CHAPTER VI.

SHOWING HOW CALCUTTA FOUND FOOD FOR TALK.

Calcutta, _April ye_ 12_th._

Is my Amelia anticipating a more cheerful epistle than that with which I saddened her tender heart three days ago? Alas, my dear girl! the expectation is vain. These three days have brought your Sylvia’s affairs into such a coil that she, poor simpleton! can see no way of getting ’em straight again. But to begin at the beginning. Last Saturday, which was the day after my sudden meeting with Mr Fraser at the Gardens, I passed my time in fear and trembling, dreading lest the young gentleman should come to the house and force his way into my presence. For oh, Amelia, remember that Mrs Freyne knows nothing as yet of all my troubles. When she learns of them, I fancy I shall begin to think that until then I had no troubles at all. It seemed, however, that Mr Fraser was so much offended by my words to him the evening before that he would not condescend even to pay his respects to my papa, and I tried to assure myself that he would incommode me no more. We were engaged that night to attend Mrs Hamlin’s assembly, and very early in the evening, before I had thought of going to dress, there came a servant bringing me a chitt from Miss Hamlin to beg that I would come early. This has happened pretty often before, chiefly when Miss Hamlin has devised a new mode of dressing her hair, or has desired to consult me as to the most elegant style of making over a gown. I hurried into my fine clothes, therefore, and started off in my palanqueen at least an hour before my papa and Mrs Freyne. Mrs Hamlin met me in her varanda, and, after saluting me in what I thought a rather conscious manner, carried me to Miss Hamlin’s chamber, begging me in a whisper to do what I could to keep her niece’s spirits up. I could imagine no less than that the tailor had ruined Miss’s new gown in the making, or her iya spilt a bottle of pomatum over it; but on entering I found my friend, not weeping in her wrapper, as I had expected, but standing before the mirror in a gown of light peach-coloured satin, laced with gold at all the seams, the finest I have ever seen.

“Why, miss, a new gown!” said I, “and you’ve never showed it me.”

“It’s never been unpacked,” says she. “What does my Miss Freyne think of it?”

“’Tis fit for a queen,” said I, “or a wedding.”

“Come, miss, you’re sprightly to-night. It is my wedding-gown.”

“La, miss! Are you going to be married? When is it to be?”

“To-night,” says she, as solemn as you please.

“To-night? and you never told me? I take this very unkind in you, miss. Has Sylvia Freyne deserved it at your hands?”

“’Twas not in my power to tell you what I didn’t know myself, miss. No one knows it yet. The bridegroom himself don’t know it.”

“Dear miss, you must have got a touch of the fever,” I said, for I could no longer doubt but her intellects were disordered. “Let me help you take off that gown and assist you to bed, while someone runs for Dr Knox.”

“Dear miss,” said she, mimicking me, “your concern for my health en’t needed, I’ll assure you. I tell you solemnly that I’m to be married to-night, if the bridegroom don’t desire to shame me before all Calcutta.”

“But who’s the gentleman?” I cried.

“Mr Hurstwood, of course,” said she. Now Mr Hurstwood was the gentleman that we had seen in the gate of the Fort on our landing, and that Miss Hamlin had declared to me then and ever since to be her destined spouse, whenever I sought to discover whether her heart inclined in any particular direction, so that this fresh piece of pleasantry made me angry.

“Oh well, miss, if you choose to rally me at so solemn a moment----” said I.

“You’re like the good people that refused to believe the shepherd-lad when he cried ‘Wolf!’ miss. All I can say is that Mr Hurstwood is to have the chance of marrying me to-night. If he won’t take it, that’s his fault.”

“But there’s been no engagement of marriage between you. You was saying just now he knew nothing about it,” said I, excessively perplexed.

“Oh, pardon me, miss, I said the gentleman didn’t know the time I had fixed. To tell truth, I have been testing him. He--he pestered me so with his proposals that I accepted ’em to be rid of him, but I imposed my conditions. There was to be no public announcement, and I was to have the direction of everything, and I bade him have no hope of marrying me for at least a year.”

“Then he’s happier than you permitted him to expect, miss?”

“He made my life a burden to me with his importunities, miss. I have never had a peaceful moment but when I was in company.”

“Oh, miss,” I cried, “why try to deceive your friend any longer? There was a traitor in the camp. Your heart was on the gentleman’s side.”

“What’s all this galimatias about?” says she, but she turned her face away, and played with the lace on her sleeve. “Han’t I told you long ago that I had no heart? The worst you can say of me is that I’m marrying him to please him.”

“True, miss--and the best is that you’re marrying him to please yourself.”

“You’re a piece of impudence,” says she. “Do you realise that in an hour or so I shall be a married woman? I protest I’ll teach you your place, Miss Sylvia Freyne. To please myself, indeed!”

But I went round softly, and, lifting her chin, looked into her face. “Don’t tell me that it don’t please you, miss,” I said, “for your own countenance would give you the lie. There!” and I embraced her very heartily, “you have sought to deceive me long enough. Now tell me the whole truth.”

“Why, what can I tell you?” says she, meekly. “You know I promised the gentlemen that my wedding should be such as had never been seen in Calcutta before (and I can tell you, miss, I would not have left you still single to triumph over me for anything less), and sure it’s true, for there’s not a soul knows of it but my uncle and aunt Hamlin and the Padra, and yourself.”

“But not Mr Hurstwood, miss--truly?”

“Truly. ’Tis my final test for him, whether he’ll marry me all on a sudden, with no time to devise a new suit of clothes for the ceremony. All he knows is that he may at any moment find himself summoned to the trial.”

“But where’s the wedding to be, miss?”

“In the saloon here, of course.”

“Oh, miss, not in the church? These chamber-marriages seem to me to lack something--I don’t know what. I can understand them in the case of persons objecting to public notice, but you’ve no reason for that. I should scarce feel that I was married if ’twas not done in church.”

“The very arguments of the excellent Pamela, I vow!” Miss Hamlin had recovered her usual coolness. “Well, child, when you’re married, I’ll make it my business to see that everything be done according to your mind. I fear it’s useless my offering you a share in good Mr Bellamy’s services this evening?”

“Indeed, miss--” I said, and could not get out another word for the foolish tears that would come. Miss Hamlin did not perceive ’em at first.

“The Padra rejected the notion of taking the world by surprise for some time,” she went on, “but consented to perform the ceremony on condition that all the dancing and jollity should be over by midnight, so as not to interfere with the Sabbath. But what, miss? Have I vexed you? I hoped--no, I can’t say that I hoped--but I heard Mr Fraser was here. Han’t he set things right?”

“How can he?” I cried. “Oh, dear miss, if you can tell me anything to unravel this dreadful mystery, pray relieve my mind. Is there any plea that can acquit Mr Fraser of the most unmanly behaviour?”

“Why, if there is, it en’t for me to advance it,” says she. “Give the gentleman a hearing, miss, if you desire him to justify himself. I never thought to offer you such advice, but my heart is foolishly soft to-night, and my dear Miss Freyne seems to have taken the affair much more hardly than I had hoped. Let him speak if he will, and if he won’t, don’t waste another thought on him. Has Menotti persecuted you again of late, by the way?”

“He never ceases his importunities, miss.”

“So I thought. Well, should the fellow go so far as to address himself to your papa, refer Mr Freyne to me. I can tell him why Mrs Freyne supports Menotti’s suit, and ’tis a reason won’t commend itself to him. But now, miss, we must join the company. I look to you to support me on this trying occasion. You and Polly Dorman will be my sole bride-maids, but sure there never was a wedding with such a quantity of bride-men.”

But I catched her by the sleeve. “Oh pray, miss, tell me what this secret is that you offer me as a weapon against Mr Menotti. If it be anything that would injure my papa’s credit, or wound his heart, I would not use it--no, not though I were standing at the altar with the wretch.”

“It en’t so bad as that, though Mr Freyne will take it hard enough. Have you never wondered that your stepmother managed to play so continually without asking your papa for money, which she knows he’d refuse her?”

“I thought she was a great fortune when my papa married her.”

“Only so-so. I’ll be bound she costs Mr Freyne more than ever she brought with her. But as to her debts of honour, she borrows the money to pay ’em from Menotti. What consideration he is to receive you can guess as well as I.”

“But this has been going on a great while, miss--before we landed.”

“So it has. I hadn’t thought of that.” Miss Hamlin looked thoughtful. “But at least we can guess a portion of the consideration. The rest we may discover some day. At any rate, keep the secret carefully. It may help you yet. And now let us illumine the company with the splendour of our presence.”

But as we passed along the varanda, Miss Hamlin slipped suddenly into a small closet where Mr Hamlin keeps his boots and whips, and sat down upon a bench that stood there.

“Come, miss,” she said to me, as I looked at her in surprise, “you must be love’s messenger, and fetch me Mr Hurstwood here. He shall know of the punishment in store for him, and if he show the slightest sign of hesitation, why, he shall have his _congé_, and no one the wiser.”

I could not help smiling to myself to see Miss Hamlin giving way to the tremors and apprehensions natural to a young woman on such an occasion, and seeking to avoid the possibility of finding Mr Hurstwood backward in acceding to her wishes in the presence of the general company, but I went willingly enough to seek the happy man. There was a good few people already in the saloon, and Mrs Hamlin was looking excessively flurried and uneasy.

“My niece han’t changed her mind, miss, has she?” she asked me, eagerly.

“Oh no, madam. She is most excellently well disposed towards Mr Hurstwood.”

“I’m glad of it. The fact is, my dear miss, I felt it my duty to give the gentleman a slight hint of the happiness that might be coming his way--nothing clear, of course, but just sufficient to let him set about getting his house in order. Young creatures don’t think of that sort of thing, but Charlotte would have been fairly put about without the new table equipage and the chaise and pair of horses that I hear he has been buying. After that I should never have held up my head again if she had sent him about his business.”

The next person that stopped me was Mr Hamlin, who seemed--positively, Amelia, he did--ready to burst with the greatness of the secret. When I catched sight of him he was exciting the wonder of his guests with promising them a diversion of quite a new sort, and hinting, with many nods and winks, at the extraordinary great surprise they should shortly receive. When he saw me, breaking away from those who surrounded him--

“And how is our dear Charlotte, miss? I trust her spirits are pretty fair? Was you with her until just now? Did you ever hear of a young woman’s behaving so strangely? Why, positively, I am forbid to speak about this--this charming event until the ceremony’s over!”

Admiring the subjection to which Miss Hamlin had reduced her relations, and their efforts to release themselves from her yoke, I succeeded at last in finding Mr Hurstwood, who was standing apart from the rest of the company, and signified to him that I bore a message from Miss Hamlin. With the greatest eagerness imaginable he desired to know where he might attend me, and I led him out into the varanda, and so in at the window of the closet where Miss was sitting among her uncle’s boots. You may guess, Amelia, that I was excessively gratified to remark that the splendour of her appearance so disconcerted him that he could not utter a word (for indeed, in figure and air, she is quite the finest woman I ever saw, when she chooses to assume the dignity that sits so well upon her), but only bow, with his hand on his heart.

“Pray, sir,” says his mistress, striving hard for her old rallying tone, “do you know why I have sent for you this evening?”

“Why, madam,” he said, finding his tongue, “I’ll confess that I did experience a hope that you might be about to name the day which is to make me the happiest of men, but now that I behold you, I can but wonder at the goodness that grants me even the distant prospect of calling so lovely and majestic a creature mine.”

“I see,” said Miss Hamlin. “You are contented with your present situation then, sir, since the prospect is so distant?”

“No, indeed, madam. Endure it I must, since anything else would be so far beyond my deserts, but I defy any man to call me contented.”

“But, sir, contentment is a virtue. Sure it would be wrong in me to deprive you of so good a chance of acquiring it?”

“Ah, madam, if there was any mercy for me in your heart when you called me here, don’t do yourself such an injustice as to feign that you summoned me only to torment me.”

“Why, then, I won’t, sir. If you’ll take me to-night, you shall have me; if not, you shan’t have me at all.”

“Do you look for me to hesitate, madam? Though my mind be reeling under this unexpected happiness, it is sufficiently sound not to refuse it. Dear madam, the happiest man in India is at your feet at this moment.”

I was prodigiously relieved, since Miss Hamlin’s heart was so much set on the matter, to see that the gentleman played his part with such dexterity, neither startling her by too extravagant expressions of delight, nor wounding her punctilio by revealing the hints he had received from her aunt. And indeed, my dear, he is a most respectable person, of a high character, and polite and easy in his manners, and entirely devoted, as one may perceive, to his whimsical mistress. Not that I think Miss will find him like wax in her hands, for though he has borne so patiently with her strange notions hitherto, I can’t fancy he admires her humoursome ways, and I expect she’ll lay ’em aside of her own free-will to please him.

Well, when my pair of lovers had brought things to this happy conclusion, I hurried off to whisper to Mrs Hamlin to keep Mr Bellamy under her eye, and not suffer him to wander away into the gardens and talk politics with Mr Eyre and Mr Holwell. Dear me, Amelia! how much I was occupied with politics a day or two ago, and now I have no thought of the Soubahship, or anything but love-affairs. Next I sought out Miss Dorman, and startled her nearly out of her wits by telling her the part she was to play, though she retained sense enough to lament that she had not known of the wedding in time to put on her newest gown, and we two entered the saloon from the varanda with Miss Hamlin, Mr Hurstwood going round to the door. Advancing towards his bride as he entered, he took her hand with the finest bow imaginable, and led her up the room to Mr Bellamy, who had stationed himself beside a table. Warned by Mr Hamlin’s hints, the rest of the company perceived what was on foot, and came crowding round, all eagerness, although, thanks to the fierceness with which the good Padra glanced round on the assembly, the utmost decorum was preserved, as much as if the marriage had been performed in church. But never will I consent to a chamber-wedding when I am to be married, Amelia. The moment that Mr Bellamy ceased speaking, the tongues of the company began to wag, and almost before Mr Hurstwood had saluted his bride, she turned to the bystanders, and cried--

“Well, gentlemen, was I not right when I promised you such a wedding as was never seen in Calcutta before?”

“Why yes, madam,” said some one. ’Twas the vile Menotti. “But saving your presence, your promise en’t all fulfilled yet. We were assured that Calcutta was to be drove to desperation by beholding both its charmers wedded at one time, but Miss Freyne don’t seem in any hurry to carry out her part of the compact. Sure we ought not to leave this charming spectacle uncompleted. Sooner than that, I would put myself forward as the needed bridegroom.”

The horrible assurance of the man took me so entirely by surprise that I could only stare stupidly at him, but Mr Ranger was obliging enough to call out--

“Not so fast, sir! Who talks of a needed bridegroom when there en’t a man in the room but would be proud to stand up with Miss Freyne before the Padra? If it be the lady’s pleasure to end this surprising business in a manner still more surprising, let us draw lots for the honour of becoming her spouse, and so give every gentleman a fair chance.”

My dear, I was dazed with horror. It seemed to me that in a minute or two I should find myself married to some chance bridegroom, without having a word or a will in the matter. Of course, now that I can think over it quietly, I know that Mr Bellamy would never have consented to such a course, even had my papa not been within call, but at the moment I stood staring like a fool, unable to utter a word. It was the bride who ran forward and tore from Mr Ranger’s hand the piece of paper on which he was beginning to write down the gentlemen’s names.

“I admire your assurance, gentlemen!” she cried. “Is it possible that you’ve all missed the finest point in the surprise I designed for you? En’t there a solitary man that remembers a lady is privileged to change her mind? Have I permitted you all the honour of waiting upon me for six months, and yet not one of you perceives that when I say I’ll wait to marry until my Miss Freyne does, ’tis only a device to steal a march upon her? Oh, I have no patience with you! No, you’ll have no second wedding to-night, trust me. I don’t doubt but Miss Freyne will astonish you all another day, for she’s a most ingenious young lady, but when she does, she won’t permit you the honour of attempting to surprise her first.”

Thus was your poor trembling Sylvia saved, for the gentlemen all laughed prodigiously, saying they had feared lest Mrs Hurstwood should be in league with Mr Menotti, and they did not intend him to anticipate them in a matter which was now doubly near their hearts since Mr Hurstwood had carried off my only rival. But in such a state of apprehension was the simpleton who now writes to you, that she was forced to sit down on a couch, and suffer herself to be fanned by Captain Colquhoun, who finds himself perpetually in debt for new fans to the ladies for whom he performs this service, since he does it with all the lightness and grace of a blacksmith hammering on an anvil, though with the best will in the world. ’Twas not at first that I saw his cousin was standing behind him, close behind the couch to which I had retreated, but then I remembered that in the moment of silence after Mr Menotti’s speaking I had heard some one draw a sword, which some one else had thrust back into its scabbard. How I knew that it was Mr Fraser who had drawn his sword, and Captain Colquhoun that had forced him to put it up, I can’t tell, for I durst not look at either of them, but I was certain of it, and the sick terror which had seized me gripped me tighter still all the time that the gentlemen of the company were occupied in saluting the bride, and the bridegroom the ladies present. After that I had to rise, for it was time for the dancing to begin, and I could not be too thankful that my partner was Captain Colquhoun, who with Mr Holwell were to act as bride-men to us two poor maids, even though the good man is a vile dancer, and though he found himself obliged for very shame to crush the broken remnants of my fan into his pocket and promise to bring me a new one in a day or two.

And now comes the most mortifying event of this dreadful evening. Oh, my dearest Amelia, if Providence should never see fit to place you in the high situation which my dearest girl’s beauty and merits would so charmingly adorn, let me beg of you not to repine; for sure it’s a terrible thing to find oneself a toast. Your talents, my dear, would questionless enable you to manage better than I, but you know what a sad bungler I am by nature, and the trials of the evening had made of me an actual idiot. Well, we went through the minuet decorously enough (though if my partner and I, he so stiff and I so much alarmed, did not move the room to laughter, it must have been that the company had other things to think of), and we ladies retired to change our dresses for the country-dances. And here I may say that I wondered the less at Miss Hamlin’s strange fancy for forbidding her uncle and aunt to speak of her approaching marriage, when I heard the free talk in which Mr Hamlin was indulging with his guests. This gentleman’s jests are not like my good papa’s, which could never bring a blush to any the most modest cheek, and Mrs Hamlin’s talk with the married ladies was no less disagreeable, although there was no jest in it, but the most solemn earnest, indeed. Sure, my dear, this habit of free conversation is a dreadful evil, and I could wish that some of our moralists would direct their attention to it. Indeed, I am not sure that if I were in England I would not write under a feigned name to the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ in order that some more powerful pen might be inspired to treat the subject, as was done forty years back in the ‘Spectator.’ But to our country-dances. I have told you, my dear, what difficulties a lady here lies under if she wish to satisfy all the gentlemen who ask her to dance, but I’m not certain whether I mentioned that to grant a second dance to one gentleman is a proof of such high favour on her part that the happy man pretty frequently finds himself with several duels on his hands, for which reason this favour is never granted by any one that prides herself on her discretion.

Well, we had danced a long time, and I had snatched a moment’s rest, deaf to the entreaties of the gentlemen that crowded round me. When at length I owned myself refreshed, every one desired to be my next partner. Among them was Mr Fraser, whom I refused with some sharpness, having danced with him already when Captain Colquhoun presented him to me. Next came Mr Menotti, with whom I was determined not to dance, for if a poor creature may not protect herself in the way she dispenses her favours, who shall help her? but not to appear too particular, I turned my head before he could speak to me, intending to satisfy the importunities of Ensign Bellamy, who I thought was at my elbow. He had been separated from me in the crush, however, and giving him my hand, as I imagined, what was my mortification to find that I had chosen Lieutenant Bentinck, to whom I had given a dance before. It was too late to tell him that I had thought him to be some one else when he had led me out, though if I could properly have done so I would, such _puppy_ airs did the creature put on when he found himself, as he believed, so highly distinguished. My Amelia may be sure that I did not make this mistake a second time, though my mind was so busy and confused that I almost wonder I did not, for I was persuaded that Mr Fraser would resent my contemptuous usage of him (as it must appear), and all the rest of the evening I was apprehensive lest he should assail me with reproaches in public. This he had the grace not to do (I’ll assure my dear girl that I was properly grateful for his forbearance, since I had no expectation of it), but just before midnight, when we were all waiting in the varanda to attend the bride and bridegroom home, I heard a voice behind me, very cold and haughty.

“May I presume, madam, to ask the reason of the public affront you was pleased to put upon me just now?”

“Indeed, sir, I had no design to affront you. It en’t the custom here for a lady to grant more than one dance to the same gentleman.”

“And therefore, madam, you took pains to show special favour to the modest and highly obliged person whom you preferred to honour with your hand?”

“There was no preference in the matter, sir. I had intended to dance with Mr Bellamy, and found Mr Bentinck at my elbow instead. I hope you’ll believe that no slight was intended you, as should be proved by my offering you this explication, which you had no right to demand.”

“No right, madam, when a man believes himself publicly insulted? Sure it had gone hard with Mr Fopling Bentinck if the explication had not been granted.”

“I did not look for such a piece of unpoliteness from you, sir, as an attempt to bluster a lady into compliance with your unreasonable demands.”

“Unreasonable, madam? Are you seeking to drive me into fighting the fool? I’ll assure you that I had picked a quarrel with him in the dance itself if I hadn’t feared to disoblige you. But perhaps you’re one of those ladies that love to know that swords are drawn and blood shed for their sakes?”

“Now, sir, you’re insulting me. If you pick a quarrel with Mr Bentinck, rest assured that you have spoken for the last time with Sylvia Freyne.”

“But indeed, madam, you han’t permitted me to speak with you at all as it is. If I obey you in this, may I wait upon you on Monday in the morning?”

“As you please, sir,” said I, very carelessly, though I could have bit my tongue out with vexation to think of the way he had catched me, and turned away.

“Where’s my Miss Freyne and my scarf?” cried the bride, coming to the door, followed by the rest of the company, who had been making her their final compliments; and remembering my duty, I went to take the scarf from Miss Dorman and throw it round Mrs Hurstwood’s shoulders.

“I shall see you in church to-morrow, miss?” I said, forgetting the changes of the day until I saw every one laughing at my mistake.

“Why, I hope so,” said she; “but pray understand, miss, that a married woman en’t to be browbeaten by you. You may call me Charlotte, if you choose, but don’t otherwise try to put me off with less than madam.”

She tripped laughing down the steps to her palanqueen, followed by the bridegroom, and attended by the whole company in their own equipages. I can assure you, my dear, that I was glad Mr Hurstwood’s house lay on our road home, for otherwise I think there would have been little rest for us that night. As it was, Sunday was well begun when I got to bed, only to dream over again with added discomfort the strange events of the evening.

My Amelia will guess with what joy I welcomed the Sabbath, as a pleasing respite from those cares which have agitated my mind of late. There was little at first to mark it from the former Sundays I have spent here, although it startled me at first to see my Charlotte (I must call her so, I suppose) curtseying to me from Mr Hurstwood’s pew instead of her uncle’s, and to observe that she was wearing the pink gown worked with gold flowers of which she had spoken to Mr Fraser on that night of our voyage when, with a kindness that seemed cruel at the time, she opened my eyes to see whither I was drifting. Her place in Mr Hamlin’s pew was filled by Mr Fraser himself, and I wondered to see him there, since I had determined the night before that the mysterious Araminta who has caused me so much uneasiness could be no other than my fellow-bridemaid, Miss Dorman. Not, indeed, that I had observed Mr Fraser to be much engaged with her, but that Miss is almost the only young person of our sex unmarried in Calcutta. There he sat, however, and I was pleased to notice that he did not put himself forward to hand me into church before service, but only bowed genteelly, and without too great particularity, from his place as I entered. I was thankful indeed for the high walls of the pew during the sermon, for Mr Mapletoft, the junior chaplain, who preached it, thought fit to address us on the duties of the married state, with special reference to the event of the night before, as though he believed that the good Mr Bellamy had let slip his opportunity at the time, and I think I should have died of shame if those who knew how nearly I had been married myself had been able to see me.

It may be, however, that my timidity was unnecessary, for on coming out of church it seemed that every one had other matters to think of. Some one declared that Mr President had received letters from Muxadavad, and there was much talk on the subject, though no one could tell what they contained. ’Twas only to be expected, therefore, that the elder gentlemen should appear occupied and somewhat gloomy, but I was surprised to see that the younger, whom I have never known before to pretend any knowledge of public affairs or concern with them, seemed to be fully as much taken up. There was about them an air of mystery, and a strange absence of that rallying humour which generally distinguishes them, and which was replaced by an affectation of meeting one another with dignity, even with distance. Not that this involved any want of ceremony towards myself, for they were all even more than usually forward to offer me civility, but ’twas all done with so precise and particular an air that I could almost have found it in my heart to be alarmed, had it not been for assuring myself that the young fellows were ashamed of the freedom with which they had treated my name last night, and desired to display their penitence to me. Even Ensign Bellamy, who had taken no part in my mortification, seemed afraid to trust himself near me, and only approached in order to present to me a newcomer in the place, to wit, a young French gentleman of the name of Mons. le Beaume, who was until lately an officer at the factory of Chandernagore, belonging to that nation, but has quitted it on a point of honour, and chosen to throw in his lot with us. This gentleman had much to say of the felicity he experienced in being presented to the loveliest lady in Calcutta (so the foolish, flattering fellow phrased it, my dear), and would have had me believe that ’twas the report of my charms which had drawn him from Chandernagore hither. To this extravagant speech I returned a suitable reply, not ridiculing his words, but allowing him to see that I penetrated their excessive homage, and knew it merely for politeness, and was passing on, when I heard him cry out--

“Ah, sir, do I meet you here? What pleasure, to find in a strange place a gentleman whose face is so familiar to me.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Mr Menotti (he was in my train, of course, the wretch!), very stiffly; “I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”

“A thousand pardons!” cried the Frenchman. “But--but surely I have seen you at Chandernagore, in the company of our _directeur_?”

“Indeed, sir, when I have visited Chandernagore (which is very rarely) I han’t pretended to such high company as Mons. Renault’s, I’ll assure you.”

“Pray pardon me, sir. My eyes have played me false,” says Mr le Beaume, and the matter dropped. I don’t know why I have set it down, save that I am always longing for anything to happen that might relieve me from Menotti’s pursuit, and that for the moment I was so uncharitable as to hope he might be proved to have been in correspondence with our natural enemies.

In the course of the afternoon we heard something of the letters from Muxadavad which had caused such a commotion, for Captain Colquhoun looked in to tell Mr Freyne that they contained no confirmation of the death of the Soubah, mentioning only his great weakness. The communication was a private one from Mr Watts to the President, but it had got abroad that he warned Mr Drake very solemnly of the unfriendliness shown towards the factory at the Court of the Nabob, where all the talk concerned only the weakness of the defences of Calcutta, and the ease with which even a small army might overcome ’em. More than this, Mr Watts declared that our town is filled with the spies of Surajah Dowlah, and that every word and motion of ours is reported at Muxadavad. He recommended Mr Drake very earnestly to make search for these persons and turn them out of our bounds, and counselled him also to get rid of the Gentoo Kissendasseat and his family, who have remained in Calcutta on one pretext or another for a whole month, and whose sheltering has given great umbrage to the Chuta Nabob. But the effect of this excellent advice the good man spoiled by mentioning that the opinion at Muxadavad seemed to be favourable to the claims of Gosseta Begum to the throne rather than those of Surajah Dowlah; for this has strengthened the Council in their resolution to wait and see what happens before taking any steps.

This news gave us a troubled Sunday, as my Amelia will readily believe; but at least we enjoyed an interval of rest from our private woes, which were to burst upon us this morning with greater violence than ever before. Surely, Amelia, I must be either a very guilty or a very unfortunate creature, for not only am I in perpetual tribulation myself, but I bring trouble upon all connected with me. I was at work with my pen and ink in the varanda after breakfast, copying to the best of my power a fine print in one of the books Mr Bellamy had lent me, when I heard at the gate the boisterous cry of “Tok! Tok!” by which the bearers of a palanqueen announce their approach. My first impulse was to fly to my chamber, for the only likely visitor I could think of was Mr Fraser; but remembering that he had not been long enough in Calcutta to insist on riding such short distances, I waited where I was, and presently ran to assist Mrs Hamlin out of her machine.

“Then it en’t true!” she said, looking at me as if in surprise.

“What en’t true, madam?” I asked her.

“I’ll tell you, miss.” She mounted the steps and sank upon a couch, unpinning her cap-strings and panting. “They said you was gone off with Mr Bentinck.”

“Me, madam?” I stared at her. “With Mr Bentinck?”

“They did indeed, miss. Of course I contradicted it at once. ‘Miss is much too dutiful and well brought up a young woman to do anything of the sort,’ I told ’em; ‘and with such a dear good papa, too, that would indulge her in anything she set her heart on, where would be the use of it?’ But the duel and all that has given such an occasion for talk that you can’t be surprised at ’em.”

“Dear madam, you torture me!” I cried, all manner of horrors tumbling over one another in their haste to rush into my mind. “Who has fought a duel, and what was the reason of it, and what have I to do with it?”

“Why, miss, ’twas Lieutenant Bentinck and the sea officer, Captain Colquhoun’s cousin, who came out with us.” I gasped. “Dear me, you do look badly! Sit down, my dear miss. ’Twas my nephew Grayson that told me about it, but not hearing the quarrel itself, he could only say what others had told him, and you shall hear it just as he related it.”

“But the Lieutenant, madam?” I cried in an agony. “Was any one hurt?”

“Which Lieutenant, child? They were both of ’em hurt, though not more than enough to be a lesson to them in the future; but no one was killed, which is better than they deserved. It began on Saturday night--and sorry I am that my niece Hurstwood’s wedding should have such an ending--as the young gentlemen went back to their quarters. They left Mr Menotti at his house on their way to the Fort, and it was as they were bidding him good-night that the quarrel occurred. How it began I don’t know, but ’twas in some dispute between Mr Bentinck and Mr Fraser about you. My nephew was told by one person who was there that ’twas because Mr Fraser had heard you promising to run off with Mr Bentinck, and declared he had a better right to you; but some one else said that Mr Bentinck was boasting of the favour you had shown him that night, and saying he had but to hold up his finger and you would marry him, for you had always rolled your eyes at him when he visited at your papa’s house, and shown him by smiles and signs and tricks that you wasn’t indifferent to him----”

(“Rolled my eyes at him!” What a horrid vulgar phrase, Amelia! Smiles and tricks, indeed! Oh, the base slandering coxcomb! Was ever a poor creature so served by a man that called himself a gentleman?)

“But the duel, madam? the duel?”

“Why, miss, Mr Fraser contradicted t’other gentleman vastly warmly, so this second person said, and swords were drawn there and then. But Mr Menotti and Mr Fisherton and some others persuaded the two gentlemen of the impolicy of fighting at night and in a public place, and it was resolved to decide the matter at dawn this morning, and at the usual spot, the entire affair being kept a secret from Calcutta. For a set of feather-headed young fellows, they kept their secret well, I will say that for ’em; and Mr Fraser and Mr Bentinck met this morning under the trees by the race-course. They fought with swords, and while Mr Bentinck was run through the leg, Mr Fraser escaped with a scratch on his arm. It was understood, said my nephew Grayson, that Mr Bentinck withdrew in the most genteel manner whatever pretensions or remarks he had advanced; but not knowing for certain what these were, he could not be sure.”

“For this at least I may be thankful, that the false accuser was confounded,” I cried; “dreadful as were the means by which his vile slanders were exposed.”

“La, my dear miss! you are too nice,” says Mrs Hamlin. “Sure you think too much of the little innocent freedoms which were all that the poor Captain imputed to you, according to the less alarming account. There’s nothing so vastly shocking in a young lady’s permitting a gentleman to guess that she returns his sentiments, if it go no further than that.”

“But I don’t return Mr Bentinck’s sentiments, madam!” I cried. “He don’t cherish any sentiments towards me, that I know of, so how could I return ’em, even with the best will in the world, which I’m sure is wanting in me?”

“Pray, don’t be so warm about it, miss. Sure no one will ever impute to a young lady of your delicacy more than an easy frankness, whose very innocence may render her liable to be misunderstood. Of course ’tis always a pity for a young woman to get herself talked about, and it might have been better that you was married before this, but it can’t be helped, and you have in me, I’ll assure you, a friend always ready to put the best construction on all you do.”

What could I say, Amelia? A pretty friend, indeed, this good lady had proved herself, if I was right in discovering something of disappointment in her air when she found I was not run away; and as for her kind interpretation of my actions, what had she just done but charge me with the most culpable levity, and with allowing such freedoms as I have always believed to be quite incompatible with modesty? To tell her that I had never spoken with Lieutenant Bentinck but in a general company, and that I was as far from desiring to exchange signals of intelligence with him as he with me, would be of no avail, since she had made up her mind on the matter, and I attempted nothing more than to entreat her, as I waited on her to her palanqueen, to contradict any report she might hear of any partiality I had for him. In answer, she assured me that she was all discretion, and that I should find her constantly active in silencing any talk to my disadvantage, and so rode away, nodding and smiling at me as though we had established an understanding together. I know my dear friend would have pitied her unhappy Sylvia could she have seen me as I returned to the varanda. I tried to compose myself again to my work, but my hands were hot and cold by turns, and shook as if I was in an ague-fit, while the pen slipped about all over the paper, so that I could not draw a straight line.

“Sure the plague’s in the thing!” I cried at last, speaking very loud and bold, as though to give myself courage; “or perhaps I have catched a fever. I have felt vapourish once or twice of late.”

I rose to go to my chamber and fetch some hartshorn, but glancing out towards the gate I saw Mr Fraser entering. I can’t tell you what a state the sight of him threw me into. My limbs trembled so frightfully that I had to sit down again, and pulling my drawing towards me I began to work so hard at it that in two minutes I had spoiled the work of weeks, while all the time my heart was beating as though it would jump up into my throat and choke me. I durst not run away even if I had been able, but I know I wished that the roof of the varanda might fall and cover me. I think I must have fallen into a fit if it had not been for a mischance that happened to Mr Fraser as he entered, announced by the banyan. Coming out of the sunlight into the shade of the varanda, and groping his way, I suppose, towards me (for I could not advance a step towards him, holding one hand on my heart to still its tumultuous beating, and supporting myself by a pillar with the other); as he approached, I say, this white figure in the distance, he was so unfortunate as to strike against my table, and down it went, the ink pouring over my drawing and on the floor. I could have found it in my heart at any other time to pity the poor young gentleman for making such an entry, but now I could only be thankful for the interruption caused by calling in the servants to wipe up the mess, and by Mr Fraser’s apologies. But breaking off abruptly in his expressions of sorrow--

“Dear madam,” he said, “you look sadly disturbed. I fear my clumsiness has startled you more than you’ll own. Permit me to lead you to a seat.”

“I thank you, sir--no, I am quite well, believe me--I’m sadly vapourish to-day--pray, sir, excuse this sorry welcome.” Silly, stammering words, were they not, Amelia? but indeed I had so great an inclination to weep, coupled with so strong a resolve not to do so, that I could scarce speak at all.

“You’ll pardon me, madam,” says Mr Fraser, standing before me very civilly, “for forcing myself upon your retirements at such an hour, but I have no time to spare. Mr President is leaving for Ballisore this evening, and he is obliging enough to offer me a passage in his barge to that place, where I can pick up the country junk I came in from Madrass. My dearest Miss Freyne won’t think me, I hope, unmannerly in pressing for an interview with her as I did, when she knows the reason of my eagerness.”

Now, strangely enough, there was something in this speech that made me more inclined to cry than ever, so that ’twas the most fortunate thing in the world that I remembered I was very angry with Mr Fraser, and had every reason to be more angry still.

“I hope you have left Mr Bentinck at his ease, sir?” I said. He started.

“Had I known that his health was an object of interest to you, madam, I would have inquired about it more particularly than I did.”

“Why,” said I, very lightly, “when two gentlemen are so good as to make a lady’s name the subject of a public brawl, sure she has some concern with the issue?”

“Pardon me, madam; my dispute with Mr Bentinck, with which you appear to be acquainted, related to the respective merits of the King’s officers and the Company’s, as he also will tell you if you’ll ask him.”

This comforted me a little at first, but I soon shook my head.

“Ah, sir, you should have settled your subject of debate earlier, if you desired to throw dust in the eyes of Calcutta. Now ’tis too late.”

“Indeed, dear madam,” he said, very earnestly, “I’m at a loss to know how you can have experienced the uneasiness you hint at in the few hours since my meeting with Mr Bentinck; but rest assured that my sword is at your service to fight all Calcutta if any one would breathe a word to your prejudice.”

“Oh, sir, you mistake me!” I cried. “Alas that I should have to say it, your sword has done me too much harm already. Why should you, who had no reason to resent ’em, call attention to words which would never have been remarked--which would have been forgot as soon as uttered--if it had not been that your precipitancy fitted too well with the spiteful schemes of one that is ever on the watch to mortify me?”

“I vow, madam, I don’t understand you. I had no right to resent Mr Bentinck’s words, you say? Sure any gentleman is bound to resent a disparagement of the lady he esteems above all others?”

“Questionless, sir; but your Araminta is that lady.”

“But sure you’re Araminta, madam.”

I thought my ears must have deceived me, as I stared at Mr Fraser, but his countenance was so full of contrition and earnestness that I was taken aback. “I am Araminta, sir?”

“Sure, madam, you must have penetrated my expedient before? So often as you have rallied me upon the subject of Araminta--you could not be in earnest?”

“Indeed, sir, I have but sought to hold you to your duty.”

“My duty is owed to you, madam, and to no other lady.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. It seemed to me, Amelia, that some one else was speaking, and not I, the voice had so strange a sound.

“Indeed, madam--” the young gentleman had the grace to look ashamed--“I fear I must ask your kind allowance, for maybe the trick wasn’t altogether a fair one. When I had the honour of spending a considerable time in your company, in our voyage to Madrass, the constant intercourse with so much beauty and virtue produced upon my heart the effect that might have been anticipated----”

“Pray, sir, spare me your flattery,” I said, with some impatience, I fear.

“I’ll assure you, madam, I’m incapable of flattering you, even were the thing possible. But I must spin my yarn in my own style, if you please, or I will never get to the end of it. Well, madam, you must know that I became consumed with a desire to penetrate your true sentiments for me. Many and many a plot did I lay to surprise you, if possible, into some avowal that might justify me in believing that you entertained a partiality for me, but you was always at once so sprightly and so sedate, so reserved and so open, that I was in despair. Then one evening Miss Hamlin revealed the design with which you was going to Bengall--perhaps, madam, you recollect the occasion of her speaking?”

(He asked me that, Amelia, as though I could ever forget it!)

“The young lady’s words troubled me inexpressibly, madam,” he went on. “I have a cursed Scots pride about me” (yet I am well assured that Mr Fraser is proud of that pride, for all his calling it names), “that would not suffer the thought that I had been made a fool of. Such was the notion that came to me, madam, that you had been diverting yourself with my homage for the voyage, designing to throw me aside when ’twas over. But if the wound was bitter, the remedy was at hand. That very day I had been reading in ‘Amelia’ of the expedient by which Booth sought to prevent the discovery of his passion for the lady, in leading her to believe that he loved another. ‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘if my dearest Miss Freyne have any tenderness for me in her heart she must give me some hint of it now; and if my fears are truer than my hopes, yet I will come off with no apparent loss, and she without a triumph.’ The thought no sooner came to me than I acted upon it, as you, madam, know.”

“And so your punctilio was saved, sir!” I cried. “Indeed, it seems a mighty serious matter to be a Scotsman.”

“You wasn’t intending any reflection on my country, madam, I hope? But no, my dear Miss Freyne’s lips couldn’t utter such an unkindness. You know best, madam, how my scheme miscarried. Whether you did entertain any partiality for me, I won’t venture to say, but if so, you played your part with a cheerfulness and a spirit that left me no chance to discover it.”

(Hear him, Amelia, and applaud your Sylvia’s power of dissimulation!)

“In fine, madam,” he went on, “it was I who found myself perplexed, since either you had discovered my plot and resented it, or you was quite indifferent to me. This perplexity caused me so much misery that I resolved to end it, but unfortunately I waited too long. Your persistency in leading the conversation around to Araminta, whenever I sought to approach the tender subject, drove me off again and again, for I believed you was rallying me, and Miss Hamlin’s incessant watchfulness lost me other chances. Then I was called upon to quit Madrass suddenly, and, flying to your lodging on the wings of desperation, found only Miss Hamlin, who refused to bear any message for me. I entreated her to allow me to entrust a letter to her care, but she tore it up before my face, telling me that I had done my best to turn your heart, madam, against me, and that she was glad I had succeeded. I had no one else to whom to entrust a letter, and I dared not send one in the ordinary way, lest it might fall into the wrong hands, but I have watched for the chance, which appeared as though it would never arrive, of reaching your side, and when, after the taking of Gyria, the Admiral asked how he could pleasure me, I told him I would sooner carry his despatches to Calcutta than be made captain of the best ship in his fleet. And here, madam, I am, to lay my excuses before you.”

“And I’m sure, sir,” I said, rising and curtseying, “I am most grateful to you for your entertaining history. Nothing now remains, I think, but for me to bid you a very good morning.”

There! could my Amelia herself have bettered that? Oh, my dear, you never saw such a fool as the poor young gentleman looked, standing as though turned into stone. But what a plague are these feeble bodies of ours, that won’t second the heroical motions of the soul! My limbs trembled so frightfully that when I turned to reach the window leading to the saloon I had done no more than get my hand upon the _antiporta_, or curtain of reeds, before Mr Fraser was there to block my path.

“Pray, sir, let me pass,” said I, very haughtily.

“Not until I have your answer, madam. Was I right or wrong in fearing that you was indifferent to me?”

“Whatever you may once have been, sir, you have lost your right to an answer now.”

“Nevertheless, madam, I mean to have it.”

“Then you shall have it, sir.” This bold front, after such behaviour as Mr Fraser had been guilty of, made me both brave and angry. “I won’t deny there was once a time when I indulged a certain partiality for you, but that time is past. It became my duty to uproot from my heart any tenderness that might have found a lodging there for the humble servant of another lady, and if I had not done so, can you believe that your confession that the story was all a trick, designed to save your own punctilio from an imagined slight, is a likely passport to my favour? Sooner than expose yourself to the risk of a rebuff, which you should have known me well enough to be assured I would have made as gentle as possible, you seize upon a childish expedient which don’t prove able even to satisfy yourself. You force me unconsciously to deceive my dear good papa, and you expose me to most injurious suspicions from my acquaintances here. And for all this you offer me no amends----”

“Except my poor self.” He laughed harshly. “You’re right, madam. The compensation en’t by no means sufficient. Would it increase its value if it was deferred? If you would be pleased to set me a term of probation, I would do my best to atone for my fault, and to recommend myself to your favour.”

“I fear, sir, that my papa would scarcely look favourably on such----”

“Probably not, madam. Have you, by the way, any objection to telling me why you have persisted in refusing, ever since you reached here, to make any of your adorers happy?”

“That, sir, is entirely my own affair.”

“Oh, pardon me, madam. From something Mrs Hurstwood let drop, I picked up the notion that it might also be mine.”

Have you ever heard anything like the assurance of the man, my dear? “Sir,” I said, “I’m not answerable for what any one else may have told you, but I should be false to my sex if I showed any favour to one that has behaved as you have done, and testified so little penitence after it. You’ll allow me to say that a more contrite and humble carriage would have become you better this morning, and indeed, Sylvia Freyne’s own constitution en’t so meek as to offer much prospect of happiness to a gentleman that can come to entreat forgiveness with so stubborn and resolved an air.”

“You’re like your sex, madam, who wish to see all men their slaves.”

He spoke angrily, and turning away, but I fancied not so resolutely as before. I watched to see whether he would turn back. If he had--if by one word or glance he had shown his sorrow--why then, Amelia, your Sylvia would have thrown reserve to the winds, in spite of all her fine words. I’m not naturally exacting, I think, my dear--I don’t desire to humiliate the poor man; but what could one hope for from a person that could make an unhappy creature suffer, as he has made me, merely to glorify his own punctilio, and utter no word of regret? I would have given the world to call after him as he went down the steps, but if he’s proud--why, so am I.

I was still leaning against the wall (I don’t know how long Mr Fraser had been gone) when my papa comes back to tiffing.

“Well, miss,” he cried, as he came up the steps, “so all Calcutta is ringing with your doings, hey? Sure two dozen, at least, of my friends have been so obliging as to tell me that you’re about to present me Lieutenant Bentinck as a son-in-law. We all hear our own news later than the rest of the world.”

“If Mr Bentinck is to be your son-in-law, sir, you must have some other daughter than me, for I en’t going to be married to him.”

“And quite right too, miss. I would cut you off with an _anna_ if you was, for making me father-in-law to a fool. But what’s happened to the young ’Squire of the Rueful Countenance that I met just now? Han’t he yet made his choice between you and t’other lady?”

“Oh, dear sir, he says there’s no one but myself,” I sobbed.

“And you’d prefer there should be some one else as well? Come, miss, I can’t have you take up with these pagan notions, though you be living among the Moors. Is the gentleman dismissed because he adores no one but you?”

“No, sir, but because he made me believe there was some one else.”

“Then, ’tis as well he’s gone, for he must be a fool too,” says Mr Freyne. “Come, cheer up, my girl, and don’t give way to these vapours. What, you want the fool back, do you? Your father’s to fetch him, I suppose, and tell him you’ll die if you don’t have him?”

“No, indeed, sir!” I cried, dashing away my tears. “I--I hate him!”

“Why, then you shan’t have him, miss,” says my papa.