenna
sadly. So your adventures han’t ceased in consideration of my absence?
I understand that things are come to such a pass with you that Mr
Freyne would feel no surprise if a _coffle_[9.05] of Moguls came
demanding you for the Emperor’s seraglio, or an embassy of Russes to
invite you to become the bride of their mad Czar. Now tell me all
about your lovers and their vows.”
I had a prodigious deal to tell her, as you will guess, even allowing
her to hear a portion of Fraser’s letter (not the post-scriptum, oh
no! none but my Amelia shall be obliged with the knowledge of that),
and moving her to tears with the history of Captain Colquhoun’s
singular generosity. When all was done--
“And so,” said she, “the poor Captain is to intimate to your Fraser
that if he choose to honour Calcutta with a second visit he’ll be
welcome?”
“Why, no, my dear, not exactly. Mr Fraser was to join his ship at
Madrass, if the fleet was arrived there, and after that he may go
anywhere, and I never know whether he’s even in these seas at all. But
if his duty should bring him anywhere near Calcutta, or the Admiral
should choose to employ him again with despatches----”
“Why, then, he’ll find Mr Freyne ready to meet him with open arms, and
Miss in the background, all smiles and tears and blushes----”
“I protest, madam, you’re too bad!” I cried. “One might fancy I
was----”
“A boarding-school Miss? and so you are, my dear, or was, not so very
long ago. But she shan’t be rallied if she don’t like it. And what of
all the other lovers who en’t able to pay down five thousand pounds to
win their freedom?”
“Why, Mr Menotti’s forbidden the house by my papa.”
“And he has quarrelled with your mamma as well? Oh, I know it; Mrs
Mapletoft told me about it yesterday. ’Twas at her house, under colour
of a dispute at cards. The gentleman accused the lady of having played
him false, and she retorted by threatening to betray what she knew of
him, to which he replied that he also had tales to tell if necessary.
What do you think of that?”
“Sure their falling-out is the best thing that could be for me.”
“Why, yes, if they remain unreconciled. But they won’t, my dear. With
the hold he has over her, she don’t dare disobey him, and the easiest
way of gaining his favour is to sacrifice you. So my dear Miss must
look to herself. Be careful about your palanqueen-bearers at night,
for remember your beloved Miss Byron was carried off by treacherous
chairmen, and don’t suffer yourself to be persuaded into entering any
chaise or budgero but your papa’s. You don’t want me to warn you not
to wander away with Menotti at any party of pleasure.”
“Come, my dearest life,” it was Mr Hurstwood who entered, as gallant
as ever, “tiffing is served, and sure you and our dear Miss Freyne
must be prodigiously hungry after so long and serious a conversation.
I have a piece of news, also, that Miss Freyne’s good papa will be
glad to hear. Can you credit it, madam, that our Council have at last
plucked up courage to defy the Nabob? It seems that seven or eight
days since he sent by the hand of one Facquier[9.06] Tongar” (these
_facquiers_, Amelia, are accounted holy men among the Moors, as the
_gioghis_ among the Gentoos) “to demand with threats the destruction
of the new fortifications that he heard we were making; but the
Presidency, seeing in the demand only an attempt to extort money from
us, made bold to refuse it. To-day is come a second messenger, with a
_perwannah_ wrote on the day of the Soubah’s starting at the head of
his army against the Purranea Nabob, with very stringent orders that
the ditch and wall which, as he hears, we are making round our
territory, should be instantly stopped. This wall and ditch, of
course, are nothing but an invention of the French who have his ear;
but Mr Drake has returned by the messenger a letter saying that the
slight repairs in hand on our defences are needed in case of war with
the French, and he won’t stop ’em, but that no new works have been
devised. I did hear a rumour of the several messengers having been
dismissed with contempt, too, but at least you see that we shall
venture to hold up our heads to Surajah Dowlah yet.”