Chapter III · IN WHICH MISS FREYNE ENTERS CALCUTTA, BUT NOT IN TRIUMPH.

Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, Hoogly River, Sept. ye 2nd.

Awaking from a troubled sleep on the morning after the shock I have described to you, Amelia, it seemed to me at first that ’twould be well to plead indisposition, and remain below, thus avoiding the performance of the hard task Mr Fraser had laid upon me. But I feared lest he should believe my illness caused by anything he had said, and rose determined to preserve my punctilio jealously, and carry the matter off with a bold face.

“You’re rightly punished, miss,” said I to myself, as I combed my hair. “You have pleased yourself imagining that the gentleman sought your company for your own sake, and now you find that he regarded you but as in some sort a picture of his Araminta. You was a silly creature to be so taken in, and I hope you’ll be wiser in the future. Pray, miss,” I said to Miss Hamlin, who was watching me from her shelf, “what have you done with my book?”

“Why, miss, I didn’t know ’twas yours. I took it up to look at, and finding it prodigiously dull, carried it back to Mr Fraser. I’m sure I thought it was his.”

“Oh, that’s quite right,” said I, but I made up my mind to ask the Lieutenant for the book again. This I did later in the day, but he met me with so many excuses that I was tired at last. It seemed as though every gentleman on board of the vessel had been promised to read ‘Amelia’ before I might so much as see it again.

“Indeed, sir,” I said to Mr Fraser, before retiring to the ladies’ cabin that night, “I should be failing in my duty to the lovely Araminta if I put up with this discourtesy any longer. I don’t care what you say to the gentlemen, but if you can’t place the book at my service in the morning you’ll please be good enough to keep out of my sight,” and I refused to hear a word from him.

“Well, sir, where’s the book?” I asked my disobliging cavalier in the morning.

He seemed distressed. “Alas, madam——” he began.

“No more, sir,” said I. “If my wishes—say rather those of your Araminta—have so little weight with you, they shall by all means cease to be imposed upon you.”

“Indeed, madam, you wrong me. I had recovered the book from the person to whom I lent it, but while the decks were being washed before the ladies were risen, I happened to be skylarking, as we call it on board ship, with Mr Ranger, and the first volume, as it chanced, fell overboard and sunk. The others are at your service.”

“And all the gentlemen to whom it was promised?”

“Why, madam, I fear they must bear the loss.”

“Sir, you threw that book overboard of set purpose, knowing that I wished to read it.”

“I am not saying you are wrong, madam.”

“Do you venture to confess that you desired to disoblige me, sir?”

“Well, no, madam, I was seeking to oblige myself.”

“Then you desired I should not see that part of the book? I vow, sir, your assurance is prodigious! Pray, who bid you direct my reading?”

“Indeed, dear madam, I would not presume so far.”

“You have presumed too far already, sir. No, pray leave me alone. I don’t desire your company.”

“Ah, madam, if you knew how that majestic air recalls my Araminta to me!”

I started as if I had been stung. Araminta had been forgotten, but now I recollected my determination. If I persisted in banishing the Lieutenant, he would questionless (these men have so horridly high a conceit of themselves) have imagined that I was moved by pique owing to the announcement of the night before.

“Have you anything to urge in your defence, sir?”

“Nothing, madam. It was the impulse of a mad moment, and I acted upon it. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.”

“Do you desire to offer any promise of amendment, sir?”

“Questionless, madam. The crime won’t be repeated (unless upon the same provocation), and if there be a copy of the book in India, I’ll hope to lay it at your feet in due time.”

“When your purpose has been served, sir?”

“Pray, madam, don’t try to drive me into confessing the deed to have been premeditated. A prisoner can’t be forced to criminate himself.”

And in this foolish posture I was constrained to leave the matter. But I desire to charge my Amelia to procure the book, and to read it carefully, as she values her Sylvia’s friendship, and to tell her what there is in it that could have any bearing upon the present complexion of affairs. True, this relief can’t reach me for fifteen, perhaps even eighteen months, but at least I shall know it to be on the way, and some means may offer to make use of it. This gentleman appears to me to be what they call a wag; I would have him see for once how it feels to have a joke played on himself.

I have little more to tell you about the voyage, Amelia. My very fear lest Mr Fraser should suspect any change in me if I altered my carriage towards him forced me to continue in the old ways, so that by times I even forgot what had happened, but only to awake again to the bitter remembrance. I can’t tell why it should be so disagreeable to me to do those things in the character, so to speak, of Araminta, which I had had no thought of doing for any advantage of my own, but so it was, though I’ll confess that my pupil was an apt one. You must not imagine that in advancing his conversation (as Sir R. Steele phrases it in the ‘Guardian’) I was in the habit of pointing out Mr Fraser’s faults in any vulgar or scolding manner. When I observed any awkwardness in his address, I would get out the ‘Spectator’ from my trunk, and request my scholar to be so good as to read a certain number aloud for the entertainment of the ladies. In this way he learned to see what was wrong and to correct it, and I never found it necessary to repeat the lesson. Whether he learned to expect a covert reproof whenever he saw me bring out the ‘Spectator’ I don’t know, but at least the plan was successful. Sometimes I fancied that he was a good deal diverted by my care of him, but between my own discomfort and my fear of his penetration I had no time to think of that. It seemed to me, however, that as we neared Madrass his air became noticeably more serious, and that he appeared to desire to say something to me, which yet he could not compass. I had it in my head that he was determined to reveal to me the real name of his Araminta, and to bespeak my friendship for her, and I must confess I did my best to avoid the disclosure, for indeed, my dear Miss Turnor, I have no curiosity to know who the lady is. But as we sat on the poop-steps the night before reaching Madrass, I felt a sudden impulse to say—

“I hope, sir, that the amiable Araminta won’t despise the result of my efforts when she beholds you again. Pray contrive some means of letting me know whether she observe any change in you.”

“Indeed, madam, if I am so happy as to reach Calcutta, you’ll hear all that I can tell you of myself.”

“Oh, pardon me, sir. That privilege belongs to your Araminta. I desire but to hear the lady’s opinion, if she’ll be so good as to permit you to acquaint me of it.”

I could not hear what Mr Fraser said, but I believed that he cursed Araminta under his breath, and this made me vastly angry. Was it not enough that the fellow should break my—I mean, should pester me for so long about his Araminta, that he should suddenly turn traitor to her name?

“Oh, sir, I fear you’re unworthy of the lady’s regard. Perhaps you’ll permit me to observe, without swearing at me, that whether she have remained constant to you or not, she surely merits your highest respect.”

“Madam, I protest you’re right. Whether she be mine or not, my charmer will always be as far above me as an angel. But, madam, I——”

“Pray, sir and madam, why this heat?” says Miss Hamlin. “En’t the weather hot enough for you? Here have Mr Ranger and I felt constrained to cross the deck to prevent your falling to blows.”

“Sure I saw no danger of that, miss,” said I.

“Who should expect you to, miss? You’re too close to the thunderstorm to perceive its force. But pray continue your quarrelling. Mr Ranger and I will see fair, and rescue you if it be needful.”

“Oh, madam,” says Mr Ranger, “Miss Freyne is too nice to quarrel in a public place.”

“Pray, sir, what do you know of Miss Freyne? En’t you aware that she writes down all the events of every day to send to her dear friend in England? You see we are all living in public, so to speak, so that none of us need be squeamish about quarrelling before others. Look you there now, how dainty a chronicle must that be which the admirable Miss Turnor receives from her adored Sylvia—all the scandal of the ship set down in the finest hand imaginable!”

“I’ll thank you, miss, not to make so free with my name,” said I.

“So your name is Sylvia, madam?” says Mr Fraser.

“And what if it be, sir?” cried Miss Hamlin. “Han’t you just heard Miss Freyne rebuke me for taking the sacred word on my lips? Pray understand that it en’t for you and me to take liberties with the lady’s Christian name.”

She appeared so much offended by my hasty remark that I forbore to ask her pardon, in the hope that she and her humble servant would leave us again; but this they refused to do, so that I could never discover what it was that Mr Fraser had been about to say to me. The next day we entered the Madrass Road, and found several great ships lying at anchor, which when Mr Fraser saw, “Here’s the fleet, then!” he cried; but I thought his voice was not altogether joyful. Yet I could not be sure of this, for he began at once to be very busy in pointing out to us which was his own ship, the Tyger, and which was the Kent, on which Admiral Watson wore his flag, and so on. Then when we came to an anchor, he went below to change his dress, saying that he must go on board at once to report himself, and so left our vessel, making a very fine figure in a blue uniform faced with white. He returned about an hour later, when we were all in a bustle with making ready to go on shore, and had but time to tell us that both Captain Latham and the Admiral had received him very kindly, promising to restore him to his post on board the Tyger, since the gentleman who had supplied his place had failed to fulfil its requirements, and he was bid to get to his ship at once. He parted from us on the deck, promising to come and pay his respects before the Orford left Madrass, and we had little leisure to think of anything but transporting ourselves to the shore, for this was only to be accomplished by means of one of the country boats, called mussoulas, which pass in the most incredible manner over the surf which breaks on the beach. When we were once landed, after a passage that I scarce venture to look back upon, we found ourselves welcomed by a gentleman of Mrs Hamlin’s acquaintance, who was come by desire of his wife to invite us to lie at their house so long as the Orford continued in the roadstead. This we did; and such a time of merry-making it was as I had scarce imagined possible. Every sort of party of pleasure was devised, either by the officers of his Majesty’s ships or by the gentlemen of the factory, and every one that had any pretensions to gentility might be sure of finding himself elegantly entertained every day. In all this, however, we saw Mr Fraser very little, for having been so long absent from his ship, it fell naturally to him to relieve the rest of the officers of a good part of their duties; while the ladies were again so few in number compared with the gentlemen, that only the officers of the highest rank were able to enjoy the honour of handing one of us.

“Sure that will be to call in the stragglers,” says my companion. “The fleet must be going out with the morning tide.”

“Pray, miss,” I cried at last, “do you know the fleet has sailed?”

“Oh, the fleet has sailed, has it? I guessed as much.”

“How, miss? You knew of Mr Watson’s design?”

“Well, two nights back, when he was my partner at Government House, he let drop a hint, which he did his best immediately to conceal.”

“And you never told me, miss?”

“Pray, miss, would you have me betray a State secret learnt in such a manner?”

“Then you stayed behind here on purpose when we went to the Mount?”

“I did, miss. I thought it was better I should stay than you.”

“I—I don’t understand you, miss,” I stammered.

“I stayed here,” said Miss Hamlin, looking at the wall, “because I believed that Mr Fraser would come to pay his respects, and I desired to see him.”

“And—and did he come?”

“He did come, miss—soon after daybreak. I had expected that, and was dressed to receive him. He desired his most humble thanks to you for all your kindness to him.”

“And that was all, miss?”

“That was all, miss. I refused to charge myself with any more.”

“But did he purpose saying more? That message—What have you there, miss?” I had discerned a slip of paper that had catched in the robings of her gown, and seized it. It was part of a torn letter, and there was “To Mrs Sylvia Freyne” wrote upon it.

“Oh, dear! I thought I had got rid of it all,” says Miss Hamlin, with the calmest air in the world.

“You destroyed Mr Fraser’s letter to me, miss?”

“I tore it up in his presence, miss, and defied him to send you another. And in that I was your true friend.”

“Sure it could only have been some message that he desired me to deliver to his Araminta,” I said, half unwillingly.

“And for whose sake would you have kept it, miss—for Araminta’s or your own?”

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t receive a letter designed to reach me, miss.”

“Yes, miss, there is, if it come from Fraser. As I said, I have stood your friend in this. Perhaps you have forgot the plans which your parents have for you, and the good nature with which my aunt, before our voyage began, left it with you to remember ’em. You’re a young woman of prudence and good sense, though you know nothing of the world but what a boarding school can teach—which is vastly little, and that topsy-turvy—and you’ll accept this escape of yours with thankfulness when you think upon it calmly. Fraser has behaved to you in a monstrous cavalier fashion—leading all around you to believe that he had laid his heart at your feet, when he was enamoured the entire time of another lady. You remember, miss, your tenderness for the fellow’s feelings when my aunt first presented him to you as your humble servant for the voyage; pray, will you have people say that you are fallen into the trap yourself while he’s escaped?”

I saw the justice of her contention, but I have been very low-spirited ever since that morning, so much so that after leaving Madrass I kept my cabin for two or three days, suffering from a serious enough indisposition, from which I am now recovered, though still unhappy in mind. Yet I don’t know what I could have expected had I been able to bid Mr Fraser farewell. He could have said nothing to bring me any complacence, since had he even desired to transfer his allegiance from Araminta to myself, what answer could I have made to such a perjured lover? No, my Amelia knows enough of her Sylvia’s heart to be sure she would never entertain a thought in favour of one who could act in so base a manner. Ah, my dear Miss Turnor, I am rightly punished. I am a very wicked girl, for though Miss Hamlin thought I had forgot my parents’ designs for me, they came often to my mind in the first part of our voyage, until I had contrived to drive them away, resolving to enjoy while I had it the pleasure of Mr Fraser’s company. And now I will answer the question which I see trembling on my dearest friend’s lips. Do I confess, then, you’ll say, that my heart is engaged on this gentleman’s behalf? and to this I can answer, No. How could either my heart or my judgment take sides with one who could act, as I can’t help perceiving, with so much unkindness—I had almost added, so much duplicity—both towards the amiable Araminta and myself? But this I’ll acknowledge, that had matters been otherwise, had he been the honest man I thought him, I could have loved him.

So there, Amelia, you have the worst of it—the dreadful, the humiliating confession—and I’ll beg you won’t mention the subject again, as I shall hope to let this be the last page of my writing on which Mr Fraser’s name appears. Miss Hamlin has used me kindly enough, yet with the contemptuous kindness that says nothing better could be expected from a boarding-school miss, and I must do my best to find happiness in the future in a strict obedience to the commands of my dear papa. But oh, Amelia, if only Mr Freyne were a Papist, as Mrs Hamlin once said! Sure you’ll think I am gone mad, but I mean that in that case he might suffer me to follow my own inclinations, and lead a single life. Why is it that parents will never allow their daughters in this mode of life? We hear continually of the difficulty of making up good marriages, and of the monstrous fortunes demanded with brides, and yet no young woman of our quality is permitted to remain single, even if she desire it. Or if she be afflicted with such a want of looks that no one will take her, even for the sake of her guineas, how hardly do her parents give up their search! How many proposals of marriage sent to the friends of reluctant gentlemen, how many treaties broken off when all but arranged, before she can be allowed to follow her own inclinations!

At Mr Freyne’s house in the Cross-road, Calcutta, Sept. ye 12th.

At Culpee, which overlooks a broad reach of the river, the Orford was met by a huge number of boats, variously called, as I learned, budgeroes, wollacks, and ponsways. The budgeroes are like our state barges, but far exceeding them in neatness and magnificence, the rowers, who are called dandies, and the mangee or helmsman, all dressed in white, with sashes and ribbons of the colour of their masters’ liveries. Mrs Hamlin had assured me that my papa’s budgero would come to meet me here, and my dearest friend won’t be at a loss to imagine with what turmoil of heart I looked at all the gentlemen on board the barges, hoping and yet dreading to find that each one of them was Mr Freyne. But I could perceive no one that I could guess to be my papa, nor did any of them appear to recognise me, so that at last I turned back to Mrs Hamlin, with whom was now standing her spouse, a somewhat stout and red-faced gentleman, but agreeable enough, in a suit of white clothes.

“Here’s a pretty to-do!” says Mrs Hamlin, as soon as she sees me. “My dear Miss Freyne, your good papa, hearing we could not be in before to-morrow, has taken his journey to Dacca on the Company’s occasions, and won’t return until to-night, and Mrs Freyne han’t thought fit to send to meet you.”

“Why no, my dear,” says Mr Hamlin, “sure you forget what I just told you, that Mrs Freyne desired to use the budgero herself to-day, and asked me to give Miss Freyne a passage in ours as far as the Gott, where she will find a palanqueen waiting for her. You wasn’t grudging the young lady a seat in the boat?”

“No, sir,” says Mrs Hamlin, “and Miss Freyne knows me better than to think so. I am vexed that the lady should treat her daughter’s punctilio so lightly as to deny her their boat, while she goes off on some jaunt of her own.”

“Oh fie, my dear! You’re too hard on a little innocent gaiety. Pray, Miss Freyne, can you tell me why ladies are always so severe when there’s a handsome woman in the case?”

“I don’t know, sir. Are they so?”

“Oh, come, madam, han’t you found it so?” And the man bowed so that I might not fail to perceive he had intended a compliment.

“When you are ready, Mr Hamlin,” said his spouse, “we’ll go into the budgero.”

We were now fast approaching the steps of the Gott, which is to say the landing-stage, and became aware of a second great crowd of gentlemen, who flocked out of the Fort and from the streets near, some to greet friends that were landing from other budgeroes that had arrived before our own, and others to stare and whisper at us two poor girls as we were handed ashore. Miss Hamlin looked at me with a malicious smile, and whispered me to make my choice, for all the young sparks of Fort William were there paraded before me.

“Nay, miss,” said I, not to be outdone; “you first, if you please.”

“Why, then, I choose the respectable person there at the Fort gate,” she said, pointing with her fan; and we both laughed, for although the gentleman she indicated was somewhat advanced in years, his coat of yellow silk was richly laced, and he seemed to take no small pride in his appearance. “A man that has such care for his own dress would not be niggardly over that of his spouse,” says Miss Hamlin; but just then her uncle, who had pushed on through the press, came posting back to us, apparently in some disturbance of mind.

“I fear, madam,” says he to me, “you’ll have but a poor opinion of our Calcutta manners, or at least of our memories, for I can’t perceive your papa’s servants anywhere, and the gentlemen tell me they han’t seen his liveries to-day, and how you are to get home I don’t know.”

“What did I tell you, sir?” asked Mrs Hamlin, with an air of triumph.

“Pray, sir,” said I, “don’t trouble yourself about me. If Miss will be so good as to let me share her palanqueen, sure I can be dropped at Mr Freyne’s door without incommoding anybody.”

“Why, so you could, madam,” says he, “but for the little trifling fact that Mr Freyne’s house lies out Chitpore way, which is in the opposite direction from Surmans.”

“Oh pray, sir,” I said in great uneasiness, “let me hire a coach or a chair, and so relieve you of the charge of me.”

“There en’t no such things here, miss,” says Mrs Hamlin. “No, you must please to take my niece’s palanqueen to go home in, and we’ll wait here in the sun until you’re done with it.”

By this time, Amelia, I was ready to cry, for the good lady’s tone was sharp enough, and indeed the sun was hot, though I hadn’t perceived it before; but I had no time to bewail my misfortunes, for Mrs Hamlin cried out suddenly—

“As I live, there’s Captain Colquhoun! Pray, Mr Hamlin, go and fetch him hither. He’ll take Miss off your hands.”

As Mr Hamlin hurried to obey her, she whispered to me, “Pray observe, miss, how careful I am of your punctilio. I wouldn’t for the world place you under an obligation to any of these young gentlemen here, that are all on fire to offer their services in any way; but Captain Colquhoun is your papa’s closest friend, and would take it most unkind if we didn’t appeal to him.”

“Why don’t the gentleman ride in his palanqueen, since he has it with him?” I whispered back to Miss Hamlin, pointing to it as I spoke.

“Why, that’s the Calcutta punctilio, miss. To be without a palanqueen argues you to be a person of no figure, and therefore, even if a gentleman don’t ride in his, it must be carried after him.”

“’Tis all the better for me,” I said, just as Mrs Hamlin brought up the captain, who bowed so low that I could almost fancy I heard the springs creaking.

“Now, what could be more charming than this?” the good lady was saying. “Miss Freyne, you took pleasure in the company of our good Lieutenant Fraser, I know, and you won’t feel strange with Captain Colquhoun when you learn that he’s his cousin. Questionless, Mr Fraser has often mentioned him to you?”

That dreadful name again, when I thought I was done with it for ever! I was ready to sink into the ground, but the Captain relieved me by saying—

“The young lady need not burden her conscience with fibs for my sake, madam. My cousin had questionless far more agreeable matters to discuss, and at best he knows as little of me as I of him. Difference of politics has separated our families for many years.”

This was little enough to say, when one remembers that Mr Fraser’s father holds the estates that should by right be Captain Colquhoun’s, and I was ashamed to recollect how lightly Mr Fraser had spoken of demanding his cousin’s hospitality should he visit Calcutta. But Mrs Hamlin was speaking again.

“We won’t talk of these disagreeable matters, Captain. Your friendship with Miss Freyne’s papa is a stronger claim on your kindness than her acquaintance with your relation. Our good Captain Colquhoun is so kind as to offer you the use of his palanqueen to convey you home, miss, and he will himself be your cavalier. I’ll wish you a happy meeting with your papa and Mrs Freyne.”

“We shall meet on Sunday, miss!” says Miss Hamlin with her drollest air, as we curtseyed; and then Captain Colquhoun lent me his hand to lead me to the palanqueen, which was of a kind common in Calcutta, though I had not met with it before—like an armchair supported on poles, with a roof over it, and not like a covered bed, such as those I had seen at Madrass. I was forced to let down the checks to keep out the afternoon sun, but I could hear Captain Colquhoun walking stiffly beside me, and reproving the bearers when they stumbled. Then the machine was carried in at a gateway and set down, and the Captain raised the blind for me.

“Permit me, madam, to bid you welcome to your home!” said he.