The exact hour assigned found Hartley at the door of the rich native
merchant, who, having some reasons for wishing to oblige the Begum
Mon treville, had relinquished, for her accommodation and that of her
numerous retinue, almost the whole of his large and sumptuous residence
in the Black Town of Madras, as that district of the city is called
which the natives occupy.
A domestic, at the first summons, ushered the visitor into an apartment,
where he expected to be joined by Miss Gray. The room opened on one
side into a small garden or parterre, filled with the brilliant-coloured
flowers of Eastern climates; in the midst of which the waters of a
fountain rose upwards in a sparkling jet, and fell back again into a
white marble cistern.
A thousand dizzy recollections thronged on the mind of Hartley, whose
early feelings towards the companion of his youth, if they had slumbered
during distance and the various casualties of a busy life, were revived
when he found himself placed so near her, and in circumstances which
interested from their unexpected occurrence and mysterious character.
A step was heard--the door opened--a female appeared--but it was the
portly form of Madame de Montreville.
“What do you please to want, sir?” said the lady; “that is, if you have
found your tongue this morning, which you had lost yesterday.”
“I proposed myself the honour of waiting upon the young person, whom I
saw in your excellency's company yesterday morning,” answered Hartley,
with assumed respect. “I have had long the honour of being known to her
in Europe, and I desire to offer my services to her in India.”
“Much obliged--much obliged; but Miss Gray is gone out, and does not
return for one or two days. You may leave your commands with me.”
“Pardon me, madam,” replied Hartley; “but I have some reason to hope you
may be mistaken in this matter--And here comes the lady herself.”
“How is this, my dear?” said Mrs. Montreville, with unruffled front, to
Menie, as she entered; “are you not gone out for two or three days, as
I tell this gentleman?--_mais c'est egal_--it is all one thing. You will
say, How d'ye do, and good-bye, to Monsieur, who is so polite as to come
to ask after our healths, and as he sees us both very well, he will go
away home again.”
“I believe, madam,” said Miss Gray, with appearance of effort, “that I
must speak with this gentleman for a few minutes in private, if you will
permit me.”
“That is to say, get you gone? but I do not allow that--I do not like
private conversation between young man and pretty young woman; _cela
n'est pas honnete_. It cannot be in my house.”
“It may be out of it, then, madam,” answered Miss Gray, not pettishly
nor pertly, but with the utmost simplicity.--“Mr. Hartley, will you step
into that garden?--and, you, madam, may observe us from the window, if
it be the fashion of the country to watch so closely.”
As she spoke this she stepped through a lattice-door into the garden,
and with an air so simple, that she seemed as if she wished to comply
with her patroness's ideas of decorum, though they appeared strange
to her. The Queen of Sheba, notwithstanding her natural assurance, was
disconcerted by the composure of Miss Gray's manner, and left the room,
apparently in displeasure. Menie turned back to the door which opened
into the garden, and said in the same manner as before, but with less
nonchalance,--
“I am sure I would not willingly break through the rules of a foreign
country; but I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of speaking to so old a
friend,--if indeed,” she added, pausing and looking at Hartley, who was
much embarrassed, “it be as much pleasure to Mr. Hartley as it is to
me.”
“It would have been,” said Hartley, scarce knowing what he said--“it
must be a pleasure to me in every circumstance--But this extraordinary
meeting--But your father”--
Menie Gray's handkerchief was at her eyes.--“He is gone, Mr. Hartley.
After he was left unassisted, his toilsome business became too much for
him--he caught a cold which hung about him, as you know he was the
last to attend to his own complaints, till it assumed a dangerous, and,
finally, a fatal character. I distress you, Mr. Hartley, but it becomes
you well to be affected. My father loved you dearly.”
“Oh, Miss Gray!” said Hartley, “it should not have been thus with my
excellent friend at the close of his useful and virtuous life--Alas,
wherefore--the question bursts from me involuntarily--wherefore could
you not have complied with his wishes?--wherefore”--
“Do not ask me,” said she, stopping the question which was on his lips;
“we are not the formers of our own destiny. It is painful to talk on
such a subject; but for once, and for ever, let me tell you that I
should have done Mr. Hartley wrong, if, even to secure his assistance to
my father, I had accepted his hand, while my wayward affections did not
accompany the act.”
“But wherefore do I see you here, Menie?--Forgive me, Miss Gray, my
tongue as well as my heart turns back to long-forgotten scenes--But why
here?--why with this woman?”
“She is not, indeed, every thing that I expected,” answered Menie;
“but I must not be prejudiced by foreign manners, after the step I have
taken--She is, besides, attentive, and generous in her way, and I
shall soon”--she paused a moment, and then added, “be under better
protection.”
“That of Richard Middlemas?” said Hartley with a faltering voice.
“I ought not, perhaps, to answer the question,” said Menie; “but I am
a bad dissembler, and those whom I trust, I trust entirely. You have
guessed right, Mr. Hartley,” she added,--colouring a good deal, “I have
come hither to unite my fate to that of your old comrade.”
“It is, then, just as I feared!” exclaimed Hartley.
“And why should Mr. Hartley fear?” said Menie Gray. “I used to think you
too generous--surely the quarrel which occurred long since ought not to
perpetuate suspicion and resentment.”
“At least, if the feeling of resentment remained in my own bosom,
it would be the last I should intrude upon you, Miss Gray,”
answered Hartley. “But it is for you, and for you alone, that I am
watchful.--This person--this gentleman whom you mean to intrust with
your happiness--do you know where he is--and in what service?”
“I know both, more distinctly perhaps than Mr. Hartley can do. Mr.
Middlemas has erred greatly, and has been severely punished. But it was
not in the time of his exile and sorrow, that she who has plighted her
faith to him should, with the flattering world, turn her back upon him.
Besides, you have, doubtless, not heard of his hopes of being restored
to his country and his rank?”
“I have,” answered Hartley, thrown off his guard; “but I see not how he
can deserve it, otherwise than by becoming a traitor to his new master,
and thus rendering himself even more unworthy of confidence than I hold
him to be at this moment.”
“It is well that he hears you not,” answered Menie Gray, resenting, with
natural feeling, the imputation on her lover. Then instantly softening
her tone she added, “My voice ought not to aggravate, but to soothe
your quarrel. Mr. Hartley, I plight my word to you that you do Richard
wrong.”
She said these words with affected calmness, suppressing all appearance
of that displeasure, of which she was evidently sensible, upon this
depreciation of a beloved object.
Hartley compelled himself to answer in the same strain.
“Miss Gray,” he said, “your actions and motives will always be those of
an angel; but let me entreat you to view this most important matter with
the eyes of worldly wisdom and prudence. Have you well weighed the risks
attending the course which you are taking in favour of a man, who,--nay,
I will not again offend you--who may, I hope, deserve your favour?”
“When I wished to see you in this manner, Mr. Hartley, and declined
a communication in public, where we could have had less freedom of
conversation, it was with the view of telling you every thing. Some
pain I thought old recollections might give, but I trusted it would be
momentary; and, as I desire to retain your friendship, it is proper
I should show that I still deserve it. I must then first tell you my
situation after my father's death. In the world's opinion we were
always poor, you know; but in the proper sense I had not known what real
poverty was, until I was placed in dependence upon a distant relation of
my poor father, who made our relationship a reason for casting upon me
all the drudgery of her household, while she would not allow that it
gave me a claim to countenance, kindness, or anything but the relief
of my most pressing wants. In these circumstances I received from
Mr. Middlemas a letter, in which he related his fatal duel, and its
consequences. He had not dared to write to me to share his misery--Now,
when he was in a lucrative situation, under the patronage of a powerful
prince, whose wisdom knew how to prize and protect such Europeans as
entered his service--now, when he had every prospect of rendering our
government such essential service by his interest with Hyder Ali, and
might eventually nourish hopes of being permitted to return and stand
his trial for the death of his commanding officer--now, he pressed me
to come to India, and share his reviving fortunes, by accomplishing the
engagement into which we had long ago entered. A considerable sum
of money accompanied this letter. Mrs. Duffer was, pointed out as
a respectable woman, who would protect me during the passage. Mrs.
Montreville, a lady of rank, having large possessions and high interest
in the Mysore, would receive me on my arrival at Fort St. George, and
conduct me safely to the dominions of Hyder. It was farther recommended,
that, considering the peculiar situation of Mr. Middlemas, his name
should be concealed in the transaction, and that the ostensible cause of
my voyage should be to fill an office in that lady's family--What was
I to do?--My duty to my poor father was ended, and my other friends
considered the proposal as too advantageous to be rejected. The
references given, the sum of money lodged, were considered as putting
all scruples out of the question, and my immediate protectress and
kinswoman was so earnest that I should accept of the offer made me, as
to intimate that she would not encourage me to stand in my own light, by
continuing to give me shelter and food, (she gave me little more,) if I
was foolish enough to refuse compliance.”
“Sordid wretch!” said Hartley, “how little did she deserve such a
charge!”
“Let me speak a proud word, Mr. Hartley, and then you will not perhaps
blame my relations so much. All their persuasions, and even their
threats, would have failed in inducing me to take a step, which has an
appearance, at least, to which I found it difficult to reconcile myself.
But I had loved Middlemas--I love him still--why should I deny it?--and
I have not hesitated to trust him. Had it not been for the small
still voice which reminded me of my engagements, I had maintained
more stubbornly the pride of womanhood, and, as you would perhaps have
recommended, I might have expected, at least, that my lover should have
come to Britain in person, and might have had the vanity to think,”
she added, smiling faintly, “that if I were worth having, I was worth
fetching.”
“Yet now--even now,” answered Hartley, “be just to yourself while you
are generous to your lover.--Nay, do not look angrily, but hear me.
I doubt the propriety of your being under the charge of this unsexed
woman, who can no longer be termed a European. I have interest enough
with females of the highest rank in the settlement--this climate is that
of generosity and hospitality--there is not one of them, who, knowing
your character and history, will not desire to have you in her society,
and under her protection, until your lover shall be able to vindicate
his title to your hand in the face of the world.--I myself will be no
cause of suspicion to him, or of inconvenience to you, Menie. Let me but
have your consent to the arrangement I propose, and the same moment
that sees you under honourable and unsuspected protection, I will
leave Madras, not to return till your destiny is in one way or other
permanently fixed.”
“No, Hartley,” said Miss Gray. “It may, it must be, friendly in you thus
to advise me; but it would be most base in me to advance my own affairs
at the expense of your prospects. Besides, what would this be but taking
the chance of contingencies, with the view of sharing poor Middlemas's
fortunes, should they prove prosperous, and casting him off, should they
be otherwise? Tell me only, do you, of your own positive knowledge, aver
that you consider this woman as an unworthy and unfit protectress for so
young a person as I am?”
“Of my own knowledge I can say nothing; nay, I must own, that reports
differ even concerning Mrs. Montreville's character. But surely the mere
suspicion”----
“The mere suspicion, Mr. Hartley, can have no weight with me,
considering that I can oppose to it the testimony of the man with whom I
am willing to share my future fortunes. You acknowledge the question
is but doubtful, and should not the assertion of him of whom I think so
highly decide my belief in a doubtful matter? What, indeed, must he be,
should this Madame Montreville be other than he represented her?”
“What must he be, indeed!” thought Hartley internally, but his lips
uttered not the words. He looked down in a deep reverie, and at length
started from it at the words of Miss Gray.
“It is time to remind you, Mr. Hartley, that we must needs part. God
bless and preserve you.”
“And you, dearest Menie,” exclaimed Hartley as he sunk on one knee,
and pressed to his lips the hand which she held out to him. “God
bless you!--you must deserve blessing. God protect you!--you must need
protection.--Oh, should things prove different from what you hope, send
for me instantly, and if man can aid you, Adam Hartley will!”
He placed in her hand a card containing his address. He then rushed from
the apartment. In the hall he met the lady of the mansion, who made him
a haughty reverence in token of adieu, while a native servant of the
upper class, by whom she was attended, made a low and reverential salam.
Hartley hastened from the Black Town, more satisfied than before
that some deceit was about to be practised towards Menie Gray--more
determined than ever to exert himself for her preservation; yet more
completely perplexed, when he began to consider the doubtful character
of the danger to which she might be exposed, and the scanty means of
protection which she had to oppose to it.