INDIA.
“How changed since last her speaking eye
Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
Where high-born men were proud to wait—
Where beauty watched to imitate
Her gentle voice and lovely mien—
And gather from her air and gate
The graces of its queen!”—_Byron._
Early the next morning Mark Sutherland descended to the drawing-room. No
one was there except Oriole, who had just stepped from her mistress’s
boudoir, and was crossing the room, on her way to some other part of the
house. Once more Mark Sutherland was mournfully affected by the
marvellous, the fatal beauty of the poor girl. As she met and was
passing him, with eyes cast down, cheeks painfully flushed, and heart
beating, as it had too well learned to beat with fear at the look of
man, his heart was moved with deep pity. He had known her from her
infancy; he held out his hand, and spoke to her, saying—“How do you do,
Oriole? You have not spoken to me since my arrival.” But without
touching his hand, or even venturing a glance at his face, the maiden
dropped a quick courtesy as she passed, and hurried on her errand.
“Poor, hunted, trembling deer!” said Mark: “she cannot even trust a
friend. Is it possible to save her?”
His thoughts dwelt with painful but vain intensity upon the hapless
girl, and it was many minutes before the old familiar scene around
him—suggestive as it was of the most joyous as well as the most painful
passages in his past life—could recall him to himself.
He gazed around. The sliding doors and the flowing curtains that divided
the boudoir from the saloon, were drawn entirely back, revealing the
whole apartment. Yes; here was the same saloon, the temple of joyous
reunions, and the same boudoir, the shrine of beauty, love, and
happiness. The same, yet how changed from all the pristine splendour of
the past! Then all was order, beauty, freshness, and enjoyment. Now all
was indifference, neglect, decay, and desolation. Even there, in the
sacred boudoir of India—the latest sanctuary of elegance and luxury—rust
and must, mildew and canker, had crept over all. There the sumptuous
hangings of purple and gold, that made the bower seem like some gorgeous
oriental sunset scene, were now faded and tarnished—the royal purple
turned to a dull, streaked brown and drab—the gold cankered with green
verdigris. The cheval mirrors were specked thickly with mildew, and
obscured with fly-stains; the marble tables stained and smirched; and,
for the fragrance of fresh flowers, a close, damp, stifling smell of
must pervaded the apartment. All was cheerless, hopeless, desolate.
His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another
figure. It was India. And prepared as he had been to meet a great change
in the “Pearl of Pearl River,” he scarcely recognised her. The
superficial is ever the first to strike us. He noticed that the gorgeous
and flowing drapery which had once graced her form, was now replaced by
a plain black dress. The rich, warm, olive bloom of her complexion had
given place to the paleness of ivory. Naught remained of her glorious
beauty but the luxuriant amber-hued ringlets and the large, dark,
mournful, soul-thrilling eyes. More of _real_ self-possession she
exhibited now than she had ever shown in former times. She advanced
towards Mark, holding out her hand, and welcomed him with these words:
“I am happy to see you again at Cashmere—after so many years—my dear
cousin—why could we not be friends?”
Her voice faltered slightly; and when she paused, Mr. Sutherland
cordially grasped her outstretched hands, and said, while he pressed
them—
“We _are_ friends, my dearest India; at least, I can speak for myself
and for one who loves you not less than I do—my wife Rosalie.”
With a spasmodic catch India snatched away her hands; and, quivering
through every nerve, sat down, and veiled her face with her hands, and,
“It is a trying world!”—burst from her quivering lips.
Raising his eyebrows in painful surprise, Mark Sutherland gazed
earnestly at her for an instant, and then turned away his eyes, waiting
reverently for her self-recovery. Soon she looked up, and, faintly
smiling, said—
“I have had much, oh! very much, indeed, to try me of late, my cousin.
Everything is going to ruin with us—everything, everything.”
“I trust not. Your father is embarrassed, but with the advice and
assistance of his friends, all, I hope, will be brought to a happy
issue.”
“Ah, no! but it is not of our desperate affairs I wished to speak. Tell
me of your own. You have been successful in life?”
“Yes, I have been successful, thanks, under Divine Providence, to the
constant sympathy and co-operation of my faithful Rosalie.”
Again India hastily raised her hands, to screen the spasm of pain that
traversed her countenance; and—“Why will he stab me with that name?” she
thought; but she answered calmly—“Rosalie is an amiable woman; how is
she?”
“Well, and very busy.”
“And your family?”
“We have no family; we are all the world to each other.”
“Tell me how you have got on since I saw you last.”
Mr. Sutherland began, and told her the principal circumstances of his
life since their last parting-dwelling frequently upon his Rosalie’s
hope and faith, and persevering energy.
“And so Rosalie has been the angel of his life,” she muttered inaudibly
between her white lips.
A pause ensued, which was broken at last by India.
“All is sadly changed here; my father has been very unfortunate, and Mr.
Ashley——I cannot comprehend it! I see ruin gathering darkly around us
all, without the power—yes, and without the will—to avert it, any more
than I could avert an earthquake, whose premonitory jars were shaking
us!” she said, in a despairing tone.
Mark Sutherland made no comment. What could he have said to console her
that would not have been false? He thought that not so would Rosalie
have met misfortune—with inert despair. And then he remembered that much
of this impending ruin the beautiful India had drawn upon her own head,
and the heads of those who loved her, but whom, alas! she loved not. He
felt relieved when, at this point, a summons to the breakfast-room
terminated the interview.
At the breakfast table appeared India, Mark Sutherland, St. Gerald
Ashley, and Mr. Bolling. Oriole served tea and coffee from a side-table.
Clement Sutherland had not come home. Mr. Ashley’s face was bloated, and
his eyes blood-shot—the effects of the preceding evening’s excess were
but too plain. He sat silent and morose, and ate but little. India
maintained a cold, severe aspect, never speaking to or looking at him.
Mark Sutherland felt himself _de trop_ and uncomfortable, but for Uncle
Billy, who kept up an incessant monologue, asking a score of questions
about the north-west, and volunteering many comments. Mr. Sutherland was
rejoiced when the gloomy meal was over, and earnestly wished that the
master of the house might soon return, and his business and his visit be
concluded at once. He expressed this wish to Mr. Bolling, who hastened
to reply—
“And so do I, nephew! and so do I! For this is the case every day. Each
night that fellow goes to bed tipsy, and each morning appears at the
breakfast table in a state of bloated torpor! Yes, _Lord knows_ do I
wish that Clem. Sutherland would come, and we could finish our business
and leave; for you know I’m going home with _you_, Mark. I intend to
stick to _you_. I admire your principles—always _did_—_I’m_ your man.”
The day advanced, and still Clement Sutherland did not make his
appearance. The late dinner was served, and passed as gloomily as the
breakfast, and still he came not. The house was growing intolerable to
Mark, who summoned one of the servants, and inquired where he should be
likely to find his master; and was informed that he might be found at
the Planters’ Best, where he usually stopped when business took him to
the village. Mr. Sutherland then ordered his horse, and, while waiting
for him to be saddled and brought to the door, went and took leave of
Mr. Bolling, leaving his compliments and adieus to Mrs. Ashley, who had
retired to her room to take her afternoon rest. Then he mounted his
horse, and took the road to the village, intending, if possible, to have
an interview and a settlement with his uncle, and to make his
head-quarters at the village inn, as long as he should be obliged to
remain.