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Title: Like Another Helen

Author: Sydney C. Grier

Release Date: October 5, 2021 [eBook #66471]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIKE ANOTHER HELEN ***




 Like Another Helen

 By
 SYDNEY C. GRIER
 AUTHOR OF “PEACE WITH HONOUR,”
 “THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES,”
 “IN FURTHEST IND,” Etc.


 (_Second in the Indian Historical Series._)



 BOSTON
 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
 _MDCCCCII_



 [image: img_000.jpg (map)]




 DEDICATION.

  TO
  #Captain Lionel J. Trotter#
  IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE
  OF LONG-CONTINUED ENCOURAGEMENT
  AND HELP




 EPIGRAPH.

  “And, like another Helen, fired another Troy”




 CONTENTS.

 I. THE REFLECTIONS OF A YOUNG LADY ON GOING OUT INTO THE WORLD
   (From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor.)
 II. IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE INCONSTANCY OF MAN
   (From the same to the same.)
 III. IN WHICH MISS FREYNE ENTERS CALCUTTA, BUT NOT IN TRIUMPH
   (From the same to the same.)
 IV. SHOWING HOW MISS FREYNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SURROUNDINGS
   (From the same to the same.)
 V. IN WHICH DESPATCHES FROM ADMIRAL WATSON REACH CALCUTTA
   (From the same to the same.)
 VI. SHOWING HOW CALCUTTA FOUND FOOD FOR TALK
   (From the same to the same.)
 VII. WHICH TREATS OF TREASONS, STRATAGEMS, AND SPOILS
   (From the same to the same.)
 VIII. IN WHICH MR FREYNE’S PATIENCE COMES TO AN END
   (From the same to the same.)
 IX. TREATING OF LOVERS AND FRIENDS
   (From the same to the same.)
 X. IN WHICH THE FLOOD BEGINS TO RISE
   (From the same to the same.)
 XI. SHOWING HOW THE FLOOD CAME
   (From the same to the same.)
 XII. PRESENTING ONE OF THE WORLD’S TRAGEDIES
   (From the same to the same.)
 XIII. CONTAINING THE EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY
   (1. From Robert Fisherton, Esq., to the Rev. Dr Fisherton.
   2. From Mrs Hurstwood to Colvin Fraser, Esq.
   3. Three Letters from Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood.)
 XIV. TELLS OF A VOYAGE ACCOMPLISHED FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS
   (From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor.)
 XV. WHICH RECOUNTS THE TRIALS OF A DEVOUT LOVER
   (Letters from Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood.)
 XVI. CONTAINING THE MEMOIRS OF A CAPTIVE
   (From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor.)
 XVII. IN WHICH GREEK JOINS GREEK
   (From Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood.)
 XVIII. PROVING THAT THE DAYS OF MIRACLES ARE PAST
   (From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor.)
 XIX. IN WHICH A KNOT IS TIED
   (1. From Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood.
   2. From the Rev. Dr Dacre to Mrs Hurstwood.
   3. From the Rev. Dr Dacre to Saml. Johnson, Esq., M.A.
   4. The Exacting Lovers. A Pastoral.)
 XX. WHICH DESCRIBES A STRATEGIC RETREAT
   (From Mrs Fraser to Miss Amelia Turnor.)
 XXI. SHOWING HOW CALCUTTA WAS AVENGED
   (From the same to the same.)
 APPENDICES.
   A.--ON THE SPELLING OF WORDS AND NAMES
   B.--THE FAMILY OF ALIVARDI KHAN
   C.--AUTHORITIES FOLLOWED IN THE TEXT
   D.--THE HISTORICAL PERSONAGES INTRODUCED
   E.--THE TOPOGRAPHY OF CALCUTTA
   F.--SOME POINTS IN CONNECTION WITH THE FALL OF CALCUTTA
 FOOTNOTES




 LIKE ANOTHER HELEN.

 (_The following letters are all, unless it is otherwise stated,
 written by Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor._)




 CHAPTER I.
 THE REFLECTIONS OF A YOUNG LADY ON GOING OUT INTO THE WORLD.

                      Royal Oak Inn, Deal, _Nov. ye_ 26_th_, 1754.

The hour so long dreaded is at length almost arrived, my Amelia, and
your Sylvia weeps to remember that this is her last night on British
soil. To-morrow, in the company of strangers, she leaves the only home
she has ever known, her native land and all its dear inhabitants--and
who is the best beloved of them, her sweet girl knows well--for an
unfamiliar region, parents hitherto unseen, and a new manner of life.
Ill would it become her to consecrate these last precious moments to
anything but the duties of friendship, and in fulfilment of the
promise that her latest thoughts on quitting England should be her
dearest friend’s, she takes the opportunity to begin this letter. It
will reach you, as she understands, from about the neighbourhood of
the Isle of Wight, since she expects to finish it on board the Orford,
in time to entrust its posting to the pilot who steers the ship down
the Channel.

But how, you will ask, has your friend contrived to learn so soon
these particulars of her journey? The answer to that question, my
Amelia, belongs to the history of the day’s travelling, of which you
saw only the heartrending commencement. Sure no young creature ever
left Holly-tree House with a heart so heavy as mine! When I had kissed
the hands of our venerable instructresses, and had received Mrs
Eustacia’s warning against neglecting the polite accomplishments, in
the practice of which (she was good enough to say) I had gained so
considerable a proficiency, and Mrs Abigail had begged of me not to
read romances and to beware of listening to the flatteries of men, the
worst was still to come. Was it not enough to encounter the tearful
farewells of all the dear Misses, that I must experience the crowning
grief of beholding my Amelia fallen into a fit,[1.01] and carried
away by Mrs Abigail and the governess, thus depriving me of the last
fond glance I had anticipated? Oh, my dearest Miss Turnor, when the
good Rector stopped me on the footpath as I was hurrying to hide my
tears in the chaise, and bade God bless me, and wished me an obliging
spouse and a great fortune (hateful word!), I was hard put to it not
to burst out sobbing in his face. Once seated in the chaise, however,
the polite concern and surprised countenances of Mrs Hamlin and her
niece assisted me to restrain my tears, and we drove off in the
genteelest style imaginable, with Miss Hamlin’s brother, the
lieutenant of dragoons, riding beside the chaise.

As soon as she saw me a little more composed, Miss Hamlin began to
rally me on the grief I displayed to quit my school, and charged me
with leaving a dear friend behind me there. “And I’m certain,” says
she, “that I have discovered this friend. Pray, miss, wasn’t it the
handsome young lady in the blue lustring nightgown[1.02] who was so
overcome by her feelings that she fainted away? Sure you must have
observed her, brother?”

“That I did,” says Mr Hamlin; “and a monstrous fine girl she was,
too.”

More to this effect was said, and my Amelia will guess how these
compliments to my friend warmed my heart, and placed me on the best of
terms with Mr and Miss Hamlin, while their aunt, who seems a very
agreeable, good sort of a woman, did her best to set your timid Sylvia
at her ease. As often as the thoughts natural to my situation
threatened to overcome my composure, the ladies were ready to divert
my mind to some fresh topic, the elder with infinite good humour, and
her niece with the greatest archness in the world. My Amelia must not
imagine herself in the smallest degree forgot when I tell her that I
am persuaded I shall find Miss Hamlin a vastly agreeable companion, in
spite of the difference between her constitution and mine. At midday
we abated our journey at an inn, where we found the advantage of Mr
Hamlin’s company, since every one was agog to serve him. No sooner had
he entered the place in his laced scarlet coat, with the King’s
ribbon[1.03] in his hat, than there was all manner of rushing hither
and thither, and it was, “What does your honour please to desire?” and
“What will the noble Captain[1.04] take?” on every side.

Miss Hamlin rallied her brother very pleasantly on the matter during
the meal, and I was thankful that she was thus engaged, since I could
scarce eat a morsel. On returning to the post-chaise, Mrs Hamlin fell
asleep, and her niece confided to me in whispers many points of
extraordinary interest touching the clothes she is taking out to
Bengal with her--confidences which I did my best to return, although I
can’t hope to rival them. We reached Deal about four in the afternoon,
and Mrs Hamlin ordered tea immediately in the private parlour she had
engaged beforehand, whither we repaired. Presently up comes Mr Hamlin,
who had been seeing our trunks brought in, and acquainted his aunt
that there were lodging in the inn two young gentlemen of whom he had
some slight knowledge, and who were to be our fellow-passengers to
India on board the Orford, adding that if we could come to an
agreement with them to share a boat on the morrow, we might reach our
vessel at far less cost.

“Well thought of!” cries Mrs Hamlin. “Pray, Henry, request the
gentlemen to step upstairs and drink a dish of tea with us here.”

“With all my heart, madam,” says the Captain, and down he goes,
returning quickly with the two gentlemen, who differed considerably
from each other in appearance. The first, whom Mr Hamlin presented to
his aunt as Lieutenant Colvin Fraser, of his Majesty’s ship Tyger, was
tall and very well made, but a degree too thin for his height, his
complexion ruddy, his eyes grey, his hair, which was his own, of a
reddish colour. He wore the King’s ribbon, but a plain fustian suit of
a dark blue. The other gentleman, who was of a smaller and slighter
figure and a dark complexion, and with whom Mr Hamlin had a much
better acquaintance than with Lieutenant Fraser, was introduced as Mr
Ensign Ranger, of the Hon. Company’s Bengall European Regiment. The
gentlemen were presented to us severally, and both entered into
conversation in a very genteel manner, modest without being bashful,
although it seemed to me that Mr Ranger was the more assured, and
Lieutenant Fraser the more cautious.

“Come, gentlemen,” says Mrs Hamlin at last, “since we are to be
fellow-travellers for so long, let us begin, like the personages in
the romances, by telling each other our histories. As for myself, you
will have guessed that I am sailing to rejoin my spouse, who was until
lately head of the Company’s house at Ballisore, and that during the
journey I have the charge of Miss Freyne, whose papa is a member of
Council at Calcutta, as well as of my niece, who will reside with her
uncle and me when we reach Bengall.”

“And questionless you’ll also have guessed that both ladies are
sailing to seek their fortunes--with spouses attached to ’em,” says Mr
Hamlin.

“Oh, fie, brother!” cries Miss Hamlin. “See how Miss Freyne is out of
countenance for your freedom. Pray, miss, don’t heed the Captain. He
has no delicacy of mind.”

“And pray, miss, why are you going, if not in the hope of getting
married?” demanded Mr Hamlin. “How silly must these gentlemen think it
in you to be so nice in denying what’s the truth!”

Before Miss Hamlin could reply, Lieutenant Fraser took up the dispute
with great warmth, saying that for his part, not only would he not
venture to suggest to a lady the terms she should employ in speaking,
but he thought that man a sad coxcomb who would presume to do so, more
especially in a matter of such delicacy as had just been touched upon.
Mr Hamlin, though astounded by this outburst, was about to reply
warmly, when his aunt interfered, reproved both disputants for the
heat they were displaying, and desired them to return to the topic on
which she had requested information.

“You, Lieutenant Fraser,” she said, “shall be the first to recount to
us your history. How is it, pray, that we find a King’s officer taking
passage in an Indiaman?”

“Indeed, madam,” says he, fetching a heavy sigh, “my situation can’t
appear stranger to you than it did irksome to myself until a few
minutes ago. Sure you see before you the victim of a series of the
cruellest misfortunes that ever baulked a man of his most reasonable
desires. You’ll be already aware, questionless, that in February the
King despatched Admiral Watson to the East Indies with the Kent and
Salisbury and others of his Majesty’s ships, in the anticipation that
when war next breaks out with France, much will hang upon the
situation in the Decan, where our nation and the French have been so
continually at strife of late years. You will be at no loss to imagine
that the recent exploits and successes of Colonel Clive have stirred
up such a spirit of emulation in both the sea and land services that
the Admiral might have had his pick of the whole nation either as
officers or volunteers on board of his ships, but it so happened that
having been fortunate enough to gain his approbation when serving with
him before (for I was bred up under him from my earliest youth at
sea), I had his promise to take me with him if he could in any way
compass it. But now, madam, came in the first of the distressing
accidents I have mentioned. Not only did I find my applications
continually set aside in favour of gentlemen who possessed greater
interest than I could boast, but Mr Watson’s own desires were thwarted
with a like persistence. And all this was in spite of the many signal
services rendered by my father to the Government in the rising of the
Highlands nine years back, so true is the saying that good offices are
seldom remembered unless their repetition is looked for.”

“Pray, sir,” cries the Captain, “stick to your tale, and don’t weary
the ladies with pieces of musty wisdom that you’ve picked up from some
long-winded divine.”

“Pray, nephew Henry,” says Mrs Hamlin, seeing that Lieutenant Fraser,
although out of countenance by reason of the interruption, was looking
very fierce; “don’t break into the gentleman’s history, which we all
love to hear him tell in his own style. Sure you ought to know that
though you fine London sparks may make a boast of your ignorance,
every Scottish gentleman prides himself on possessing a store of
polite learning and reflections, and if Mr Fraser is good enough to
display his for our entertainment, he is to be commended, and not
blamed. Pray, sir, continue.”

“I’ll do my best not to be tedious, madam,” says the Lieutenant, with
a bow. “You may conceive then my mortification when the squadron set
sail without me, although I was a little comforted by the Admiral’s
assuring me that he had left my case in the hands of a friend of his
that had interest at the India House, and would see that my name was
brought before the Admiralty if there were any question of sending out
reinforcements to him. If my distress had been extreme at the rude
blasting of my hopes, it was equalled by my delight when in the month
of May I received my commission as fourth lieutenant of the Tyger. You
may not, madam, have heard at the time that Admiral Watson met with
such severe weather in the Channel that he was forced to send back
part of his fleet disabled from Kingsale, where he had put in for the
purpose of taking on board Colonel Adlercron’s regiment of foot[1.05]
for service in the Carnatic. On hearing of this disaster the
Government determined to fit out and despatch immediately the Tyger
and the Cumberland, which might take on board the remainder of the
soldiers, and endeavour to overtake Mr Watson, who had continued his
voyage without regarding the smallness of his force. No words can
paint my delight on receiving this news, but making the best of my way
to join my ship at Plymouth, I was so unfortunate as to spend the
night at an inn where a man lay sick of the small-pox. Although I did
not approach him, as you may well guess, it seems that the air of the
place must have carried the infection, for I was seized with the
malady the day before that on which the Tyger and her consort were to
sail. The disorder of my mind, on seeing my hopes again overthrown,
aggravated my sufferings to such a degree that I barely escaped with
my life, and only left the hospital after an extraordinary long bout
of sickness. As soon as I was fairly recovered, I made haste to open
my affairs to the Admiralty, who, compassionating my hard case, gave
me leave to proceed at my own costs to the East Indies, where, if I
find my post aboard the Tyger filled up, I must even offer my services
as a volunteer.”

“Unless your ill-fortune should pursue you so far as to prevent your
sailing with us to-morrow, sir,” says Mrs Hamlin.

“Sure, madam, in the company in which I now am no ill fortune can
prevail to touch me.”

“I protest, sir, you are too flattering. Pray, sir,” and Mrs Hamlin
looked towards the second gentleman, “tell us your history now.”

“Alas, madam!” says Mr Ranger, heaving a prodigious sigh, in
extravagant imitation of that with which his friend had commenced his
recital; “I have no tale to tell that will bring the moisture of
compassion to the eye of beauty, as that of Mr Fraser has been happy
enough to do. My sufferings are of too ordinary a nature to do more
than excite the tribute of a pitying glance. I can but say that I had
the honour to serve his Majesty in the regiment which your nephew, my
esteemed friend here, so justly adorns, and that the modest fortune I
inherited proved insufficient to support the dignity with which I
desired to invest my situation. I need not wound the tender hearts of
the young ladies by describing the disagreeable results of this
unfortunate disproportion; it is enough to remark that I was thankful
to accept the offer of my uncle, who is an India director, to make
interest to obtain for me a pair of colours in the Bengall Regiment.”

“Indeed, sir, you en’t in no way to be pitied,” says Mrs Hamlin, with
some coldness. “Are you aware how many worthy young gentlemen, each of
whom has spent several years as a private man in the Company’s forces,
carrying a musket and mounting guard in the Select Piquet,[1.06] will
be disobliged by this placing you over their heads?”

“No, indeed, madam,” said he; “and for the sake of my own peace of
mind, I’ll beg you won’t acquaint me of their exact number. I’ll
assure you that I have a very feeling heart, and to wound it would in
no way advantage these unfortunate gentlemen, while it would be
prodigiously disagreeable to me. To conclude my story, madam; I fell
in with Lieutenant Fraser in Leadenhall Street, and learning that we
were travelling by the same vessel, we agreed to post to Dover in
company, by which means I enjoy the happiness of being at your service
to-night.”

This whimsical reply, delivered with infinite good humour, to her
reproof, put Mrs Hamlin into some difficulty not to laugh, and turning
again to Mr Fraser, she enquired of him how soon our vessel was likely
to sail?

“I heard but an hour back, madam,” he answered, “that those on board
were much concerned to lose so much of this fair wind--as indeed I
would be, in their case--and that the passengers should all be in
their places by eleven o’clock to-morrow, when the captain, who is
posting from town, is looked for.”

“La!” says Miss Hamlin, with the most engaging vivacity, “what a pity
to waste time in this way! I’m all anxiety to be well on my way to
India.”

“Because you know nothing about it, child,” says her brother. “Ask my
aunt whether she finds a voyage as agreeable as you think. I’ll lay
you a guinea you’ll be in a fine pickle before you reach Bengall, with
no chance of getting at your ‘things,’ as you call ’em, to divert
yourself with.”

“Brother, you’re a sad bear,” said Miss Hamlin very gravely.
“Gentlemen, now that we have drank our tea, I have been waiting in
vain for one of you to suggest a promenade. Must I make the proposal
myself?”

“Pray permit me to wait on you out of doors, madam,” said both the
strange gentlemen in a breath.

“Well, indeed,” says Mrs Hamlin, “I think we shan’t do wrong in hiring
a boat to take us on board to-morrow, since our time is like to be so
short, and though it be dark already, the lights on the water afford a
vastly agreeable prospect if we take a short stroll. You’ll accompany
us, Miss Freyne?”

But I excused myself on the plea of fatigue, and sat down to begin
this letter, which diverted Miss Hamlin excessively when she came back
into the parlour in her capuchin[1.07] to look for her muff.

“I protest, miss, you’re quite an author!” she cried. “Sure you must
be emulating the practice of the divine Clarissa?”

“You’re right, miss,” said I. “Like Miss Harlowe, I am writing to the
best of friends.”

She went away laughing, and I employed myself all the time of their
absence in writing these pages, which would not be so many had I not
desired to fulfil my promise of making my Amelia acquainted with the
companions of our voyage. This shocking scribble that follows is wrote
in my chamber before going to rest, for I must tell you of some droll
things that Mrs Hamlin has been saying. She is, my dear, the oddest
kind of woman! Coming in with her niece about half-an-hour before
supper, leaving the gentlemen downstairs, she sat down upon the
settee, and requested me to spare her a moment. You may be sure I lost
no time in complying, more especially since I catched a very whimsical
glance from Miss Hamlin as I shook the sand over my paper.

“I don’t doubt but you was a good deal surprised, miss,” says Mrs
Hamlin, motioning me to take my place in the window-seat opposite her,
“by my admitting those two young gentlemen to our company?”

“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I never ventured----”

“You thought I was a good easy body, questionless, and no prude, and
you passed remarks upon my discretion in your mind, perhaps?” I had no
chance to answer, Amelia, for she went on without stopping: “Then I
would have you know, miss, that you was mistaken. My complaisant
behaviour is dictated altogether by policy, and I will go so far as to
open to you my mind in the matter, the more so since I am persuaded
you are a young woman of sense.”

“I shall hope to deserve your good opinion, madam.”

“As for my niece Hamlin,” continued the good lady, “she has been bred
up by her grandmamma, who was a toast in her youth, and even in her
genteel retirement has not forgot the manners of the great world, so
that she has, questionless, furnished her granddaughter with a whole
battery of defensive arts. You han’t enjoyed this advantage, miss, but
I don’t doubt the respectable gentlewomen who instructed you have
warned you against the ways of Men?”

“Indeed, madam, they have spoke to me of little else for some months
past, and their very last words----”

“Why, that’s very well,” says she, “for I must think better of you
than to imagine that after such sedulous care you, any more than my
Charlotte, could fall a prey to the wiles of the designing creatures.
Pray, miss, what do you think was my intention in presenting the
gentlemen to you two young women to-day?”

“Indeed, madam, I don’t know,” for what dark political meaning there
could be in so natural an act, I could not imagine.

“Why, then,” says Mrs Hamlin, “I desired to provide you both with
agreeable cavaliers for the voyage, without the fear of falling in
love on either side.”

“Sure, madam, you’re very kind,” Miss Hamlin puts in.

_Mrs Hamlin_. Don’t be pert, miss. I observed just now, Miss Freyne,
that you was put out of countenance by a foolish remark of my
nephew’s, which his sister very properly reproved. Such sensibility
does you honour, but I would have you learn to take such sayings in
good part, since, though it be true that a man of fine manners would
not allude to the fact so freely, ’tis yet undeniable that both you
and my niece are going to Bengall to be married, as my poor Henry
said.

_Sylvia_. Sure, madam, ’tis but the action of a woman of spirit to
protest against such a view, and endeavour to discredit it?

_Mrs H_. I see, miss, that, like other romancical young ladies, you
cherish the notion that you would prefer to lead a single life. I
don’t fancy you would remain long in that mind in Britain--since we
en’t Papists, and if I may say so to your face, you are reasonable
well-looking--but in India such a resolution could not hold for a
single day. When you have seen, as I have, the numerous crowds of
gentlemen in respectable, if not in affluent circumstances, that will
hasten to the _Gott_[1.08] to see the European ladies disembark, and
rush to hand you out of your _palanqueen_ and into church on Sunday,
you will perceive that no woman could be so cruel as to keep so many
worthy persons pining in suspense. I have known a young lady--and she
not a creature of any figure--who was married, within two hours of her
landing, to a gentleman she had never seen before.

_Sylvia_. I hope, madam, you don’t anticipate such a fate for me?

_Mrs H_. I don’t doubt, miss, but you’ll consider your punctilio
demands a longer time for choice. But if you’ll reflect for a moment,
you’ll see that there’s no forwardness, as you seem to imply, but
rather the truest kindness on the part of their parents and guardians,
in this sending out young ladies to find spouses. The Company’s
service is for life, and a gentleman can’t come home to seek a
suitable wife for himself. Imagine, then, his joy and gratitude when
an agreeable match presents itself, and the assiduous complaisance
with which he will behave to the lady who has done him the honour of
selecting him out of so many suitors! I hope, miss, that you’ll do
credit to your bringing-up in the choice you make, and that the
gentleman’s fortune will be worthy of the advantages you bring him.

_Sylvia_ (_smiling_). I have studied my ‘Spectator,’ dear madam, too
closely to be ignorant that an honest life and an obliging temper are
more to be regarded in the marriage state than a great fortune.

_Mrs H_. The ‘Spectator,’ miss? Sure he’s the person that tells a tale
of some old Roman,[1.09] who said he had rather marry his daughter to
a man without an estate than to a great estate without a man. The good
gentleman was certainly mad. Such a marriage as that would be the
happiest that could befall most young women. But, indeed, miss, I
would have you look at the whole matter from a judicious standpoint.
There’s some prudes that affect horror when they hear of a young
lady’s doing well for herself, not considering that she has but placed
out her capital, which is herself, to the best advantage. Think of
your good papa. He has sunk a great sum of money in sending you home
to be brought up, and he’ll look for a handsome return on his
investment. You’ll have a tolerable fortune--unless, indeed, it be
true, as I heard said on my voyage home, that your papa has made such
large settlements on the present Mrs Freyne as leaves but little for
you. She was a Quinion--one of the Quinions of Madrass, and they have
a sharp eye in money matters, and would get all they could from Mr
Freyne.

_Sylvia_. Oh, pray, madam, don’t use these terms of my papa. Sure he
has every right to please himself in the disposition of his own
property.

_Mrs H_. Very true, miss, but all the same it’s fortunate for you that
gentlemen in India ask less in the way of fortune with their wives
than in England. I can but hope that you’ll marry a man of wealth
sufficient to give Mr Freyne a solid return upon his expenditure. And
that brings me to the question on which I had purposed to speak to
you. You may have heard a silly jest to the effect that young ladies
sent out to India by their parents to marry great fortunes commonly
disappoint their anticipations by entering into engagements of
marriage with such young cadets and writers as may have pleased their
fancy on the voyage out.

_Sylvia_. I had not heard it, madam.

_Mrs H_. You will, questionless, hear it often in the future. Well,
miss, this unfortunate state of affairs is due, in my mind, to the
injudicious severity of the ladies who have the charge of these young
women. By forbidding them to converse with, or even to glance at, any
of the gentlemen about them, they force them to appear either shy or
uncivil, while by engaging the authority of the captain on their side
they deliver a direct challenge to the young gentlemen to evade their
prohibitions, so that it becomes the dearest wish of the young people
to make each other’s acquaintance, and this they’ll succeed in doing
by foul means, if not by fair. Ah! I could tell you of some sad
unhappy marriages that have come about in this way, and also of many
cases in which the young lady has seen her folly, and wedded the
person selected for her by her guardians, after infinite trouble and
foolish behaviour on the part of the suitor she has abandoned! Now I
design to place no restriction upon you and my Charlotte, Miss Freyne.
I have treated you as reasonable creatures, and I look to you to
requite my kindness, mixing with these gentlemen, and any others I may
introduce to your notice while on board, as young women of sense
should do, and giving them no cause for presumption, nor others for
talk. I leave the matter with your own consciences, requesting you to
consider the pains taken with your bringing-up, and to remember that
you would be actually robbing your relatives if you married below the
rank they have a right to expect.

_Sylvia_. Pray, madam, would it be impossible for us to confine
ourselves chiefly to female society, while conversing with these
gentlemen so far as civility demands?

_Miss Hamlin_. La, miss! would you have an Indiaman a floating
nunnery?

_Mrs H_. Your suggestion, miss, is extremely proper, but ’twould be
impossible to carry it out on board ship. You’ll find it almost
necessary to have a gentleman at hand who will run your errands, and
wait upon you on deck when the weather is fresh. But I can rely upon
you to let the acquaintance go no further, and to preserve in your
carriage such a distance as may keep your cavalier on the humble
footing that becomes him.

It appeared to me, my Amelia, that there was scant tenderness shown
for the feelings of the gentlemen in this device, but indeed I am so
confused with all I have heard that I can scarce be sure my pity en’t
chiefly for myself. How humbling is it to a young creature’s pride (I
had almost said, how wounding to her delicacy), to find herself
regarded in the light of a bale of merchandise, to be knocked down to
the highest bidder! And why do our instructors recommend to our
perusal the mild counsels of the excellent Mr Addison, if the most
important action of our future life is to give them the lie in every
particular? But Mrs Abigail would say that I was passing judgment on
my elders; I will cease, therefore, and only hope that my papa may be
of a different spirit from Mrs Hamlin.

The gentlemen joined us at supper, and Lieutenant Hamlin demanded of
his sister to give him some music afterwards--a request that was very
heartily seconded by both the others--but on Mrs Hamlin’s declaring
that she was dog-tired, and would fain be early a-bed, the company
broke up. Miss Hamlin very good-naturedly waited upon me to my
chamber, and when she had set down the candlestick, I thought would
have taken her leave, but to my surprise she shut the door, saying--

“Pray, miss, what is your opinion of my aunt’s great piece of policy?”

“Sure I’m grateful to be treated as a reasonable creature, miss,” said
I.

“And for that,” says she, “you may thank my aunt’s love of ease. She
is desirous to pass her time agreeably in playing whisk[1.10] and
brag with her friends, reading romances, or slandering her
neighbours--not in looking after two young women that happen to be
placed in her charge.”

“Indeed, miss, you make vastly free with your aunt’s name.”

“And therefore,” Miss Hamlin went on without heeding me, “she throws
the burden on the young women themselves, and thinks she has done all
her duty when she has placed it on their consciences. Pray, miss, was
you born with a heart?”

“Sure I don’t understand you, miss,” said I, staggered, as they say,
by so sudden and particular[1.11] a question.

“Because I was not,” said this strange girl; “or if I were, it has
been bred out of me--without it be like the coquette’s heart at the
dissection of which your dear ‘Spectator’ says he attended. But you,
miss, if I don’t mistake, are burdened with this useless and improper
possession. Pray understand that by the time you reach Bengall it must
be gone, and replaced either by a purse of gold or a chest of toys and
laces, or else the determination to outshine your neighbours, if you
are ever to cut a figure in Calcutta. The voyage is your opportunity
of practising for its removal.”

“Indeed, miss----” said I, bewildered, but she interrupted me.

“I have pointed out to you your work for the next eight or nine
months, miss, and I shall hope to see you fashionably heartless when
we land in India. But for the present, which of the two gentlemen that
have been designated as our bond-slaves for the voyage will you attach
to your service?”

“Oh, pray, miss, oblige me by choosing first,” said I.

“Then I choose Mr Ranger,” said she, quickly.

“I’m quite content to take Mr Fraser,” said I, well pleased.

“That’s as I should have guessed. I have chose Mr Ranger because he is
the more entertaining to me, but if I were acting the part of a true
friend by you, miss, I should have taken the Lieutenant.”

“Indeed, miss, I’ll assure you he pleases me vastly the better of the
two.”

“So I foresaw. A witty blade like Mr Ranger would have no charms for
you, miss, but this Scottish gentleman, with his tags of philosophy
and his turn for relating his troubles in a moving style, is a
dangerous person to meet a young lady that possesses a heart and has
but just left her boarding-school.”

“I hope, miss, you wasn’t intending a sneer at my bringing-up?”

“Not for the world, though I will say that my grandmamma is a better
instructor for adventurers like you and me than the venerable ladies I
saw this morning. But tell me, miss, do you purpose to inform your
Fraser of the terms on which he is permitted the honour of your
acquaintance--that he is to run your errands and not fall in love with
you?”

“Pray, miss, do you look for me to suggest to the gentleman that I
expect him to do any such thing?”

“But you’ll allow that such a thing is at least possible? Come, miss,
prudence should lead you to anticipate calamities, you know. What is
to happen if Mr Fraser should have the presumption to lay his heart at
your feet, or even--an extraordinary wild supposition, I grant you--if
your heart should betray you, and you fall in love with him?”

My Amelia will guess I was so horridly confused by these remarks that
I was at a loss how to answer Miss Hamlin, but at last I got out
something to the effect that I hoped I should do my duty in any case.

“But will you break the poor fellow’s heart as well as your own,
miss?” persisted my tormentor.

“I trust, miss,” said I, “that there’ll be no question of such an
unhappy event. I give you free leave to warn me, and Mr Fraser also,
if you will, if you think either of us to be in danger.”

“I promise you I will,” says she; “and finely you’ll hate me when ’tis
done.”

With that she left me, and I sat up to write this. But here I must
cease, for my candle is burning low in its socket, and Miss Hamlin has
just tapped again at my door to ask me whether I desire to make my
last night in Britain memorable by setting the inn afire.


        _Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford, off_ Hastings, _Nov. ye_ 28_th._

I am adding these few last lines in lead pencil to my great pacquet in
haste, since Mr Fraser assures me that once past Beachy Head we shall
find ourselves in rough water. I can’t at present call myself
indisposed, though I am not quite at my ease, as I ought to be, since
Mr Fraser says the wind is so light as to be almost a calm. The space
on board is very much confined, particularly since the decks are still
lumbered up with all kinds of packages, but I learn that these will
before long be stowed away below. Pray, my dear friend, pardon these
seaman’s phrases. My head is too confused to remember the correct
terms. You would smile to see how we are all lodged here, the
gentlemen in the great cabin, on shelves like those in a draper’s
shop, and only large enough to hold a small mattress, and we in
another apartment, similarly furnished. There are two ladies on board
besides ourselves, but neither of them young, and both married, and
about a dozen gentlemen. I had intended to write something of the day
and a half since we left Deal, but find that the end of my paper is
all but reached. You shall receive a long letter by the first
opportunity that offers of sending one. Adieu, my dearest, dearest
Emily.[1.12] Rest assured that you was ever in my thoughts from the
moment of our parting.




 CHAPTER II.
 IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE INCONSTANCY OF MAN.

  _Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford_, Fonchial[2.01] Harbour, _Dec. ye_ 31_st._

Since despatching my first letter to my Amelia by the hands of the
pilot, I have passed through such an experience as I should not care
to repeat. Ah, my dear, we thought it at school a simple thing to hear
that Britain is an island, but ’tis a fact one learns to appreciate
when it is being fixed in one’s mind by a sea-voyage. For over three
weeks, my dearest friend, was your Sylvia pent up in the narrow
floating prison which is called the ladies’ cabin, enduring, for the
greater part of the time, such protracted torments as she could not
have dreamed the human frame would be able to support. You may smile
to hear that I had willingly relinquished all the future glories of
Bengall, and even the hope of a meeting with my papa, for the sake of
a grave on dry land, where, at least, there would be no more shaking
and tumbling, but had the exchange been offered me, I don’t dare say
that I would not have accepted it gladly. Imagine, my Amelia, your
unfortunate friend confined with four other females in a narrow
chamber lighted only by a ship’s lantern (for the weather was so bad
that the ports, by which is signified the small windows of the vessel,
were forced to be closed), each extended on a wooden shelf about the
size, so I should think, of a coffin. To the sufferings caused by
illness, add the terrors of a storm, when the hatches were battened
down, as they say (this means that heavy coverings were fastened over
the only openings by which light and air can visit the lower decks,
lest they should admit water as well), and the howling of the wind and
roaring of the waves as they dashed over the ship was attempted to be
drowned by the hoarse shouting of the seamen. I’ll assure you that I
never expected to see dry land again, and as I have said, I was glad
to think so. But how, you’ll say, did my companions support the trials
which were so painful to your Sylvia? Truly, my dear, they supported
them with as bad a grace as I did. Miss Hamlin, indeed, never lost her
sprightly humour, and diverted herself, even in the extremity of our
sufferings, by rallying the other ladies on the dangers they
apprehended, but her aunt had no spirit to do more than lie upon her
shelf and groan, which she did in the most moving style. As for the
other two ladies, whose husbands were on board, they seemed to
consider that the bad weather was to be laid to the fault of their
spouses. These unfortunate gentlemen had betaken themselves to their
shelves in the great cabin (as, indeed, had all the male passengers,
with the exception I shall presently mention), and lay there as
miserable as ourselves, but their ladies were persuaded that they were
employing themselves in drinking and playing high with the officers of
the ship, and many were the messages of rebuke sent to them through
the steward. This was a stout fellow, of the most unfeeling temper,
who brought in our broth or tea when the black women that Mrs Hamlin
and the other ladies are taking back to India with them were too ill
to move, and never failed to assure us that we should find ourselves
quite recovered if we would but pluck up courage to put on our clothes
and go on deck.

We did not, as my Amelia will imagine, follow the advice of this
odious person, but when the storm had ceased, and we were able to rest
on our shelves without holding perpetually by the edges, he brought a
message from Mr Fraser, asking if he might have the honour of waiting
upon any of the ladies on deck. Now the Lieutenant, who was the
exception I have mentioned to the general rule of illness among the
gentlemen, had shown great consideration for us poor women during the
storm, coming frequently to the door of the cabin to assure us that
all was well, and had gone so far as to promise that he would bring us
instant warning if any grave danger threatened the vessel, so that I
thought it only civil to make some effort to respond to his
politeness.

“Pray, miss,” I said to Miss Hamlin, “have you any fancy to rise?
Shall we ask the gentleman to attend us both?”

“Why, no, miss,” says she. “’Tis your fellow sends the invitation, not
mine. Pray beg the Lieutenant to inform Mr Ranger that I am dependent
upon his civilities, and that I look to him to attend me on deck
to-morrow.”

“But you would not have me go on deck alone?” I said.

“No, miss, I would have you go with Mr Fraser. Sure the poor man must
be pining for a sight of your face after so long a deprivation of it.”

This sly hint made me so angry that I was about to say I would not go,
but being unwilling to allow Miss Hamlin so much power over me as this
would imply, I made shift to dress myself with infinite trouble
(although I did not attempt to appear in anything but an undress, as
you may imagine), and with my hair huddled into a mob[2.02] under my
capuchin, tottered out into the passage, where I found Mr Fraser
awaiting me. He expressed great concern at my altered looks (for you
may guess that one’s face is not at its best after three weeks of such
misery as we have been enduring), and gave me his hand on deck. There,
while I stood holding to a rail, scarce able to keep my feet, he
devised a seat for me in a corner sheltered from the wind, and having
placed me there covered with a great watch-coat of his own, stood
looking at me very kindly, and asked me how I did? I was so much
overcome by the sudden return to air and daylight that I could hardly
answer him, and perceiving this, he began to point out to me the
different parts of the vessel, and tell me their names. The bales and
cases which had encumbered the deck when I had last seen it were now
removed, and the ship, though her upper works had suffered in places
from the violence of the waves, had a much more spacious and agreeable
air.

“But pray, sir,” said I, when I had recovered my intellects, “tell me
whether you was ever in so terrible a storm in all your life
hitherto?”

“So terrible a storm, madam?” says he, as if surprised. “What storm?”

“Why, the storm that is but just subsided, sir?”

“There was no storm, madam. We met with some dirty weather in the Bay,
but every seaman looks for that.”

“Dirty weather!” said I. “In what way could a storm be worse, sir?”

Before Mr Fraser could answer, a person who had been walking up and
down the deck paused in front of us. He wore a watch-coat and an
oil-skin cover to his hat, and carried a marine glass under his arm.

“So, young gentleman!” he said; “dancing attendance on the ladies,
hey? More likely work for a King’s officer than soiling his hands with
horrid tarry ropes, en’t it? Your servant, madam. Trust a navy
gentleman to know a pretty face when he sees one, but when you get
tired of your present convoy, you hoist signals, and I’ll find you a
fresh consort in no time.”

“Sir,” says Mr Fraser (I was so confounded by this address that I knew
not how to reply), “I would think better of you if you kept your
insults for company in which I could resent ’em on the spot.”

“I vow, sir, you’re right!” cried the stranger, with an oath. “It en’t
pretty behaviour to seek to lower a man in the eyes of a lady he
desires to stand well with, and you show a proper spirit in rebuking
it. Don’t be afraid that I’ll try to cut out the little craft from
under your guns. King’s officer or Company’s, a gentleman should have
his fair chance where the ladies are concerned.”

“Pray, sir,” said I, as this person departed with a very ceremonious
bow, “who is the gentleman, and what’s the meaning of his talk?”

“Why, madam,” says Mr Fraser, “I regret to say that your being in
company with me has exposed you to a share of the ill humour with
which I am regarded on board here.”

“But how have you aroused this gentleman’s resentment, sir?”

“I have the honour to wear the King’s uniform, madam.”

“But is that a cause for subjecting you to insult, sir?”

“Unfortunately, madam, it is--at least among the low-bred persons that
are placed in authority on board such vessels as this. You may not
know that among merchant seamen there’s always a certain jealousy of
us who belong to his Majesty’s service, and they take a pleasure in
gratifying their dislike at the expense of any navy officer that comes
in their way.”

“And this disagreeable humour is entirely unprovoked?” said I. “You,
sir, would entertain no objection to meet the captain of a
merchant-vessel on board of a ship of war?”

“Madam,” says Mr Fraser with great haughtiness, “if such a person were
by any chance to find himself aboard one of his Majesty’s ships, he
would be entirely beneath my notice.”

I was forced to hold my fan before my face to hide a smile, for it
seemed to me that the merchant-captain was not altogether without
cause of complaint, but lest the Lieutenant should think I was
laughing at him, I made haste to say, “I fear, sir, your life has been
but a disagreeable one since we left Deal?”

“Say rather, madam, since we passed Beachy Head, and you went below,”
he replied. (Was it not neatly put, Amelia?) “The worst point in my
situation was that I could do nothing to please. When during the rough
weather I offered my services to help in cutting away the wreck, or
otherwise endeavoured to make myself of use, I was bid by the mate
there not to thrust my nose in where I was not wanted, while if I
stood back, I was cursed for a lazy lubber and a long-legged Scotch
loon, with many other insulting terms.”

“I marvel, sir, that you was able to leave such rudeness unresented,”
I could not help saying, remembering Mr Fraser’s readiness to take
offence at a word while we were at the inn. His face reddened
somewhat.

“I owe my meekness to you, madam. Every captain has supreme authority
on his own ship, but I fear that even that reflection would not have
restrained me had I not remembered that if I gave Mr Wallis occasion
to put me in irons as a mutineer, which he had gladly done, I would
have little hope of being of any service to you afterwards.”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, “I’m happy to have been of use to you.”

At this point the steward came to announce that dinner was served, and
Mr Fraser asked if he might attend me to the cuddy.[2.03] But this I
refused, both because I had no desire to be the only lady at table,
and because I felt little inclination for food, and remaining where I
was, I dined sumptuously on some broth and toasted bread which the
Lieutenant was so obliging as to bring me. I stayed on deck during the
greater part of the afternoon, and the next day Miss Hamlin joined me,
on receiving assurances that Mr Ranger would count it an honour to
hold himself at her service. Since then there has been but one day
when we were forced by rough weather to remain below, and even Mrs
Hamlin and the other ladies are now sufficiently recovered to come on
deck. As for the rest of the gentlemen, they nearly all made their
appearance the day after Mr Ranger, and have done their best to prove
themselves an agreeable set of fellows. The weather is grown
continually hotter. Miss Hamlin and I were not long in exchanging our
capuchins for beaver bonnets and short cloaks, but to-day we have
taken to wearing gipsy hats and India scarves, though it is
mid-winter! But when we reach Bengall, so Mrs Hamlin says, we shall
find that none of the ladies wear either hats or hoods when they ride
abroad, but only lace caps trimmed with ribbons and flowers, as we do
in the evening, and that one don’t need so much as to throw a
handkerchief over one’s shoulders out of doors. Sure either the heat
must be far greater than we can imagine, or the constitution of these
ladies must be extremely hardy.

While I pen these lines to my Amelia, our ship is lying in the Bay of
Fonchial, in the Madeiras, where we remain for a week to take in water
and fresh provisions, and also to give us poor passengers an
opportunity of remembering that there is such a blessed thing as firm
ground. Each morning we visit the land in a boat from the shore, which
is constructed, so Mr Fraser informs me, in a special manner on
account of the force of the waves, and ride up the beach in the oddest
fashion. What do you say to a frame of boards, like the sledges of
which we read in Sweden and Poland, and drawn by oxen? Two or three of
the gentlemen (you’ll guess that the Lieutenant is one) refuse to ride
in this machine, as a slight to their dignity, and prefer to crawl up
the beach in the stifling heat. Arrived in the town, which has many
very genteel houses, we spend some time on the Parade, which is here
called the Praza. To me it recalls memories of the time I spent with
my Amelia at Tunbridge Wells, but the trees here are orange-trees, and
the company, though very polite, is nothing near so elegant as that we
used to watch. Later in the day the gentlemen devise some party of
pleasure, to which they invite the ladies, generally in some garden
near the town, where the time passes agreeably enough, and we return
to the Orford by moonlight.

Yesterday we visited a certain convent, which is considered (why, I
don’t know) to be one of the sights of the place. The appearance of
the nuns, who are nearly all ladies of a discreet age, was vastly
disappointing to the gentlemen, and Mr Ranger declared roundly that
they had certainly immured themselves from necessity rather than
choice. These religious persons occupy their leisure in making small
articles, such as cockades and sword-knots, of silk and gold thread,
which they are permitted to sell to visitors, passing them through the
double grating by means of a cleft stick. Among these toys was a
handsome fan-girdle, which I coveted for my Amelia, very neatly made
with tassels, but my purse refused to allow me the pleasure of
purchasing it. I had contented myself with a plainer sort, which I
handed to Mr Fraser to carry for me, but when we sat down under the
trees on the Parade to look over our purchases, what was my surprise
when he presented me with the girdle I had first admired! Assuring the
Lieutenant that there was some mistake, he told me that ’twas not so,
but he had made bold to secure for me the article I desired. ’Twas a
civil thought, was it not? and I could have found it in my heart to
wish it were possible to accept the poor man’s courtesy, but I desired
him very seriously to restore me my own property. He was very highly
offended, but I persisted in my demand, with which at last he
complied, though with an excessively bad grace. The plain girdle I am
sending to my dearest friend with this letter. I could wish it had
been t’other, but I know my Amelia Turnor will prefer a smaller gift
to a greater purchased at the sacrifice of her Sylvia’s punctilio.


    _At Mynheer Brouncker’s House_, Cape Town, _April ye_ 8_th_, 1755.

Behold me now, my dear, with the half part of my journey passed,
spending with delight a few days on shore in Holland--yet at the
furthest extremity of the African continent. This is a sweet pretty
place, the houses flat-roofed, and painted white or some bright
colour, and the streets prodigiously regular and crossing one another
at right angles with the most surprising neatness, and in the middle
of the town a fine handsome square. Along each street are planted rows
of trees, vastly symmetrical, and beside them are water-courses or
small canals fed from springs, which are very agreeable for their
coolness. This house (belonging to a private person who, like most of
the better sort here, is glad to lodge and board us English for a
rix-dollar a-day apiece, so that the sight of a British vessel
entering the harbour is hailed with the most extravagant
demonstrations of joy), though not what we in England should count
luxurious, is almost incredible in its cleanliness, all the
chamber-maids and servants being blacks. These people are called
Hottentots, and the Dutch _boors_, which seems not to be understood
here as a term of contempt. Our windows command a charming prospect of
the great mountain overlooking the town, which from its flatness is
called the Table. At times one sees the clouds descend and spread
themselves upon its summit, and this, Mr Fraser tells me, is called by
seamen, “the devil laying his table-cloth.” Seamen are droll
creatures, en’t they, Amelia? And this reminds me to say that
Messieurs Fraser and Ranger, with several other gentlemen from the
Orford, are lodged in the same house as ourselves.

But you’ll demand some account of our voyage since I last put pen to
paper in the Madeiras. Alas, my Amelia, your Sylvia is a sad lazy
girl! And yet, how could it engage your interest to hear that for so
many days we lay becalmed off the coasts of Guinea, and at other times
met baffling winds that threw us out of our course, and on a very few
occasions found ourselves making good progress with the aid of a
favouring breeze? or that we touched at Ascension Island, and waited
there while the seamen catched twenty great turtles for us to take on
board--horrid sprawling creatures, and their fat _green_ when it is
cooked? But all these delays, you’ll say, afforded me only the more
time for writing to you. True, my dear, but what should be the
subject? My beloved girl knows that I love her, and to waste paper in
repeating assurances of that would be to outdo even a lover’s folly.
When the history of one day is told, you have ’em all. Know then that
the mornings have been spent seated under the awning on deck, we
ladies with our embroidery at hand, to give us a decent semblance of
industry, but really occupied in watching for distant sails, or the
sight of land, or flying-fishes, or a change of wind, or any of the
important nothings that appear of so much moment to the traveller on
board ship. The gentlemen, meanwhile, busy themselves in fishing for
creatures with such odd names as albacores, bonitoes, and doradoes,
catching the smaller ones with hooks and lines, and the larger with
fish-gigs or harpoons, in the casting of which Mr Fraser is
particularly skilful. There are also many birds which venture near
enough to the vessel to be caught, as albatrosses (but these the
seamen protect, through some sentiment of superstition), tropic-birds,
which are about the size of a hawk, with one extravagantly long
feather in the tail, and booties and noddies, whose names (so Mr
Fraser says, but I’m sure I can’t see how) express their natural
foolishness. The afternoon is passed like the morning, unless one of
the gentlemen be so obliging as to deprive himself of the excitement
of fishing in order to read aloud to us females as we work. Then comes
the evening, when there’s really nothing in the world to do (owing to
the dimness of the lights provided for us below), but remain on deck
and watch the sea, which indeed shows the strangest and most
extraordinary fiery ripples and waves, unless the captain think fit to
call up one of the seamen that plays the fiddle, and bid us set to for
a dance. But this is rarely more than once a-week, and we call such
occasions our assembly nights, when we dress ourselves with more
attention than at other times, and the gentlemen wear their wigs, or
have their hair curled and powdered.

But in general, as I have said, there’s nothing to do but talk, and I
can’t pretend that the style of the conversation is altogether as
ceremonious as the venerable Mrs Eustacia would desire. For instead of
the ladies all sitting in a circle, with the gentlemen standing behind
their chairs, and each endeavouring to contribute some piece of wit or
information for the advantage of all, the passengers seem naturally to
divide themselves into small groups, often, I must confess, containing
as few as two persons. At least, this is my experience. Nay, I’ll go
so far as to say (for I see my Amelia’s eyes asking the question),
that I am not much in the habit of changing my companion on these
occasions. ’Tis very seldom that my cavalier is not Mr Fraser, and
this not only because I find his discourse always modest and
agreeable, but because I am in continual alarm lest he should involve
himself in some quarrel when he is not with me. You may have observed
that this gentleman is of a somewhat fiery temper, and since the
officers of the ship continue to treat him in the same offensive
manner as I have already described to you, I am kept in a perpetual
fear. Not that he is altogether without self-command, as I remarked
one day when I looked to him to take the part of one of the crew who
was knocked down and kicked by the second mate. These unfortunate
seamen, who are kidnapped or inveigled by the Hon. Co. on board of
their ships, and there forced to serve without hope of release, are
handled with the most shocking barbarity by those in authority, and
sometimes injured in a horrible manner. Knowing that Mr Fraser, as he
had told me, had learned from his former commander, Mr Watson, to
behave with justice and humanity to those serving under him,[2.04] I
was not surprised to see him step forward with his hand raised, as
though about to lay the wretch on the deck by the side of his victim.
But dropping his hand and returning to my side, he said, in answer to
my mute expostulation, “Pray, madam, pardon my disobliging you, but I
have learnt by this time that my interference on behalf of these poor
wretches only serves to ensure them a worse treatment, if not the
being placed in irons forthwith.”

Pleased with this care of his for the unfortunate seamen, I ceased to
expect Mr Fraser to interpose himself on such occasions, and you may
imagine that I take none the less pleasure in conversing with him. He
has told me that he is the third son of a Scots gentleman of quality,
who was granted the confiscated estate of a cousin that was a rebel in
consideration of his services to the Government in the affair of the
’15, services which he repeated in the rebellion nine years ago, but
for which, as I understand, no recompense has as yet been awarded him.
You’ll be surprised to hear that a son of the cousin who was thus
dispossessed is serving in the Company’s army at Bengall, and that Mr
Fraser declares it his purpose to seek him out if he can obtain leave
to visit Calcutta. This seems to me conduct scarce to be expected from
a delicate mind, but Mr Fraser laughed when I hinted as much.

“Any port in a storm,” says he; “and after all, madam, blood is
thicker than water.”


         _Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford_, Madrass Road, _Aug. ye_ 20_th._

I must be content to permit my Amelia to scold me as she will, for not
only have I allowed a long time to pass without adding to my bulky
pacquet, but I confess freely that I had not sat down to write to-day
had I been able to find anything else to do. In fine, my dear, I have
the vapours very badly, and know not whether it be more disagreeable
to look forward to arriving at Bengall or to look back upon our
voyage. But how? why? what? you’ll cry; I can see you trembling with
eagerness to unfold this puzzle. Must I acknowledge that I have felt
tempted to allow my letter to end with that part I writ at the Cape,
and to shroud in oblivion all that has happened since? But I picture
my Amelia reading the long sheets through with a face full of
suspicion. “What’s this?” she cries; “Mr Fraser here, Mr Fraser there,
and again Mr Fraser, and all at once he disappears as though he had
never been!” I could not resolve to sacrifice the pages wrote at so
much trouble, and telling, moreover, of such quiet happiness as I
can’t look to see again; but be sure, my dearest friend, that nothing
but the memory of the dreadful compact by which I bound myself to my
Amelia, promising never to conceal from her any point soever, even the
most intricate or delicate, of any transaction in which I should
chance to engage, would lead me to disclose even to you the history of
the past two months. I see you, when you read this, shake your head
wisely, and cry, “Ah, I knew it--the old story, a devoted lover, a
dutiful daughter, a hated elderly suitor in the background. Sure
there’s nothing new nor strange here!” By no means, Amelia, but wait
until you hear what I have to say.

After leaving the Cape of Good Hope, everything continued in the same
agreeable course as before until we were past the island of St
Johanne.[2.05] We had taken in water early in the day, and weighed
anchor in good time, in order to avoid the dangerous reefs guarding
the harbour, and in the evening we were sailing on an agreeable breeze
which was sufficient to fill the sails, without making the ship heel
over. (Pardon these nautical terms, my dear. They will come to my pen,
even now.) Mr Fraser and I were sitting near the binnacle (which is an
odd sort of stand on which the mariner’s compass is placed), and the
Lieutenant was reckoning out very seriously how much time must elapse
before he might decently ask for leave to visit his cousin at
Calcutta, supposing that he found his ship in harbour when we arrived
at Madrass, and was permitted to rejoin her. Having satisfied (or
perhaps I should rather say dissatisfied) himself on this head, he
asked whether he might have the honour of paying his respects to me at
my papa’s house. To this I could say nothing but that it wasn’t for me
to dictate to Mr Freyne what persons he should repulse from his doors;
but Mr Fraser, seeming not to be content with this, seized my hand
suddenly, and was vastly urgent with me to say whether it would cause
me any pleasure should he come. The more warmly he demanded an answer,
the more rigidly I refused one (for you know one can’t always yield to
these fellows, my dear; their conceit is already so enormous), and he
was going on to denounce me as a cruel coquette that lived but to
torment him, when Miss Hamlin, who had been sitting upon the steps of
the poop, drew near with Mr Ranger. I won’t deny that I considered her
coming unnecessary, but I had no heart to think of that when once she
began to speak.

“You was assisting Mr Fraser to reckon up the time that must pass
before he visits Bengall, miss, was you not?” said she. “Now I would
prophesy that the gentleman will arrive in Calcutta just in time for
the wedding-day of the lovely and accomplished daughter of Henry
Freyne, Esq.”

I would have given worlds not to blush, my Amelia; but the words were
accompanied with so provoking and malicious a glance that I felt the
traitorous red rise all over my face and neck. Miss Hamlin, marking
it, smiled, and addressed herself to Mr Fraser.

“I fear, sir,” she said, “that Miss Freyne han’t exhibited to you the
full merit of her conduct in undertaking this voyage to the Indies.
You must know that she and I are not bent upon seeking pleasure for
ourselves, but on laying out what my aunt Hamlin calls our fortunes to
the best advantage. Our parents (or guardians) intend--and we are
fully determined to second their efforts--to marry us to a couple of
frightful old Nabobs, each with a face as yellow as his guineas, and a
liver as large as his money-bags. Now pray, miss,” turning suddenly to
me, “shriek out and fall into a fit at the indelicacy of my language;
pray do!”

I was ready enough to faint, though not for that reason; but meeting
her eye, I forced a smile, and she went on:--

“Sure you don’t know, sir, that Miss Freyne is of so provident a
constitution that she has even brought her wedding clothes with her,
like myself. Her wedding-suit is of silver tissue, and the dear
creature has embroidered it with her own fair hands in wreaths of
violets. Thus, you see, her native modesty exhibits itself in a
transaction against which both her heart and her punctilio must
revolt. Now my gown is of a light pink, worked so stiff (but not by my
fingers, oh no!) with gold flowers that it would stand up of itself.”

“Pray, miss, how will these clothes interest Mr Fraser?” I asked,
though I felt as if my lips and throat were parched with thirst.

“You should allow the gentleman to declare his want of interest for
himself, miss. Shall we see you as bride-man at that wedding, sir? I
would claim you as my partner if I were to be bride-maid; but Miss
Freyne and I are resolved to deny ourselves that pleasure, since both
could not enjoy it, and neither of us would be favoured at the expense
of the other, and therefore we are to be married on the same day. You
look pale, Mr Fraser. I fear I have wearied you. Perhaps, after all,
you won’t be at the wedding? But you will--you must--be present when
the happy pair first show themselves in church on the Sunday after.
’Twill be a sight not to be missed. Pray figure to yourself the
fortunate spouse--shall we call him Mr Solmes, miss?--in his new laced
clothes, making him look yellower than ever, handing in his lady, in
the largest hoop and the richest lace and the finest diamonds in
Calcutta! And Madam will pretend to hide her blushes with a fan
painted all over with cupids, while the entire time she will be
watching through the sticks to see what effect her clothes are
producing on the other ladies of the congregation. Did you speak,
miss?”

I think I had cried out to her to stop. I know I tried to rise, but
she put her hand on my shoulder and kept me down. “Hold your tongue,
miss,” she said in a whisper; “if you have to endure it, what harm can
there be in speaking of it beforehand?”

I sat down again, but I had dropped my fan, and Mr Fraser restored it
to me. His hand as it touched mine was cold, and he moved further away
from me before he spoke, with difficulty, as it seemed to me.

“Sure, madam,” he said, “the friends of a lady of Miss Freyne’s high
merits need have no fear as to her future course. If she’ll follow the
dictates of her own heart, they will be found to be those of reason
and virtue.”

“By no means, sir,” says Miss Hamlin, quickly. “The dictates of reason
and virtue will be found to be those of Miss Freyne’s papa. Sure you
are forgetting, as was pointed out to Miss Freyne and me before we
embarked on this adventure, the huge sums of money which have been
spent on our education, and which must be proved to have been put out
at good interest. No, no, sir; we have the sad history of the divine
Clarissa to warn us of the fate of an undutiful daughter, even though
she behave so from the highest motives. The Lovelaces don’t have it
all their own way nowadays. Miss Freyne will marry her Solmes, and
with the air of a martyr will feel that she has done her duty.”

She laughed again, and beckoning to Mr Ranger with her fan, tripped
away. I would have accompanied her, if I had found strength to rise. I
seemed so strangely tired, Amelia. But Mr Fraser, who had been leaning
against the mast, turned suddenly towards me, and said hastily, though
with some measure of hesitation, like a man who takes a resolution at
the moment--

“I would not, madam, have presumed to touch on such delicate matters
as Miss Hamlin has thought fit to introduce; but since that has been
done, I’ll make bold to enlist your sympathy on behalf of a lady who
is in a like case with yourself--that is, she is the daughter of
wealthy parents at Bengall, who will, questionless, desire to make up
a good marriage for her.”

I felt myself grow cold all over, though I had thought I was cold
already. “You--you cherish an interest in this lady, sir?”

“Madam, I adore her. My whole life and endeavour--saving only my duty
to his Majesty--had gone to make her happy, if she would have
permitted it.”

“And she refuses to accept of your devotion, sir? But in what way can
I assist you? Is it likely I shall meet the lady?”

“I imagine you’ll often be in company with her, madam.”

“And what is her name, sir?”

“Her surname, madam, I think ’twould be scarce delicate in me to
reveal, even to a lady of your discernment. Her given name I don’t
know, but to me she’ll always be the peerless Araminta.”

“But how am I to plead your cause with her, sir, if you won’t tell me
her name?” I may have laughed, Amelia, but I felt as though I had died
an hour ago.

“I’ll hope to plead my own cause, madam, when I make that journey to
Calcutta to visit my cousin of which we have been talking. I was
rather desirous to engage your help for myself, and during the
remainder of our voyage here. I can’t help, madam, being conscious
that I am a sadly rough and clumsy creature to pretend to the hand of
so fine a lady as my Araminta, and you have shown me so much kindness
that I would venture to ask you to assist me in rendering myself less
unfit to approach her.”

“I hope you’ll command me, sir.” I could not help being struck with
the oddity of the notion, and the coolness of the young gentleman,
even at such a moment.

“Why, madam, if you’d be so good, I would entreat you to take--in so
far as may be--the part of my Araminta, so long as our voyage lasts.
She is still unaware of my passion, but I understand there’s many ways
in which a lover may recommend himself to the object of his respectful
adoration, even before he presume to declare his devotion by word of
mouth. If Miss Freyne would condescend to suffer my awkward attempts
to serve her, and would do me the favour of suggesting any improvement
in my carriage that she might think called for, ’twould set my mind
more at ease when I come at last to face the lovely and awful presence
of my charmer. Am I asking too much, madam?”

“Why, no, sir; only it seems to me I have been doing what you ask all
the voyage already.”

“Precisely, madam. It did not strike me until to-night that perhaps I
ought to have revealed to you earlier the existence of my Araminta.”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t desire to pry into your private concerns.” I
spoke with much severity, but seeing the Lieutenant’s visage fall, I
called up a smile, and giving him my hand, promised heartily to render
him all the service in my power. Could I have said less, Amelia? Had I
displayed any reluctance to oblige him, he might have thought--well,
who can tell what the fellow might have thought?

Going below to the ladies’ cabin, I found Miss Hamlin there alone. She
came to meet me with a face full of curiosity.

“Well, miss, and don’t you hate me now?” she said.

“Why should I hate you, miss? You desired to spoil the pleasure you
saw me take in Mr Fraser’s company, and you’ve done it, but it don’t
advantage you in any way that I can see.”

“You don’t add that you yourself gave me permission to do it if I
found it necessary, miss, but you did. I was sorry that I had no time
to prepare you, but I saw that if I waited any longer Fraser would
have declared his passion, and laid his heart at your feet.”

“Indeed, miss, you was mistaken, then. Mr Fraser worships at the
shrine of another lady.”

“Impossible, miss! Who has put such a notion into your head?”

“Mr Fraser himself, miss;” I told her what he had said.

“It sounds likely enough,” she said, “but I must question him. If it
be true, I shall recommend to the other lady to look after him better.
There’s just the possibility----” she shook her head and looked wise.
“But pray, miss, where did you get that book?” She pointed to the
first volume of Mr Henry Fielding’s ‘History of Amelia,’ which I had
seen Mr Fraser reading, and had taken up from the table of the cuddy
as I passed. “Have you read much of it?”

“Only the first chapter,” I said. “I was charmed by the title, which
recalled to me my dear Miss Turnor.”

She said no more, but after she had left the cabin again I missed the
book. When she returned, I had climbed to my shelf, and was, I fear,
feigning sleep, but she came and whispered to me--

“I have asked your Fraser about the divine Araminta, and he confesses
to the truth. But such a sweet pretty name! Why did you not tell it
me, miss? And how do you like the thought of playing Araminta to
Araminta’s humble adorer? ’Twill be as good as a play for us who look
on.”

With that she left me, and I won’t grieve my Amelia’s tender heart by
telling her how I spent the hours of that night. But I must close this
huge letter, and tell you more of my misfortunes in the next.




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

        _Hon. Co.’s Ship Orford_, Hoogly River, _Sept. ye_ 2_nd._

My last letter to my Amelia was finished writing in the roadstead of
Madrass, where our vessel was lying, but now I am got so far in my
voyage that I can date this almost within sight of Culpee,[3.01] at
which place all we passengers leave the Orford, and embark in smaller
boats to perform the concluding stage of our journey. But remembering
where I left off, I know that my dearest friend will be in the most
cruel anxiety for her Sylvia’s peace of mind, and I hasten, now that
we have fairly left the ocean behind us, to satisfy her concern,
although I have but little to say that’s agreeable.

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.

We had spent near a week at Madrass when it was suggested that we
should make a party to St Thomas’s Mount, which lies about three miles
from Fort St George, and at its foot the Company has a very fine
garden. Here is the Company’s garden-house, which we in England should
call a mansion standing in its own grounds, and likewise the
garden-houses of the gentlemen of the greatest figure in the factory,
and the proposition was that we should lie a night at the Mount, and
return to Madrass in the cool of the morning. ’Twas an agreeable jaunt
enough, and the general enjoyment was not marred but by the anxiety of
the navy gentlemen, to whom the Admiral had only granted leave to be
present on the condition that they returned at once should they hear a
cannon fired as a signal of recall. This seemed to most of us only a
pleasant jest on Mr Watson’s part, to tease his officers by reminding
them of the insecure foundation of their present joys; but before it
was light in the morning we were all awaked by the sound of a great
gun, and on jumping out of bed and peering through the _checks_[3.02]
(which are a sort of blind made of slips of wood), we saw the
gentlemen all rushing together from the different summer-houses where
they had been lodged, calling for their servants, and shouting for
their horses or palanqueens. How they managed it I can’t pretend to
say, but all the officers were equipped and gone in a quarter of an
hour, leaving the garden as quiet as it had but just now been full of
noise. Some two hours later, when the young lady who shared my room
was taking with me the slight meal which is served here on rising, we
heard another gun.

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

A horrid sinking feeling seized me on hearing this, and I need not
hide from my Amelia that it was caused by the thought that Mr Fraser,
who had not been of the party to visit the Mount, should be departing
without ever being able to tell me what he had desired to make known.
But calling to mind the tales I had heard of the Admiral’s jesting
humour, I reflected that he was, questionless, only trying the
obedience of his officers by this sudden summons, and that we should
find the fleet still at anchor when we reached Madrass. But when we
were in the act of returning, and I looked out of my palanqueen
towards the roadstead, there were no vessels there save the Orford and
a few country ships, while far out at sea was a disappearing sail or
two. Forcing myself not to manifest my discomposure, I waited
impatiently until I could take leave of my companion at the steps of
the house where we were staying, and run indoors to find Miss Hamlin,
who had remained in Madrass by her own request to keep our hostess
company. I found her reclined in the _varanda_, on an odd sort of
Chinese couch made of the bamboo reed, and would you believe it, my
dear, the provoking creature would do nothing but ask questions, such
as whether we had danced all night, and whether the _notch_[3.03]
with which Mr President had entertained us was a fine one.

“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_ 12_th._

At last I am able to address my Amelia from my papa’s house, if only
to describe the disconcerting adventures I met with in reaching it.
Sure, my dear, your Sylvia is the most unlucky girl alive, so
extraordinary are the mortifications that assail her! But to take up
my history from the point where I left off. In twelve days after
sailing from Madrass, for at this time of the year the winds are
favourable to those approaching Bengall, we came to the factory at
Ballisore, where we expected to find Mr Hamlin waiting for us, but
learned that business had kept him at Fort William, and that he would
await us at Culpee. Taking on board a pilot (these persons are
provided by the Hon. Company for the better navigation of their
vessels in these dangerous channels), we entered the Hoogly River,
passing the island called Sawgers.[3.04] Here Mr Marchant, the chief
mate, whom I believe I have mentioned before, chanced to be
entertaining Miss Hamlin and me with tales of his travels, and told us
that this island is much pestered with tygers, as indeed are all in
this neighbourhood; but that it is considered a place of great
sanctity by the pagans, insomuch that in the months of November and
December very many _Gioghis_,[3.05] which is a name given to holy men
among the Gentoos,[3.06] go there on pilgrimage. This they do that
they may wash themselves in the salt water, and Mr Marchant declared
that an incredible number of them perish in the performance of this
fancied duty. More times than he could tell, he said, had he beheld a
great tyger crouching on the shore and licking his lips, while he
watched one of these poor wretches in the water as a cat watches a
mouse. ’Twas in vain that the unfortunate should seek to escape; if he
would not be drowned he must return to the shore, and there the beast
met him. I was expressing my horror on hearing this, and asking Mr
Marchant why he had not made haste to kill the tyger and so save the
poor Indian, when Miss Hamlin nudged me smartly with her elbow, and
when the mate was gone, told me that he was merely rallying me. I was
very angry, as you may conceive, at this piece of presumption on the
part of such a person, and when he next spoke to us, asserting that
the great danger to our ship in sailing up the river arose from the
fact that the shoals and currents, nay, the very banks themselves,
were continually changing their shape and direction, I allowed him to
perceive the disbelief I accorded to his words. But this time, so Miss
Hamlin assures me, he was telling nothing but the truth, so that I had
been credulous and incredulous at the wrong times. Is not that hard,
Amelia?

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.”

“Quite so, my dear. Have you bestowed all your _buxies_[3.07] on the
steward and his mates? Does our Miss Freyne know that word yet? If she
don’t, she will soon. Buxies, madam, is a gift of money, made by a man
that don’t desire to give it, to a set of rascals that don’t deserve
it. No Indian will work that can help it, so that he needs buxie money
to enable him to live.”

Talking in this way, so fast that I could scarce understand him, Mr
Hamlin accompanied us to wait upon the captain, whom he thanked very
genteelly for his care of us during the voyage, and bade visit him at
his garden-house on the way to Surmans[3.08] as often as he should be
in Calcutta. Having bid farewell to the mates of the ship and our
fellow-passengers, and avoided the importunities of the extraordinary
great number of gentlemen that had come aboard in their budgeroes, and
would have had Mr Hamlin present them to us, he replying that they
should wait till Sunday, we descended into our boat, and so set out
with great magnificence. During this second short voyage, Mr Hamlin
showed himself very obliging in pointing out to us the places we
passed by, as Fultah, where the Dutch have a factory, seated on the
most unhealthy spot in the country, and Buzbudgia,[3.09] which is a
fortress belonging to the Moors,[3.10] as also is the place called
Tanners,[3.11] on the opposite bank. When we were past Tanners, Mr
Hamlin bade us look alive, for we should soon find ourselves on
British soil, and coming to a piece of water called Govindpoor’s
Reach,[3.12] he showed us on the shore a little pyramid in stonework,
which, said he, marked the boundary of the Company’s territory. My
dearest friend will comprehend how fast my heart beat at this
spectacle. Now at last, Sylvia (I said to myself), thou art to find a
parent and a home. But Mr Hamlin, seeing how much I was moved, refused
to give me any leisure for meditation, and went on pointing out all
the objects we passed, now the garden called Surmans, and the
garden-houses of the Company’s servants beyond it, then the Company’s
docks and the garden of the Armenians on t’other side of the river,
and lastly the town itself, with Fort William and the church. On our
exclaiming at the odd aspect of the sacred edifice, which seemed to
have lost its upper parts, Mr Hamlin told us that in a great storm
near twenty years ago[3.13] the whole of the steeple, which was of
the most elegant proportions imaginable, was blown down by a frightful
gust of wind, and driven fifteen feet or so into the earth without
breaking. But this I have since seen reason to doubt, for in such a
case, sure the gentlemen of the factory would have restored the
steeple to its place, or at least have preserved it where it lay, on
account of the strangeness of its fate, but there’s no sign of it,
wherefore I believe that when it reached the ground ’twas in ruins,
and fell speedily into decay. Of the Fort, Mr Hamlin bade us mark the
crumbling state of the walls, and the many fine cannons that lay on
the ground, without their carriages and useless, outside them,
observing that we might now see the trust entertained by the gentlemen
of the Presidency in the innocency of their lives and the justice of
the Soubah (this was all Greek to me, but I’ll tell you the
explanation later).

“We have the felicity, madam and niece Charlotte,” said the good
gentleman, “to live under a President that would not with his goodwill
hurt a fly. Nay, if a wasp should sting him, he would sooner beseech
it to depart than kill it in an angry fit. Sure he should by rights
have been born a Quaker, which is the name by which he is known here,
for all his tastes lie that way.”[3.14]

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.”

“Sure the gentleman bows for all the world like a ramrod breaking in
two!” says Miss Hamlin in my ear, as we watched Mr Hamlin press
through the crowd a second time and accost a person in a military
dress that had paused on the outskirts to watch the landing. I could
not forbear smiling, though the tears had been at my eyes the moment
before, for not only did Captain Colquhoun hold himself like a ramrod,
but he moved as stiffly as if his limbs were worked by springs, like
those of a Dutch baby.[3.15] His face was burnt red with the sun, and
was so rough and hard in its features that it might have been cut out
of a block of wood, and his dress was as plain as his rank would
allow, without any of that foppery about the sword-knot and cockade
that so many military officers affect.

“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.




 CHAPTER IV.
 SHOWING HOW MISS FREYNE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SURROUNDINGS.

                                  Calcutta, _September ye_ 14_th._

I looked round with great eagerness when Captain Colquhoun handed me
out of the palanqueen, but discovered nothing in my home that was
different from other houses in East India. It is of two storeys, with
a flat roof, and surrounded with a varanda, which is a sort of
penthouse shelter supported on poles, and all closed in with long
checks, like what we call Venetian blinds. There is a handsome flight
of stone steps leading to the front door, but the house itself is
built of _pucca_, which is a sort of cement made of dust and lime
mixed with molasses and chopped-up hemp. A whole parcel of servants
came gliding from all quarters as we mounted the steps, and the
Captain addressed them in English.

“Where’s the Beebee?”[4.01] he said.

One of the servants, who seemed the chief, made some answer in his own
language, which I understood to signify that the Beebee was out.

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the Captain, very angry. “Here’s
the _chuta Beebee_” (this means young lady, Amelia), “your master’s
daughter, just arrived off her journey, and no one to receive her!
What’s that you say?” for the servant had proposed something in a very
humble style. “Yes, send for her _iya_[4.02] by all means.”

I knew that _iya_ meant maid-servant, and I looked on with great
curiosity as the servant brought back with him a yellow-faced woman in
gay clothes.

“Here, Bowanny,” said Captain Colquhoun, but stopped suddenly. “Sure
you en’t the woman that was to come to wait on Miss Freyne with my
Lady Russell’s good word?”

“No, sir,” says the woman, and I observed that she did not say
_saeb_,[4.03] like the other servants. “Me Madam’s servant before,
but when she see Bowanny, she choose her, and set me to wait on
Missy.”

“And what do you call yourself?”

“Me Marianna da Souza, sir--good Portugal blood.”

“Indeed!” says the Captain, somewhat rudely, as I thought. “Well,
madam,” turning to me, “this person is your attendant, you’ll
perceive. I trust you’ll find her obliging and obedient. For your
comfort I may say that Mrs Freyne has always been counted the best
dressed woman in Calcutta. And now, unless I can serve you further,
I’ll take my leave. Your cabin trunks will arrive shortly. I placed
’em in charge of a couple of _cooleys_.”

“Oh, pray, sir,” said I, “permit me to express the deep obligation you
have laid me under by your kindness----” but he was departing.

“I am promised to sup with Mr Freyne to-night, madam,” he said on the
steps, “and I’ll hope to find you recovered from your fatigues.”

Indeed, my Amelia, I felt ready to drop as I followed the woman into
the house, which seemed dark and hot instead of bright and hot like
the air outside. Marianna desired to show me the chamber where I
should lie, and to bring me a dish of tea there, and you may guess I
did not refuse it. The chamber to which she led me was large enough,
and would have been airy had there been any air moving. There was but
little furniture, and that of Chinese make, in quaint and pleasing
shapes fashioned out of the bamboo. But the bed--ah, there was a
disappointment for me! To understand my feelings, you must know that
during all these weary months on shipboard I have comforted myself
perpetually for the bare and narrow shelves of the cabin with the
prospect of finding at my papa’s house such a bed as we should
consider good in England. And, indeed, the bedstead was sufficiently
genteel, the posts elegantly carved and inlaid with ivory, but instead
of the feather-bed and pillows I had pictured to myself, there was
only a meagre mattress and cushion such as we had used on board ship.
And the curtains! no substantial woollen stuff--such as those within
whose ample shade my Amelia and I have often exchanged confidences far
into the night, holding our breath while Mrs Abigail prowled about
outside, lest she should discover our wakefulness and peer in upon us
with, “Pray, young ladies, are you asleep?” (Do you remember, Amelia,
that once I innocently answered, “Oh yes, indeed, madam, we
are”?)--the curtains, I say, were not of this sort, but a flimsy kind
of muslin or fine netting, apt enough to keep out the _musketoes_, but
admitting freely every current of air. I was the more disturbed to
observe this, since the windows were defended only by screens of woven
reeds, and not by glass.

“Sure,” I said to Marianna, “it must be vastly dangerous to the health
to admit the night air so freely?”

“If Missy not have air in Bengall, Missy die,” was her answer, and
this in as smiling and complaisant a tone as if she had uttered the
most charming prophecy imaginable.

“With what cheerfulness and philosophy do these poor people
contemplate death!” I reflected, somewhat ashamed to have exhibited my
apprehensions before her, as she went to fetch my tea, but since I did
not choose that my first night at Bengall should also be my last, I
resigned myself to this outlandish style of sleeping. Before I had
drunk my dish of tea my trunks arrived, and I was able to change my
clothes and put on a silk nightgown instead of my travelling-suit,
which was a huge refreshment. And after that I am ashamed to say that
I dozed on my couch, while Marianna unpacked my clothes, moving about
the chamber with the lightest tread in the world, until I was awakened
by the noise of palanqueens’ setting down in the courtyard, and
presently a message came that Mrs Freyne desired me to attend her in
the saloon. My dearest Miss Turnor will be at no loss to imagine my
apprehension as I followed Marianna, and will guess that my heart was
in my mouth when I stepped into the saloon, where three ladies were
seated enjoying an elegant collation of fruits and sweetmeats. I
divined at once which was Mrs Freyne, and at the first glance I
determined that my stepmother was a very beautiful young woman, but
this opinion did not last. My Amelia won’t think me censorious, for I
experienced a feeling of disappointment that a face which seemed at
first sight extraordinary handsome should come so far short of beauty.
There’s a general _something_, that I can’t express, which spoils it.
No one feature is bad, but none is quite good. The eyes are a little
too small and far apart, and of a blue a little too light, as the hair
is of somewhat too pale a golden; the nose is a little too short, the
lips a little too thin, and the chin a little too much pointed. Such
trifles as all these are, yet they spoil the face. For her clothes, my
stepmother was wearing a very fine nightgown of white gauze striped
with gold, and a Brussels mob trimmed with French flowers, and this
dress was well designed to show off the air of great elegance and
languor which I observe to be the peculiar[4.04] of all the Calcutta
ladies.

“So you’re arrived, miss!” she said to me. “Had you a short voyage?”

“A monstrous long one, madam. Near ten months.”

“It don’t seem to have done you no harm. I see you’ve brought a pair
of red cheeks with you, which is thought vastly ungenteel in Bengall.”

My cheeks were red at that moment, Amelia, I’ll assure you, and I was
grateful to one of the other ladies, who seemed a good-natured sort of
body, and made room for me on the settee beside her. There I sat, like
a good little Miss out of the nursery, to be seen and not heard, and
listened to all that was said, while nobody spoke to me, until Miss
Dorman, the lady next me, turned and said--

“Have you unpacked your gowns yet, miss? All Calcutta will be agog to
see ’em, I’ll assure you.”

“Oh, indeed,” says Mrs Freyne, in a great to-do, “Miss is only just
off her journey, and too tired to go showing her clothes this evening.
I won’t hear of it. You shall see ’em in good time, miss, I promise
you.”

Miss Dorman smiled in rather a droll fashion as she rose to take her
leave.

“Pray, miss,” says my stepmother to me, “attend the ladies to their
palanqueens,” and I obeyed her.

“Don’t let Madam frighten you, dear Miss,” whispered Miss Dorman to me
in the hall. “An English colour is excessively admired in Calcutta, I
can tell you, and the plainest woman will pass for a beauty so long as
she keeps it. I did, so I know.”

I was sorry for her as she offered me this kind consolation, for sure
she’s no beauty now, though well enough, and I began to perceive why
young ladies going to Bengall should be in such haste to get married.
Not that this consideration changed my feelings on the matter, for
indeed I would get rid of my English colour to-morrow, if that would
serve me as a protection. Well, I saw the ladies into their
palanqueens, and then returned to the parlour, where I looked at Mrs
Freyne, and she at me.

“I would have you know, miss,” said she, “that I don’t purpose to put
myself out for you in any way. If Mr Freyne had been guided by me, he
would have instructed his friends in England to set on foot a treaty
of marriage for you with some respectable person there, instead of
dragging you half round the world to find a spouse. But since he has
chose to bring you out here, pray understand that I won’t carry you at
my apron-string to every party of pleasure I may attend.”

“Indeed, madam,” I said, “I don’t doubt but I shall be able to make
myself happy at home when you don’t please to take me out with you. I
hope I shall always be ready to oblige my mamma in any way I can.” I
was resolved to get the word out (though I hated to utter it), both
because I was anxious to do my duty, and because I hoped it might
render her better inclined towards me. But this was not the case.

“Never let me hear you call me that again, miss!” she said. “En’t it
enough to have to take about with me a great creature near as old as I
am and half a head taller, without her insulting me by making out
she’s my daughter? You must know that I would never have married Mr
Freyne if I had thought he would insist on bringing you out, so it
behoves you to be as meek as possible.”

“I’ll do my best to oblige you, madam,” I said.

“Well, I must change my dress for supper,” she said, as a black woman
came and stood silently at the door. “Your nightgown and mob will do
well enough, miss, so don’t change ’em. We are only a small company
to-night.”

She went out, and I sat aghast for a moment, then looked round for
some diversion, for in fact, my dearest friend, I was too great a
coward not to seek to occupy my mind. I durst not think. There were
two books on a table near me, and I took them up. One was a French
novel, which did not please me, the other a volume of Archbishop
Tillotson’s sermons, but with half the leaves torn out, and the rest
all singed with curling-tongs. I was turning them over, wondering who
could have so misused such a book, when I heard voices, and jumped up
all in a fright, for the one voice was Captain Colquhoun’s, and I
could not doubt but the other was my papa’s. If I had been disturbed
at the prospect of meeting my stepmother, what was the state of my
feelings now? My heart swelled, and was thumping fit to burst, as a
fine portly gentleman came in at the door, following the Captain.

“Why, who’s this?” he cried.

“Your daughter, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, and hearing my doubts
resolved, I could forbear no longer, but ran across the room and threw
myself at my papa’s feet, seizing his hand and bedewing it with my
tears. I fear my agitation must have disturbed Mr Freyne, for all he
could say was, “Hey, Sylvy? hey, my girl?” touching my hair with his
other hand.

“Oh, won’t my papa bestow his blessing on his child?” I sobbed,
looking up at him with eyes streaming with tears. He failed to
understand what I said.

“Hang me if I know what the girl would be at!” he said, gruffly.

“I believe, sir, that Miss is entreating your blessing,” says Captain
Colquhoun, with his stiffest air.

“There, there, child! God bless you!” says my papa. “Get up, and don’t
cry. I want to have a look at my girl.”

I rose as he bade me, and dried my eyes as well as I could, and he led
me to the window, to look into my face with the aid of the wax candles
which were now set alight under glass shades on the varanda. “The
living image of my lost charmer!” he said, kissing me kindly. “Han’t
my girl got a kiss for her old father?”

I put my arms about his neck, and was bold enough to kiss him two or
three times, but it did not seem to displease him, for he blessed me
again, and I think there was tears in his eyes. “I could believe that
I saw your mother alive again, child,” he said. “But there’s no need
to let Madam know that. ’Twould vex her sorely, poor woman, and we
should never hear the end of it. Your coming out has been a sad trial
to her, miss.”

Captain Colquhoun coughed somewhat loudly, and Mr Freyne remembered
his presence. “Come in, Captain, come in,” he cried. “I want to
present you to my daughter.”

“I have had the honour already of meeting Miss, sir, and of offering
her some slight service in a sufficiently disagreeable situation, for
she was landed at the Gott from Mr Hamlin’s budgero with no means of
getting here.”

“What! wasn’t my budgero sent for her, nor so much as a palanqueen to
the Gott?” cried my papa, and turned upon Mrs Freyne, who came into
the parlour very fine, as I saw to my surprise, in a dressed suit and
a fly cap.[4.05] “Pray, madam, how is it you showed such neglect
towards my daughter? Must I be at the pain of giving all my orders
myself when I leave home for three or four days? Wasn’t it understood
when I married you that you was to relieve me of all these points of
ceremony? What else did I do it for?”

I took the words as a jest, though they seemed to me harsh enough to
hear even then, but Mrs Freyne shut her fan with a snap that bade fair
to break the sticks, and said, “Indeed, sir, I can’t guess, no more
than I can tell why I married you.”

“Oh yes, madam, you can,” says my papa, “or your clothes and jewels
would tell it for you.” He seemed about to continue, but I catched his
hand boldly.

“Oh, pray, sir, dear sir, don’t let me be a cause of dissension
between you and Mrs Freyne,” I said, and I think my face must have
exhibited to him the agony I felt.

“Don’t be a fool, child,” he said, but not roughly. “When you are
married, you’ll know better than think every hasty word a tragedy. But
sure you don’t look to get a husband if you come to supper in an
undress? We’ll pardon a nightgown and mob this first evening, but the
Calcutta ladies go very fine, and I don’t want my girl to fall behind
them.”

“O’ my conscience, sir, you are on monstrous familiar terms with your
daughter already,” said Mrs Freyne. “Perhaps you’ll forgive my asking
who it is you expect to supper?”

“Why, two or three fine gentlemen that all chanced to have business at
this end of the town, and to be passing just at the time I came home,
madam. They had never heard that I had a handsome daughter just landed
from England, of course--hey, Miss Sylvy? And as I came through the
town I met the _Zemindar_ and the _Padra_, and asked them in.”

“Which Padra?” asked Mrs Freyne. (This is the name by which all
clergymen are known here, Amelia.)

“Why, the old Padra, madam, our good Mr Bellamy.”

“That man!” cried Mrs Freyne. “I do think, Mr Freyne, that if you must
invite a divine, you might oblige me so far as to let it be Mr
Mapletoft.”

“But I don’t think so, madam. Be sure Parson Mapletoft is far better
in the bosom of his family than rustling about here in his best
cassock, and flourishing his white hands to show off his fine lace and
his diamond ring.”

“The _chuta Padra_ is a person of taste and spirit,” says Mrs Freyne.
“Mr Bellamy is no better than any of the gentlemen of the place.”

“I am thankful if I’m no worse than Mr Bellamy, madam,” says my papa,
and some of the guests arriving, we moved into the dining-parlour. Mr
Bellamy, who is the senior chaplain of the factory, a cheerful and
respectable person, handed Mrs Freyne, and I found myself taken in by
Mr Holwell, whom every one called the Zemindar, a gentleman of a
serious and somewhat troubled aspect. He spoke little to me, but I
found abundant entertainment in listening to the general conversation,
although there was much that I could not understand. But as you know,
my dear, your Sylvia is afflicted with an invincible desire to know
all that there is to be known, and as soon as supper was over, and we
were gone out on the varanda, where the checks were drawn up, so that
we could see the stars, I seized upon Captain Colquhoun. “Pray, sir,”
I said, “be so good as to tell me the meaning of all those words I
hear the gentlemen use.”

“_All_ of them, madam? Are they so many, then?”

“Why, yes, sir. I can think of nothing but the letter with which the
East India officer confounded the pedant in the last volume of ‘Sir
Charles Grandison.’ Pray, sir, who is Mohabut Jing, and the _Chuta
Nabob_, and what is a Zemindar and a Go-master? I know what Moors and
Gentoos are, but what are To-passes and Fringys? What are _hummums_
and _soosies_, and _seersuchers_ and _kenchees_, and by what names are
all these tribes of servants called that I see everywhere?”

“Why, madam, you have set me a task indeed. To tell you the offices of
all your servants alone would take me pretty near the whole night.
There’s your papa’s _mohurry_, who is his clerk for the Company’s
business, and his _banyan_, who is both his private clerk and his
chief servant. There’s his _secar_, who keeps his money and pays the
wages; and his _compidore_, who goes a-marketing and helps the banyan;
and the _kissmagar_, that stands behind his master’s chair and looks
after his clothes. There’s the _consummer_, who in England would be
called the butler; and the _peon_, who guards his master and beats the
other servants. There’s the _mussall chye_, that runs before the
palanqueen o’ nights; and the _pyke_, that watches in the varanda and
lets no robbers in but his own friends. And there’s a whole parcel
more, down to the sweeper and the _harry_, which is the wench that
brings water, but sure a longer list will but incommode you at
present.”[4.06]

“I’ll do my best to make sure of these, sir, and then I’ll ask you for
more.” And I am setting the names down here, both to assist me in
remembering them, and also that my Amelia may learn them too. For I
foresee that before I have been long at Bengall, I shall use these
outlandish words without thinking of them, as do the ladies and
gentlemen here, and I had as lief not puzzle my dearest friend more
than I can help. “But, pray, sir,” I continued, “tell me some of the
other words I asked you.”

“Why, indeed, madam, as for _soosies_ and _kenchees_ and the like,
they are different kinds of cloths made in this country, of which I
en’t merchant enough to give you a particular account. The To-passes
(called so because they wear _topees_ or hats) are the country-born
Portuguese, like your serving-wench yonder; and Fringys[4.07] is a
vulgar Moorish name for Frenchmen and other Europeans, and also the
Armenians. Then I fancy you desired to know what is a Zemindar, such
as our good friend Mr Holwell. He is both Judge of the Court of
Cutcherry, which decides all matters in dispute among the Indians in
the Company’s bounds, and he collects the taxes on merchandises and
articles manufactured in the Presidency. A Go-master is an Indian
agent, who is sent into the country to buy the cloth for the Company
from the brokers, who buy it from those who weave it. Until five or
six years back this business was done by other Indians working on
their own account, called Dadney merchants, who should have dealt
honestly with the Company, and did not, to their own damage, for the
work was put under European superintendence, just as the corruption
and dishonesty of the former black Zemindar led to his being deprived
of his office, to the great advantage of the place. Was there anything
more you desired to know, madam?”

“Why, yes, sir. About the persons with the strange names, to be sure.”

“I ask your pardon for my negligence, madam. Mohabut Jing, whom some
call Ally Verdy Cawn, is the Nabob of Bengall, and dwells at
Muxadavad,[4.08] a great city lying close to our factory of
Cossimbuzar.[4.09] The term Nabob signifies a deputy, or what the
Portuguese call a viceroy, and Mohabut Jing affects to consider the
Mogul Emperor of Delly[4.10] his master, though in reality he rules
for himself alone. Having attained his present situation by violence,
he has held it with a strong hand, though unable to resist the
encroachments of the Morattoes,[4.11] a fierce pagan nation from the
Decan. These came so far as to invade Bengall some thirteen years ago,
at which time the Indian inhabitants of the Company’s territory sought
leave, in a panic, to dig a great ditch all round the place at their
own charges. Three miles of this fortification was made, and then
stopped as unnecessary, for the Nabob came to an accommodation with
the Morattoes, giving up to them the province of Orixa,[4.12] and
consenting to pay them a tribute, which they call _chout_, for sparing
Bengall. This he did, fearing lest the European factories would take
the side of the Morattoes, and so drive him out; for he goes very much
in fear of us, and desired to have leisure to humble our pride. And
this he has done by forbidding any hostilities in Bengall when there
was war at home, and also in the Carnatic, between Britain and
France--a prohibition which was, as you may guess, the most irksome
thing in the world to us. ’Tis his aim to reduce our trade to the
level of that of the Armenians, which is carried on merely on
sufferance, whereas we are here in virtue of the _phirmaunds_ and
_husbulhookums_[4.13] granted to us by several of the emperors.”

“But sure, sir, Britons would never submit to such a spoliation?”

“I am not saying they would, madam. But Ally Verdy en’t our worst
enemy, for he’s a man of sense and of some honour, if I may speak so
of a Moor. But he has lately raised to the _musnet_,[4.14] or as we
would say, adopted as his heir, his grandson, a youth of the vilest
disposition, called Surajah Dowlah, and from him we have little better
to hope than we would from a tyger. He is the _Chuta Nabob_ concerning
whom you was pleased to inquire.”

“But pray, sir, tell me more of this person.”

“Why, madam, what little I could tell you would be as displeasing for
you to hear as for me to relate.”

I went as red as fire, I am sure. “Oh, sir, pray pardon me if I have
trespassed on your patience. I know I’m a sad creature for asking
questions, and I fear you’ll think I’m intruding into matters too high
for a young woman to concern herself with.”

For I remembered, Amelia (how can I ever forget it?), that dreadful
day at Holly-tree House, when the Rector brought his brother, the
Admiral, to wait on our instructresses. You’ll know with what spirit
the dear good gentleman described the last fleet action in which he
had taken part, and how I was carried away by my excitements, and
asked him all sorts of questions about the ships and their
disposition. He saluted me at parting, you’ll remember, and said to
Mrs Eustacia, “I dare be bound, madam, this pretty little Miss could
write as fair an account of the fight as any clerk I ever had on board
ship,” which piece of kindness puffed me up not a little. But when he
was gone away with his brother, I was sent for to Mrs Eustacia, and
chidden for meddling in matters with which I had no concern. There was
nothing, said the good lady, that was so much disliked by gentlemen as
the affectation of masculine knowledge in a young woman, and if I was
so unhappy as to be cursed with a taste for severe learning, it
behoved me to conceal it as I would the plague. And so I have always
strove to do, aided by the kind condescension that prompts most
gentlemen to turn the answer to a lady’s question into a compliment to
her eyes or her smile, but this inquisitive spirit of mine (what am I
to do with it, my dear?) is perpetually leading me wrong. But Captain
Colquhoun was more tender to my fault than Mrs Eustacia had been.

“Indeed, madam,” he said, “I could wish there was more of our ladies
here with your laudable desire of knowledge. If they took these things
into account, there might be less of that grasping and grinding for
money, which is making us (saving your presence) to stink in the
nostrils of the Indians. But when every one is seeking to outshine her
neighbours, and luxury is come to such a pitch among us that Rome
herself can’t scarce have been worse, what wonder that money is sought
by the sale of _dussticks_[4.15] and in other irregular ways, to the
great damage of the Nabob and our eternal discredit?”

“Then you look for a judgment upon this place, sir?”

“I look for an invasion sooner or later of our territory on the part
of the Chuta Nabob, madam, unless heaven should interpose and raise
one of the other claimants to the _soubahship_[4.16] in his place.
And when that invasion comes, here are we, with the Fort all tumbling
to pieces, the guns useless, no powder, and a militia that don’t know
one end of their muskets from t’other.”

“And is this the fault of the Company, sir?”

“No, madam. The Company sent out orders for the drilling of the
militia by the Godolphin four years ago, and this year they have
ordered positively the repair of the fortifications on two separate
occasions, chiefly on account of the threatened war with France. But
Colonel Scott, who prepared the complete plan of defence which was
ordered to be carried out, is dead, and Mr Drake and the gentlemen of
the Presidency won’t listen to any one of less responsible station. So
the work is hung up, as the lawyers say, and when the place is plunged
in one common ruin, all will suffer alike, though with different
deserts.”

This and some further conversation to the same effect has made me (as
I may without shame confess to my Amelia) almost afraid to sleep in my
bed, lest I should find myself aroused at midnight by the terrors of a
Moorish invasion. Here, where there’s no Whigs nor Tories, I am become
as strong a party-woman, to use Mr Addison’s phrase, as any of the
ladies of whom he wrote; and should the fashion arise, as in his days,
of wearing hoods differing in colour according to the politics of the
wearers, I should be among the first to adopt it. Let me see: our side
would choose red, I suppose, as signifying our desire for warlike
preparations, while the ladies of Mr Drake’s party would wear the
Quaker gray. I think our party would have the best of it, Amelia;
don’t you?


                                 Calcutta, _September ye_ 21_st._

’Tis time, indeed, that I brought this letter to a close; but there’s
one or two things I must first put down, though at the risque of my
dear girl’s thinking me a sad tedious scribbler. I have found the way,
Amelia, into my stepmother’s favour--a thing that would be altogether
charming, were it not that the means thereto are such as, to borrow a
phrase from our great but neglected British poet, would leave me poor
indeed. But you shall hear. On Saturday, then, my trunks, which had
been in the hold of the Orford, were brought to the house, and I was
extraordinary well pleased, for I had feared to be forced to stay from
church the next day for want of a suitable gown. Mrs Freyne was to the
full as glad as I, and shut herself up with me in my chamber to see
the trunks unpacked, telling the banyan, who performs such services of
ceremony here, to deny her to her visitants, using the phrase “The
door is shut,” which is so understood by everybody. Well, as Marianna
unfolded and laid out one gown after another, I could see that Mrs
Freyne became less and less contented, and at last she burst out
with--

“I vow, miss, you have a prodigious great store of clothes. Pray how
much did Mr Freyne send home for providing you with ’em?”

“I don’t know, madam,” I said, and I was thankful to be able to say
so. “The gentlewomen at Holly-tree House were bid to provide them, and
account to Mr Freyne, within a certain sum.”

“You might have been coming out as a married woman,” says my
stepmother, smoothing the satin of my white quilted petticoat. “I
never saw a young Miss so absurdly well provided. Look you there now;
you have three--four--silk night-gowns, and questionless a dozen or
two of muslin ones.”

“No, madam, I have none of muslin. Mrs Abigail said they would be made
cheaper here, and the limit of the money not exceeded.”

Mrs Freyne’s countenance cleared. “Why then,” she said, “I’ll show you
what’s to be done. You shall give me two of these silk night-gowns,
and I’ll have half a dozen muslin ones made for you from stuff that I
have lying by, and so you’ll be properly dressed and not
over-furnished.”

“As you please, madam,” said I. But I was glad she left me the white
damask and the yellow lustring, and took the blue and the green,
which, as you know, I was not so pleased with. But I trembled when I
saw her considering my blush-coloured paduasoy with the silver lace.
If she had laid hands on it, I must have ventured to suggest to her
that the hue was not becoming to ladies of such a delicate complexion
as hers, but only to brown girls with a high colour, like your Sylvia.
But she passed it over, and after requesting of me such trifles as an
apron or two and a French necklace,[4.17] came to my head-clothes.

“Indeed you’re not badly off for lace!” she said. “Three heads,[4.18]
as I’m alive--two Brussels and a Mechlin. I’m sure you can’t want this
Brussels mob, miss.”

“Oh, pray, madam,” I said in a great taking, “you are welcome to the
other two, but leave me that one.”

“I think it’s very ill-natured in you, miss, to say that when you know
I have set my heart on it. How can you be so unamiable? I like to see
a young woman facetious[4.19] to those about her.”

“Indeed I can’t give it you, madam,” I said, “for the lace was my
mother’s, but if you’ll accept of the loan of it----”

“I see you en’t so disobliging as I thought,” said she graciously, and
carried off the cap, though I would have given almost any of my other
clothes to have kept it. But she has treated me much more obligingly
since, and now that I know the way into her good graces, I shan’t
forget the lesson, though to practise it might cost me all my
favourite gowns, even to my mother’s white brocade flowered with gold.
But no, I had forgot. She won’t want that, though she was mightily
taken with the fashion of it (it was made over after the pattern of
the Princess Emily’s gown for the last Birth-night,[4.20] my dearest
friend will remember), for she said the stuff might have come out of
Noah’s Ark.

The next day we went to church in state, all of us in our palanqueens,
with the peon marching before, and boys with fans and so on following
behind. I was wearing my paduasoy, with the ribbons to match in my
cap, and before we started my papa was so very kind as to place round
my neck a collar of pearls, so large and white and fine that a queen
might wear them, and I could scarce believe they were really designed
for me. Mrs Freyne wore a very fine flowered satin, with the
embroidered apron she had from me, and her diamonds made me wink to
look at them. Forgive me, my dear, for entering into such particulars
on such an occasion. I can’t tell why it should be that the Calcutta
people should make such a show and parade of one’s first appearance at
church, any more than why we in England should do the same on the
Sunday after a wedding, but it is to them as important as an
appearance at Court. I must tell you that I had devised a little plan
with Miss Hamlin, which she succeeded in carrying out with the
greatest exactness imaginable. Our respective processions (I can’t
find any other word for it) approaching from opposite directions, we
reached the church _compound_ (which means an enclosure) at the same
time, but at different gates, so that the gentlemen who were waiting
to catch sight of the newly-arrived ladies were drawn two ways at
once, and divided their forces. Still, there were enough of them to
cause me great uneasiness, as they all pressed round to help me from
the palanqueen, desiring to be allowed to hand me into church, or to
carry a prayer-book, a fan, or even a handkerchief. I was so pressed
and pestered that I didn’t know what to do, and suddenly catching
sight of Captain Colquhoun on the outskirts of the crowd, I beckoned
to him with my fan (I hope it wasn’t very forward in me), and he came
and lent me his hand into the church. As we entered, in came Miss
Hamlin at the opposite door, and handing her was the very gentleman we
had seen standing in the gateway of the Fort on our arrival. We made
our honours to each other as we passed to our pews, and there, with
the Indian boys flapping us with feather fans, and the eyes of half
the congregation fixed on one whenever the time came to stand up, I
did my best to compose my thoughts suitably to the solemnity of the
service. I am ashamed to say that I never found it so hard in my life.

After an excellent discourse from good Mr Bellamy (I had now commanded
my thoughts sufficiently to be able to listen to it with attention),
we passed out into the church porch, and there was such a bowing and
curtseying and whispering and staring as you never saw. Every moment
it was, “Pray, sir, present me to your lovely daughter,” or, “Do, dear
madam, make me acquainted with this charming Miss,” and kind things
enough said to confuse a London beauty, much more a poor girl just
fresh from her boarding-school, as Miss Hamlin has so great a fancy
for reminding me. And, indeed, Amelia, I was so flurried and flustered
with trying to curtsey all ways at once, and with saying, “Sir, you’re
most obliging”--“Madam, you are too good”--“Dear sir, you overpower
me”--“Pray, madam, don’t make me blush with your kindness” (though I
think it far from kind, and quite barbarous, to praise a young
creature’s looks to her very face, till she don’t know whither to turn
her eyes),--that I don’t know what would have happened if it had not
been for Miss Hamlin. This extraordinary young lady had been receiving
the compliments of the gentlemen with all the composure of a queen,
though now and then she would lift her eyes and reply with a witty
sentiment that set all but one of her admirers laughing at that one;
but now, when we were both beset by some twenty importunate persons,
all crying, “Madam, permit me the honour”--“Allow me, madam”--“Madam,
your most obedient,” desiring to hand us to our palanqueens, she
stepped across suddenly to me, and, seizing my hand, led me down the
steps. “We can’t allow you all the pleasure and the honour,
gentlemen,” she said, holding up her fan to shelter her from the sun.
“Sure you won’t none of you grudge a little of it to Miss Freyne and
me?”

I heard the gentlemen shout with laughter at the whimsical drollery of
her tone, and I laughed myself, though I made sure we should not find
our palanqueens among those at the foot of the steps, and should be
forced to beg one of the gentlemen we had scorned to go in search of
them. But there, to my surprise, they were, and Miss Hamlin handed me
in with the most graceful air in the world.

“Oh dear, miss,” said I, “what should we have done if this had not
happened so pat?”

“Happened?” says she. “I had it happen, sweet innocence. I gave my
uncle’s peon his orders before church, and let me tell you, miss, that
if that blackfellow think it safe to disobey any one’s orders at our
house, it en’t those of the Chuta Beebee.”

“But shan’t we discommode Mr and Mrs Hamlin by bringing ’em to this
door, miss?”

“No, indeed, miss. Why, we are all coming to _tiffing_ at your papa’s,
and our elders ought to thank me for ridding ’em so soon of the
gentlemen.”

But we were not yet rid of the gentlemen, for they came down the steps
in a body, headed by our fellow-passenger, Mr Ranger, and by Mr Ensign
Bellamy, the Padra’s son, and with much raillery about the rival
beauties, and the pretence of devoted friendship to deceive the
looker-on, proceeded to _escorte_ us home, marching before and behind
our palanqueens, which they insisted should be carried exactly
abreast. On reaching the house, we were handed out with great ceremony
by our chief cavaliers, the rest of the gentlemen standing and bowing,
and my papa, who had reached home by a shorter way, invited them all
into the varanda to drink our healths. For indeed he was pleased to be
charmed, not only with the honour the gentlemen had done us, as they
considered it, but with Miss Hamlin’s action on the church-steps, and
said afterwards that she was a fine, handsome, sprightly girl, and he
would not be sorry to see me with a touch of her spirit, but my
stepmother called her a bold-faced slut.

The things I have mentioned all happened the day before yesterday, and
last evening, finding Mrs Freyne about to set forth to an assembly at
my Lady Russell’s house in the Rope-walk, I wondered whether she would
bid me attend her there, since I was now introduced into the world of
Calcutta. But she said nothing of taking me with her, and started
alone, while I sat down and wrote these sheets to my Amelia, since my
papa was gone to sup with the Governor at the Company’s house on the
other side of the Fort. To my surprise, however, he returned home
early in the evening, and testifying some vexation on finding me
alone, offered to carry me for an airing in the budgero on the water
in the moonlight. You’ll guess that I accepted his kindness with
transports of gratitude, and sure the occasion had been a charming
one, even if it had not brought the added pleasure of his dear
company. But as it fell out, he was good enough to speak to me in so
tender and affecting a manner as I could describe to no one but my
dearest friend.

“Has any one here remarked to you that you are like your mother,
miss?” he asked me.

“No, sir; no one but yourself.”

_Mr Freyne_. And yet to me every turn of your head, every motion of
your arm, recalls her to mind. But I suppose few would remember her.

_Sylvia_. It must be near eighteen years since she left Fort William,
sir.

_Mr F_. True, my girl, and our generations are but short ones in
Bengall. Yet it seems to me, seeing you, only yesterday that I took
leave of my Sally on the deck of the Sunderland (for I had accompanied
her out to sea as far as I might go). The iya stood behind her,
holding her infant (that was you, miss), christened by the Padra in
haste that very day. Your mother would have you named Sylvia, saying
that her own name was so ugly she would choose a sweet pretty one for
her baby, and ’twas as much for your sake as her own that she embarked
upon that voyage to the Cape of Good Hope which the physician said
would save both your lives, for that season was a prodigious unhealthy
one at Fort William. The Company’s rule forbids its servants to leave
their posts unless sent on business by the Council here, and I durst
not throw up the Service if I did not wish us all to starve. So I went
back to my work, and managed to scrape together a sufficiency of money
to enable me to hire the house we now have from Omy Chund, the Gentoo
_shroff_[4.21] that owns half Calcutta. ’Twas an agreeable place
enough, and cooler than my old quarters in the Fort, and I watched for
the coming of the ships from home, which should bring my Sally back to
me from the Cape. Instead of that, the first that arrived brought me
the news of her death. She had died at sea, and the child was gone on
to England with its nurse, to be bred up, as its mother had desired,
by the two French gentlewomen who had instructed herself. Does my girl
recollect anything of that voyage?

_Sylvia_ (_weeping_). Nothing, sir. I was barely a year old when I
reached Holly-tree House.

_Mr F_. And you knew as little of your papa as he of you. In mourning
my lost charmer I forgot the sweet little pledge of our loves which
she had left me. Was there anything to remind you that you possessed
a living parent, child?

_Sylvia_. Indeed, dear sir, there was not much. The other young Misses
could talk of their papas’ kindness to them in their holidays, but all
times were the same to me. Once or twice you were good enough to say
in your letters to Mrs Eustacia, “I hope Miss is a good girl, and
minds her book,” and I’ll assure you the school could scarce contain
me, I was so proud to be remembered so far away.

_Mr F_. At times I could almost wish that I had left the Service five
years ago, and gone home to settle down somewhere with my girl. But,
no; I had not money enough, and must make more. And make it I did, and
am making it every day more and more--for Madam to spend.

_Sylvia_. Sure, sir, Mrs Freyne lays it out with great elegance.

_Mr F_. Questionless, miss. But I had as lief the money and the
elegance had been some other man’s. There’s a pleasing quality of your
sex, that they can’t endure for any one to be indifferent towards ’em.
When Miss Harriet Quinion from Madrass came to visit her relations
here, and had the whole place at her feet, sure ’twas more than kind
in her to take no satisfaction in the admiration she received because
there was one old fellow that had no part in it. I dare avouch that
Henry Freyne’s coldness piqued her more than all her conquests pleased
her. At any rate, she was determined to overcome it, and brought all
her feminine artillery to bear on the man that was still wedded to the
memory of a wife dead these fifteen years. All the ladies gave her
their assistance, of course--they love to hunt down one that they
believe a contemner of their sex--and you don’t need telling what the
event was, which gave me the honour of keeping Mrs Freyne in gowns and
equipages, and blessed you, miss, with the tender care of a
stepmother, for which I don’t doubt you have often thanked me with
tears.

_Sylvia_. Oh pray, dear sir, don’t think I have ventured to cavil at
anything you may choose to do. En’t it your right to please yourself?

_Mr F_. To please myself! Quite so, and I did it, you would say, miss?
But it did not please Madam to have you out here at all, not knowing
your dutiful inclinations towards her. Indeed, I was almost resolved,
for your own sake, to request your instructresses to see you married
at home, with no question of coming out, but Madam over-reached
herself there. Knowing nothing of my intentions, she kept up such a
clamour at me about you, that hearing Mrs Hamlin was to bring out her
niece this year, I took a sudden determination, and wrote that you
should come with her.

_Sylvia_. How can I ever thank you enough, dear sir?

_Mr F_. What, you were glad to come? But how long am I to keep you,
miss, pray? Are you to be married to-morrow or the day after?

_Sylvia_ (_trembling_). Oh, dear sir, if I might venture to
entreat----

_Mr F_. (_roughly_). Out with it, miss. Are you married already?

_Sylvia_. Oh no, no, sir. All I desired was to ask that I might be
permitted to lead a single life for the present, and devote myself to
my dear papa, of whom I have seen so little.

_Mr F_. (_looking stern_). This means, miss, that you’re entertaining
some lover whom you don’t dare present to me.

_Sylvia_. Forgive me, dear sir, but you wrong me. My papa will believe
me when I assure him that there’s no one I could marry sooner than
another.

_Mr F_. Then pray, miss, what does all this mean that Madam has been
telling me, having heard it from Mrs Hamlin, about some nephew of
Captain Colquhoun’s?

_Sylvia_. I don’t know, sir, I’m sure, what you may have heard from
Mrs Freyne, but the only relative of the Captain with whom I am
acquainted is the humble servant of another lady.

_Mr F_. It en’t an unheard-of thing for a lover to change his
divinity.

_Sylvia_. Indeed, sir, I can assure you that the very last time I saw
him the gentleman protested to me his unaltered devotion to his
original charmer.

_Mr F_. Then Madam has been trying to make mischief, curse me if she
hasn’t! Give me a kiss, my girl. You deserve something for answering
with so much sense and calmness questions over which most young Misses
would have fallen into fits, and you shan’t be drove into any marriage
to please her. You may have this coming cold weather to look about you
and decide whom you’ll have. But mind you, there’s to be no coquetting
first with one and then with another. The first sign I see of that, I
vow I’ll marry you off next day to the oldest and ugliest gentleman of
my acquaintance. I won’t have half the young sparks of Calcutta
killing t’other half in duels about my daughter.

_Sylvia_. ’Twill be no hardship to me to obey you, sir. I believe I
prefer the elder gentlemen to the younger. If you choose, I’ll adopt
Captain Colquhoun as my cavalier whenever he’s present.

_Mr F_. As you did yesterday? By all means, miss. But you’re not to
set yourself to break the poor Captain’s heart because you think him
old and ugly. He’s the most respectable person in Calcutta, save Padra
Bellamy and one or two more, and also the most foolish and the worst
treated.

_Sylvia_. You surprise me, sir.

_Mr F_. He’s the most foolish because, in company with Captain Jones
of the Train,[4.22] he persists in running his head against a stone
wall. Only last week they were told not to come troubling the Council
with their nonsense, having been pressing them for the hundredth time
to put the place into a state of defence. And he’s also foolish
because, when he might have been transferred two years ago to the
Carnatic he refused to go, lest he should seem to be running away from
his enemies here, and you won’t wonder that he’s ill-treated after
what I have told you.

This, my Amelia, ended our conversation, which has filled me with a
hundred grateful thoughts of my dear papa. One thing only troubles me,
but surely I am not called upon to confess my foolishness in the
matter of Mr Fraser? To admit that he gave me cause to think him my
lover would mean that my papa would insist upon quarrelling with him,
while surely the poor man en’t to blame if a silly girl took his
undoubted kindness to mean other than it did. No, the history of my
mistake shall still be confided only to the faithful bosom of my
Amelia, and I’ll hope more fervently than ever that winds and tides
and the public service may combine to keep the Tyger, and in especial
her fourth lieutenant, away from Bengall. My deepest love and
gratitude are owed to my dear papa for his goodness, which is beyond
what I had dared to hope, and will enable me to triumph over Miss
Hamlin, whose prophecies have been so signally belied.




 CHAPTER V.
 IN WHICH DESPATCHES FROM ADMIRAL WATSON REACH CALCUTTA.

                               Calcutta, _March ye_ 10_th_, 1756.

What! (I think I hear my Amelia cry, when her eye lights upon the date
of this letter,) no word for close upon six months, and this from the
friend who swore that her most secret thoughts should lie open to me?
Indeed, I must confess that I have been sadly remiss in writing to my
dear girl, and what’s worse, I have no valid excuse for’t, but only
two or three weak ones. For whether I plead that I have begun a letter
two or three times over, and torn it up because it seemed that there
was nothing but trifles to tell, or that at another time I delayed
because I thought that I could describe the life of this place better
when I had had more experience of it, it but goes to prove that I
deserve no pardon. Nevertheless, I can satisfy my Amelia in one thing.
My idleness en’t due to any alteration in my friendship for her, nor
yet to any change in my own condition. Your friend is Sylvia Freyne
still. But oh, my dear, prepare for a surprise; your Sylvia is become
a toast! Now, indeed, you’ll laugh, and well you may. When the
gentlemen come thronging about me, ’tis as much as I can do not to cry
out to them, “Good sirs, you are pleased to commend me so highly, I
wonder what you would say if I could exhibit my Miss Turnor to you?”
’Tis all my English colour, Amelia; my stepmother has told me so again
and again (although, as you’ll remember, she was of the contrary
opinion at first), and when that’s gone, as it will go in this coming
hot weather, I shan’t be able so much as to find a gentleman that will
hand me to my chair. But this I don’t believe, for young women are
sufficiently scarce in Calcutta to receive polite attention however
plain they be, and for this cold season, at any rate, I have had my
fill of homage.

Don’t charge me with boasting when I tell you, merely in order to
exhibit the absurdity of the whole affair, that I am now quite
accustomed to be guarded home at night from a ball or assembly by a
troop of gentlemen with drawn swords, who force every European they
meet to uncover and stand humbly aside, and every Indian to take off
his shoes and bow himself to the ground before my palanqueen. Day
after day, too, I find my dressing-table covered with _chitts_ (which
are small notes or billets) and _salams_ (by which is meant nosegays
of flowers, and other tributes of admiration), all of which Marianna
sweeps aside with the greatest coolness in the world, as though she
had not accepted a rupee (and I’m much mistaken if it was not a
_sicca_[5.01] one) for placing each of them there. Sure, my dear,
these things are enough to make one feel silly, and indeed I thought
myself the greatest fool imaginable at first, but by this time I have
learnt to practise the carriage which becomes a Calcutta beauty. Why,
Amelia, I would not lift a finger to brush a fly from my dress if
there was a gentleman (or at the worst a servant) within call to do it
for me; and as for taking the trouble to fan myself--! No, your Sylvia
has learned the lesson of elegant languor which befits these climates,
and even Miss Hamlin would hardly call her a boarding-school Miss now.
The gentlemen say, I am told, that your friend has the coldest heart
(and the finest eyes, they are pleased to add) in Calcutta, and they
choose to resent my preference for a single life so fiercely that they
have bound themselves together against me, all agreeing to support any
one of their number who can show that he possesses good hopes of
capturing the fortress. Now en’t this a quantity of silly stuff for a
young creature to write that piques herself on her good sense? Forgive
me, Amelia; your Sylvia’s head en’t quite turned, though it has often
bid fair to be with all this violent admiration.

But what, you’ll say, of Miss Hamlin? Is she married yet? No, my dear,
she is not, and all because, as she says, she won’t allow herself to
be outdone by a chit of a girl like your friend. If Miss Freyne has
sufficient strength of mind to refuse to be made a slave of before she
choose, so has she. But she has promised her suitors (and they are
many) that her wedding, when it comes, shall be like none that was
ever solemnised in Calcutta before, so that the mere honour of being
present shall be sufficient consolation to every man but the
bridegroom. “And as for him,” says she, “if he be so adventurous as to
marry Charlotte Hamlin, he will deserve the punishment he’ll get.”
This piece of pleasantry was repeated all over Calcutta before it had
been two hours uttered, but none of the gentlemen appeared to be
deterred by it from continuing to press his suit. For if your Sylvia
be a toast, Miss Hamlin is a queen, and the more sternly she rules,
the more eagerly do her subjects crowd forward to place themselves
under her yoke. This strange girl and I have never quarrelled, in
spite of constant provocations. We differ in opinion fifty times in an
hour, we bicker and squabble as often as we meet, and yet, next to my
Amelia, there’s no female friend I would sooner find at my side in
trouble than Miss Hamlin.

But now to let you know something of the course of my life here. I
rise early, as does all the world, and take a light breakfast with my
papa in the varanda. My Amelia will understand how agreeable these
morning hours, spent in the company of the most venerable of men, are
to me. I should never have dared to offer myself as Mr Freyne’s
companion, but it so happened that one day he asked me why I never
came near him in the mornings, although he heard me moving about the
house.

“Indeed, dear sir,” I said, “I was afraid to interrupt your
conversations with Mrs Freyne.”

“Pray, miss,” said my papa, with much displeasure, “don’t be pert. You
wasn’t used to be when you landed.”

“Pardon me, sir, but indeed I feared to intrude.”

“If Mrs Freyne were to do me the honour to leave her bed and sit
opposite me, miss, I should see nothing but a dirty wrapper and the
point of my wife’s nose, covered in with five or six nightcaps. But
she don’t.”

“Then may I really attend you at breakfast, sir?”

“You may, miss. I’ll be hanged if I know why I should be deprived of
my girl’s company for the sake of Madam’s punctilio.”

And thus it has happened that all this cold weather I have enjoyed the
advantage of listening to my dear papa’s conversation, which he has
been good enough to direct especially to my improvement, encouraging
me to ask questions, and rewarding my inquisitiveness (which you’ll
say needed no such spur) with an infinity of curious information.
After the remark he was pleased to pass on Mrs Freyne’s morning
undress, you may guess how careful I am never to wait upon him in a
wrapper, far less in a bedgown[5.02] and petticoat, such as is worn
by some of our ladies here as late as the middle of the day. When my
Amelia and I entered into a resolve to emulate the example of the
excellent Clarissa, and never appear outside our chambers unless fully
dressed for the day, we did not think that I should have so much
reason to be grateful for the forming of this good habit in a climate
where it’s only too easy to fall into idle ways.

Well, when my papa has finished his breakfast, which he takes at his
ease in his nightcap and gown and slippers, he returns to his chamber
to dress, while I go into the garden and give directions to the
_molly_[5.03] or gardener, who don’t understand half I say, and never
by any chance obeys what he does understand. My papa comes down the
steps while I am speaking, and tells the man in Moors[5.04] what I
want, when the rascal bows to the ground and says, “Very good,
master,” but obeys his master no more than he does me. The garden is
very neatly laid out in our English style, with alleys of brick and
statues and pavilions, not like most of the gardens here, which are
sad untidy places, and Mr Freyne and I explore the entire extent of it
every morning, in order to admire the ingenious manner in which the
gardener has contrived to disobey his orders of the day before. In
these airings we have sometimes the company of Captain Colquhoun, who
comes in after his morning parade, in which he is the exactest person
I ever saw, and far more punctual in his duties than any of the other
captains here. Then my papa goes away to his _dufter-conna_,[5.05] or
place of business, at the Fort, and I occupy myself in reading or
needlework. Captain Colquhoun is good enough to lend me books from his
library, which treat chiefly of wars and sieges, but must tend
admirably to the improving of the mind, and good Padra Bellamy has
promised to extend to me the same favour when the Captain’s store
shall have come to an end. As for my needlework, I had so many new
gowns when I arrived that it seemed absurd to set to work on any more
clothes for myself, but I had the happy thought to embroider a set of
robings for Mrs Freyne as a present at the New Year, and she was so
vastly pleased that I was well content, though it took me all my time.
I am at work now on another set that I design for Miss Hamlin, but as
she don’t intend to marry yet, there’s no hurry about it.

Did I mention to you in my first letter from this place, my dear, that
none of the Calcutta ladies take any oversight of their households?
The servants manage everything, under the orders of the banyan, and
the mistress knows nothing of the œconomy of her dwelling. It grieved
me so deeply to see that Mrs Freyne did not so much as wash her own
best China tea-dishes herself, but left them to the servants, that I
begged my papa to inform her I would gladly take upon myself any
household duties that she found too much for her; but he laughed very
heartily, and told me that European ladies had no household duties in
Bengall.

“But sure, sir,” said I, “their households must go to ruin.”

“And if they do, miss, their spouses pay the bill. Why, en’t it
sufficient honour for us that while we climb the pagoda-tree, the
ladies are good enough to recline in the shade on couches of shawls
and permit us to shake the gold _mohrs_ into their laps? Would you
have us make slaves of the lovely creatures in this climate? Go to,
miss; you’re a traitor to your sex.”

My dear papa is so droll!

At nine o’clock is the late breakfast, to which Mr Freyne returns with
a boy holding over his head a great umbrella called a _kittesan_, and
at which every one appears in an elegant undress of white muslin, and
you may wear a mob or not, as you please. When my papa is returned to
his business, and Mrs Freyne to her chamber, where she looks over her
jewels, or devises with her iya new fashions of garments, or, it may
be, receives her intimates, I turn to my music or drawing,
accomplishments which are both very highly regarded here. At noon
comes tiffing, which is a cold luncheon (sure it must seem that we do
nothing but eat, but indeed, my dear, one has no great appetite in
Bengall), and after that all those who have been long in the country
retire to rest; while silly persons like your Sylvia, who can’t
reconcile themselves to sleeping in the middle of the day, lie down in
their cool chambers and look out at the heat in the garden and think
of Britain. They tell me that in the hot weather I shan’t be able to
endure even to draw aside a corner of the blind; but perhaps I shall
have learned to sleep at midday by that time.

Dinner is at three, and for this meal every one is dressed with all
the exactness imaginable, for ’tis the rarest thing in the world for
us to take it alone. One must pay special attention to one’s hair, for
in this matter the Calcutta ladies are very punctilious; and I can’t
tell you how grateful I am for the present simple and elegant mode of
wearing it. Should it be, as you’ll remember we heard was to be the
case, that the cumbrous style of head-dress which is rallied so often
in the ‘Spectator’ were to come again into vogue, these ladies would
adopt it without a moment’s delay, I’m positive, and suffer the
torments of martyrs owing to its weight and heat. The gentlemen, all
wearing white jackets, have an air of the most agreeable coolness, and
behind all our chairs stand boys with flappers or fans,--so that, in
spite of the excessive seasoning of the food (the favourite dish being
meat or vegetables dressed in a _currey_ with spices), we suffer less
from the heat than might be expected. But then, as I am perpetually
being told, this is only the cold weather yet.

After a second short rest comes the season for going abroad. One may
go fishing or fowling on the river, walk in the park called the Loll
Baug,[5.06] and listen to the band of music that plays beside the
great tank or pond, ride out in a chaise or a palanqueen, or take the
air in a budgero; and there’s continual parties made to spend the
evening in some garden at a little distance from the town, whether
that of the Armenians, or Surman’s, or those of two rich Gentoos,
called Omy Chund and Govinderam Metre, close to the Morattoe-ditch.
Sometimes I am called to attend Mrs Freyne to an outcry, which in
Britain would be styled a sale by auction, either of the goods of some
deceased person or of a parcel of toys which have been brought from
China or the great islands by some gentleman travelling on the
Company’s occasions. This last is what pleases me best, for it seems
to me sadly unfeeling to go bidding for the possessions of a person to
whom you may have been talking two days before without a thought of
sickness, far less death; but every one here cares infinitely more for
the commonest Europe goods than for the most delicate toys from the
East. This I could not understand; but one day Miss Dorman came to
visit me, and found me setting up in my chamber the things I had
bought with a handful of rupees which my papa was so good as to throw
into my lap, knowing that I could not bring myself to write a chitt
for the value, as is always done in Calcutta.

“What do you think of my toys, miss?” I said to the young lady.

“Vastly pretty,” she said. “But do you really care for ’em, miss?”

“Sure they’re prodigious delicate and strange,” said I.

“Why, yes; but they are all country-made,” she said. “I used to be
pleased with such things once, but in the hot weather I longed to
throw ’em all away, and put up the commonest English stuff in their
place; and at last I bid my iya take them somewhere so that I should
never see them again.”

Do you think I shall be like that soon, Amelia? How melancholy must
life appear when one can take no delight in such beauties as are to be
observed around one, and all for thinking of those upon which one
placed but little value when one possessed ’em! But sure the whole
polite world, and not only the unhappy exiles that, like myself, have
most probably bid farewell to Britain for ever, would cry shame on me
for comparing the poor barbarous works of the pagans here with the
handiwork of Europe.

But to my day, which bids fair to be as long as some of those of which
our Clarissa or Miss Byron write. It sometimes happens that neither Mr
nor Mrs Freyne desire my attendance in the evenings, and on these
occasions I call for my palanqueen (I have plenty of assurance now,
you see), and go to pass the time with Miss Hamlin, who has desired me
always to visit her when I have nothing better to do, since the
gentlemen are then able to wait upon us both at the same time, and are
not torn in two by an anxiety to rush away to the further side of
Calcutta. ’Tis seldom, indeed, that we are left alone for long--but
oh, my dear, I must tell you of the adventure that befell me the first
time that I rid out in a palanqueen by myself. I had given the peon
(which is the servant that walks before you with a silver-headed
stick) the direction of Mr Hamlin’s house, and as he speaks English, I
thought myself safely embarked. But scarcely had my equipage left my
papa’s door, when I became conscious that the bearers were uttering
the most affecting groans and sighs imaginable. At first I paid no
attention, thinking that this might be only their way at starting, as
I have heard say of the camel; but on the continuance of the sounds, I
could not resist putting my head out of the palanqueen and calling to
the peon to know what ailed his fellows.

“These _gwallers_[5.07] poor weak men, Beebee,” said he, speaking
English after his fashion; “not got enough to eat.”

“I’m sure I’m sorry to hear it,” said I; “but what ails them in
particular just now?”

“Beebee too much heavy,” replied the wretch. Was it not mortifying, my
dear? You know I was never used to be counted a great weight, and I
could not believe that the voyage had changed me much in this respect,
but since I had plunged into the discussion of these men’s
misfortunes, I could not well do less than request the peon to hire an
extra bearer or two. But this wasn’t what he wanted.

“If Beebee give buxie money,” he said, “gwallers buy good supper
to-night; carry Beebee all right to-morrow.”

“But how will that help them now?” I asked, taking out with hesitation
one of my rupees.

“Beebee give me the buxies, I show the gwallers, and keep it till we
go home. Then gwallers so pleased, not cry any more.”

“Pray try it,” said I, “for these noises are most distressing.”

His fingers closed upon the rupee, but he made no effort to display it
to the bearers. Instead he laid about him heavily with his rattan,
reviling the rest, so far as I could judge, for their idleness, and
menacing them with Mr Freyne’s displeasure; and all this to such good
purpose that they shouldered their poles and went on again without any
more groans. But I have never been able, my dear Miss Turnor, to
divest my mind of the persuasion that the abandoned wretch kept the
rupee for himself, and made the poor creatures believe that I had paid
it to him for his assiduity in beating them. This suspicion I have not
dared to unfold even to my papa, for fear he would never cease
laughing at me; but it has long haunted me, and now I share the horrid
thing with my Amelia.

Well, after all this, our days commonly end with either an assembly or
a ball. Such a thing as a small party is unknown, and would indeed
have but a mean appearance in these vast saloons. There’s a good deal
of music and singing (some of it, if I may be censorious in my
Amelia’s hearing, not of the very best), and an extraordinary quantity
of cards. Of this amusement Mrs Freyne is passionately fond, but play
runs so high in Calcutta that my papa has forbid her to go beyond
rupee points in his house. In this he is considered vastly singular,
as also in forbidding my stepmother and me to accept shawls or other
presents offered us by the Indians with whom he has to do in his
business--a means by which some of our ladies here have amassed
incredible numbers of these beautiful fabrics; but he lays no
restraint upon Mrs Freyne’s doings abroad, and ’twould not surprise me
if she takes her revenge there. There’s a certain set of persons with
whom she plays very commonly, and of one of them I am horridly afraid
my Amelia will hear more in the future. This gentleman is a Mr
Menotti, a Genoese by birth, but settled here so long that he speaks
English like ourselves, who does your Sylvia the honour to regard her
with favour, and who has got Mrs Freyne upon his side. Secure in the
justice and complaisance of my good papa, I could look upon this
odious person with contempt, were it not that he’s perpetually forcing
himself upon me, and seems to regard my displeasure as an object worth
living for.

But enough of this detestable subject. There’s one thing I must tell
you about the balls here that will surprise you. The first of these to
which I attended my stepmother was before the end of the hot weather,
and I was apprehensive lest I should expire of discomfort in my stiff
brocade and monstrous hoop. I knew there would be no rest for me so
long as I remained in the ballroom; for all persons of fashion in
Calcutta are prodigiously addicted to dancing, and there are so few
ladies in proportion to the gentlemen that they are scarce allowed
even time for dessert.[5.08] Mrs Freyne did not offer to relieve my
apprehensions; but after the ball had been opened very ceremoniously
with a minuet, I was surprised to see all the ladies preparing to
depart. “Come,” thought I, “this is better than I had hoped,” but I
found that the object of this interval was to allow the ladies to
change their clothes. Disencumbered of our hoops and dressed suits, we
returned to the ballroom wearing muslin nightgowns elegantly trimmed
with lace and ribbons, and danced until we were as tired as--oh, my
dear, I am sure I have never been so tired in my life, nor so consumed
with the heat.

There’s my day for you, Amelia, ending ordinarily at midnight, but
sometimes not till three in the morning, which is, indeed, another
day. Now you will find it possible at any hour to imagine just what
your Sylvia is doing, not forgetting always to think of her especially
on rising, as she does of you. I have writ this long tale in several
parts, but the greatest piece of it this evening, when, my papa
fearing an attack of fever, I entreated to be permitted to stay at
home with him, and so denied myself to visitors. I had hoped to try
and cheer him by singing or by reading aloud some entertaining book;
but Captain Colquhoun dropping in, I perceived how much Mr Freyne must
prefer his solid conversation to his girl’s foolish chatter, and so
withdrew into a corner to write, though remaining within earshot in
case I should be called. So far as I can discover, the two dear
gentlemen have been occupied with but one topic the entire time, to
the discussion of which they have, as usual, brought despair on the
Captain’s part, and an easy confidence on my papa’s. Did I tell you
that I was once saucy enough to ask Captain Colquhoun how he could be
so friendly with Mr Freyne when they agreed so badly? “Madam,” says he
very solemnly, “your father has one fault, an extravagant hopefulness,
and of that ’tis the business of my life to cure him.”

Well, but to this mighty matter. I told you once, I’m sure, of the
Nabob of Bengall, Mohabut Jing, and of the apprehensions felt here by
many as to his successor. The venerable potentate is in but poor
health of late, and requires the utmost assiduity and watchfulness on
the part of Mr Forth, the surgeon of our Cossimbuzar factory, who is
admitted to attend him. Thanks to the care of this humane gentleman,
there seems at present no reason for anticipating a fatal issue to the
Nabob’s illness, but there is great excitement in his Court. It seems
that there are two possible claimants of the Soubahship besides the
infamous young rake who has been designated the old Nabob’s successor,
and these are Surajah Dowlah’s cousin Sucajunk, the Phousdar of
Purranea,[5.09] and Moradda Dowlett,[5.10] the son of his deceased
brother Pachacoolly Cawn, who has been adopted by his great-aunt, the
Nabob’s daughter, a widow lady named Gosseta or Gauzeetee, who is
commonly called the Chuta Begum. Of these, the Purranea Nabob, they
say, has no hope of success; but if Gosseta Begum play her cards well,
she may look to place her adopted son on the _musnet_, since she is
very rich and of a most intrepid spirit. But what, you will say, has
this to do with the Presidency? Why, this, my dear, that we English
have much more to hope for from the Chuta Begum than from the Chuta
Nabob, and that Mr Watts, the head of the Cossimbuzar factory, reports
that she has made overtures of friendship through him to the Company.
More than this, it seems that the lady’s servants are desirous to
avail themselves already of our protection, since Mr Watts asks leave
for one of them, the son of Radjbullubdass, her _duan_, or high
steward, to tarry some days in Calcutta. This son of the _duan_,
Kissendasseat by name, had started to sail down the river on a
pilgrimage to the pagoda of Juggernaut, which is a pagan idol
worshipped somewhere in Orixa. Notwithstanding his pious object, the
gentleman don’t seem to travel light, for he brings with him a vast
quantity of treasure in several boats, and his father’s entire
seraglio, which the Gentoos call _ginanah_.[5.11] One of the women
was taken ill on the journey, which is the reason for their stay here;
though why they brought her so far when they were able at the
commencement of their voyage to obtain Mr Watts’ letter asking shelter
on her account, I don’t know. The whole train arrived after dusk this
evening, and Captain Colquhoun had seen them disembark.

“Fifty-three sacks of gold and jewels alone, sir!” said he to Mr
Freyne.

“Kissendass is a lucky dog, then,” says my papa.

“Kissendass is an--eternal schemer, sir. Can you be so blind as not to
see through the trickery of the whole affair?”

“You would have me infer that the treasure belongs to the Chuta Begum,
and is brought to us on her account?”

“Brought to us, sir? No. But brought within our bounds to embroil us
with the Chuta Nabob, yes. ’Tis no more Gosseta Begum’s doing than
mine.”

“Then you would say, Captain, that the admirable Kissendass is making
off with his mistress’s property? They say his father. has never
rendered any accounts since he first got his _duanry_, and he may
think it well not to risque his gains, whatever the Begum may choose
to do.”

“My papa thinks this Gentoo is like a rat that forsakes a sinking
ship,” I put in, using a saying I had picked up from Mr
Fraser[5.12]--I mean, I had heard it from some one.

“Oho, saucebox, are you listening?” says Mr Freyne.

“With all respect to Miss and to you, sir,” says the Captain, “the
matter, I opine, is worse than you think. Whether Radjbullubdass is
seeking to place his ill-gotten gains in safety, or whether the Chuta
Begum is providing against a possible reverse of fortune, don’t
concern us now. Whichever it be, Kissendass had no need to come here,
recommended by a letter from Mr Watts, and bringing with him the
treasure he is ostentatiously removing out of Surajah Dowlah’s reach.
The thing is a deep-laid plot. Who met the fellow at the wharf? Omy
Chund’s banyan. Who settled him in a convenient house belonging to
himself? Omy Chund. And who was dismissed from his service as the
contractor for cloth to the Company, after forty years of cheating?
Omy Chund again. He and his friend Govinderam Metre, who also has his
grudge against Mr Holwell for turning him out of the _zemindary_ he
had enjoyed for so many years, have long been watching to catch us
tripping, and now they have found their chance. Mark my words, sir,
this plausible scoundrel Kissendass will yet prove our ruin.”

“The ruin won’t be unexpected, then,” said my papa. “Why did you not
warn the Presidency, Captain?”

“I’m the right man to warn them, en’t I, sir? Finely they have
listened to my warnings in the past! But even so, the President was
down at Ballisore when Mr Watts’ letter arrived, and Mr Manningham in
authority, all agog to curry favour with the Chuta Begum and make
himself a friend at Dacca. This evening Holwell’s people at the
waterside send to ask whether Kissendass and his troop are to be
admitted, and Mr Warehouse-keeper Manningham sends to meet ’em with
open arms almost. Could anything I might hope to say avail to turn him
from his dreams of sharing in those sacks of treasure?”

“Gently, Captain. It en’t well to speak evil of those in high places
before Miss Pert here, for she notes down all she hears as sharp as
any shorthand writer, and sends it home to her dearest friend, in
letters long enough to reach from here to the Downs. Don’t you, miss?”

“’Twill serve all the better to prove the truth of my words when my
prophecy of ill is come to pass,” says the Captain, bowing to me.

“True, man, so it will. And my saucy girl shall gather your prophecies
into a book, and call ’em the ‘Sayings of the Cassandra of Fort
William.’ Such a pother about a set of blackfellows and their
wenches!”


                                      Calcutta, _April ye_ 9_th._

Oh, my beloved Amelia, what a hateful misfortune has occurred to your
friend since she began this letter to you! On what a sea of troubles
is she now embarked! I am all of a tremble, my dear. I can’t sleep; I
can’t even lie down quietly. Like the heroine of a novel I am
employing in writing the hours that should be sacred to sleep, but
alas! I know only too well that my behaviour has not been that of a
heroine, but of a foolish, untaught girl.

But I shall alarm my Amelia. Be still, my throbbing heart, and allow
me to recount in order the history of my misfortunes, of which twelve
hours ago I had not the smallest anticipation. This evening was the
occasion of an entertainment given by Mr President in the Fort, for
some reason that I have forgot, when we were diverted, as at all state
ceremonies here, with a _notch_. I say diverted, because the
exhibition is designed to be diverting, although some have chose to
find it improper. But my Amelia may take my word for it, there’s
nothing improper in the affair, but only the most infinite dulness
that it’s possible to experience. Well, after this, we all departed in
our palanqueens to the Company’s gardens, not far off, which are
prettily laid out with trees and shrubs brought from the most distant
regions, as well as with such flowers as flourish in this climate.
Entering at the gate, my papa was so good as to hand me out of my
machine, since Mrs Freyne was already attended by Lieutenant Bentinck,
a young gentleman who affects her company pretty frequently, and as he
did so, up comes Captain Colquhoun.

“Mr Holwell tells me that the Indians in the Buzars[5.13] are saying
the Soubah is dead, sir,” says he.

“So they have been saying every other day for these two years,” said
Mr Freyne. “When do they pretend the event happened?”

“To-day,” said the Captain.

“And you believe that the news could have reached Calcutta by this
time? Why, my good sir, ’tis a two days’ journey from Muxadavad, even
when the messengers are hastened by every conceivable means. This is
but another piece of Buzar lying.”

“The Indians have ways of conveying news that we en’t acquainted with,
sir. I fear the curtain has rose upon a tragedy for the English in
Bengall.”

“What, Captain, still croaking?” says Mr Eyre, my papa’s chief friend
in the Council, a very cheerful and sprightly gentleman, coming up.
“It’s well for you that public affairs go so contrary, for otherwise
you’d have nothing to do. But come, sir, come, Mr Freyne, the
President has just received important despatches from Bombay, and
would have us wait on him to hear ’em read. You must hand your lovely
Miss over to one of the young fellows, Mr Freyne. I vow you’ll have no
difficulty in finding her a cavalier.”

Ensign Bellamy, who was the nearest gentleman, sprang forward to offer
me his hand, and conducted me to a raised seat in one of the
illuminated pavilions, where I sat like a queen, and the crowd of
gentlemen (without whom your vain Sylvia would scarce know herself
nowadays) gathered round. One of them had catched some hint of the
contents of the despatches, and told me that they were from the hand
of Admiral Watson, to inform Mr Drake that his ships, acting in
concert with the forces of Colonel Clive, had captured a town named
Gyria,[5.14] the stronghold of some robber or pirate-chief. I’ll
confess to my dearest girl that my thoughts did stray to the only
person on board of Mr Watson’s fleet that I had much concern with, and
I wondered whether he had shared in this feat of arms, and even
whether he had been wounded, but as I live, Amelia, I went no further
than that. Judge, then, my dear, of my feelings when two gentlemen
advanced through the crowd that filled the place, and I saw that one
of them was Mr Fraser, wearing the blue and white dress in which I had
seen him last at Madrass. Pity me, Amelia, despise me if you will--you
can’t think more meanly of me than I think of myself--a great wave
seemed to sweep over me, there was a singing in my ears, and--oh, my
dear, I could beat myself when I remember it, if that would do any
good--for a moment I leaned back against the column behind me, quite
faint. I did not fall into a fit--for that at least I may be
thankful--and as all the gentlemen were looking towards Mr Fraser, my
indisposition might have escaped notice, had it not been for the
odious Mr Menotti, who had brought him to the place.

“Sure Miss is ill!” cried the wretch, springing forward in the most
officious manner. “Sweetest madam,” such was his presumptuous address,
“what may I do for you?”

“Nothing, I thank you, sir,” I said, finding all the gentlemen
regarding me with great concern. “I was never better in my life.” You
will think this a horrid fib, Amelia, but I vow I was as hot now as I
had been cold the moment before, and conscious of a strange rising of
the spirits. “Pray, Mr Fraser,” I cried, beckoning to him with my fan,
“don’t remain at such a distance. We have met one another before.”

“Indeed, madam, I was scarcely daring to hope you’d remember it,” said
he, with an air of finding something to displease him in what he saw.
There was that in his carriage which made me angry.

“Have you yet paid your respects to the fair Araminta, sir?” said I.

“I have seen her, madam.”

“I hope you found her in good spirits, sir?”

“I had been better pleased, madam, to have found her in worse.”

“For shame, sir! Come, gentlemen,” I turned to those around, “Araminta
is the poetical name of the lady to whom Mr Fraser’s allegiance is
vowed. What do you think of the lover that can coldly declare he had
preferred to find his mistress’s health--it may be even her
looks--impaired by reason of his long absence, instead of rejoicing to
behold her in good spirits?”

“Why, madam,” says Ensign Bellamy, “we’re all relieved to hear that
the gentleman worships at another altar than Miss Freyne’s. Now we can
welcome him to our company without fearing to find another added to
the band of adorers who must one day be made miserable for life--all
but one. Since this is secured, we must in gratitude leave him to
settle his quarrels with his mistress as he will.”

“Nay,” said another young gentleman, Mr Fisherton. “Mr Fraser is
questionless guilty of a treason against love. Here’s his mistress, as
we can’t doubt, surrounded by other suitors, each importuning her to
grant him her favours. She’s steadfast in refusing ’em; but what lady
in such a situation would find her spirits fail? Her entire existence
is a series of triumphs.”

“Yet Penelope suffered from melancholy in the absence of Ulysses,”
says Mr Fraser.

“Oh, sir,” says Ensign Bellamy, “she was persuaded that her spouse was
living. There was no merit in resisting her suitors; ’twas a
necessity.”

“And Ulysses came back to her from sea,” says Mr Menotti, in his
mincing style, as though he spoke without thinking, but looking from
Mr Fraser to me and back again. All the gentlemen smiled. As for me, I
rose and allowed my hoop to spread itself with great exactness,
watching it over my shoulder as though I had no other care.

“Come, gentlemen,” I said, when my gown satisfied me, “let us take a
turn in the gardens, if you please. Mr Fraser shall conduct me,
because he’s the greatest stranger, if his Araminta don’t require his
presence, and we’ll request him to be so good as to give us some
account of this great victory he has brought us intelligence of.”

Perhaps I was a little cruel, Amelia, for I gave Mr Fraser no chance
for half an hour or more of speaking of anything but the capture of
Gyria, and the gentlemen seconded me to the best of their ability,
continually pouring in fresh questions when he seemed to have come to
the end of all he had to tell. But he took his revenge upon me, for
when we were in that part of the garden which is laid out in
knots,[5.15] he succeeded in distancing our companions, and turning
into another path. So apprehensive was I on finding myself alone with
him, that I conceived my sole hope to lie in setting the tone of the
conversation myself.

“And how is it you’re able to visit Calcutta, sir?” I asked him.

“Why, madam, it so happened that I had a chance to pleasure Admiral
Watson, and he asked me afterwards how he might serve me. Miss Freyne
won’t pretend to be ignorant what my request was, and that it was
granted is shown by my presence here.”

“Indeed, sir, I should have looked to find you elsewhere, I’ll assure
you.”

“Perhaps, madam, you had been better pleased so?”

“I protest, sir, I don’t understand you. You’ll allow me to say that
you have used me to-night in a style for which I have given you no
warrant.”

“Questionless, madam, that is so. ’Tis no affair of mine that I find
you surrounded with a crowd of chattering fools, that think themselves
at liberty to prate of the favour in which they stand with a lady who,
when I had the honour of meeting her first, could not hear the word
love mentioned without a blush.”

“I vow, sir, this outrage is too much! I have endured a vast amount
from you----”

“Only from me, madam? All these gentlemen in their laced clothes, with
their talk of love and favour--has any one of ’em ever laid his heart
and fortune at your feet?”

“Yes, sir, every one, and some more than once.” Oh, Amelia, if you
could guess how I triumphed at that moment, forgetting, as I saw him
stand confounded, the resolution I had taken never to boast of the
honour done me by the gentlemen whose partiality I could not return.
Supposing, even, that the fellow had cause to be ill-pleased with his
Araminta, why should he vent his spleen on me? I drew my hand from
his, and was turning away, with my head well in the air, when he
hastened after me.

“Madam, dearest madam, pardon me, I was wrong; I have abused your
goodness. Pray, madam, give me the chance to justify myself so far as
may be. You’ll permit me to wait upon you to-morrow?”

I think he would have said more, but we were now in sight of the rest
of the company. I was not minded to allow him to imagine that ’twas to
him all the other gentlemen owed their ill success; and I said, very
sedately--

“Mrs Freyne receives company to-morrow afternoon, sir. I don’t doubt
but she’ll be pleased to see you.”

“But you’ll allow me the honour of speaking to you in private, madam?”

“No, sir, I won’t. Permit me to recommend you to spend the time in the
company of the lady to whom you owe it. And now I see my papa looking
for me.”

“Cruellest of charmers!” said the perfidious, taking my hand to
conduct me to Mr Freyne (you may be sure, Amelia, that I gave him no
more than the very tips of my fingers), “surely you must know that
’tis you alone----”

He durst not finish his sentence, for I turned upon him a glance in
which I trust he read the anger and contempt that filled my soul. Was
it not enough, my dear, for this person to set himself up as a
schoolmaster over me, and claim the right of directing my most
ordinary diversions, without going on to insult me further by
protestations of an affection that he has taken pains to render
incredible? ’Twas all I could do to bring my lips to pronounce his
name to my papa when he desired me to present to him my new cavalier;
and I could almost have cried my thankfulness aloud when, on Mr
Freyne’s learning that he was Captain Colquhoun’s cousin and inviting
him to tiffing on the morrow, he was forced to excuse himself on the
score of having already accepted Mr President’s invitation to the
Company’s house.

“So that’s the young gentleman who is the humble servant of another
lady!” says Mr Freyne, when Mr Fraser had taken his leave, reproaching
me with his eyes. “Was the other lady present to-night, miss?”

“I don’t know, sir. Mr Fraser told me he had seen her.”

“She’s a lady of an easy temper, en’t she, miss?”

“Really, sir, I don’t know. I have no acquaintance with her.”

“By choice or by necessity, miss?”

“Mr Fraser’s friends are no concern of mine, sir. But if I’m to tell
the truth, I have no notion who the lady may be.”

“What, miss? Han’t your heart warned you of the existence of a rival
as soon as she entered your presence?”

“I know nothing of any rivalry, sir, and I could wish you would be
pleased not to jest on such a topic.”

“Heyday, miss, will you prescribe to your papa the subjects of his
discourse?”

“Oh, dear sir, forgive me!” I cried, cut to the heart to think that I
had vented my vexation upon the best of fathers. “If you only knew all
the mortifications I have endured this evening----” and I burst into
tears, sobbing as I clung to Mr Freyne’s arm. My dear papa was
infinitely disturbed.

“Come, come, my girl, don’t make such a commotion about a hasty word!
Dry your tears quick, and don’t let Madam see ’em. What, torn your
gown?” raising his voice: “that’s nothing to cry about. You shall have
a new one to-morrow.”

“Torn your gown, miss?” cried Mrs Freyne. “You may well weep, indeed.
Of all the careless and thoughtless young bodies that ever wasted
their parents’ money, you are the worst. I have lost patience with
you.”

I cared little for the loss of Mrs Freyne’s patience, but the thought
of my pertness to my dear papa made me miserable, and I could not go
to my chamber without stealing back to catch him alone. “Dear sir,” I
cried, falling on my knees, “pardon your sullen girl. I’ll tell you
anything you are so good as to ask me.” But my papa laughed at me, and
bade me go to bed for a silly puss, saying that he had no wish to pry
into my secrets. “When you think I can help you, Miss Sylvy,” he said,
“tell me anything you please, but otherwise I won’t hear a word of it.
Now be off with you,” and he embraced me and pushed me out of the
room. Oh, Amelia, what should I have done throughout the past winter
but for the kind countenance of this dearest of men? I have striven to
hide my real sentiments, even from my Amelia (yes, I’ll confess it.
When Mr Fraser’s name found itself somehow in my letter to you t’other
day, I stroked it out with all the art imaginable), but I can’t
conceal from myself the nature of the feeling I have had for--for the
person I have mentioned. ’Twas not love--how could it be that after
what he has done?--but if there had been any explanation of his
behaviour, any real extenuation to be offered, I think it might have
become even that. Alas! to what is your Sylvia Freyne sunk, when she
can give utterance to such a confession on the very day that the
person concerned has conducted himself in so strange, so unaccountable
a manner?




 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.




 CHAPTER VII.
 WHICH TREATS OF TREASONS, STRATAGEMS, AND SPOILS.

                                     Calcutta, _April ye_ 15_th._

Well, Amelia, Mr Fraser is departed, and I have not seen him since he
turned his back on me and strode out of the varanda. I don’t know
whether he desired me to understand his visit as a final and
never-to-be-repeated offer of his affections, so that, once refused,
the chance of gaining ’em would not present itself again, but his acts
seem to give countenance to the notion. So then, my dear, your Sylvia
finds herself deserted, but in such a mood, I am thankful to say, that
she would not lower herself to call the young gentleman back, even
were he descending the steps at this moment. My dear Miss Turnor won’t
be surprised to hear that her friend has been busy summing up Mr
Fraser’s defects, in order the more easily to fortify her mind against
the reflection that she has lost him. Here’s a portion of the list:
Item, the gentleman is proud; item, he is over-prudent; item, he
resents the discovery of his faults; item, he wickedly risqued his own
life and that of another person in a duel over a word; item--but the
total would be too long. In short, your Sylvia is occupied, with
extreme industry, in proving to herself that the grapes are sour.

I had just wrote this, my dear, when I heard my papa’s voice--

“Where are you, miss? What’s come to the girl?”

“Here, dear sir; here to serve you,” I cried, and ran to meet him.

“Why, miss,” says Mr Freyne, “here’s the rival prophets both coming up
to the house at once. I must have you sit by with your sewing, as meek
as if you had never passed a saucy remark on your betters in your
life, and take down their doleful prophecies, so as we may laugh at
’em a year hence.”

My Amelia knows one of these prophets: ’tis good Captain Colquhoun.
The other is a young gentleman of the name of Dash, one of the
Company’s writers here, the son of an old friend of my papa’s, and
commended to his favourable notice by his father. Mr Dash is one of
those persons who feel themselves competent to direct the whole
œconomy of any business in which they are interested, and who, since
it han’t pleased Providence to place them in authority, bear a grudge
against such as occupy the situation they would fain fill.

“So you see, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun to my papa, when the
gentlemen were seated, “I was right in telling you the Soubah was
dead.”

(So he is, Amelia. The news was confirmed on Monday, when I wrote you
last, but my head was so full of other things that I forgot it.)

“If you’d be so obliging as to say who’s to succeed him, it might
profit us not a little at this moment, sir,” says Mr Freyne.

“Since the Presidency is leaning towards the side of Gosseta Begum, I
would lay my money on the Chuta Nabob,” says Mr Dash.

“The Presidency,” said the Captain, “is doing its best to run with the
hare and hunt with the hounds, and that ends in destruction.”

“Sure, Captain,” said my papa, “you wouldn’t have the Council adopt
precipitately either one side or t’other?”

“Sir, they have had time enough to make up their minds, and all they
have decided is that while they hope the winner will be the Begum,
they fear ’twill be Surajah Dowlah. If they had sufficient courage to
support their desires, they might turn the scale in the lady’s favour,
or possessing a little enterprise, they might bind the Nabob securely
to their side; but they’ll do neither.”

“But, Captain,” said Mr Dash, “you would not have the Council embark
on such enterprises as have brought us so much trouble in the
Carnatic?”

“I would have them strong enough to support the right side if they
chose, or to defend themselves if they remained neuter,” said the
Captain. “At present they can’t make up their minds what to do in a
situation in which it’s equally fatal to act too soon and to act too
late.”

“Like myself, sir, you believe the Presidency will delay to support
the young Nabob till too late, and then seek to curry favour with
him?”

“Just so, sir; and the ladies and gentlemen here will be eating and
drinking, and buying and selling, and marrying and giving in marriage,
until the very day that the flood comes, and sweeps us all away.”

“Oh, fie, Captain! you’re alarming Miss. En’t you ashamed to have made
the fairest cheek in Calcutta grow pale?”

“Miss is no more alarmed than you are, sir,” says Mr Freyne. “She has
heard the Captain’s prophecies before.”

This turned the laugh against the Captain, who sat looking vastly
stern and grim, and not a whit shaken in his predictions.

“The flood will sweep us all away,” he repeated, “and ’tis well it
should. The luxury of our people is grown to an excessive pitch.”

“I vow, sir, you’re right,” said Mr Dash. “The establishments kept up
by the President and most of the Council, and their manner of life,
not to speak of the entertainments they give, are scandalous.”

“I was not pointing at any particular person, sir,” says the Captain,
with a frown. “The evil is as marked in the case of the youngest
writer, since too often he adds to his faults emulation of those above
him.”

“But what would you have, Captain?” asked Mr Freyne. “Sure the Company
can do no more than it does, sending out orders that the writers are
to be deprived even of the indulgences most necessary in this climate.
Rather than see the youngsters die for the want of these common
things, we are forced to wink at their evasion of the orders, as when
the writer at Madrass, who was forbid to be attended by a roundel-boy,
changed the shape of his umbrella and called it a squaredel, and was
waited on by his boy in peace. But the worst of this meddling on the
Company’s part is that we can’t consistently enforce the salutary
regulations against drinking, dicing, and debt, and such like, since
we have suffered the infraction of the little foolish rules on which
they insist so strongly.”

“Well,” said Mr Dash, “I would have the writers left alone. Some of
them will die early, but the strongest will live on, and for them I
would have the Company’s regulations strictly enforced, when they have
reached the higher offices, that is. The election to these offices I
would direct by the general vote, which should also have power to
remove an office-holder in case of incapacity on his part.”

“Come,” says my papa, “Bengall will be the paradise of writers,
indeed! though I can’t but pity the Members of Council when they shall
hold their places at Tom Dash’s pleasure.”

“I’ll assure you, sir,” says Mr Dash, “the factory would be much
better managed, and the Gentoos more friendly to us. At present both
they and the Moors are nothing but so many spies on us for our
enemies’ benefit. And talking of spies, what’s your opinion of the
French gentleman from Chandernagore?”

“Young le Beaume? A very sprightly and agreeable person.”

“I am assured,” very mysteriously, “that he’s here as a spy on us. Mr
Menotti tells me that he left Chandernagore secretly, having been
imprisoned for taking a drubbing meekly from another officer, and that
he looks to win his pardon by his reports as to our movements and
intentions.”

“Then Mr Menotti has misinformed you, sir,” said Captain Colquhoun,
contemptuously. “Mr le Beaume left Chandernagore because, having sent
a challenge to a superior officer who he conceived had insulted him,
he was accused of threatening his life, and put under arrest. He broke
prison to come here, and he won’t return unless we deliver him up. I
would far sooner believe Menotti to be a spy than him.”

“Sir! Mr Menotti is a gentleman of the highest respectability.”

“He’s nothing but an interloper, sir, and thirty years back would have
been harried out of Calcutta. I’m much mistaken if all his wealth is
the result of honest trading. He’s hand and glove with Omy Chund and
the other Gentoos, visiting even at their private houses, which no
other gentleman in the factory does, and the President finds him
useful as a means of communicating with ’em. If he sells the secrets
with which he has been injudiciously entrusted, we have a key to all
that betraying of our plans to the Muxadavad Durbar which has gone on
for years before poor le Beaume came here.”

“Come, Captain, don’t talk scandal,” says my papa, seeing my eyes
fixed eagerly on Captain Colquhoun, for indeed I am perpetually on the
watch for any chance of ridding myself of Mr Menotti. “We are as
slanderous as any three old tabbies over their dish of tea, and Miss
here is listening with all her ears.”

“And indeed, sir,” put in Mr Dash, “I can’t see that we have any
reason to regret Mr Menotti’s friendliness with the Gentoos. Omy Chund
and Govinderam Metre have both been hardly treated, and ’tis well they
should be cultivated.”

“They are a pair of rascals, sir!” cried Mr Freyne, with a strong
word, “and should have been turned out of the bounds when the
Company’s service was rid of ’em.”

“Oh, come, sir, sure you must grant that the Zemindar used ’em with
great hardness, worse even than the rest of the Indians he misrules.”

“No abuse of Mr Holwell here, sir, if you please.”

“But, sir, the place rings with tales of his injustice. There’s that
affair of Rangeeboom Coberage, Raja Tillokchund of Burraduan’s[7.01]
_go-master_--his entire possessions were sold for a debt of seven
thousand rupees. That has inflamed the Gentoos, and ’tis not the only
case.”

“When you have lived a little longer in Bengall, sir, you’ll
understand that if King Solomon himself were judge in the Cutcherry
Court, the losing side would infallibly declare he’d been bribed.”

“But ’tis well known, sir, that Mr Holwell increases the Company’s
revenues by permitting persons of infamous character to settle here on
payment of a price.”

“That’s Mr Holwell’s affair, sir, and if it be true, he must settle it
with his conscience and the Company, which is for ever pressing him to
raise more money. But I entirely disbelieve the report. Why, this very
morning there was a dispute in the Council over some vagabond or
other, whom Holwell desired to admit, while Drake and the other two
were resolved to expel him. I suppose you’ll say that the Zemindar had
took money from him?”

“Was you present at the Council, sir?” asked Captain Colquhoun.

“No, indeed, Captain. I had some notion of strolling in, but outside
the door I heard the angry voices, and the peon told me what was going
on, so I stayed away, knowing that poor Holwell and I could do nothing
against Manningham and Frankland and the President. They won the day,
of course, and as I came back to tiffing I saw a _chubdar_ conducting
the fellow, whoever he was, out of the place, with the usual rabble at
his heels, pelting him with garbage and foul names.”

“Sir,” broke in the Captain, seemingly much moved, “that’s the fault I
find in you, that having but one voice in the Council, you don’t
exercise that one, but leave all things to be controlled by the
Committee of Three.”

“You’re warm, Captain,” said my papa, “or you would scarce set to
chide me in the presence of these young persons.”

“I ask your pardon, sir, but excuse you I can’t. Suppose (I say
suppose, for I know no more of the matter than yourself) that this
vagabond should be a hanger-on of Surajah Dowlah, how will you answer
to the Company for your silence?”

“I shall answer with my life, sir, like all here, I suppose,” said Mr
Freyne, smartly.

“And also with the lives of your wife and daughter, and all the women
here, when the Nabob’s vengeance comes? Even your sole voice raised on
Mr Holwell’s side might have brought the Three to reason, but you
refused to give it.”

“Sure, Captain, you think a mighty great deal of Mr Holwell,” says Mr
Dash.

“I think, sir, that he’s the one man of sense and honour in the
Council, beyond a friend of mine that has the sense and honour, but
won’t employ ’em, and one or two that are like him.”

“Well, sir, as I see the gentleman himself approaching, I won’t
disturb your conversation with him,” said Mr Dash, rising and taking
his departure in a very marked manner, though laughing.

“How has Holwell managed to disoblige the lad?” says my papa to
Captain Colquhoun.

“I don’t know, sir, but I would judge he has made some effort to keep
him in his place, for which he’ll pay dearly, I fear, if the young
gentleman’s power ever equal his ill-will. Your servant, sir,” this to
Mr Holwell, who came up looking more serious than ever.

“Good-day to you, gentlemen. Madam, your humble servant. I fear,
Captain, that your prophecies are in a fair way to be fulfilled.”

“Hey-day!” cries Mr Freyne, “another prophet! Come, sir, what’s to do
now?”

“You saw a Gentoo fellow drove out of the town this morning?”

“Questionless, sir; as villainous a countenance as I ever beheld.”

“Have either of you ever heard of Narransing,[7.02] gentlemen?”

“Narransing?” said the Captain, musing; “I seem to myself to know the
name. Not Rajaram’s brother?”

“You’re right, sir. The brother of Ramramsing Hircara, the chief of
the Chuta Nabob’s spies, was expelled from our bounds this morning
with all possible ignominy.”

“If you’re surprised, sir, I’m not,” says the Captain.

“Tell us how it happened, sir,” said Mr Freyne.

“Last night between eight and nine,” says Mr Holwell, “I was surprised
by a visit from Omy Chund, bringing with him another Gentoo, whom he
presented to me as Narransing, saying that he entered the town in a
European dress, and brought a letter from the Nabob. I received the
fellow with the civility due to Rajaram’s brother, but refused to look
at his _perwannah_, which was wrote by Huckembeg, the Nabob’s duan, as
the President would be in town in the morning. The purport of the
piece was to demand the delivery of Kissendasseat, with his women and
treasure, on the ground that Radjbullob, his father, when ordered to
produce his accounts, said that Kissendass had taken ’em away with
him. In the morning I laid the matter before Mr President, with whom
were Messieurs Manningham and Frankland, who regarded the affair as an
insolent attempt to terrify us, since advices from all quarters report
that Gosseta Begum is certain of success. Narransing’s coming in
disguise, and his sneaking into the place under cover of night, seemed
to support the notion, even if they did not show that he wasn’t an
accredited messenger at all, and the Council would not choose to wait
and see how things would turn out. Mr Manningham seemed to be of my
way of thinking at first, but he soon agreed with his partner and Mr
Drake, and they sent to turn Narransing out of the place. The
servants, going beyond their orders, drove him out of the factory, and
even off the shore, with menaces and insolence, which seemed somewhat
to alarm the Council when they heard it, for they writ at once to
Cossimbuzar to bid Mr Watts make things right with the Nabob.”

“Make things right!” says the Captain.

“And more,” said Mr Holwell, “this morning, when I was about to punish
the Jemmautdar[7.03] of the _chokey_,[7.04] where the fellow landed,
for admitting a person in a European habit unknown to me, he said that
the only European he admitted last night was not Narransing at all,
but might be any of the gentlemen here. Narransing wore the dress of a
common _pycar_,[7.05] but when they would have opposed his landing,
Omy Chund’s servants came to say that he was a relation of their
master’s, and must be let in. What do you make of this?”

“Why, that there’s an extraordinary great mystery somewhere, sir,”
says my papa. “We’ll talk of this in the garden, gentlemen, if you
please, for there’s one or two matters on which the Captain and I
would fain have Mr Holwell’s opinion. Mind you’re not late in dressing
for the Masquerade, miss.”

Oh, this Masquerade! Was ever any one in a frame of mind less suited
to such a gathering, Amelia? I had hoped it might be put off by reason
of the old Soubah’s death, but it seems that since Mr Drake has heard
nothing in an official manner he can’t take notice of it; and though I
have begged and prayed my papa to permit me to stay at home, he won’t
hear of it, but insists on my attending him and Mrs Freyne to the
Play-house.


                                                 _April ye_ 16_th._

More troubles and mysteries and perplexities, Amelia! Sure my dear
Miss Turnor will begin to think that her Sylvia’s presence is as
disastrous as that of Helen of Troy to the place she honours with her
residence. But to my tale. Yesterday evening I went to my chamber
early to dress for the masquerade, and turned sick at heart to look at
the dress which Marianna had laid out upon the _cott_. (Did I tell you
that a bed here is always called a cott?) It was made after the
pattern of that worn by Miss Byron as an Arcadian princess, for Miss
Hamlin and I had agreed to wear dresses of a more modern and
distinctive sort than the usual nuns and shepherdesses one hears of
every day. She chose, therefore, the dress worn by Lady Bella in the
‘Female Quixote,’ as the Princess Julia, daughter of Augustus Cæsar,
and I that of the charming Harriet, although my pleasure in it was
sadly damped by the rumour that reached me that Mr Menotti was having
a vastly fine suit made for himself as Sir Charles Grandison. Imagine
it, my dear! the desecration of so noble a character by this vile
wretch’s impersonating it. Well, as I stood looking at my gown, I
heard a palanqueen arrive, and presently in came Mrs Hurstwood, Miss
Hamlin that was, in her ordinary clothes, and frightfully disturbed.
The tailor that was making her gown for the evening had run off with
the stuff, tempted, as is supposed, by the richness of the blue and
silver brocade, and there was no time to make another. Indeed, the
poor young lady was in a terrible state, fit to rave. As she sat and
bewailed her loss, a thought came to me.

“Oh, dearest miss--Charlotte, I should say--” I cried, “wear my dress,
I entreat you, and go in my place.”

“And what would Miss Freyne’s papa say to that?” said she.

“Questionless, he would be sadly displeased, for I have begged of him
in vain to permit me to stay at home. But oh, miss, I have such a
terror of masquerades”--“Drawn from Mr Richardson,” she put in--“and
such a diversion is so ill-suited to my present thoughts and
situation, and I am so apprehensive of being spoken to by my
persecutor, and perhaps insulted, that if you would persuade Mr Freyne
to excuse me, I should be for ever grateful to you. And I know that my
papa has a vastly high esteem for Mrs Hurstwood.”

“And pray, miss,” says she, “will you prefer Calcutta to say you
remain at home out of jealousy for my marriage, or grief for Mr
Fraser’s departure, or sympathy with Lieutenant Bentinck?”

“You terrify me!” I cried. “Sure my papa was only kind in commanding
me to appear, if this be the alternative. But,” for a sudden thought
seized me, “I can’t wear this dress. I should feel like a tricked-out
skeleton. Pray, miss, oblige me by putting it on. You may be taken for
me, but I know you’ll hold your own with the boldest wretches in
Calcutta”--“I thank you, miss,” said she.--“As for me, I’ll endeavour
to strengthen and calm my mind by wearing the dress of the
incomparable Clarissa, who was greater in her humiliation than in her
happiest days. My white damask nightgown and satin petticoat, with a
morning cap, and my hair in a _dégagé_ style, will answer all
purposes, and should save me from recognition.”

“I vow you’re mistaken, if you think an undress and the absence of a
hoop will disguise the finest shape in Calcutta,” says my Charlotte;
“but the notion of deceiving the fellows is agreeable enough. Well,
miss, if you’re really in earnest, I’ll oblige you by wearing your
dress.”

“I can never be grateful enough to my dear Mrs Hurstwood,” I said, and
calling in Marianna, we soon had Charlotte dressed in the blue satin
waistcoat and petticoat, laced and fringed with silver, the white silk
scarf and the fantastical cap, so well known to all Mr Richardson’s
readers. While I was hurrying into my own gown, my stepmother looked
in at the door.

“What, miss! exchanging dresses?” she cried.

“A mishap has come to Mrs Hurstwood’s gown, madam,” said I, “and she
is so good as to wear mine, which I have took a dislike to.”

“Oh, very well,” said Mrs Freyne. “And you are the divine Clarissa in
the Sponging-house, I see. O’ my conscience, miss, I wonder at your
preference! But your papa and I can’t wait for you. You’ll follow with
Mrs Hurstwood, I suppose?”

“I expect my spouse every moment, madam,” says Charlotte, “and I’ll
assure you we’ll both have an eye to Miss’s safety.”

Mrs Freyne went away, and I finished dressing in much better spirits.
But what was my vexation when I arrived at the Play-house with the
Hurstwoods to perceive that my naughty, unkind stepmother must have
told Mr Menotti of my sudden change of intention, for he came stumping
towards me as soon as I alighted from my palanqueen, in a greatcoat
with a cape, the collar turned up and buttoned round his chin, a pair
of coarse stockens drawn over his own, and an old tie-wig, the very
image of the abandoned Lovelace when he forced himself in this
disguise upon Clarissa’s retirements at Hampstead. I could have wept,
Amelia. The sole consolation that offered itself to me (and it did
give me a sensible pleasure, I’ll promise you) was the thought of the
inconvenience the wretch must be suffering from the heat, and the
mortification it must have cost him to lay aside his fine Grandison
dress. There was no escaping him, for he was the first to observe our
arrival, and I was forced to give him my hand, and to endure his talk,
which was as free as that of Lovelace, but wanted the wit, until I
hated him worse than ever, if that were possible, and seized the
chance of our becoming entangled in a crowd of masques to rid myself
of his company.

Anxious only to be free from the company of my too importunate
Lovelace, I lent a ready ear to a masque who approached me in the
habit of a French religious person, and whom I knew, by his air of
gallantry, to be Mons. le Beaume. With him was a gentleman most
elegantly dressed in a coat of red cloth of silver, buttoned with
diamonds, and very richly laced, with waistcoat and breeches of satin.
There was large diamond buckles in his shoes, which had monstrous high
red heels, and he wore a great forked periwig, all in the mode of
fifty years back. I observed this person particularly, because a few
minutes ago he had come and tapped Mr Menotti on the shoulder,
desiring him, as I think, to present him to me. His address seemed to
put my persecutor out of countenance in an extraordinary manner, but
he refused very vehemently to grant the request, though the other
continued to urge it even with menaces, as I judged by his gestures.

“Fairest Clarissa,” says Mr le Beaume, bowing with great ceremony,
“here’s his Most Christian Majesty the late King Lewis of France, whom
the report of your virtues has reached in the other world, and brought
him back to earth to show his admiration of ’em.”

“Sure his Majesty’s admiration of virtue is well known, sir,” said I.

“Madam,” says the strange gentleman in French, which also Mr le Beaume
and I had used, “in his day virtue had not dwelt upon earth in the
person of the divine Clarissa. With the good fortune of her example to
guide him----”

“If your Majesty desire the divine Clarissa to guide you in the
dance,” says Mr le Beaume, “there’s no time to lose. You can exchange
fine phrases out of the romances afterwards.”

My cavalier offered his hand immediately, which I accepted,
anticipating an agreeable contest of wits in forcing him to discover
himself, for, what with his masque and his periwig, I was quite unable
to recognise him as any of the gentlemen of the place, while his voice
(and he spoke French as I had not thought any of our gentlemen could
speak it) was also strange to me. So well did he present his character
that he even danced in the French style, which is at once more
ceremonious and displays greater vivacity than ours, until my
curiosity was piqued in the highest degree. But ’twas not until we
were sitting in the inner varanda after the dance, and my partner was
fanning me, as is the custom here, that I had any chance to converse
with him. His discourse suited less well with his disguise than his
dancing had done; for although he made me several genteel compliments
in the true romantic style, he turned quickly to speak of the ordinary
affairs of the place, and among them of the matter of Kissendasseat.
But here I stopped him.

“Pray, sir,” I said, “don’t mention that person’s name to me. For
weeks there was nothing talked of in Calcutta but Kissendass and his
women, his goods and his sacks of treasure, until I was tired to death
of him.”

“His refuging here is much talked of, then?” asked the disguised.

“Really, sir, you must know that as well as I.”

“Pardon me, madam; how should I know that the ladies condescended to
weary themselves with the trifles that interest us poor men? Yet I
deserve the rebuke, for en’t the lady in this case Miss Clarissa
Harlowe?”

“Sure you single me out unduly, sir. The ladies of Calcutta can’t be
indifferent to events that might prove to be of so much moment to
’em.”

“Then has the President’s treatment of the Nabob’s messenger given
rise to apprehension among the fair sex, madam?”

“’Tis but little known as yet, sir, but it’s natural there should be
some misgivings as to the new Soubah’s acceptance of it.”

“Poh, poh!” says he. “The President knows what he’s about, madam. The
Nabob has exposed his weakness by his method of proceeding. Why should
he send his emissary to steal into the place in disguise, if it en’t
that he hoped to gain secretly from the friendship of the Presidency
what he knows he can’t demand openly and by force?”

“It may be so, sir; but if it be, the insults offered to his servant
will give him but an indifferent notion of that friendship.”

“You’re too apprehensive, madam. You may take my word for it that the
Nabob can’t afford to resent these insults. He’s encompassed with
enemies, and he knows the strength of the factory too well to dream of
attacking it.”

“You’re vastly positive, sir; I hope you may be justified. What I find
alarming in this affair is the suggestion that there may be some deep
conspiracy behind it.”

“Conspiracy, ha, ha! Forgive me, madam, but I perceive that even the
greatest of her sex en’t free from the fault of meeting misfortune
half-way. Trust me, in a month or so this alarm will be forgot, and
Clarissa will be swallowed up in preparations for making her Lovelace
the happiest of men.”

“I vow I don’t understand you, sir.”

“What! don’t we all know that in this case the lover possesses the
support of his mistress’s friends? Happiest of men, indeed! since with
the mind and temper of Solmes, he’s earned the reward of Lovelace.”

“If you’re in the confidence of the person at whom you hint, sir,
allow me to say that you’ll do him no service by these free remarks.
Will you be so good as to hand me back to the ballroom?”

“Nay, then,” said this strange man, with great warmth, placing himself
in my path as he spoke, “is the report true that has reached me, that
this pretended Lovelace is but Solmes in disguise? Is it true that his
suit, while favoured by her mamma, is distasteful to the amiable
Clarissa herself? Speak, madam, and enrol Lewis as your defender until
death.”

By this time I was heartily frightened, as you may suppose, and
anxious only to rid myself of my new tormentor. “Sure you forget
yourself, sir, in thus intruding into family matters. I thank Heaven
that I have already friends sufficient to protect me, as well as a
will that has served me tolerably hitherto.”

“Nay, madam,” he cried again, seizing my gown as I sought to slip past
him, “you’re in a trap, believe me. Your mamma is leagued with this
Solmes or Lovelace--whichever he be--and resolved on handing you over
to him. You’ll perceive before long the truth of my words. If you
should then be moved to accept of my assistance, a billet addressed to
me in character, and sent to the house of a respectable female in the
Great Buzar, whom all the Indian servants know by the name of the
Mother of Cosmetiques, will find me without loss of time.”

I was incensed against the man for his bare-faced proposition, and
tore my gown from his hold. “Sure, sir,” I said angrily, “you forget
the character I have assumed in thus acting up to your own. Be assured
there’s no help I would not accept sooner than that offered in such a
fashion,” and I pushed past him, and ran along the varanda towards the
door. Here I came upon two gentlemen, who had been watching the
dancing, and had stepped out to breathe the air, and to my delight I
recognised them as my papa and Captain Colquhoun. I seized Mr Freyne’s
arm. “Oh, sir----!” I gasped, and burst into tears, and so clung to
him, looking like a fool, I make no doubt.

“Can I be of any service to you, madam?” asked my papa.

“Is it possible, sir, that you don’t recognise Miss Freyne?” said
Captain Colquhoun, with the stiffest air in the world.

“How could a man know any one in that masque?” cried Mr Freyne. “Take
the absurd thing off, miss, and tell me what’s the matter.”

“The--the person with whom I was dancing, sir,” I sobbed.

“Well, and what of him, miss? Who is he?”

“I don’t know, sir. Oh pray, don’t be so sharp with your girl. He--he
said----”

“He has offered to insult you, madam?” demanded the Captain, in his
sternest voice, which Mr Freyne took as a rebuke.

“I’ll manage my own family, sir, if you please, so pray don’t favour
us with your strait-laced opinion of masquerades at this moment. What
did this person say, miss?”

“I--I believe he invited me to run away with him, sir.”

“You en’t certain? Sure the girl’s a fool! She cries out that a person
has insulted her, and she don’t know who he is, nor can’t tell what he
said. Where is this gentleman?”

“I--I left him there, sir,” pointing to the settee where we had sat.

“And there en’t a living creature to be seen! I fear, miss, you are
one of those that flee when no man pursueth.”

“Sure, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, coming to my help, “you can’t
doubt but Miss Freyne’s delicacy has been wounded by the liberties of
speech this person has permitted himself. If he have drunk too freely,
he should be removed from the place, both for his own sake and
others’, and will questionless see the propriety of offering an
apology on the morrow. Was it the gentleman habited as King Lewis the
Fourteenth, with whom I saw you dance not long ago, madam?”

“It was, sir, but I can’t imagine who he may be. He spoke only
French.”

“You see, sir?” Captain Colquhoun turned to my papa. “I fear Miss has
been exposed to the rudeness of one of those rascally fellows that
make a practice of insulting ladies at gatherings of this sort,
feeling secure of impunity through their disguises. Did he first
accost you, madam?”

“No, sir. Mr le Beaume presented him in character.”

“Then he’ll know him, questionless. Excuse me for a moment, madam,”
and returning to the ballroom he brought out Mr le Beaume and Ensign
Bellamy, the latter wearing rams’ horns and an antique habit as
Alexander the Great. The two young gentlemen had been dancing
together, a thing which is not unfrequent at the Calcutta balls, owing
to the small number of our sex that are present.

“Pray, sir,” says my papa to Mr le Beaume, “who was the person you
presented just now to my daughter?”

“Why, sir, I’m sure I don’t know. I named him only by his character,
as I heard was the custom at these gatherings, since all present were
well acquainted with one another.”

“Then you know nothing of the fellow?”

“Nothing, sir, save that I chanced to jostle him in the crowd somewhat
roughly, and begged his pardon, which he gave with a very good grace.
‘Say no more, Mons. l’Abbé,’ he said, speaking in character. ‘Do your
King the honour of making him known to the divine Clarissa, and all is
more than forgiven.’ I hope, sir, I han’t done any displeasure to the
lady in granting his request?”

“Your King, as you call him, sir, has thought fit to use towards Miss
a freedom that may be the mode at Chandernagore, but en’t so at
Calcutta.”

“Do I understand you to imply, sir, that this person was an intimate
of my own?”

“Come, Mr le Beaume,” it was Captain Colquhoun who spoke; “don’t be
over ready to stand on your punctilio. You see that we must come at
the truth of this affair, if only to save the ladies from annoyance in
the future. I understand this person spoke nothing but French. To the
best of your belief, had you ever met him before?”

“Never, Captain. I know all the officials of our factories at
Chandernagore and Sydabad,[7.06] but he recalled none of ’em to my
mind. But, gentlemen, this affair touches my honour. Pray allow me to
seek out this person, and bring him here to entreat Miss’s pardon on
his knees.”

“And I’m with you, sir,” said Ensign Bellamy. “Sure the matter touches
me also, Captain, since I introduced Mr le Beaume as my guest.”

“And lent him also your father’s best cassock in which to appear?”
said Captain Colquhoun. “What will our good Padra say to that, sir?”

“’Tis but his second best, sir,” pleaded the Ensign, “and Mr le Beaume
passed his word to me to do it no discredit. But now, gentlemen, with
your leave, we’ll set out to hunt this low fellow.”

“Go first to the peon at the door, young gentlemen,” said Mr Freyne,
“and desire him to let you look at the chitts.” (These, Amelia, are
the tickets of entrance, as we should say.) “By that means you’ll
discover who ’twas that represented the French King.”

But the two gentlemen returning in a few minutes brought word that
there was no such character mentioned on any of the chitts, neither
could the peon recollect admitting such an one.

“Poh!” says my papa. “Buxies, that’s all! Did you discover whether the
fellow be still in the place, gentlemen?”

“He’s not, sir,” they replied together; “but although several persons
had remarked him in the ball-room, no one has seen him leave the
Play-house.”

“Pray have the goodness to enquire further, gentlemen. There’s some
mystery here.” I thought that he wished to be rid of the young
gentlemen, for as soon as they were gone he turned to the Captain.

“What do you make of this, sir?” he asked.

“A spy, I fear. Perhaps from Chandernagore--but no, the lad le Beaume
hath an honest countenance, Papist though he be.”

“A spy of the Soubah’s, then? Watts’ letter warned us the place is
full of ’em. There’s Someroo,[7.07] that Prussian of Cossim Ally
Cawn’s, might have got in among us.”

“True, but Mr le Beaume would be little likely to mistake a Prussian
for one of his own nation. A spy the fellow must be, I believe. Do you
recollect the confusion of Holwell’s Jemmautdar in speaking of the
entry of the Nabob’s messenger? Look you there, now. There was two of
’em, after all--this fellow in a European habit, and Narransing in the
disguise of a pycar.”

“There’s more in this than appears, Captain. Do you think this
impudent intruder can be Bussy himself, stole hither from the
Carnatic?”

“Bussy? My good sir, Bussy is besieging Savanore, and has his hands
too full to leave the Decan at present. Besides, why risque discovery
by annoying a lady?”

“To avert suspicion from his true object--I don’t else know why. Or
perhaps his freedoms were only assumed to get rid of Miss while he put
on another dress to escape in. He might wear a domino, or obtain some
other disguise from one of the servants.”

“Perhaps, sir,” I ventured to observe, “Mr Menotti may be able to tell
you something. He seemed to have some acquaintance with the wretch.”

“Pray, miss, why didn’t you say that before?” I saw a look pass
between my papa and the Captain. “Put on your masque again, and come
back to the ballroom with me.”

Once inside the Play-house, it was not long before Mr Menotti
perceived us, and came to importune me for another dance, which I was
charmed to refuse him.

“Miss has danced quite as much as is good for her health,” says my
papa. “I won’t have her try another step this evening. You young
fellows should have some mercy on these delicate creatures, for they
en’t made of iron, and there’s none too many of ’em. By the way, sir,
who was the gentleman that desired you to present him to Miss, but you
refused?”

I was watching Mr Menotti with all my eyes from behind my masque, as
you’ll guess, Amelia, and it seemed to me that he changed colour a
very little. Yet he answered with the greatest unconcern imaginable,
“Why, that I don’t know, sir, which was my reason for refusing him the
honour he asked. He was vastly urgent with me, I’ll assure you, but I
would not listen to him. I hope he han’t tried to force himself upon
Miss?”

“Why, sir, he has alarmed her slightly by his importunity, I believe,
but that only calls for greater gratitude for your care of her.”

Leaving Mr Menotti, we returned to the doorway, where Captain
Colquhoun, with infinite kindness, turned the conversation to other
matters, until the young gentlemen returned, having done wonders in
the way of tracking the Unknown, but accomplished nothing. Learning
from a late comer in the ballroom that on entering the place he had
seen passing out a tall masque in the veil and robe of a Moor-woman
(this was so unusual a habit as to excite his remark, for persons here
entertain such a contempt for the Indians that it is the rarest thing
in the world to see their dress, which is very handsome among those of
quality, copied at these masquerades), they made enquiries among the
servants waiting for their masters in the compound, and found that a
person so habited had entered a hired palanqueen and departed. The
only distinguishing mark that they could discover about this
palanqueen was that one of the bearers had a lame leg, but with the
aid of this sole clue Mess. Bellamy and le Beaume set out to trace it.
After many false starts they were told by a certain Armenian that he
had seen such a palanqueen carried into the house of Omy Chund, the
Gentoo banker, but on enquiring there they found that it had contained
only one of his women, who had gone out to visit her mother. Thus they
returned discomfited, but all eagerness to find the stranger.
Meanwhile my papa had learnt from me of the direction given by him at
the old woman’s house in the Great Buzar, and the young gentlemen were
very urgent with him to allow them to obtain an order from the
Zemindar, and so search the place.

“How would that serve?” says Mr Freyne. “The fellow en’t in the house,
you may be very sure, and the woman would deny any knowledge of him.
Ladies of her trade have many clients whose secrets they are well paid
to keep, and she may well have never seen him, and know only that she
might possibly receive a letter for him.”

“But, sir,” ventured Ensign Bellamy, “perhaps Miss would be so good as
to address a blank sheet of paper to the woman’s care, so that the
messenger who came to fetch it might be watched and seized.”

“I thank you, sir, no,” said my papa. “Miss’s name has already been
more mixed up in this affair than either she or I care for. I’ll speak
to Mr Holwell, and get a watch set secretly on the house; but we can’t
hope the rascal will venture there in person. You’ll undertake, young
gentlemen, that the matter shan’t go beyond yourselves?”

“On my honour, sir,” said the two gentlemen, and we were left to muse
in silence over this most disquieting affair. I don’t know what to
think, my Amelia. A sudden sound terrifies me. I am ready to run away
from the most harmless stranger. I screamed aloud this morning when I
came suddenly upon the _molly_ in the garden. Plots and conspiracies
seem to be thick on every side of me. I fear, though I don’t dare hint
this to my papa, that the words of the Unknown regarding Mrs Freyne’s
compact with Mr Menotti may be true, and what a prospect then opens
before me! I know how deeply my dear Miss Turnor will pity her
unsuspicious Sylvia, who thus finds herself entangled in a web of
mysteriousness.




 CHAPTER VIII.
 IN WHICH MR FREYNE’S PATIENCE COMES TO AN END.

                                      Calcutta, _April ye_ 17_th._

Nothing has as yet been discovered respecting the mysterious affair of
which I informed my Amelia in the letter I finished yesterday, and all
our minds have been further disturbed by an event that has just
occurred. About six o’clock this evening I was taking a dish of
chocolate in the varanda before going to change my dress for a
water-party to which I was to attend Mrs Freyne, when my papa and
Captain Colquhoun joined me. The Captain was in an extraordinary
sprightly frame of mind, and all because the Company’s ship Delawar,
which arrived at Culpee this morning, had brought a warning from the
Directors that war with France might be looked for very shortly, and
therefore the Fort was to be put in a good state of defence,
particularly the cannons on the west front, in case of an attack from
the river. My papa rallied his friend on his eagerness, asserting that
’twas the news of a monstrous French fleet a-preparing at Brest, and
designed to sail for the Indies under Count Lally to lay waste our
factories, that delighted him, since now all his prophecies of evil
were in a fair way to be fulfilled. The Captain defended himself with
great spirit, saying that he should be thankful if we were not all
prisoners to a less polite foe than the French long before Count
Lally’s fleet arrived, condemning also the slowness of the Presidency
in acting on the orders they had received.

“Had I been in command,” he said, “the plans for the repair of the
defences should all have been put in hand to-day, and the work begun
to-morrow, so that all had been done before the Nabob could get wind
of our preparations and seek to stop us; but now here’s the Three
disputing what’s to be done first, and whether it be necessary to do
anything at all, with as much indifference as if they were considering
the siege of Carthage. When the walls are falling to pieces, and the
guns lying useless for want of carriages, one would think the Council
might be willing to set to work on both the jobs at once.”

Mr Freyne made some jesting reply, and seeing that the gentlemen were
well embarked on one of their political talks, I slipped away to
dress. Marianna was waiting in my chamber, and asked me which necklace
I would wear with my yellow gown. Coming to the dressing-table, where
she had laid out the ribbons, I remarked something white under the
edge of my hand-mirror, and lifting it pulled out a small billet wrote
on gilt-edged paper and very finely scented. “_A la très-belle et
très-excellente Clarisse_” was on the flap.

“Why, what’s this chitt, Marianna?” I said.

“Me not know, missy. Never see it before.”

I opened the letter. It was all in French, and signed “Clarissa’s
slave till death,” while at the top stood these words, “Let the
amiable goddess of my heart deign to read these lines in secret, and
to keep them concealed from all the world.” Had the writer been there
to watch me, he had questionless been chagrined by the effects of his
words, for I did not stop even to read the billet, but ran back to the
varanda in a prodigious hurry, and thrust the paper into my papa’s
hands.

“Why, what’s this, miss?” he said, just as I had done.

“A chitt, sir--from the Unknown, I’m sure--he begs me to keep it
secret, but I haven’t read a word of it. Oh, sir, who can he be?”

“Calm yourself, madam,” says Captain Colquhoun. “The billet may only
be a jest on the part of one of our young gentlemen.”

This notion had not occurred to me, and I waited, something calmer,
while Mr Freyne spread out the paper and pored over it, which was not
long.

“I’ll be hanged if I can make head or tail of the gibberish!” he
cried. “Here, miss,” throwing it back to me, “make a translate of the
Mounseer’s love-letter for us, and see you don’t miss out none of the
hearts and darts, nor abate the poor gentleman’s ardours. Read it out,
pray; don’t wait to write the stuff down.”

Now was it not an odd business, my dear, to have to read aloud in the
presence of two gentlemen a love-letter of whose contents I had not
the slightest knowledge? nevertheless I began boldly enough: “‘To the
coldest and most charming of ladies, the humblest of her worshippers
indites with his heart’s blood these lines----’”

“I would the letter had been longer; then he might have bled to
death,” growled my papa. “Go on, miss.”

“‘Such, madam, is the admiration I conceived for the incomparable
Clarissa on that happy evening when her resplendent charms burst for
the first time upon my enraptured gaze, that since she quitted me in
anger I have neither ate nor drank nor slept----’”

“Come, if this go on, we shall kill him yet,” says Mr Freyne.

“‘That the failure of my attempts to conceal the passion with which
she inspired me should have alarmed her delicacy were calamity enough,
but that she should carry her apprehensions so far as to flee from the
expression of my adoration is a punishment that would (I appeal to the
charmer herself if this ben’t truth) be over severe for the most
heinous of crimes. To the worm that was permitted to bask for a few
brief moments in the sunshine of her smiles ’tis a veritable sentence
of death. But, madam, he who now ventures to address himself to you
en’t one to welcome death tamely. He’ll fight for his life, and such
is the love he has for you that he’ll gratify it even though he must
needs wade through rivers of blood, though Calcutta be razed to the
ground in the course of the measures he’ll take, and the English swept
out of Bengall. But he don’t desire to alarm Clarissa a second time by
the warmth of the sentiments he entertains, and would therefore only
hint that his charmer has it in her power not merely to attach to
herself for ever a grateful adorer whom her condescension will have
preserved from death, but to oblige her countrymen in the highest
degree, and gain for herself a name greater than that of the
victorious Mr Clive as the protector of the British settlements in the
Indies. Let her but vouchsafe to free herself from the perils of a
distasteful alliance that now beset her, and honour her devoted slave
by confiding herself to his care. A Christian priest shall be at hand
and remove the only scruple that a lady of Clarissa’s modesty and
prudence might be troubled with in granting such a prayer, and in an
hour after the lightest intimation of Clarissa’s pleasure has been
conveyed to the house named to her two days ago, she shall be safe for
ever from the persecutions of tyrannical parents and a tiresome
lover.’”

“Well, indeed, miss!” says my papa, “I must make you my best
compliments on the style of your adorer’s letter. Pray, does he expect
love or fear to incite you most to grant his request? And the
forethought of the gentleman! ‘A priest at hand’ in an hour! I vow
you’re a lucky girl.”

“A mighty tasteful piece of writing, indeed!” says the Captain.

But I was in no mind to join in their pleasantry. “Oh, sir,” I cried,
turning to my papa with the tears in my eyes, “is this a letter that
should be sent to your daughter, who has never (if she may humbly
venture to say so) given occasion to any to speak lightly of her? En’t
it enough for me to be pestered with the detestable attentions of this
wretch in a public place, that his vile missives must pursue me even
into the retirements of my papa’s dwelling? Have I deserved this
indifference which you, sir, are pleased to show in a matter of such
singular moment to me?”

“There, there, Miss Sylvy,” says my dear papa, patting my neck in the
kindest manner imaginable, while I sobbed like a fool; “don’t cry, for
you shan’t be rallied any more. Don’t my girl trust her papa? Sure the
Captain and I are both itching to have our swords at the fellow’s
throat, but we had the same thought of making little of the matter for
fear it might alarm Miss and prey upon her spirits. But since she
accuses us of indifference, why, she shall know all that we do, and
spur us on when our eagerness seems to her to flag. You say your iya
knew nothing of this charming billet?”

“So she tells me, sir--oh, pray forgive my undutiful words.”

“Tut, tut, miss! I like your spirit. ’Tis well to see a young woman
nice about what touches her honour. You’re your papa’s own girl. And
now come, we’ll examine the household. Call the servants together,
_consummer_.”

The butler, who had been summoned by Mr Freyne’s clapping his hands,
went about his task in no small surprise, and presently had all the
servants ranged before us, the upper in the varanda, and the lower
remaining modestly in the compound. When they were all assembled, Mr
Freyne held up the letter, folded as it had been at first, and asked
each in turn whether he or she had laid it upon the Chuta Beebee’s
dressing-table. Each of them denied it, whereupon my papa offered a
reward of ten rupees to any one that could tell how it had got
there--an offer that excited the liveliest eagerness, but brought no
result. Next Mr Freyne asked what strangers had visited the house
to-day, and while the servants were reckoning up beggars and pedlars
and messengers bringing chitts, Marianna stepped suddenly to the
front.

“Me know, sir!” she cried. “Mother of Cosmetiques here, two--tree
hours ago, bring washes and essences for Burra Beebee. She bad old
woman, often carry messages for gentlemen; pass Missy’s door as she go
along varanda, put her hand in, put letter on table, no one see her.”

“Upon my word, I han’t a doubt but the wench is right!” cried my papa.
“The Mother of Cosmetiques here, indeed, and after what we had heard
before! Who has ventured to bring her to the house, I should be
pleased to know?”

“There’s no difficulty about that, sir,” says Mrs Freyne, who had come
from her dressing-room to see what all this assembly was about. “If
you choose to bring out a daughter from home with a pair of red cheeks
that make all Calcutta look faded, sure you can’t wonder that we poor
matrons do what we can to hold our own.”

“Here, iya,” says my papa to Marianna, “here’s five rupees for you,
and you shall have the other five if we can convict the hag. You can
go now, and all the whole parcel of you. Pray, madam,” he turned to
Mrs Freyne, “do I understand you to say you’re in the habit of
employing this female?”

“Why, sir, I heard you talking about her with Miss and the Captain,
and when I was at the President’s yesterday I asked some of the ladies
who she might be. Mrs Mapletoft was so obliging as to favour me with
her direction, and I lost no time in engaging her services.”

“Why, no indeed, madam, not even when you knew she was embarked on a
plot against my daughter’s reputation. But you may take my word for it
that you’ve employed her for the first and last time.”

“Indeed, Mr Freyne, we shall see about that. The woman’s an excellent
worthy creature, and I won’t have her persecuted. You’ll find that
she’s too useful to all the ladies here for ’em to permit you to drive
her out of the place because she has had the misfortune to oblige me.”

“We shall see, madam,” says Mr Freyne again, and shouts to the
servants for his hat.

“Captain, the favour of your hand to the palanqueen, if you please,”
said Mrs Freyne. “I presume you don’t design to go out to-night, miss,
as you en’t dressed, so I won’t wait for you.”

And she departed, while Captain Colquhoun and my papa went off
together on foot, but not without arming two of the peons with swords
and shields, and bidding ’em keep guard in front of the house, to
quiet my apprehensions. The time passed without alarm, save in your
Sylvia’s foolish bosom, as she divided her attention between
scribbling a few words to her Amelia and listening fearfully to every
chance sound. The gentlemen returned late, and not in the best of
humours, though they had gone straight to Mr Holwell, and obtaining an
order from him, had entered the old woman’s abode and found her at
home. She made no difficulty about confessing that she had placed the
billet on my table, but professed herself unable to say from whom she
had received it. ’Twas a tall European gentleman, speaking the Moors
language, she declared, but she should never know him again, for all
Europeans are alike. (So the Indians say, Amelia, which is very odd to
us, since we find it next to impossible to distinguish one of
themselves from another.) Leaving a guard over the woman’s house, Mr
Freyne and the Captain went to Mr Drake, and were very urgent with him
to expel her from the bounds of the settlement at once. But (said my
papa) the President, retiring for a moment in the course of the
discussion, must have sought and received counsel from Mrs Drake, for
he came back to say that he understood the female to be a useful
adviser in cases of sickness, and not to be dispensed with by the
ladies of the factory, so that he would content himself on this
occasion with cautioning her, and promising that in case of repeating
her offence she should be drove out of our bounds with ignominy. And
this it was that had vexed the two gentlemen, as well it might, to
find themselves mocked by a wicked person and his degraded instrument.
But your Sylvia, the unhappy cause of all this pother, welcomed their
return with delight, her mind having devised a new terror for itself
in their absence.

“Do you think it possible, dear sir,” I said to my papa, “that this
wicked man can be the Nabob himself?”

“What, and speak French like a Frenchman, and pass for a European?”
cried Mr Freyne. “No, miss, I don’t. By all we hear, Surajah Dowlah is
black for a Moor, and speaks no civilised language. But what then?”

“Only this, sir, that--that if this person should unhappily possess
the power to carry out the cruel threats he utters in this letter, I
thought--it might--might be my duty----”

“To oblige him?” cried Mr Freyne, with a strong word. “Sure the fellow
has gauged your constitution monstrous skilfully, miss.”

“Oh pray, dear sir, don’t wrong your girl so far as to think such a
measure would be agreeable to her. But to save the entire factory----”

“The entire factory may go hang before my girl saves it in any such
style, and there’s an end of the matter!” cried my papa.

“Sure you’re no Roman papa, dear sir, or you would instantly sacrifice
your daughter for the good of the State.”

“No, miss, I en’t a Roman papa, nor an Agamemnon neither, to sacrifice
my daughter for any cause, whether on account of my own fault (though
the Captain do always cast it in my teeth) or of the State’s.”

“Indeed, sir,” says Captain Colquhoun, “I’m in the fullest accordance
with you here. Miss don’t perceive that this is the wretch’s
artfullest touch, to endeavour to lure her away by the hope of
benefiting the Presidency, knowing that this will be to ruin her
through the finest motions of her nature. ’Tis a flattering testimony
to you, madam, though it speaks little for the fellow that uses it. As
to his power to carry out his menaces, I don’t think it need alarm
you. He would scarce brag of it if he meant to use it.”

“But, sir,” I said, “suppose he have the power, and do use it. What
will you think of me then?”

“Why, that like another Helen, you’ve fired another Troy,” says my
papa, quoting from one of the songs in the cantata sung at the
Harmonic Society last night; “and, like the Trojan elders, we shall
esteem you the more because we have suffered so much through you.”


                                     Calcutta, _April ye_ 21_st._

My troubles en’t by no means ended yet, Amelia, although the dreadful
Unknown has so far left me in peace since his billet of last Saturday.
’Tis his prophecy uttered at the Masquerade that now threatens to
prove true. Passing through the parlour this afternoon, on my way to
the varanda, I found my papa and Mrs Freyne there together--a thing
unusual at any time, and particularly at that hour of the day, when
Mrs Freyne is wont to retire to her chamber in order to fit herself by
a second period of rest for the gaieties of the evening. That’s a pert
remark for me to make, en’t it, my dear? I know my Amelia will say so.
Questionless ’tis made because I can’t find it possible to sleep for
two entire hours both before and after dinner, and therefore am
jealous of one that can. But oh, my dear Miss Turnor, I wish I knew
why my stepmother dislikes me so terribly. Perhaps you’ll tell me that
’tis because I am not so complaisant towards her as I ought to be. But
indeed I do all I can to oblige her, though I must confess I don’t
feel towards her as I should wish to be able to do. “See there!”
you’ll say, “you wonder that Mrs Freyne should dislike you when she
sees you dislike her.” True, my dear, but I was prepared when I came
here to exhibit the greatest complaisance imaginable, while she (I
must say it) did not even feign the slightest sentiment of kindness
towards me. There, Amelia! your Sylvia is a saucy ill-mannered
creature, passing judgments that don’t become her on her elders and
betters, and accusing them of misusing her instead of bewailing her
own failures in duty towards them. But indeed my mamma has done me an
ill-turn this afternoon, as you shall hear.

“You’ll oblige me by telling me what you have against him, sir,” she
was saying, when I came into the room. “I understand he’s a nobleman
in his own country.”

“That’s very likely, madam. I have known several noblemen of that
sort.”

“I’m sure he has money enough,” says Mrs Freyne, angrily.

“True, madam; too much. I should be glad to know how he gets it.”

“By honest trading, sir, of course. I wonder at your remark.”

“No interloper could make by honest trading in these days the fortune
Mr Menotti boasts of,” says my papa. I jumped when I heard the name.

“I see it en’t no good my taking the poor man’s part, sir. You have
conceived a spite against him.”

“You do me too much honour, madam. I’ll refer the question to the
party it concerns most deeply. Here, miss, your mamma is pressing me
to marry you to Mr Menotti. Will you have him?”

“No, sir, I thank you,” said I, with a curtsey.

“Then that settles the matter. My girl will never find me forcing her
inclination when it jumps with my own,” and Mr Freyne laughed as he
patted my neck. The laugh seemed to displease my stepmother.

“Perhaps you en’t aware of it, sir,” she said, “but you’ll be charmed
to know you are the laughing-stock of Calcutta for your usage of Miss
there. They say she turns you round her little finger.”

“She could not turn me round a prettier nor a smaller one, madam.”

“Oh, pray spare me these endearments, sir, which befit your age as
little as they do your relation to Miss. You won’t listen to me now,
but perhaps some day you’ll think of what I have said. Why don’t the
girl get married all this time? The gentlemen come crowding to you,
and you give ’em their _congé_ one by one, and Miss Saucy-face sits
in the corner and simpers. She’ll disgrace you one of these days
running off with some blackfellow or other.”

“Pray, madam, remember you’re speaking of my daughter.”

“Am I likely to forget it, sir? Mr Freyne is so nice about his
daughter that no one may use a free word in speaking of her, but his
wedded wife might look far enough for his assistance if she desired
it.”

“My sword is at your service, madam--whether to vindicate your honour
or my own.” I had never heard my papa speak with so terrible a voice,
and he stood before Mrs Freyne’s couch and looked down at her. She
laughed lightly--but was it my fancy that it was also consciously?--as
she rose and swept away.

“I won’t forget your obliging offer, sir, I’ll assure you; but I have
a notion your sword may be needed first in a quarter more interesting
to yourself. Do you know what all Calcutta is saying about your dear
Miss, and the reason why she don’t marry? Because she don’t dare.
She’s married secretly already, to some fellow she met on her voyage,
by a Popish priest somewhere or other, and she has persuaded you that
it’s owing to her extraordinary delicacy she can’t find any one in
Bengall good enough for her.”

“Indeed, madam, your liberality is too great. Not content with robbing
my daughter of her reputation--for your own benefit, I suppose--you
make me a present of a son-in-law, all in one day.”

Mrs Freyne laughed again as she stepped out on the varanda. My papa
watched her out of sight, then turned to me with a frowning brow--

“Is this true, miss?”

“Oh, dear sir, can you believe such a thing of your girl?”

“No prevarication, miss. Give me an honest yes or no.”

“Why, no, sir. There’s no truth in it.”

“Will you swear it, miss?”

“On my honour, sir.”

“No, miss, that won’t do. Sure I can’t accept an oath by the very
thing that’s in dispute.”

“By your honour, then, sir, which is as dear to me as to yourself, and
which will be stainless indeed if it receive no more disgrace than I
have done it in the past.” I sobbed out this upon my knees, for my
papa’s words cut me to the heart. At any other moment he would have
sought industriously to comfort me, but now he was walking up and down
the chamber with his brows knit and muttering to himself. Presently I
could bear it no longer, and throwing myself in his way, catched his
feet. “Oh, sir,” I cried, “don’t condemn your girl unheard. What have
you ever found in her to justify you in believing she would deceive
you? Ask me any question you choose, dear sir, and I’ll answer it on
my knees. I have had many things to trouble me of late, but my papa’s
countenance has helped me to endure them. If he forsakes me, what
refuge have I but death?”

“Don’t talk of things you know nothing about, miss. I do accept your
word, and it’s well for you I have no cause to do otherwise. But all
Calcutta don’t know you as I do, and what’s to be done to convince
’em? The tale fits only too well with your constant refusal to marry.
Why han’t you married, miss? You have had chances enough. I believe
there en’t a man of suitable degree in the place but has laid himself
at your feet. Pray, what are you waiting for--the Grand Turk or the
Great Mogul? I can tell you this, you’ll marry the first honest man
that asks you after to-day, and no more pother about it, by----”

“Oh, dear sir, don’t swear it!” I cried, and ventured to cling to his
upraised arm. “Pray think that the wicked person who spread this
slander may have anticipated this very resolve of yours, and counted
on benefiting by it, and so you may hand me over to the most dreadful
tyranny. Won’t my papa pity his girl at all?”

“If I was a person of sense,” says my papa, angrily, “I should refuse
to be moved by that pert tongue of yours, miss, but I can’t hear my
Sally’s girl pleading and remain unmoved. But Miss Sylvia Freyne may
be sure of this, that I’ll find her a husband before another week is
out.”


                                     Calcutta, _April ye_ 27_th._

Oh, my dear, the husband has been found, and who do you think he is?
But I’ll tell you the tale as it happened.

“What do you think of Captain Colquhoun, miss?” says my papa to me, as
we were taking the air in the garden before breakfast this morning.

“Think of him, sir? Why, what could I think but that he’s a vastly
agreeable and respectable person, and my papa’s most esteemed friend?”

“I’m charmed that your opinion’s so favourable, miss. The Captain is
coming to see you this morning.”

“Coming--to--see--me--sir?”

“Why, yes, miss. He has done you the honour to ask you of me in
marriage, and I desire you’ll entertain him as your future spouse.”

Was I very saucy, Amelia? I did not design to be so, but the words
escaped my lips. “But, dear sir, I can’t!” I cried.

“And why not, miss, pray?”

Now here, Amelia, was your poor Sylvia in a pretty confusion. Why not,
indeed? Even to myself I could not produce any reasons; I could only
feel them.

“Sure it’s impossible, sir. I never dreamt---- The gentleman is surely
a sworn bachelor. I esteem him most highly, I’ll assure you, but any
closer tie---- Dear sir, the Captain’s age, his--his wisdom--he could
never put up with an ignorant girl like me. Pray, sir----”

I could say no more, and my papa regarded me sternly.

“This charming prudishness won’t weigh with me, miss. I believe I have
indulged you excessively, allowing you the whole of the cold weather
to make your choice. I vow I never looked to keep you longer than a
month, and I wish heartily I hadn’t done it. No, miss; this season of
reigning as a queen, and holding all Calcutta in suspense, and setting
all the young gentlemen at enmity, has lasted too long, and you may
thank me for ending it before you find yourself excelled by the young
ladies arriving this year from home. Not that you shall have the
chance of calling me unreasonable. If there’s any gentleman in
Calcutta that you would honestly prefer to the Captain as a spouse,
name him, and I’ll set on foot a treaty with him at once.”

“Dear sir, there en’t one. But won’t you permit your girl----”

“No, miss, I won’t.” I could see by my papa’s face that he was
hardening his heart against me. “I won’t have it said that my foolish
desire to have your company at home has led me to spoil your chances
of marrying. And what’s more, the injurious things that are being said
about you demand that you should be married as soon as possible as
their best contradiction. Why, it fell to me to-day to reprove a young
fool of a writer, who had bribed a Popish priest to marry him to a
country-born wench in the Portuguese quarter; and pointing out to him
that his proceedings showed he was ashamed of what he was doing, or he
would have sought to get married in the church by the Padra like an
honest man, he told me that he was not alone in preferring a private
wedding, for there was one of my own family that was commonly reported
to have done the same. What do you make of that, miss?”

“Oh, sir----” I sobbed, and stopped. “Will he say this everywhere?”

“I think not,” said my papa, very grim. “I promised to cane him round
the town if he did not instantly unsay his words, or if he ever
repeated ’em, and he saw his error, and begged my pardon. But what he
says, others are saying, and I don’t choose they should say it of my
daughter. You may be as whimsical and as humoursome as you like, miss,
and play off all your pretty airs and graces on me, but it won’t do
you no good, nor advantage you one whit. I am acting for your good,
and you know it; and I don’t despair that one day you’ll have the
grace to thank me for it, when you judge that your punctilio has been
satisfied by the proper amount of sulking.”

He made as though to leave me; but ’twas my last chance, and I could
not see it slip away. Springing after him, I was bold enough to seize
his arm. “Dear sir,” I said, “you have forbid me to plead for your
girl, and she perceives she need expect no softness from her papa. But
think at least of your friend. Is it acting a friendly part by him to
seek to force into his arms an unwilling bride? That’s all I ask you.”

“But why should the bride be unwilling?” cried Mr Freyne, turning upon
me angrily. “I offer her the whole of Calcutta from which to choose,
and she’s still unwilling. There must be some limit even to a lady’s
reluctance. Perhaps the cause lies outside Calcutta--hey, miss?
Perhaps you’ll be so obliging as to tell me exactly what there is
between you and the sea-officer, the Captain’s cousin, or perhaps
you’re held back by an oath?”

“Why, no, sir, for there’s nothing to swear about. There’s nothing
whatever between your daughter and Lieutenant Fraser.”

“Not so much as a promise? I had your word for it that there was no
marriage.”

“Not even a promise, sir. I don’t deny that the gentleman came
desiring to obtain one from me, but we parted in anger.”

My papa looked at me with a suspicion that convinced me I owed this
strange harshness of his to some fresh tale of Mrs Freyne’s. (Don’t
scold me, Amelia. Can you say that she don’t seek to separate my
father and me by means of tales?) “And you wish the young gentleman
fetched back, miss?”

“Why, no, sir, certainly not,” my cheeks aflame at the very thought.

“Then you would prefer to wait in case it might please him to come
back, and so find you meekly ready for his arrival?”

“I don’t think your girl has merited these sarcasms, sir.”

“Then show it by marrying the Captain, miss.”

“If you command me to marry the Captain, sir, I will obey you.”

“No, miss, I don’t command you. I won’t give you that excuse for
saying you was forced into a marriage by your father’s tyranny. You
know that it’s my strong desire that you should marry the Captain, and
as you have always shown yourself a dutiful daughter until now, I
expect that desire to prevail with you in the absence of any weighty
reason that might make your compliance wrong. If there be any such
reason, I’ll hear it with patience. If not, I look to you to justify
the consideration I have extended to you in the past by your behaviour
now.”

“I’ll do my best to satisfy you, sir,” I said, sighing. For oh, my
dear girl, who could continue to resist when urged in such a manner by
such a father? Had the parents of the noble Clarissa treated her with
so reasonable a kindness (for I know my papa is only cruel to be
kind), sure she must have succumbed to their softness where she was
firm against their invective. But perhaps you won’t agree with me.
Then, Amelia, be very sure your Sylvia en’t a Clarissa. But then,
neither is Captain Colquhoun a Solmes. He’s all that is excellent--his
only fault that he is not Fraser. And indeed, my dear, that’s as well,
for I should be sorry to think there was two men like the lieutenant
in the world. There’s a double meaning here, you’ll say? Why, so there
is. I will stop.


I take up my pen again at night. During breakfast my papa preserved
the same unbending sternness towards me, so that I could scarcely eat,
and was like to choke more than once. The only person at their ease
was Mrs Freyne, who talked and laughed with the most charming
sprightliness. When the meal was over, and your unhappy Sylvia was
creeping away to her own chamber, Mrs Freyne called to me as I passed
her door.

“So I hear you’ve added another to the list of your conquests, miss.
’Tis a little hard on the poor gentleman to have to pay so dear for
merely taking up your defence in public, en’t it?”

“Sure, madam, you’re better informed than I.”

“Why,” says she, “it seems that after mess yesterday, when the
gentlemen had perhaps drunk somewhat freely, your name was mentioned
among ’em, and the story which is in the mouths of all Calcutta not
obscurely hinted at. Up darts Captain Colquhoun, and calls on the
speaker (’twas young Waring, I fancy they told me) to withdraw his
words, which he had the best authority for knowing were altogether
false. The young gentleman demands with great spirit what right the
Captain had to interfere in the matter, to which he replied, quick as
lightning, that his right was that of a suitor for the lady’s hand. On
this Waring offers his apologies, and the matter drops; but coming to
your papa’s ears, he jumps at the notion, and forces the Captain to
turn his expedient into a reality.”

“I’m sure, madam, I am prodigious grateful to you for telling me
this,” I said, as I went on my way. And indeed, Amelia, the history
comforted me not a little, for if not the Captain’s heart, but only
his politeness, was engaged, it should not, surely, be impossible to
turn him aside from his object. Hence, when Marianna came to tell me
that Captain Colquhoun was waiting for me in the saloon, I put a bold
face on the matter, and having dried my eyes and settled my cap,
walked into the apartment with as easy an air as I could assume,
though my heart was thumping as if it would burst.

“Madam, your most obedient!” said he, with his stiff bow.

“Sir, you’re very welcome,” said I, as well as my trembling lips would
allow me.

“Dearest madam, why this agitation?” said the kind gentleman, as he
took my hand to lead me to a seat, and found it cold and shaking. “I
hope I han’t incommoded Miss Freyne by so early a visit?”

“Indeed, sir, I had rather you came early,” I said, for I don’t know
how I had lived the day through in anticipation of his coming.

“Questionless, madam, my good friend Mr Freyne has informed you of my
object in waiting upon you this morning?”

“He has told me of the honour, sir--” I could not get out another
word.

“And may I venture to hope that Miss Freyne shares in the kind opinion
expressed by her papa?”

I saw my chance, Amelia, and rushed at it. “Dear sir,” I burst out,
all in a flurry, “it’s been told me that you’re paying me these
addresses out of a notion of honour, feeling yourself bound by a
declaration you made in public yesterday. I can’t be too grateful for
your defence of me, but it would give me infinite pain to think that
you held it necessary to carry the matter any further.”

“Even though it gave me infinite pleasure, madam? Has my dear Miss
Freyne never guessed that she had another humble servant besides the
young sparks that flutter about her so gaily? Ah, madam, they see you
only in company, outshining, it’s true, every other lady present, yet
still one amongst many; but you have permitted me to behold you
continually in the softer and more endearing character of a daughter
in her father’s house, and the repeated sight has graven upon my heart
an impression too deep to be effaced. Does Miss Freyne grudge having
lost the triumph of enrolling a new admirer? I know her tender spirit
would not seek to gratify itself with the spectacle of the distress of
another hopeless lover, and that I have been since first I perceived
my case. But the event of yesterday gave me fresh food for thought.
When I had silenced the slanderer by the revelation of a passion of
which no one had dreamt, the notion came to me, ‘What if this amiable
lady would be willing to accept the devotion her Colquhoun would so
gladly offer her? A genteel abode, a respectable competence, the
protection of a husband, and all else that could be done or given by a
man who would lay down his life to oblige her, would be at her
service.’ Pray, madam,” for I had strove to speak, “hear me out. You
don’t need to remind me that I am old, and scarred with long years of
war both in Europe and the Carnatic--I know it too well. But, on my
honour, I don’t think you would find me an unkind spouse. I would
never seek to deprive you of the diversions natural to your sex and
age; on the contrary, I would feel honoured in attending you to ’em.
The desire for knowledge, which displays the ingenious bent of your
mind, I would do my best to gratify. Your heart, as I know well, I
can’t aspire to possess, but if respect and complaisance could win it,
even that treasure would be mine--in short, if Miss Freyne could
tolerate me as a spouse, it should go hard with me if she were not
happy, or at least contented in her lot.”

“Oh, dear sir,” I cried out, “cease these too kind remarks before I am
crushed to the dust under such a load of obligation. Every word you
have spoken has planted a dagger in my heart. I entered this room
almost resolved, as I had promised my papa, to accept your proposals,
but now I can’t do it, when I see that your heart’s engaged in the
matter, without telling you the truth. My heart is given to another.
If I could have recalled it, the thing had long been done, but I
can’t, and there the matter lies.”

“Is the gentleman alive, madam?”

“Oh yes, sir; but we have quarrelled.”

“I need not ask, madam, on whose side the fault lay.”

“Indeed, sir, he has used me cruelly, though I would tell this to no
one but you.”

“Could you oblige me with this person’s name, madam?”

“Oh no, sir!” I went cold all in a moment at the thought that the
Captain might seek out Mr Fraser and fight him, perhaps kill him. “I
was over hasty. The blame was certainly in great part mine. The
gentleman sought to test my sentiments for him by means of a fantastic
device out of a novel, and I, not knowing his expedient, believed him
false to me. Then, when next we met, he failed to express the
contrition I fancied was called for, and I stood upon my punctilio,
and refused to forgive him without it, whereupon he went away in a
rage. You see that I am at least as much to blame as he.”

“No, madam; I see that the puppy has a stouter defender than he
deserves, that’s all. But pardon my speaking so of one dear to Miss
Freyne. You anticipate that this person will return to you?”

“No, sir, I have not the slightest cause for thinking so. My reason
for mentioning the matter at all was a desire to deal fairly by you. I
esteem you as the best person in the world, next to my papa, and with
Heaven’s help I’ll do my best to make you a dutiful and, I hope, an
obliging wife, but I can’t delude you into believing that Sylvia
Freyne has still a heart to be won.”

“Do you know, madam, that you are placing me in a most cruel
situation?”

“Dear sir, forgive me. I am a sad selfish creature, I fear.”

“My own heart, madam, would prompt me at once to leave you free, but
such a course would only expose you the more to the tongues of the
injurious busy-bodies of this place, as would your rejection of my
proposals.”

“But I han’t rejected ’em, sir.”

“To accept them, madam, would be even more dreadful. Suppose this
person, of whom you have told me, should in time repent of his
behaviour, and return to find you married? I am not, I hope, a jealous
man, I believe in your virtue beyond all possibility of doubt, but how
should I feel to see two young persons, well qualified to make each
other happy, condemned to an eternal separation, and all through me?
The higher the virtue they displayed the more poignant would be my
sufferings. What man of honour could endure such a situation with
contentment, even with complacence?”

“Dear sir, you torture me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll obey you.”

“Why, madam, I don’t know myself. I will go back to my quarters and
think the matter over, not forgetting to seek guidance where alone it
is to be found, as I trust Miss Freyne will do also, and if I see a
way out of the trouble I will wait upon you again this evening. Trust
me, madam, you shan’t be forced into so repugnant an alliance if I can
save you.”

I cried out against his words, but he was gone.




 CHAPTER IX.
 TREATING OF LOVERS AND FRIENDS.

                                     Calcutta, _April ye_ 28_th._

To continue the history, in which I know my dearest Amelia is most
painfully interested, I returned to my own chamber after the Captain’s
departure, and did my best to comply with his desire, though with
little faith, I fear, in the possibility of obtaining an answer to my
prayers. For indeed, Amelia, what plan could be devised whereby might
be satisfied not only my papa’s punctilio and Captain Colquhoun’s
honour, but also the prying eagerness of the scandal-mongers of this
place? I told myself that there could be none, and endeavoured to
bring my mind into a state of resignation--a task that was rendered
far harder by the recollections of Mr Fraser that had persisted in
forcing themselves upon me all morning. For this is the worst of my
misfortunes, that I can’t fail to perceive in the Captain a nobler
spirit and a more obliging disposition than in Fraser, and yet (a
plague on Sylvia Freyne’s perversity!) I love the meaner man and not
the greater. I scolded myself for this preference. I sought to reason
myself out of it, but all in vain, for the whole time I knew that if
by some miracle Fraser should return at that very hour, and declare
his repentance by the smallest word, or even with a look--aye, perhaps
without even that--I should forgive him and love him, not better, that
were impossible, but with a far more respectful affection than before.
I am fully sensible that many writers, and in especial the ingenious
Mr Richardson, would counsel me that ’twas my duty to resist a wilful
passion of this sort, and endeavour to uproot it, and I should have
hoped to do so, had time been allowed me. ’Tis the entering on new and
all-important duties with a mind thus preoccupied that I dread, for
fear lest, after all, my efforts should fail. “You can but try,” says
everybody; but, my dear, it seems to me an extraordinary grave thing
to make this sort of experiment, as I may say, in our lives, whereof
we have but one apiece, whether to be gained or lost. For if we lose,
what then, Amelia?

Spending my morning in reflections of this sort, my dearest girl will
readily guess that when the hour for tiffing arrived I was in no state
to make a public appearance. Sending Marianna to beg Mrs Freyne to
excuse me from attending her at the meal, I turned over on my couch,
and sought to cool my hot face with Hungary water. While thus
occupied, in comes my papa.

“What, miss, sullen?” he said angrily, seeing me all in a heap on the
couch, with my hair about my face and my cap awry.

“Indeed, indeed, sir,” I cried, rising from the couch and falling on
my knees before him, “I am trying to mould my mind to your will,
believe me. Only remember how your goodness has always indulged your
girl in the past, and you’ll perceive how difficult she finds it to
accommodate her behaviour to your present awful severity. Pray, sir,
don’t think I regard it as ill deserved--I believe I know my
faults--but bear with me for to-day, I beg of you.”

“You’re a strange unaccountable hussy,” says my papa, but not so
harshly. “What do you want, miss, I should like to know? Well, cry
your eyes out to-day, if you will have it so, but mind, no sulking
to-morrow, on pain of my gravest displeasure.”

I heard him sigh impatiently as he went away, and (undutiful wretch!
you’ll say) the sound rejoiced me, for I knew that whatever my
stepmother’s arts had been, they had not availed to estrange my papa’s
heart from his girl. My next visitor was Mrs Freyne herself, who came
creeping in, with her finger to her lip, after my papa was gone back
to his _dufter-conna_.

“So you’re to marry the Captain, miss?” she said in a half-whisper; “I
hope you’re pleased with the prospect?”

I could not think of any answer to make, and she went on, “Now, miss,
I know you’ve often taken it vastly unkind in me that I’ve chanced to
disoblige you now and then, but I’ll assure you I en’t really
ill-natured. I won’t see you drove into a distasteful marriage without
offering you a hope of escape. What do you say to marrying a rich and
handsome young gentleman that’s dying for you, instead of your
solemn-faced, miserly old Scotchman?”

“Who’s the gentleman, if you please, madam?”

“As though you needed to ask! ’Tis Menotti, of course, with the most
elegant residence and keeping the best company in Calcutta. Come,
miss, a chitt from me will bring him here in ten minutes, and Padra
Mapletoft with him, and you shall be married quietly in your chamber,
with no fuss or confusion. Then you can go home with him at once if
you please, or if you choose still to play the prude and torment the
poor man, he’ll be content not to claim you until you’re reconciled to
the notion. Here’s pen and ink, I see--shall I write?”

Now it may appear strange to my Amelia, but this proposition of Mrs
Freyne’s went far to reconcile me to quite another notion than hers.
’Twas possible, then, to meet a worse fate than to be compelled to
marry an excellent good man that one did not love--even to lay oneself
under an eternal obligation of the same nature to a wicked person that
one hated.

“I thank you, madam,” I said, “but if I must marry one or other of the
gentlemen, I’ll choose the Captain.”

“Then you’re a fool,” says she, “to choose a poor beggarly captain of
Company’s troops, with whom you may be grateful if you get a silk gown
once in ten years, in preference to one that will load you with the
finest jewels and richest stuffs that can be had. I wonder, miss,
where the obliging disposition is, with which the gentlemen all credit
you, when you can doom to despair an adorer that has worshipped you so
long with the utmost devotion, and for no reason at all?”

“Indeed, madam, I have my reasons. Mr Menotti’s manner of life, his
free language even in the company of ladies, and the indifferent
esteem in which he is held by persons of honour, are sufficient reason
for me.”

“Well,” says Mrs Freyne, as she left the room, “if you’ll do me the
favour to look at yourself in the glass, miss, I think you’ll say that
if Mr Menotti saw you now, your looks would be a sufficient reason for
his not marrying you.”

“Ah,” I thought, “I see now why Mr Freyne has been urged on to force
me into marrying the Captain, and why I have been sought to be
privately dissuaded from the match. The Unknown was a true prophet.”

Now this slight encounter with Mrs Freyne proved a huge refreshment to
me, so that I rose and summoned Marianna to dress my hair and help me
change my gown. And, indeed, it was well that I did so, for before
dinner, while it was still the heat of the day, I was told that
Captain Colquhoun was again awaiting me in the saloon. I sought in
vain to read his face when I entered the room, but as he led me to a
seat I observed that he had a letter in his hand, which he presently
opened, showing me that it had another enclosed in it.

“This pacquet,” madam, he said, “I found lying at my quarters when I
returned from attending you this morning. I have brought it here
because I fancied Miss Freyne might be able to help me respecting its
contents.”

“Indeed, sir, I hope you’ll command me,” I said, out of measure
astonished at such a sudden change of address.

“It comes,” he said, “from my cousin, the young gentleman that was
staying with me a fortnight or so back. He begs me to deliver the
enclosure to a lady of whom he is enamoured, and whom--so far as I can
make out--he offended grievously before his departure, but he don’t
mention the lady’s name. ’Tis a wild fantastical piece of writing, but
he appears to consider I would know his mistress. Yesterday I would
have returned him the paper, having no notion who the divinity might
be, but this day has taught me more things than one. Have you any
knowledge of the lady, madam?”

“Oh, sir,” all impatience, “pray, pray give it me.” The Captain laid
the letter in my hand, but I delayed to open it, partly through a real
misgiving, partly through a foolish readiness to tease myself by
postponing my happiness. “It en’t directed to me, sir.”

“If you think it en’t designed for you, madam, pray hand it back to me
with the seal unbroken,” says the Captain, in a severe voice of
rebuke; but that I could not do. The horrid doubt that I might find
the letter wrote after all to some other lady made my hands shake as I
tore it open, but then I cried out with joy. Oh, the dear, blessed
words, Amelia! fantastical, if you will (sure poor Fraser must have
gathered ’em from a novel, as he did that unlucky expedient of his),
but for all that the sweetest, the most charming that ever assured the
fearful heart of a poor creature that had sad cause to mistrust her
lover. I copy them for my dear friend:--


 “To the incomparable Mrs Sylvia Freyne.

 “If, madam, you deign to permit your eyes to rest upon the lines which
 the wretch who now addresses himself to you has dared to trace, it may
 perhaps serve to mitigate your just resentments when you learn that
 ever since he parted from you he has been a prey to the pangs of that
 remorse and contrition which is properly his lot. ’Tis true, he
 quitted your presence with an air of hardihood and bravado, as tho’ he
 had the effrontery to believe that he might remain unscathed by those
 arrows which had been planted in his guilty heart by your reproof of
 him, and this tho’ the wounds they caused (which have never ceased to
 throb and smart) were even then beginning to fester. The suffering
 wretch has no art to alleviate his pains, and in his despair he throws
 himself at the feet of the righteously offended charmer, to ask
 whether she who inflicted the hurts will be so divinely obliging as to
 chase ’em away. That the punishment is merited he dares not deny (yet
 not with such an affectation of humility as might seem to seek to
 disarm the just wrath of the lady to whom he applies himself), but
 will Miss Freyne’s tender heart permit her to use her suppliant as the
 savages of the Virginias their enemies--viz., to set ’em up and shoot
 arrows into them, and leave them to expire in their agony? Since
 quitting Calcutta, the miserable object of her displeasure has failed
 to enjoy a moment of ease from the torment of these cruel barbs in his
 vitals, and now, his vessel being forced by the stress of a storm to
 seek shelter in the port of Vizagapatnam, he gazes across the raging
 billows in the direction of the city that holds his mistress, and
 longs for the power of throwing himself in reality at her feet, where
 he might demand pardon too urgently to be withstood, and receive the
 assurance of his felicity from the kindest lips in the world. But
 honour draws him back to Madrass, for his orders were strict against
 lingering on the road, and the lady he ventures to adore would be the
 last to desire to lure him away from his duty. Won’t the amiable
 Sylvia grant her Fraser a word of kindness, whether traced by her own
 fair hand, or confided to the mediation of his kinsman, that may salve
 his wounds and send him victorious to fight his nation’s battles?

 “_P.S._--Dearest madam, I love you with all my heart and better than
 my life. Forgive my unlucky trickery, and also my cursed rudeness, and
 rejoice your most humble and devoted servant,

                                                      C. Fraser.”


My happy tears fell fast (indeed I could not restrain ’em), on this
charming, charming post-scriptum. “Oh, sir,” I cried to the Captain,
“how shall I ever thank you for handing me this dear, this affecting
letter?” But no sooner were the words out of my mouth (as they say)
than I remembered, what my foolish ecstasy had made me forget, the
present posture of my affairs. “Dear sir,” I said, “pray forgive me.
What must you think of me?”

“Nay, madam,” was the Captain’s reply, “’tis of my cousin Fraser I am
thinking. Sure the lad should have been named Jacob, and not Colvin,
for he and his have supplanted me these two times.”

“Oh, sir,” I said, “you do me wrong, and your cousin also. See,” and I
made as though to tear up Mr Fraser’s letter, but could not bring
myself to do it, and only crushed it in my hand, “this late though
happy repentance on his part can make no difference to the engagement
into which I entered with you this morning. My dear Captain Colquhoun
won’t grudge me, I’m sure, the happiness of knowing that I had
misjudged one so nearly related to him, but that pleasure is in itself
sufficient. I am yours, sir, and it shall be my constant effort, I’ll
assure you, that what you have just witnessed shall never be recalled
to your mind.”

“Nay, madam,” said he again, with what Charlotte and I have been used
to call his wooden smile (oh, my dear, how the memory of our pert
jests concerning the noblest of men shames me now!) “when Jacob hath
gained both the birthright and the promise, what remains for poor Esau
but to flee into the wilderness from the face of his brother?”

“Dear sir, what do you purpose doing?” I cried in great alarm.

“Nothing that need terrify you, madam; merely to withdraw my
pretensions in favour of him who has the best right to your hand,
since for him your heart goes with it, and to endeavour to find my
happiness in that of the lady I most admire and of the man who must
needs be worthy since Miss Freyne prefers him to so high a place in
her esteem.”

“Sure, dear sir, you must be a philosopher?”

“I am more concerned to be a Christian, madam. But,” seeing that I was
much abashed, “don’t let my sour humour put Miss Freyne out of
countenance. Be assured, madam, that when I leave you ’twill be to set
my wits at work to devise a means of escape from this situation that
shall satisfy both Mr Freyne’s punctilio and yours, and if I find a
chance to throw in a good word for your Fraser, it shan’t be lost.”

“Oh, sir, dear sir, if there was anything I could do!”

“There’s nothing, madam. Miss Freyne’s kind heart must not concern
itself with the old man’s misfortunes. ‘Serves the old fool right for
falling in love at his age!’ the world will say, but Alexander
Colquhoun himself thinks no shame of it, and he is tough enough to
bear the consequences without whimpering. Nay, madam, I protest you
honour me too much----”

For when he stooped to kiss my hand, I had seized his and kissed it
instead. And, indeed, Amelia, even now that I am cool, I will defend
my hasty action to you or any other person. Would not you have been
proud to kiss the hand of Sir Charles Grandison? and though you may
smile to think that I should have discovered the features of that
great and good man in a poor captain of Company’s troops, yet I defy
you to produce any person of this age whose disposition will more
nearly approach that of Mr Richardson’s noblest and most elevated
character.

As I returned to my own chamber a little later, I met my papa.

“Well, miss, and where’s the Captain?” he asked me.

“I believe he’s gone back to his quarters, sir.”

“And what’s settled, hey?”

“I think the Captain will wait upon you to-morrow morning, sir.”

“Pray, miss, why don’t you answer my question? Is all right between
you and the Captain?”

“I--I don’t know, sir,” and I burst into tears, which displeased my
papa so much that he ordered me to go to my chamber, and not to show
myself in his sight for the rest of the day.

The remainder of the afternoon I spent in scribbling these pages to my
Amelia, until my eyes ached so badly I could write no more, and also
(I’ll confess it) in reading again and again the dear delightful
letter that assured me of Fraser’s penitence and faithfulness. My
beloved girl will wonder that I could take so much pleasure in that
which had so sadly disobliged the dear kind gentleman I had seen so
lately, and indeed I was ashamed of my own delight, and astonished at
it. I put the letter in my bosom at last, and crept like a mouse into
the saloon, which was not lighted, since Mrs Freyne was spending the
evening abroad. But outside in the varanda sat my papa, meditating, I
fear, on the humours of his troublesome girl, and though he had forbid
me his presence I could not endure not to be near him. Seated,
therefore, on the straw matting (this is used instead of a carpet),
close to the open door that leads on the varanda, and sheltered by the
_antiporta_, I ventured to watch him, with all the love and reverence
in my gaze that ought to, and does, fill my grateful heart on the
slightest thought of him. He appeared troubled, and I knew that he
felt the want of the Captain’s company, who is so often with him of an
evening, but before very long Mr Dash was announced, and the two
gentlemen sent for their _hookers_[9.01] (have I said that these are
a strange sort of tobacco-pipe, with a vessel of water and a long tube
like a serpent and all manner of outlandish additions belonging to
’em?) and began to smoke.

“I looked in at the Captain’s quarters as I passed,” says Mr Dash
after a while, “thinking he would be coming to pass the evening with
you, sir.”

“And you found him abroad?”

“No, sir, but he was too busy to stir a foot. Questionless that
sergeant of his has been in trouble again, and is condemned to pass
the night in the black hole for brawling, after smuggling a jar or two
of arrack into the guard-room, and the Captain’s preparing a new
scheme for his reformation.”

I knew well what Mr Dash meant, for Captain Colquhoun had often told
me of this man, who is an extraordinary good soldier so long as he can
resist the influence of strong liquors, and had even requested my
opinion on the possibility of depriving him altogether of the
indulgence, which in this climate is so often abused; but I did not
believe that ’twas this matter which was exercising the Captain’s mind
this evening. I sat listening while my papa and Mr Dash spoke of the
overbearing and threatening carriage of the new Soubah towards us, and
wondered whether he would permit himself to be appeased by the genteel
congratulatory letter sent him by the President as soon as he was
formally proclaimed in Calcutta. My papa made sure that all would be
well, since the Nabob had received the letter favourably, and shown no
resentment for the injurious treatment of his messenger in the matter
of Kissendasseat, but Mr Dash pointed out that Surajah Dowlah had
already seized and imprisoned one of his rivals, namely, Gosseta
Begum, his uncle’s widow, and was commonly reported to be about to
march against t’other, his cousin the Purranea Nabob, so that he was
destroying his enemies one by one, “and after Sucajunk,” says the
young gentleman, “our turn will come.”

My papa made some jesting answer to the effect that Mr Dash had taken
the infection of Captain Colquhoun’s apprehensions, and after that I
believe I must have fallen asleep where I was crouched, for I woke up
with a great start and my heart thumping, to find Mr Dash gone and Mr
Menotti shouting on the varanda, while my papa sought to quiet him.

“I tell you, sir,” he cried, “I found one of Omy Chund’s peons (and I
believe ’twas Juggermunt Sing, their Jemmautdar and the biggest rascal
of ’em all, but I could not make sure in the darkness) lurking in your
grounds, with a billet upon him addressed to Miss.”

“Sure the fellow must be the biggest fool of ’em all if he handed the
chitt to you, sir, in mistake for Miss,” says my papa.

“Sir,” says Mr Menotti, with a very haughty air, “I addressed myself
to the rogue with authority, demanding what he was doing in such a
place.”

“Ah, and what did you say the place was, sir, by the bye?”

“Why, sir, the great thicket opposite Miss’s window.”

“Indeed, sir! and may I ask what you was doing in such a place?”

I thought Mr Menotti seemed confounded for a moment, but he answered
quickly, with a monstrous effrontery, “Why, sir, I saw the fellow
sneaking into the shadow of the thicket, and thinking I knew his
villainous countenance, my concern for your interests induced me to
follow him. Recognising me as an acquaintance of his master’s, he was
so imprudent as to declare his errand, when my regard for Miss’s
honour at once put me upon getting hold of the letter he carried,
which I did by promising to deliver it to the proper person. The
wicked wretch had been haunting the spot for hours without being able
to have speech of Miss, and being a simple sort of fellow, one of
those Sykes[9.02] from the Mogul’s dominions, and not a Gentoo, he
was easily persuaded to deliver it up.”

“Sir, your concern for my honour and my family’s does prodigious
credit to the goodness of your heart. Did you dismiss the fellow in
peace?”

“Why, no, sir; the billet once in my hands, it was no longer needful
to dissemble the fury that possessed me, passing all bounds when I
perceived the nature of the vile piece. For seeing that the letter was
from the hand of the abandoned deceiver, whose shameless attempts have
twice been frustrated by your vigilance, and that it contained a
condolence with Miss on the tyranny by which you, sir, was
endeavouring to force her into marriage with an elderly suitor, and an
invitation to her to meet the writer on that spot at a certain hour
this very night, with a view to eloping with him, I fell upon the
messenger in my rage, and kicked and cuffed him so soundly that he may
be thankful to have escaped with his life.”

“Sir, you lay me under an ever-increasing debt of obligation. The
Unknown must be but new at his work to send his letter open and
unfolded.”

“Indeed, sir, it was folded and sealed, but my transports of
indignation would not permit me to hand the vile scrawl to Miss.”

“Nor to me neither, I suppose, sir? Perhaps, having perused it at your
leisure, you’ll now pass it on to me.”

“Why, sir, I tore it into a thousand pieces and scattered ’em abroad.
Would you have it pollute the sight of any but myself?”

“Sir,” says my papa, with his most awful air of severity, “I would
have you act as a person of honour, if it be in your power. I have
such confidence in my daughter that I’m persuaded, had the billet
reached her, it would be in my hands at this moment. You have thought
fit, not only to open and read, but to destroy, a letter addressed to
a lady with whose actions you have not the smallest concern, and by
alarming the messenger, to prevent our having any hope of catching his
villainous principal in his own trap. You’ll oblige me excessively if
you’ll inform your friend Omy Chund that my gardens en’t designed as
lurking-places for his peons, and you’ll double the obligation by
taking the same information to heart for the future with regard to
yourself. I will wish you a very good evening, sir.”

Never, Amelia, have I seen a person look so foolishly confounded as Mr
Menotti when my papa bowed him off the varanda, and called to the
servants to conduct him to the gate. But oh, my dear, how fearful is
this proof that the Unknown has not yet ceased his wicked attempts
upon the reputation of your poor friend! Observe how quickly the news
of my papa’s pressing on me the Captain’s suit has reached him (though
I might give a guess as to the means, since Marianna tells me that Mrs
Freyne’s iya Bowanny was despatched to the Mother of Cosmetiques this
morning on an errand for some lipsalve), and how promptly the vile
wretch acts. My mind is filled with terror by these continual plots
against my peace (for what, pray, was Mr Menotti doing in the
garden?). The only ray of hope that I can see is the chance that the
second vile wretch, desiring to better his position with my papa, may
have invented the whole affair. But this hope is destroyed by what I
hear this morning (for I have not added a new date, since I desired to
keep all the events of yesterday together), that Mr Menotti has
quarrelled with his friend Omy Chund, and that the two, each
threatening to betray some damaging fact that was come to his
knowledge about the other, were with difficulty separated without
bloodshed by the bystanders.


                                                 _April ye_ 29_th._

Rising at my usual hour this morning, I dressed myself very carefully,
putting on the carnation-coloured ribbons that are always my papa’s
favourites, and a gown of printed muslin that he had brought me
himself from Dacca. So fearful was I of meeting Mr Freyne, or at least
of displeasing him by anything in my carriage or appearance, that I
loitered before the mirror, altering a bow here and a knot there,
until the bearer (who is as we should say Mr Freyne’s gentleman, but
black, of course) came to tell Marianna that his master was waiting.
Then you will guess, Amelia, how I hurried out, but slackened my haste
as I approached my papa, my feet almost refusing to carry me, such was
my state of apprehension. What was my relief when Mr Freyne saluted me
most kindly and pleasantly, and bade me pour him a dish of tea before
it all became cold. My fears were almost vanished under the influence
of my dear papa’s agreeable conversation, when (the meal being ended
and the servants retired) he sent me cold all over with--

“I must make you a compliment on the state of your affairs, miss. What
with your modesty and your reserves, you’ve brought ’em to a pretty
pass!”

“Indeed, dear sir, pardon me--I can’t help it,” I stammered.

“I had the Captain here last night,” says my papa.

“Last night, sir? the Captain? and what--what--?”

“What was you thinking about, miss, to tell him you loved another?”

“I durst not deceive him, sir.”

“Do you know you’re a troublesome, humoursome baggage, miss? What do
you think your whimsies have cost the poor Captain?” He threw a great
parcel of papers into my lap. “There, take ’em, and see what they come
to. On my life, I’m ashamed to touch ’em.”

I unrolled the papers. They were Indian bonds of great sums, three
hundred and five hundred pounds, and the like. I sought to reckon up
their value, as my papa bade me, but could not come at it in my
confusion.

“Pray, sir, what’s all this money?” I said, trying to speak calmly.

“Why, that’s your ransom, miss, to deliver you from the Captain’s
clutches, though why he should have to pay it puzzles me.”

“Sure, sir, you must be jesting, and yet it en’t like my papa to rally
me on so sorrowful a subject.”

“Sorrowful indeed, miss. I would pay down myself that sum you hold if
it would free me from the reproach of having brought so much
misfortune upon a man that I esteem the very chiefest of my friends,
when I thought only to do him good.”

“But, dear sir, is it I that have done him harm?”

“Yes, miss, you, and that long Scotch lad of yours, and the tattlers
and scandal-mongers of this place, and I myself, as I said.”

“You terrify me, sir. What’s happened to the Captain?”

“Oh, nothing, miss,” says my papa; “only that he has been robbed of
his mistress and a matter of five thousand pounds besides.”

“This money that’s here, sir?”

“Yes, miss; the sum he makes over to you to compensate you for
breaking off his addresses.”

I was filled with horror. “But you would not dream of accepting it,
sir?”

“Why, miss, I must; that’s the cursed part of the business. Say that
the Captain breaks off his courtship, which is become the common talk
of all Calcutta. Did you refuse him? Then the gossip was true, and you
was bound by some earlier engagement, so as you durst not marry him.
Did he withdraw from his suit? Then you may be assured that he had
discovered some spot on the lady’s reputation. Did I put an end to the
affair? Why then, I was aware of something improper, and as a person
of honour, refused to permit my friend to sacrifice himself. The
lady’s in the wrong, you see, however you take it.”

“But, sir, how can this horrid, this dreadful money make things
better?”

“Why, just in this way, miss. The Captain came to me last night, and
told me you had received his addresses with the dutiful acceptance I
had prepared him to expect in you. ‘But presently,’ says he, ‘talking
with Miss, I discovered that if she honoured me with her hand, I could
not hope to make her as happy as a lady of her beauty and merits has a
right to expect. To force myself upon so charming a creature without
that assurance which I failed to obtain would be to inflict undeserved
misery on her, and a richly merited remorse on myself, but I am
sensible that I would do her only a less harm by withdrawing from my
suit. As a testimony, then, of my regard for the lady’s worth, and a
compensation to her for the breaking-off of the match, I desire to
make over to you for her use the sum of five thousand pounds, to be
settled strictly upon herself,[9.03] whomsoever she may marry, and I
will take it kindly in you, sir, to allow her to exercise her own
choice in that particular.’ That I promised him at once, for ’twas all
I could do for him, and indeed he has found the only way out of the
difficulty.”

“Oh, sir,” my voice was choked, “forgive me, but mayn’t it be said
that the dear gentleman paid down the money sooner than marry me?”

“No, miss, it mayn’t; for what man in his senses would allow himself
to be forced into paying down such a sum without a fight at the law?
And having paid it, would he be likely to remain friendly with the
lady and her family? or more, would he use his best efforts to marry
her to a relation of his own?”

“Oh, sir!” This took me quite aback, as the sailors say.

“Yes, indeed, miss. There was an understood condition attached to the
gift that if Mr Fraser should pay you his addresses, and they were
agreeable to you, I should offer no objection to your marrying. I
hadn’t been aware hitherto that I was such a tyrannical parent that
’twas necessary to buy my consent to my daughter’s marrying the man
she had a fancy for, but I suppose I can bear the blame if it’s to
pleasure the Captain. And now, miss, let me know your thoughts on the
subject. Do you desire to marry the fellow?”

“Oh, sir!” again covering my burning face with my hands.

“Come, miss, there’s no need to play the prude with me, is there? You
told me once you hated the gentleman; am I to understand that you love
him now?”

“Sure, sir, that’s a question should be asked by Mr Fraser himself if
your girl is to answer it,” I began, pertly enough, but burst into
tears, and cried bitterly, only finding words to entreat my papa to
return the money to the Captain, for I could not endure to lie under
such an obligation to him. But this Mr Freyne refused, very gently and
patiently, pointing out that to return the money would not only
disoblige Captain Colquhoun, but also set about again all those
injurious rumours which he had been at such pains to silence, and
adding that if the Captain could sacrifice the best part of his
savings to endow me with the money, I might at least mortify my pride
so far as to accept the sacrifice gracefully.

“Though I shall be forced to raise an army to protect this girl of
mine,” says my papa, “for after all her adventures (no, miss, I don’t
intend it unkindly) hitherto, what will it be now that she’s a fortune
as well as a beauty? ’Twill be necessary to fortify the house,
questionless, and hire a garrison of _buxerries_.”[9.04] (These are
the Indian mercenary soldiers that fight for pay.)

This was said while my papa was comforting me with great kindness, and
in his rallying style bidding me never again show myself so strange
and obstinate as I had during the last two days, for it had cost him
so much to be stern with his girl that he could not hope to achieve it
a second time. “And indeed,” he said, “we can’t look to find every day
a gentleman that’s willing to pay five thousand pounds for the
privilege of being refused by Miss Sylvia Freyne, so pray, miss, make
sure of your own mind before the next suitor comes.”

“Why, sir,” I said, “’tis my misfortune that I did know my own mind,
for sure I must otherwise have been captivated by the justice and
nobility of the Captain’s sentiments. But, sir, the dear gentleman has
certainly failed in generosity in this one particular of the money,
for how can a poor creature that’s crushed under such a weight of
obligation ever make proper acknowledgments to him?”

“Nay, there you’re wrong, miss,” says Mr Freyne. “The Captain gave it
as his particular request that I should entreat you never to mention
the matter in his presence, nor even to hint at it, since otherwise
you’ll force him to cease those visits here which are the great
happiness of his life.”

Was there ever such a man, Amelia? The kindness, the delicacy of this
behaviour--but no, I shall weep again if I write more on this topic,
and I have wept so much of late. But there the Captain sits in the
varanda with my papa at this moment, and makes his stiff bow and
smiles his wooden smile if I interrupt them, as though nothing had
happened between now and a week ago.


                                                   _May ye_ 11_th._

This morning I went to pay a visit to my dear Mrs Hurstwood, whom I
have hardly seen for a month. In the very week after her wedding, the
dear creature was seized with fever (owing to a chill taken at the
Masquerade, said Dr Knox), and as soon as she was a little recovered,
her attentive spouse carried her by boat to Ballisore, so that I have
lacked her sprightly counsel for some time. I was all eagerness to
visit her as soon as I heard she was returned, and my papa having
occasion to drive as far as Surman’s, offered to take me with him in
the chaise, and fetch me again when he passed in the evening. It so
happened that when we reached Mr Hurstwood’s house the good man
himself was standing on the steps, about to depart to his business at
the Fort, and welcomed us with great warmth, complimenting Mr Freyne
on his horses, and declaring that he should no longer be apprehensive
for his Charlotte’s cheerfulness since he could leave me to spend the
day with her. My papa continued his ride, and Mr Hurstwood carried me
to Charlotte’s closet, where she was lying upon a couch. She jumped up
on seeing me, and we embraced one another very tenderly, while her
worthy spouse rubbed his hands with delight and made us both as many
foolish compliments as if he had been Miss Grandison’s Lord G.
himself. He displayed a monstrous anxiety lest I should imagine he had
neglected or ill-used his Charlotte, which made us both laugh, for
indeed I believe if the dear girl had a fancy for the Peacock Throne
of Delly he would beggar himself to obtain it for her.

“Ah,” says Mrs Hurstwood, with the longest face imaginable, as the
good man still lingered, “you don’t know all my trials, miss. Mr
Hurstwood is trying to get rid of me.”

“My dearest life!” cries the poor gentleman, quite confounded.

“Why, yes, sir. Did you never hear of the woman who was killed with
kindness?”

“Ah, madam,” says Mr Hurstwood, with a broad smile that he sought in
vain to restrain spreading over his visage, “our dear Charlotte’s
sprightly wit is like our mangoes here, which are only disagreeable
before you are arrived at their full flavour.”

“I vow, sir, you’re a sad flatterer,” cried she. “Pray get you gone to
your business, or my talk with Miss Freyne will never be done. Oh, we
have extraordinary weighty matters to discuss, I’ll assure you.”

“And how does my Charlotte find herself?” I asked her, when her spouse
had at last withdrawn, with many bows and scrapes and farewells, and
she had sent away the iya that we might talk with the more freedom.

“Why, I’m as well as my Sylvia,” she said; “but it pleases Mr
Hurstwood to sit and look at me reclining here, instead of spending
the evenings abroad, and I’m lazy enough to pleasure him. But I won’t
give way no longer, or I doubt I shall grow like some of our ladies
here that rarely stir from their couches. I shall be taking to a
_hooker_ next to soothe the mind, as they say. Has my Sylvia ever
catched Polly Dorman enjoying hers? I don’t know when I have laughed
more, to see her so excessively happy. But no, my dear, I shall go
into company and take you about, for from all I hear you want a duenna
sadly. So your adventures han’t ceased in consideration of my absence?
I understand that things are come to such a pass with you that Mr
Freyne would feel no surprise if a _coffle_[9.05] of Moguls came
demanding you for the Emperor’s seraglio, or an embassy of Russes to
invite you to become the bride of their mad Czar. Now tell me all
about your lovers and their vows.”

I had a prodigious deal to tell her, as you will guess, even allowing
her to hear a portion of Fraser’s letter (not the post-scriptum, oh
no! none but my Amelia shall be obliged with the knowledge of that),
and moving her to tears with the history of Captain Colquhoun’s
singular generosity. When all was done--

“And so,” said she, “the poor Captain is to intimate to your Fraser
that if he choose to honour Calcutta with a second visit he’ll be
welcome?”

“Why, no, my dear, not exactly. Mr Fraser was to join his ship at
Madrass, if the fleet was arrived there, and after that he may go
anywhere, and I never know whether he’s even in these seas at all. But
if his duty should bring him anywhere near Calcutta, or the Admiral
should choose to employ him again with despatches----”

“Why, then, he’ll find Mr Freyne ready to meet him with open arms, and
Miss in the background, all smiles and tears and blushes----”

“I protest, madam, you’re too bad!” I cried. “One might fancy I
was----”

“A boarding-school Miss? and so you are, my dear, or was, not so very
long ago. But she shan’t be rallied if she don’t like it. And what of
all the other lovers who en’t able to pay down five thousand pounds to
win their freedom?”

“Why, Mr Menotti’s forbidden the house by my papa.”

“And he has quarrelled with your mamma as well? Oh, I know it; Mrs
Mapletoft told me about it yesterday. ’Twas at her house, under colour
of a dispute at cards. The gentleman accused the lady of having played
him false, and she retorted by threatening to betray what she knew of
him, to which he replied that he also had tales to tell if necessary.
What do you think of that?”

“Sure their falling-out is the best thing that could be for me.”

“Why, yes, if they remain unreconciled. But they won’t, my dear. With
the hold he has over her, she don’t dare disobey him, and the easiest
way of gaining his favour is to sacrifice you. So my dear Miss must
look to herself. Be careful about your palanqueen-bearers at night,
for remember your beloved Miss Byron was carried off by treacherous
chairmen, and don’t suffer yourself to be persuaded into entering any
chaise or budgero but your papa’s. You don’t want me to warn you not
to wander away with Menotti at any party of pleasure.”

“Come, my dearest life,” it was Mr Hurstwood who entered, as gallant
as ever, “tiffing is served, and sure you and our dear Miss Freyne
must be prodigiously hungry after so long and serious a conversation.
I have a piece of news, also, that Miss Freyne’s good papa will be
glad to hear. Can you credit it, madam, that our Council have at last
plucked up courage to defy the Nabob? It seems that seven or eight
days since he sent by the hand of one Facquier[9.06] Tongar” (these
_facquiers_, Amelia, are accounted holy men among the Moors, as the
_gioghis_ among the Gentoos) “to demand with threats the destruction
of the new fortifications that he heard we were making; but the
Presidency, seeing in the demand only an attempt to extort money from
us, made bold to refuse it. To-day is come a second messenger, with a
_perwannah_ wrote on the day of the Soubah’s starting at the head of
his army against the Purranea Nabob, with very stringent orders that
the ditch and wall which, as he hears, we are making round our
territory, should be instantly stopped. This wall and ditch, of
course, are nothing but an invention of the French who have his ear;
but Mr Drake has returned by the messenger a letter saying that the
slight repairs in hand on our defences are needed in case of war with
the French, and he won’t stop ’em, but that no new works have been
devised. I did hear a rumour of the several messengers having been
dismissed with contempt, too, but at least you see that we shall
venture to hold up our heads to Surajah Dowlah yet.”




 CHAPTER X.
 IN WHICH THE FLOOD BEGINS TO RISE.

                                        Calcutta, _May ye_ 26_th._

Yet another attempt, my dear! and devised with such singular
effrontery that but for the signal goodness of Heaven in frustrating
the design, your Sylvia must by this time have found herself the
unwilling bride of the daring wretch who pursues her with so much
persistence. But here I am running on, as usual, instead of proceeding
orderly. Well, my Amelia must know that last night was a party of
pleasure given by Mr Kelsall, one of the elder gentlemen here, in his
garden at Chitpore, which is about a league from the town, but within
the circuit of the Morattoe-ditch. Coming ready dressed into the
varanda, I found my papa still smoking his _hooker_ in his ordinary
clothes and without his wig.

“Why, sir, en’t you coming with us?” I cried.

“No, miss; and I han’t never designed to.”

“Oh, pardon me, sir. When I heard we were going by water, I thought
you must be about to honour us with your company.”

“Why, no, miss, that’s nothing but Madam’s old pique against her
palanqueen.” (For you mayn’t be aware, Amelia, that Mrs Freyne uses
this equipage as little as she can, and all because she en’t permitted
to adorn the poles of the machine with a tyger’s head in silver, this
ornament being reserved for the ladies of the President and the second
in Council, and much coveted by those of lower rank.) “I purpose
passing a quiet evening here with the Captain.”

Leaving my papa, I attended Mrs Freyne to the river-side, where our
budgero, the rowers wearing Mr Freyne’s livery of white dresses and
orange-coloured ribbons, was awaiting us, and carried us quickly to
Chitpore. Mr Kelsall’s garden is situated on the bank of a rivulet
that serves to continue the Morattoe-ditch as far as the river, and
before reaching it one passes another garden called Baugbuzar or
Perrins, where stands a redoubt or fortification on a projecting piece
of land, which was planned by Colonel Scott, when he was sent here to
improve the defences of the place, to command both the river and the
rivulet, and also the high road which crosses this last by a bridge. I
am thus particular in my description that my Amelia may understand the
later events. On arriving, we found all Calcutta gathered in the
gardens. The rivulet was full of budgeroes three deep, moored to the
bank and to each other, while not a few ladies and gentlemen had
travelled by land in chaises or palanqueens. The garden, which has
only been lately laid out, was prodigiously admired, and in particular
a pavilion or summer-house, just finished to Mr Kelsall’s own
design--an elegant building of stone in a neat octagon shape. Mr
Kelsall offered us a very genteel entertainment, for there was not
only a _notch_ for those to watch that chose to sit still, but also a
band of music for dancing, and again pleasant alleys, lighted up by
huge numbers of little earthen lamps, in the Indian style, in which to
roam, while the dessert was one of the richest I have ever seen,
including even ices (my Amelia will guess how grateful, and at the
same time how costly, is this sweetmeat in such a climate), which are
manufactured by the Indians in some artificial and ingenious manner
that I don’t pretend to understand. I felt quite at my ease, for
although Mr Menotti was present, he made no attempt to force himself
either on me or on Mrs Freyne, which gave me confidence that they were
as yet unreconciled, but I experienced a good deal of annoyance from a
trick played by certain of the young gentlemen, among whom were Ensign
Bellamy and his friend Mr le Beaume.

To understand my mortification, you must be told that Ensign Bellamy
had entreated me a week ago to tell him what gown I purposed wearing
to this entertainment, and on learning ’twas my blush-coloured
paduasoy and white satin petticoat, had entreated me very earnestly
not to change my mind, which I promised, fancying that he designed to
present me with a nosegay or some such trifle, but little guessing to
what I was committing myself. Judge, Amelia, of my disgust when on
entering the ground there came forward to meet me no fewer than eight
gentlemen, ranging themselves on either side of me like a guard, and
every man in my livery, as the wild fellows called it, viz., a pink
silk coat laced with silver, and white satin waistcoat and breeches,
all to match my gown! I’ll assure you there was plenty of mirth for
the general company in this odd sight, but very little for me, and
when I could draw Ensign Bellamy aside, I reproved him very seriously
for the extravagance of his conduct, and especially for putting off
the Company’s uniform that he might wear mine. To this he replied that
he had allowance not to wear his uniform for this one night, and that
he and the other young gentlemen had designed the spectacle by way of
protest against the arrogant assumptions of Mr Fraser (whose
pretensions, by the way, my dear, are now pretty well known, at least
to the unlucky remainder of my suitors, since Mrs Hamlin became
acquainted with Captain Colquhoun’s generous conduct). When that
presumptuous person should venture to show himself in Calcutta, says
Mr Bellamy, he and the rest would make a point of wearing these same
suits of clothes, to assure him that there was, at any rate, eight
gentlemen of Bengall who were ready to resent his robbing them of
their goddess, and would call upon him to prove his right by the
sword.

I was more amused by this rodomontade than my Amelia will anticipate,
for I knew these young fellows to be persons of sense and honour, and
not traitors and ruffians like certain I could name, so all I said was
to engage Ensign Bellamy and his companions to be bride-men at my
wedding, warning ’em that any one picking a quarrel with Mr Fraser
would instantly forfeit the privilege. This condition was received by
the gentlemen with a prodigious amount of laughter, for ladies are so
few here that a certain modest assurance is gained in speaking by our
sex, which the other are all too ready to applaud and obey, and they
all vowed they would run no risque of incurring so dreadful a penalty.
Thus then to supper, which was served in the summer-house, while the
music played without, making a very agreeable effect, and all the
company were complimenting Mr Kelsall on the elegance of his
entertainment and the taste displayed in the laying-out of the garden,
when in a pause of the music there came the sounds of a horse’s feet
on the high road leading from Calcutta.

“Sure one of your guests is arriving late, sir,” says one of the
ladies to Mr Kelsall.

“Why, he’ll find a few pickings yet, madam,” said he.

Presently Mr Kelsall’s banyan brought in Mr Dash in a riding-dress,
his whole appearance much disordered.

“I hope there’s no bad news, sir?” says our host.

“I doubt but I’m a sort of skeleton at your feast, sir, but I thought
all the company would be concerned in what I have just learnt, which
must be my excuse for breaking in upon the ladies in this attire. The
letter wrote by the Governor and Council in reply to the Soubah’s last
_perwannah_ reached him eight days back at Rajamaul[10.01] on his way
to Purranea, and on receiving it, he gave instant orders to cease the
advance against his cousin, and returned to invest our factory at
Cossimbuzar.”

“Why, the fellow has some mettle in him after all!” cries Ensign
Bellamy. “Sure we shall have some fighting now, gentlemen.”

“I would not have you too sure of that, sir,” says Mr Dash. “The
President and the Select Committee, who are considering the news, may
prefer to disarm the Nabob’s enmity by destroying such of our defences
as en’t ready to fall down of themselves.”

“That’s our newly-repaired row of guns on the west face of the Fort,”
says Ensign Piccard, with a groan.

“And the redoubt here on Perrins Point,” says Mr Kelsall.

“Nay, sir,” says Mr Dash, “’twill be even this pavilion of yours,
perhaps. The Indians all take it for a work of defence.”

“I’ll be hanged,” says Mr Kelsall, very red in the face, “if I’ll pull
down my new summerhouse for any Soubah that ever sat on the _musnet_!”

“Sure, sir, you underrate the meekness of our Government. The Council
will do it for you, sooner than affront the Nabob.”

“Oh, sir,” says Mr le Beaume, “pray don’t slander your countrymen. I
could not credit such a thing of the great British nation.”

“Come, gentlemen,” says Ensign Bellamy, “fill up your glasses. Here’s
to a speedy campaign and a brisk one! When we have sacked Muxadavad,
we’ll set Miss Freyne on the _musnet_, and she shall rule Bengall as
now she rules Calcutta!”

The party now began to break up, Mr President and the members of
Council having left before the general supper, in expectation of
receiving letters from Cossimbuzar, and no one feeling inclined for
further merry-making in view of the news that was arrived. At the
small _gott_ by the side of the rivulet there was a prodigious
confusion, every one desiring to get on board of his own budgero at
once, so that some whose boats were on the outside even clambered
across those which intervened, and thus were able to depart first
after all. In the crowd I was separated from Mrs Freyne, and with
Ensign Bellamy, who was conducting me, went looking about in vain for
our budgero, which was not where we had left it on arriving.

“Pray, madam,” said the young gentleman, “suffer me to leave you here
a moment, while I run to the end of the press of boats and see whether
your servants have moored yours there. I’m ashamed of dragging you
about in this style.”

But no sooner was Mr Bellamy gone than I heard Mrs Freyne calling me
from behind (have I mentioned, my dear, that my stepmother’s voice is
a little shrill?), and looking round, saw her standing on the deck of
a budgero in the line nearest the _gott_, and beckoning to me with her
fan. ’Twas a marvel to me how I had missed her, for I could discern
the white and orange liveries even where I was. I turned to call Mr
Bellamy back, but he was gone too far to hear, and I returned alone to
the budgero. Mrs Freyne was no longer on the deck, but there was two
or three of the young gentlemen there that attend upon her
continually.

“Mrs Freyne fears she has took a chill, madam,” says one of them as I
came up, “and won’t therefore stay on deck, but she desired you would
attend her in the cabin.”

He offered his hand (I think the fellow was Lieutenant Bentinck, but
he was so muffled in his cloak that I could not be certain), and I
accepted of his help to step on board. Before I could do more than
turn in the direction of the cabin, however, I heard Ensign Bellamy’s
voice on the bank behind me.

“Madam, madam! you are in error. I have found your budgero at the end
of the line, with Mrs Freyne on board. Pray let me conduct you----” He
needed to say no more, for I wrenched my hand from the fellow that
held it (though indeed the wretch tightened his grip until it was like
iron), and seeing that the boat was already moving from the _gott_,
sprang with all my strength to the shore, the Ensign’s outstretched
hands catching mine in time to prevent my landing on my knees on the
steps.

“Thank heaven, madam, that you’re safe!” he cried. “I feared you was
certain to fall into the water, or at least to receive some hurt in
jumping, but I durst not delay.” His countenance was very pale. “That
was Menotti’s budgero.”

“But the liveries--Mr Freyne’s colours?” I stammered.

“Mr Menotti’s ribbons are pink, madam, you’ll remember, and by this
torch-light----”

“But I saw Mrs Freyne calling to me from the deck!” I cried, foolishly
enough, clinging tight to his arm as he guided me along the _gott_.

“Impossible, madam,” says Mr Bellamy, looking me straight in the face.
“Mrs Freyne arrived at your budgero at the same moment as I
myself--although she crossed from another boat.”

“Questionless I made a mistake,” I said, but my heart would not cease
thumping. Was it possible that my papa’s wife could lay such a plot
against the honour and happiness of his daughter? “Pray, sir,” I said
to the Ensign, “be so good as to attend us home to-night.”

“With pleasure, madam,” said he, “if I may bring Mr le Beaume.”

I had no chance to answer, for we had reached the budgero, where Mrs
Freyne was standing outside the cabin speaking to the chief of the
boatmen. “You had better push off,” she was saying. “The Chuta Beebee
must be returning in some other budgero with her friends. I can’t wait
here all night.”

“Oh, pardon me, madam; I have found the vanished fair,” says Ensign
Bellamy, handing me on board. “May I venture to entreat a passage on
your vessel for myself and my friend le Beaume? My father always warns
me that he won’t stay for me at these entertainments, and to-night he
departed early with the other great folks, leaving us two poor babes
in the wood to get home as best we might.”

“Oh, pray summon your friend, sir,” says Mrs Freyne, to whom this
speech had given time to recover her countenance, for she had changed
colour at the sight of me. “Me and Miss will be enchanted to have your
company.”

I dare to say that my stepmother blessed the young gentlemen as
heartily in her mind as I did, for I can’t conceive how she and I
should have faced one another, or how we should have conversed, had we
been left to ourselves. As it was, we were attended gallantly home by
Mess. le Beaume and Bellamy, and I fancy the latter gentleman must
have got a word with my papa, for as I bade him good-night Mr Freyne
said to me, so as only I could hear--

“So I understand that my girl en’t safe in company without her papa?
After this evening, miss, I’ll take care to go out with you, unless
your friend Mrs Hurstwood will take charge of you. But indeed I shall
be forced to send your Fraser a despatch to come here post-haste and
take you off my hands, for you’re a sad tiresome piece of goods,
dragging me away from my quiet _hooker_ on my own varanda.”

“Oh, dear sir, let me stay at home with you, and I shall be quite
content,” I cried, and went to my chamber, to wake up again and again
in the night thinking that I was sailing on one of the slimy, feverish
channels of this horrid river, in the power of the vile Menotti, and
bound for the nearest European factory where a Popish priest was to be
found. My Amelia won’t be surprised, seeing how nearly successful the
wicked attempt proved, that my only comfort lay in my papa’s promise
for the future, although I won’t deny that I was thankful to have been
saved without another of those public discoveries in which your poor
Sylvia’s name (I think I may say without her fault) has been too much
mixed up.


                                                   _May ye_ 27_th._

To-day Captain Colquhoun visited my papa for tiffing, and told us,
with the most vehement disgust, that the Council had stopped all the
work that was being done to repair the fortifications, and were
sending very humble letters through Mr Watts to the Nabob,
representing that since they were building no new defences it was
impossible they should cease working on ’em, as his Highness ordered,
but that what little they could do to pleasure him was already done,
and in consideration of this would he be graciously pleased to
withdraw his army from before Cossimbuzar, and leave our factory in
safety?

“For Britons to cringe before Surajah Dowlah is an unpardonable sin!”
cried the Captain.

“Why,” says my papa, “they argue that he that is down needs fear no
fall. If they wallow in the dust before the Soubah, ’tis quite clear
that he can’t kick ’em any lower. So that they save their private
property and get off with a whole skin, what’s Britain’s honour to
them?”

“In that,” cried the Captain, “I’m convinced--and I might almost say
I rejoice to think so--they’re wrong. If the Soubah is set on the
capture of Calcutta, all their humility won’t turn him aside, and I
believe he is.”

“But sure he won’t be such a fool as kill the goose that lays the
golden eggs?” says my papa.

“Why, sir, he hopes to make the goose his own. The French have assured
him that all the Rajas of the province have laid up their revenues in
our Fort for safety, and he looks to lay hands not only on them, but
on all our customs and dues for the future. Whatever good advice his
grandfather Ally Verdy may have given him to leave us alone, as Mr
Holwell insists he did, I can’t doubt but he designs to strip first
us, and then the other European factories, of all our privileges.”

“But we shall have a word to say to the gentleman first, Captain.”

“I doubt it, sir; for if so, why are we neglecting our defences, which
if they were in good order might enable us to hold out against the
Nabob until the rains begin, or even until this year’s fleet arrives
from home? Under the guidance of Mr President and his two friends we
are dancing smiling to destruction.”


                                                   _June ye_ 1_st._

Oh, my dearest friend, Mr Dash and the Captain were right in their
prophecies of the behaviour of the Presidency. Sure the wretch Surajah
Dowlah must be rejoicing beyond measure over the terror his name
inspires in European breasts! But why should the Council have begun by
taking part with his rivals, insulting his messengers, and withholding
the customary presents made to a new Soubah, if all they designed was
to fall on their knees in the most pitiful submission as soon as he
moves his army a step in their direction? I can’t write coldly, my
dear. I feel the humiliation of the factory so keenly that my pen digs
holes in the paper, and I wish it were a sword, and I a man to fight
Surajah Dowlah with it. This day there came letters from Cossimbuzar
to the Council, Mr Watts writing that yesterday week one of the
Nabob’s captains, a Jemindar named Aume-beg,[10.02] encamped against
the Cossimbuzar factory with a considerable force, which was
strengthened later by more troops and two elephants. Prevented from
forcing the gate by the coolness of the sergeant on guard, who fetched
out his men and bade ’em fix their bayonets, the Moors called a
parley, of which Mr Watts took advantage to get in provisions and
water and load the great guns of the place. Nothing coming of the
first parley, the factory continued to be besieged, and on the 28th of
May Dr Forth was sent out, who had attended Ally Verdy Cawn in his
last illness, accompanied with a _mounsee_,[10.03] or Persian
secretary, to endeavour to arrive at an accommodation, and ’tis the
demands then made upon him that Mr Watts has forwarded by special
messenger. The chief of these is for the demolition of our new works
at Baugbuzar, and of Mr Kelsall’s summer-house, which last they take
for a fortress because, while the land lay waste, a parcel of shells
was proved there from time to time. Mr Watts advises the granting of
these demands and the appeasing of the Nabob by means of a genteel
present, considering that, like his grandfather, who extorted from us
in the course of his reign near 100,000_l_. in all, Surajah Dowlah
designs to stop all our business until his rapacity be satisfied.

My Amelia will have learnt from my letters so much of the character of
the wise and valiant persons who are our governors that she won’t need
to be told what was the immediate impulse of their hearts on reading
this alarming news. But for the sake, I suppose, of setting themselves
right in their own eyes, what do Mr President and his friends, Mess.
Manningham and Frankland, do? They call together the five captains of
the Company’s forces here (Captain Colquhoun, of course, being one)
and ask them very seriously whether they believe it possible, with a
hundred men from the Calcutta garrison, to attempt the relief of
Cossimbuzar against the Nabob’s army of 12,000 trained soldiers,
supported by a train of artillery! You won’t wonder that the poor men
declared the notion to be an extravagant one, but they added that the
force at Cossimbuzar was sufficient, and the factory strong enough, to
beat off the enemy if wisely handled. But the humane gentlemen to whom
our destinies in this country are committed did not offer to repeat
this hard saying to Mr Watts. In their care for the lives of our
people at Cossimbuzar, they sent for presentation to the Nabob an
_arasdass_,[10.04] or humble petition, couched in the most submissive
terms imaginable, and yielding all he might choose to ask, while they
promised prodigious rewards to the _cossids_[10.05] or messengers if
it should reach Muxadavad in thirty-six hours. At the same time they
gave orders for the destruction of poor Mr Kelsall’s pavilion and of
the draw-bridge and outworks at Perrins Redoubt, and this is going on
as I write. O’ my conscience, Amelia, if my pen were the sword I spoke
of just now, and in a manly hand, it would not be against the Nabob I
would turn it, but upon his honour the President and his two
like-minded advisers.

And how, think you, my dear, are all our minds occupied in this moment
of humiliation and disgrace? (Though indeed the three gentlemen at the
head of affairs are in high spirits, regarding themselves, so it
seems, as the saviours of their countrymen, and looking askance only
upon the dejection and uneasiness of such persons as Mr Holwell and
Captain Colquhoun.) Why, Amelia, with a play, which the young
gentlemen are so good as to promise us a fortnight or so hence! The
Play-house en’t generally in use but in the cold weather; but now the
work on the defences is stopped (and indeed it’s well the Nabob is so
merciful as not to demand the levelling of the walls of the Fort
itself, for I think the Council would have pleasured him), and there’s
nothing for the officers to do (for there’s but little drill at any
time, and to begin it now might anger the Soubah), while the writers
are idle for the general stoppage of business, even Captain Colquhoun
says ’tis a good thing for the lads to have something to do that may
keep ’em out of mischief. They had designed to present to us “Venice
Preserved,” since Ensign Bellamy owns to a particular ambition to
essay the part of Belvidera; but on its being pointed out that the
season was too hot and the times too grave for tragedy, they were
obliging enough to substitute a comedy, “The Conscious Lovers,” which
I am very curious to see, as the work of one of the writers of my dear
‘Spectators.’ The first performance is promised before the rains,
which are expected to begin somewhere about the 15th (fancy, my dear,
a rainy season, such as Robinson Crusoe experienced!), and I suppose
’twill give us something to talk about when we are all forced to stay
indoors.


                                                    _June ye_ 7_th._

I am writing in the morning, between breakfast and tiffing, to tell my
Amelia of the extraordinary events that have, I trust, served to rid
me of one at least of my persistent persecutors, though at a grievous
cost, I fear, to my papa and to this place. Throughout the whole of
Saturday, the day before yesterday, Mrs Freyne was vapourish and
difficult to please--not spending the better part of her time in her
own closet as usual, but wandering from room to room, taking up and
casting down again now this piece of employment and now t’other, and
crowning her uncertain behaviour by despatching a messenger to say she
would not be present at Mrs Mackett’s rout, just when it was time to
start. My papa and I were playing chess on the varanda when she joined
us, still in her undress.

“You’ll be late, madam,” says Mr Freyne.

“Oh, I sent a chitt to say I’m not coming,” said she, approaching us
to look at the board. “There’s a move I want you to show me, sir--that
which you was discussing t’other night with the Captain.”

“When I’ve had my revenge on Miss, you’ll find me at your service,
madam.”

“But sure you’re finished with your game already, Mr Freyne.”

“Yes, madam, but Miss has beat me, and in doing so she has let me see
a means of defeating a plan of attack that she employs vastly too
often for her own safety. I have made up my mind to conquer her this
time.”

“But pray, sir, show me this first,” and Mrs Freyne began to move the
pieces on the board; “and perhaps Miss will oblige me by fetching the
book of plays which I was reading this afternoon and left in the
arbour at the end of the garden. Then there’ll be no time wasted.”

“The servants are at your disposal, madam, to run your errands.”

“Indeed, sir, how you can call these two steps an errand I don’t know.
Miss can take her iya with her if she’s frightened.”

“Frightened, madam? The girl don’t wander down to the end of the
garden at this hour without me and half-a-dozen peons besides, all
well armed, I can tell you that.”

“I’ll assure you, sir, you are become a laughing-stock in Calcutta,
with these absurd precautions. Do you forbid your daughter to oblige
me?”

“Unless she desire to disoblige me, madam.”

Upon this Mrs Freyne burst into tears, lamenting that she was the most
miserable woman in Bengall, and that Mr Freyne had not the slightest
consideration for her, and encouraged his daughter to insult over her,
and so went sobbing to her own chamber, while my papa continued his
game.

“Perhaps, sir, Mrs Freyne is sick?” I ventured to say.

“No, miss, I fancy she’s sorry, and I’m glad of it.” Mr Freyne would
say no more, and I durst not ask him his meaning.

It must have been about midnight--perhaps somewhat later, for I had
been asleep some time, after the customary struggle with the
heat--that I was woke up by a tremendous clatter. Voices, the clash of
swords, and pistol-shots were all resounding close at hand, and
Marianna, who sleeps across my door, came screaming to tell me that
the house was attacked, and we should all be murdered. As I sat up in
bed, all trembling, to listen, my papa, in his night-cap, suddenly
looked in at the door. He was buckling on his sword over his
morning-gown, and there was a pair of great pistols sticking out of
his pocket.

“Get into your _tuszaconna_[10.06] with your iya, miss,” he cried,
“and lock yourself in, and don’t unfasten the door for any one until I
bid you.”

I lingered only to throw on a wrapper and a pair of shoes, and obeyed
him. The _tuszaconna_, or as we should say wardrobe, is the closet in
which my gowns and jewels are kept, lighted only by one small window
high in the wall. Here Marianna and I locked ourselves in, and not
satisfied with that, dragged one of my trunks against the door, and
sat upon it (and upon my honour, I don’t know which of us trembled the
most. The poor wench had lost all her English in her fright, and
bewailed herself in some Indian tongue, calling at times upon her
Popish saints in scraps of Latin, while your cowardly Sylvia shook so
much that the door trembled against which she leant).

The confused noise of fighting now ceased suddenly from the front of
the house, and there was a rushing along the varanda outside our place
of refuge. My heart was in my mouth, for I knew that the robbers must
be making for my chamber, “and in a minute (I thought) they’ll guess
our hiding-place and break open the door, and then----” But almost at
the same moment I heard the door of the chamber burst open again, and
my papa’s voice cheering on the servants; and so well did they second
him that the invaders never penetrated inside the room, but were
turned back on the varanda. The noise of the fighting was so dreadful
that I could not remain without seeing what went on, and, climbing on
a great wooden chest, I peeped out of the window, in time to see the
robbers driven off by my papa and the servants, leaving two of their
number prostrate on the ground. One of these was a European wearing a
masque, who had been knocked down with a blow from a club by our
head-peon.

“Throw some water over him and revive him, Jemmautdar,” says Mr
Freyne. “He has to answer to me for the night’s work.”

But when the Jemmautdar obeyed, and plucking off the fellow’s masque
showed his face as he began to recover his intellects, I could have
screamed, for it was Mr Menotti. He looked about him like one dazed.

“Your servant, sir,” says my papa, standing before him with his sword
out. “When you’re ready, I’ll trouble you to draw.”

“At your service, sir,” said the villain, fumbling for his sword,
which one of the servants, at a glance from Mr Freyne, picked up and
gave to him, whispering something at the same time to my papa.

“What, the Cotwal[10.07] coming round with his peons?” cried Mr
Freyne. “Why don’t he come when he might be some use? However”
(looking scornfully upon Mr Menotti, who was risen from the ground,
but stood swaying uneasily about), “you look none too steady upon your
legs, sir, and I’ve no desire to murder you, though I could wish my
Jemmautdar had done his work more thoroughly. You shall hear from me
very shortly. Two of you take him and set him in the road outside.”

“I shall anticipate with pleasure the arrival of any friend of yours,
sir,” the hardy wretch succeeded in saying before he was seized by two
of the servants and run across the compound and through the gates. By
this time I was descended from my perch and had opened the door of the
hiding-place.

“Oh, dear sir,” I cried, catching my papa’s arm, “you en’t going to
fight that barbarous man?”

“Why, miss, would you have me let him go free? I would shoot him as I
would a mad dog.”

“But, sir, a mad dog could not shoot my papa. Why give this miscreant
the chance of doing further harm?”

“Would you have me shoot him from behind a wall, miss? Or do you wish
all our family affairs spread out for the gossips of Calcutta to feast
upon by a trial at the law? No, leave these matters to me, and go to
bed again. You may be thankful I took it into my head to sit up
to-night, for the _pyke_ was bribed.”

“I am, dear sir, I am indeed!” I cried out, but my papa bade me curb
my gratitude and go to bed. And this I did, but my Amelia will guess
that there was vastly little sleep for me in the rest of the night,
what with thinking of my narrow escape and of Mr Freyne’s projected
duel, and endeavouring to frame such affecting arguments as might
induce my papa to leave the wretched Menotti to the torments of his
own conscience. But I had not the chance I anticipated to display my
logical acuteness, for as soon as I had joined Mr Freyne for early
breakfast, there came out on the varanda my stepmother’s iya, Bowanny,
and said that her mistress had been sobbing and crying all night, and
now begged that we would both attend her to hear what she had to tell
us. I was prodigiously astonished by such a request, but Mr Freyne
seemed in no way surprised, and strode off to his lady’s bedchamber
without a word. We found Mrs Freyne, still in the undress she had worn
the night before, reclined on a couch, with her hair all tumbled
about, and no cap on.

“You see before you, sir,” she said, “the most miserable woman in
India.”

_Mr Freyne_. I fancy, madam, I heard you say something of the same
sort last night.

_Mrs F_. Cruel and hard-hearted man! Would you make the way of
penitence as hard to your unhappy wife by your coldness and harshness
as you have made the way of concealment easy? But, no; I won’t be led
into unbecoming recrimination even by your ill-timed derision, sir. I
have sent for you that I may confess the steps by which, as a young
and ingenuous creature slighted by her spouse, I was led into
inexpedient acts through the arts of an accomplished villain.

_Mr F_. (_excessively angry_). Pray, proceed, madam, but if you are
confessing your own sins you may as well leave mine alone. ’Tis scarce
your part to complain of neglect.

_Mrs F_. In spite of your unmanly taunts, sir, I’ll strive to preserve
both my purpose and my calmness, remembering that I asked your
daughter to attend you merely to show that I had nothing in my
confession of which to be ashamed. You thought fit, sir, some short
time after our marriage, to place a restriction on my diversions,
desiring me never to play games of chance for any but beggarly sums.
You had reasons for thus limiting me, you said. I didn’t ask ’em then,
and I don’t now, but I suppose you feared I might dissipate the money
I brought you. Well, sir, you must have known that if you would not
oblige me with the means of play, others would, and I felt little
difficulty in accepting their kindness. The chief of these obliging
persons was Mr Menotti.

_Mr F_. Woman! is this true that you tell me?

_Mrs F_. (_with her handkerchief to her eyes_). No unkind rudeness
shall hinder me from confessing the truth. The gentleman whose name so
disturbs you, sir, obliged me at various times with sums of money,
professing himself amply repaid by my countenance and conversation,
possibly also by his persistent good fortune at the cards. But when
your daughter arrived from home, I perceived a change in him. He began
to hint at a certain means of discharging the debt of gratitude I owed
him, and I demanded of him eagerly what it might be. You know it now
as well as I. The fool was fallen in love with Miss--but why, I know
no more than why she persists in refusing him. The match was an
extraordinary good one for her, far better than any she could have
looked for in England, and I experienced a glow of satisfaction in
thus discharging in the most exemplary style my duties to you, sir, to
your girl, and to the gentleman to whom I was so much indebted. Your
conscience, sir, will tell you, and so will your daughter’s tell her,
that I did all in my power to bring about the happy consummation which
has all along been frustrated by your fatal easiness and softness of
temper, and the pert wilfulness of Miss--

_Mr F_. Aye, madam, all in your power--I’ll grant you that.

_Mrs F_. I thank you, sir. At least, then, I need not reproach myself
with my unhappy failure here. It happened, alas! that Mr Menotti was
disturbed by the appearance of two other suitors for his charmer’s
favour--the Fraser fellow upon whom Miss’s inconstant fancy is fixed
for the moment, and him whom you call the Unknown--and the balance of
the poor gentleman’s judgment was unsettled. Not knowing his true
friend, he went so far as to turn his resentment against me. Had he
but confided in the purity of my motives, all had been well, but he
saw fit to attempt to increase his influence over me by means of
threats. He had learned, he said, from my conversation, certain
important matters of the Company’s, which I must have heard from you,
sir, and these facts, dropped innocently by me, he had made use of to
ingratiate himself with the Chuta Nabob, with whom he had had friendly
relations for some time.

_Mr F_. (_bitterly_). In other words, the fellow is and always has
been one of Surajah Dowlah’s spies, and my wife’s another of ’em.

_Mrs F_. I am resolved, Mr Freyne, to bear with patience all your
injurious remarks until you have heard me out. If I had not felt it
possible to confide to you the difficulties I was in about money,
you’ll guess that I could not endure the thought of your becoming
sensible of the new and shocking trouble into which my easiness of
temper had led me, and ’twas this Menotti threatened me with when he
saw his hopes in danger. But when he discovered the renewed
assiduities of the Unknown by that letter he intercepted in the hands
of Omy Chund’s peon, the current of his thoughts was changed again,
and he proposed a settlement at once so charming and so honourable
that I could not but accept it. The poor man was much upset to find
the Unknown plotting against him in a matter in which his heart was so
deeply engaged----

_Mr F_. And who, pray, is the Unknown, madam? for he en’t unknown to
you.

_Mrs F_. Why, sir, he’s no other than the Nabob’s Frenchman, Sinzaun.

_Mr F_. And my wife knew our subtlest enemy to be in the place,
meditating dishonour to my daughter, and destruction to the factory,
and never----

_Mrs F_. And never warned you, you would say, sir? No, indeed; where
was the need of making a fuss and pother when things could be managed
in a way vastly more agreeable to all parties? Finding, I say, that
Sinzaun was working against him in the matter of Miss, and knowing
that he had the ear of the Nabob, Menotti conceived the plan of
atoning nobly for his former errors. He promised me that if my efforts
to marry him to Miss should be successful, he would not only keep
silence on the matter of the money and of my incautious admissions to
him, but he would reveal to the Presidency all his dealings with the
Nabob, and assist ’em to lay their hands upon Sinzaun, thus
frustrating all Surajah Dowlah’s monstrous schemes against the town.
Could I hesitate in such a case? Would Mr Freyne have me weigh a young
creature’s silly likes and dislikes against the safety of the whole
factory, and the lives of all the Britons in Bengall? Your wife en’t
such a sentimental fool, sir. I did my best to pleasure Menotti, and I
en’t ashamed of it.

_Mr F_. And your design in telling me this, madam?

_Mrs F_. Why, sir, now that Menotti is defeated, I know he won’t
scruple to tell you a parcel of lies about me, and I desire to be
beforehand with him.

_Mr F_. You desire me to proclaim to the Council, and so to all
Calcutta, the iniquitous behaviour of my wife, madam?

_Mrs F_. (_weeping_). Indeed, Mr Freyne, you’re cruelly hard. I would
have you catch Menotti red-handed, so as no one will give any credit
to his tales. I know (for I’ve made it my business to find out, that I
might have some hold over him) that when he pleads indisposition as an
excuse for absence from church on a Sunday morning, he goes disguised
into the wood beyond Baugbuzar, and there receives messages from the
Nabob through Monickchund the Governor of Hoogly. If you catch him
to-day in the act, we’re safe. Had he succeeded in his last night’s
design on Miss, he would have delivered up the _hircara_[10.08] that
brings the messages to the President, as a proof of his good faith,
but now that he has made an open enemy in you he’ll think his only
hope of her lies in the Nabob.

_Mr F_. I’ll send a chitt to Mr Holwell. And now, madam, and you,
miss, no more of this shameful matter. I think I have sufficient
credit in the place for the Council to help me in preserving the
honour of my family if it’s possible to do so, but if not, then the
shame is hers that first tells a word of the tale. Your debt to Mr
Menotti, madam, shall be discharged, if you’ll oblige me with the
particulars.

_Mrs F_. I’m sure, sir, my maiden-money will far more than suffice----

_Mr F_. That, madam, you were careful to dissipate in your first year
of married life. You had play-debts to be paid then also, if you’ll
remember.

_Mrs F_. I vow, sir, you’re monstrous unkind!

My papa stayed to hear no more, and I followed him from the chamber,
only to discover that he felt the strongest repugnance to denouncing
Mr Menotti to the Presidency. “I had the fellow in my power last
night, and let him go,” he said, “but now, instead of avenging my own
quarrel on him, I set the law on his track, for all the world as
though I feared to meet him.” In this style he continued to combat all
my arguments, until I was frightened to death that he would propose to
fight the wretch before laying an information against him, but at last
he yielded to my representation of the inexpediency of exposing the
entire factory to destruction for the sake of a piece of punctilio,
and went to write his letter.

Oh, my Amelia, what a dreadful burden must Mrs Freyne have been
bearing during all these months, while all the time your naughty
Sylvia was judging her with an unkindness that I can’t doubt has often
aroused your disapproval! Is it any wonder that she has appeared
peevish and difficult? How all the reports concerning the Soubah’s
designs must have startled her, knowing that his excesses might be
encouraged by the repeating her unguarded words! Could any assembly of
motives have been so strong as the desire to save her own reputation,
not only in the eyes of Calcutta, but in those of her spouse, and to
deliver the whole factory from destruction? One can’t feel surprised
that your poor Sylvia’s preferences weighed but lightly in the
opposite balance. But what a Sabbath was this, my dear, beginning in
so awful a manner, for Mrs Freyne, for your unhappy girl and her
honoured papa, and for the wretched Menotti! There was rumours when we
came out of church that Cossimbuzar was fallen, in spite of the
submission of our rulers, but this is not confirmed. Still, the
President ordered on the spot a report of the defences of Fort William
to be made and laid before him to-morrow.




 CHAPTER XI.
 SHOWING HOW THE FLOOD CAME.

                                                    _June ye_ 8_th._

Oh, my dear, Cossimbuzar is fallen without striking a blow, and if all
be true that we hear, Surajah Dowlah is already marching on Calcutta!
Mr Dash came in just after I had finished writing to you this morning,
and related the dreadful history to my papa, as he had heard it from
being in the vicinity of the council-chamber when the letters arrived.
On the 1st of this month, the very day that our rulers despatched
their humiliating _arasdass_ from Calcutta, the Nabob sent three
Jemindars and Radjbullobdass, the father of Kissendasseat, to hold a
parley with Mr Watts, who told them, in spite of the objections of his
own officers, that he would trust himself with them if the Nabob would
send him a beetle. This is with the Indians a sign of ceremony and
friendship, for they wrap this beetle, which is called _pawn_,[11.01]
in some sort of leaves, and chew it. I don’t doubt but my Amelia, on
hearing of this disgusting custom, will unite with me in thinking that
to polite minds it would be more agreeable to dispense with both the
sign and the friendship. However, the beetle was sent on a silver
plate, and Mr Watts, following the meek example of our Council here,
humbled himself so far as to enter the Soubah’s presence with his
hands across and tied round with a _puckery_,[11.02] which is the
strip of stuff that the Moors twist into their turbants. That Surajah
Dowlah was not to be disarmed by this show of humility the poor
gentleman quickly discovered, for he was at once threatened with death
for his offering such a hardy resistance, and was only saved by the
mediation of the son of the _duan_ Huckembeg, who told the Nabob that
Mr Watts was a good sort of a man, that was come at great peril to
embrace his footsteps. Whether ’twas the threats or the mediation I
don’t know, but Mr Watts was so strangely affected that he forthwith
signed a _mulchilca_,[11.03] which is an instrument enforced by a
penalty, by which he not only surrendered his own factory of
Cossimbuzar, but also pledged the Council here to demolish their
fortifications, as well the old as the new, within a fortnight, to
give up those of the Nabob’s subjects they were protecting against
him, and to resign the privileges anciently granted to the Company
with respect to _dussticks_ by making good the losses the Soubah had
sustained through them. Seeing their chief in the enemy’s power, the
garrison of Cossimbuzar felt constrained to fulfil his covenant, and
admitted the Moorish army, who treated the unhappy gentlemen with such
detestable cruelty that Ensign Elliott, who commanded the military,
shot himself in a frenzy of shame. May Heaven pardon the poor man this
rash act! Alas, there may be others that will need the same pardon
before very long.

Momentous though this news be, ’twas not all that Mr Dash had to tell.
Lowering his voice, he asked Mr Freyne with an air of becoming reserve
whether it was true that a gentleman of this place had been detected
in supplying information to the Nabob. To this my papa replied that he
had often heard hints to the effect that some such treachery must be
at work, but he had received no word of its having been brought home
to any one in particular; and the young gentleman went away
disappointed. Shortly after his departure we heard a great beating of
drums from the direction of the Fort, which threw me into a prodigious
fright lest the Soubah’s army should be already approaching the town.
But Mr Freyne sending out one of the servants to ask what might be the
cause of the noise, we learned that the President, who, it appears,
has at length mustered courage to offer a resistance to the demands of
the Nabob, was summoning all the inhabitants to the Esplanade[11.04]
before the Fort, in order to concert measures for defence. Upon this
Mr Freyne ordered his chaise, and while arming himself with sword and
pistols, was so good as to offer to carry me with him to see the
muster, if I chose. My Amelia will guess that I flew to change my gown
at once, for I felt an extraordinary anxiety to see how the Council
would bear themselves in this alarming situation; but fastened to my
pincushion I discovered something that diverted the course of my
thoughts altogether. It was a billet like that I had found on my table
before, but folded smaller, and superscribed “Lewis to Clarissa” in
French. Inside it was wrote, also in French:--


 “It is with the most poignant anguish that the unhappy lover quits the
 vicinity of the coldest and most charming of women, to whom he has
 ventured to offer the incense of his unavailing adoration. When a more
 propitious fate shall place him next at the feet of his goddess, it
 may be that apprehension for her own safety may serve better to melt
 Clarissa’s icy heart than pity for her slave has succeeded in doing,
 and that she’ll see fit to grant him those tokens of her favour which
 his humble passion has never ceased to entreat.”


The menacing style of this message filled me with alarm, but
remembering that the writer announced his departure, and that ’twas
possible he might never return, I took courage after a moment.
Otherwise, I could not but feel apprehensive in the extreme to
discover that the person whom Mrs Freyne had revealed as the apostate
Sinzaun should still be seeking to enter into communications with me.
This Sinzaun, I must inform my dear girl, is a most notorious renegade
Frenchman, who is not only a trusted leader of the Nabob’s army,
having the management of his train of artillery, but also the vilest
of his boon companions in time of peace. His skill had not been needed
in the Cossimbuzar matter, but now he was questionless returned to
lead his master’s forces against Calcutta. I carried the wretch’s
billet to my papa, who read it with great anger; and I ventured to put
a question that had troubled me more than once since the day before.

“Had you been sensible, dear sir, who the bold enquirer was that
demanded your daughter, and known that he had, as he claimed, the
power to save the factory from the Soubah’s vengeance, would you have
chose to oblige him?”

“I’m afraid,” says my dear papa, “that my Sylvia Freyne believes me
either a coward or a fool. Even had I been base enough to deliver up
my daughter to the ruffian’s demands, what security have I that the
rogue would keep his word, and not take the girl first and the place
afterwards?”

This view of the matter had not occurred to me, and I’ll own that it
relieved me from the apprehension I had felt that it might be my duty
to sacrifice myself for the safety of Calcutta. Not, my dear, that I
had clearly faced the possible necessity of such a shocking act, for I
would not have you think me more heroical than I am, but that the
dreadful notion had crossed my mind and reduced me almost to despair.
Well, my papa and I rode to the Fort, and heard what Mr President had
to say of the unexampled ingratitude and perfidy of the Nabob, and of
the certainty that he and his army would be speedily crushed by the
valour and readiness of the inhabitants of Calcutta. The five captains
of the troops had given it as their opinion in writing that there was
in the place an abundance both of arms, ammunition, and provisions,
and a plan had been drawn out for constructing such additional
defences as might reasonably be completed in a few days. But it was
necessary that there should be men behind the defences, and therefore
his honour trusted that every inhabitant of the place that was fit to
bear arms would enrol himself immediately in the militia, and give
unremitting attention to his drill until he was called upon to
practise in war what he had been taught. This discourse of the
President’s was very well received, though with less of excitement, I
fancy, than he had anticipated; and all of the male sex present,
gentlemen and common persons and Armenians and To-passes alike, made
haste to give their names to those who were about to enrol ’em. It was
now too late to do any more that evening, and after appointing a
meeting of the new-raised militia for this morning, on the green to
the south of the Fort, that they might begin to be instructed in their
weapons, every one returned home.

The ordinary business of the place being quite at a standstill, Mr
Freyne betook himself to-day after the early meal to the Park instead
of his _dufterconna_, and brought home with him to breakfast Captain
Colquhoun and Mr Holwell, who were deputed to ride to Perrins Gardens
and see what might be done to restore the redoubt there, which was so
foolishly dismantled in the panic of last week. Mrs Freyne pleading
indisposition as an excuse for her absence, I was set in her place at
the head of the table, and found that the gentlemen were not in the
highest of spirits.

“I could scarce believe my ears, Captain,” says my papa, “when I heard
that you had signed the assurance given by your comrades of our
sufficiency of munitions.”

“You can’t blame me more than I blame myself, sir,” said the Captain.
“’Twas an unpardonable piece of confidence in me to take Captain
Minchin’s word for the amount of the stores, without regarding their
quality and condition.”

“Then you are satisfied as to the quantities mentioned, Captain?”

“By no means, sir. When my suspicions were first roused after signing
the assurance, and I asked of Captain Minchin how he had prevailed
upon Captain Witherington to make his returns so promptly, he told me
with the greatest coolness in the world that Witherington had failed
to send in any accounts at all, so that he himself had done his best
to estimate what we ought to have in hand, and had assured us of
possessing it.”

“Witherington ought to be hanged!” says Mr Freyne.

“Indeed, sir,” says Mr Holwell, “the poor gentleman is a most
laborious, active creature. It en’t his fault that his intellects are
confused by all these sudden events. With a commander that would keep
an eye on him, and see that he did his duty, we should have in him an
excellent good officer.”

“We don’t possess such a commander in Mr Drake,” said the Captain,
“for Witherington finds all his complaints allowed, and en’t forced to
do anything. Captain Minchin assured me that when he represented to
the President the danger of leaving the whole charge of the Train in
the care of such a man, all the answer he received was that
Witherington was such a strange unaccountable creature that his honour
could do nothing with him.”

“Yet the fellow makes more noise and bustle about doing nothing than
the Council themselves,” said my papa. “So you have examined the
stores, Captain?”

“I have, sir, if indeed they’re worthy to be called stores. There’s
but three hundred and fifty barrels of powder, and the most of that
bad, no bombs nor grenadoes, except a few spoiled shells that will do
more damage to us than the enemy; the grape is all eaten up with
worms, and there’s no cartridges ready.”

“And the guns,” says Mr Holwell, “are still without carriages, and the
embrasures broken down, while any gunner that’s fool enough to try to
work his piece on the Fort walls will go through the roof into the
chambers below.”

“And our army of defence,” says the Captain, “with no disrespect to
either of you, gentlemen, is a fit match for its weapons. With a
garrison of less than two hundred, counting the officers, and of which
not ten of the rank and file have seen any war service, we may be
thankful if we can hold out for a single day.”

“Come,” says my papa, “think of Colonel Clive’s achievements with a
force near as bad, and of your own experience in the Carnatic, sir.”

“Ah, sir, here we lack Colonel Clive. And I am not (though it shame me
to say it) the man to take his place. If the President had broke
Captain Minchin as he had designed doing, and placed Captains Clayton
and Witherington in some such subordinate situation as befits their
lack of military experience and judgment, maybe Captain Grant and your
humble servant might have made shift to show a good front to the
enemy, but with five persons in equal military authority, and his
honour and the Council interfering perpetually in matters which are
none of their province, the thing is hopeless.”

“But sure, sir,” said Mr Holwell, “you have Captain Grant as
adjutant-general, and Captain Minchin made merely commandant of the
Fort, where his lack of military qualities can’t do much harm.”

“Not if we were about to defend the town, sir, but when we are driven
back upon the Fort, as we must very quickly be, he has all the chance
for mischief that he needs. And were Captain Grant twenty
adjutants-general in one, he would still have Mr President for his
commander.”

“Aye,” says my papa, “the Quaker is quaking now in good earnest. But
you seem at present to wish to defend the town, Captain, and I thought
that you scouted the bare notion hitherto.”

“Why, sir, had I been in command, I would have called in the gentlemen
from the other factories, and their garrisons with ’em, a month ago,
and added them to our force here, whereas now they are refuging with
the French and Dutch, or must be snapped up by the Nabob as he
advances, since the summons to ’em only went out yesterday. In the
former case, with the aid of the forced labour of the black
inhabitants, we might have extended the Morattoe-ditch round the town
with some hope of defending the space enclosed in it, but as things
are, I confess indeed that the Fort is our only hope. The plan adopted
by the Council on the advice of the engineer officers, which neither
carries out Colonel Scott’s scheme of defending the whole space of the
town nor contents itself with maintaining the Fort, as should be the
case in our present untoward circumstances, is doomed, I am convinced,
to failure.”

“Sure, sir,” said Mr Freyne, “you would not have took the
responsibility of destroying the church and all the houses near the
Fort, as you pressed upon the gentlemen at the council of war?”

“Aye, sir, that I would, instead of leaving ’em as so many fortresses
for the enemy. But when every gentleman that has a brick or _pucca_
house wants it included in the defences, and none must be destroyed
lest the Company should refuse to pay compensation, how, I ask you, is
this to be managed without frittering away in continual stands and
retreats the best strength of our small garrison?”

“Ah, Captain,” says Mr Holwell, “you should have supported me in the
matter of Tanners. Why, sir, I looked to you as my certain upholder,
and yet there was none but Captain Grant and that gallant lad le
Beaume besides myself to perceive the advantages we should gain in
possessing an abundant store of provisions and a retreat both for the
ships and ourselves, unless the Nabob should divide his forces to
attack us.”

“And what of dividing our own forces, sir?” asked the Captain. “They
are far too small as it is for the extent of our defences, and to send
half of ’em five miles off on t’other side of the river would be
madness. And as for the Nabob, why, Monickchund and the Hoogly
garrison alone could deal with any force we could send to hold Tanners
without our being able even to offer to relieve it.”

“But help may yet reach us, sir, from Madrass or Bombay.”

“Scarcely, sir, unless they have been warned of our plight in a
vision, for now that the sea is shut by the _munsoon_, our letters
despatched yesterday by the country messengers can’t reach even
Madrass in less than a month.”

“But the French and Dutch may yet determine to assist us, Captain.”

“They may, sir; and if they should, I’ll freely allow that the humble
and imploring letters of the President and Council to ’em were
justified. But I fancy they won’t.”

Here I saw Mr Dash come into the compound in haste, as though brimfull
of news, but looking askance at Mr Holwell, against whom, as my Amelia
will recollect, he cherishes some pique. Observing, however, that Mr
Holwell did not remark his presence (for indeed, I doubt if the good
gentleman know more of him than his name), Mr Dash joined himself to
the company, and slipped quietly into a seat close to me.

“The rumour of which I asked Mr Freyne last night is true, madam,” he
said.

“That concerning a treachery on the part of some European, sir?”

“Even so, madam. The thing is fairly proved, and Miss Freyne should be
doubly rejoiced at the discovery, since the traitor is a person that
has often, I believe, disobliged her. ’Tis Mr Menotti.”

“I protest, sir, I don’t see why I should rejoice to find that a
person who had professed esteem for me is a traitor.”

“Why, madam, see how your cold treatment of the fellow is justified!
And there’s another reason for you to triumph. I understand that the
information on which Mr Menotti was captured came from a lady who was
petted[11.05] by his neglect of her for a more youthful
rival--yourself, madam.”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, flirting my fan and looking at him very
complacently, “I don’t see what time the gentleman you mention had to
spare for any other lady, for I should have said that he spent it all
in forcing himself upon me.”

I knew that the young gentleman would set Sylvia Freyne down for a
jealous coquette, but that was better for him than to spread about his
first tale, for what would be said of my stepmother if it became known
that she was the lady who accused him? “Pray, sir,” I went on, “tell
me how the discovery was made.”

“The information was received, madam, on Sunday morning, and spies
were set on Mr Menotti’s house in consequence. During the time of
divine service (he alleging wounds received in an attack made upon him
by footpads in the street the night before as an excuse for remaining
at home), he was observed to steal out in the disguise of a
_deloll_”[11.06] (this is an Indian broker, of a grade higher than a
_pycar_, Amelia), “and was followed as far as Chitpore, where he
passed the rivulet by the bridge, and entered the _top_[11.07] of
trees on t’other side. The _hircaras_ following him discovered a
second person habited as a facquier, who presented certain papers to
Mr Menotti, upon which the two were taken prisoners before they could
separate, the stranger proving to be an emissary of Monickchund, the
Phousdar of Hoogly. Mr Menotti was very earnest with his captors to
believe that he had devised a plot to entrap the Nabob’s agents and
deliver them up to the Council, and offered, in proof of his
sincerity, to guide the party to the lodging of the abandoned renegade
Sinzaun, who, he said, had lain for more than a month in the place.
But the wretch must have received warning in some way, for the lodging
was empty, though the inmate had not long quitted it. This attempt
falling out so badly, the President was not inclined to leniency by
the perusal of Monickchund’s letters, which included a pretty broad
hint to the effect that Mr Drake was an object of the Nabob’s
particular aversion, and had better be removed. Mr Menotti was ordered
to prison, and the President was stirred up to make the affecting and
patriotic speech in which he recanted yesterday from his faith in the
Nabob.”

“And did the wretched Menotti offer no further defence, sir?”

“Why, madam, he declared himself the victim of a conspiracy to ruin
him between the lady I mentioned and her spouse, and hinted also that
old Omy Chund would be found to be concerned in plotting with the
Nabob; but the President, while promising to keep Omy Chund under his
eye, refused to arrest him on such suspicious testimony, and committed
Mr Menotti to the prison in the Fort, where he might remain secure
until the present alarm be past, and prepare to confound his
persecutors when an enquiry is made afterwards.”

“You observe, gentlemen,” said Captain Colquhoun, catching Mr Dash’s
last words as he rose from the table, “that even his honour don’t yet
believe in the reality of the danger that threatens us. I doubt but
the Council won’t perceive until the Fort is in the Nabob’s hands that
they have been sporting on the edge of a volcano.”


                                                   _June ye_ 15_th._

Oh, my dear, sure Heaven must have devoted this unhappy place to
destruction, for all that is said and done by way of defence is either
wrong in itself or performed at the wrong time! True, the militia has
been drilled morning and evening since I writ last, and makes a brave
show, divided into two companies under Mr Holwell and Mr Mackett. Nor
is this all, for Mr Manningham is their colonel, and Mr Frankland
lieutenant-colonel, while the Rev. Mr Mapletoft and several gentlemen
are captains. They were so obliging as to offer my papa a commission,
but he refused it, saying that he counted it a greater piece of
distinction to be a private man in this force than an officer, for it
numbers only two hundred and fifty all told, and of these twenty-three
of the Europeans are captains and mates of the shipping in the river,
and must return to their vessels in the event of fighting, while a
considerable number are Armenians, in whose valour so little
confidence is reposed that they are detailed to guard the Fort itself,
under command of Ensign Bellamy, who has just received his commission
as Lieutenant. I’ll assure you, Amelia, the poor young gentleman’s
disgust at his troops and his post is beyond words.

The defences also are well advanced, three principal batteries having
been constructed, one to the north, close to the Saltpetre Godowns, on
the cross-road that passes behind the Fort and leads by way of the
strand to Chitpore; one across the avenue leading to the eastward
which is called the Loll Buzar, in advance of the great gateway of the
Fort, and having the Mayor’s Court on its left and the Park on its
right; and one some three hundred yards to the south of the Fort, at
the corner of the burying-ground, and commanding one of the principal
roads. Behind this last is a second battery, situated close to the
front gate of the Park, and the eastern battery has a slighter one
some distance in advance of it, while the Fort gateway itself is to
have the additional defence of a work called a ravelin, which is not
yet completed. All the smaller lanes and by-ways are blocked with
breastworks made with pallisadoes, and where the ground is open, as in
the Park, it has been cut up into trenches, to prevent the approach of
elephants or cannon. To defend all these works, our small garrison has
been augmented to the number of fifteen hundred by the hiring of a
thousand _buxerries_, which are mercenary Indians armed with
matchlocks. On the other hand, our governors are disappointed of the
help they hoped for from the Dutch and French, for while the first
refuse either to make or meddle in our dispute with the Nabob, the
French are good enough to offer our whole factory to refuge at
Chandernagore, where (say they) there’s more hope of a successful
defence. ’Tis some slight consolation to my papa and me that the
Council have replied to this piece of gasconading only by a request to
the French to assist us with a present of ammunition, that we may
defend ourselves here.

Six days ago, as we hear, the Nabob quitted Cossimbuzar with his army,
and began his march towards us, in spite of the intercessions of three
of his own subjects, Roopchund and Mootabray, the sons of Jugget Seat,
his own _shroff_ and money-lender, and Coja Wazeed, a respectable
merchant of Hoogly. That these disinterested persons failed in their
benevolent designs is in great part due to the submissive and
terrified letters sent by our Presidency to Mr Watts, which have
continued to arrive long after Cossimbuzar was taken, and, falling
into the hands of the Nabob, have confirmed him in his contempt and
hostility for us, and he is marching forward with an incredible
rapidity, so that many of his soldiers fall dead each day from the
fierce rays of the sun. The news of the Soubah’s approach reached us
on Saturday, and the next day was such a Sabbath as I should think
Calcutta never saw before, nor is likely, should it escape the ruin
that seems to be impending, to see again. For first of all, there was
a letter intercepted from Rajaram Hircara, the chief of the Nabob’s
spies and the person that sent his brother Narransing to demand that
Kissendasseat should be given up, addressed to Omy Chund, advising him
to escape from Calcutta to join with the Soubah while there was time.
This coming so soon after Mr Menotti’s accusation against Omy Chund
moved the President and Council to alarm, and they had the old man
arrested at once and lodged in the Fort, setting a guard over his
effects. Orders were also issued out to stop all the Moors’ boats
passing up or down the river, and to seize two Moorish ships that were
lying at anchor, which was done. Then, as though this were not turmoil
enough for one day, some busy-body, finding the defences pretty well
advanced and no feats of arms doing, revived Mr Holwell’s discarded
notion of an attempt on the fort named Tanners, which the Moors call
Mucka Tanna, situated some five miles down the river on the opposite
bank. So confident were our rulers in the strength of our mighty army,
that all Captain Colquhoun’s prudent representations were thrown to
the winds, and all morning were preparations going forward for sailing
against Tanners at noon, though the Captain warned them additionally
that no success could be looked for in an enterprise that was
commenced by profaning the Sabbath.

It appeared for a time, however, as though these prophecies of evil
were to be falsified, for on our troops approaching Tanners in the
evening in two ships and two brigantines, and landing in company with
the Europeans and Lascars from the vessels’ crews, the Moorish
garrison fled, without scarcely any resistance at all, so that our
people entered the place in triumph and disabled or threw into the
river all the great guns of the fort. But this piece of bravado has
proved the destruction of the enterprise, for yesterday morning came
Monickchund, the Moorish Governor of Hoogly, with two field-pieces and
two thousand men, who fired very smartly with their small arms, and to
oppose whom our people had no cannon, and were drove out with little
difficulty. Last evening and throughout to-day our vessels have been
employed in vain trying to dislodge the enemy a second time, in a
genteel sort of style without any fighting, and even a reinforcement
of thirty men from our small garrison had no effect, so that the ships
are dropped down with the ebb of the tide to lie quiet for the night.

Dreadful though this reverse is in a country where such extravagant
value is placed upon the slightest piece of success, an event of far
greater horror occurred yesterday in Calcutta itself. It was resolved
by the Council, who feared further treachery, to arrest Omy Chund’s
relations and his friend Kissendasseat as well as himself, and a
parcel of peons was sent to their houses with this object. Resistance
was offered at both places, and Kissendass, who had raised and armed a
force of men in the evident intention of joining with the Nabob when
he arrives, succeeded in driving off his assailants and taking some of
them prisoners, whom he used in the most shameful manner imaginable,
until his house was fairly taken by storm by Lieutenant Blagg and a
force of thirty Europeans, who discovered an incredible quantity of
arms, as well as much treasure, concealed in it. At Omy Chund’s house,
and this is the horrid part of the affair, his brother-in-law
Huzzaromull, who was the person most sought for, hid himself in the
Ginanah among the women, while the place was defended by Omy Chund’s
peons and armed domestics, to the number of three hundred. The fight
going against them, the head Jemmautdar, Juggermunt Sing (the same man
that Mr Menotti catched in my papa’s garden with Sinzaun’s letter),
stabbed all his master’s women, to the number of thirteen, to preserve
them, as he believed, from disgrace, and fastening up the doors, set
light to the place. Huzzaromull, having no mind to be burnt alive,
surrendered himself, having lost his hand in the fight, and there’s a
rumour that the perpetrator of the fearful deed, Juggermunt Sing
himself, was conveyed away by his fellows covered with wounds. But oh,
my dear, think of all these poor Gentoo women and their children,
murdered in this barbarous fashion! Pray heaven the guilt of their
innocent blood may not come on us, who are indeed remotely, though not
directly, responsible for its being shed.


                                   Fort William, _June ye_ 17_th._

We are besieged, Amelia. Yesterday morning, some time before noon,
when the ships, which had come up with the flood-tide, were preparing
to drop down to Tanners again, all thought of the continuance of that
enterprise was forbidden by a brisk sound of firing from the direction
of Chitpore. The vanguard of the Nabob’s army was arrived at Mr
Kelsall’s garden, under the command of Meer Jaffier, his
_buckshy_[11.08] or chief general officer, and firing on the Prince
George sloop of eighteen guns that lay off Perrins Redoubt. As you
will guess, my dear girl, we had all received our orders in the event
of this crisis, and had our effects packed in readiness for transport,
so that as soon as the firing was heard, and the military and militia
were repaired to their posts, we European women quitted our houses,
and ourselves in palanqueens, and with our trunks carried on
bullock-waggons, took refuge in the Fort without much confusion.
Everything, of course, must necessarily be abandoned, with the
exception of our clothes and jewels and our bedding, which is always
carried about with them by travellers in the East, and which we should
need in the Fort. Here the state apartments belonging to the Company
were prepared for the fugitives’ reception, and the gentlemen who
lodge within the walls were also most obliging in leaving their rooms
free, and huddling into the varandas themselves. Mrs Freyne, who is
still indisposed, was disturbed to discover that the state apartments
were already seized upon when we arrived by the ladies who live nearer
at hand, or whose spouses are of higher rank in the service than my
papa, but we were made welcome to have our choice of all the young
gentlemen’s chambers, and found ourselves at last settled in two
tolerable rooms, in as cool a situation as we could hope for. Next to
us, to my great delight, is my dear Mrs Hurstwood, whose fever has
attacked her again to such a degree that she had to be brought into
the Fort in a palanqueen of the French shape, which is like a couch
covered in with a waggon-top, but her disposition is the cheerfullest
in the world, and she declares that the having her Sylvia so close at
hand will alone suffice to cure her. My Amelia will guess that I had
plenty to do, even with the help of our three iyas (who were more
minded indeed to sit down and bewail themselves), to make my two
sufferers comfortable, while disposing our trunks and other effects to
serve for chairs and tables with some air of neatness and order. When
I had time to give my attention to public affairs, I learned from one
of the young gentlemen, who came good-naturedly to see whether he
could offer me any assistance, that the greater part of the black
inhabitants of the town was fled, as were also most of the servants of
the Europeans, and among them all the cooks, so that though the place
was well supplied with provisions we bade fair to starve in the midst
of plenty. But if the Indians are gone, the half-blood Portuguese and
other black Christians are all crowded into the Fort, to the amount of
two thousand--men, women, and children--so that ’tis scarce possible
to move about the courtyard without tumbling over some of the
refugees; and, with their chests and bundles, the place is like a
fair, though lacking the ease and cheerfulness. However, a certain
number of ’em are chose out to act as cooks, so that they are not
without some use to the garrison and ourselves.

’Tis some slight consolation, in all this alarm and confusion, that
throughout yesterday the honours of the fight remained with us. In
command at Perrins Redoubt is Mr Ensign Piccard,[11.09] a young
gentleman that has seen war service on the coast of Choromandel, and
has profited by it. With him were only twenty Europeans, though these
have since been reinforced by fifty more under Lieutenant Blagg, and
this small party, with two field-pieces, maintained themselves with
complete success against four thousand matchlockmen of the Soubah’s,
with whom was a battery of four cannon and other pieces carried on the
backs of elephants. Shortly after sunset, seeing the piquet under
Captain Clayton advancing against them, the enemy retired, leaving
seventy-nine dead on the field, and encamped in the _top_ or grove on
the further side of the rivulet. Here, after consuming their evening
meal, they betook themselves to sleep, as is the custom of the
Indians, and this being suspected by Mr Piccard, he crossed the
rivulet with a party of his men, seized and spiked up the enemy’s
guns, and beating up the thickets in which the Moors lay, drove ’em
all out, and this without losing one of his people; the spirits of
those in the Redoubt being further cheered by observing the enemy, as
soon as they were recovered from the confusion into which they had
been thrown, filing in very large columns towards Dumdumma, as though
they designed to abandon the siege.

But this, alas! was not to be. Oh, my dear, how do our sins return
upon us! Who does my Amelia think had entered the Nabob’s camp in the
interval between Ensign Piccard’s attack and the departure of the
enemy? None, my dear girl, but Juggermunt Sing, that Jemmautdar of Omy
Chund’s of whose terrible and resolved behaviour I wrote you two days
back. With invincible spirit this man, although covered with wounds
and concealed timidly by his countrymen in some of the black houses,
caused himself to be set on a horse, and being carried to Meer Jaffier
the Buckshy, told him there was no need to sacrifice his men’s lives
in attacking the bridge which was defended so stoutly by our people at
Perrins, for that the Morattoe-ditch did not near extend round the
town, and he himself could show him certain undefended passages by
which he might enter our bounds on the eastward. This, then, was the
secret of the enemy’s movement, which brought ’em as far as the old
entrenchments at Cow Cross, where they encamped behind the
Brick-kilns, their tents extending from the Bungulo[11.10] as far as
Govinderam Metre’s garden on the Dumdumma road. Nor was this all our
misfortune, for at Cow Cross bridge were posted by far the greater
part of our _buxerries_, to the number of near a thousand, and these
seeing the enemy approaching, at once joined with them, thus leaving
the way into the settlement open.

Such, then, was our situation this morning, Amelia, the enemy entering
the skirts of the town and plundering and burning wherever they went,
especially the houses of the black merchants lying near Chitpore. They
have set fire to the Great Buzar and many parts of the Black Town, and
we, for our part, have fired the Buzars and poor mean huts to the east
and south almost as far as Govindpoor’s, so that there’s a vast
expanse of fire and smoke all around us, producing a scene too
horrible to describe. This evening a party was sent to drive out the
Moors from the merchants’ quarter by the river, and brought back a few
prisoners, from whom it was discovered that a general attack upon our
outposts is intended to-morrow. This has led to the recall of
Lieutenant Blagg and his reinforcement from Perrins, and the troops
are ordered to remain all night under arms. One more piece of news has
reached us. The reply from Chandernagore to our genteel letter asking
the French to assist us with ammunition is a cold refusal. They have
only sufficient, they say, for their own needs. Yet we learn that they
were obliging enough to supply the Nabob with two hundred chests of
powder when he lay across the river from them at Banka Buzar.
Questionless we are intended to be grateful that they don’t actively
join with Surajah Dowlah against us, though we hear that in his army
is a body of fifty deserters from Chandernagore, whose escape has been
connived at by their superiors.


                                   Fort William, _June ye_ 18_th._

I am writing these lines tormented by the most cruel anxiety. All is
lost, Amelia, or very nearly so. The women and wounded are to be put
on board the ships this evening, while the small remnant of our
defenders endeavour to maintain themselves in the Fort, which alone is
left to us, against a triumphant and exulting enemy. The Company’s
ship Doddalay[11.11] and seven smaller vessels lie at a convenient
distance from the Fort, and Mess. Manningham and Frankland are gone on
board to provide for the reception of us unfortunates, while here
every one is occupied in making sure that she shan’t be saved and her
possessions left behind. Mrs Freyne is more sprightly than I have seen
her for a fortnight. In an agreeable undress, she sits enthroned on
piles of bedding, directing the trembling iyas as they cord the
trunks, while my poor Charlotte lies almost speechless, exhausted by
the heat and the violence of the fever that has held her all day.
You’ll wonder that I can write at such a moment; and, indeed, I wonder
at it myself. But, Amelia, my papa, my dear and honoured father, the
kindest of men, is missing. I have been hurrying hither and thither,
demanding of every European I met whether they could tell me anything
of him, but all they can assure me of is that no one has seen him
either slain or seriously wounded. Captain Colquhoun came upon me
while I was seeking to obtain some news from a parcel of frightened
To-passes, and fairly led me back by the hand to our lodging.

“You would oblige your good papa much more by remaining calm, madam,”
he said; “for indeed I can imagine few things that would displease him
more than to see you wandering about the Fort unattended at such a
moment. Do me the favour to sit down quietly and occupy your mind in
some suitable manner, and you shall have the earliest news I can
procure you.”

Thus it is, then, that I am writing to my Amelia, and as the
embarkation is not yet begun, I will endeavour to fulfil the Captain’s
request by setting down something of the history of this day of
disaster, for there en’t likely to be much chance for writing on board
of a crowded ship, and, indeed, who knows what may be the fate of all
of us in another few hours?

The day began with an attack made on the South Battery, where Captain
Colquhoun was in command, with my papa among his troops. The enemy,
taking possession of the houses on either side of the road in front of
the battery, kept up a brisk fire upon the defenders with musquetry
and wall-pieces; but the Captain held his ground, and placed garrisons
in the different buildings flanking him on the left as far as the
Rope-walk, to guard against any attack from that side. He was assailed
with the same smartness until noon, when the enemy drew off for a
while. The next battery to be attacked was that on the north, which
was held by Lieutenant Smyth, who was so happy as to be able to beat
off with little loss the assaults made upon him, thanks to the
advantages of his situation and his skilful disposition of his men,
although the Moors whom he repulsed did but join with those ranged
against the Eastern Battery, which was attacked with the greatest
resolution of all. Captain Clayton was in command here, supported by
Mr Holwell and a party of militia, and having as an advanced post on
the right the Gaol, whither Mr le Beaume had entreated to be allowed
to betake himself with forty of our remaining _buxerries_. In advance
of this again was the slight work I have mentioned before, defended by
a platoon of Europeans with two field-pieces, which bore the first
brunt of the assault. Seeing themselves threatened by some thousands
of the enemy, who found shelter from their shot in the thickets, this
small party at length retired upon the Gaol with their guns, when the
Moors, taking advantage of an undefended passage, seized the three
European houses in the Rope-walk to the rear of the Gaol, and fired
from them so furiously that Mr le Beaume was forced to spike up his
guns and retreat to the battery. This was now attacked so hotly from
the three houses on the right, and also from two on the left, that
only the men working the guns could remain in it, and by the loss of
the pallisado on the right it became almost untenable, Captain Clayton
having rejected with displeasure Mr Holwell’s suggestion to occupy the
buildings on either side with musquetry. In this unhappy state of
affairs Mr Holwell rode back to the Fort to demand reinforcements from
the President, for the importance of retaining this commanding post
was universally admitted, nor was there any thought of retreat among
the defenders themselves; but on his return he was met by the
disorderly array of the troops from the battery, whom Captain Clayton
had withdrawn in such haste that he left his ammunition behind him,
disabling his guns also so slightly that the enemy, who now flocked
into our abandoned work, manifesting their joy by excessive shouts,
were able to drill them and turn them on the Fort. Oh, Amelia, figure
to yourself the anguish of this moment to us who had been enquiring
eagerly all day for every the least piece of news, and now saw our
brave men disgracefully led back into the place by their incompetent
commander! But there was worse still to come.

The capture of the Eastern Battery left the Soubah’s whole force at
liberty to hurl itself upon that to the south, where Captain Colquhoun
found himself in danger of being surrounded. The enemy, who now filled
the Rope-walk, broke through the breastwork between Mrs Putham’s house
and Captain Minchin’s, and crowded into the lane at the back, hoping
to take him in the rear. Finding himself pressed also in front, from
the great road leading to Surmans, he was forced to call in the
flanking parties that he had posted in the houses near, and retreat
upon the inner battery close to the Park gate, leaving one of his
field-pieces at the corner of the Park wall to cover his retirement.
This necessary movement left Lieutenant Blagg and a party of
volunteers, who had not been able to obey in time the order to retire,
surrounded by the enemy on the top of Captain Minchin’s house; but
although the Moors held all the houses around, and the very rooms
below the roof on which they were, these brave men fought their way
down the stairs and broke through the hostile crowds that thronged the
whole square with their bayonets, until they reached the cannon at the
corner of the Park, which covered their retreat also to the inner
battery before it was spiked up and abandoned. The incredible
slaughter of the enemy made by this brave band, and the skill and
deliberation with which Captain Colquhoun had conducted his
retirement, bringing with him all his ammunition and all the guns but
that one which was spiked up, made the affair rather a triumph than a
reverse; but what was his mortification and that of all with him to
receive orders from the Fort to retire from the second battery also,
although it was within pistol-shot of the walls, and commanded two out
of the three roads of the place! I could almost wonder that the
gallant gentleman did not refuse to obey (or rather I should do so did
I not know his strict notions of discipline), but leaving an officer
with thirty men, my papa among them, to hold the Company’s house
outside the walls, he returned reluctantly with his troops, to find
that those in command had lost, during the trials of the day, the
little spirit and wisdom they had possessed. Not content with having
compelled the abandonment of the South Battery after the loss of that
on the east, the Council now ordered a retreat from the post which
Lieutenant Smyth had defended with so much success on the north,
sending also boats to recall Ensign Piccard and his party from Perrins
to garrison the Company’s house, and ordering the Prince George to
fall down from Baugbuzar to her usual station opposite the Fort.

No words of mine can describe, Amelia, the state of affairs when this
disgraceful resolution was made known--the consternation of the
English at so unnecessary and damaging a retreat, of which the
remaining _buxerries_ and all the Lascars but a few quickly showed
their opinion by going over to the enemy, the stupefaction of the
To-passes and Armenians among the militia, and the frightful uproar
among the three thousand servants and black Christians that crowd up
the Fort. All this needs to be seen and heard to be appreciated, but
her Sylvia’s misery my dearest girl’s sensibility will enable her to
picture, since the party left by Captain Colquhoun at the Company’s
house came in, on being relieved by Mr Piccard, without Mr Freyne.


(_In the original letter the following is written hurriedly in
pencil._)

I am scribbling these few lines on the last sheet of my unfinished
letter, in case I should never despatch another to my Amelia. I shall
entrust it to Mr Hurstwood, who is going on board the Doddalay to see
how his Charlotte finds herself, but only for a moment, since a fresh
assault of the enemy upon the Fort is momentarily expected. But why am
I not on board? you’ll say. Because my duty holds me here, Amelia. I
was actually in the boat with Mrs Freyne and other ladies, and on the
point of putting off from the Gott, when there comes running a servant
of Omy Chund’s who is permitted to go freely about the Fort to wait
upon his master, and cries out to me that he had found Fahrein Saeb
(so the Indians call my papa), grievously wounded, but still living.
Was it possible for me to persist in going on board the ship after
hearing this, my dear? Sure my sweet girl would tear me from her heart
had I given the notion a moment’s thought. Mrs Freyne is herself ill,
and was so prodigiously alarmed at the idea of delaying any longer,
that I feared a screaming-fit, and begged the boatmen to put off at
once without me, which they did, while I returned with the Indian to
one of the ground-floor chambers of the Fort, where they had carried
the dear gentleman and laid him on a bedstead. It seemed that he had
been struck down by a blow from the butt-end of a musquet or other
heavy weapon, and then stabbed and hacked in the most cruel and
fiendish manner, so that he was as near as possible dead from want of
blood. The good Padra Bellamy and Mr Holwell did all in their power to
stanch the wounds, for Dr Knox was nowhere to be found, but all was in
vain until the poor servant (who had heard, he says, that Fahrein Saeb
was missing, and since he had always used him civilly and been
friendly with his master, went to search for him in the grounds of the
Company’s house and found him) proved himself indeed a good Samaritan,
bringing some odd sort of salve that was extraordinary effectual, and
bidding us on no account move the sufferer before morning, lest the
blood should burst forth again. Here, then, I am, my dear, watching
over my papa, in company with a Portuguese woman that Mr Holwell has
fetched to be with me, not knowing whether I shall see the light of
another day, for the enemy, grown bold, as they may well be, with
their continued and undeserved successes, are gathering themselves for
a general attack. Farewell then, my dearest, my best beloved friend.
If this is the last you hear from me, preserve a little kindness in
your heart for

                                             your Sylvia Freyne.




 CHAPTER XII.
 PRESENTING ONE OF THE WORLD’S TRAGEDIES.

(_The account contained in this chapter belongs to a letter written
some months later, but it is introduced here in order that the current
of the narrative may not be interrupted_.)


However long I may live, Amelia, I am assured I shall never find
weaken the remembrance of the period of three nights and two days
which began with the departure of the European women from the Fort.
All the events of my life before it seem pale and distant, and as for
those that have occurred since--why, my dear, they are so little real
in comparison that if I so much as close my eyes, without any design
of recalling the awful past, I find myself in it again. After this,
you need only to be told that I am sometimes thankful for even this
frightful relief from the realising the cruel situation in which I am
at present, to perceive your poor Sylvia’s sorrowful case. ’Tis in
part for this reason that I am forcing myself to set down in writing
the whole shocking history.

After the council of war held on the Friday evening, at which it was
determined to send the European women at once on board ship, there was
a continual diminishing of the garrison of the Fort. Outside the walls
our people were still holding Mr Eyre’s house on the north, Mr
Cruttenden’s and the church on the north-east, and the Company’s house
on the south, but this last post was evacuated before eight o’clock,
the defenders being too severely galled by the fire from the next
house, which was occupied by the enemy. The south side of the Fort was
thus left exposed to attack, for our guns (mounted on the roof of the
godowns which rendered the two bastions on this side useless) failed
altogether to do any damage to these _pucca_ houses, which we could
neither hold nor destroy. Since affairs began to look so black, such
of the garrison as held their lives more precious than their
reputation took advantage of the passing to and fro of the boats
conveying the ladies to slip off to the ships themselves. A monstrous
example was set by Mess. Manningham and Frankland, the third and
fourth in rank in the Council, and Mr Drake’s constant allies in the
work of governing, who, offering their services to attend the ladies
and see them safely on board, chose to remain in the Doddalay, of
which vessel they, with the President, were part owners, in spite of
all the urgent messages sent to bring ’em back. There followed them,
among other private persons, three lieutenants of the militia, and
worse still, one belonging to the army. It was Mr Bentinck, Amelia.
All this time the enemy were gathering their forces for an assault,
and approached the walls about midnight, intending to escalade ’em.
Inside the Fort a general alarm was beaten three times, but only such
of the garrison as were on duty responded to the call, the rest having
thrown themselves down in any corner, worn out with fatigue, or being
disgusted with the behaviour of their leaders and the want of
food,--for though there was plenty to be had, no one had chanced to
keep an eye on the Portuguese cooks, and they were run off. This great
beating of drums, however, alarmed the enemy so terribly that,
fancying the whole garrison, rendered fierce by despair, was gathered
in arms to oppose ’em, they withdrew from their attempt, contenting
themselves with shooting a few fire-arrows into the Fort, and now and
then sending off a cannon-shot.

While all this was passing, I sat watching beside the senseless form
of my dear papa, who never moved nor opened his eyes while the effect
of the salve with which the Indian had dressed his wounds lasted,
which was the whole night. I was not left altogether solitary, for one
gentleman after another was perpetually coming in to ask whether he
might be permitted to do anything for me, and this proof of the esteem
felt by all for Mr Freyne and their obliging kindness to myself
affected me very sensibly. Soon after eleven o’clock in came Captain
Colquhoun, whom I had not seen for some hours, and eyed me with great
sternness.

“You have no business here, madam,” says he.

“Indeed, sir, I think I have,” said I.

“I would I had known ten minutes ago where you was, madam. I promise
you I would have packed you off on board the Diligence, with Mrs Drake
and Mrs Mapletoft and the two other ladies that were left. Mr le
Beaume was there too, badly wounded, and you could have acted
nurse-keeper to him, if you’re so fond of the part.”

“There’s no question of fondness, sir. I’m but doing my duty.”

“What can you do for your papa that any of us can’t do, madam? If he
were in his senses, ’twould please him best to know that you was safe
on board the shipping, not thrusting yourself into danger here,” and
the good gentleman went away in a rage, to seek, I fancy, for some
means of getting me out of the factory, but there was no more boats
plied that night.

Mr Secretary Cooke was the next person that looked in, I think, to
tell me that a second council of war was about to be held (this was
after the enemy had desisted from their design of attacking us), and
some time later Mr Dash came to tell me that the council was broke up.

“But what was the decision arrived at, sir?” I asked him.

“None at all, madam. A cannon-shot passed through the
consultation-room, and no one waited for another.”

“But, sure, sir, something must have been resolved upon?”

“Indeed, madam, there never was so good-natured an assembly, for it
left every member to believe that his own proposals would be
followed.”

“But were there many different plans proposed, sir?”

“As many as there were members, madam, and that was any one that cared
to take part. Mr Holwell was all for an orderly retirement after
holding the place for one day more, in order that the Company’s papers
and treasure might be put safely on board the shipping, but Mr Baillie
opposed him. Others were for evacuating the Fort at once, and Captain
Colquhoun was for holding it as long as the walls stood, in the
expectation that the rains, which are now some days overdue, must
compel the Nabob to raise the siege before long.”

“That’s the Captain, indeed! And was he well seconded, sir?”

“But poorly, madam, since Captain Witherington, who has succeeded in
counting up his munitions now that there’s so little to count,
declares that our powder is only sufficient for two days more, or
three if it’s well husbanded. But as I said, what with every one
talking at once, and the absence of any sort of control, no one knows
what plan was decided upon or what rejected.”

I heard nothing more certain than this until the morning, when Mr
Hurstwood, who had returned punctually from the Doddalay the night
before, with his Charlotte’s full consent and approbation, came in and
told me that all the Portuguese women and children were to be embarked
at once, but whether this portended a general retirement or not, he
could not say. The duty of seeing these unfortunate persons put into
boats and despatched to the ships fell to Mr Baillie, who set to work
very early, with all the disinterested kindness and generous activity
imaginable. Our short season of peace was now over, for with the light
the firing upon us began more fiercely than ever. So wickedly
ingenious were the enemy that they had employed the hours of darkness
not only in filling up the ditches which we had dug across the Park
and other open grounds (and which had served them for ready-made
breastworks behind which to fire at us the day before), and bringing
their artillery over ’em, but in turning against us the abandoned guns
of our own Eastern Battery, which did us more damage than all their
own weapons. Not content with this, they had mounted cannons at the
gates of Mr Bellamy’s compound and the Play-house compound, which
commanded the church, as well as three at the corner of the Park, two
in the Loll Buzar beyond the Gaol, and two at a spot near the
Horse-stables, from all of which they rained their missiles upon us,
while _shamsingees_[12.01] and wall-pieces were fixed at every
corner, and _bercundauzes_[12.02] or matchlockmen were in readiness
to shoot at any person that appeared on our walls. Finding that the
enemy had not seized upon the Company’s house, which he had been
forced to abandon the night before, Ensign Piccard led out a party to
occupy it again, in the hope of at least diverting a portion of the
firing from the Fort; and the President, adventuring his person boldly
enough, made the tour of the ramparts, and finding it almost
impossible to hold them in their ruinous state, which every moment
became worse, ordered them to be strengthened with bags of cotton,
affording a very sufficient protection against bullets. Seeing his
honour and Mr Holwell, with Mr Hurstwood and Padra Mapletoft, busy in
front of the chamber where I sat in cutting open the bales and filling
the cotton into bags to carry it to the ramparts, I made bold to offer
them such help as I could in closing the bags, and we all worked hard
for some minutes, until a messenger came to call away Mr Drake, to
whom, just as he was departing, Mr Hurstwood cried out that he would
go on board the Doddalay again for five minutes to see his lady, and
return at once. Mr Holwell also going off, there was only the Rev. Mr
Mapletoft left, who came and looked in upon my papa, and said in a
dolorous voice that he had understood a retirement was decided upon,
and he wished some gentleman would be so wise as to begin it, which on
Captain Colquhoun hearing, who came up at the moment, he rebuked the
Padra very sharply for his dejected air, and bade him take pattern by
the excellent Mr Bellamy. I don’t know how the poor divine covered his
confusion, for on entering the chamber I found to my delight that my
papa’s eyes were open, though he was not looking at me, but at Captain
Colquhoun.

“Captain,” he said, very feebly, “we en’t going to leave the place to
those Moorish swine, as the parson said, are we?”

“Not while we have a charge of powder left with which to fight ’em,
sir.”

“I’m with you, Captain. But what’s my girl doing here? Where’s the
other women?”

“On board the shipping, sir, where Miss ought to be.”

“So she ought. Get her on board, sir, pray.”

“The first chance I have, sir; trust me.”

“Sir,” I said, following the Captain out of the chamber, “I would not
withstand you in my papa’s presence, for fear of disturbing him, but I
won’t go.”

“By Heaven, madam, but you shall, if I have to carry you down to the
Gott. There’s no women’s work before us here.”

And he hurried away, but could not immediately carry out his
intention, for there happened all at once a whole quantity of
disasters. Ensign Piccard’s party in the Company’s house, having been
attacked by the Moguls in overwhelming numbers, were forced to retreat
back to the Fort, every man of them being wounded, and their leader
very seriously so. As though this were not enough, almost at the same
moment the piquets that held the church and Mr Eyre’s and Mr
Cruttenden’s houses, whether on receipt of an order or on their own
motion I don’t know, also left their posts and came in, so that we
were now reduced to the Fort itself and the Gott which it commanded,
and which was defended on either side by a weak wall with a gate of
pallisadoes. The enemy, scattering themselves along the bank of the
river, began now to shoot fire-arrows into the shipping, and this so
terrified those on board the vessels that they were seen to be
weighing their anchors in preparation for dropping down the river. At
this dreadful sight the terror and confusion in the Fort became
extreme. Many of the boatmen detained at the wharf had made their
escape in the night with their craft, and Mr Baillie was met with the
utmost turmoil and difficulty in his humane task of embarking the
Portuguese Christians, a good number of whom were drowned in their
haste and terror, but the consternation was now spread to the
Europeans. The President was going hither and thither in an odd
hurried sort of style, giving orders for the defence of the wall that
connected the south-west bastion with the line of guns over the wharf,
but no one offered to obey him, for there was no one at hand to manage
the two field-pieces that were there. Presently a person came to
acquaint him that all the gunpowder left was so damp and spoiled as to
be useless, a piece of news that appeared to give him great concern,
as well it might, although it was afterwards proved not to be true. Mr
Drake went away to consult with his officers, and for some time we
heard nothing but the firing, until Captain Colquhoun came running,
and seizing my wrist, cried out to me to follow him at once.

“I won’t leave my papa here, sir,” I cried.

“If he’s moved he’ll die, madam.”

“Then I’ll stay and die with him, sir.”

“No, you won’t, miss,” cried my papa, in a voice of extraordinary
strength. “See,” and he plucked at his bandages, “if you don’t go I’ll
loosen these and bleed to death, and you’ll have the recollection that
you’re your father’s murderer.”

“If my papa will drive away his girl by such a cruel means--” I cried,
but Captain Colquhoun dragged me from the place, choking with sobs,
and hurried me towards the back gate of the Fort. The Gott and the
steps were crowded with people, all crying out that the enemy were
forcing the pallisadoes from the side of the Company’s house, but
there was only two boats in sight. One was already putting off, with
Captain Minchin and Mr Mackett in it, t’other was still at the steps,
and Mr Drake was in the act of stepping on board, Captain Grant and
one of the engineer officers following him. By the time we were
arrived at the head of the steps, this boat also had put off, the
President’s black footman, who had stood with his sword drawn guarding
it in readiness for his master’s escape, clambering in from the shore.
Captain Colquhoun pulled me down the steps.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, rushing into the water up to his knees, “wait a
moment! Put back and take the lady on board. Mr President! Captain
Grant! do you call yourselves men, sirs, and leave a woman to perish?
Think of your own wives and daughters, and of the fate to which you
are condemning Miss Freyne! May Heaven’s curse light upon you,” and he
went on to call down the most fearful imprecations, such as it made me
shudder to hear, for the rowers were rowing with all their might, and
none of the persons in the boat had made so much as a motion to put
back, nor even appeared to listen.

“We can do better than curse, Captain,” said one of the gentlemen
standing on the steps, who had his piece in his hand, and he levelled
it and fired. Several others followed his example, and the bullets
went skipping into the water round the boat, but none of ’em took
place, and these last and worst of our deserters arrived safely on
board of the Doddalay, which had by now dropped down as far as
Surmans. Many others, so we learned, were escaped before them, and
among these were Padra Mapletoft and Mr Dash. Mr Hurstwood, who had
not returned from the Doddalay, was carried off along with it, against
the good gentleman’s will, I can’t doubt.

Captain Colquhoun led the way back into the Fort, walking with hanging
head and his eyes cast down, and when all were inside, locked the west
gate, to prevent any further desertions. Another council of war was
hastily summoned, at which Mr Pearkes, the senior member of Council
remaining in the factory, yielded his right in favour of Mr Holwell,
who was welcomed without a dissenting voice as governor of the Fort
and commander-in-chief. This having been determined, Captain Colquhoun
remembered that he had been holding me fast by the wrist the entire
time, and led me back to my papa without a word.

“We were too late, sir,” he said, in a broken voice, when we entered
the chamber, and my poor father uttered a heart-rending groan.

“Unhappy girl!” he cried, looking sternly at me; “it had been better
you had died with your mother than lived to see this day.”

I could only sob, and my distress melted the Captain.

“Come, sir,” he said; “we’ll hope things en’t so bad. From all
quarters of the Fort they are hanging out signals to the ships to come
back to their stations and take us off, and ’tis unpossible that those
on board should be so flinty-hearted as to disregard us. Please
Heaven, we shall all be took off orderly to-night, as Mr Holwell
proposed at the council.”

“And if the Moors break in first,” says my papa, “why, you must do the
last kindness to my girl if my hand fail me. See that my pistols are
charged, and lay them here beside me, old friend. The dogs will give
warning enough of their approach when it’s time to use ’em. Stop
crying, miss, and come near and give me a kiss. You meant well, and it
en’t your fault that you’re a fool, staying here to make your father’s
end a miserable instead of a happy one.”

I entreated the dear gentleman’s forgiveness with tears, as I knelt on
the floor beside him, and my grief so wrought upon his tenderness that
he was moved to take a more cheerful view of our situation,
encouraging me with hopes that the ships would return with the
flood-tide, and take off the whole garrison. Presently there came in
the Gentoo, Omy Chund’s servant, whom we now knew to be the person
that had raised the alarm of the enemy’s breaking through the
south-west pallisado, which was proved to be false, though not before
it had frightened away Mr Drake and his friends; but asking the fellow
why he spread such a report, he answered that he had believed it to be
true. He brought with him a second small quantity of the salve, which
he said was all he had, and, having promised that by his master’s
order all his interest should be exerted in favour of our safety and
honourable treatment should the Moors break into the Fort, departed
again. About this time there fell on us the most cruel disappointment
of all. The sloop Prince George, which had been ordered down from
Perrins the night before, and was still lying opposite our south-west
bastion, was signalled to approach closer, in the hope that she might
be able to take us off. Mess. Pearkes and Lewis, going off to her in
one of her boats that she sent on shore, carried instructions to her
commander to bring his ship as near the Fort as possible, and this
gentleman had sufficient courage and humanity to obey. But as the
vessel approached us, and all watched her with tears in their eyes,
thinking that safety was at last within reach, what was the general
consternation when, owing either to the timid incompetency, or, as
some said, the treachery, of her pilot, she run aground on one of
those sand-banks that are everywhere lying in wait for unwary wretches
in the course of the deceitful Hoogly! This destroyed our last hope of
escape by water, for she could not be got off (those on board of the
other ships making not the slightest offer of assistance), and her
crew saved themselves at last in their boats, which durst not approach
the shore.

But what shall I say of the conduct of the President and those with
him on board the shipping, who took no step to save the wretches they
had so basely abandoned? Either on Saturday or on Sunday they might
have stood up the river with the flood, and with the aid of their
crews and of the stores of munitions aboard of them, have turned the
entire course of affairs, or at least have taken off the garrison and
the Company’s papers and treasure without the loss of a single man;
but in spite of all the urgent and affecting signals made to them,
they did nothing. Nay, had they dropped down the river out of sight,
for safety’s sake, one might forgive them better, but they lay off
Surmans, in full view of us, for over four-and-twenty hours, as though
to feast their eyes upon our dying agonies, and stood away only when
they perceived that the worst had happened (though how fearful that
worst was to be they could not have guessed).

As for those who were thus deserted, in spite of their natural
resentment and despondency, they prepared to fight to the last under
the new commanderie, and die as becomes Britons. Bales of broadcloth
were got up from the warehouses, and built up into traverses along the
eastern wall and its two bastions, which were swept by the enemy’s
fire from the church, and with these, and the bags of cotton placed
along the other ramparts, some shelter was obtained for our wearied
garrison. Towards noon the enemy, being questionless disappointed that
we had not offered to surrender the Fort to them in the panic at the
President’s departure, drew off a little, and made no more attempts at
storming our defences either that day or night, contenting themselves
with keeping up their constant fire of cannon and musquetry, to which
we were by now well accustomed. Will it surprise you, Amelia, to learn
that your Sylvia passed that afternoon in sleep? I’ll assure you that
I can hardly believe it of myself, and yet I had not slept all the
night before, and even our dangerous situation, and the cruel anxiety
I was in, could not keep me from drowsiness. Mr Bellamy coming in,
fresh from the walls (where, good gentleman, he had fought as well as
any lay person of them all), to see my papa, found me fallen asleep
with my head on the sufferer’s pillow, and bade me go into the next
room and rest, while he watched beside the dear gentleman. I was very
reluctant to go, for my papa’s least movement made his wounds begin to
burst out bleeding afresh; but on the Padra promising to call me the
moment that there was any change, I obeyed him, and slept until it was
dark, when I waked up to find the enemy still cannonading us, and
fire-signals burning instead of flags to summon the ships. That night
passed much as the last had done, the gentlemen coming in every now
and then with the most agreeable punctuality to exhort me to keep up
heart, for if we could only maintain ourselves until the following
night, Mr Holwell was devising a scheme with Captain Colquhoun for
cutting our way through the enemy, and retiring to Surmans, where we
might get on board the ships. The enemy had fired all the European
houses in the town, except those which gave them a footing from which
to annoy us, and the dreadful glare and heat was most distressing,
although the Moors remained tolerable quiet.

The morning of Sunday the 20th of June found our garrison divided
between resolution and a desire to capitulate. The gentlemen of the
Service and the officers, both those of the army and the ships, were
resolved to preserve their honour by dying where they stood rather
than yield, but there was a discontented spirit abroad in the lower
ranks, which were full of Dutchmen, To-passes, and Armenians, few
English being left. Among these men Mr Holwell divided three chests of
treasure in the hope of pacifying them, and even went so far in
yielding to their demands as to send to Omy Chund in his prison,
requesting him to accept of his release and go to treat with the Nabob
for us. This the vindictive Gentoo refused to do, but consented to
write a letter from his cell to Raja Monickchund, the Phousdar of
Hoogly, entreating him to intercede with the Soubah on our behalf, and
this letter Mr Holwell threw over the wall when the enemy had opened
their attack upon us again with the daylight, but the humiliating
expedient had no effect, for there was a very determined attack made
at noon on the north side of the Fort, which the enemy sought to
escalade under cover of a prodigious fire from the ruins of Mr
Cruttenden’s house. They were again beat off, but not without a
dreadful struggle, in which five-and-twenty of our bravest remaining
defenders were killed, and over seventy received wounds. So stubborn
was the fighting that it seemed to me more than once that all must be
lost, and I was like to cry out with joy when the news of the enemy’s
repulse was brought me by that sergeant of Captain Colquhoun’s of whom
I have told you before. This worthy fellow, who is named Jones, came
to me running with all his might, and with one hand clapped to his
face.

“So please you, madam, the Moors is drove off again,” says he, and
would have hasted away at once, but thinking he must have received
some wound, I asked him why he ran in so odd a style.

“Why, madam,” says he, “you’ve heard as how I’ve promised the Captain
to touch no spirits until he gives me leave, and I’ve kept it, too.
But when the other men broke into the arrack storehouse just now,
where they’re making themselves as drunk as fiddlers, I knew as how
the devil was setting a trap for me, and I says to myself as I’d not
linger a moment before getting back to the Captain, nor give myself
the chance of so much as smelling the stuff.”

And away he went, holding his nose as before. It pleased me that he
should be so anxious to keep his promise to his Captain, and I told my
papa of it, but to my grief the tale threw him into a great
melancholy, for he began to lament that in all his life he had never
done so much kindness to any fellow-creature as to help him to
withstand his temptations. I sought to comfort him with the
recollection that at least he had never led any astray, but he refused
to listen to me.

“All my life,” he said, “I have been satisfied to be of the breed of
Democritus, smiling at what was evil, and admiring what was good--and
staying there. My natural easiness of temper has made me believe that
I was right so long as I did no wrong, nor interfered with others’
doing it if they pleased. I thought that if I did no good, at least I
did no harm, and now I am reaping the fruits of my foolishness. My
wife has taken advantage of my slackness--nay, let me rather say that
I in my slackness have suffered her to bring disgrace on herself and
destruction on the factory. My daughter is here exposed to the worst
of perils instead of finding herself safe under the protection of a
husband, and my business here--how shall I answer for it to the
Company, to the women that are left homeless, or to the brave men that
are foredoomed to perish within these walls? ’Twas in my power to have
spoke and voted in the Council for wise and prudent measures, perhaps
to have restrained the extravagancies of the President and his two
friends, but I did it not, I loved my ease too well. And this is the
end of it all. Truly I have left undone those things which I ought to
have done.”

I was beyond measure affected to hear such words from my papa’s lips,
and seeing Mr Bellamy crossing the court, all blackened with powder
and stained with blood, I ran out in the sun to him, and prayed him to
come to the dear sufferer. Such was the kindness of this good man that
he robbed himself of the rest which he so much needed, and gave up the
time for it to Mr Freyne, sitting beside him and reading passages from
the Scriptures, bidding him also look away from the life of which he
was now ashamed to that of Christ who had died for him, and not add to
the sins which he deplored that of unbelief and of the rejection of
God’s mercy. Nay, he was even so thoughtful as to comfort him
concerning the poor girl that he was leaving, as he feared, to the
most extreme peril, saying that when man’s power was utterly at an
end, then was the time for the manifestation of the power of God. And
how often the good Padra’s words have served to comfort me since that
day, I could not tell you, Amelia.

About two o’clock, the attack being renewed, Mr Bellamy was compelled
to leave us to take his place on the walls, and my papa fell into a
kind of slumber, with his hand clasped in mine. After a while
Lieutenant Bellamy came to tell me that the enemy had desisted from
their efforts and betaken themselves to places of shelter out of the
reach of our fire, where, said he, ’twas to be hoped they would stay,
for nearly all our common soldiers were so drunk with the arrack they
had stole as to be lost to all sense of duty. After this all was quiet
until a little after four, when the Gentoo, Omy Chund’s servant, came
running, and with a naked scymitar in his hand took up his post before
our doorway. On my asking him what was the matter (for I had learnt to
speak Moors well enough to understand the servants and they me, though
but in a broken manner), he told me that the enemy having shown a flag
of truce, Mr Holwell had replied with another, throwing over the wall
also a letter addressed to Raja Doolubram, the Nabob’s _duan_, asking
for terms. While our people’s attention was engaged by this parley,
the enemy all flocked out of their hiding-places, and made fierce
attacks both on the eastern gate of the Fort and the pallisadoes on
the south-west, wounding Mr Baillie with a musquet-ball as he stood by
Mr Holwell’s side. On Mr Holwell running down to the parade to summon
our common men, he found the few that were not drunk asleep, and those
that were drunk, hearing of the danger, broke open the western gate,
headed by a Dutchman of the Train, seeking to escape along the slime
of the river, and so admitted the enemy. Hurrying to the south-east
bastion Mr Holwell met with Captain Colquhoun, and the two gentlemen
agreed that no further resistance was possible, since the Moors had
also, by using bamboos for scaling-ladders, succeeded in great numbers
in escalading the south wall, by means of the roofs of the godowns
built against it, and were pouring into the Fort. The Gentoo added
that he had seen the two gentlemen give up their swords to a
Jemmautdar of the Nabob’s, and that he had hastened hither to defend
us with his life, as his master’s orders were.

Resolved to second to the best of my power the efforts of this human
pagan, I catched up Mr Freyne’s pistols, and stood with one of them in
each hand, while the shouts and cries of the victorious Moguls
approached nearer, although none had as yet penetrated to our
neighbourhood. I thought I had passed through the bitterness of death,
Amelia, and ’twas like a new life when I saw Captain Colquhoun and his
sergeant come hurrying across the courtyard, in company with one of
the Moorish Jemmautdars and ten or twelve of his men, while the poor
Gentoo that guarded us was so confused by their sudden appearance that
he fetched a great blow at the Captain with his scymitar, but the
sergeant warded it off, and no harm was done, though I cried out aloud
in my fright.

“Madam,” says the Captain, brushing the Gentoo aside, and coming into
the chamber, “this Jemmautdar here en’t so vile as the most of them,
and has promised, in return for receiving all our valuables, to save
us from the ill-treatment of his fellows. Pray give him any jewellery
you may happen to have about you, and he’ll conduct us to our friends,
the rest of the prisoners.”

My dear girl will guess that I did not delay to give the Captain my
brooch and rings, my silver-framed tablets, and even the coral pins
that fastened my handkerchief, to present to the Moor, observing that
the poor gentleman himself had been robbed not only of his watch and
shoe-buckles, but of the very buttons from his coat. My papa’s
pistols, which were mounted in silver, next excited the covetousness
of the Jemmautdar, and Captain Colquhoun bade me give them up to him,
making a sign to me that he himself had still a weapon concealed on
his person. Since we were now robbed of everything, the Captain bade
me pull the frills of my cap over my face as far as I could, and he
and Sergeant Jones took up the two ends of the bedstead on which Mr
Freyne lay, to carry it out. But to this the most strenuous objection
was offered by Omy Chund’s servant, who declared himself fully equal
to protecting us if we remained where we were, and brought the
Jemmautdar over to his side by means of signs which we could not
comprehend. I was in terror lest the Captain and his man should be
dragged away, and my papa and I left to the poor protection of this
one Gentoo with his scymitar, but Mr Freyne settled the matter for
himself.

“I don’t desire to be separated from my friends,” he said, awaking, as
it seemed, from sleep. “My daughter and I will share the lot of the
other prisoners.”

The servant offering no further opposition, we quitted the chamber, I
keeping close to Captain Colquhoun, and the Jemmautdar and his men
acting as our guard. Not knowing what sights of horror might meet my
eyes, I durst not look around me, but we passed unmolested--the Moors,
as I learnt, being so busy with the spoil they had found, such as
bales of broadcloth, chests of coral, plate, and treasure, in the
private rooms of the gentlemen in the factory, that they had no time
to observe us, and we arrived safely in the arched varanda in front of
the barracks that extended from the great gate of the Fort to the
south-east bastion, inside our eastern wall. Here were gradually
gathered all that had escaped the perils of the day, including,
besides ourselves, Mr Holwell, Mr Secretary Cooke, Mr Bellamy and his
son the Lieutenant, Mr Eyre, Mr Baillie and several other members of
Council, Captains Clayton and Witherington, a number of young
gentlemen of the Service and the army (among them that gallant officer
Mr Ensign Piccard, who was almost disabled by his wounds), several
masters and mates of ships who had chose to remain with us when their
fellows abandoned their duty, and some common soldiers and militia,
both white and black. Oh, my dear, all these brave gentlemen! Sure I
could weep tears of blood, to think of the awful fate of the best and
noblest of our people in this factory, while the cowards and deserters
stood aloof in safety.

About five o’clock the Nabob and his brother entered the Fort in
state, being borne in ornamented litters, and Surajah Dowlah, having
ordered a guard to be placed over the treasury, proceeded to the
principal apartments of the factory, where he set up his throne and
held his Court, receiving the compliments of Meer Jaffier the Buckshy,
and the rest of his attendants. Having indulged himself in this
fanfaronade, the victor sent for Mr Holwell to attend him, whom we saw
depart with great grief and apprehension, but had presently the
delight of welcoming him back unhurt, though with a countenance
expressive of the utmost concern. After telling us that the Nabob had
declared himself exceeding dissatisfied with the small quantity of
money in the treasury, and had loudly expressed his resentment at our
presumption in defending the place so stubbornly with such a small
garrison, demanding also why Mr Holwell had not had the prudence to
make his escape with the President, but ending with a promise that no
harm should befall the prisoners, the good gentleman admitted us into
the secret of his dejection.

“One of the first acts of the Soubah on entering,” he said, “was to
have Omy Chund and Kissendass fetched out of prison, whom he received
with the greatest imaginable civility, and presented ’em both with
_seerpaws_.”[12.03] (These, Amelia, are vests of honour, given by a
ruler to those he most affects.) “You may well look astonished,
gentlemen, knowing that the shelter given to Kissendass was our chief
alleged crime in the Nabob’s eyes, but there’s worse yet. Have you
forgot that in the same prison with the two Gentoos was a European,
suspected, like them, of trafficking with the enemy? I understand that
when the prison was broke open the unhappy man had almost secured his
freedom by promising to show the Moors that discovered him where he
had buried a prodigious treasure, but, as you are sensible, Omy Chund
never forgives, and sure Mr Menotti made him his deadly enemy when he
sought to save himself by casting suspicion on him. Not that Omy Chund
appeared in the matter, save by preventing Menotti’s escape, for there
was another ready to do the business. When the wretched man was
brought before the Soubah, there stood out to accuse him a person
somewhat of a European aspect, but dressed like the Moors, and this I
discovered to be the renegade Frenchman, Sinzaun, the master of the
Nabob’s artillery. From all I could learn (for the apostate spoke very
vehemently and with an almost incredible swiftness in Moors), Menotti,
who had for years supplied the old Soubah with information respecting
us and our designs, suddenly demanded from Surajah Dowlah that in the
event of this place being captured a certain female should be allotted
to him as a part of his reward. Finding the Muxadavad Durbar
disinclined to increase their offers, he supported his request with
threats, declaring that he would otherwise betray the Nabob’s designs
to our Presidency. On this Sinzaun visited Calcutta in disguise, as I
understood, and arrived at the determination to carry off the lady
himself, whereupon, so he alleged, Menotti sought to betray both him
and their common design to us, trusting to obtain the object of his
pursuit through the gratitude of the chiefs of our factory. At this
point of his discourse the accuser directed at Menotti a gross taunt
that appeared to sting him to the highest pitch of indignation, for
drawing a stiletto that he had contrived to conceal about him, he
flung himself upon Sinzaun with such fury, despite his chains, that it
seemed impossible to part ’em. But the renegade wearing a shirt of
mail under his Moorish vest, the blow was fruitless, and Menotti was
dragged from his prey, when the Soubah, who was prodigiously incensed
that such an attempt should be made on his officer in his presence,
cried out to the guards to fall upon him, and he was cut to pieces in
the twinkling of an eye. Can you wonder at my seriousness, gentlemen,
after beholding so shocking a spectacle?”

The gentlemen vied with each other in expressions of horror, but what
does my Amelia think was the state of mind of the three persons that
knew who was the unhappy creature alluded to as the object of the
rivalry of these two traitors? My poor father groaned aloud, while I
sank down by his side overcome with terror, and Captain Colquhoun
opened his vest and showed me the butt of a pistol, which, indeed, was
the greatest comfort that he could have offered me at that moment. But
the next there came an even greater alarm to rouse us from our stupor
of fright, for Lieutenant Bellamy pushed his way through the crowd to
us with--

“There’s several Moors of high rank crossing the parade, gentlemen,
and they say that one of ’em is Sinzaun.”

“Crouch down where you are, madam,” says Captain Colquhoun, “but get a
glimpse of the fellow if you can. It may be that our alarm en’t
needed. And, gentlemen, not a word of Miss if your lives be the
forfeit.”

There was five hundred _bercundauzes_, or gun-men, drawn up on the
parade facing us, with their matches ready lighted, and a strong guard
placed over us, with another on the stairs leading to the bastion, and
some of these men brought torches, which they lighted from the matches
of the _bercundauzes_, for it was dark under the varanda where we
were, the sun being near its setting. Presently the party of Moors of
whom the Lieutenant had spoken came to the front of the varanda,
feasting their eyes, I suppose, on the wounded and worn-out men that
had opposed them so long. But one of them suffered his eyes to rove
keenly over the whole body of prisoners and their surroundings, and
although I had never before seen him but in a masque, I knew him at
once. Then he spoke in French to the only other female that was
escaped, the wife of one of the sea-officers named Carey, and a fine
handsome young woman, though country-born, and his voice was that
which I had last heard from King Lewis at the Masquerade.

“And are you, madam, the only lady that has the honour of having taken
part in this resolute defence?” he asked her.

“Why, indeed, sir, there was another,” she said, “but I han’t seen her
for some time now.”

Once again did the wretch’s eyes search the place, while I crouched
behind the gentlemen, half-dead with fear, but he went away
disappointed. It was now dark, and the Musslemen, by which is meant
all the Moors and Moguls among the enemy, sung a thanksgiving to
_Alla_, which is their name for the Deity. Seeing them thus occupied,
Captain Colquhoun turned round to me.

“Was that man he whom you feared, madam?”

“Alas, sir, he was!”

“Then he won’t be satisfied with his search, and if the prisoners are
marched out on the parade, he must find you. If only we had any
disguise at hand----”

“Oh, dear sir, pray kill me, or if that be wicked, disfigure me in any
way you will, sooner than I should fall into his hands.”

“Hush, child; I had sooner save you from him and death both. Would it
be possible, I wonder----? Do me the favour to take down your hair,
madam.”

I could not guess what he intended to do, but I obeyed, wondering, and
the Captain combed my hair back with a pocket-comb, and tied it with
one of the ribbons I had taken off, like that of a youth.

“The lack of powder will excite no remark, after our five days’
uneasiness,” he muttered to himself. “Put your cap and fallals into
your pocket, madam, lest they would be picked up and excite suspicion.
Pray will one of you young gentlemen oblige Miss with a hat? Mine is
hugely too large.”

Lieutenant Bellamy at once lent me his own hat, and tied a red silk
handkerchief round his head, to give himself, as he said, a piratical
air, such as might strike terror into our gaolers.

“Now has any of the seafaring gentlemen a watch-coat, or anything of
the kind, with him?” asked the Captain.

“Why, look ye, sir,” says one of them, “we are fair roasted already
with the heat. What should we want with watch-coats?”

“Will this serve your turn, Captain?” cries Mr Eyre, bringing forward
a great travelling-cloak. “I thought it might be of use if we were
forced to lie to-night in the open, or on a stone floor, but pray
consider it your own if it’s to advantage Miss in any way.”

“You’re a friend in need, sir,” says the Captain, taking the cloak and
wrapping it round me from the chin to the feet, so that not an inch of
my white gown was anywhere visible. It happened most fortunately that
I was not wearing a hoop, having laid it aside because it incommoded
me in my care of my papa, so that I might very well pass for a boy in
the dim light. The heat of the cloak was stifling, of course, but
think, my dear, what was at stake!

“The prettiest young fellow in Calcutta!” says Mr Fisherton, who had
been watching the transformation.

“Young gentleman,” says Captain Colquhoun sternly, seeing me shrink
back, “is this the time for jests? Sure respect for the lady’s
feelings should withhold you from such a freedom, if your own sense of
fitness won’t do it.”

“On my honour, sir,” cried the young gentleman, “I sought but to cheer
Miss with an assurance of the completeness of her disguise, so pray
pardon me, madam, if I caused you pain.”

“You must stand here, madam, among these gentlemen and away from your
papa,” says the Captain, leading me out of the corner. “Gentlemen, I
need not ask you, I’m sure, to stand close round Miss.”

There was no time to answer, for the Moors having finished their
devotions, there came a Jemmautdar to summon Mr Holwell to another
audience of the Nabob, and as soon as he was gone some one standing in
the front of the varanda called out that Omy Chund was coming.
Presently the wicked old man, his usual sleek and spotless aspect
somewhat marred by his week in prison, but wearing the Nabob’s
_seerpaw_, a rich dress of gold gingham, over his Gentoo garments,
mounted the steps of the varanda, attended by two or three Moors.

“Gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, his cunning little eyes
wandering over the mass of prisoners, “I am come on an errand of
compassion. They tell me that the daughter of my good friend and
patron, Fahrein Saeb, is among you, without any female attendance, and
I have obtained leave from his Highness the Soubah to carry her to my
own house and entrust her to the care of my family. I need not assure
you that this offer springs solely from my respect and affection for
Fahrein Saeb’s memory, and that the lady will enjoy perfect safety and
honourable treatment at my house until it be possible to restore her
to her friends.”

No one made any answer to this humane and affecting declaration, and
Omy Chund walked along the varanda looking at the prisoners, and
tarrying so long before Mrs Carey that her spouse, persuaded there was
designs abroad against his wife, bade him go on quickly or he would
knock him down the steps. Still not finding the unhappy creature he
sought, Omy Chund told the chief Moor that was with him to desire the
prisoners to sit down, which we did, I in the midst of the knot of
gentlemen who shielded me. I could not be thankful enough that I had
never met Omy Chund face to face before this day, for although his
eyes rested upon me, he failed to recognise me in my disguise, and his
aspect grew more and more sour.

“Who’s that on the bedstead in the corner?” he says at last
suspiciously.

“Why, Omy Chund,” says my papa, raising himself up with Captain
Colquhoun’s help, and speaking in an agreeable rallying voice, “I fear
you’ve forgot your friend. Don’t you recognise Fahrein Saeb?”

“Pardon, gracious sir,” says the Gentoo, quite confused. “I had
understood you was dead. You won’t take it amiss if I say that for
your sake I had even hoped it, since I could not look to save you in
the same manner as your daughter. Pray, sir, where’s the young lady?”

“Why, in a place of safety by this time, I hope,” says Mr Freyne. “You
should bid your friends the Moors keep better watch, Omy Chund.”

The rest of the gentlemen laughed to see Omy Chund so confounded, and
he, muttering angrily to himself, went down the steps again after one
more inquisitive search among us. But when he was gone, the
remembrance of the menacing language he had used provoked many
enquiries and surmisings, which were only allayed by the return of Mr
Holwell from his third interview with our conqueror, who, said the
good gentleman, had pledged to him his word as a soldier that no harm
should come to any of us. I was now seated again at the side of my
papa, who appeared strangely drowsy, saying two or three times over
that he was fatigued and would rest, and finally falling into a doze,
undisturbed by the conversation going on around him. I remember that
the good Padra recalled to our memories that it was the Sabbath
evening, and that Mr Fisherton entered into an ingenious calculation
to prove that, allowing for the difference of time, the afternoon
church service was just about beginning at Whitcliffe in the county of
Sussex, where his honoured father is the Rector. One of the other
gentlemen objected to some error that he imagined in Mr Fisherton’s
reckoning, and they were disputing the matter very pleasantly, when
some one called attention to the alarming progress of the flames in
which the greater part of the factory was now wrapped, and which,
though they had been kindled upon the first entrance of the Moors,
seemed to have gained fresh strength with sunset. The buildings both
to right and left of us were now burning, and the horrid notion was
suggested that our captors designed to suffocate us in the flames,
which was supported by the sudden appearance of several Jemmautdars
and fellows with lighted torches, who went about examining all the
rooms under the varanda where we were. The young gentlemen immediately
declared for rushing upon the guard and seizing their scymitars, so
fighting to the last, rather than submit to such a fate, but Mr
Holwell, who went to question the Moormen, returned quickly to assure
us that they had no such inhuman intentions, but were only seeking a
place to confine us in for the night.

It appeared that their search was successful, for the Jemmautdars
returning and joining our guard, which advanced towards us from the
parade, ordered us to go into the barracks, which opened upon the
varanda where we stood. This was better than we had expected, for
these apartments had been specially built with a view to coolness, and
the gentlemen began talking and laughing over their good fortune and
the oddity of the situation, while I stooped over my papa to awaken
him gently, lest he should be startled by finding himself moved, but I
could not succeed in rousing him.

“Pray, sir,” I cried, catching Captain Colquhoun’s arm in a great
anxiety, “come here a moment. I can’t wake my papa.”

“Why, what’s this, madam?” says the Captain, turning round quickly;
and he laid his hand on Mr Freyne’s heart and brow, then stood up and
looked at me with a countenance so full of pity that I found myself
raising my hands as though to ward off a blow. “Dear madam, your
father will suffer no more,” he said. I stood with my hands upraised,
staring stupidly at him.

“Your father has passed away in his sleep, madam,” he said, with great
gentleness.

“My papa dead?” I cried. “Then I’ll die with him!” and I threw myself
down beside the bed; but the Captain raised me instantly.

“Madam, your papa employed his last strength in seeking to secure your
safety. Will you suffer that sacrifice to be in vain? If you remain
here alone, you’re lost. Sergeant, give Miss your arm on t’other
side.”

I had no power to resist, though I could read in the Captain’s words
that my papa’s efforts to divert Omy Chund from his search for me had
so exceeded his strength as to cost him his life, and I felt myself
half-dragged, half-carried away by the two men. I remember that the
Captain’s sleeve was stiff, and that he winced when I first catched
his arm. It did not then occur to me what this signified, but now I
know that he must have been wounded, and that the blood was dried on
his clothes.

We were now inside the barracks, where we had thought we were intended
to remain; but the guard still pressed upon us, some presenting their
pieces, others with their scymitars drawn, all forcing us on towards a
door that stood open at the end of the place nearest the bastion.
Seeing this, the sergeant who was supporting me on the left gave a
great laugh.

“Why, ’tis naught but the black hole!” he cried, “and that’s none so
dreadful. I ought to know, for many a night I’ve passed there, though
not many on ’em sober, I must say. So keep up your heart, madam.”

“The black hole?” says Captain Colquhoun, in a voice of great
apprehension. “Sure they won’t attempt to confine us all there? The
place en’t but 15 feet square.”[12.04]

But the prodigious efforts he made to turn back were fruitless, for
those behind pressed us on, being themselves drove forward by the
guards, and ignorant of the nature or extent of the place they were
entering, jesting as they came, until all were inside, when the door
was immediately shut, condemning a good hundred and fifty[12.05]
unfortunate wretches to the most dreadful of deaths, for, so far as I
know, I alone among the victims am escaped to tell the tale (and who
knows whether this writing of mine may ever come into the hands of any
that will make known our fate? since for very shame’s sake the Moors
must surely conceal the frightful truth). The chief thought of the
unhappy beings who were the last forced into the room was to get the
door opened again, but having no tools, they laboured in vain.
Meanwhile, my two supporters dragged me through the crowd towards the
two small barred windows opening on the varanda, the gentlemen making
way with the most engaging politeness in answer to Captain Colquhoun’s
cry of “Room for the lady, if you please, gentlemen!” In the window
nearest to the door Mr Holwell and two other gentlemen, both badly
wounded, were already seated, clinging to the bars; but at the second,
although the sill was occupied, my protectors succeeded in finding a
place for me close underneath, where they guarded me with their own
persons from those who would have sought to drag me away. Close beside
me was poor Mrs Carey, whose spouse was supporting her with an equal
resolution, and she addressed herself to me with a pitiful laugh.

“La, miss! so you was there after all? En’t it monstrous uncivil of
the Moors to confine us in such a place? I vow I shall swoon in a
minute.”

I had no chance to answer her; for at this point Mr Holwell began to
speak to the prisoners, exhorting them by all they held dear, and by
the ready obedience they had shown him in so many perils that day, to
behave with calmness and moderation, and not make their situation
worse by giving way to frenzy. Having succeeded in obtaining some
semblance of quietness, the good gentleman, from the window where he
sat, called to the guards outside, offering them huge sums of money if
they would remove half the prisoners to some other chamber, and so
wrought upon them that one of them, I believe, departed to consult the
Nabob’s pleasure in the matter. After this, different plans were
suggested for lessening the closeness of the room. The gentlemen
stripped off their coats and waistcoats (such of them as had ’em on),
and sitting down upon the floor, used their hats for fans, being so
closely wedged together that they could scarcely rise, and many that
were weak with their wounds dying in that position through sheer want
of strength.

But to the closeness of the atmosphere and the suffocating heat was
now added a new torment, for all were seized with the most frightful
thirst imaginable, crying out for “Water! water!” in a heart-rending
manner. The Jemmautdar who had gone away was now returned, saying that
the Nabob was asleep, and he durst not wake him; but being of a more
humane temper than his fellows, this man ordered several skins of
water (these serve as bottles) to be brought to the bars of the window
where Mr Holwell sat, and the sight of this relief appeared to turn
all the sufferers into maniacs, fighting with each other for the very
smallest portion. The gentlemen on the window-sill, passing their hats
through the bars, and bringing them back filled with water, did their
utmost to supply every one; but the quantity thus obtained was so
small, and so much was spilt, that few received as much as a drop.
Nevertheless, the mere thought of water had so great an effect on me
that I entreated Captain Colquhoun with tears to suffer me to leave my
place and struggle towards the other window; but he refused me with
the greatest sternness, saying that my only chance of life was here,
and held me fast when I would have slipped away from him and the
sergeant. And all this time the malicious wretches outside were
holding lights close to the bars, that they might the more
conveniently watch the fighting that took place over the meagre
pittance of water, and gloat upon our agonies. Just at this moment, as
I remember, poor Mr Eyre came staggering out of the struggling throng
at the other window, and seeing us, paused in his design of seeking
some quiet corner in which to expire.

“Why, Captain, how d’ye do?” he cried, with his usual good humour,
“and Miss too, as I live! Good evening to you, good evening, madam!”

Such a greeting in such a situation seemed to me so comical that as
the unfortunate gentleman went on his way I began to laugh, in a wild
sort of style, and with no mirth in it, as you’ll guess, Amelia, but
stopped short when the Captain clapped his hand upon my mouth.

“For Heaven’s sake, madam, be quiet!” he shouted in my ear, “or we
shall have ’em all yelling like fiends in another minute, and en’t we
yet sufficiently humiliated in the eyes of the Moors?”

I had no strength to answer, and stood leaning against the wall, held
up only by the efforts of the Captain and Sergeant Jones from falling
among the bodies that were heaped upon the floor, when I should never
have risen again. Mr Holwell was gone now from his place at the other
window, but whether sunk down through weakness or dragged away by
force I don’t know, and most of the gentlemen and the wounded officers
were dead, leaving only the common men, whose superior strength (and,
I fear I must add, their hardness of heart in striking down those that
stood before them) enabled them to hold by main force the points from
which they could obtain a little air. I saw the crowd of struggling
wretches in the light of the lamps held by the guards, I heard the
cries, shouts, groans, prayers, imprecations, which ascended in a
horrible confusion, but ’twas all as if I was in a dream. The only
thing I could think of was that if I did not have water to cure my
raging thirst I should die, but by this time I was beyond the power of
calling for it. Presently I found the Captain shaking me and bidding
me keep up heart, and learned that I had swooned on his shoulder, but
the only answer I could make to his exhortations was to form with my
lips the word “Water!”

“And you shall have it, madam!” he cried, with the only oath I ever
heard him utter, and snatching the hat from my head (I had dropped the
stifling cloak long before), he bade the sergeant support me, and
plunged into the shrieking, striving throng. How he succeeded in
obtaining the water I don’t know, but presently I saw him returning,
holding the hat high above his head, while on every side were frantic
hands stretched out to tear it from him, and dying men grovelled at
his feet, imploring him for the love of Heaven to spare them a little
drop, but he fought his way through the press without heeding them. He
had almost reached us, when several desperate creatures flung
themselves upon him and tore him down, but not before he had hurled
the hat towards me. The sergeant seized it, and dashed a few precious
drops into my mouth, then relinquished it perforce to the frenzied
crowd that rushed upon us. Of the Captain I saw no more. Alas, my
dear! unlike King David of old, your Sylvia was base enough to drink
the water that had cost the blood of the noble gentleman that brought
it to her, and she owes to it, questionless, the preservation of her
unhappy life.

The next thing I remember is a struggle for the possession of our
window, in which the sergeant raised me in his arms and set me for a
moment upon the sill, but only for a moment, for I was torn down in an
instant, my clothes in ribbons, while a huge black man, a corporal of
our garrison, planted himself in my place. With an extraordinary
agility and strength the sergeant saved me from being trampled to
death on the floor, and assisted me to stand up. But I was weary of
the struggle, and death was the only thing I desired.

“Let me die!” I cried to the sergeant, “let me die quietly,” and the
worthy man, seeing the whole window now blocked so that no air could
come through it, dragged me along by the side wall towards the
platform at the back of the prison. On reaching it, we found the
corpses piled there in heaps, and among them (oh, Amelia, I can
scarcely write it) was good Mr Bellamy lying dead, his hand clasped
fast in that of his dead son. Sure you’ll think that I, who had that
night been bereaved of the best of fathers, and had seen my esteemed
protector struck down in trying to succour me, could have no sorrow
left, but the sight of the venerable divine, by whose wise counsels I
had so often benefited, and the gallant young gentleman with whom I
had danced and talked and laughed, lying there dead hand in hand,
overcame me all at once. Something seemed to break in my head, a great
cry burst from me, and I fell forward upon that dreadful heap, and
knew no more.




 CHAPTER XIII.
 CONTAINING THE EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY.

(_Part of a letter from Robert Fisherton, Esq., to the Rev. Dr
Fisherton, at the Rectory, Whitcliffe, in the county of Sussex, taken
from the Fisherton papers, by the kind permission of the present head
of the family. From his monument in Whitcliffe Old Church, we learn
that Robert Fisherton was only eighteen years old at this time_.)


       _On board the Bombay frigate, off_ Fultah, _July ye_ 5_th._

Ever-honoured and dear Sir,-- ... As I have already related to you the
course of the late melancholy events by which our flourishing factory
was destroyed, and so many of the most considerable among the
Company’s servants there doomed to a frightful death, I will in this
present letter go on to speak of the scarcely less mournful
circumstances that followed upon that crowning point of the Moors’
infamy. Sure, dear sir, when the full horrors attending the capture of
Calcutta shall be commonly known, in every civilised region the tear
of sensibility will bedew the cheek of virtue in pity for our
miserable fate. I believe, sir, that ’twas from your lips your son
once heard that affecting anecdote of the great Tuscan poet, that when
he walked abroad, his fellow-citizens, noting his gaunt air and the
horror dwelling in his eyes, shrank away from him, whispering, “There
goes the man that has been in hell!” Ah, dear sir, your son has also
been in hell, and like the famous Florentine, will surely bear in his
countenance for the remainder of his days the shadow of the awfulness
of that night.

Words would fail me were I to attempt to trace the passing of the
horrid hours, which those only lived through who were prompt to avail
themselves of the deaths of those around them to seize upon the points
of vantage thus left vacant. My own escape I attribute to my having
succeeded, in spite of all attempts to dislodge me, in maintaining a
position at one of the windows, close to Mr Holwell. When this
excellent man finally gave up all hope of life, and resigned his
place, I still held to mine, and had the great happiness, in the
morning, of finding our worthy governor still alive under the heaps of
dead on the platform, and with the assistance of Mr Ensign Walcot, of
conveying him once more to the window, where his deathly appearance
was effectual either in touching the hearts or in alarming the
cupidity of our guards, for they sent word of his plight to the Nabob,
who returned an instant order for our release from that charnel-house
in which we were confined.

Oh, dear sir, how can I paint to you the pitiable situation of the
twenty-three unhappy creatures that crawled forth from the cave of
death? and that by a path that it needed full twenty minutes’ labour
on the part of the guards to clear for us through the thickly piled
bodies of our friends. My reverend father won’t, I am sure, think the
worse of me when I confess that on finding myself restored to the air
and the light of heaven I gave way to a flood of grateful tears, able
only for the moment to realise the blessings of release. But this
tribute to the weakness of nature once paid, I became sensible that
the most affecting scenes were taking place all around me. Sure it
must have raised even the most hardened cynic’s opinion of human
nature, to behold the eagerness with which ghastly wretches,
themselves scarce able to crawl, made their way back into the den from
which they were but just escaped, in search of some friend in whom the
vital spark might not yet be quite extinct. One incident of this kind,
the beholding of which affected me most sensibly, I must relate for
the admiration and approval of the dear circle at the Rectory.

Lying where I had thrown myself on the wet grass below the varanda, I
saw a man staggering feebly forth from the dreadful chamber,
supporting in his arms a female form, which he part dragged, part
carried into the air with him. Laying the woman on the grass, he felt
her heart and wrist with a kind of clumsy respect and tenderness, and
shaking his head, murmured: “Dead, poor young lady, quite dead! Poor
lass! poor lass!” but instead of remaining beside the body, turned
back, to my surprise, in the direction of our dungeon. A horrid
suspicion here seized me, and I dragged myself painfully to the side
of the female. Oh, my father, conceive my feelings! The body was that
of Miss Freyne, the daughter of one of our most respectable public
servants, who himself had escaped the torments of the night only by
expiring from the severity of his wounds shortly before we were forced
into our prison. What! (I hear my sisters cry) is this the Miss Freyne
of whom your every letter has spoke for near a year, the beauty, the
toast, the admired of all Calcutta no less for the high qualities of
her mind than for the charms of her person? Such is, alas! the case,
and no philosopher could ask a more moving example of the fleeting
nature of earthly prosperity. The unfortunate lady lay stretched upon
the ground, her arms extended in front of her, her face fixed in an
expression of horror such as I have never seen equalled, and
approaching nearer, I sought to throw over her a coat that I had
catched up, designing to cover that once exquisite countenance from
the rude assaults of the sun and the insulting gaze of the Moors. What
was my delight and astonishment to remark a slight, a very slight,
movement in the supposed corpse, the merest flutter of a breath,
nothing more. Filled with pleased amazement that a being so delicate
should have contrived to support the hardships of the night, I called
out in much agitation to Mr Secretary Cooke (Mr Holwell having been
dragged away to attend the Nabob)--

“Pray, sir,” I cried, “lend me your aid. There’s a spark of life yet
in our esteemed Miss Freyne, I’m convinced.”

“Then suffer it to become extinct, sir,” was the dreadful answer I
received. “The unfortunate lady’s cruellest foe could do no worse for
her than recall her to life now.”

I took his meaning. Pray, pray, dear sir, never allow any of my
sisters to come to India, nor suffer yourself to be persuaded to marry
one of them to any gentleman that has his occasions in this accursed
country! Sure you would be of my mind, had you beheld, as I did, the
unhappy case of this charming young lady, who was to find that very
beauty of face, and elegancy of shape and air, which had brought all
Calcutta to her feet, suddenly turned traitors to her, and become her
most dangerous foes.

“I see as how you’re right, sir,” said a voice behind us, and I found
there, on turning, the same man that had brought Miss Freyne out of
the prison, dragging another corpse with him. “When I heard Mr
Fisherton call out as Miss was alive, I was fair dazed with joy for
the Captain’s sake, thinking as how he’d not given his life for
naught, but ’tis better for the poor maid to die than to be carried
off by the Moors. There’s one poor creature they’ve got already.”

He inclined his head in the direction of an unhappy woman, the wife of
a ship’s officer whose dead body we had discovered in the early
morning when searching for Mr Holwell, who was in the act of being
dragged away, more dead than alive, towards the quarters in which were
imprisoned the Indian women that had been captured in the pillage of
the Black houses. “If I had a pistol handy,” went on the worthy
fellow, “it should go hard with me but I would rob those fiends of
their prey.”

Alas! we had not a weapon among us, and the man turned again to the
body he had brought out last, which I now saw to be that of Captain
Colquhoun of the garrison, a most excellent upright person, and the
only one of our senior military officers that had or showed any the
least warlike capacity, and began composing the limbs as decently as
he could, covering the countenance with his own handkerchief. The deep
sighs that broke from him during this operation, and the tears that
rolled down his cheeks, helped me to recognise him, which the changes
wrought by the night’s suffering had prevented me from doing hitherto.

“Sure you’re the sergeant to whom the Captain was so partial?” I said.

“That am I, sir, the unhappy reprobate as has lost the best friend and
the kindest commander ever a man had. Three times I was broke for
drunkenness, and three times the Captain kept me from going to the
devil, and helped me to work my way up again, and now he can’t look
after me no more.”

The poor fellow’s complaint was interrupted by the passing of a sad
procession. Coming from the Governor’s apartments in the Fort, which
the Nabob had appropriated to himself, and taking the way to the gate,
where a common _hackery_ drawn by oxen awaited them, we beheld our
dear and respected Mr Holwell, and with him Mess. Walcot, Court, and
Burdet, all surrounded by a guard drawn from the command of Meer
Mudden,[13.01] the Soubah’s general of the Household Troops, and
before them an Indian that carried a huge Marrato[13.02] battle-axe,
with the edge turned towards the prisoners. Mr Cooke sat watching them
like one stunned.

“Sure we have seen the last of Mr Holwell!” he said, heavily.

“You think he and the other gentlemen will be put to death, sir?” I
asked him.

“Who can doubt it, sir? Han’t you seen the axe?”

This fresh misfortune kept us sad and silent for some time after we
had waved our mournful farewells to our unfortunate companions, but
then our own guards began to call out to us contemptuously to be gone,
for we that were left might betake ourselves wherever we would. But
where were we to go? Our ships were dropped down the river, and in all
Calcutta, where we had reigned like princes a week before, who was now
so poor to do us reverence? Such were the questions that, with blank
countenances, we asked one another, almost ready to confess that our
dead friends, whose bodies were now being carried from that frightful
prison to be flung promiscuously into the ditch of our unfinished
ravelin before the east gate, had found a happier fate than ours. But
our sad speculations were quickly forgotten in an event that revived
our worst fears. The Jemmautdar in charge of our guard (a depraved
wretch like most of his fellows) was examining the dead bodies before
they were carried out, with the view of discovering such poor remains
of personal property as had escaped the plunderers of the evening
before and the struggles of the night, and securing them for his own
use. Unhappily there catched his eye the glitter of a silver buckle on
Miss Freyne’s shoe, which was exposed by her torn gown, and he fetched
out a knife to cut it away from the leather. So clumsily did the
brutal mercenary do his sacrilegious work that the knife cut deep into
the lady’s foot, when, to my horror and that of Mr Cooke, a faint
groan escaped her lips, while a convulsive shudder ran through her
entire frame.

“Bravo!” cried the wretch, “the woman’s alive, then! She shall go to
Muxadabad. Sure his Highness will pay handsomely for a European female
to add to his seraglio.”

“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Mr Cooke, giving the fellow a polite title of
respect, “let the poor creature die in peace. You see there’s scarce
breath in her.”

“Nay,” says the Jemmautdar, with a horrid leer, “she shan’t die in
peace, nor shall you carry her off to the ships under pretence of
caring for her body. She shall live and come to Muxadabad, and bring
me a fine reward from the Nabob.” And turning to some of his company,
he bade them fetch a palanqueen, while Mr Secretary and I looked on
with anguish depicted in our countenances, and the rest of the
gentlemen that survived added their earnest supplications to ours. But
the wretch in whose hands lay the unhappy lady’s fate proved as
callous as he had before shown himself avaricious, and we were about
turning away with heavy hearts, that we might not look on the carrying
away into a detestable slavery of a young creature for whom we all
entertained such high esteem, when we saw Omychund entering at the
gate, accompanied with a moderate but genteel retinue of servants. I
leave you to imagine, sir, what were our feelings when we saw
ourselves forced to supplicate this treacherous Gentoo, to whose
resentment and chicanery it is now a common belief among us that we
owe all our sufferings, and who had lain in our prison until the day
before, but it appeared to all of us that in him we beheld our only
hope of securing Miss Freyne’s release from the most dreadful of
fates. Omychund advancing towards us with his _sewaury_,[13.03] we
rose at his approach, and this low-_cast_ shroff, who had never before
approached a European without the most abject tokens of respect, nor
ventured into the presence of one without removing his shoes, had the
gratification to see six Britons greet him with the lowest bows they
could bring themselves to offer. He greeted us with an air of
unassuming benevolence, and testified by his countenance and gestures
that he at once compassionated our sufferings and deprecated our
respect.

“Pray, gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, waving his hands in a
gracious manner, “don’t do me so much honour. ’Tis only by the favour
of his Highness that he who was the dust under your feet yesterday is
now raised over your heads. I know what it is to be a prisoner,
gentlemen, and my intercessions, joined with his Highness’s merciful
disposition, have been happily successful in ameliorating your
situation. You have been already released from custody, but I’m happy
to inform you that ’tis permitted you to remain in the place and
attend to your occasions, and that you’ll do me a favour if you’ll all
draw on me for clothes and provisions, as well as your lodging
charges, for I can’t forget in this day of prosperity how much I owe
to the obliging good nature of your nation in the past.”

If Omychund’s debt to the British nation was to be measured by the
depth of the humiliation he was now inflicting on us, it goes to show
that the impression shared by Mr Holwell and the late Captain
Colquhoun and others of our gentlemen, that for years he was only
waiting his chance to revenge himself for being turned out of his
employment under the Company, was justified, but now his tones
altered, and his countenance assumed an air of the greatest horror.

“What!” he cried, “do I indeed behold Fahrein Saeb’s daughter? Is it
possible that the unhappy young lady contrived to elude my well-meant
search last evening, and has paid for her lack of confidence with her
life? Alas! alas! that an effort so kindly intended should have been
received with such suspicion!”

“Omychund,” says Mr Cooke, approaching him, “now is the time to show
your friendship. Miss en’t dead, but the Jemmautdar yonder swears that
he’ll carry her off to Muxadabad. Pray use your best efforts to change
his mind. Offer him any sum you choose--even up to a _lack_ of rupees.
I’m sure there en’t a lady or gentleman left of the inhabitants of
Calcutta but would gladly join to pay it.”

“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Omychund, when the fellow, on his beckoning,
came swaggering up, “is it true that you’re taking the woman there to
Muxadabad?”

“Quite true,” says the other, “and I shall give her to his Highness.
The other woman will do for the Buxey.”[13.04]

“But this is a great lady. She’s Fahrein Saeb’s daughter.”

“So much the better,” with another leer.

“I am told to offer you many thousands of rupees to let her go.”

“His Highness will give me more for keeping her.”

“Then will nothing tempt you?”

“Not ten _corores_ of rupees. Not all the treasure that the accursed
Holwell has buried and won’t give up. The woman goes to Muxadabad.”

“I feared it was useless, Saeb,” says Omychund aside to Mr Cooke.
“This is an extraordinary resolved villain. If only the chance of last
night had not been lost!”

“But sure they won’t have the inhumanity to carry the poor lady away
without one of her own sex to attend upon her?”

“Ah, in that I can help you, Saeb. As it chanced, there met me in
coming hither a worthy woman that asked alms of me, whom I had known
in more prosperous days. She had served several European ladies as a
waiting-woman, and saved enough to set up a small shop in the Great
Buzar. This was plundered and burnt last week, and she is reduced to
penury. I will send one of my servants to call her, and she shall wait
on the lady to Muxadabad.”

“But sure she won’t adventure herself into the enemy’s stronghold?”

“Indeed, Saeb, the prospect of gaining a position in his Highness’s
household will transport her with joy.”

“Well, I hope she’s to be trusted. Pray, Omychund, present her with
ten rupees from me, and bid her be good to her mistress.”

“And the same from me,” said I. “And from me,” “And from me,” added
the other gentlemen, and Omychund called his cash-bearer from among
his attendance, and bade him count out the money. By this time the
other servant was returned with the iya, an elderly Moorwoman well
muffled in a blue cloth, and to her Omychund gave the rupees, with
many good counsels, which she promised faithfully to observe, while
all the time she was assisting to lift Miss Freyne, who was still
insensible, though faintly moaning, into the palanqueen, and place her
as easily as she might. When this was done, and the _checks_ drawn,
she followed behind the bearers, and they passed out of our sight.
Dear sir, I am sensible that we seem to have played but a sorry part
in this affair, and yet, what could we do? There wasn’t a man of us
but would have given his life cheerfully to save Miss Freyne, but all
our lives together would not have been accepted in exchange for hers,
although, as you shall see, there was one worthy fellow did actually
sacrifice himself for her.

“See,” cried Mr Cooke, as the Jemmautdar and his men left the Fort
after the palanqueen, “the rascal is taking one of ourselves with him.
Who is it? This is contrary to the Nabob’s message of clemency,
Omychund.”

“Not so, Saeb,” says the Gentoo. “His Highness desires European
gunners, and this person has offered himself as one of ’em. I fear he
has the notion that he will be permitted to attend on the young lady,
but he’ll soon be undeceived in this.”

“Sure ’tis that sergeant of Captain Colquhoun’s!” said I, and on a
sudden impulse, started to run after the poor man and warn him of his
mistake, but so weak and sick was I that I could not even reach the
gate before I fell down helplessly. And thus, sir, was this poor
faithful fellow trapped into entering the Nabob’s service, in the vain
belief that he would be suffered to watch over the safety of the lady
of whom his late beloved commander was enamoured. That very day, as we
learned, was he put on board the same boat as Miss Freyne and her
attendant, which started for Muxadabad under the charge of the
Jemmautdar and a strong guard. Of the other unfortunate lady we have
heard nothing, but we know sufficient to wish that Miss Freyne had,
like her, been consigned to the Buxey, Meer Jaffier. It seems that as
our ships dropped down the river from Surmans, on beholding the fall
of the Fort, they were hotly cannonaded by the Nabob’s fortresses of
Tannah and Buzbudgia, and under this fire the snow Diligence, on board
of which were Mrs Drake and Mrs Mapletoft and two other ladies,
besides Mr Labaume, a French officer of ours, who was badly wounded,
and Mr Holwell’s goods and money, in charge of his clerk, Mr Weston,
run ashore. The four ladies were handed over by their captors to Meer
Jaffier, who treated them with the greatest humanity, and ordering his
secretary, Mirza Omar-beg, to take a swift boat, put the ladies and Mr
Labaume into it, and despatched them, under the secretary’s care, to
the ships, where husbands and wives were happily reunited. It may be
that the Buxey has used Mrs Carey in the like handsome and delicate
fashion, but of this we have no news.[13.05]

And meanwhile, what of ourselves? my good father will ask. Indeed,
dear sir, the sojourn in Allynagore (as the Soubah has renamed
Calcutta, building a mosque or Mussleman temple in the very Fort
itself), which was granted us through Omychund’s intercession, was but
short. For ten days we all lay sick of frightful fevers and the most
painful imposthumes or boils, which broke out all over us owing to the
foul atmosphere we had been in. I’ll assure the dear circle that it
afforded us little consolation as we lay abed to hear the rain
pattering on the roofs and terrasses, rain which began on the night of
our sufferings,[13.06] and which, had it come one day nearer its
usual date, might have availed to save Calcutta. As soon as any of us
were able to be about again, our troubles began anew, for the Nabob
made Monickchund the Phousdar of Houghley governor of Allynagore. This
man affects to rule with an iron hand (the Soubah being returned to
Muxadabad), and on one of the sergeants that survived with us the
horrors of our imprisonment celebrating his recovery by getting drunk
and killing a Moorman, Monickchund turned all of us Europeans out of
the place, under penalty of cutting off the nose and ears of any one
he found there after sunset of that day, so that we were forced to
make our way painfully to Fultah, a settlement of the Dutch on the
Houghley River, where our ships were lying. This place is at all times
very unhealthy, but the great number of persons now crowded together
on board the vessels, and sleeping on deck without any shelter,
exposed to the rains without so much as a change of clothes, has
caused an extraordinary great prevalence of disease. The wisest course
for the unhappy persons in this deplorable situation would
questionless be to make the best of their way by slow stages to
Madrass, in spite of the opposing winds, but Mr Manningham, who has
good reason to dread the true history of his pusillanimous behaviour
becoming known at that place, pointed out so forcibly to the President
and Mr Frankland the inexpediency of such a proceeding, that they,
being themselves in the like case with him, put an end immediately to
the notion. This apart, I know my dear friends will rejoice to hear
that the greatest kindness is shown by all on board the ships to us
unhappy sufferers, and that many who have saved but little of their
property share the scanty remnants with us.

The full history of the capture of the Fort was unknown until our
arrival, although some partial reports had been brought in by
blackfellows, and the utmost horror and amazement was excited by what
we had to tell. Mrs Freyne has taken her stepdaughter’s melancholy
fate so much to heart that she has requested Miss Freyne’s name may
never again be mentioned in her hearing, but the young lady’s chief
female friend, Mrs Hurstwood, looks at the matter in an entirely
different light. Repairing, at her request, on board the Dodley, where
she is lying sick, I related the whole mournful affair to Mrs
Hurstwood, when the lady astonished me by crying out to know whether
there was none of us man enough to snatch a scymitar from the guards
and slay her unfortunate friend. To this I could only reply, quite
confounded, that I could not have ventured upon so terrible and
resolved a measure but upon the lady’s own urgent request, upon which
Mrs Hurstwood mocked at me for preferring my punctilio to Miss
Freyne’s honour and happiness, and bade me depart and never enter her
presence again. Happening to meet Mr Hurstwood this morning, he told
me that my news had so grievously affected his lady that she had been
seized with a fresh access of her disorder, in so much that the
physicians despaired of her life, a moving incident that shows the
falseness of those who contend that no true friendship can exist
between persons of the female sex. But as to that which the lady found
fault with me for not doing, I can’t discern, even now, that I ought
to have done it. I do entreat my dear father to unite his
supplications to Heaven with mine, that my hesitation may be
over-ruled by Omnipotence for good, even for that of the unhappy lady
herself, and so assist to calm the troubled mind of, sir, your
obedient son and servant,

                                               Robert Fisherton.


_From Mrs Hurstwood to Colvin Fraser, Esq._

   _On board the Hon. Co.’s Ship Doddaly, off_ Fulta, _July ye_ 6_th._

Sir,--I send you these lines by the hand of Mess. Manningham and La
Beaume, to whom is committed the melancholy task of announcing at
Madrass the deplorable ruin that has lately fell upon our Calcutta
factory. I make no excuse for addressing a letter to a gentleman that
I know so slightly, and with whom my relations in the past have not
been so friendly as I should have desired, seeing he had succeeded in
inspiring such a tender interest in the bosom of my dearest friend. Mr
Fraser don’t need me to tell him that I was always of opinion Miss
Freyne might do vastly better than marry him, and that in aspiring
even to the honour of her friendship he was pretending to a favour
much above his deserts. True, sir, and even at this present time I
can’t bring myself to feign otherwise, but I don’t think so ill of Mr
Fraser as to imagine he will let my whimsies prejudice him against the
lovely and innocent creature in whose behalf I now demand his help.
What (you’ll say), I have changed my tune? Indeed, sir, I’ll assure
you that the change springs only from the need of the moment, and
’twill require a very exceptional behaviour on your part to induce it
to become permanent. But I do need your help,--nay, I demand it, and
this because there’s no one else to whom I can confidently apply, and
to whom Miss Freyne’s fate is a matter of such proper concern. My
spouse knows that if there’s any question of attacking Muxadavad when
reinforcements reach us, he must march with the troops to Miss
Freyne’s rescue (if he be forced to do no more than carry a fire-rock
in the ranks), or he shall never again call Charlotte Hamlin his wife,
but the unreasonable creature persists in considering me before my
dearest Sylvia, and won’t consent to take any present step that might
interfere with his protecting me. Our excellent Mr Freyne is no more,
and his lady is too much relieved to find herself suddenly liberated
from the scandal that was beginning to threaten her name, and to
believe herself the heir to all that her spouse has left behind him,
to feign any interest in the recovery of her stepdaughter. Your cousin
Colquhoun, the worthiest person of my acquaintance (you are aware of
my opinion, that if you, sir, had possessed the Captain’s disposition,
or he your youth and prospects, I need have sought no further for a
spouse for my Sylvia), is also dead, and the only person left to watch
over the dear creature’s fate is myself. The fearful news that my
dearest girl had been carried into the most frightful and revolting
slavery imaginable threw me at first into such a sickness that both Dr
Knox and a Dutch physician from the factory here predicted my
immediate dissolution, but, sir, I can’t, I won’t die, while my Sylvia
needs a disinterested friend. If I can do no more than incite you to
attempt her deliverance, I shan’t have lived in vain, but I fear that
I don’t trust Mr Fraser sufficiently to die happy until I have seen
him actually successful. Come, sir, I challenge you to undertake the
task. You have declared that you love my incomparable Miss Freyne--or
at least, at the end of a monstrous fine and flowery epistle of yours
there was a postscriptum that the dear creature would not read to me,
but to which her eyes returned ever and anon with a smile of sweet
satisfaction when she thought I wasn’t looking at her--what, pray, is
your love good for? Hitherto it has been fertile in producing the most
fantastical letter ever wrote out of a romance, and the most unhappy
expedient for sparing your punctilio and testing your mistress’s
affection that ever set a gentleman and lady at cross purposes, but is
it capable of anything more? You have confused and muddled your
affairs in a style worthy only of a poet; is it possible to you to go
to work like a man of sense to set ’em right? If so, let me see you
throwing, for once, your prudence and calculation and worldly wisdom
to the winds, and setting out to rescue Miss Freyne, if living, to
avenge her, if dead. You’ll observe that I don’t condition with you to
marry her if she be rescued. Your sentiments may have altered, and no
man shall marry my Sylvia Freyne that would make a condescension of
doing so. My house and my heart are always open to her; your part is
only to restore her to the arms of, sir, your obedient servant,

                                                 Ch. Hurstwood.


_Three letters from Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood._

                        The Tank-house, Madrass, _Aug. ye_ 17_th._

Madam,--Your obliging favour is to hand, writ in language that I am
sensible my former behaviour has but too well deserved. The just
remarks that you have passed upon my usage of the dear lady whose name
I scarce dare profane with my pen find a ready echo in the heart of
the unhappy wretch that now addresses you. I dare not, madam, protest
my love for Miss Freyne, but I’ll hope to prove it. I have long been
convinced that the happy issue hinted at for my affairs in my cousin
Colquhoun’s letter of April the 29th was not to be confidently looked
forward to, for in that case what punishment would I have received for
the sufferings inflicted on my charmer by my fault? But that my
punishment should arrive through further sufferings on Miss Freyne’s
part--sure, dear madam, this is more than is just, for I had willingly
endured any trials rather than they should come on her. When the news
arrived here in the middle of July of the fall of Cossimbuzar, I was
very urgent with Captain Latham and the Admiral to grant me leave to
accompany Major Kilpatrick’s detachment of 230 Europeans, which was
despatched at once to the assistance of Calcutta, but I was strictly
refused, both because it was intended very shortly to employ all our
force in aiding the Nizam Salabadjing against Mr Bussey, who has
established himself with a French garrison at Charmaul in the vicinity
of Hyderabad, and also because it was the confident expectation
everywhere that Fort William would easily beat off any army the Soubah
could bring against it. In spite, however, of the cheerfulness of all
around me, I remained in a state of the most cruel anxiety, although
not anticipating news of such horror as reached us yesterday by the
hand of Mr Labaume. Mr Manningham, whom you mention as also detailed
to carry the awful tidings, chose to remain at Vizagapatnam, being
apprehensive as to the sort of reception he might expect here when his
cowardly behaviour became known, and indeed, I think the men would
have beat him to death with their scabbards, or the ladies stabbed him
with their bodkins, had he been within reach when they heard of his
action in forsaking the defence, and going on board the ships with the
women and Mr Frankland, after no more than a day’s fighting. On his
arrival, Mr Labaume was summoned to the consultation chamber, where he
delivered his despatches to Mr President Pigot and the Council, and
answered the questions showered upon him as to the reason and manner
of this unparalleled calamity. Then, when the public men were
satisfied, came the turn of those that had relations or private
friends in Calcutta, and among them myself. I knew by the young
gentleman’s air when he saw me that he had ill news to convey, and
like a man condemned to drink poison, that might begin by sipping
delicately at the edge of the cup, I only approached by degrees the
topic of my supreme concern. “What of my friend Jack Bellamy, sir?”
“Dead, sir, and the Padra too.” “And my cousin Colquhoun?” “Dead, like
them, in the black hole.” “And my good friend Mr Freyne?” “Dead of his
wounds, sir.” “And--and what of his daughter, sir?” “Alas, sir! she
fell into the hands of the enemy, and was carried to Muxidavad.” Such
was the awful gradation of my misery, which made me burst through the
crowd and rush into the open air, whither Mr Labaume followed me and
thrust a pacquet into my hand. ’Twas your letter, madam, but indeed
its incitements were not needed, although they served to impel me to a
greater frenzy than I was in.

Scarce knowing what I did, I returned to the consultation chamber, and
waited at the door until the Admiral had ended his conference with
Governor Pigot and the Council, waylaying him as he came out, and
demanding his leave to repair at once to Fulta in order to take
measures for Miss Freyne’s deliverance. What was my consternation when
Mr Watson not only refused me very curtly, but looking keenly into my
face, ordered me to return on board my ship at once. The habit of
obedience assisted me to turn my steps in the direction of the strand,
but once out of the Admiral’s presence the thought of my dear angel’s
cruel fate overcame me again, and blotted out all recollection of the
order I had received. Instead of seeking a shore-boat to go on board
the Tyger, I turned aside to the ramparts, and there wandered about, I
think, for hours, seeing that it was before sunset I had met with Mr
Labaume. My whole soul was consumed with the thought of the miseries
that the dear creature, whose humble servant I am proud to be, must
have endured. An officer of the city watch coming upon me at last,
recommended me to leave the walls, and finding that I was as though I
heard him not, led me by the arm to the strand and set me in the
direction of the spot where our boats from the ships are wont to land
and embark their crews, with great peril from the surf. Wading along
in the heavy sand, with no design nor intention in my mind for
betaking myself anywhere, it seemed to me that I heard my name called,
but I could not discover from what point the voice came. Presently,
however, I felt myself seized by the sleeve, and found that Billy
Speke, son to the captain of the Kent, and the Admiral’s favourite
midshipman, was come running after me.

“The Admiral bids you attend him at once, sir,” he said.

I followed the lad to the road, where I found Mr Watson standing
beside his hackery,[13.07] which he had halted on catching sight of
me. He was on his way home from the President’s to the Tank-house,
which is his residence while on shore. Looking at me with great
seriousness, “What are you doing here, sir?” he asked me. “Did you
repair on board as I ordered you?”

I could only look at him without a word, but I fancy he must have read
in my countenance something of the torments I had been enduring.

“Come home with me,” he said, with that benevolent air which has made
him the idol of every man that has ever served under him. “You shall
lie at the Tank-house to-night, and I will make your excuses to
Captain Latham.” With gentle force, he compelled me to enter the
hackery. “You are very foolhardy thus to expose your health to these
night airs, child, and I shall bid my surgeon look to you, for I don’t
desire to lose one of my most active officers before we sail to avenge
our people at Calcutta. Pray, Mr Speke, contrive to perch yourself
somewhere on this machine, and bid the driver go on.”

“Oh, pray, sir,” I cried, “is Calcutta to be avenged?”

“I believe so,” said the Admiral. “Some of the Council were very
urgent for sending only a small force, and keeping the rest to attack
Bussey, but I have fought hard, and Mr Pigot is with me, to strip this
place of every ship and every man we can send, and if I don’t mistake,
there will be a greater man than I on the same side after to-morrow.
We have sent swift _cossids_ to fetch Colonel Clive with all speed
from Fort St David.”

“Oh, sir, for Heaven’s sake,” I cried, “be so good as to overlook my
disobedience, and allow me to make one of the force you send.”

“Why,” said our noble commander, “if I judged you by your behaviour
to-day, child, I should put you under arrest for intending to desert,
and punish you by leaving you here when we start for Calcutta. But it
shall be overlooked, if you’ll give me your word of honour not in any
way to anticipate the departure of the force.”

You’ll guess, madam, with what gratitude and alacrity I gave the
required pledge, knowing that with Mr Watson and Mr Clive in charge
there would be no delay in despatching the relief. The Admiral was as
good as his word, and entertained me at his house for the night,
wishing me sounder sleep than I have enjoyed. I can’t sleep, madam,
for the fearful dreams that beset me, and I can’t think calmly, for I
am almost mad, so that I have sought to quiet myself writing to you. I
am sensible now of a sort of drowsiness stealing over me, so I hope
for some relief.

Pray, madam, how did you know that I writ verses? I have never
confided the secret even to my adored Miss Freyne, hoping one day to
surprise her with a poem worthy of her, and I am sure, madam, that you
was never told it by your obedient, humble servant,

                                                   C. Fraser.


(_Written below the signature in another hand._)

Rear-Admiral Watson has the honour to inform Mrs Hurstwood that
Lieutenant Fraser has been seized with one of the malignant fevers of
the country, but is receiving every imaginable care and attention at
the Tank-house, and Dr Ives thinks tolerable well of his case.


                       The Tank-house, Madrass, _Sept. ye_ 18_th._

Madam,--I am but now recovering from an attack of fever, the
consequence, as I suppose, of the disorder of my spirits at the time I
writ last. Alas that I should have so little that’s comforting to
tell! Mr Labaume will have informed you of the divided counsels and
faint-hearted schemes prevailing at this place, and of the incredible
obstacles placed in the path of the Admiral and Colonel Clive in their
patriotic efforts to redeem the disgrace inflicted upon the British
nation by the success of the Soubah’s arms. Will it be credited in
future ages that while a good portion of the Council thought only of
sending to Fulta to fetch away the refugees there, and abandoning
Bengal to the Moors and the French, Mr President Pigot, while ranging
himself on the right side, desired to command the avenging force in
his own person, though neither soldier nor seaman, and that Colonel
Adlercron has over and over again brought matters to a deadlock by
insisting on his right to the command, as being senior in his
Majesty’s service to Colonel Clive? Were it not that Colonel Lawrence,
Mr Clive’s ancient superior in the Carnatic wars, enjoys but poor
health, we would questionless find in him another claimant to the
honour. Lying, as I am, in the Admiral’s own house, where I have
received such continual and obliging kindness as could not have been
exceeded in my own father’s abode, I am in the way of hearing all that
goes on from the gentlemen who visit me, full of indignation and
resentment, as much almost against Colonel Adlercron and his intimates
as against Surajah Dowlah. But to-day I have experienced a special
honour, and been gladdened by the best news I could receive in my
present unhappy situation. The Admiral came in just now to visit me,
bringing with him a person in a military undress whom I knew to be
Colonel Clive.

“And so this is the young gentleman that desires to avenge his
mistress!” said the Colonel, when they had both spoke to me very
condescendingly. “Well, I don’t know but one thing that makes a man
fight better than the desire of vengeance.”

“And what’s that, Colonel?” asked Mr Watson.

“Why, sir, the fanatic fury of a religious war. The man that believes
himself Heaven’s commissioned messenger don’t dare allow himself in
slackness.”

“Sure, sir,” said I, “my commission is also from Heaven, for the lady
I desire to serve could in no way be distinguished from an angel.”

“Well, you’ll have your wish before long, I hope,” says Colonel Clive,
smiling at my warmth, yet not unkindly, “for I believe our
difficulties are composed at last.”

“Indeed,” says the Admiral, “I can’t tell how grateful I am that Mr
Fraser has been laid aside all this while. My troubles would have been
ten times greater had he been continually scolding me for delay.”

“Indeed, sir, I have much for which to ask your pardon,” I said.

“And you also may be thankful, young gentleman,” said the Colonel,
“for your sickness, for I hear the surgeon says that the disorder of
your brain would without it have increased into madness.”

But perhaps my greatest cause of gratitude, madam, is the frightful
delay that has occurred, since the force has not been able to sail
without your obedient, &c.


        _His Majesty’s Ship Tyger_, Madrass Road, _Oct. ye_ 9_th._

Madam,--At last I enjoy the felicity of assuring Mrs Hurstwood that
our fleet leaves Madrass to-morrow, carrying with it Colonel Clive and
his army. The continual delays interposed by the arrogant pretensions
of certain unqualified persons have, alas! operated in a manner
extremely opposed to the wishes of all concerned, so that whereas, by
sailing when the news of the Calcutta calamity first reached us, we
might have made the mouth of the Ganges in eight days, we must now
consider ourselves fortunate to do it in as many weeks, which all adds
to the cruel loss of time that has took place. I entreat you to
believe, madam, that I am fully sensible of the deep anxiety you will
lie under as to the progress of our campaign, since Mr Hurstwood has
insisted on carrying you from Fulta to Madrass in hopes of procuring
your recovery, and I leave this billet behind me to greet your
arrival, and to assure you that I’ll do my best to keep you acquainted
of all that passes bearing any reference to the affairs of the lady
who is our common care. You’ll perhaps, madam, think me too cheerful
in my anticipations, but (I don’t know why) I can’t bring myself to
believe that my part in this expedition will be limited to avenging my
adored Miss Freyne. Is it impious to suppose that Heaven would
interfere to protect, even by miracle, a creature of such transcendent
excellence? and in that case, might not mine be the inexpressible joy
and honour of restoring the most adorable of created beings to the
arms of the friend whose merits alone approach hers? But, madam, I
won’t raise your delicate spirits too high with these delightful
visions.--I am, &c.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 TELLS OF A VOYAGE ACCOMPLISHED FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS.

_From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor._

                               Muxadavad, _End of September_ 1756.

At last I find myself once more able to take up a pen for the purpose
of writing to my Amelia, but how vastly different is my situation from
any that she has yet been made acquainted with! My last letter was
scribbled on my knee in the chamber at Fort William where I sat
watching by my papa’s side, and was handed to Mr Hurstwood to be
conveyed on board the ships. Whether it has ever reached my dear girl
I know as little as whether her eye will ever rest on this. To write
some account of what has befallen our factory and my wretched self is
an exercise that offers me the pleasing prospect of a moment’s
forgetfulness of my present situation, and to write it in the form of
a letter to my dear Miss Turnor is only just, in view of the compact
entered into between us before we parted. To say that I have neither
the means nor even the hope of advancing the epistle towards its
destination might seem to pronounce it a sad waste of time to write
it, but since the Moors (they say) preserve with the most scrupulous
care imaginable any piece of written paper they may find, lest it
should chance to bear upon it the name of _Alla_, it may happen that
some scrap of this letter may yet reach the hands of my Amelia Turnor,
and serve to shed a little light both upon the destruction of our
Calcutta settlement, and upon the fate of the unhappy Sylvia Freyne.
But if this is to be the case, I must set down in order the whole
history of our calamities.

(_Here follows the narrative incorporated into chapter xii._)


How long this merciful swoon lasted, which rendered me insensible
alike to the horrors of the prison and the miserable deaths of my best
friends, I don’t know, but on recovering my senses I found myself laid
on a native bedstead in an apartment which I took to be the cabin of a
boat, since I could see the shining of water reflected upon the roof
through the _checks_ at the sides. The only other person in the
chamber was a female wrapped in a blue cloth and seated in a corner.
Rising when she found my eyes fastened upon her, I saw her to be an
elderly Moorwoman, decently but poorly clothed.

“_Salam, Beebee_!” says she in Moors (which is as much as to say, Your
ladyship’s humble servant), approaching me with an air of great
timidity and respect.

“Where am I?” I said, putting my hand to my head, for I was in the
strangest state of mind, my dear, conscious that something terrible
had taken place, but knowing no more what it was than if I had been
dead. I remembered nothing; I suppose I could not have declared my own
name had I been asked it. My eye fell on my clothes,--they were torn
to rags, frightfully soiled, and stained with blood. I lifted my
arms,--they were covered with bruises, and the knuckles and elbows
grazed. My hair hung in a great mat, all rough and dishevelled, and I
had the notion that there was something relating to it that I could
not recollect. It had to do with my pocket, surely, and turning with
difficulty, I pulled out a cap and a parcel of hairpins, tied round
with two or three ribbons. Then I remembered everything--the Captain’s
disguising me, my papa’s death, our being hurried into the black hole
of the Fort, and the awful night that we passed in that horrid prison.
Reaching this point, my spirits could no longer endure the
recollections that came crowding upon ’em, and I burst into a passion
of sobs and tears that seemed as if it could never cease, so that the
old woman, who stood patiently by, became alarmed, and sought to quiet
me.

“Alas, Beebee,” she said, “why should a young lady of your fine
prospects indulge yourself in such transports of grief? ’Tis true you
have been roughly used, but you was fated to undergo a short trial,
that it might bring you the greater felicity thereafter. Your slave
has no such hope, and has lost more than you, but she bows to the
decrees of fate.”

“And is it possible,” I cried, “that there’s a human being on this
earth more unfortunate than I? Pray, good woman, tell me your history,
that I also may learn to endure my miseries with something of your
philosophy.”

“Indeed, Beebee,” says she, “the tale’s but a mean one to relate to a
lady of your quality. Your slave was mistress of no more than a small
house and a decent business in the Great Buzar, but she rejoiced in
the company of her children and grandchildren. When the Nabob’s army
came, her shop was plundered, her house burnt, and her family slain or
dispersed until she was left alone. In the morning, yesterday, she was
weeping over the ruins of the beloved spot, when there came along a
parcel of soldiers, who seized her also.”

“Alas, my poor woman, you have indeed suffered!” I cried. “But pray
tell me your name, that I may know how to call you.”

“I am named Misery, Beebee. In the Buzar they call me Misery
Bye.”[14.01]

I could scarce restrain myself from crying out when I heard this
ill-omened name, but fearing to hurt the poor woman, “Tell me,
Misery,” I said, “was you carried off to attend upon me?”

“Even so, Beebee. They said there was a servant needed to wait upon a
young lady of very great birth, who was to be sent to Muxadavad for a
present to the Nabob.”

At these awful words the full horror of my situation became clear to
me, and I fell into a frenzy, crying out that I was indeed undone, and
that death was my only hope. Misery stood quiet beside me, save that
once she seized my hands, fearing that I designed to dash myself
against one of the beams in my madness, and when I was become a little
calm, said very earnestly--

“Why this passion, Beebee? You are treated honourably, and you have a
great prospect to look forward to. Instead of these rags you’ll wear
the finest gauzes and the richest silk and tinsel, your hair will be
braided with gold, and such jewels as you have never even imagined
will load your hands and feet and face and neck. Only lay aside this
frenzy, which will but damage your beauty, and permit your slave to
practise the arts with which she is acquainted for soothing your
spirits and restoring the charming colour of which your troubles have
robbed you, and I’ll assure you that instead of the Nabob’s being your
conqueror, you shall be his. You shall have the finest palaces in
India for a residence instead of your poor Calcutta houses, and you
shall be the envy not only of all the ladies of his Highness’s
seraglio, but of all the women in Bengall, and rule the province and
spend all its revenues if you will.”

Was ever such a bare-faced proposition made before to a Christian
Englishwoman, my dear--nothing less than that I should sell myself,
body and soul, to this wicked heathen prince for money and jewels? I
sat up on my bed.

“Misery,” I said, looking at her with great sternness, “I have
suffered you to speak this once, since you have never learnt better.
But you must understand now that for a female that is a Christian and
a Briton there could be no greater disgrace and wretchedness than to
become the Nabob’s slave, as you propose, were he ten times as great
and rich as the Emperor of Delly himself. I can die, if it please
Heaven so to decree, but I had rather die a hundred times over than
purchase a dishonoured life by a weak compliance.”

“Your slave is a poor ignorant Moorwoman, Beebee,” she replied, “and
don’t understand such fine notions. What good would they be when you
was dead? But it is fate, and it en’t for your slave to complain that
you design to slay her as well. She has but to submit.”

“Pray,” said I, but feebly, for the warmth with which I had spoke had
wearied me, “how can my persistence injure you?”

“Alas, Beebee! your slave has incurred the displeasure of Ally Verdy
Cawn Begum, his Highness’s grandmother. Knowing that I was skilled in
treating the sick, the Begum sent to me when I lived at Muxadavad for
a medicine to cure a favourite slave-girl of some ailment. Unhappily
the remedy fell into the hands of another slave--a rival of the young
person in the good graces of the Princess--who mingled poison with it,
and succeeded in effecting the death of the favourite. The unhappy
event was attributed to me, and had I not fled precipitately to
Calcutta, I had fallen a victim to the Begum’s resentment. You are
carrying me back to Muxadavad, Beebee, and what can I look for but
death? If you enjoyed the Nabob’s favour you might protect your slave,
but resolved as you are to withstand him, there’s nothing but
destruction for both of us. But it is my fate.”

She sat down again in her corner, and covered her head with her cloth,
wailing to herself in a subdued manner, while I tossed and turned upon
my bed, endeavouring to discover some means of saving the poor soul
from sharing my destruction while maintaining my own punctilio.

“Misery,” I cried at last, “there’s no need for you to perish with me.
The soldiers will surely permit you to walk on the deck, since you are
their countrywoman, and you must seize your chance and slip on shore
at some place we touch at. They won’t even perceive your absence if
you are prudent.”

“Nay, Beebee,” said she, with a dogged air, “I was carried hither to
attend upon you, and I’ll do it. If I am fated to die, die I must, but
I won’t abandon the lady I have the honour to serve.”

And as though to show that the matter was put aside, she brought some
water, and asked whether she should wash my face and dress my hair;
but when this was done, and I found myself somewhat refreshed, she
returned to her corner and her lamentations in the oddest and most
resolved manner. I can’t be quite sure how the time passed after this,
for I had a great deal of fever, but in the intervals of my disease,
if Misery were not waiting upon me, which she did with a curious sort
of skilfulness that I found very soothing to my aching frame, I heard
her still bewailing herself. This did not add to my comfort, as my
Amelia will guess, indeed it perturbed my spirits extremely; but I
could not see that I was called upon to sacrifice myself for the sake
of this unfortunate woman, even though ’twas her unaccountable
fidelity to me that kept her from saving herself. Also, I must
confess, I had sometimes the notion that she was endeavouring to work
upon me to play the infamous part she had proposed, through my pity
for her, but in this I did her an injustice, as you’ll perceive. I
suffered more and more from the fever as the time went on, regaining
my senses less frequently, and finding myself continually weaker, and
this gradual decline served to suggest an expedient to Misery.

“Beebee,” she said to me, as she tried to make me drink some sort of
broth she had brought in, “your slave would fain offer you her
counsel.”

“Say on, Misery,” said I, too weary to do anything but wish she would
be silent.

“Since you was pleased to reveal your lofty notions to your slave,
Beebee, she has thought about them very often, and it seems to her
that she has devised a plan by which it might be possible for you to
escape the Nabob.”

“Why, then, tell it me,” I cried, full of eagerness. “I could hear
nothing better.”

“Hush, Beebee. The soldiers or the boatmen might hear. If you’ll
permit it, your slave will approach her head close to you, and
whisper. Well then, Beebee, we have now left Allynagore (as the Nabob
has named Calcutta) four days, and to-morrow the Jemmautdar in charge
of the boat looks to arrive at Santipore. Now in that place there
lives a rich merchant, a Christian, but a very virtuous and charitable
person, though an unbeliever.” (So the Mussllemen call us, Amelia.)
“This gentleman is a friend of the English, and made many
intercessions to his Highness on their behalf when he marched against
their factory, but in vain. If we could get speech of him, sure he
would help us to escape the vigilance of the soldiers, and reach the
shore, where he would receive us into his house and conceal us.”

“But who is this person, Misery? and what claim have we upon him, that
he should expose himself to so much risk and inconvenience?”

“He is called Mr George, Beebee, and he’s of so charitable a
disposition that he believes any person in distress to have a claim
upon him.”

“Sure he’s the very friend we need,” I said; “but how throw ourselves
in this way upon a stranger? Is the gentleman a married man, Misery?”

“Not to my knowledge, Beebee,” she said, somewhat doubtfully, but
seeing my countenance fall, cried out suddenly, “Your slave is a fool,
Beebee. How could she have forgot that Mr George is but lately married
to a young lady of his own nation, whom he adores?”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said I. “Well, Misery, can we get speech of
him?”

“Any idle fellow on the _gott_ would carry a message, Beebee, if you
paid him for secrecy.”

“Alas!” I cried, “I have nothing to pay him with. The plunderers took
everything.”

“Your slave was more cunning than that, Beebee. When the
_louchees_[14.02] in plundering the Buzar stripped her of her jewels,
she contrived to hide this,” and she brought out from a corner of her
cloth, where she had it tied up with great circumspection, a silver
_bangul_, as they call a bracelet, set with corals.

“With this, Beebee,” she said, showing me the jewel, “your slave will
send a message to Mr George, desiring him to meet her in some retired
spot. She cured his aged father of an ague some time since, so that he
won’t refuse her. Then she’ll demand an asylum in his house for you,
Beebee.”

“But how shall we cheat the vigilance of the soldiers, Misery? They
are perpetually on the deck, quarrelling and gaming, and must know
that I have never offered to show myself. Are they also to be bribed,
or how am I to slip past them?”

“No, Beebee. They would not accept of a bribe, for their business here
is well known, and they would pay with their lives to the Nabob for
their slackness. We must deceive ’em. They must think you dead.”

I felt myself grow pale. “But how shall we manage that, Misery?”

“Why, Beebee, they have heard so much of your fever and weakness that
it won’t surprise ’em, and they can’t be held to blame for it.”

“But would you convey me to land in the night, Misery?”

“No, Beebee, for they would desire to know what was happened to your
body. Your slave has a better plan than that. With a drug that she
will administer to you, she’ll make you resemble a corpse, so that
you’re carried out in broad daylight to be buried.”

“In a coffin, Misery? And what of the physician, and the
grave-diggers?” with an increasing horror, for, my dear, your foolish
Sylvia’s mind had flown back to the days when she read “Romeo and
Juliet” by stealth with her Amelia, and she seemed to anticipate for
herself the calamities that attended the personages of our great
poet’s tenderest tragedy.

“The Moors don’t use coffins, Beebee. You would have your head wrapped
in a cloth, and be carried on a bier. Nor do physicians prescribe
remedies for women among the Moors, except very rarely. As for
gravediggers, there won’t be no need of ’em. A Christian would not
receive here the burial of a believer, and ’twill be due to the piety
of your poor attendant that your corpse en’t tossed ashore on some
sand-bank, but carried into the _jungul_,” this is what they call a
wood, “to be covered with branches. You see how easy it will be to
practise for your recovery.”

“Misery,” I said, “I’ll consent to this frightful plan, since your
life is at stake as well as mine, except in one particular. I won’t be
drugged. I have resolution enough to remain motionless while I am
carried on the bier, but I can’t endure to be deprived of my senses.”

“Do you perceive, Beebee, that the slightest movement will bring
destruction on your slave and also on Mr George?”

“Yes, I understand, and nothing shall persuade me to move or speak.
You can’t think that I would sacrifice my only hope of escape, to say
nothing of the persons that are befriending me.”

“Be it so, Beebee. From this moment, then, don’t speak above a
whisper. You are dying, remember.”

But indeed, Amelia, I had not felt so much alive since my misfortunes
had commenced. The finding myself confronted with the possibility of
an honourable escape, and freed also from those pangs of remorse that
had beset me for Misery’s sake, forbade me to sleep, and I must have
passed hours in anticipating to myself every the minutest particular
of the morrow’s enterprise. But this excitement also worked well for
Misery’s plans, for towards morning it was succeeded with a heavy
stupor, in which I lay as one dead. During this period of
insensibility the poor woman contrived to effect a prodigious amount,
for on my waking I found her seated on the floor beside me, not
engaged in lamentations, but watching eagerly for my opening my eyes,
in order to tell me of the success she had met with.

“Your slave has settled everything, Beebee,” she said, so eager as not
to wait for me to address her first. “There’s but one thing fallen out
different from what we planned, and that is, that Mr George is
departed with his new-married lady to his house in Dacca, but his
brother, Mr Gregory, who received my message instead, recognised in me
the healer of his father, and will entertain us when we escape, and
provide for our forwarding to Dacca, where you’ll questionless be able
to obtain shelter on board a Europe ship, lying hid in Mr George’s
house until the chance offer itself. The Jemmautdar and his soldiers
believe you dead, for I departed so far from my duty as your attendant
as to permit the chief rascal to peep in at the door, and see you
lying stretched and stiff upon your bed, and he fancies that I landed
when we reached Santipore merely in order to hire some
_hallicores_”[14.03] (these are persons of low _cast_), “to carry
away your body. In that he was right, Beebee, but those persons will
be servants of Mr Gregory in disguise, and they will carry you to the
Armenians’ garden on the outskirts of the place, where they bury such
Christians as die here. There a palanqueen will be in waiting, with
relays of bearers, which will set off at once with you and your slave,
to carry us to another branch of the river, where a boat will be
ordered to be ready on which we may drift down the stream to Dacca.
This will mean an increase of the length of our voyage, but my Beebee
won’t care for that, since ’tis to end in freedom.”

“You’re right, indeed. How shall I ever repay you, Misery, for your
faithfulness to an unhappy alien, who can’t even reward you with
money?”

“Sure the applause of your slave’s conscience will be her reward,
Beebee. And now let your slave entreat you to speak no more, and to
remain lying stiffly, as you was just now, lest any of the soldiers
should be so profane as to peep in. The bearers won’t arrive till
sunset, and there’s more than an hour to that yet. We must travel all
night to reach the Dacca river.”

“Tell me only one thing, Misery. How did the Jemmautdar take the news
of my death?”

“Indeed, Beebee, he swore in an extraordinary manner at first, and
cursed the day he was born; but on your slave’s reminding him that the
event was ordered by the decrees of fate, he became calmer, and is now
engaged with his _hooker_.”

Thus satisfied that the Jemmautdar would not be drove to any rash
courses by my evasion, I turned my mind for the next hour to the
business of remaining still; and, indeed, my dear girl won’t know how
vastly hard it is to lie perfectly quiet until she has done it knowing
that the slightest movement may bring ruin not only on herself but on
her humble friends. After a time Misery brought out a great parcel of
cotton cloths, and wrapped me in them, over my own clothes, fastening
my arms to my side, and swathing my head, in particular, so tight that
I could neither see nor hear anything, nor scarcely breathe. Knowing
that she took these precautions for fear of any rash or undesigned
movement on my part I durst not protest, lest she should again urge
upon me the drug (to which I was resolved not to submit, since who
could tell into whose hands I might fall when in that state?), and
resigned myself to enjoying only just so much air as would keep me
alive. Presently I was sensible that the bedstead on which I lay was
being lifted and carried along, and hearing sounds as though from a
great distance, I guessed that the soldiers were passing their ribald
remarks upon my funeral. Two angry voices that pierced even my
wrappings I determined to be those of the Jemmautdar and Misery--she
demanding, at first in an obsequious manner, but later with much
warmth, some reward for her services such as might enable her to
return to Calcutta; he declaring that she might be thankful to escape
with her own life after her carelessness in suffering me to die. But
in a break in their wrangling there reached me another voice, which
must surely have made me forget my promise to Misery if I had been
able to speak or move, for it cried out in English, “What, dead? Poor
maid, poor maid! But one can see as how it’s best for her.” This
English voice filled me with the strongest excitement, for I had heard
no English spoken on board the boat, nor had Misery told me of any
English person there, but after my first surprise I remembered my part
sufficiently to make no attempt to stir. My bier was carried for some
distance, passing, as I judged, through the town, and was then
suddenly set upon the ground, when I was raised from it, and placed,
as I guessed, in a palanqueen of the French or native style, which was
immediately put in motion, even before Misery, who accompanied me,
could begin to unwrap the cloths that swathed me.

“Now, Beebee, you’re started on your journey towards freedom!” were
the grateful accents that greeted my ear when she uncovered my head.

“Thanks to heaven and to you, my worthy Misery!” I cried. “But tell
me, whose was the English voice that came so near to rendering our
plan a failure by tempting me to move?”

“There was no Englishman there, Beebee, I’m positive,” she said,
shaking her head. “I had heard there was a country-born clerk a
prisoner on the boat, who is being carried to Muxadavad because he’s
believed to know something of the money that his Highness failed to
find in the Calcutta treasury, and it may be he was moved to cry out
in English when he heard you was dead. I heard some person bawl
certain words in a strange tongue, but knowing no English, I didn’t
recognise ’em.”

“Would that we had been able to save him also!” said I, loth to think
that any person of British speech should remain in the power of the
savage Surajah Dowlah; but Misery pointed out to me that it would not
have been possible for us even to release the unfortunate man from his
bonds, much less to bring him to the shore. We journeyed all that
night, the bearers travelling at a speed most unusual with them, and
relieving one another at the proper intervals with an almost
incredible promptness. Without this assurance that our progress was
extraordinary rapid, my anxiety would have been extreme, and even as
it was, my terror magnified every chance sound into a token of
pursuit. However, at the break of day we arrived safe on the bank of a
river, and there went on board of a boat that was awaiting us, Misery
pointing out the superior convenience and elegancy of the lodging
provided us to that we had left, notwithstanding its smaller size. The
boatmen having with great civility enquired my pleasure through
Misery, we put off at once, but during the four days and three nights
that followed I don’t think I slept once--indeed, the very fever that
had seized me so often of late seemed to have lost its power. Nor must
you think, Amelia, that this wakefulness was all due to fear, although
I never ventured to show myself outside the cabin, and the approach of
another boat, or even of a few persons on the bank, was the signal for
an excessive alarm. I was conscious of a singular exaltation of
spirit, owing to the marvellous manner in which I had been delivered
from the thing that I had greatly feared (as the Scripture saith), and
not even the remembrance that I should arrive at Dacca a friendless,
penniless pensioner on the bounty of an Armenian household with which
I had no acquaintance, could damp my ardour. I was delivered out of
the hands of the Nabob, I was safe, and I could not in view of this
crowning mercy think of the possible humiliations and difficulties
that might await me. My soul was filled with gratitude to Heaven,
which had made use of the poor pagan Misery as an instrument to save
me, by means not only of the affecting fidelity she had exhibited
towards myself, but also of the false accusation which had frightened
her away from Muxadavad. And, moreover, had I been inclined to
undervalue the mercies I had experienced, Misery herself would not
have permitted me to do so, for she related to me perpetually the most
appalling histories of the frightful torments inflicted on unhappy
wretches who had refused to do the pleasure of the Nabob or the old
Begum, so that I might know from what I was escaped, now that I need
no longer fear that some such horrors were before myself.

After sunset on the fourth day of this our second voyage, our boat
came to an anchor (if that’s the proper phrase) off a large town, and
Misery, congratulating me on being arrived at Dacca, besought the
continuance of my favour when I should find myself again among
Christians and safe from my foes, of which I assured her with the
utmost warmth, as well I might, Amelia, might I not? A palanqueen,
with a retinue of servants, was awaiting us, and we were borne along
for a good distance, which served to impress me with a very lofty
notion of the size of Dacca. At last we entered the courtyard of a
house, as I could discern from the echo, and having stepped out of our
machine, found ourselves standing in a varanda that overlooked a
pretty extensive garden, in the midst of which was a pavilion or
garden-house. I had hoped to be greeted on my arrival by Mr George’s
lady, but though there was a parcel of women about they were all
servants, and Moorwomen to boot. I stood waiting in the highest state
of expectation while Misery spoke aside with one of these, and
returning to me, said that the garden-house had been set apart for my
sole residence so long as I remained in the family, and that if I
would repair thither, Mr George would do himself the honour of waiting
upon me at once. My countenance must have displayed the amazement I
felt.

“Sure it’s Mr George’s lady I ought to see?” I said.

“Mr George is a Christian, Beebee,” says Misery, quickly. “He’s
acquainted with European gentlemen, and knowing their customs, was
anxious to welcome you himself to his house, but if you desire it,
your slave will send word that you don’t choose to see him until his
lady has received you.”

“Why, no,” said I, grieved to think of wounding this generous
Armenian, who had undertaken such an incredible expenditure of money
and pains for the sake of an absolute stranger, “since the gentleman
piques himself on his acquaintance with our customs, and don’t
disapprove of ’em, I shall be happy to see him.”

I walked with Misery to the garden-house, one of the Moorish females
carrying a torch before us, and found the principal apartment on the
ground-floor airy and agreeable enough, and very delicately ornamented
with different-coloured marbles and strange devices wrought on the
walls and ceiling. Glancing at these by the light of the torch, I
heard a footstep, and turning, saw standing at the door a tall person
wrapped in a cloak, who bowed deeply, but made no motion to approach
me. Such humility and diffidence, on the part of one who had so vastly
obliged me, filled me with shame, and I sprang towards him.

“Dear sir,” I cried, throwing myself at his feet, “accept the
heartfelt thanks of a poor creature that can never hope to repay you,
but by her gratitude, for your extraordinary great kindness. Sure my
generous host won’t require my stammering tongue to testify to all the
obligations he has laid me under, but will perceive that they’re
impressed for ever on my grateful heart.”

“Fairest Clarissa, welcome to Muxadavad!” said Mr George in French,
and throwing back his mantle, disclosed--oh, my dearest Amelia, pity
me, imagine the agony of the moment--the features of the hateful
Unknown, of the more hateful Sinzaun! I had fled from the Nabob to
place myself in the power of this execrable, this odious and abandoned
man.

The wretch had the assurance to try to touch me, and I fancy I
remember endeavouring to push away his hands as I fell in a fit at his
feet. The treacherous Misery succeeded in restoring me, but as soon as
my eyes fell on Sinzaun I fainted again, and went from one fit into
another as long as he remained near me. He departed at last, leaving a
message for me with Misery to the effect that the alarm which seized
me at the sight of him had caused him the most poignant anguish, that
he desired nothing but my honour and happiness, and that he would make
no attempt to force his presence upon me until I should choose to
express a wish to see him. “If this be true,” thought I, “I am safe
from him for ever,” but I could not bring myself to believe in the
wretch’s departure until, accepting with reluctance the support of my
perjured attendant, I had tottered into all the rooms and varandas of
the garden-house to assure myself that he was not there. Misery
expressed the most excessive concern for my disorder, and would fain
have piled oath upon oath to induce me to believe in her innocency of
the wicked device by which I had been duped, but I cut her short very
sharply. I could not suffer the creature to please herself with the
notion that she had hoodwinked me a second time, and the assurance of
this made the wicked old woman bewail herself most sadly, even while
she entreated me to drink a syrup of fruits which she offered me, and
lie down to sleep. I am almost certain, Amelia, that the foolish
creature had mixed with the syrup some narcotic drug, I hope with no
worse design than to make me sleep and perhaps ward off the attack of
fever she foresaw, but if this was so, she compounded her dose badly,
for instead of sleeping I was never so wide awake in my life. At last
I could lie down no longer, and feeling a prodigious desire to walk in
the open air, I slipped on my gown again, and stepping over Misery,
who lay on the floor wrapped in her cloth, went out into the garden.
There was dark clouds gathering, for this was the season of the rains,
when excessive wet alternates with burning sunshine, but the moon was
shining almost as bright as day, and as I walked about among the
untidy beds of flowers, all as variegated and confused as possible,
and no symmetry anywhere, I considered of my situation.

Now that I was at length undeceived, it seemed to me incredible that I
could ever have been taken in by so complicated a plot. I remembered
that only the night before I had remarked to Misery that the boatmen
appeared still to be rowing against the stream, and not drifting with
it, as she had assured me would be the case, and that she had answered
this showed we were now close to Dacca, which stood upon a third
branch of the river. Not knowing the situation of Dacca, I had
accepted her explication easily, and the reward of my credulity was to
find that the palanqueen which had carried me from the river at
Santipore had brought me back to the same stream higher up, so that I
was arrived cheerfully at the spot I most dreaded in all the world.
The wicked art of the whole design, and the pains taken to make me
imagine myself acting altogether on my own motion, amazed me the more
I thought of them, but I perceived quickly that I owed the cruel
deception to the necessity of deceiving not only the Jemmautdar (if
indeed he was deceived at all), but the Nabob and his people, and also
my own nation. Should that poor country-born clerk that had cried out
in English on seeing me carried forth have speech with any European on
the way to his captivity, he would inform him of my death, and all
enquiry concerning the miserable Sylvia Freyne would be at an end.

This consideration awoke in me the resolve to undo the injury I had
done myself in consenting to appear dead. If I was ever to be saved,
or even if my friends were ever to know my true fate, I must needs
discover some means of opening communication with them. But how was
this to be? I was a prisoner in Muxadavad, in the power of the wicked
Sinzaun so long as I remained where I was, at the mercy of the Nabob
or any of his abandoned soldiery if I left the house. Our factory at
Cossimbuzar was destroyed and the gentlemen there dispersed, and the
foreign factories had shown themselves too friendly to the Nabob to
give me any hope that they would help me. The only expedient that I
could devise was to throw out into the street pieces of paper
containing some account of my situation, confiding in that
superstitious reverence of the Moors for handwriting which I have
mentioned before, and trusting that Heaven would guide these frail
messengers to a suitable destination. I was the more encouraged in
this last hope because there was nothing in any way deceitful or
untrue about this plan, and I was now ashamed to think that I had
anticipated and claimed the Divine assistance in a design so full of
falsehood and deceits as that by which Misery had secured my escape
from the custody of the Jemmautdar.

But now there faced me this new difficulty; how was I to obtain
writing-implements? If I had anticipated my misfortunes I should
questionless have had the prudence, like Pamela, to conceal some pens
and paper about me, but as it was, I had lost even my tablets and
pencil. The only piece of paper I possessed was Mr Fraser’s letter,
which I had carried in my bosom ever since receiving it, and I had
nothing at all with which to write. But the dreadful necessity of my
case proved to be the mother of invention, for remembering some old
story I had read of prisoners that wrote to their friends in their own
blood, I drew my hussy[14.04] from my pocket, and plunged a blade of
the scissors into my arm (I could not do such a thing now, Amelia, but
that night I seemed to be raised above myself). Then with a bodkin
dipped in this horrid ink I wrote twice over on the back of the
letter:--


 “I am not dead, but in the power of the wretch Sinzaun, at Muxadavad.
 Help me, any Christian that may read this, for the love of God, or at
 least tell those escaped from Calcutta where they may find the unhappy
 Sylvia Freyne.”


When this was wrote, and dry, I turned to the letter and read it
through again, as though I had not long known it by heart, then tore
off the post-scriptum, which I could not let go. To tear the dear
sheet seemed to be to tear my own heart, but I forced myself to do it,
and folding each piece small, wrote on it in the best Moors I could
manage: “Take this to any hat-wearer (so they call Europeans), and he
will give you ten rupees,” only, as I can’t write the Indian
character, I was compelled to do it in ours, and I don’t know whether
a Moor would be able to read it. After securing the precious
post-scriptum again in my bosom, I hastened through the garden to a
set of stairs that I had noticed led to the house-roof on the side by
which we had entered, and found to my delight that from this roof I
could look into a street. Here I threw my two missives, one from one
end of the roof and one from t’other, and returned with failing steps
towards the garden-house. Whether the effect of the drug was passing
off, or my fever was coming on, I don’t know, but I was sensible of
nothing but a supreme melancholy and listlessness and a most devouring
thirst. My eyes failed me, so that I could not find my way back to the
garden-house, and as I crept along, feeling my path with my two hands,
I seemed to be no longer in the garden, but once again in the black
hole at Fort William. “Water! water!” I cried in a voice of despair,
as I had done there, and as at that time the words appeared to be
echoed by voices of agony all around. I felt sure there was water to
be had, if I might only reach it, and I was fighting my way, as I
believed, through the struggling crowd, when I found my progress
suddenly stopped. It was in vain that I struggled, for Misery was
holding me fast, having pounced out upon me just as I reached the edge
of a great tank or artificial pond of water, and was rating me like a
slave that had run away.

“I saw you try to stab yourself, Beebee,” she cried, “and when you was
frightened at the sight of the blood, I saw you go to the roof and try
to throw yourself over twice. I was close behind you. I knew you would
come here next, and I hid and waited. Do you think I don’t know that
you want to kill yourself, and bring down Meer Sinzaun’s wrath on your
slave, because you hope to punish me? I fear you’ll get your wicked
will by dying of fever from this night air, but I’ll see at least that
you don’t drown.”

I struggled with her again, but in vain, for I could not recall the
word for _drink_ in Moors, and all I could utter was an entreaty to be
allowed to reach the water, which she was resolved I should not do.
Thus, still struggling, she forced me back to the garden-house, where,
seeing me try to reach the water-jar, she perceived at last what I
wanted, and pouring me out a draught, induced me to return to the bed
which I did not leave again for two months, as near as I can tell. I
have quite lost count of days since the beginning of this sickness,
but by noting the time when the rains ended, I am come to believe that
this is now the month of September, the month in which, a year ago, I
landed at the Calcutta Gott. Ah, my dear, what crowds of recollections
rise in my mind when I make this calculation! Sure there never was a
poor creature that in so short a space of time endured such complete
vicissitudes, nor found herself, after them, in so helpless and cruel
a situation. And all these misfortunes I have lived through, if I may
say so, several times over, since, while my fever lasted, my
disordered brain continued to present me now with pictures of my life
in Calcutta, and now with visions of the days (ah, blessed time!)
when, with my Amelia, I passed my hours contentedly in alternate tasks
and simple pleasures, and dreamed as little of my brief exaltation as
of my subsequent fall from being Queen of Calcutta to being Sinzaun’s
captive. But always when I was enjoying a moment’s pleasure in these
charming visions, the sight of Misery, or her voice speaking in Moors,
or even a glimpse of the strange devices on the walls of my abode,
would carry me in a moment to the trials of the siege, the horrors of
the prison, or the dread that seized me when I heard Sinzaun’s
greeting, and so I must live over again all my adversities.

It was when I was somewhat recovered, the fever only gaining the
mastery of my intellects for a part of the day, that Misery came one
evening to say that Meer Sinzaun desired to wait upon me. Words fail
to describe the horror that seized me at the sound of that dreadful
name. I would have sought to flee and hide myself, but wanted the
strength to move, and even with holding up my hands to ward off the
sight of the wretch I fell back upon my bed fit to expire. Misery
scolded me very heartily for what she called roundly my silly
foolishness, but brought word at last that Meer Sinzaun would speak
with me through the curtain that hung over the door, and would not
attempt to penetrate behind it. It was some time before I could
succeed in calming my apprehensions sufficiently to listen to the
wretch, but when I began to understand him he was passing from
compliments and condolences to tell me that he was about to attend the
Nabob on his campaign against the Phousdar of Purranea,[14.05] and
that he trusted to find me restored to health on his return.

“But, madam,” he went on, as though he had apprehended the joyful
confusion that arose in my mind at the prospect of his absence, “you
won’t be left unattended here, I’ll assure you. My steward, a very
worthy person, in whom I repose the utmost confidence, will wait upon
you twice a week, and receive any orders you may desire to give him
through this curtain. He knows you only as a ward of mine called
Nezmennessa Beebee,[14.06] a Mogul damsel of quality from the north,
and you’ll find him as ready as I am to indulge you in any reasonable
matter. But is there nothing that Clarissa will permit me to gratify
her in before I depart? Won’t she believe that her Sinzaun’s whole
fortune is at her disposal?”

At once, to shame the wretch, I asked for writing-implements.

“Why, madam,” he said, “indeed you shall have ’em. Clarissa desires to
divert herself with writing to the charming Miss Howe, I suppose? I
can’t undertake to forward your epistles, indeed, and I fear you’ll
also want the means, but at the least I shan’t suppress ’em, and since
I am unfortunately ignorant of English, I can’t even take pleasure in
the reading them.”

I was at my wits’ end to imagine how this cunning man could reconcile
it with his plans thus to give me the chance of making my situation
known to my friends, but I need not have feared for his schemes.

“There is, however, one restriction that I must lay upon you, madam,”
he continued, when I had expressed my gratitude, “and that is, I can’t
have this indulgence abused. There must be nothing more of this sort.”
He handed a paper round the curtain to Misery, who brought it to me.
Oh, my dear! it was one of the billets I had writ with my blood,
imploring help. I was speechless, after the first exclamation of
horror, and he went on: “That, madam, was picked up in the street by
one of my servants, and handed to me. I can’t read the English, but
its purport I can guess by the ink employed in writing it, and the
words in Moors, which I have made out, though Clarissa will pardon my
saying there’s no Moor that could do it. Now, madam, you can’t deny
that in bringing you here, however much against your will it may be, I
have at least saved you from the Nabob. Suppose this paper was carried
to any Moor that could read English, or some European anxious to curry
favour with Saradjot Dollah” (so he called the Soubah, in the French
fashion), “you would at once ruin me, and destroy yourself. Is that
Clarissa’s design? I think she’ll admit she has been honourably
treated here, and I’ll assure her that anything she pleases to demand
shall be at her service within the hour. Is that a reason for bringing
about the destruction of her adorer? You may write what you will,
madam, but I must have your word that you won’t use my ink and paper
in compassing my ruin.”

“I’ll promise you that, sir,” said I, somewhat ashamed. “You may count
the sheets of paper when I’ve done with ’em, if you will. But I can’t
promise you that I won’t try to escape if any English come to
Muxadavad.”

“Any English!” he said. “I fear, madam, you don’t appreciate the
unhappy situation of your countrymen at this time. The few left in
Bengall are cooped up in the Dutch bounds at Fulta, and are dying like
flies with the unhealthiness of the place. As soon as they can find
ships to carry ’em to Madrass, away they’ll go, so I would not have
you rely on them for deliverance.”

“Indeed, sir, I have given up relying on any power but that of
Heaven.”

“That’s since you found yourself at Muxadavad instead of Dacca, I
suppose, madam?” The profane wretch actually said this, Amelia.
“Perhaps you’ll be pleased to add to your prayers a petition for the
success of his Highness’s arms against the Purranea Nabob, and in
especial for the safety of your humble adorer? If I should fall,
Saradjot Dollah would be my heir, and should we both perish, then
Sucajunk would be master, and in either case Clarissa might find that
she had changed her gaolers for the worse.”

Could anything, my dear, exceed the coolness of this hardened
reprobate?




 CHAPTER XV.
 WHICH RECOUNTS THE TRIALS OF A DEVOUT LOVER.

_Letters from Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood._

                      _H.M.S. Tyger, off_ Fulta, _Dec. ye_ 20_th._

Madam,--I take this chance to acquaint you that the fleet is now at
length arrived in the Houghley River, after a voyage so tempestuous
that it might well be imagined the devil and all his angels were
gathered to oppose our progress, distrusting our object. Being
thwarted in our course from the very day we sailed from Madrass by the
prevailing north-eastern _munsoon_ and the currents setting from the
north, our only means of fetching Bengal was to steer across the bay
and back again, thus reaching our journey’s end crab-fashion. In this
tedious style, then, and afflicted by continual rough weather, we
pursued our voyage, passing over first to the coasts of
Tannasery[15.01] and Arracan, then tacking to the westward until we
were in the latitude of the sands at the eastern mouth of the Ganges,
next making our way with the help of the tides to Ballisore Roads
(losing in this manœuvre the Cumberland and Salisbury, which took the
ground off Cape Palmeiras), and finally reaching the mouth of the
Houghley, where we were welcomed in the name of those refuging at
Fulta by Mr Watts, late of Cossimbuzar, and Mr Becher. There we might
still be at this moment, owing to the danger apprehended by the pilots
in navigating the great ships over the shoals called the Braces before
the spring tides came, but this difficulty was surmounted with great
spirit by Captain Speke, who had been several times before in the
river, and taking the Kent across in safety, the other vessels
followed without mishap. So protracted has been our struggle with the
opposing forces of nature, that all on board the vessels were placed
on strict rations both of meat and drink, and the supply of rice
failing entirely, a considerable number of Colonel Clive’s
Tellinghy[15.02] soldiers actually succumbed to starvation, being
forbid by the rules of their religion to touch the salted meat served
out to them.

The Kent and Tyger arrived off this place five days ago, but ’twas not
until to-day that we were gladdened by the sight of our consorts, with
the exception of the Cumberland (which, though she and her sister in
misfortune have been got off, can’t continue her voyage, and carries
back to Vizagapatnam with her 250 of the Colonel’s white troops) and
the Marlborough, which has on board the greater part of our stores and
nearly all our field artillery, but parted company with us, being a
slow sailer, in a storm off the Negrai’s. Besides the two great ships
and the Salisbury, therefore, Admiral Watson has under his command
only his two frigates and the fireship, with the two Indiamen used for
the transport of the troops, while Colonel Clive’s army amounts to no
more than 900 Europeans and something over 1200 Seapoys. Major
Kilpatrick’s force of 230 Europeans, which, as you know, madam, was
despatched from Madrass to the help of Calcutta as soon as the news
was received of the fall of Cossimbuzar, has suffered so grievously
since its arrival in August, from the necessity of taking up its
quarters in swampy ground, because there was no room on board the
ships, that a full four-fifths of the men are dead, and of the rest
not more than ten are fit for duty. This heavy loss is partly
compensated by the enrolment of seventy volunteers from among the
Calcutta refugees, the most active of the gentlemen belonging to the
factory; but, better than this, we possess in the justice of our cause
and the reputation of our two commanders a guarantee of success and of
the favour of Heaven upon our enterprise. Already the Admiral has sent
letters, couched in terms of great severity, to Monickchund, the
Soubah’s governor of Calcutta, demanding redress for the wrongs done
to the Company and its servants, and nothing is heard on every side
but conjectures as to the answer that will be received.

Nothing but conjectures is heard in the fleet and army, I should say,
for (will it surprise you, madam, knowing the gentlemen?) all the
members of the Bengal Council that are escaped have no time to think
of anything but their own punctilio, without it be the property they
lost in the fall of the place and the means of recovering it. Mrs
Hurstwood mayn’t have heard that Mr Drake, finding the sour looks he
met with and the remarks passed upon his conduct in deserting the Fort
vastly galling to his high spirit, has posted in every public place in
Fulta an advertisement desiring that it may be pointed out to him
where he failed in his duty, and what more he could have done that he
did not do. This was wrote after a laudable prudence had caused him,
with his friends, to assume three months ago the style of Governor and
Council of Bulrumgurry (that poor mean place being the only spot of
ground left to us in Bengal), in the fear of offending the Nabob by
aspiring to be still in possession of Calcutta. True, our colours are
now hoisted just outside the Dutch bounds at Fulta, but Mrs Hurstwood
will already be certain that so resolved a step was not taken until
the arrival of the fleet. ’Tis some consolation that Mr President’s
fantastic manifesto was replied to by a young gentleman named Dash,
whom I have met at Calcutta, and who acquainted the world in writing
that while he durst not risk his place in the Service by accusing the
Governor without a mandate from the Company, he was prepared to
justify all that had been said if he were called upon. There’s one
matter, however, in which Mr Dash attacks the Presidency, where I
can’t follow him, and this is the advancing Mr Labaume to the rank of
captain in the Company’s army. Who should better deserve the elevation
than a foreigner who fought on our side with so much spirit and
devotion, and was only saved from the dreadful fate of the rest of the
defenders by being carried to the ships mortally wounded, as was
thought? And yet Mr Dash, who don’t think it necessary to declare the
time or manner of his own leaving the Fort, finds fault with Captain
Labaume’s advancement because he is a Papist! He believes,
questionless, that all Papists should be warned to fight on t’other
side.

Mr Dash’s most fervent supporter in this matter is Mrs Freyne, who
champions with uncommon zeal the cause of my old adversary, Mr
Bentinck. This gentleman’s exploit, in quitting the Fort full twelve
hours before even the President and the chief military officers, has
not yet been properly recognised by any step in rank, and ’tis
whispered that the Council stand too much in awe of Colonel Clive to
bestow this merited promotion. In this case, the lady will find it
necessary to turn the artillery of her charms on the Colonel, since
(so says wicked rumour) though not altogether inconsolable on good Mr
Freyne’s account, she en’t minded to bestow herself on a gentleman
that han’t got his company. I went some days back to pay my respects
to Mrs Freyne, but the mention of my name sent her into so violent a
hysterical fit, as recalling to her all the cruel misfortunes she has
suffered, that I thought it better to withdraw. I am not intending any
disrespect to the lady, but I can’t be sorry that she and my charmer
cherished no extraordinary affection one for the other.


                                                   _Dec. ye_ 21_st._

The despatch of this pacquet, madam, leaves us still at Fulta, forced
to listen to the vapourings of Mr Drake and his fellows, and unable as
yet to follow the promptings of our spirits and advance against the
Moors, no answer having been received to Mr Watson’s epistles sent to
Monickchund. There en’t a man either on board ship or in the ranks but
burns to avenge--oh, madam, what have we not to avenge? But why am I
running on in this style and delaying to impart the news that has sent
me to the writing of this letter as to the hardest task imaginable,
since ’tis to quench in Mrs Hurstwood’s bosom the hope which is
already extinguished in my own? You guess, madam, questionless, what
it is I have to tell, but my coward pen still refuses to set down the
frightful truth in such a form that it may reach you. And yet I can’t,
I dare not, write on any other topic--how could I, indeed, when my
whole heart and soul is filled with this one? Oh, madam, our beloved
Miss Freyne is no more! Now I have wrote it, but the sight of the
words brings no conviction to my mind. Sure such a blessed creature
could not die, knowing that she must leave this world a desolation
thenceforth to her adoring friends; the goodness of her heart would
alone retain her here, in compassion of their need of her. But no;
that bright spirit which was too pure and ethereal for these grosser
regions is returned to its native skies, leaving us forlorn. Don’t,
madam, account me so churlish as to grudge to you the recollection of
the affectionate friendship which was never broken by a quarrel, but
figure to yourself the state of mind of the wretch who addresses you,
when he remembers that the love which is his boast brought to its dear
object nothing but fresh adversities and the increase of her unmerited
misfortunes, and that it has now proved itself as powerless to save as
it was potent to wound. Indeed, madam, I can’t but admire the
extraordinary course of my passion for Miss Freyne, which caused me to
injure most deeply the creature I most adored, and which finds her
removed from its reach just when there was a hope that I might in some
measure redeem my past behaviour. The fault was wholly mine, indeed my
bitter fault.

But why do I trouble Mrs Hurstwood with my useless lamentations,
instead of presenting her with the melancholy history so far as I am
acquainted with it? I was walking, madam, this evening on the
esplanade of the Dutch factory here, when there met me Captain Labaume
and another gentleman, who both turned aside and saluted me.

“Your servant, gentlemen,” said I.

“Your servant, sir,” says Captain Labaume. “I think you en’t
acquainted with my friend? Mr Warren Hastings, late of the Cossimbuzar
factory--Lieutenant Fraser of the Tyger. Mr Hastings is possessed of
certain news that concerns you, sir, which it is his painful duty to
communicate.”

“Perhaps, sir,” says Mr Hastings, as the Frenchman bowed and left us,
“you would prefer to turn aside into the gardens here, rather than
learn in this public place what I have to tell you?”

I bowed, for when I tried to speak the words were wanting, and we
turned into the Dutch Governor’s gardens, where I stopped short and
looked at the young gentleman, a person of very pleasing appearance.
Sure no more agreeable messenger ever carried such heavy news as that
which I read in his eyes before he told it. “You need not speak, sir,”
I said. “You’re come to advise me of the death of the loveliest of her
sex?”

“Sir,” said Mr Hastings, “I can but pass on to you a message delivered
to me. Near six months ago I was lounging one evening with my friend
Mr Chambers on the _gott_ belonging to the French house at
Sydabad,[15.03] where we had refuged after the fall of our own
factory. We were watching the boats that passed, too many of them,
alas! laden with the spoils of Calcutta, and guarded by others with
flags and music and all imaginable pomp. Suddenly, from the deck of
one of these there rose up a man, almost naked but for a piece of a
gunny bag that was wrapped round him, and with his limbs covered with
the most frightful boils and sores. ‘Sure, sirs, you must be English?’
he cried, gesticulating towards us with his chained hands, and hearing
a British voice, we hastened to the water’s edge. The Jemmautdar in
charge of the boat was come up when we reached it, and ordered the
poor wretch, with blows and curses, to be silent, but we appeased him
with a rupee or two, and obtained leave for the prisoner to speak. He
informed us that he was a sergeant of our garrison here, and had
suffered the torments of the Black Hole in company with his captain
and a lady whom the Captain respected very highly. The lady being
found alive on the morrow after the tragedy, was ordered to be sent to
Muxidavad to the Nabob’s seraglio, and this poor fellow, desirous of
serving one whom his late commander had so much esteemed, accepted an
offer to enter the Soubah’s service in the hope of being permitted to
attend upon her. In this pious wish, however, he was disappointed, for
though on board the same boat, he saw nothing of her
until--until--pray, sir, prepare your mind for grievous tidings--he
beheld her corpse carried on shore for burial at Santipore. The fever
that seized all those who survived the night of torment had proved too
strong for her delicate frame, finding its work aided, questionless,
by the anguish of spirit natural in such a situation as hers. The
pious care of a poor Moorwoman, her attendant, procured the unhappy
lady a grave in the garden belonging to the Armenians of the
place--this, said our wretched informant, he was assured of by one of
his keepers, more humane or less brutal than the rest, and he was
desirous that the lady’s friends should know it also. Mr Chambers and
I divided the little money we had upon us between the poor fellow and
the Jemmautdar, whom we sought to engage in his favour, and since then
I fear the matter had almost slipped my memory, after I had once
learnt from Mr Holwell in his captivity at Muxidavad that both the
lady’s father, and also Captain Colquhoun, whom he believed to be her
humble servant, were dead. I did send word of what I had heard to Mrs
Freyne, whom I understood to be at Fulta, but receiving no answer of
any kind, my mind was soon busied again with the secret negotiations I
was engaged in on the Company’s behalf, and ’twas not until I fled
hither when my dealings with the Seats were threatened with discovery,
and learned by chance from Captain Labaume your melancholy history,
sir, that I knew I could resolve any doubt of yours as to the unhappy
fate of the lady in whom you claim so deep an interest.”

I had listened to Mr Hastings’s tale without any interruption but that
of sighs and unconquerable groans, but now I could contain myself no
longer. “And can there be,” I cried, “a God above, when so
transcendent a creature is permitted to expire miserably, without a
friend at hand to close her eyes?”

“There’s worse things than death, sir,” says Mr Hastings, with a
modest hesitation. “Perhaps we should rather give thanks that the
amiable lady you adored was suffered to expire peacefully before ever
reaching Muxidavad.”

“I accept the just rebuke, sir, but--oh, sir, you never knew Miss
Freyne. Had you enjoyed her acquaintance, though but for an hour, you
would have thought the world bare without her. What, then, can you
imagine to be that man’s state of mind who was honoured with her
particular regard?”

“Why, sir,” cried the warm-hearted young gentleman, “I would have him
thank Heaven continually for the happiness with which he has been
blessed, and live to prove himself not unworthy of his dear mistress’s
favour.”

“Your hand, sir!” said I, moved by his honest ardour; but, madam, ’tis
cold comfort to pay to the memory of the dead those honours you had
hoped to bestow on the living, and how much more when the fault is
your own.


                                                   _Dec. ye_ 23_rd._

I may perhaps seem over-bold, madam, in continuing to trouble you with
my unworthy epistles when the beloved link between us is wanting, but
I believe my kind Mr and Mrs Hurstwood will excuse my presumption,
remembering, in the goodness of their hearts, what state of mind I
must be in, deprived as I am of the delicious hopes that have
sustained me hitherto. That you, madam, was joined with your humble
correspondent in a common admiration for our incomparable Miss Freyne,
is reason enough for me to regard you as my sole remaining friend, and
I can’t doubt but Mrs Hurstwood’s worthy spouse will allow me in this
melancholy pleasure of reckoning with his lady how much we have both
lost. There are at present but two thoughts in my distracted mind, the
one to kill the Nabob, the other to fulfil the last pious duties to
the mortal (alas that I must write it!)--the mortal remains of my
charmer. True, the accomplishing the first won’t restore her to me
(any more than the finest tomb I might raise to her memory could do
more than tempt Indian lovers to drop a tear on the spot where a
Briton bewailed his mistress), but at least it would rid the world of
the monster who is responsible for such a calamity’s coming upon it.
En’t that a laudable object, madam? I entreat your opinion, for I have
incurred the displeasure of my revered commander Mr Watson on this
very matter.

The affair happened thus. I was returning this evening from a solitary
ramble on the skirts of the town, engrossed with my own melancholy
thoughts, when there met me a Dutch artilleryman, who offered to sell
me an Indian scymetar he was carrying, which he had got (he said) some
time back from a disabled Mogul that had been wounded in the Nabob’s
Purhunea campaign, and had no further use for it. The weapon pleased
me, and paying the fellow what he asked, I carried it with me. Passing
through the town, I met a party of officers from the Kent, among them
Billy Speke, who exclaimed on seeing me carry a great sword naked in
my hand, and asked me what use I designed to put it to.

“Oh, ’twill serve to kill the Soubah,” I said, my mind still on the
same topics.

“’Twill kill no one without it be sharpened,” says one of the
gentlemen.

“How do these fellows manage to fight with such a thing?” says
another.

“Oh, sir, ’tis a most deadly weapon when bright and keen,” said the
first.

“Sure you would not compare it with one of our swords, sir?” asked the
other.

“I vow, sir, you might find yourself hard put to it to maintain your
ground against a person skilled in its use. Pray, Mr Fraser, if you
en’t in no haste to return to the Tyger, come on board with us, and
let us have your scymetar sharpened, and convince this unbeliever by a
pass or two that it’s no toy.”

I complied the more readily with this request that I remembered a
message I had promised to deliver from our surgeon to Dr Ives of the
Kent, and went on board with the other gentlemen in a shore-boat, when
Billy Speke ran to find one of the armourer’s mates, and brought him
to us with his tools. While we stood round watching his work on the
sword, the discourse turned, as might be expected, on fighting, and
the officers of the Kent, in anticipating the progress of events,
began to prophesy the capture of the Nabob’s strongholds and the
destruction of all his army.

“Do what you will with the army, gentlemen,” said I, “but leave
Surajah Dowlah to me.”

“Sure, there’s no one would dispute your right, sir,” said one.

“Every seaman in the fleet will support you in the vengeance you
seek,” says another, “and will see you have a fair field for’t.”

“Will they?” says a voice that made us all turn round, to see the
Admiral standing behind us, with a brow as black as thunder. “There’s
a seaman here, gentlemen, that will do nothing of the sort. What! do I
find myself in command of a set of bloodthirsty adventurers, instead
of British officers? Mr Fraser, how dare you import a private quarrel
into your dealings with his Majesty’s enemies, sir?”

“If I could forget the cause of that quarrel, sir, I would be the most
abandoned wretch on earth.”

“I don’t ask you to forget either the quarrel or its cause, sir. Don’t
bandy words with me. Pray what’s to become of your men and the King’s
interests when you are hunting for the Nabob all over a battlefield?
You’re here to uphold the honour of Britain by punishing the villains
that have assailed it, not to seek vengeance for private wrongs--no,
though your own mother had been slain by the Moors.”

“But, pray, sir,” Billy Speke ventured to say, knowing himself a
favourite, “how is Mr Fraser to remember his quarrel without seeking
to avenge it?”

“That’s for him to settle with himself, young gentleman. All I can say
is, that if I find him seeking vengeance, back he goes on board the
Tyger and into irons, for neglecting his duty in face of the enemy. I
would have you know, gentlemen, that you en’t knights-errant, but
persons under discipline, and that discipline I’ll maintain. Is that
the sword that’s to kill the Nabob, Mr Fraser? Give it to me, sir--a
heathenish weapon to do heathenish work, properly enough.”

I handed him the scymetar, and he endeavoured to break it across his
knee, but though it bent nearly double it resisted him. Catching up a
hatchet that lay by, he smashed the sword on the grindstone with it,
and threw the pieces towards me.

“Keep to your Christian sword, sir, and use it in a Christian manner.
Fight when you find yourself compelled, but don’t go out man-hunting.
No,” seeing me look abashed, “I en’t displeased with you, though I was
but a few moments back. I look to see you all do good service in a day
or two, gentlemen. What? you han’t heard? Monickchund refuses to
forward my letters to the Soubah, saying ’twould be as much as his
head’s worth, and Mr Clive and I are agreed to move up the river as
soon as we can get our stores aboard. There’ll be no peace until
Surajah Dowlah is well thrashed.”

The Admiral left us, and the other gentlemen, commiserating me for
drawing his displeasure upon myself, fell to talking of the projected
advance, which (whatever Mr Watson may choose to say) can bring me no
satisfaction but the gratifying of my revenge. That this sentiment is
an unchristian one I can’t deny; but how, madam, can I acquit the
Admiral of encouraging my thirst for vengeance so long as it consorted
well with his designs, and discovering its iniquity only when it
threatened to oppose ’em? But this remark is in itself an offence
against discipline, and I’ll say no more, merely laying the case
before Mrs Hurstwood, and entreating her judgment upon it.


                              Calcutta, _January ye_ 25_th_, 1757.

The extraordinary success which has greeted our arms seems, madam, to
demand some record from me, that Mrs Hurstwood may be informed how
signally the righteous enterprise on which we are embarked has been
prospered by Heaven. But first, madam, permit me to say (lest you
should suspect me of any design to glorify my own part in this
campaign) that Colvin Fraser has not succeeded in slaying the Nabob,
nor even in performing any notable feat of arms. Were the fame of his
dear charmer dependent upon his puny efforts for its preservation, as
the knights of the chivalric ages were wont to achieve their exploits
in celebration of the beauty and merits of their mistresses, it would,
alas! enjoy but a brief immortality; but since every man that beheld
Miss Freyne must carry her image imprinted on his heart till death,
her memory needs no assistance to maintain itself, although it may
serve to glorify the feeble achievements of the man who unhappily
survives her.

Our fleet, madam, sailed from Fulta on the 27th of December, and two
days later cast anchor off the village of Mayapore, whence it appeared
most convenient to undertake the assault to be made on the fortress of
Budje Boodje. Here occurred the first of those dissensions between
Admiral Watson and Mr Clive which, but for the interposition of
Providence, must have jeopardised, if not destroyed, our expedition,
Colonel Clive desiring that the troops should land from the ships in
the immediate vicinity of the fortress, while the Admiral, foreseeing
that Monickchund, who had been very busy strengthening the place,
would have a great advantage in opposing their landing, recommended
that they should march by land the ten miles from Mayapore. Colonel
Clive at length yielding up his opinion, this was done; but the march
having been over marshy ground much cut up with water-courses, and the
labour of dragging the field-pieces and ammunition incredibly
laborious, the troops, half-dead with fatigue, were permitted to rest
themselves when they had reached the points from which the Colonel
intended the assault to be made on the morrow. When our men were all
asleep, Monickchund steals up with a prodigious force, having observed
all Colonel Clive’s dispositions, and attacks our bivouack so hotly
that our troops, hastily aroused from their slumbers, gave way to a
temporary panic. The field-pieces proving useless (owing to their
being mounted on the wrong carriages, and having neither tubes nor
port-fires), they were abandoned to the enemy, together with the
buildings in which we had been encamped, and but for the extraordinary
spirit displayed by Colonel Clive, who was himself labouring under a
severe illness, the affair must have ended in a disastrous rout. The
Colonel, despatching two platoons to attack the village now held by
the Moors, drove out the enemy, though not without a heavy loss, and
rallying his men, succeeded in chasing Monickchund and his cavalry
from the field, thus winning a victory which was even greater in its
moral than its material result, aided, as it was, by the Admiral’s
sailing up to Budje Boodje and engaging the fortress with the Kent
alone, silencing the Moors’ guns and opening a breach in the walls.

The first proof of the enemy’s loss of spirit was seen the same
evening, when a detachment of our seamen, being sent on shore in
readiness to take part in the attack projected for the morrow, found
the Moors so much cowed as to permit them to approach quite close to
the walls of the place. Among these men (who had all, I fear, indulged
somewhat freely in _grog_, which is a mixture of arrack and water, by
way of celebrating Colonel Clive’s victory) was one Strahan, a common
sailor belonging to the Kent, who was more drunk than his fellows. He,
scrambling over the parapet of the fort, where it was broken down by
the Admiral’s fire, found the place empty, but for a few Moormen
seated on the platform of one of the bastions, and forthwith rushed
upon them flourishing his cutlass, having first fired off his pistol
and given three huzzas, crying out to his friends outside that he had
taken the fort all by himself. Hearing the shout, first the rest of
the sailors, and then the whole army, without waiting for either their
officers or the Colonel’s orders, rushed over the bridge and into the
place, the foremost arriving to find Strahan hotly engaged with the
Moors that were left (who took to their heels at this accession of
force), and with his cutlass broke to within a foot of the hilt. So
happy was the exploit of these drunken sailors, that ’tis with regret
I must add that, the fort being in our hands and guards posted about
it from among our own Seapoys, the seamen, mistaking them for the
enemy, fell to fighting with ’em, and discharging their pistols, were
so unlucky as to kill Captain Dougald Campbell of the Company’s army,
a very worthy person and a countryman of my own, who was come from
Bulrumgurry to offer his services to Mr Drake at Fulta, and had
accompanied the force.

Our next achievement was the capture of Calcutta, which held out for
less than two hours against our cannon from the ships, the garrison
firing only those guns that were already loaded. Monickchund had
quitted Fort William even before our arrival, so great was his terror
of Colonel Clive, and the troops he left were not concerned to improve
upon his example, while the peaceable inhabitants, relieved from their
oppressors, welcomed us gladly. Here again there occurred an unhappy
dissension between our commanders. Admiral Watson, the place having
surrendered to the fire of the ships, appointed as its governor
Captain Coote,[15.04] who is in command of the detachment of
Adlercron’s Regiment[15.05] serving as marines on board the fleet. Mr
Clive resenting this very seriously on his arrival, a hot discussion
followed, Mr Watson even going so far as to threaten to turn his guns
on the Colonel; but both gentlemen being equally zealous for the
public good, the quarrel was quickly composed, through the mediation
of Captain Latham, who is in a strict intimacy with both parties, by
the Admiral’s taking possession of the town himself and handing over
the keys to Mr Drake. Yes, madam, to Mr President Drake. I think I
behold your indignant countenance on reading this piece of news. As
soon as the intelligence of our success was received by the other
European factories, we were overwhelmed with congratulations from the
French and Dutch, who proved themselves such broken reeds to the
unhappy defenders of Calcutta in their extremity; but our leaders were
prepared to overlook this former time-serving behaviour in return for
their assistance in crushing the Nabob, and offered them an alliance.
This they refused, however, the chiefs declaring that they had no
power to conclude such a treaty without instructions, although they
offered to preserve a strict neutrality between us and the Moors; but
this not being considered worth entering into articles about, the
Mynheers and Mounseers returned empty to Chinchura and Chandernagore
respectively. Only two days later there reached us by way of Aleppo
the news that war was declared against France last May, and I venture
to say that the gentlemen are now regretting their precipitation in
declining our friendship.

When this news arrived, madam, I was absent with the force which was
sent against Houghley under Captain Coote, who, assisted by a body of
seamen from the fleet, captured the place with slight loss on the 15th
of this month, destroying the houses and magazines in order to strike
terror into the Nabob, and obtaining plunder to the amount of
15,000_l._, although, as has since been discovered, the Dutch had
taken all the Moors’ most valuable effects under their protection, and
hid them safe at Chinchura. In this capture of Houghley I had the good
fortune to receive a musquet-ball right through my hat without
injuring me in the least, but alas! I can’t now take the comfort from
this miraculous escape that I would have done five weeks ago.
Returning from the expedition amid the acclamations of our fellows, we
were in hopes to find the fleet already preparing to move up the river
against Muxidavad itself, but discovered instead that our leaders were
again divided in opinion, the Admiral desiring to press on immediately
at all hazards, but Mr Clive, whose instructions from the Council at
Madras bind him to return to that place by April, willing to come to
an accommodation with the Nabob, sooner than drive to extremities the
master of such vast armies. On this occasion ’twas the Admiral that
yielded, finding himself opposed not only by Colonel Clive, but by Mr
Drake and the Bengal Council, who, fearing lest the French should
unite with the Soubah against us, have sought to forestall ’em by
obtaining his ear through his bankers Mootabray and Roopchund Seat.
From what appears, however, the report of our successes has so much
irritated the despot that no one dares to suggest making peace with
us, and he is already marching from Muxidavad at the head of his army.
Meanwhile, the Seats’ agent or _vacqueel_, Rungeet Roy, is with
Colonel Clive in the camp he has fixed at Cossipore,[15.06] in the
direction of Chitpore, but beyond the Morattoe-ditch, while in the
Nabob’s attendance we have an agent of our own, a Gentoo banker of
this place called Omichund, with whose name you, madam, may be
acquainted. This man’s interest in Calcutta, owing to the quantity of
houses he owns here, makes him very desirous of peace, although he is
so intimate with Surajah Dowlah as to possess his ear, and we who
follow Admiral Watson are prodigiously apprehensive that he’ll succeed
in bringing about a settlement without any further fighting.

Meanwhile, madam, since our betters are all engaged with these weighty
matters, time hangs somewhat heavy upon our hands. The Bengal
gentlemen, it’s true, can think of nothing but their own hard case,
for while the Company’s merchandise was found for the most part
untouched in the Fort, all their private property is gone. Their
houses are destroyed and their livelihood lost, while there remains a
standing memorial of their humiliation in the shape of the mosque
built within the very walls of the Fort by the Moors. ’Tis, perhaps,
not wonderful that these gentlemen should be anxious for peace to be
made, when they can fall to their money-making once more, but their
conduct in the past forbids any excess of sympathy with their present
situation. As for me, madam, I experience a melancholy pleasure in
tracing the scenes associated in my mind with the memory of my lost
charmer. The ruins of her father’s abode, the chamber in the Fort
where, detained by a more than filial devotion, she risqued, and as we
now know, sacrificed her life in her tender care of Mr Freyne, are my
daily resort. Captain Labaume and young Mr Fisherton have filled my
gratified yet regretful ear with praises of her demeanour during the
siege and in the awful events which succeeded it, and will it shock
Mrs Hurstwood if I confess that in all my natural grief for my angel’s
loss I can’t escape a sentiment of grateful pride that so glorious a
creature would condescend to entertain a particular regard for Colvin
Fraser?


                                       Calcutta, _Feb. ye_ 14_th._

Oh, madam, I can scarce bring myself to sit down quietly and write to
you, and yet this time it’s no bad news that forbids me to proceed.
What bad news, indeed, could I send to Mrs Hurstwood in any degree
comparable with that contained in my letter announcing the death of
her friend? And what joy, then, must inspire my pen when the charming
task before me is to cheer the heart of the most faithful of women by
reversing that announcement? Yes, madam, the news I have to
communicate is the best, the very best--or if not the very best that
our dear Miss Freyne’s well-wishers could desire, at least so good
that the delighted mind foresees immediately the best of all following
it. Miss Freyne, madam, is living, and to Colvin Fraser has been
vouchsafed the honour of attempting to restore her to her enraptured
friends.

But how my pen hastens along now that ’tis dipped in joy! Pardon me,
madam, for my disorderly method of procedure. And yet ’tis better to
have uttered the charming truth, for to write of all the circumstances
without letting slip the all-important fact until the right moment
arrived, would be impossible to me. Oh, madam, the amiable Sylvia
still lives!

But once again, to my sober history. During the latter part of
January, after my last letter was wrote, the Nabob amused himself and
us with sending an Armenian named Coja Petruce[15.07] backwards and
forwards with feigned offers of peace, while the entire time he was
advancing steadily with his army, burning, as he approached our
bounds, the villages which acknowledged our authority, and at last
passing our furthest outpost. Finding a parcel of _louchees_
plundering within our boundary, the officer in command at Perins
Redoubt stopped them with a sally, but the head of the Moorish army
coming up, began to entrench themselves on t’other side of the
rivulet. Colonel Clive, marching out from Cossipore with a
considerable force, treated them to a slight cannonade, but returning
at night to his camp, the main body came up and established themselves
before morning, the Soubah sending word from Nabob-gunge, a hamlet
about six miles off, that he desired deputies from the English to
attend him and treat of peace. Mess. Walsh and Scrafton were the
gentlemen chosen for this perilous office, and setting out in good
time reached Nabob-gunge only to find the Nabob departed, discovering,
moreover, that the perfidious prince had crossed Dum Dumma Bridge, and
was actually encamped in Omichund’s garden, within the circuit of the
Morattoe-ditch. Our envoys, introduced by Rungeet Roy to the _duan_
Roydoolub, were treated with great indignity, their persons being
searched before they were admitted to the _durbar_, where they found
Surajah Dowlah surrounded with a host of attendants, all huge and
ferocious in appearance, and dressed out with thick stuffed clothes
and prodigious turbands, in order to strike terror into the gentlemen.
These, however, retained sufficient spirit to protest against the
usage they had received, when the Nabob at once cut short their
complaint by referring them back to Roydoolub. On returning to the
tent assigned them, the deputies were warned by Omichund that the
Soubah aimed only at keeping them in play until his cannon were come
up, and with much presence of mind the two gentlemen, putting out
their lights, as though they were about to wait on Roydoolub, went
instead along the high road inside the Ditch until they came safely to
Perins, and so to Colonel Clive’s camp. Since no one could now
entertain a doubt as to the hostile intentions of the Nabob, an action
was determined upon, the Colonel’s plans being precipitated by the
desertion of all our servants and cooleys to the enemy, rendering it
alarmingly difficult to obtain provisions.

Mess. Walsh and Scrafton arriving in the camp about seven in the
evening, Colonel Clive, on hearing their report, repaired immediately
on board the fleet, and asked and obtained from our brave Admiral the
assistance of a body of seamen from the ships, designing to make an
attack on the Nabob’s camp and seize his cannon. At three o’clock the
next morning, the fifth of this month, the expedition left the camp at
Cossipore, an example of that extraordinary promptitude in dealing
with an enemy which has gained the Colonel his reputation among the
Indians. So poorly was our army furnished with the means of transport,
owing to the Council’s fears of offending the Nabob should they set on
foot any warlike preparations, that it was necessary to employ men as
beasts of burden. There was no bullocks, such as you, madam, know are
commonly used in this country for the transport of artillery, and in
all the army but one horse, which came with us from Madrass. The order
of our march was first a body of Seapoys, then six hundred and fifty
Europeans, both soldiers and volunteers, then another body of Seapoys,
and lastly the guns, which were six field-pieces and a
haubitzer,[15.08] all dragged by our gallant seamen, and with their
ammunition carried on the heads of Lascars. A hundred artillerymen
accompanied them, and the whole of the train was guarded by the
remainder of the sailors, amounting to six hundred men, among whom was
your humble correspondent. With the Europeans in front was Colonel
Clive. Reaching the vicinity of the Morattoe-ditch, we found the huts
and tents of the Nabob’s camp scattered in a disorderly manner on both
sides of it, and coming suddenly upon the enemy, drove in their
advanced guard, who fired off their matchlocks and other arms and
fled. One of their rockets chancing to strike the cartouch-box of a
Seapoy, the consequent explosion caused a temporary confusion in our
ranks, but this being alleviated, we advanced as best we might, for no
sooner had daylight appeared than one of those thick fogs peculiar to
this season in Bengal immediately enwrapped the entire scene,
concealing us from the enemy and them from us.

Arrived opposite Omichund’s garden and the Nabob’s quarters, we were
startled by the fog lifting suddenly and showing us a prodigious force
of Persian cavalry, who had discovered us by the noise we made in
marching, about to charge our line. But, as has often been remarked,
’tis in such alarming moments as this that Colonel Clive is at his
best, and steadying the troops by his voice and example, they poured a
volley into the horsemen at thirty yards’ distance, which caused them
quickly to scamper off. There being now no hope of surprising the
enemy, we proceeded in a very warlike manner, directing a constant
fire both of cannon and musquetry on either hand into the fog, which
was descended afresh, but this bravado on our part was like to have
led us into a serious disaster. Some distance in front of us was a
causeway, where a road crosses the Morattoe-ditch, and this causeway
was strongly held by the enemy, whom the Colonel designed to drive
off, and having reached the inner side of the Ditch, to retrace our
steps to Omichund’s garden, and beat up the Nabob’s headquarters. But
our cannon continuing to fire when our leading files turned to the
right to cross the causeway, killed several Seapoys, which cast the
rest into a panic, and while Colonel Clive was rallying ’em the enemy
opened a smart fire from two cannon they had mounted in a redoubt to
the right of the causeway, which threw the whole battalion into great
confusion, so that the notion of forcing the barricade was given up,
and all pressed forward to reach the next bridge, that at the
commencement of the avenue called Lol Buzar. The necessity of dragging
the field-pieces along the ditches between the rice-fields caused us
incredible labour, while we were now and again compelled to raise ’em
up the banks and bring ’em into action, in order to keep off the
enemy’s horse, who were perpetually at our heels. A strong party held
the bridge when we reached it, but giving way before our fire, we
drove back also the horsemen pressing upon our rear, and gained our
own territory, where the Colonel thought it well to give up the
further prosecution of his design, in view of the prodigious fatigue
to which the troops had been exposed, and we marched back to Fort
William through the Lol Buzar. In fact, madam, we returned safely,
though with considerable loss, having gained a victory in spite of our
retreat, for the tyrannic and feeble-minded Surajah Dowlah was so
deeply impressed by our performances that, hearing falsely that the
Colonel had not lost a single man, and finding his own army much more
disheartened than ours, he sent Rungeet Roy the next day to propose
terms of peace.

But now for the affair which will make this indecisive battle for ever
more memorable to Colvin Fraser than the most brilliant victory. I had
been looking to the comfort of my men, who were permitted a rest and a
mid-day meal at the Fort, and was expecting to receive orders to carry
them on board the Tyger again, when there came up to me Lieutenant
Carnac of Adlercron’s Regiment of foot, whose acquaintance I had made
on the expedition against Houghley.

“The very man I was seeking!” he cried. “Pray do me the favour to
accompany me, Mr Fraser. Your presence is desired.”

“And who may it be that desires it, sir?” said I.

“Why, certain very weighty persons, and for weighty reasons,” says the
young gentleman, passing his arm through mine with an agreeable
familiarity. “It seems you have been consorting with traitors, sir,
and you must justify yourself.”

“Sure you’re in very good spirits, Captain.”

“Believe me, sir, I en’t rallying you. You’re needed to help clear up
a strange affair. In seeking to find a way across the rice-fields this
morning, I and some twenty of my men became separated from the
battalion, and were brought up suddenly by coming upon two of the
enemy’s guns, mounted in a rude battery. The men in charge of ’em were
as much astonished as we were, and for a moment we stood staring at
one another with open mouths. Then one of the Moors recovered his
intellects sufficiently to rush to one of the pieces, intending to
discharge it by firing his pistol into the touch-hole, but before he
could reach it, up jumps one of the men at the gun and fells him with
a rammer, then turns upon the rest, and lays about him with such good
will that he had ’em all drove out of the battery in an instant.
Having chased ’em all away, he returns suddenly, and seeing us with
our pieces raised, cries out in a lamentable voice, ‘Don’t fire,
gentlemen, for the love of heaven! I’m a Briton like yourselves!’ This
confession inflamed the men so deeply, finding a European fighting on
the side of the Moors, that they would have cut the poor wretch to
pieces if I hadn’t held ’em back almost by force, but he pointing out
that he had saved us all from destruction by the enemy, they cooled a
little, when he showed us further that he had loaded both guns up to
the very muzzle with stones and rubbish and such a quantity of powder
that they must sure have burst and destroyed all the Moors in the
place had they been fired. This proving him to be well affected, we
spiked up the guns and carried him back with us, since he desired to
be confronted with Mr Hastings or any of the Calcutta gentlemen that
survived the Black Hole, saying they could vouch for his honesty.
Since we returned to the Fort, hearing some one mention your name, he
demanded vehemently to see you, saying that he had news of infinite
gravity to give you.”

“Questionless the poor wretch is my cousin Colquhoun’s sergeant, who
was forced to enter the Nabob’s service,” said I, and attended the
Captain into Colonel Clive’s presence. No sooner had I entered than
the unfortunate prisoner, who was standing loaded with chains while
the Colonel interrogated him, sprang forward and cast himself at my
feet.

“Thank God, sir, that you’re come!” he cried. “I’ve thought every
moment as how the General was going to order me out to be shot, but I
don’t care how soon he do it now. There’s one thing been on my mind,
and that’s to give you this,” and he pulled a small shred of paper
from some hiding-place in his clothes. “Not being no scholar, I can’t
read all the words, but ever since I had it I’ve feared as how I’d led
you and the other gentlemen into a horrid mistake, and perhaps ruined
the poor young lady as I’d wished to give my life for.”

I tore the paper from his hand, but the mist before my eyes forbade me
to read it for a moment. Then I saw that on one side ’twas covered
with my own handwriting. Madam, ’twas a part of the letter I writ to
my dear Miss Freyne near a year ago from Vizagapatnam, that letter on
which you have been pleased to rally me more than once. But on the
other side--oh, madam, figure to yourself my sensations at the
moment--were a few words scratched in a brownish sort of ink with some
blunt instrument, scratched, as I could not doubt, by my charmer’s own
hand.

“I am not dead, but in the power of the wretch S ...” (this name is
illegible, owing to the folding of the paper) “at Muxadavad. Help me,
any Christian that may read this, for the l ... God, or at least tell
those escaped from Calcutta where they may ... the unhappy Sylvia
Freyne.”

Was ever such an affecting billet handed to a lover before, madam? I
am not ashamed to say that I found myself incapable of speech as,
after pressing the message to my lips, I handed it to Colonel Clive,
who demanded it with an impatient gesture, nor did it surprise me that
the Colonel’s face was moved when he read it.

“Wrote with the poor woman’s own blood!” he said, as though to account
for his emotion, and I started forward to reclaim the paper with a
cry, for the notion had not occurred to me. To what alarms, madam,
must the dear creature have been exposed before resorting to so
dreadful an expedient for revealing her situation! “Wait a moment,
sir,” says the Colonel; “what’s this? Something wrote in broken
Moors--‘Take this to any hat-wearer, and he will give you ten rupees,’
but in the English character! How did the poor soul expect it to be
read? Where and how did you get hold of this, fellow?” he asked of the
prisoner, who was risen again to his feet.

“I had it of a Moorman, your honour, who said as how he had lighted on
it in a street of Muxidavad, but he could not, or maybe would not,
tell me the place. He kept it for a charm, but I chanced to have a
leaf out of a printed song-book about me, that I had picked up among
the spoils, which I gave him in exchange for it, telling him as how
’twas a more powerful charm than his. And when I had it, I did naught
but look out for a chance of escape, that I might bring it to Miss’s
friends, but they watched me so as I couldn’t nohow get away before
to-day.”

“Do you believe the man worthy of credit, Mr Fraser?” says the Colonel
aside to me.

“Why, sir, how would I do otherwise?” I asked.

“You’re a prejudiced witness, sir, I see. But since Mr Fisherton has
testified to the man’s motives in entering the Soubah’s service, and
Mr Hastings speaks of seeing him conducted by force to Muxidavad after
the lady’s supposed death, I think we need scarce doubt him. What do
you say to returning to the Company’s service, my man?”

“There’s naught could please me better, your honour.”

“Then be it so, and let me hear a good report of you in the future.
Hark ye, sir,” to me, “I thought at first of demanding the restoration
of the lady from the Nabob as an indispensable condition of peace, but
I en’t so sure now that ’twill be the most prudent plan. Think the
matter over, and let me know to-morrow what your judgment is. Till
then I will say nothing to any one.”

I bowed and withdrew, feeling a prodigious great surprise that Mr
Clive should entertain any doubts on what seemed to me to be a matter
of such simplicity; and finding Mr Hastings, who is serving as a
volunteer in the European ranks, outside the place, I begged leave to
attend him to his quarters, and laid the question before him, showing
him the precious paper, though I would not trust it out of my own
hands.

“How do you fill up the blanks in this message, sir?” said he. “Not
the two latter, which are of slight importance, but the first?”

“Why, with the Nabob’s name, sir. How else? ‘In the power of the
wretch Surajah’--sure ’tis as clear as daylight.”

“It’s possible,” said he; “but why not the Nabob or the Soubah? Either
term would surely come more readily to the pen. There’s others beside
Surajah Dowlah whose names begin with an S, sir. For example, there’s
Meer Sinzaun.”

“The renegado?” I cried.

“No other. The fellow, as I have heard, piques himself upon his fine
taste, and he might well prefer a European lady to the Moorish
wenches. ’Tis but a notion of mine, but if you’ll permit, we’ll ask
Captain Labaume and Mr Fisherton, who were well acquainted with the
lady, if they know of anything that would argue any truth in it.”

He called his Indian servant, who had remained faithful when his
fellows deserted their masters, and gave him an order, while I kept
silence, regarding the matter in this new and disagreeable light.
Presently Mess. Labaume and Fisherton entered the apartment, the
former feigning anger at being summoned.

“I’faith, Mr Hastings, you’re an insolent dog!” he cried. “How dare
you send your commands to your superior officer, sir? I was but just
sitting down to my dinner when up comes your blackfellow with,
‘Hasteen Siab’s compliments, and will the Captain Siab[15.09] wait on
him immediately?’ Sure you’ll have to learn that you en’t President of
Bengal yet.”

“Indeed, Captain, that’s a lesson I shan’t learn if my friends are so
complaisant in pardoning my incivilities. But here’s the reason for my
breach of discipline. You’ve heard the joyful news of Miss Freyne’s
safety which our friend Mr Fraser has received by means of a billet
from herself. Now there’s something in the letter inclines me to think
that the lady’s present custodian en’t the Nabob at all, but perhaps
the apostate Sinzaun. Is’t possible that he can have heard of her
before the siege, and plotted to get her into his power?”

“Possible?” cried Captain Labaume. “Why, sir, to the best of my belief
the fellow was so captivated by the report of Miss’s beauty that he
adventured his person in Calcutta itself for the sake of seeing her,
and forced his company upon her at a masquerade. It’s in my mind that
he pursued her for some time with his solicitations, but poor Jack
Bellamy could have told you more of that than I.”

“And his knowledge lies buried in the ditch of the ravelin yonder,”
says Mr Hastings.

“But I can tell you more than that, sir,” says Mr Fisherton. “When the
Fort was taken, and before we poor wretches were drove into the Black
Hole, Sinzaun came to scrutinise us, looking for Miss, as she
believed. She testified such terror in view of the villain’s efforts
to discover her, that Captain Colquhoun assisted her to disguise
herself in a man’s hat and cloak, and she escaped notice for the
time.”

“This is as I feared,” said Mr Hastings. “We can’t doubt but the
apostate has got the unhappy lady into his power by some device to
hoodwink the Nabob. Now you perceive, Mr Fraser, why the Colonel
thought best not to demand her release openly. Miss is hid in some
spot known neither to us nor to the Nabob, but whence she could be
quickly removed if enquiry was made touching her. To broach the topic
would be to unite the Nabob with Sinzaun against us, and destroy all
hope of liberating the captive. Your plan will be to despatch a secret
agent to Muxidavad to discover where the lady is confined, and then to
frame some means of effecting her escape. There’s a parcel of
Armenians and Moorish traitors would do the work for you, if you paid
’em high enough.”

“Sure Omichund’s the man,” says Captain Labaume. “He has rogues enough
in his pay to corrupt all India.”

“Oh no, sir,” cried Mr Fisherton. “Sure you can’t know that the vile
wretch sought to decoy Miss to his house by a promise of safety on the
night of the Black Hole, acting, as every one present believed, in
Sinzaun’s interest. I fear this new misfortune is also of his
hatching, since ’twas he had the woman fetched that was to attend upon
the lady to Muxidavad, and though he feigned she was a stranger to
him, I doubt she was his tool.”

“’Tis well we know this,” said Mr Hastings, “or we should questionless
have applied to Omichund for advice and assistance, as in all other
cases. We must find you another messenger, Mr Fraser.”

“I thank you, sir,” said I, “but if there’s any art can smuggle me
through the enemy’s lines, I’ll go myself to Muxidavad.”

“There’s none,” said he. “No disguise could ensure your safety, sir,
and you might not only fail to help the lady, but even endanger her.”

“If there’s any power on earth can get me into Muxidavad, sir, thither
I’ll go.”

Mr Hastings and his friends shook their heads and lamented over my
obstinacy, but as you’ll hear, madam, there was assistance in store
for me of which we did not dream. Had any one told us at that moment
that after our march through his camp, which led to nothing, the Nabob
would treat for peace, we would have laughed at him, and yet the
treaty was signed only four days later, on the 9th. The Nabob
covenanted with us that he would restore the plunder taken at the fall
of Calcutta (this, which appears but a silly condition, the spoils
being dispersed through a whole army, was insisted on by the Bengal
gentlemen), permit the fortifying of the city and the erection of a
mint, and allow the Company’s _dustucks_ to pass untaxed and unopposed
in his dominions. He also restores the villages granted to the factory
by the Emperor Ferokshere, and all the former privileges, from
whomsoever obtained, asking in return an alliance offensive and
defensive against all his enemies. Mr Clive replied to this by
demanding liberty to attack the French at Chandernagore, but the Nabob
answered cunningly enough that if the Colonel would oblige him by
preventing Mr Bussey from invading Bengal from the Decan, and Count
Lally’s fleet, of the despatch of which he had heard, from attacking
it by sea, there would be time to think about Chandernagore
afterwards. The Soubah further asked for twenty English gunners for
his artillery, and Mr Watts, the late chief of Cossimbuzar, to reside
at his Court, believing him to be a meek sort of a person, destitute
of guile, and both these requests have been granted. When the treaty
was signed, the Nabob sent a present, comprising in each case an
elephant richly caparisoned, a robe of honour, and an elegant jewelled
ornament for the head, to Colonel Clive, Admiral Watson, and Mr Drake,
presenting _surpaus_ or dresses of state also to Omichund and Runjeet
Roy, for their assistance in the negociations. The Admiral, who is
hugely dissatisfied with the treaty, thinking it shame to make peace
when the blood of our fellow-countrymen remains unavenged, refused to
accept his present, but willing to show some civility to the noblemen
that brought it, carried them on board the Kent and exhibited to them
his lower tyre[15.10] of 32-pounders, of which they, returning, made
a dreadful report to their master.

And what, Mrs Hurstwood will say, was Colvin Fraser doing all this
time? He was waiting for his chance, madam, and he found it three days
ago, when Mr Watts was but just started on his way to Muxidavad,
taking with him Omichund and the gunners for whom the Nabob had asked,
as well as Mr Ranger, whose name won’t be unknown to Mrs Hurstwood, as
commandant of the Cossimbuzar garrison. Colonel Clive was engaged in
preparations, carried on with the greatest secrecy imaginable, for an
advance against Chandernagore, to be undertaken without the Nabob’s
knowledge, when there arrived in the camp a venerable divine, newly
come from England in one of the Company’s ships, who brought letters
of commendation to Mr Watts, as head of the Cossimbuzar factory,
having left Europe long before anything was known of the melancholy
revolution here. This excellent person, the Rev. Dr Dacre, is
interested in observing the manners and studying the antiquities of
the Indians, and has undertaken this prodigious journey at an advanced
age in the hope of conversing with the learned among that people on
their own soil. In place of being deterred by the terrible events that
have transpired since his voyage was planned, the venerable man is
solely eager to let slip no part of this period of peace, and desired
to follow Mr Watts immediately on his way to Muxidavad, where he looks
to obtain much enlightenment both from the Moorish _Imaums_ and the
Gentoo _Pundits_. Here, madam, was my chance, for I knew well that I
could never have prevailed upon Mr Watts to permit me to be of his
company, and therefore did not ask him. Guessing that the Admiral was
devising some means by which Dr Dacre might be despatched up the
river, I waited upon him in his cabin and asked his leave to visit
Muxidavad in attendance upon the worthy divine. You would have smiled,
madam, to behold Mr Watson’s astonishment at my request.

“I think you forget, Mr Fraser, that you han’t yet near made up the
time you lost at the beginning of this cruise. There’s not an officer
in the fleet but could ask leave for such a jaunt as this with a
better grace than yourself.”

“Indeed, sir, if it were only a jaunt I desired, I would not venture
to ask it.”

“What is it, then? Sure it can’t be true what I heard Billy Speke
chattering about t’other night, that you still have a notion of
rescuing the lady of whom you told me at Madrass?”

“That’s my hope, sir.”

“I had thought better of your sense, child. If the lady be still
alive, sure you can do her little good by approaching her, and you
may, by arousing the suspicion of her captors, bring about her
destruction.”

“Trust me, sir, I won’t act rashly. If the lady have--have formed
other ties, I’ll bow humbly to her discretion, and nothing will induce
me so to act as to bring suspicion on her. But I must know if she’s
satisfied to remain a prisoner.”

“You’ll embroil us afresh with Surajah Dowlah’s whole horde, to say
nothing of risking your own life and losing sea-time, and very likely
affronting Colonel Clive. No, Mr Fraser, I can’t have you go.”

I had expected this. “Then permit me to resign my commission into your
hands, sir,” I said, laying it on the table before him.

“What, sir?” cried Mr Watson, with mingled grief and indignation, “are
you serious? Do you know what you’re doing, with this expedition
against Chandernagore close at hand? D’you know what will be said of
you throughout the fleet?”

“I have considered that, sir, but the lady has no friend to attempt
her rescue but myself. I am all she has to look to for help, and I
won’t abandon her for the sake of my own advancement.”

“For the sake of your duty to his Majesty and the service, sir! D’you
know you are a very foolish and wayward youth?”

“Since you tell me so, sir, I can’t but believe it.”

“You’re a foolish and wayward youth, sir, but I tell you this. If you
had been willing to desert the lady in her extremity, Charles Watson
would have took away your commission himself. That man’s no British
seaman that would leave a woman a prisoner in the hands of the Moors.
Take back your papers, child; I’ll make things right for you with
Captain Latham. You shall carry despatches to Muxidavad from me to the
Nabob, and you shall remain there as long as I can conveniently spare
you, but I rely on you to do your business as speedily as may be. You
will leave this on Tuesday by the boat that carries Dr Dacre.”

And that Tuesday, madam, is now to-morrow.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 CONTAINING THE MEMOIRS OF A CAPTIVE.

_From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor._

                                Muxadavad, _End of October_, 1756.

Although I have finished the history of the misfortunes that brought
me to this place, I yet continue to write, more for the sake of
occupying my mind than from any hope that the letter will ever reach
my Amelia. It has taken me a whole month to complete my narrative, for
so weak was my hand in commencing that I could not manage above half a
page a day, though now I can with little weariness fill the best part
of one of the thick gilt-edged sheets of paper with which Meer Sinzaun
has furnished me. But why make such a business of it? my dear girl
will cry. Because, Amelia, I must find something to do, or I believe
that the sufferings I endured before coming here, and the
apprehensions natural to my present frightful situation, would drive
me mad. Meer Sinzaun was wiser than I thought him when he permitted
his prisoner to divert herself with pen and ink, for he don’t desire
(no more than Lovelace did) to find himself the gaoler of a wretch
whose intellects are disordered. Figure to yourself, Amelia, that for
near four months, which I have spent in this prison, I have seen no
one but Misery and the two or three women belonging to the house, and
now and then a gardener or other low-_cast_ person in the distance,
without it be that I get sometimes a stolen peep into the street
through a small barred window in the upper storey, but only when
Misery is absent, for she threatened me with having my one spy-hole
bricked up when once she catched me indulging myself with a glimpse of
the world. Shamefully though this wicked old woman abused me in the
matter of bringing me here, I can’t say but she is civil and
respectful enough at most times, making her chief exception when she
chances to find me praying. This she appears unable to endure, and
makes a point of interrupting me, or of fidgeting about so as to
disturb my thoughts. It seems to me that Sinzaun must have threatened
her very severely in case I contrived to escape, and that she fears
some miracle being wrought by Heaven to assist me. If the poor
creature knew how often I have prayed in vain that I might die, sure
she would experience no further alarm at the sight of my prayers; but,
indeed, she is right enough in imagining that if I should ever effect
an escape from this house it must be by means of a miracle.

Do you remember, Amelia, that day when the Rector’s brother came to
pay his respects to the gentlewomen at Holly-tree House, and
discovered us all sitting round in tears, our needlework neglected,
while Mrs Eustacia read aloud to us from the pages of ‘Clarissa’? The
good bluff gentleman, you’ll recollect, sat for a while listening,
with a snort or a “Pshaw!” at intervals, as though determined not to
be moved, but at last, taking advantage of the moment when Mrs
Eustacia herself had been forced to remove her spectacles, in order to
wipe away the moisture that was gathered on ’em, he cleared his
throat, and looking round very fiercely upon us, demanded what the
mischief Clarissa meant by secluding herself in an obscure lodging at
Hampstead, and thereby increasing the perils of her dangerous
situation, instead of seeking out a magistrate at once and throwing
herself upon his protection? You’ll remember how we all cried out that
the delicacy of her sentiments, her respect for the punctilio of her
family, the fear of directing public attention to her own equivocal
position, and a dread of finding herself repulsed, would all prevent a
female of elegant feelings from taking so bold and resolved a step.
“Then I hope for your own sakes, my pretty Misses,” says the good
gentleman, “that you’ll none of you ever find yourselves in that poor
girl’s situation, or your delicate sentiments will land you in a worse
trouble than mere public notice,” and he stumped away with a
prodigious determination.

But if he were here now, I think that good man would confess that I
have not even Clarissa’s chance of escape allowed me. My dear girl
won’t do me the injustice to suppose that I have sat down tamely to
submit to any fate my captor may destine for me. No, I have made the
circuit of the garden and the roofs which surround it times without
number, seeking to discover some unguarded window or door, some
outside staircase, or even some broken place that might afford me the
means of getting outside my boundaries, but to show you with what lack
of success I need only say that Misery don’t even take the pains to
follow me, now that she’s satisfied I shan’t throw myself over. She
wraps her head in her cloth and falls asleep, taking occasion when she
awakes to ask me, in the humblest style in the world, whether I have
yet succeeded in finding a cranny to squeeze myself through? But even
if I could elude her vigilance and that of the rest, and let myself
down over the wall by any means, in what sort of situation should I
find myself on the outside, in a country where women of quality never
stir out of their own grounds but in a suitable conveyance and
surrounded with armed servants? Without friends or money, knowing the
language but imperfectly, what could your poor Sylvia do? Sinzaun was
right when he said that she might well find herself in a worse
captivity than this.

In fine, my dear Miss Turnor, I can’t see the smallest hope of my
escaping unless I can obtain some dye with which to stain my skin, and
a trustworthy guide who would undertake to procure me the dress of a
low-_cast_ female, and convey me to one of the European factories near
Cossimbuzar. But how hopeless does it appear to seek for such a person
in a city where we Britons are now not only hated, but despised!
Nevertheless, in the faint expectation of lighting upon some such
charitable soul, I have sought to enter into conversation upon
indifferent topics with each of the women of the house at various
times, intending to broach my subject by degrees, but they all feign
not to understand anything I say. Their stupidity must be assumed,
Amelia, for if I spoke Moors as badly as they pretend, how could I
make Misery understand me, which she does without the smallest
difficulty? The truth is, my dear, that it’s useless to seek to work
upon people of this sort without you have money to offer ’em, and that
I have not, and they know it. Had I command of sufficient sums, I
believe I might be able to buy over even Misery herself, for I have
seen her eyes sparkle with avarice when I hinted at the quantity of
rupees my friends would pay were I restored to them. But alas! I have
not so much as an _anna_ to give her as the earnest of a reward, and
Misery is a prudent soul, preferring not to do business save for money
down.

But how then do I occupy myself, my Amelia will ask, in a place where
there’s no visitors, no diversions, no walking nor riding abroad, and
no books? Indeed, my dear, I make the fruitless journeys I have
described round the circuit of my prison, I observe the growth of the
flowers and sometimes pluck a few, I write to my dear distant friend,
and I work with my needle. Perhaps I have no right to say _my_ needle,
for you don’t know the odd rules that these people have, all the
sewing and embroidering being done, as a general rule, by men. To show
you the difficulty I found to obtain this natural and necessary weapon
of our sex, I must tell you something about my clothes. When I was
first able to leave my bed, Misery had the assurance to bring a
complete Persian dress for me to put on. You would have laughed,
Amelia, if you had not been in my situation, to picture me wearing
first a vest of thin silk, then a little velvet waistcoat ornamented
with goldsmith’s work, and a silk petticoat of red and green
stripes--the stripes going _round_ the garment, fancy, my dear!--and
over all a cloth or veil of silk five or six yards long. Turning away
in much displeasure, I bade Misery fetch me my own clothes, which she
did with a good deal of grumbling. But alas! though they had been
washed while I lay sick, they were so ragged and stained and shrunk
that ’twas impossible to put them on.

“You are a Moorwoman now, Beebee,” says the presumptuous Misery, “and
of course you’ll wear the Moorish dress.”

“I en’t a Moorwoman, and I won’t wear a Moorish dress,” said I, upon
which the old woman had the insolence to mutter that since Meer
Sinzaun furnished the clothes I might as well wear what he sent.

“On the contrary,” said I, “I’ll have ’em as unlike as possible to
those he sent, that so I may forget the humiliation sooner. How dare
you, woman, bring me these shocking gaudy colours, when you know I’m
lamenting the loss of the most tender and deeply honoured of parents?
Fetch me some decent black stuff, and a tailor to make a gown
according to my taste, for I won’t wear these things.”

Finding me so angry, Misery became vastly submissive, as is her way
when I assert my will, and entreated with tears that I would pardon my
slave, for there was no such thing as a black stuff to be had in all
Muxadavad, since none of the Indians wear this mournful hue, and that
to send to any of the foreign factories for it would cause suspicion
that ’twas a European desired so unusual a fabric.

“Very well,” I said, “I en’t unreasonable. You may bring me white or
gray or purple, and I’ll wear it, provided the tailor knows his
business.”

But at this Misery fell down at my feet again, and struck her head
against the floor, lamenting that ’twas impossible to employ a tailor.
He would demand a muster,[16.01] she said, and when he had my old
gown given him, there would be no concealing that ’twas part of a
European dress. This was true enough, and I resigned with some regret
the notion of the tailor, for these men are extraordinary ingenious in
copying any pattern given to ’em, and produce wonderful pieces of work
with their rusty needles and scissors that scarce hang together at the
rivet. “Come,” I said to Misery, “you and the other maid-servants
shall do the sewing, and I’ll tell you what I wish done.” But to hear
the cry she raised, you would think she had never touched a needle in
all her life, which I can hardly credit. Then, imagining that she had
vanquished me, she sat up upon her heels with a smile of assurance to
see me put on the Persian clothes. But this I was resolved not to do,
for the dress would have been the very livery of slavery, implying
that I laid down willingly the privileges of our own free and
enlightened land to take up the wretched degraded existence of the
Indian women. “Not at all, Misery,” I said; “see that the stuff is
got, and I’ll do the sewing myself.” At this there was another shriek
of protest, but this time I was firm, and when next the steward came
to the curtain to enquire my wishes, I demanded stuff and needles and
thread. (My own needles were gone out of my hussy. I fear Misery knows
more about them than she feigned to do.) The steward appeared to
consider my request in the highest degree extraordinary, more
especially when Misery had spoke to him for some time in the
Persic[16.02] language, which I don’t understand, but upon my
recalling to him sharply his master’s orders, he besought my pardon
humbly for his hesitation and promised obedience. More, he asked me
whether I was content with my woman, or if I found her saucy, and
would prefer another, but to this I answered that she was well enough,
and I desired no change. You perceive, my dear, I know that Misery is
false to me, but with another I might be in doubt whether she was to
be trusted or no, and so perhaps be led into rash confidences. My
forbearance gained me much credit with Misery, who came to me
afterwards and placed my foot upon her head, thanking me, in her usual
insinuating, deceitful style, for my goodness in passing over her pert
behaviour.

Well, Amelia, I had my stuffs fetched me at last, white muslin for
gowns, and a sort of dark purple satin, very rich and thick, for a
petticoat. You’ll smile to think of your Sylvia setting up as a
mantuamaker and milaner,[16.03] but I found the benefit of Mrs
Abigail’s instructions while at the school, and I don’t think my work
would disgrace me, even in England. But oh, my dear, the difficulties
of making a gown where there’s no such thing as lining or buttons or
hooks and eyes, or even lace or trimming! I wish I could show my
Amelia my wonderful devices of muslin frills, and ribbons made of
strips of satin, and gold clasps used for buttons. But at least I have
shown Misery which of us is mistress and which maid, and I have
refused to be turned into a Moorwoman to please the taste of my wicked
persecutor, who--

Oh, my dearest girl, I am in such a tremble I can’t go on writing.
Misery is just come to tell me that Meer Sinzaun is returned to the
city with the Soubah after a wholly successful campaign against the
Purranea Nabob, and that he’ll do himself the honour to wait on me
this evening. I think I had almost forgot the wretch; at least I never
believed he would return so soon. What shall I do? what can I do?


                                                   _Nov. ye_ 10_th._

I have delayed, Amelia, to write you the history of my interview with
Sinzaun, because day after day, whenever I thought of the wretch, I
was seized with such a shuddering that I could not put pen to paper.
But to-day I am resolved to do my utmost to conquer this weakness,
since if the mere thought of Sinzaun in his absence make me tremble,
in what condition shall I be the next time he chooses to force his
presence upon me?

As soon as I could collect my thoughts after receiving Misery’s
announcement, I came to the desperate resolution to behave towards my
captor in as easy and cheerful a style as I could assume, affecting to
regard him merely as a charitable person that had saved me from the
Nabob with the object of restoring me to my friends, and ignoring as
the creations of a mind diseased all my terrors respecting him in the
beginning of my fever. If I could play my part discreetly enough, this
expedient might, I thought, procure me some short respite, and perhaps
give time for help to reach me,--for surely, unless Britons were
prepared to sit down tamely under the most shocking oppression and
ill-usage, some attempt must soon be made from Madrass to redress our
wrongs. With this in my mind, I prepared to receive Meer Sinzaun.
Misery, seeing me, as she believed, resigned to my situation, fell in
joyfully with my imagined compliance, and was so presumptuous as to
weave in with my hair, as she dressed it, some flowers she had plucked
from the garden. This bold device I quickly discovered, and punished
the woman by compelling her to take out the flowers and comb my hair
up tightly under my cap. At least the odious wretch should have no
occasion to fancy that I had dressed myself fine to meet him.

Seated, at the appointed time, in the outer room of the garden-house,
which I have taken for my saloon, I awaited the approach of my enemy.
Presently I saw him crossing the garden, muffled very ingeniously in
the robes of a Moorman of quality, which were drawn up about his face,
but of these he disencumbered himself with great agility upon the
varanda, and on Misery announcing him, entered my presence in a
European habit of great magnificence, bowing in the most submissive
manner. I rose and made him my best curtsey. “Your servant, sir,” said
I. (You must remember, Amelia, that all our intercourse was in French,
since Meer Sinzaun don’t speak English; and indeed I have reason to be
grateful for the pains our good Mrs Abigail and Mrs Eustacia took to
make us speak their own language with fluency and correctness.)

“Nay, madam, behold your slave at your feet,” he replied, offering his
hand to conduct me to the settee. His touch sent a shudder through my
frame, but I did my best to conceal the repulsion with which he
inspired me.

“Pray be seated, sir,” I said, as he still stood before me in a humble
attitude.

“Madam, your commands can’t but be obeyed,” he said, and seated
himself opposite to me. For the instant I imagined--so complaisant was
his tone--that my fears might after all be unnecessary, but stealing a
glance at his countenance I perceived that here was still the old
Sinzaun, the man that had got me into his power and meant to keep me
there. To hide the despair that seized me, I made shift to speak.

“You are returned from your campaign, sir?”

“Yes, madam, and not only in safety but in triumph,--thanks, as I
can’t doubt, to your kind prayers on my behalf.” Oh, Amelia, if you
could have seen the horrid smile on the wretch’s lips as he said this!
“Or rather, permit me to say, ’twas the beneficent influence of my
goddess herself that accompanied me in the fight, and preserved me
from harm. Clarissa will deign to accept my poor thanks?”

I was almost choked by the wretch’s assurance, but struggled on.

“You found the time pass agreeably, sir, I trust?”

“Agreeably enough, madam, but prodigious slowly. The charmer who knows
where I had left my heart won’t ask me why the days seemed so long.
And now may I put the same question to Clarissa? Whatever answer she
may please to make will content me, for though she be cruel enough to
find the time of her adorer’s absence pass quickly, yet she will but
be recognising his devices for her entertainment.”

“The time is always long, sir, when one is parted from one’s friends.”
I said this with great seriousness, designing him to receive it as a
rebuke for detaining me from my friends so long, but what was my
horror and disgust when he bowed with his hand on his heart, crying--

“Oh, madam, you overwhelm me! A thousand thanks for your charming
condescension! That Clarissa should miss her slave is indeed the
height of bliss for him.”

I clasped my throat with my hand, my dear, or I should have cried out,
to see this wretch sitting there complacently to torment me. But I
felt assured that he was endeavouring to drive me to some hysterical
outburst that might display his power over me, and I resolved to
disappoint him if I died for it. While he continued romancing for a
moment or two, uttering all the extravagancies he could think of to
rob me of my self-command, I recovered myself a little.

“You was so obliging as to furnish me with writing implements, sir,
before you left,” I said when he ceased, “and I must be permitted to
show you that I have made no use of ’em such as you would disapprove.
There were thirty sheets of paper in all, I believe. Here’s the thirty
still, though in part used,” and I counted ’em over to him.

“Oh, sweet innocence!” he cried, “that combines the sprightly
simplicity of Pamela with the majesty of the divine Clarissa! Sure my
charmer never thought so meanly of her Sinzaun as to imagine he would
call her to account for the indulgences he was allowed to furnish her?
Thirty sheets that have been touched by Clarissa’s fingers! Fifteen or
so that bear the impress of her hand! Give me, madam, at least those
blank sheets, that I may wear ’em next the heart where your image
dwells. I would ask for one of those that are wrote on, but that I
know they’re too precious to be parted with, and I would not put my
Clarissa’s tender heart to the pain of refusing her adorer. But the
blank sheets I must have.”

“Oh, sir, would you deprive me of my sole diversion?” I cried.

“Deprive you, madam? Oh, this carping mercantile spirit don’t become
my Clarissa! You shall have two fresh sheets for each one that I
take--will that lift the storm-clouds from my charmer’s brow? How is
it my star among women will so seldom permit her worshipper to bask in
the light of her smiles? He don’t deserve the indulgence, that he
knows, but for the sake of Clarissa’s reputation for clemency were it
not well that she should show herself more complaisant?”

I gazed at him wildly while he uttered these words in a tone of tender
reproach, gathering up the blank sheets the while. “Like Pamela’s Mr
B.,” he continued, in a meditative style that checked the sobs which
would otherwise have burst from me, “I can’t find it in my heart to
deprive my charmer of the pleasure she takes in writing, even though
she use it to revile myself. To be sure, I can’t read what she writes,
and so improve my disposition, but then, no more can the thrice-happy
being to whom it’s addressed. How could I rob Clarissa of a diversion
that pleases her, and can injure no one, even myself?”

I think the wicked man looked to see me fly into a passion and demand
how he knew that I had wrote anything against him, but I reflected
that he could scarce imagine I should deal with his name in my letters
with any great tenderness, and that he had but made a guess at what
they contained, and I said no more than--

“Sure you must be very well acquainted with Mr Richardson’s works,
sir?”

“Madam,” he replied, “they are the study of my life. In the French
translations, they are my greatest treasures, and I admire them
continually more and more. I think I may say that there en’t a
virtuous sentiment, nor a neat touch of humour, that I could not give
you chapter and verse for on the instant, in the whole three novels.”

Is it not extraordinary, Amelia, that a person like this can actually
take pleasure in such works as Mr Richardson’s, whose whole course and
tenor must be a standing rebuke to him? They say that the devil can
quote Scripture, as indeed is proved by the Gospels, and this shows
that evil beings will read good books without being improved by their
study.

“And more,” he continued, “’tis to the good Mr Richardson that I owe
the honour of meeting the lady whose portrait he had surely drawn by
anticipation in his ‘Clarissa.’ When, in the dress of our great
sovereign, I penetrated unknown into the Masquerade at Calcutta, drawn
by the fame of a certain lady’s beauty that had reached me, I found
myself attracted by one who seemed to me to be none other than
Clarissa herself. ‘Here, Sinzaun,’ I said to myself, ‘is a
fellow-student of the books you reverence, one who has perceived what
is the crowning-point of Clarissa’s history, and has ventured to
outshine all other beauties by the simplicity of her attire and the
piteousness of her aspect!’ Judge, madam, what were my feelings when I
discovered my Clarissa to be the very being at whose shrine I was come
to worship!”

“Alas, sir!” was all I could say.

“Yes, madam,” he went on, “I have learned much from Mr Richardson. You
won’t find me falling into the error of Lovelace, and making use of
barbarous force to constrain my charmer, while her mind and heart
remain unsubdued. It is Clarissa’s favour that I desire to gain; she
must become mine by her own free consent. I can wait until she choose
to oblige me, for I know she’ll make me happy at last.”

He spoke with so much confidence and security that I began to feel as
they say birds do when a serpent approaches ’em, powerless to withdraw
from the noxious influence, however heartily I hated it, wondering
almost whether this man could force me in spite of myself to consent
to become his. I broke the spell with a vast effort by asking him the
day of the month, which he told me, and shortly afterwards took his
departure, leaving me to spend the night in sobs and tears, and urgent
prayers to Heaven to save me or let me die.


                                               _December ye_ 15_th._

Since my last writing, Amelia, I have endured three interviews with
Sinzaun. Such is the horrible cunning of this wicked man, that he
don’t present himself at regular intervals, nor inform me of his
intended visit until a short time before he appears, so that I spend
my whole time with the dread hanging over me of being suddenly
confronted with him. This garden seems to be haunted with his image;
the slightest footstep--even a shadow falling on the path--drives me
into an agony of fear, and the wretch can’t help perceiving, when he
comes, the condition my terror throws me into. This alone would prove
his cruel nature, that with all the respect and admiration he
professes for me, until I’m sick of hearing it, he continues to force
himself upon me with the sole purpose of tormenting the being he
feigns to love. Indeed, he goes so far as to rally me upon my
apprehensions, telling me once that my lofty courage recalled to him
some personage of one of the French poets who declared that he feared
God and had no other fear,--“a sentiment,” says Sinzaun, “that I’ll
venture to commend to my Clarissa, since it describes so exactly her
own absence of alarm.” Oh, my dear, is it come to this, that my
timidity is bringing a reproach upon the religion I humbly profess?
And yet, who could avoid fearing this man? Sure to feel at ease in his
presence would come near to sharing his evil deeds.

My dear girl will scarce credit it, but I am convinced that my
persecutor entertains himself during his absences with devising fresh
miseries for me. He comes to the house muffled in various disguises,
and is at huge pains to explain to me that he runs an incredible
risque of being tracked by spies, and that he can’t set out to pay me
a visit save when he has seen the Nabob engrossed in some new and
delightful plan of wickedness. “Then,” says he, “I fly on the wings of
love to my charmer, confident that one short hour in her presence will
stimulate my invention even to the point of devising fresh pleasures
for Saradjot Dollah, such as may gain me a further audience of her.”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, “I can’t but think it a pity that you don’t
attempt to lead the Nabob into the paths of virtue. In so novel a
pursuit the Prince--and perhaps Meer Sinzaun also--would find a
freshness and singularity far more agreeable than the dulness of the
evenings you are so obliging as to sacrifice to the poor prisoner
here.”

“Dulness! sacrifice!” he cried, brushing away my suggestion lightly;
“sure Clarissa must be seeking for compliments. I’m hugely grateful,
madam, for your obliging thought, but I’ll assure you that I amuse
myself infinitely during these visits. I can’t recall any occasion of
my life on which I have been better entertained.”

I can well believe it, Amelia. I never look at him if I can help it,
for so great is the loathing with which the man inspires me that I
can’t bear to meet his eye, but when through inadvertence I have done
so, I perceive in it a sort of sombre ferocity united with delight in
my sufferings that makes me tremble. Can my dear Miss Turnor figure to
herself the being forced to enter a tyger’s cage for the purpose of
diverting the tyger? Which would be the worse, does she think, this,
or that the tyger should be so obliging as to exert himself to
entertain you? I think she’ll say that one is as bad as the other, and
this is my case with Sinzaun. I suffer equally when he compels me to
speak and when he speaks himself, for the man, my dear, is an atheist.
I would not write this terrible charge, lest my indignation against
him should have caused me to judge him harshly, if I had not heard it
from his own lips, but he has assured me more than once that the one
deity in which he believes is gain, and the one incentive that moves
men is advantage. “I believe in my Clarissa,” was the utmost I could
get from him when I pressed him strongly on the point, and he added
that his life had taught him there was no Providence, either to punish
the evil or protect the good, but only a blind fate, out of whose
unsteady dispositions the wise man must shape his own road to success.
En’t this cruelty indeed, to seek to deprive a poor creature of her
faith in God just when she needs it most? But sure Meer Sinzaun has
overreached himself in this, for I need not go far to learn of the
existence of the devil, and to disbelieve in God on the devil’s word
would questionless be the extremest folly in the world. But having
thus unfolded to me what he called the wise man’s creed, which he said
he had gathered both from European philosophers and from the sages of
the East, Sinzaun went on to show its practical application, desiring
to prove that there was no truth nor honour nor virtue in the world,
any more than Divine justice nor providence, and proceeded to turn
into ridicule the very books he had been praising to me a month
before. I can but be grateful he don’t know his Bible as well as he
does Mr Richardson’s works, for sure ’twas only ignorance, and not
good will, made him stop short of attacking that. He cited instance
after instance to prove that there was no virtue in goodness, and no
reward for’t if there were, and no shame in sin, nor punishment
neither, and I could not hope to contend with him. You know, Amelia, I
was always the one to be worsted in an argument. How I wished that my
dear Mrs Hurstwood were present, with her ready tongue, to give the
assailant as good as he brought, and to silence, if she could not
convince him, whereas I could but sit quiet, or protest without hope
of moving him, while he attacked everything in which the Christian
believes. At last he took his leave, and summoning my courage, I said
as I curtseyed to him--

“Permit me to say, sir, that I’m entirely at variance with the
opinions you have chose to utter this evening.”

“A thousand thanks for the assurance, madam!” was the wretch’s reply.
“My mind is inexpressibly relieved. I should be desolated if I thought
my Clarissa shared those opinions I have indicated as my own.”

As much as to say that he would prefer his mistress to remain a
believer in Christianity, because she would then be the better wife to
him! Oh, Amelia, how can anything that is said or done move such a
man? I dread and detest him more and more, and my only comfort is
based on his assurance that he would wait patiently until he had
gained my favour. If he can wait, so can I, if he don’t drive me mad
first.


                                          _January ye_ 24_th_, 1757.

I have been favoured with several further visits from Meer Sinzaun,
but to describe these miseries at length would be as unprofitable to
my dearest friend as it would be painful to myself; yet of the last I
must say something, for the pitiless wretch told me he must take leave
of me for a season, since he was about to attend the Soubah into the
neighbourhood of Calcutta, there to destroy the last remnants of
British trade and enterprise in Bengal.

“Sure, sir, your prince has done more than enough for his honour
already in that line,” I cried, in an agony to see my countrymen still
further threatened.

“Why, indeed, madam,” he replied, “if there had been only your brave
Calcutta gentlemen, Mr Drak” (so he pronounced it), “and his two chief
friends, in the matter, we had been contented to leave them alone. The
persons who deserted their posts and connived at the destruction of
their factory in order to satisfy their enmity against their
unfortunate colleague, Mr Holwell, might well have been suffered to
remain at Fulta, subsisting on the charity of Omy Chund and the French
and Dutch factories, until they could be taken off and carried to
England by their ships arriving this season. But there was a certain
restless troublesome fellow named Clive, who may be known to you by
reputation, at Madrass when the news of the fall of Calcutta reached
there, and this pestilent wretch has proposed to himself to establish
the British again in Bengall. Sure the beginning of his enterprise
can’t have given him much hope for its ending; for, embarking with all
the forces he could command on board of the fleet lying at Madrass, he
set forth in the worst season of the year, with the result that the
whole of the ships was destroyed by storms, and but a few score of
men, with Mr Clive himself, escaped in boats and landed in the river.”

“Oh, sir, what is it you say?--all the fleet destroyed?” For you know,
Amelia, who is serving on board Admiral Watson’s fleet, if Sinzaun
don’t.

“All, madam, so far as my information serves. Whether the Admiral or
any of his officers and men are among those saved by the boats, I
can’t of course say. But I should judge by his actions that Mr Clive
is alone. What do you say, madam, to his being kindly received and
used by his Highness’s garrisons at Tanners and Buzbudgia, and taking
advantage of their hospitality to make an attack upon them by
surprise, inflicting some loss, though but a trifling one?”

“Why, sir, that if Colonel Clive acted so, he must first have
perceived treachery on the part of the Moguls.” But to myself I added,
“If this man can tell me a tale so manifestly false respecting Colonel
Clive, he may be deceiving me also with regard to the fleet.”

“If that’s so, madam,” replied Sinzaun, “I’m sorry for the poor
gentleman, for you must see that even a warrior of such renown can’t
be permitted to defy his Highness in this style in his own province,
and his Highness proposes to prove this to him shortly. But there’s
more trouble in store for poor Mr Clive, for he has committed the
grave military error of neglecting his base of operations. For this
adventure in Bengall he deprived Madrass of all its troops, ignorant
that Mons. Bussy was leagued with Salabatzing[16.04] against the
place, and that our new great fleet under Lally wasn’t far
off.[16.05] I fear Britain will lose more than Bengall by his
rashness.”

“Alas, alas!” I cried, with tears.

“I have the greatest respect, madam, I’ll assure you, for Mr Clive,
and it shall be my endeavour to see that his life is spared and
himself put safely on board of a ship bound for England. These Indians
will questionless desire to see him led in fetters and rags through
the streets of Muxadavad, as was done six months ago with Mr Holwell
and his companions, but he shall be saved this if I can compass it.”

“Oh, sir, is it true that good Mr Holwell was used in this barbarous
fashion, and exposed to the insults of the citizens, after enduring
the miseries of that terrible night?”

“Why, yes, madam. Poor Mr Holwell was hardly used indeed, being
sacrificed first to the pique of his colleagues, and then to the
resentment of Omy Chund, whom he had left in prison when he took
command of Fort William. You may chance to have heard it said that Omy
Chund never forgives, and he had old grudges also to avenge, and so
the four gentlemen found it who were sent here after the fall of
Calcutta. There’s a gay young spark belonging to your Cossimbuzar
factory that would say the same, I think. Being permitted to refuge
with the Dutch, Mr Hastings thought fit to abuse his Highness’s
clemency by stirring up his subjects to revolt against him; but a
whisper from Omy Chund,[16.06] to whom he had opened his designs,
warned Saradjot Dollah, and sent the young intriguer flying to join
his friends at Fulta. A most useful worthy fellow is Omy Chund, and I
myself have good cause to be grateful to him. But this brings me to
the object of my troubling my charmer with a visit to-night. Will
Clarissa permit me to make preparations for our union when I return
from Allynagore?”

“Our union, sir?” I stammered.

“Why, yes, madam, that delightful event which has shone like a beacon
before your adorer throughout these long months. What! did Clarissa
wrong her Sinzaun by imagining that he purposed to keep her immured
within these walls, remote alike from the society and the enjoyments
of her sex? No, madam; permit me to seek a priest at Chandernagore,
and bring him with me on my return (you see my care for your
punctilio--I offer you no Moorish marriage), and Clarissa shall
discover what delights can be offered for her acceptance by the man
she has so infinitely obliged. A palace instead of this rustic abode,
such clothing and jewels as no queen in Europe could show, a place and
credit second only to that of Ally Verdy Cawn Begum herself, and the
eternal adoring devotion of her attached Sinzaun.”

Now why was it, Amelia, that I could not refuse this proposition at
once? “Oh, sir, you overwhelm me----” I faltered, with my eyes on the
ground.

“Nay,” replied my suitor, “Clarissa has certainly misjudged me. Did
she imagine that I destroyed Calcutta merely that I might keep her a
prisoner?”

“You destroyed Calcutta, sir?”

“Why, yes, madam, though I would have spared it had you deigned to
listen to my vows, as I expressed in the first chitt I writ you.” I
remembered the billet I had read aloud to my dear papa and Captain
Colquhoun, and shuddered. “Had Clarissa yielded to my entreaties,
could I have done less than spare her countrymen for her sake? My
influence thrown on the side of clemency, instead of into the opposite
scale, would have turned his Highness from his purpose, or at the
least I could have delayed the march by some accident to the
artillery, and so given time for the rains to begin, which would have
saved Calcutta. But since Clarissa remained obdurate, I could do no
less than destroy the place whose capture meant that I should obtain
possession of her.”

“But, sir, you could not--oh, I don’t know what I am saying--my head
is in a whirl--’twas the merest chance----”

“There was no chance at all, madam. My plans were all concerted with
Omy Chund. Who prevented you from going on board the ships with
t’other women? Omy Chund, through his servant. Who raised the panic
that drove Mr Drak to fly before the time he had intended? This same
servant. Who was prepared to protect you against his Highness’s
soldiers by asserting my authority? The fellow again. Who suffered you
to slip through his fingers that night, but redeemed his fault nobly
the next day by sending an agent of his with you as your attendant?
Omy Chund himself. Sure Clarissa can’t talk of chance now, any more
than she can pretend to mistake my design in thus making myself master
of the being I adored.”

Was ever such a cruel coil of deceit and trickery wound about a poor
creature, Amelia? If you could know the horrid feeling of helplessness
that seized me in face of this man’s plottings! Oh, my dear, your
Sylvia is a sad coward. She durst not look the perfidious wretch in
the face, and declare her hatred at once of his proposition and
himself. Instead, she had recourse to a miserable equivocation that
darted into her mind.

“Sir, you can’t but be aware that ’tis only seven months since I lost
the best of fathers. What have you seen in Sylvia Freyne to make you
think so meanly of her as that she would outrage all the laws of
decorum and filial piety by listening to a proposal of marriage in
such circumstances?”

For one instant, my dear, the man was taken aback. “I declare, madam,
you’re cleverer than I thought you!” was in his eye, and the unhappy
fool before him rejoiced. Then he said, “I accept the rebuke, madam,
and Clarissa shan’t be troubled again with my ill-timed importunities
for the present, unless there’s any reason for infringing her pious
punctilio in her own interest.”

He left me soon after, and for three days I have been in a continual
terror lest his departure should only be a pretended one, meant to
throw me off my guard. But I have seen and heard nothing of him, and
the steward assuring me to-day that the Soubah had left Muxadavad with
his army, I begin to feel that I may look forward to a short period of
peace.


                                               _February ye_ 21_st._

Sinzaun is returned, Amelia, bringing such tidings as have reduced
your unhappy Sylvia to the lowest depths of despair. Immediately upon
entering the saloon he acquainted me that Colonel Clive, after a
gallant resistance, in which he was nobly supported by his troops, had
been forced to surrender, and was now in captivity until some Dutch or
other European ship could be found to convey him to England, while the
last traces of British influence in Bengall were now destroyed. As if
this grievous news, putting an end to any extravagant hopes that might
have crept into my mind, were not enough, my persecutor must needs add
a keener edge to my suffering by saying--

“Will it please the amiable Clarissa to learn that she had some hand
in this overthrow? I was told by one of the captive British officers
that ’twas the knowledge of Miss Freyne’s carrying-off by the Moors
that had played a principal part in inducing her generous countrymen
to attempt this rash expedition in the vain hope of rescuing her.”

Was not this an excess of cruelty, Amelia? Not content with bringing
about the destruction of Calcutta, I must involve in my misfortunes
the forces of Madrass and our great, our only commander on Indian
soil. Blame me, my dear, if you will, but I think you’ll scarce wonder
that the impulse seized me to unite my unhappy fate with that of the
sneering wretch seated opposite me, and draw down upon him some of
those calamities which seem to follow every one with whom I have to
do. Almost as the thought crossed my mind, Sinzaun remarked, with
great deliberation,--

“If I cursed the unfortunate Mr Clive a month ago for tearing me from
the side of my charmer, I have some hopes of finding reason before
long to bless him. The Soubah has been pleased to appoint me a mission
to visit Mons. Bussy, who is advancing hither from the Carnatic, and
welcome him in his triumphal course. Now in this agreeable jaunt I
shall be accompanied with my own tried troops, and no one can question
my actions. I see that Clarissa’s health is suffering from her close
confinement within these walls, and perhaps she may find the prospect
pleasing of a journey that would carry her through the most charming
region of Bengall, in the company of a man that would spare no pains
to make it enjoyable to her. The past can’t be undone, but if Clarissa
will relax her prohibition, and suffer her adorer to seek the priest
he spoke of, it may be that she’ll find it easier to banish from her
mind the sad images which can’t but cloud at present the spirits of a
creature of so much sensibility.”

Sure it must have been that Providence in which he affects to
disbelieve that directed Sinzaun’s tongue to the mention of the past
at that instant, thus recalling my mind from the shocking scheme of
vengeance that had presented itself to me to a frightful question
which I had been led to ask myself during his absence.

“Before I answer you, sir,” I said, “permit me to ask you a question.
You have acknowledged making use of Omy Chund’s servant to keep me in
the Fort at the time the rest of the European females escaped. You
know by what means he effected your purpose--by bringing word to me of
his finding my father wounded to death in one of our outposts, when
the gentlemen who had last seen him declared that he was well and
unhurt. Was this, sir, a part of your plan? Did you bring about the
murder of my father in order that you might carry into execution your
designs against his unhappy daughter?”

I stood up and regarded him, and his eyes fell before mine, but he
sought to speak with his usual lightness of tone. “If Clarissa seeks
to hold me responsible for all the deeds done by my agents, I fear the
record will be but a black one,” he said. “Can she imagine that her
adorer would desire to raise his hand against one dear to her? The
Gentoo fellow had his orders given him to carry out, but the means of
doing so were left to himself.”

“Enough, sir!” I said. “Hitherto I have thought you might not be
guilty of this crowning infamy, but now I am persuaded that you
suggested if you did not order it. And in return for the murder of the
father you seek to obtain the hand of the daughter! The reward may be
but a poor one, but it’s beyond your reach. I will never become your
wife, sir--never, never, never!”

“I think you will, madam. This display of heroics don’t displease me,
even without the entertainment it affords. One can allow some degree
of passion to the last female of your nation in India.”

“The last female of my nation in India, sir?”

“Why, yes, madam, the last. You en’t aware that when Mr Clive had
forsook Madrass, Mons. Bussy swooped down upon the place by land, and
Count Lally by sea, finding it an easy prey. Bombay was already fallen
into our hands, and the smaller factories were dealt with by a
detached squadron. The few English that survived these misfortunes
have been embarked in their vessels and despatched to their own
island. Britain don’t own a foot of Indian soil to-day--save for a
huge quantity of graves. And is this the moment for Clarissa to use
these bitter reproaches to her adorer, whose faults are all to be set
down to the excess of his passion for herself? She’ll deign him a
gracious answer?”

“The same answer, sir, as if she were the last female of her nation in
the world--never--a thousand times never!”

“We shall see, madam. I think you en’t yet fully acquainted with
Sinzaun’s disposition. Don’t consider it presumptuous if he tell you
that when he returns from his journey you’ll plead to be allowed the
favour he now offers you;” and he departed, leaving me more dead than
alive.

The last female of our nation in India, Amelia! Is there any use in
leaving these records of her fate, when there’s no one can read them
or convey them home? Perhaps some future age may bring them to light,
and I won’t destroy them. Do you remember my name in your prayers
daily, my dear friend, as I do yours, and as we promised to do when we
parted? If you knew at this moment that your Sylvia’s earnest prayer
was for death, would you have the humanity to join your petitions with
hers? If you truly loved your poor girl you would, for death is now
her only hope. Clarissa died, you’ll remember, but I am so frightfully
strong, and--I am the only female of our nation left in India.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 IN WHICH GREEK JOINS GREEK.

_From Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood._

                   The English House, Muxidavad, _Feb. ye_ 28_th._

Being now arrived at Muxidavad, madam, I take up my pen to fulfil my
promise to keep Mrs Hurstwood informed of the progress made towards
the release of her incomparable friend. But first, lest I would raise
too high the anticipations of my kind correspondent, let me say that
the three or four days I have spent in this place have brought nothing
but disappointment, both private and public. We can’t obtain any news
of Miss Freyne, and our natural enemies, the French, have sought the
aid of the inconstant barbarian, to whom Mess. Watson and Clive taught
so lately a needed lesson, to defeat our plans for their overthrow.
Mrs Hurstwood won’t have forgot that, either in my last letter or in
that before it, I writ that Colonel Clive had demanded permission of
the Soubah to attack Chandernagore, but met with a temporising answer,
which neither accorded the desired liberty nor refused it. The
Colonel, taking advantage of this ambiguous quality of the Nabob’s
reply, continued his preparations for the enterprise with all the
speed and secrecy imaginable, considering it of prime importance to
break the power of the French in Bengal before they could seize the
moment of his returning to Madrass to attack our weakened factory, and
ten days ago he crossed the river with his army.

But now begun a din indeed! The French writ urgent letters to the
Nabob, which reached him at Augadeep,[17.01] a village some forty
miles south of this place, imploring his protection against the wicked
and rapacious British, and so it was, that all his favourites
concurred with their entreaty. Monickchund feared that in the event of
our succeeding with the French we would fall to remembering that he
had possessed himself of a huge portion of the spoils of Calcutta, and
request of him to disgorge it, Coja Wasseed, who manages the French
trade, was naturally loath to lose his office, and the Seats, to whom
the Sydabad factory is indebted in the extraordinary sum of thirteen
_laacks_, were drove near distracted by the prospect of seeing
themselves deprived of the hope of regaining it. Hence, when Mr Watts
arrived at Houghley, he learned through Omichund, who travelled with
him, from the Phousdar Nuncomar,[17.02] that the Nabob had sent two
of his servants, Seen Bawboo[17.03] and Montra Mull, to Chandernagore
with a present of a _laack_ of rupees, and had ordered the Houghley
garrison to render the French every assistance in the event of an
attack by us. This last peril was averted by the address of Omichund,
who was able to bring Nuncomar over to our side by a bribe of 12,000
rupees, but on reaching Augadeep, Mr Watts discovered that to attack
the French at present would only serve to precipitate a conflict with
the whole army of the Soubah. The weak prince received our agent with
the most violent demonstrations of displeasure, nor was it until
Omichund had sworn on the foot of a Bramin, as the most solemn oath he
could take, that the British had no ill designs, that Surajah Dowlah
would consent to await even an explication from Colonel Clive. Urged
by Mr Watts’ recommendations to prudence, the Colonel withdrew his
troops, writing to the Nabob a friendly letter to assure him of our
regard for his wishes. Thus the affair came to an end for the present,
but with what humiliation for us and triumph for our enemies Mrs
Hurstwood won’t need me to tell her.

As to Mr Watts, who shares to the full the Colonel’s suspicions of the
French, I can’t but think his disappointment would have killed him,
had he not found so much to be done in repairing our damaged influence
at the Court. When I reached Muxidavad, he was still smarting under
his defeat, and while receiving Dr Dacre in the most handsome manner,
showed signs of desiring to avenge a portion of his wrongs on me. He
could not well refuse me a lodging, since I carried the Admiral’s
despatches, but all his words and looks exhibited the most undisguised
hostility, in so much that he failed even to invite me to his table on
the evening of our arrival. My revered Mrs Hurstwood will understand
with what apprehension I viewed this enmity on the part of the person
to whom I looked most for help in discovering my beloved, and with
what resentment mingled with resolution I obeyed a summons the next
morning to Mr Watts’ closet.

“Be seated, sir,” says the good gentleman, throwing a fiery glance at
me. “Pray, sir, what are you doing in Muxidavad?”

“I am the bearer of Mr Watson’s despatches, sir.”

“Sir, I know that, but it don’t give you any more right here.”

“I protest, sir, you’re using very strange language towards me.”

“The Admiral is behaving monstrous strangely towards me, sir. I put my
neck in a noose by coming here, endeavouring to serve the Company by
my long experience of these Indians and my knowledge of their politics
and customs, and he must needs spy upon me by means of an insolent
Scotch----”

“Stop, sir, pray, before you utter words that I’ll be under the
necessity of resenting. Permit me to say that you’re entirely mistaken
in Admiral Watson’s design. True, he has honoured me with the carriage
of his despatches, but only as the cloak to an errand of my own. He
had no desire to spy upon you, sir, far less to interfere with your
arduous labours here.”

“I’m infinitely obliged by your remarks, sir, but they’re contradicted
by Mr Watson’s choosing to send his letters to the Soubah by another
messenger than myself.”

“Indeed, sir, there’s no question of my delivering the despatches in
person. I hope never to meet the Soubah save on a battlefield. I am
instructed to hand the letters to you, to be delivered as you see
fit.”

“That sounds fair enough,” says Mr Watts, regarding me with something
less of suspicion, “but I should still be glad to know the reason of
your presence here, sir. A _cossid_, or good Dr Dacre himself, might
have served to bring the letters.”

“Why that, sir, is the very matter I desired to unfold to you. May I
hope you’ll treat it as confidential, whether you approve it or not?”

“I hope, sir, you en’t come here to get us into trouble with any wild
notions? But pray open your mind to me.”

“I am here, sir, on the behalf of a lady who survived the fall of
Calcutta only to become a prisoner to the Moors. She contrived to
throw out from her prison a paper, from which it has been gathered
that she’s in the hands of the renegado Sinzaun, somewhere in this
city, but we know no more than that.”

“And you hope to rescue her? Young sir, take the advice of a man that
has seen more of the world than you, and let the lady alone. Whether
she be a willing or a reluctant captive, you can do her no good.”

“If you had the honour of the lady’s acquaintance, sir, you’d know
that no weak compliance would make of her a willing captive. If for
any reason she believe it her duty to remain in captivity, I hope I
won’t persecute her to leave it, but if she be detained against her
will, as I can’t doubt, I would be lacking in every manly quality if I
suffered her to pine in vain for a deliverer.”

“You talk very fine, sir, but what do you purpose to do?”

“Why, sir, with your kind permission, I hope to remain here, and do my
utmost first to discover the lady, and then to devise means for
releasing her.”

“Indeed, sir, it’s well you’re speaking to me in an unofficial manner.
Do you perceive that you’re gravely purposing to place all our lives
in jeopardy? This Sinzaun is very great with the Nabob, and any
attempt to interfere with his women would lead to our destruction. Are
you minded to rush upon your death?”

“At least not until I have rescued the lady, sir.”

“And why then, sir? But pray give a thought to me and to the other
gentlemen here, and also to the Company’s business in our hands. Sure
you must see I can’t permit you to raise a hornets’ nest about us, and
cause the ruin of the interests committed to my charge, which are
those of the British nation?”

“Nay, sir, I don’t desire to jeopardise your endeavours by any rash
action of mine. I am seeking your advice in the hope of attaining my
end in a secret manner. You don’t need to tell me that on any inkling
of my business reaching Sinzaun he would at once convey the lady to
some distant place beyond our power to discover.”

“Come, sir, I see you’re a person of sense. But tell me, has Sinzaun
any reason to believe you interested in the lady?”

“To the best of my belief, sir, he has none, and I’m sure the lady
won’t give him any.”

“That’s better, for I was beginning to think you had destroyed any
hope of success by showing yourself in these parts. But, as it is, we
may be able to do something. Since returning to Muxidavad, Sinzaun
han’t appeared outside his abode, under the plea of illness, but my
spies give me to understand that the Nabob has despatched him on a
secret errand to Bussey. No, sir, don’t assure yourself of success too
soon. You must make no appearance in the affair, but remain in this
house, or attend Dr Dacre to view the sights of the city, as though
you had no design in hand. For a European lodging here to set on foot
enquiries regarding a woman in native custody would be to excite the
town against us, and endanger our lives. You must employ some Indian
as your spy, who may worm himself into an intimacy with some hanger-on
of Sinzaun’s, and so discover whether your belief be well grounded. As
for finding such a person, Omichund will do the business for us.”

“Pray, sir, don’t let Omichund have any hand in the matter. ’Twas he
betrayed the lady into Sinzaun’s power.”

“What, sir? make no use of Omichund? Then, indeed, you must do your
business for yourself as you choose, for the fellow has all our lives
in his hand, and would imagine himself betrayed if we employed any one
else. You may have heard that he never forgives, and I don’t pretend
to desire such usage for myself as he brought on poor Mr Holwell.”

“But pray, sir, what am I to do? As a man of honour, you can’t bid me
leave the lady to perish, and to appeal to the enemy for help would be
a strange piece of folly.”

Mr Watts thought for a while. “Look ye here, sir,” said he; “since you
have approached me in my private capacity, and as a person of honour
and sensibility, I can’t but choose to advise you. You have seen my
Tartar servant, Mirza Shaw[17.04] Buzbeg--unfold your history to him.
Being a Musselman, he goes in and out among the townspeople as one of
themselves, and he is faithfully attached to my service, since I did
him a benefit eight years ago at Patna. I believe the old rascal has a
wife in the city--maybe two--and women might be useful in finding out
such things as you desire to know. Strike a bargain with Mirza Shaw,
but don’t let him drive you too hard--though that’s a caution I need
scarce offer to a gentleman of your nation--and set him to work. You
may find him slow, but don’t let your impatience lead you to take any
steps for yourself. If you get into any difficulty, I can give you no
help--nay, I must if necessary disown and punish you, for my first
consideration is my business here. The Calcutta gentlemen think fit to
point the finger of scorn at me, because, say they, I surrendered
Cossimbuzar without firing a shot, when twenty-four hours’ resistance
would have saved Calcutta, and Surajah Dowlah has asked for me here
because he believes me a mild-spirited person, harbouring no
resentments. So be it. Mr Clive and Mr Watson may fight if they
choose, but when the Soubah’s power is broke, ’twill be thanks to
William Watts as much as to either gentleman.”

“Indeed, sir, your boldness in returning here has been much admired.”

“And not without reason, sir. There was one of my young gentlemen in
the Cossimbuzar factory--Hastings is his name--who thought he would
rise upon my downfall, and earn eternal gratitude as the destroyer of
Surajah Dowlah. Refuging with the Dutch at Calcapore[17.05] after the
troubles, he begins to plot with the Seats and others against the
Nabob. That’s all very well; but my young conspirator can’t conceal
his importance in having devised an actual plot, and by some
indiscretion lets the affair come to the Soubah’s ears, when at once
we have excursions and alarms, exit Mr Hastings from Muxidavad, and
enter one more fugitive at Fulta. I think better of you, sir, than to
expect you to follow such an example, but I hope you perceive I can
take no official notice of your errand here, nor can’t afford to
protect you should you incur the Soubah’s resentment.”

I assured Mr Watts at once of my confidence in his kindness and my
prudence in making use of it, and proceeded to come to an agreement
with the Usbeck Tartar by whom the good gentleman is so oddly
attended. This is a shrewd fellow enough, and agreed willingly to act
as my correspondent in the city, testifying a prodigious antipathy for
the man Sinzaun, as an apostate that had encouraged the Nabob in his
debaucheries, and introduced him to other vices than those native to
the country. While waiting for any discovery of Mirza Shaw’s that may
afford me a chance of action, I have made bold to offer my services to
Mr Watts to assist him in the huge quantity of writing that falls to
his lot, which has tended still further to conciliate his kind opinion
towards me. Mrs Hurstwood has been pleased to rally me more than once
upon my style in writing, but I hope she’ll grant now that I am
putting it to the best use in thus placing it at the disposal of my
country, and saving Mr Watts’ time, since both he and Omichund are
incessantly occupied in attempting to gain over the Nabob’s intimates
to our party. Ramramsing Rajah, the head of the spies, has been bought
over entirely to our interests, but the rest still tend to the side of
the French, although Mr Watts, with undaunted boldness, is now sending
letters to Colonel Clive recommending him in the most persuasive
manner to advance against Chandernagore without considering the lives
of those at this agency.


                                                  _March ye_ 20_th._

I have now been near a month at this place, but alas, madam! as yet I
have nothing to report as regards any success in the enterprise in
which Mrs Hurstwood’s heart, no less than my own, is engaged. Mirza
Shaw assures me positively that there’s no person of British birth in
Sinzaun’s household, nor can he discover that such a one has at any
time been a member of it. The conclusion to which we are driven is
that the villain has concealed the dear sufferer in some mean and
remote part of the city, desiring to possess his prize without fear
either of the greed of the Nabob or the jealousy of his own seraglio,
and the Tartar is now devoting his efforts to discovering such a
retreat. But this is an endless task! you’ll cry. Indeed, madam, it is
sufficiently appalling, but I would search Muxidavad house by house
sooner than leave Miss Freyne to languish in captivity.

But if my private chronicle be destitute of events of any moment, this
en’t the case with public affairs, which indeed have beset us round
with so many threatening waves that we are like to find some
difficulty to keep our heads above water. The first event that
disturbed the current of our politic dealings with this Court was the
news that arrived immediately after the despatch of my last letter,
that the Mogul Emperor’s great city of Delly had been captured by an
army of Pitans and Afguhans[17.06] from the north, which plunged the
Soubah into the most abject fear imaginable. Apprehensive lest the
Pitans would next proceed against his own rich province, he sent for
Mr Watts, and besought the aid of the English against this common foe,
promising to pay Colonel Clive a _laack_ of rupees a month if he would
but defend him with his army. Almost at the same time came news from
Calcutta of the extraordinary obstinacy of the French at Chandernagore
in their negotiations with us, by which they may, indeed, be said to
have rushed upon their own destruction. Willing to oblige the Nabob,
and at the same time to provide for the safety of Calcutta when he
should be forced to return to Madrass, Colonel Clive had proposed to
the French that a strict neutrality should be observed in Bengal
between the armies and fleets of the two nations, in spite of the war
in England and the Carnatic. In this measure Mr Watts concurred,
suggesting that the observance of the treaty by the French should be
guarantied by the Seats, to whom they are so deeply indebted, and the
Colonel, in order to secure the guarantie without offence, requested
the Soubah to undertake it, which he did.

But when matters were adjusted thus far, the French fancied it a good
chance to refuse suddenly to conclude any treaty at all, alleging that
nothing they might promise would bind their head factory at
Pondicherry, which is true enough, as all agreed when they remembered
the breach of faith committed eleven years back at Madrass, when Mr
Dupleix chose to destroy the town which his own Admiral had admitted
to ransom. The recollection in itself was sufficiently sinister, but
when the news came that Salabadjing, owing to our failure to support
him in the Carnatic, and the diversion of our forces for the recapture
of Calcutta, had been compelled to receive Mr Bussey again into
favour, and hand over to him the provinces of Masulipatnam, Ganjam,
and Vizagapatnam, thus bringing him within two hundred miles of Fort
William by way of Cuttack, we could not doubt but the French were
preparing a blow against us, and amusing us with negotiations while
they collected their troops. On this our commanders lost no time in
preparing to anticipate the threatened danger, Colonel Clive writing
to the Nabob that he was advancing with his army to assist him against
the Pitans, and halting on his way at Chandernagore, while the
Admiral, who would not yet consent to act without the Prince’s leave,
wrote him a letter in a very moving style, pointing out not only the
presumption of the French in invoking his name as the guarantie of a
treaty they had no power to conclude, but also the delay of his own
subjects in fulfilling the terms of the Calcutta agreement, and
threatening him with ruin and destruction if these were not performed
punctually and at once. This epistle was carried to the Nabob by Mr
Watts, who, finding the Prince very apprehensive alike of the Pitans
and the English, took occasion to represent the ingratitude of the
French to him very forcibly, wringing from him at length a permission
for the attack upon Chandernagore. Of this signal triumph we were
apprised by the good gentleman himself on his return from the
Kella,[17.07] which is the Soubah’s palace here.

“This, gentlemen, is the first nail in Surajah Dowlah’s coffin!” he
said, laying a pacquet on the table before Dr Dacre and myself. “In
less than two days Colonel Clive and the Admiral may proceed to attack
the French.”

“But have you succeeded in gaining the Soubah’s leave, sir?” I asked
him.

“He gave me a grudging assent, sir, and foreseeing that it needed but
the next comer to induce him to reverse it, I applied at once to the
_Huzzoor Nevees_,[17.08] whom I had already secured by means of a
genteel present, and had him write the letter of permission in a
proper style, and seal it with the Soubah’s ring. The _cossid_ is now
making ready to start, and the pacquet will reach Admiral Watson in
thirty hours or so.”

“But en’t I to carry the letter, sir?” I asked, for the Admiral had
desired my return as soon as there should be any hope of attacking the
French.

“Why no, sir. Would you have me lose all my pains? You can’t travel
near so fast as one of these fellows, and the passing of a European
would set the whole riverside agog. ’Twould be surmised that only a
pacquet of prodigious importance could demand such a messenger, and if
the friends of the French didn’t detain you, at least they would delay
your progress.”

“But I have Mr Watson’s orders, sir.”

“I vow, young gentleman, you’ll drive me to lock you up, for stir from
here you shan’t. Don’t be afraid; I’ll assure the Admiral that you’re
too useful for me to spare you, and if you lose the fight, at least
you won’t be further parted from your mistress than you are.”

This consideration went some way to reconcile me to my absence from
the battle I anticipated, but I can’t deny, madam, that I have been in
a perfect fever since the _cossid_ left, torn one way by my duty to
the Service and t’other by my affection for Miss Freyne. I am forced
even to envy Dr Dacre, who remains calm amidst all the alarms
surrounding us, thinking only of the _Pundit_ with whom he is studying
the _Sanskerreet_[17.09] language, or of the venerable Moors whom he
visits for the purpose of questioning them on their religion. Our
situation is the most precarious imaginable, for only a few hours
after the despatch of the letter there arrived another from the
Prince, forbidding any hostile action in the most peremptory terms,
which Mr Watts sent off with as little speed as he dared employ, and
we understand that the Soubah is perpetually despatching messengers of
his own, bearing menacing letters, to the Admiral and Mr Clive, while
he has ordered Roydoolub to march with his army to the support of the
French. It is our fervent hope that these discouragements will arrive
too late to deter our gallant commanders, who may be trusted to have
acted at once upon Mr Watts’ motion.


                                                  _March ye_ 31_st._

Our patriotic anxieties have been happily relieved, madam, by the
arrival of Mr Scrafton, of the Company’s Service, on his way to Dacca,
bringing news of the glorious triumph of our arms in the capture of
Chandernagore, which surrendered eight days ago to Admiral Watson. Our
success was not without alloy, being attended with a very heavy loss
of life and great damage to the ships, while a parcel of French took
advantage of the respite allowed for considering the terms of
surrender to slip out and make their way to Sydabad, their factory
near Cossimbuzar, where Mr Laws[17.10] has ’em concealed. So
stubborn, indeed, was the enemy that we would scarce have been able to
subdue them before Colonel Clive had drawn lines of investment about
them on the land side, had it not been for the assistance rendered by
a deserter named Mr Terrano,[17.11] who upon some affront received
from the _Directeur_, Mr Renault, came over to us, and pointed out to
the Admiral the only channel for the ships to pass up the river, which
the French had blocked by sinking six vessels there, besides mooring
two great booms across the stream with chains. In spite of this
advantage the passage was so dangerous that the Kent, which suffered
most, has been condemned, being an old vessel, and is fallen down to
Calcutta to be broke up, while only one officer on board of her
escaped unwounded, poor Billy Speke, among others, sustaining an
injury that is like to be mortal by the same shot that wounded his
father, the Captain.[17.12] My own ship, the Tyger, came off somewhat
more lightly, although among the wounded was Admiral Pococke, who,
arriving at Culpee in the Cumberland from Madrass, and finding the
action imminent, was so resolute to take a share in it that he came up
the river in his long-boat, and hoisted his flag on the Tyger, to the
excessive mortification of Captain Latham, who saw himself cruelly
deprived of the honour of fighting his ship. As for the army which the
Nabob sent by Roydoolub to the assistance of the French, it was
detained at Houghley by the address of our friend Nuncomar, who
persuaded the commander that Chandernagore would be fallen before he
could reach it. The letters sent to forbid the attack, arriving after
that which permitted it, were treated by the Admiral and Colonel Clive
with unconcern, a treatment accorded also, as we hear from Mr
Scrafton, to Mr Drake, whose speech at the council held before
starting on the expedition was so hesitating and contradictory that no
one could make anything of it, and on the Colonel’s suggestion it was
unanimously voted that the President’s opinion was no opinion at all.

And what (I am so vain as to imagine I hear Mrs Hurstwood cry), what
of the few British left in Muxidavad at a time when their countrymen
were thus defying the wrath of the tyrant? Indeed, madam, I think
you’ll agree that the protection of Heaven was extremely manifest in
our case, for in the midst of the raging fury of the Soubah over the
news there arrived two pieces of intelligence that recalled to him his
need of our protection. By means of a private messenger (his favourite
Sinzaun, as we understand), he learned that Mr Bussey, who was
universally believed to be marching to the support of Chandernagore,
had been compelled to turn back in order to put down the troubles
which were arisen, as soon as he turned his back, in that part of the
Decan where the French pretend to domination. At the same time the
news came that the Pitan army, having made an alliance with
Balagerow,[17.13] the Maharattor general, was marching upon Behar,
and in this extremity the Soubah dissembled his indignation at the
capture of Chandernagore, and writing insinuating letters of
felicitation to the Admiral and Colonel Clive, reminded them of their
promise to assist him, and went so far as to restore a portion of the
Calcutta spoils of which he had dishonestly retained possession.
Nothing could exceed his obliging behaviour to Mr Watts, which he
extended also to Mr Scrafton, who, being admitted to a share in the
plans of Mr Watts and Omichund, was glad to find himself introduced at
Court, that he might the more readily observe the demeanour of the
Prince and his attendance. With such excessive affection for the
British has the Soubah been filled during these last few days, that
hearing from Omichund, who attends his Durbar regularly, that there
was in our house here one of Admiral Watson’s officers, whom he had
not seen, he chid Mr Watts for his negligence, and bade him bring the
gentleman to pay his respects to him, in order that he might show
favour to the servant of his dear friend, the _Armiral
Dilleer-jing-behauder_,[17.14] for so they call Mr Watson, meaning
the Courageous in Battles. This demand was very disagreeable to Mr
Watts, who had been rejoicing in that my desire to keep out of the
Nabob’s sight jumped so well with his own wishes, but he signified his
compliance with a feigned air of readiness, and warned me not to let
my temper get the better of me in my intercourse with the Soubah. Mrs
Hurstwood will be at no loss to imagine my feelings in prospect of
being confronted with this monster in human form, but since I was
warned that my refusal might bring destruction upon the agency, I
prepared, though with a vastly poor grace, to attend Mr Watts to the
Kella, and am but now returned from the visit, which I will endeavour
to describe to you, madam.

On entering the Palace we passed, before reaching the Durbar, through
three great courts, each filled with a multitude of soldiers and
attendants, and so came into a pretty flower-garden, planted with two
rows of trees, and having channels of water running between the
borders. At the end of this garden was a terrass, where the Durbar was
held, and at the foot of the steps we were constrained to leave our
shoes, and to make a salute in the Moorish style, by lifting our hands
to our heads from the ground. On the terrass was a sort of square
porch, open in front to the garden and on one side to the river, where
the roof was supported on pillars hung with flowered muslin, which was
caught up with cords and tassels of gold and silver. On the other two
sides the walls were covered with shining white _chunam_, and
ornamented with small niches, very regularly placed, while the floor
was laid with fine mats, and on the wide sopha[17.15] was spread a
carpet of three thicknesses of muslin. In the midst of this sopha sat
the Nabob, his elbow resting on a cushion of brocade. He is a person
of middle height, very black for a Moor, his eyes lively and piercing,
and his countenance bearing an air of frankness. On his head was a
little cap, his vest was of flowered muslin, and his Moorish trowsers
of cloth of silver. On his left hand sat his brother Merzee
Mundee[17.16] cross-legged on the carpet, and on his right, but at a
greater distance, Roydoolub, Meer Mudden, and five or six others of
his great men, the one nearest to him being a person of a dark and
forbidding countenance, who pleased me even less when he smiled, which
he did whenever the Nabob turned towards him, than when he wore a
serious air. All this I had leisure to observe while the Nabob seated
Mr Watts on his right hand, with me beyond him, and exchanged with him
many compliments in the Persic language, addressing him as his dear
friend Watch Siab, without having recourse to the interpreters who
stood behind.

Oh, madam, you can’t fancy the sentiments that possessed me as I
looked upon the man to whose tyrannic fury and insatiable avarice I
owe it that my dear Miss Freyne has been torn from her paternal abode
and is at this moment a prisoner among these pagans! As I regarded him
the impulse seized me to spring upon him and threaten him with instant
death unless he restored me my beloved; but even as I laid my hand on
my sword I remembered that he might conceivably know nothing of the
matter, and that such an outburst might warn the true criminal if he
were present. I endeavoured to turn my glance from the Prince to the
officers and guards that stood on either side, but he remarked the
motion of my eyes, and said something to Mr Watts with a laugh.

“His Highness desires to be informed whether you’re always so serious
of aspect, Mr Fraser,” says Mr Watts, giving me a private sign to make
some civil reply, but this was beyond my power. I could only utter a
confused word or two, but my chief was more ready than I. “I’ll tell
him that you belong to a nation that was never known to smile,” he
said, and spoke in Persic to the Nabob. While all the assembly was
laughing to see me put out of countenance, the person that sat next
me, and whose countenance I distrusted, leaned forward and said
something smiling.

“Meer Sinzaun says that you come like a thunderstorm,” says Mr Watts
to me. “He felt cold as soon as he caught sight of your gloomy
countenance.”

“Pray tell him that thunderstorms bring worse things with ’em than
cold, sir,” said I, wondering no longer at the dislike I had felt.

“Are you mad?” says Mr Watts, hastily. “Sinzaun is aiming to make his
Highness believe you possess an evil eye.” Turning to the Nabob, he
told him, as I learned afterwards, that though I bore a surly air I
was well versed in military affairs.

“Aye,” says the Prince, “I would I had a regiment of men of his
nation. If they were all as tall and as sour-looking as he, they would
frighten away the Pitans by their looks alone,” and every one laughed
at his jest. Shortly afterwards the officers of the guard appeared
before the terrass to make _salam_, as they call it, each man at the
head of his company, and after this Mr Watts took his leave, the Nabob
bidding him farewell in the most obliging manner, but Meer Sinzaun
testified by his looks the same dislike for me that I had conceived
for him.


                                                  _April ye_ 30_th._

Alas, madam! I have still no news to give you of our adored Miss
Freyne. It appears almost incredible that the minute enquiries and
researches of Mirza Shaw should not have produced the slightest
result, but so far he can tell me nothing, though once or twice of
late I have observed about him an air of mystery that has made my
heart leap with groundless joy. My sole comfort is that Meer Sinzaun
has again been absent from the city, as we are assured in a
sufficiently strange manner. Colonel Clive having demanded of the
Nabob to give up Mr Laws and the fugitives from Chandernagore, the
Prince sent them away as though to go to Patna, telling the Colonel
that he had banished them from his dominions, but despatching to them
secret instructions, as we learn, to proceed no further than
Rajamahol.[17.17] They passed through Muxidavad in military array, as
we ourselves beheld, having with them no less than thirty small
carriages and four elephants, and Sinzaun questionless accompanied
them, since we hear from Coja Wasseed that he saw him pass through
Ballisore, taking with him a present of an elephant and divers jewels
from the Nabob for Mr Bussey.

You’ll guess, madam, that this evasion points to a change in the
Prince’s attitude towards us; and indeed the retreat of the Pitans
from Delly, coupled with the Colonel’s demand for leave to attack the
Sydabad factory, placed us for a time in the most imminent danger,
which may be said still to continue. Finding himself no longer in need
of our protection, the Nabob took occasion, on hearing that Colonel
Clive had despatched a force in pursuit of Mr Laws, to give way to the
most violent transports of rage, in which he drove our _vacqueel_ with
ignominy from his presence, and threatened Mr Watts with death either
by beheading or impaling, unless we made peace with the French or
withdrew immediately to Calcutta. Mr Watts met these menaces with the
greatest calmness and resolution, refusing both of the Nabob’s
conditions, and obtaining leave from the Presidency to send down the
treasure and effects of the agency to Calcutta in view of a fresh
outbreak of war, since the Soubah has ordered Roydoolub and his troops
to advance to Palassy,[17.18] which is on the way to Calcutta from
here. Considering that a rupture was now inevitable, the Colonel sent
Captain Grant with forty Europeans and some Tellinghys to Cossimbuzar,
with several boat-loads of ammunition concealed under rice, but these
were stopped and turned back at Cutwah without being able to reach us.
In this melancholy and mortifying situation Mr Watts has displayed the
utmost resolution and intrepidity, attending every day at the Durbar
(for when he did not appear there the Nabob sent for him to come), and
supporting the insults of the ungracious tyrant with all the temper
and calmness imaginable, although they have preyed so sadly upon his
mind that he could not have persisted in his task but for the
consolation imparted by the kind letters of Colonel Clive and the
Admiral. These gentlemen have themselves suffered under the
waywardness of the Soubah, Colonel Clive receiving from him in one day
as many as ten letters, wrote in the most opposite styles, the whole
of which he has answered suitably to their contents, and with all the
punctuality and complaisance in the world. At last the Nabob,
perceiving, apparently, that he was alienating those who might be of
service to him, changed his behaviour suddenly, and sending for our
_vacqueel_, presented him with a _serpau_, summoning Mr Watts also to
his presence and caressing him, seeming to consider that this
condescension should atone in full for all his insulting behaviour.

But this last outbreak of the inconstant Prince has persuaded all that
have to do with him that there’s no confidence to be placed in any of
his assurances, and this sentiment has now spread from the British to
his own courtiers, whom he has used with the utmost arrogance, heaping
insults upon the Buxey, Meer Jaffier, who married his great-aunt,
fining Monickchund and throwing him into prison for stealing a portion
of the Calcutta plunder, placing his worthless favourite
Moonloll[17.19] over the head of Roydoolub, and keeping the Seats in
a perpetual apprehension lest he may deprive them suddenly of their
wealth. Questionless, the youthful tyrant has prepared his own
destruction. A week ago Mr Watts was approached by a Mogul named Godar
Yar Caun Laitty,[17.20] who commands 2000 horse in the Soubah’s
service, but is entertained by the Seats to protect them in case of
danger, and was acting now upon their motion. This person, opening his
mind to Omichund, who was sent to confer with him, proposed that when
the Soubah, who was about to take the field at Patna against the
Pitans, had started on his campaign, the British should assist
Roydoolub and the Seats to seize Muxidavad, and immediately make Yar
Caun Laitty Nabob, in return for which he would enter into any
engagements we pleased. Almost before Mr Watts had imparted this
notion to the Presidency, there comes also the Armenian Coja Petruce,
bringing the same proposition from Meer Jaffier, and he having so much
larger a force at his command Mr Watts inclines to him.

As though to prevent any sentiment of compunction on our part for thus
plotting against him, the Nabob has thought fit to exhibit again the
utmost hostility towards us. In place of removing his army from
Palassy, as Colonel Clive requested him, he has patched up a peace
with Meer Jaffier and sent him there with reinforcements for it. At
the same time, having heard from his spy Mooteram the absurd report
that in spite of his stopping Captain Grant’s detachment at Cutwah, we
had half our army concealed at Cossimbuzar, he sent a mob of servants
and troops to search the factory, but they found there only forty
Europeans, of whom twenty were the artillerymen that were lent to him
in February. More than this, we learn that he has wrote to Mr Laws
requesting him to remain with his men at Boglipore[17.21] as his
guests until he sends for them, and that he is despatching Sinzaun
afresh to Mr Bussey to promise him twenty _laacks_ of rupees if he’ll
come to his assistance, while he has stopped with stakes the entire
breadth of the Cossimbuzar River at Sootey, twenty miles below this
place, with the design of preventing the passage of our ships, of
whose armament he cherishes the wildest notions, although they could
never come up so far. Thus, madam, we are placed between an infuriated
despot and a parcel of timid conspirators, all afraid the one of
t’other, Meer Jaffier refusing to trust Omichund and the Seats jealous
of him, while Yar Caun Laitty may at any moment revenge himself for
being set aside by revealing the whole affair. ...

Madam, I must add one word to the end of this letter. We have hope at
last. Mirza Shaw has just approached me with an air of the utmost
secrecy, and informed me that last night he tracked Sinzaun in
disguise to an obscure house on the outskirts of the city, where, as
he learns from the gossip of the neighbourhood, he entertains a lady
whom he has given out as his ward. She is called Nezmennessa Beeby,
but she is very white, and wears an outlandish dress, so that they
believe her a woman either of Persia or Cashmere, and Sinzaun talks
with her through a curtain with great respect. So cautious is the
fellow that no one in the vicinity knows who he is, but they believe
him to be a slave-merchant, who intends a most delicate gift for the
Nabob. Oh, madam, picture to yourself the horror of the situation!
What’s to be done? We can’t be sure that this lady is Miss Freyne, and
to rescue the wrong captive would but plunge us in fresh difficulties.
How to obtain a sight of her, open communication with her--above all,
how to release her? But of that I can say more when the Tartar has
conducted me to-night to view the house.


                                                    _May ye_ 23_rd._

I am conscious, madam, that you’ll be justly indignant with me for
leaving you so long in suspense after the affecting news contained in
my last letter, though indeed I have put off writing from day to day
in hopes to find something certain to communicate to you, but in vain.
On the night after my letter was despatched, Mirza Shaw attended me to
the house of which he had spoken, both of us wearing the Moorish
dress, and we traced its extent and examined the outside walls, which
are high and in good repair, and (as is common with the houses here)
destitute of any openings by which a secret entrance might be
effected. The only means that suggested itself to me for scaling them
was a ladder of ropes furnished with a hook at one end, which might be
thrown over the summit of the wall, and catching there afford us an
ascent, but the Tartar objected very pertinently that without knowing
who was to be found on the other side of the wall we might well
terminate our lives and our hopes of rescuing Miss Freyne at once in
our first attempt. Other expedients we discussed, without finding any
that commended itself to our prudence, and we left it at last that
Mirza Shaw was to linger in the vicinity of the house, and
representing himself as a _boxwaller_,[17.22] insinuate himself into
the confidence of the servants, and so perhaps gain access to
Nezmennessa Beeby herself, or at least discover who she may really be.

This prudent decision has met with an incredible want of success, and
I fear that had it not been for the threatening posture of public
affairs your correspondent, madam, would have brought the entire
enterprise to destruction by rushing hastily upon some solution of the
difficulty. But events of importance have followed so close upon one
another, and Mr Watts has found it needful to make such constant
demands upon my humble services as scribe, that even the question of
Miss Freyne’s release has been occasionally driven from the forefront
of my mind. Nine days ago Mr Watts arrived at an agreement through
Coja Petruce as to the treaty to be made between Meer Jaffier and the
British, the Buxey assenting to all our demands, but repeating his
entreaty that Omichund should not be informed of the affair. In this
Mr Watts endeavoured to content him, but the old Gentoo had already
been told too much to render it possible to keep him in ignorance, and
was also anxious to know why no favourable answer was to be given to
Yar Caun Laitty, whose proposals had at first been so warmly
entertained. Finding that the disclosure could not be avoided, Mr
Watts at length unfolded to him the compact with Meer Jaffier, which
has roused in Omichund an implacable hatred, since he could not fail
to perceive that the explication was only extorted by necessity. This
passion he gratified immediately by threatening to disclose the entire
scheme to the Nabob, unless the possession of one-sixth of that
Prince’s jewels, and a huge _dussutary_[17.23] besides on the rest of
the spoils, were secured to him by the treaty. This Mr Watts was
unable to promise on his own authority, but, soothing the traitor with
agreeable words, referred the matter to the Select Committee at
Calcutta, while Omichund took occasion to exhibit that wild
prodigality of deceitfulness in which he takes delight. Obtaining
access to the Nabob, he informed him very circumstantially that he had
discovered a plot between the English and Mr Bussey, who were about to
unite their forces with the object of hurling him from the throne.
Absurd though such a notion is, it commended itself to the Nabob, who
rewarded Omichund by ordering the repayment to him of a sum of money
which he had lent so long before as almost to have lost hope of
receiving it again, and this was an ample satisfaction to the wily
Gentoo, although Surajah Dowlah was undeceived almost immediately by
the arrival of the news that Mr Bussey, far from allying himself with
us, was reported by advices from Ballisore to be five days’ journey
this side of Cuttack, marching against us with 700 Europeans and 5000
Seapoys.

Immediately after this, Mr Scrafton arrived suddenly from Calcutta,
bearing a letter that had been delivered to Colonel Clive by a
stranger Gentoo known to none of the gentlemen there, and giving his
name as Govindroy.[17.24] This letter purported to be from the
Maharattor leader Badgerow,[17.25] offering the Colonel an alliance
for the purpose of crushing the Nabob, and it fell in so pat with our
desires that no one could consent to accept it as genuine, all
conceiving it to be a trick of Surajah Dowlah’s to entrap us. In this
difficulty, Colonel Clive took the courageous step of sending the
letter to the Nabob as a proof of our good faith, but he designed to
reap the additional advantage from Mr Scrafton’s journey of
establishing communications with Meer Jaffier, who had proceeded
unwillingly with his army to Palassy after the Soubah’s feigned
reconciliation with him. In this, however, Mr Scrafton was anticipated
by the Nabob’s spies, who (whether guessing his intention or not I
can’t say) turned him back and forced him to take the straight road,
but the Soubah, receiving the letter, appeared much moved by the
confidence reposed in him by the British, and also by the affecting
remonstrances on his late unfriendly behaviour addressed to him by the
Colonel, so that he ordered Meer Jaffier with his army to return to
Muxidavad. But the unsteady Prince is now too late in this last change
of front.

Of the course which the Council at Calcutta have thought fit to adopt
with regard to Omichund’s unjust demands I can’t speak with certainty,
but I fear I have a very fair notion of it. Four days back a messenger
of the country brought to Mr Watts the treaty drawn up and signed by
the Council, ready for presentation to Meer Jaffier, and the good
gentleman enlarged to Dr Dacre and myself with a good deal of
merriment on the clauses which had been added at Calcutta, stipulating
for donations of money, in excess of the sums named in restitution of
last year’s losses, not only to the army and the fleet, but also to
each member of the Council. There was no mention of Omichund’s name,
which surprised me, but before I could remark on the omission Omichund
himself was announced, when Mr Watts immediately doubled up the treaty
and thrust it into his breast.

“Be so good as to pass me that _lol coggedge_,[17.26] Mr Fraser,” he
said, indicating a red paper that had been in the same pacquet with
the white one he had just concealed. Glancing carelessly at it, I
perceived that ’twas another copy of the treaty, but with a clause
added, in which I saw Omichund’s name.

“Sure there’s something wrong here, sir,” I said, looking at the list
of signatures; “I could swear that Admiral Watson never writ his name
in that style.”

“Have I asked your opinion on the matter, sir?” says Mr Watts.

“Why, no, sir; but the hand is far liker Mr Fisherton’s than the
Admiral’s.”

“You’ll oblige me infinitely if you’ll hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr
Watts very angrily, as Omichund was brought in.

I did hold my tongue, for the business was none of mine, but I can’t
help being persuaded that Colonel Clive and the Council have devised
some plan for hoodwinking Omichund with a false copy of the treaty,
which they have not dared to ask the Admiral to sign. There’s
something ironically suitable, questionless, in the old deceiver’s
being thus deceived; yet I can’t but regret that a body of Britons
should voluntarily decline to his pagan level in order to get the
better of him. The device, whatever it may be, succeeded so far that
he departed satisfied; but he has since exhibited fresh apprehensions,
and Mr Watts is doing his best to induce him to return to Calcutta
with Mr Scrafton, under colour of removing him out of danger, but this
kind solicitude is perpetually defeated by Omichund himself, whose
avarice forbids him to leave Muxidavad until he has recovered certain
further sums due to him, thus continuing from day to day our anxiety
as to his intentions.

Mr Watts, meanwhile, continues with the greatest coolness imaginable
to attend the Durbar, as though he were not in danger of being
denounced as one of those who are plotting to dethrone and kill the
Nabob, and is received with varying favour. Since the visit I
described to you, madam, I have not attended at Court, but while
waiting upon Mr Watts to the Kella, have remained in one of the
anterooms until his business was finished, and there I have to-day met
with a notion that I hope to employ for the rescue of our dear Miss
Freyne. Waiting among the Nabob’s inferior courtiers, I observed that
some of these were passing the time by listening to a person that
appeared to be relating an improving history of some sort. Mr Watts’
_mounshy_ being with me, I invited him to interpret what was said, and
this the story-teller took as an extraordinary great compliment, and
told his tale with an eye to me, pausing between the sentences in
order to leave the interpreter time. I’ll own that I was not a little
disappointed at first with the narrative, which contained none of
those wonders that the Easterns are wont to import into their
romances. To be brief, madam, it concerned a vizier that had robbed
the king his master, and was sentenced to be imprisoned without food
or water in the topmost apartment of a lofty tower, there to starve to
death. But happening to possess a faithful wife, the lady came by
night to the foot of the tower, and desired, weeping, to know how she
might gratify her unlucky spouse. “Why, my dear,” says he, “you may
save me if you will.” The lady on this dried her tears, and requested
the vizier’s commands. “To-morrow night,” says he, “bring here a
beetle, some butter, a skein of silk, a ball of twine, and a long and
stout rope, and I’ll show you how to employ ’em.” The lady came
punctually the next night, bringing with her the desired articles, and
at her spouse’s direction placed a small lump of butter on the head of
the beetle, and fastened the end of the silk about its body, setting
the insect on the wall of the tower as high up as she could reach. The
beetle, discovering by the odour of the butter that there was a feast
in the neighbourhood, which it judged to be somewhere in advance of
itself, crawled up the side of the tower, led on perpetually by the
fallacious delight, and came at last into the hand of the vizier, who
unfastened the silk from its body, and desired his lady to attach the
end of the twine to that of the skein. Pulling up the silk, he then
obtained possession of the twine, by the means of which he next drew
up the rope, and, fastening it to a pillar of his apartment, descended
the tower in safety. This conclusion was much applauded by the
audience, and I desired the _mounshy_ to make my compliments to the
narrator, which appeared to gratify those who stood round, though it
had surprised them prodigiously to guess to what a degree the fellow
had really obliged me.

In order that you, madam, may understand my gratification, you must
know that Mirza Shaw and I have been seriously disturbed this three
weeks by the difficulty of throwing a rope (of a size sufficient to be
safe to descend by) from the ground to the roof of a house without
making such a clatter as to rouse the whole neighbourhood, even though
we had succeeded in opening communications with Miss Freyne. The
notion of a grapnel we have been forced to relinquish, owing to the
tumbledown and uncertain state of the parapets even in the best houses
here, which might involve us in a serious catastrophe should the wall
break away. But with the new plan suggested by the tale I had heard it
seemed to me that I saw my course marked out, and I opened my mind to
the Tartar as soon as we were returned to the house and I could catch
him alone. He did not accept my proposition with that eagerness I had
anticipated, but I perceived that this was because he was piqued that
the suggestion did not come from himself.

“Sure you’ve forgot the situation of the place, Siab,” says he. “The
sight of two men carrying such a paraphernalia will rouse the whole
quarter against us.”

“Why, as to that,” said I, “we must have the rope of silk, and I’ll
wind it round me under my coat.”

“If you look to see your Beeby touch a beetle with her fingers, and
fasten a rope so as ’twill be safe, and then consent to descend by it,
you’re a rash man, Siab.”

“The lady will forget her feminine fears in such a case,” said I. “We
must trust her to fasten the rope safe, and as soon as that’s done
I’ll ascend it and lower her down.”

“But think, Siab. You’ve caught your beetle, let us say, and started
him on his journey up the wall. But all beetles may not be charmed by
butter, or even if he be, a beetle travels but slowly. For us to
remain in an attentive posture outside a house in a frequented place
until he had reached the top, would infallibly lead to our seizure by
the Cotwal, even if we had not a crowd to observe our doings.”

This was, indeed, a grave objection, and one that I could not get
over, since ’twas not reasonable to suppose we could control the
motion of the insect to our liking. The place stands in a pretty
crowded part of the city, and we could not hope the neighbours would
permit us to play at house-breaking for several hours uninterrupted;
while even should they prove so complaisant as to do this, their very
observation would be fatal to our design. I was altogether taken
aback, and stood staring at Mirza Shaw. Suddenly a notion entered my
head, suggested by the narrow streets that surround on all sides the
English house, on whose roof we were standing.

“Are you well acquainted with the lanes about this house of Sinzaun’s,
Mirza Shaw?”

“Seeing that I have lately spent the best part of my time there I
should be but a dolt if I were not, Siab,” he answered.

“Then have you observed whether in any of them there’s an empty house
that might be hired? It must be a large house, as high as Sinzaun’s or
even higher, and it must face it.”

“I don’t say but there might be such a place found, Siab.”

“Then hire it this very day. Tell what tale you choose, and come to me
for the money.”

“Ah, I perceive your honour’s meaning.” Mirza Shaw put on a thoughtful
air. “But a beetle won’t walk from roof to roof on the air, Siab.”

“No, but we’ll do without the beetle, and make our task the easier.
Trust a seaman to throw a ball of twine safe across the gap.”

“But that would make a noise, Siab, if the Beeby did not catch it.”

“But a ball of woollen yarn would not, and would serve as well to pull
the twine across as the Vizier’s skein of silk, if ’twas paid out
gently. Go and hire the house, Mirza Shaw, and I’ll perfect my plan. I
have in my head the hint of a device for the lady’s rescue.”


                                                    _June ye_ 8_th._

At length, madam, the day is arrived on which it’s possible to make a
serious endeavour to open communications with Miss Freyne, and since
the attempt can’t take place before nightfall, Mrs Hurstwood won’t be
surprised that I have taken refuge in writing to her to escape from
the tumult of my own too eager thoughts. There’s another reason also
why I would set down the events of this last week, and that is, that
in case our lives, Mirza Shaw’s and mine, should fall a forfeit to the
audacity of our attempt, or that a general catastrophe should tear
from us the fruits of victory by means of the destruction of the
entire agency, Mrs Hurstwood may be assured that not the will, but
only the power, was wanting for the rescue of her friend.

At the extreme end of last month the importunities of Mess. Watts and
Scrafton prevailed on Omichund to allow himself to be transported from
the city. The business of obtaining the Nabob’s permission he effected
by feigning to claim from the Prince on behalf of the British the huge
sum of money he had promised if they supported him against the Pitans,
whereupon he was drove out of the palace with ignominy, and commanded
to quit Muxidavad immediately. Yet when this had been happily
accomplished, and the journey begun, the aged miser succeeded in
evading Mr Scrafton at the first halting-place, and returned to scrape
together some further petty sums that were owing to him, though he
continued the journey later in the day. His departure relieves us from
some anxiety, though not from all, for Mr Scrafton writes that he
shows himself perpetually troubled with suspicions and apprehensions,
and Coja Petruce tells Mr Watts that Omichund has wrote to bid him
prevent matters coming to a head until he has assured himself that his
ill-gotten gains are faithfully secured to him.

Since getting rid of Omichund, our chief concern has been with the
treaty, which had then been signed only by the British. Meer Jaffier
returned to the city on the 30th, in obedience to the Nabob’s order
recalling him with his army from Palassy, but he was received by
Surajah Dowlah with so much contumely that he retired at once to his
own palace in the south part of the city, which he placed in a posture
of defence, and summoned his friends to join him. Four days later
Roydoolub, returning with his division, examined the treaty in concert
with Meer Jaffier, and raised difficulties with regard to the sums of
money allotted in it to the British, which he declared the whole
contents of the treasury would not suffice to furnish. Being promised,
however, by Mr Watts the entire management of the affair, and a
genteel _dussutary_ for his pains, the worthy _duan_ overcame his
scruples, and in conjunction with Meer Jaffier signed the treaty four
days ago. On the very day this was done, the Nabob, not because he was
acquainted with it, but merely to gratify his feelings of enmity, and
as though to stifle any remorse that his kinsman might have been
entertaining, removed Meer Jaffier from his office, setting up Coja
Haddee, a favourite of his own, as Buxey.

Although the treaty was now signed, it was not yet complete, for Meer
Jaffier had still to swear his resolution to observe it, but there was
difficulties in the way of his doing this. Meer Jaffier durst not quit
his palace, nor durst he receive a visit there from Mr Watts, even had
Mr Watts been prepared to brave the suspicions of the Nabob so far as
to go thither, while no confidence could be reposed in any inferior
person as a witness of the solemnity. In this strait Mr Watts
displayed an intrepidity such as few would have credited him with
possessing, for confiding in the fidelity of his servants and the
manners of the country, he entered three days ago a covered
palanqueen, such as women of distinction are wont to ride abroad in,
and caused himself to be carried through the city and into the inmost
recesses of Meer Jaffier’s seraglio, where that nobleman, placing one
hand upon the Alcoran (the accustomed pledge of the Moors’ falsehood),
and t’other upon the head of his son Meerum,[17.27] took an oath to
observe the compact. And here I must remark upon the extraordinary
zeal and resolution with which Mr Watts has conducted all this
business, which is the more wonderful when his readiness to confide in
and submit to the Nabob in the surrender of Cossimbuzar is recalled.
That the animadversion excited by his behaviour on that occasion has
stimulated him to prove it untrue may well be believed, yet how seldom
do we behold an error in judgment or a moment of timidity thus
courageously repented of! Would that this gentleman’s superior, Mr
Drake, had shown any signs of retrieving in a similar manner his far
greater fault, instead of bending all his energies to the amassing of
wealth by the efforts of others, whom he yet has not sufficient spirit
even to support in their designs!

But I have wandered from my mention of Mr Watts’ intrepid journey,
from which he returned safely, and which brought to me such a
confirmation of my hopes as served to repay me in full for all my
arduous labours for Miss Freyne’s release. For Mirza Shaw, coming from
attending his master in his dangerous passage, approached the varendar
where I sat.

“Siab,” he said, “Nezmennessa Beeby is the Beeby you seek.”

“What!” I cried, “have you spoke with her?”

“Nay,” said he, “but it chanced that as we passed the house to-day one
of the _gwallers_ that was bearing Watch Siab’s palanqueen slipped and
fell, and the rest raised a great talk and shouting. There’s a small
barred window high in the wall just there, and when I glanced at it I
saw a woman looking out. She was very white, and she wore a head-dress
such as the Beebies of Calcutta wear.”

“Heaven be praised for this certainty!” I cried. “Did the lady make
any sign to you?”

“Nay, Siab; how should she know who I might be? She disappeared from
the window suddenly as I looked at her, and your honour’s servant saw
no more.”

“But wait, Mirza Shaw. Was the lady in good health? How did she look?”

“Why, Siab, she appeared pale, as the European Beebies always do. I
can’t tell if she was ill, since I never saw her before.”

And this cold-hearted rascal had beheld my beloved, yet could tell me
no more of her than this! Pity me, madam, seeing me so tantalised. But
this en’t the last of my trials. Yesterday Mr Watts despatched
Omar-beg, a Moorman, an officer of Meer Jaffier’s, to Calcutta with
the treaty (I fear I would be right in saying the two treaties, the
white and the red), but announced to us his purpose of remaining at
Muxidavad until the last extremity. Dr Dacre is still here with us,
and we have just been joined by Mr Ranger, whose occupation is now
gone, since the garrison of the Cossimbuzar factory, which was reduced
at the end of April to no more than a corporal and six European
soldiers besides the _bucksarries_, has now been wholly withdrawn by
Colonel Clive’s orders, and the men are on their way to Calcutta. My
pleasant friend refused to accompany them, being determined, as he
says, to be in at the death, which will be his own, indeed, as much as
ours. Mr Watts has desired us all to be ready on the shortest notice
to take flight, or at least to remove to Maudipore,[17.28] a country
house that he occupies two miles to the south of Cossimbuzar, whence
we may seek to refuge at Calcutta. This order has filled me with
apprehension, for what’s to be done if Mr Watts desire to send us away
before we have released Miss Freyne? and work as hard as we may during
the hours of darkness, the Tartar and I have not yet been able
entirely to complete our preparations. Worst of all, Miss Freyne has
no knowledge of ’em, for Mirza Shaw has in vain endeavoured to obtain
access to her in his disguise as a pedlar. The women of the house,
even, I believe, her own attendant, will come and examine his wares,
but he can’t get sight of the lady. And now the Nabob, who has shut
himself up in his castle of Herautjeel, in the midst of the city, is
exchanging menaces with Meer Jaffier, whose fortified palace is
separated from his by the river, and it’s expected that the Prince
will shortly call up his army, and open upon our friend the pretender
with his cannon, when Mr Watts will questionless order us out of the
city....

I had wrote thus far, madam, when Mirza Shaw, who has been spending
the night in the house we have hired facing Sinzaun’s, came to me a
few minutes back with what seemed a piece of rag in his hand.

“This, Siab,” he said, “was thrown out to me just now from the window
where I saw the Beeby t’other day. Hearing a slight noise, I looked up
and perceived one edge of the grating move a very little way, just
enough for this to be pushed out. I beheld no one, for I was too close
beneath the window.”

He presented me with the rag, which I found to be a handkerchief with
a stone tied up in it--this to give it weight, as I suppose. The
letters S. F. were worked very finely in one of the corners, but on
the stuff itself were traced rudely in blue thread the words, “Save.
Quick.” The sight almost deprived me of my senses.

“Wretch that I am!” I cried. “We are too late.”

“Nay, Siab,” says Mirza Shaw. “The Beeby’s there still, though she may
be exposed to a sudden peril. We may questionless save her yet.”

“But what do you imagine this danger to be?” I asked him.

“Why, Siab, I think Sinzaun is about to give her to the Nabob.”

I sat down again, sick at heart, remembering that the Soubah’s
parasite, Moonloll, had gained his position by handing over to the
Prince his own sister, a young lady who was reported to be the most
delicate figure in the world. Sinzaun might well be put to it to
surpass such a gift as this, but he has the means ready to his hand in
our beloved and unhappy sufferer.

“Mirza Shaw,” I said, suddenly, “you and I will forestall him yet.”

“So be it, Siab. I have finished the ropes and the basket, and I will
fetch you as soon as it’s dusk.”

“No,” I said; “the lady must be warned as we designed, or we may miss
her in the darkness. I’ll go to our house in a _dooley_.”

For you must know, madam, that my disguise for going about my business
with Mirza Shaw is no other than the outer garment of a Moor-woman,
veil and cloak in one, which covers me from head to foot, concealing
even my eyes with a netting. This passes well enough in the dusk, but
in daylight I fear that so strapping a wench might excite more
attention than would be desirable, so that the privacy of a _dooley_
was needed for my conveyance. Mirza Shaw required no second bidding.
He departed to find a _dooley_, while I sought to curb my impatience
by finishing my letter to you. Sure there never was a _dooley_ so hard
to find. The rascal must have been gone a whole day. No, there he is
returning. Madam, I trust you are remembering in your prayers this
enterprise of ours, and your obedient, humble servant,

                                                      C. Fraser.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 PROVING THAT THE DAYS OF MIRACLES ARE PAST.

_From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor._

                                     Muxadavad, _April ye_ 29_th._

For more than two months, Amelia, I have been free from the oppression
of Sinzaun’s presence, and have not taken up my pen, having nothing to
record. Not that my persecutor’s errand to Mons. Bussy has occupied
the whole of this period, for I am assured that he has visited the
house more than once, and that Misery has spoken with him, but he has
been so gracious as not to force himself upon me. I wish I could
believe that this abstinence sprang from any desire to show me
kindness, but I am convinced it is designed to make me sensible that I
am in disgrace. Indeed, since even the steward has ceased to pay his
weekly visits, and the women of the house refuse to permit me to speak
to them--running away if I come near--I think Sinzaun must desire to
force me into a compliance with his wishes through the mere dulness
and emptyness of my lot. One poor black girl there was--a Hobshee or
Habashy, as the inhabitants of Abyssinia are called here--in whose
grotesque countenance I fancied I could detect the signs of a greater
humanity than her fellows possessed, and endeavoured accordingly to
awaken her compassion, although I got no further than to tell her I
was a captive like herself. I fancied she sympathised with me, but
when I looked for her next, hoping to advance in my purpose, she was
not to be found, and Misery, on my asking what was become of her,
would do nothing but laugh in the most horrid, unfeeling style. Since
that time, also, the other women have avoided me with this
extraordinary care, making off as soon as I approach them, as though
fearing punishment if they listened to a word from me. Were the
disgust I feel towards my gaoler less deeply rooted, I’ll own I think
he would succeed in bringing me to compliance, for what could be more
painful to a rational creature than to remain pent up between four
walls, seeing and conversing with no one but Misery, and deprived of
every semblance of occupation? But however calculated may be his
designs, he shan’t induce Sylvia Freyne to entertain her father’s
murderer as a suitor for her hand.

But perhaps you’ll say I am relinquishing hope too easily, in thus
choosing deliberately to sink into imbecility (as appears but too
likely to be my fate) instead of making some attempt to escape. Why,
Amelia (I can’t help writing to my dear girl as though she were ever
likely to receive this letter), where should I, in my present unhappy
situation, take refuge, even if I were once outside these walls? Do
you remember that there’s not a person in India would be willing to
shelter me; or, if willing, would not be deterred by fear of Sinzaun
and the Nabob? And how should an unhappy creature, that has already
contributed to destroy her country’s settlements here, have the
assurance to involve any other community, as that of the Armenians or
the Prussians, in her misfortunes? But even to do this further
mischief I must find means to leave this house, and how? Misery, the
only creature I speak to, and that will speak to me, is impenetrable,
incorruptible. Do I try to move her on the grounds of mercy or
forbearance? “Beebee,” she cries, “you talk very fine language--too
fine for your slave to understand.” While if I seek to appeal to her
in the name of religion, she will shut her eyes and begin to chaunt,
“There’s no God but _Alla_, and Mahomet is his prophet!” until I am
gone away from her in disgust.

I have but one faint semblance of hope, and that’s very much akin to
despair. Now and again I hear the servants talking of some enemy
that’s invading Bengall, and seems to be driving the Soubah’s forces
before him. This invading army they call by the name of the _loll
addama_,[18.01] which means the red men, and speak of its leaders
only by the titles of Saubut Jing and Dilleir Jing Bahadre, or the
Tryed and the Courageous in Battles. From which side it comes I can’t
say, for the only time I have heard anything certain of its advance
was more than a month ago, when one of the other women called out to
Misery that the red men had captured the city of Farashdanga, and made
Zubdatook Toojah[18.02] and his army prisoners; but I don’t know
where this city may be, and the name of the chief man I never heard
before. Should these red men continue to succeed in their campaign,
and go so far as to seize Muxadavad, I might perhaps find a chance of
safety,--not that there’s any reason to anticipate a change of gaolers
to be an improvement, but that in the confusion of the moment I might
be able to elude the vigilance of Misery and the rest, and slip out of
the house. But this is only foolishness, for so far from the red men’s
taking Muxadavad, they seem to have retired, or at least made no
further advance, since the capture of Farashdanga, and my hopes have
sunk with their fortunes. And to-night, says Misery, Meer Sinzaun will
attend me here.


                                                  _April ye_ 30_th._

Well, Amelia, I have received my last warning, and the next interview
with which my gaoler favours me is to bring me my last chance. Oh, how
I wish that all were over now, and that I had not this perpetual
tormenting apprehension besetting me continually! For I don’t even now
know the worst; I can but guess at it.

Yesterday evening Sinzaun presented himself at his usual hour, some
time after sunset. Approaching me with an air of assurance he sought
to kiss my hand, but this I was able to prevent, trusting the repulse
might inform him of my temper towards him without entering upon a
controversy. This hope appeared to be fulfilled, for he opened his
discourse by apologizing for the length of time he had absented
himself from my saloon, remarking that he had undertaken several
journeys to Mons. Bussy and other French officers in the interval. But
having finished his excuses, he changed his topic on a sudden.

“When Clarissa’s humble servant last had the satisfaction of beholding
her, it may be that he approached with too much precipitation the
subject which is nearest to his heart,” said he, “and that the passion
which possesses him rendered him oblivious of the usual proprieties.
But although he may adore Clarissa without asking to know more of her
than that she returns his affection, it en’t reasonable to expect the
same of her. Know then, madam, that the individual who is so happy as
to find himself at your feet is a son of one of the highest families
in France, and in that favoured country enjoys the style of Count of
St Jean, which the pagans here corrupt into Sinzaun. Certain youthful
excesses on my part, coupled, perhaps, with too ardent a love of
political activity, induced my family to set before me the
alternatives of the Indies or the Bastille. As a young person of
spirit I chose the Indies, and at Pondicherry should have reaped, I
don’t doubt, much fame and glory, had not adverse circumstances again
conspired to drive me from my post there. Having had the misfortune to
kill another officer in a duel, I was challenged afresh by his brother
and father-in-law, of whom I killed one and wounded t’other. All three
were persons of consideration in the place, and it appeared desirable
that I should quit it. The cause of the duel it’s unnecessary for me
to explain to a young lady of Clarissa’s penetration. Your charming
sex, madam, are answerable for many miseries that afflict their
adorers--but I don’t desire to cast blame on any one. I left
Pondicherry somewhat hastily, and not finding it desirable to attempt
to take service with any of our allies in the Decan, made my way to
Bengall, where Ally Verdy Cawn was glad enough to engage my help in
his struggle with the Morattoes, and I rose before long to a situation
of confidence in his army. Perceiving, however, that the old Soubah
had not long to live, I made my court to his grandson, and succeeded
in establishing myself in the favour of Saradjot Dollah, to whom I was
so happy as to render considerable service in the measures he took for
assuring the throne to himself on Ally Verdy’s death. ’Twas in this
employment that I fell in with the unlucky Genoese Menotti, who might
still be alive and wealthy had not Clarissa’s virtuous example seduced
him to leave off his evil ways and desire to marry and live honestly.
But I won’t speak hardly of one to whom I owe the felicity of this
moment----”

The wretch paused, and regarded me with his evil smile, as if
expecting me to speak, but I have learned to endure a prodigious
amount without contradicting him, and he went on--

“Of the consequences of this acquaintance I don’t need to speak, for
the unhappy man contrived to oblige me in the most extraordinary
manner while endeavouring only the opposite; but I desire to reassure
my Clarissa, whose apprehensions I have observed with regret, as to
the future. Some persons, madam, having rose to the position I now
occupy in the Soubah’s favour, would bend their minds to the task of
supplanting him and obtaining the Soubahship in his stead--nay, there
are some plotting to do so at this moment. But such en’t Sinzaun’s
ambition. His eyes are fixed on Paris, not on the Indies. To present
this potentate as the ally and vassal of France is my aim, and in
constituting myself at once his protector and his servant I perceive
the means to attain it. By winning his battles for him----”

“Against the _loll addama_, sir?” I asked him, moved by I don’t know
what impulse. To my surprise he gave a huge start.

“Pray, madam, what do you know of the _loll addama_?” he cried, with
an oath.

“Why, sir, I have heard the servants talk of ’em, that’s all.”

“I’m glad it’s no more, madam. Their doings en’t for Clarissa’s ears.
Yes, the _loll addama_ are among the enemies to be defeated,
questionless. Well, then, having made myself a position here, I intend
it shall serve me in Europe. You know something, madam, of the
frequency of revolutions in these countries, and you’ll guess that any
wealth I may possess en’t locked up in houses or lands. No, ’tis all
invested in precious stones, such as neither kings nor great ladies
can resist. When I make my appearance at Versailles as the embassador
of the friendly Saradjot Dollah, bringing with me gifts that may well
seem unsurpassable to those that don’t know the East, is there any
fear that the amiable follies of my youth, whether in Paris or
Pondicherry, will be remembered against me? No, the Court will be at
my feet, grovelling there in the hope of picking up a diamond or two,
and I shall be a greater man than the great Mons. John Laws himself.
But to me the keenest delight will be the introduction of my little
Puritan Clarissa into the great, the polite world.”

“Sir,” I said, my voice trembling, as he glanced at me with an odious
air that was at once gallant and malevolent, “pray be so good as to
leave me out of your designs. I am neither fitted nor eager to take
part in them.”

“Why, that’s my great inducement, madam,” he cried. “So long as I have
had the honour of Clarissa’s acquaintance, it has been my perpetual
entertainment to perceive that she never thought with me on any single
topic. Had she displayed an accommodating temper I might soon have
wearied of her, but how can I tire of observing the pains that so
agreeable a young lady takes to disoblige me? And if I find the
diversion so much to my taste here, what will it be when my charmer
becomes acquainted with the life of Paris? Her frequent blushes and
her ready tears, and the speaking eyes in which I can read every
thought of her innocent heart as in a book, will all be so many
additions to my delight in returning to my ancient home.”

Oh, Amelia, if you knew how I hated the man as he said this! It makes
me writhe (there’s no other word for it), to be forced to submit to
the degradation of listening to such words from him. You’ll wonder,
perhaps, to hear me say that I could wish he did indeed cherish for me
the affection he pretends. But then, my dear, I might have some hope
of moving him by my entreaties--for true love, they say, will take
part with the beloved object in opposition even to its own desires;
but how can I hope to make any effect upon a wretch that owns he seeks
but to divert himself by tormenting me?

“So, then,” the odious creature proceeded, “when Clarissa consents to
make her Sinzaun happy, she need not fear a life of perpetual
seclusion here. While we remain in Bengall, ’twill, alas! be necessary
for her to conform when abroad to the usages of the country, but
within the walls of her house she shall enjoy the most complete
freedom, and when we reach France, the more liberty she demands the
better shall I be pleased.”

“Oh, sir!” I cried, and, unable to bear more, threw myself at his
feet, choking with sobs, “pray don’t mock me in this cruel manner. I
have done you no harm. If this poor face has catched your fancy, it
en’t by my good will; but if you have any kindness for the unhappy
creature you say you love, let me go--suffer me to return unharmed to
England.”

“Won’t my dear unreasonable one understand,” said the audacious,
catching my hand and seeking to draw me towards him, but this I
resisted, “that if I had designed to let her depart to England, all
the trouble and pains I have been at would have been thrown away?
Don’t she perceive that for all I have done and spent for her I must
have a return? Must I be so harsh as to inform her that if I mayn’t
attain my ambition _for_ her, it must be _through_ her?”

“I don’t take your meaning, sir,” I faltered. Could the man intend to
sell me for a slave? “I have friends in England who en’t wealthy, but
would impoverish themselves without a murmur to reimburse you any
expenses to which you may have been put, if that’s your condition.”

“Oh, no, madam, Sinzaun en’t a trader. Nothing could please him better
than to have the happiness of winning your affections, but he has a
foolish prejudice against using force to compel ’em, and piques
himself upon his genteel treatment of you. But there’s others that
don’t share this prejudice, and he might find himself forced, in his
own interest, to resign his concern in you to them. Pray don’t suspect
him of the vulgarity of employing menaces. He seeks no bride but one
that comes to him of her own free will, for he don’t desire that
either here or in Europe his Clarissa should proclaim herself his only
upon compulsion.”

“At least, sir, let me know what I have to fear,” I groaned.

He smiled. “Why, no, madam; that’s my affair. You don’t choose to give
me a favourable answer to-night, perhaps? No? then we’ll leave the
matter until our next meeting. I can’t advise you to continue to
resist me, for I have so much interest in you as makes me deplore the
notion of putting you to any inconvenience, and i’ faith, I see no
hope for you if you persist in your present frame of mind. You have, I
believe, learned something of my disposition since coming to
Muxadavad, and you won’t suspect me of going beyond my intentions when
I say that in justice to myself I must soon abandon this struggle in
favour of a more certain good. Believe me, I can’t but pity your
obstinacy, and you’ll remember this too late.”


                                                    _May ye_ 17_th._

Sinzaun is departed again upon an embassy to Mons. Bussy, carrying
with him, so Misery tells me, a gift of two _lacks_ of rupees from the
Soubah to the French leader. So long as he is absent I may hope for a
respite, but he can’t now be away much longer. For some days I have
had the thought of seeking to discover from Misery the fate that he
designs for me, but this morning it chanced that she approached the
matter herself, by asking me whether I would give her my hussy when I
left this place.

“Why, Misery, you can’t sew,” I said. “What will you do with scissors
and needles?”

“Oh, they’ll be useful in other ways, Beebee. Europe goods are
stronger and more delicate than country-made, and your slave has
served you faithfully for close upon a year.”

“But I’ve no thought of leaving this place,” I said. “Whither should
I go?”

“Why, Beebee, to the Killa. Meer Sinzaun destines you for the Nabob.”

I shivered, for the same thought had come to me several days before.
“How do you know this, Misery? Has Meer Sinzaun told you?”

“How should Meer Sinzaun tell his doings to his slave, Beebee? I have
guessed it a long time, and I’m making ready to go my own way.”

“Then you purpose to forsake me, Misery?”

“Indeed, Beebee, if I saw any signs that you’d accept your lot, and be
content to win the favour of his Highness, I would never be separated
from you, but since you seem to be as obstinate as ever, I won’t risk
my head. I have provided for my escape, and now that Calcutta is built
up again, I shall return to my old trade and seek customers among the
ladies there.”

“But is Calcutta built up again? By whom?”

“Why, by the Moors, of course, Beebee,” very hastily. “Do you think
the Moorish ladies don’t value the services of the Mother of
Cosmetiques as much as the English Beebees?”

“Oho, so you was the Mother of Cosmetiques, Madam Misery?” I cried,
remembering the part the woman had played in my former history.

“Yes, Beebee, your slave is she,” with a sort of proud humility. “If
you would have suffered it, she could make you so beautiful! Even now,
if you’ll invite her to attend you to the palace, she’ll engage that
there shan’t be a lady to compare with you. His Highness----” she saw
my angry gesture of silence, and dropped her fawning tone. “Well, I
have neglected my trade for a year to attend on you, Beebee, and now I
must return and take it up again. I only hope you won’t be sorry that
you’ve so often spurned the counsel of your poor Misery.”

“For that you must blame the badness of the counsel,” said I, pretty
coolly, for I disliked the woman’s assurance in presuming to advise
me; but she leaned forward as she sat at my feet, and raised her eyes
to mine in the most entreating style imaginable.

“Oh, Beebee, suffer your slave to say a word. If you have indeed been
resolved all these months to repulse Meer Sinzaun in the hope of
finding yourself presented to the Nabob, let your slave share in your
triumph. This is what Meer Sinzaun believes of you, for how else could
you have resisted his constant assiduities? and ’tis this makes him so
angry, and well it may, for he’s dying for love of you.”

“If you can’t speak truth, my good woman, at least try to talk sense,”
said I, and tearing my gown from her hold, left her, for I was
prodigiously vexed to find that she had devised all this scene in
Sinzaun’s interest, and was seeking to bend me to his will lest,
forsooth, he should misconceive my motives! You’ll agree with me,
Amelia, that Sinzaun’s opinion would be the last in the world to weigh
with me in considering any matter of right or wrong.


                                                    _June ye_ 5_th._

I have a strange thing to tell my dear girl this evening. Happening to
be in the house for greater coolness during the heat of the day, I
found myself not far from the small barred window of which I have
spoken before, and hearing a great uproar and noise of voices in the
street, went to look out. Below me was a palanqueen attended with
several servants. One of the bearers had chanced to fall, and received
some hurt, and the rest were scolding and consoling him by turns,
while the palanqueen rested on the ground. As I watched, one of the
_checks_ was withdrawn a little way, and a face looked out. It was the
face of a European, Amelia, an Englishman, if I don’t mistake--an
elderly person of respectable appearance. That was all I could see,
for the servant that seemed the chief over the rest--a Moorman, but
with a turbant such as the Tartars wear, having the _puckery_ twisted
round a high pointed cap instead of a small round one--pulled back the
_check_ with an extreme haste and violence, and rebuking the bearers
for their confusion, bade them take up the palanqueen again. Hearing
Misery approaching, I durst not remain at the window, but at least I
had gained something on which to meditate. There’s one Englishman,
then, left in India--a prisoner, questionless, from the secrecy and
severity with which he was secluded, but not used apparently with any
great harshness. Sure he might help me in some way, if only I could
get speech of him. But how to reach him, since I am secluded at least
as rigorously as he? I have passed my time to-day devising a thousand
plans, all suggested by this extraordinary event, for opening
communications with my fellow-captive, but since he don’t know of my
existence, nor I of his place of confinement, and since I can neither
leave this house nor find a trusty messenger, I have been forced to
reject my designs one by one, as each more wild and extravagant than
the last. And to-night, as Misery is just come to tell me, Sinzaun
purposes to do himself the honour of paying me a visit. Oh, Amelia,
this unfinished sheet may prove to contain my last farewell to you.


                                                    _June ye_ 7_th._

My sentence is pronounced, Amelia, and your poor friend is now like no
one so much as the criminal in Newgate, who knows that the day is his
last. I was still writing the words with which my letter of yesterday
closed, when I became sensible that there were eyes regarding me, and
looking up, I found Sinzaun standing in the doorway. The start I gave
on seeing him there almost overturned the smoky native lamp by the
light of which I was writing, but I saved it in time to prevent the
destruction of my papers, while he complimented me on the assiduity I
showed in keeping up a correspondence with my friend. I put up my
writing implements hastily, my sole anxiety being to bring the hateful
interview to a close, and for this once Sinzaun appeared inclined to
second my efforts.

“May I take it that Clarissa has done me the honour to turn over in
her mind the proposition I submitted to her at our last meeting?” he
asked.

“I have considered of the matter carefully, sir.”

“And may I hope she’ll condescend to make me the happiest of men?”

“I’m sure, sir, I wish you happiness, but I won’t marry you.”

“No, madam? and yet I offer you such advantages of wealth, situation,
dress, and jewellery, as would tempt the gross of women.”

“None of these, sir, can break down the barrier caused by the measures
you thought fit to take to get me into your power.”

“You take a vastly high tone with me, madam. I could almost fancy I
had been so unfortunate as to lay siege to a heart already occupied by
some happier rival.” He looked curiously into my face, but I summoned
resolution enough to appear unmoved, not knowing to what further trial
he might be about to subject me. “Can it be that the fortress had
surrendered before my arrival to one of those gay young gentlemen that
fluttered about Clarissa at Calcutta?”

“Sir,” I said, “all this is beside the mark. Pray believe that I must
refuse to marry you were you the only man in the world.”

“And that’s final?” he cried, springing up and seeming to tower above
me. “Then on your knees, madam! Unsay those words, and ask my pardon
for ’em, or”--and he swore a horrid oath--“by this time to-morrow
you’ll be in the hands of a man that will take no refusal from you. I
saved you from the Nabob once, but not for this. Unless you’ll
pleasure me, you shall pleasure him.”

“I am a weak woman, sir, and if you deliver me by force to the Nabob I
can’t hope to resist. But yield to you by my own will I won’t.”

“What!” he cried, sneering, “you’d have me employ force, as a salve to
your conscience? But I won’t gratify you, madam. You’ll marry me of
your own free will, or go to the Killa.”

“Then Heaven’s will be done, sir.”

“What--you expect deliverance from this dilemma that I’ve set before
you? What friend have you in the world that can assist you now?”

“None, sir--except God.”

“And you have never appealed to God until this moment? He has not left
any prayer of yours unanswered? You anticipate seriously a miracle of
deliverance after a whole year in which your God has done nothing for
you? Fie, madam! the days of miracles are past--even if you believe
they ever existed.”

“My duty remains the same, sir.”

“Very well, madam. To-morrow night--no, the night after. To-morrow the
Nabob has ordered a great fight of wild beasts for the diversion of
the Court--two nights hence, I’ll offer the Nabob an entertainment at
this house, and Clarissa will assist me in providing it. That is,
unless I should receive a message from her to-morrow. After that,
’twill be too late.”

Oh, how I prayed last night, Amelia, that it would please Heaven to
give the lie to this man’s jeers by permitting me to expire before
morning! But morning is come, and I still live.


                                                    _June ye_ 8_th._

I can’t tell how the hot hours of yesterday passed, my dear friend. I
was too wretched to write, even had I found anything to make known to
you. I roamed restless through the apartments here, or sat crouched in
a corner, murmuring that God had cast me off and left me helpless
before the cruelty of my enemies. At night, as I tossed upon my bed
unable to sleep, there came to me a thought, but whether from a good
or evil source I can’t pretend to guess. Does my Amelia remember a
sentence that our good Rector at home once cited in describing the
character of the excellent and devout Athanasius? It pleased us so
much that when we were writing out our recollections of the sermon the
next day we were so bold as to ask the Rector to give it to us
exactly, that we might copy it into our commonplace-books, and he told
us it was wrote by the Judicious Hooker. Comparing the situation of
Athanasius with that of his adversaries, this learned author spoke of
the uncertainty that existed “which of the two in the end would
prevail; the side which had all, or else the part which had no friend
but God and death, the one a defender of his innocency, the other a
finisher of his troubles.”

“Alas!” I cried, as the words returned into my mind, “but what of me,
since God will neither defend my innocency, nor permit death to finish
my troubles?”

“Why,” said a voice in my mind, “seek death, since death won’t come to
you.”

The notion was plausible enough, and I had soon formed a plan. From a
certain spot on the varanda I had often observed that ’twould not be
difficult to climb upon the roof of the garden-house, which is
fantastically ornamented with a cupola and many small towers. There, I
determined, would I conceal myself before the Nabob’s arrival, and
perhaps it might please Heaven to keep my persecutors from looking for
me in that place. If so, well; but if not, there was the tank, washing
the very walls of the pavilion, and to plunge myself into the water
from such a height could scarce fail to bring me the death I sought.
Do you blame me, Amelia? Then I hope you may always continue to do so,
for that will show that my dear girl has never found herself in my
desperate situation.

This frightful resolution taken, I fell asleep, and (such is the
effect of coming to a decision, however shocking) was able in the
morning to contemplate my affairs with something more of coolness and
composure than yesterday. Misery and I were banished early from the
pavilion into the house, for the _mollies_ were busy setting rows of
small earthen lamps everywhere in the gardens, in readiness to
illuminate them at night in the Indian style, while other men were
preparing a feast in the garden-house--all seeming as though they made
ready for my execution. This was the thought in my mind when, passing
up the stairs with Misery, I catched sight through the window of the
man in a Tartar dress whom I saw two days ago in attendance upon the
English prisoner. He had some fruit in his hand that he seemed to have
bought from a street-hawker, and entering into the house facing this
one, he shut the door upon himself. Oh, how this sight rekindled the
hopes that I had persuaded myself were all extinct! How I blamed
myself that I had not kept watch at the window more constantly, and so
discovered that the man frequented, or perhaps inhabited, that house,
or even, it might be, that ’twas there the prisoner was confined, for
then I might have prepared some means to catch their attention. A
written paper might not tell anything of my history to the Tartar, but
finding strange characters upon it he would questionless take it and
inquire of the prisoner what they could signify. Then I remembered
that although the man was gone into the house, ’twas not necessary he
should remain there always. He might come out at any moment. Misery
had left me, and I ran to my writing materials, intending to prepare a
small billet that I might push through the grating. But even as I laid
hands on the pen and ink, I recollected the promise I had made to
Sinzaun not to use in endeavouring to escape the writing implements
with which he had furnished me. Here was a dilemma indeed. “Sinzaun
has proved himself unworthy of credit and of the remorse you
experienced towards him,” said that voice which had spoken to me in
the night. “Nay, but that makes no difference in my duty,” said I.
“But sure you never thought to prevent yourself escaping when you gave
the promise,” said the voice. “If promises were to be kept only when
they were easy, and broke whenever we found them press hardly upon us,
they would be fine things!” said I. “Will you perish on a point of
honour?” says the voice. “Not if I can be saved otherwise,” said I,
taking the handkerchief from my pocket. In my hussy I had a needle
threaded with the purple silk I had used for sewing at my petticoat,
and before Misery returned I had worked roughly on the cambrick, close
to my cypher in the corner, the words “Save. Quick.” If Sinzaun’s
words were true, and my history as well known as he declared, I
thought the prisoner would be at no loss to perceive who it was that
demanded his aid. How he was to help me I did not know, but at least
this one hope of safety should not be lost.

Misery departing again before very long, I broke off a loose piece of
stone from the wall, and tied it in the handkerchief, lest it should
flutter in the air as I threw it out, and then flying to the window
tried to thrust the little bundle through the grating, intending to
hold it by one corner until the Tartar appeared again. But the holes
were too small to permit it to pass through, and as I tried in turn to
break the stone smaller and to force the grating aside, I saw the man
come out of the opposite house and begin to lock the door behind him.
The sight drove me to desperation. With my scissors I began to chip
out the mortar that held the grating in its place, and when both the
points broke off I picked at it with my nails. The blood ran down my
fingers as I worked, but just as the Tartar was turning away from his
door the edge of the grating moved. I had not thought I was so strong,
but I twisted it aside far enough to thrust the handkerchief through.
It rolled down the window-ledge, then struck against some inequality
or projection, and stopped. I thought I should have screamed, for the
man was now out of sight, having crossed the street to gain the shade
cast by our wall, but I forced my hand through the gap I had made, and
succeeded in giving the tiresome missive a push that sent it safely
over the edge. I could not tell whether it had reached the proper
person, but I had enough to do to pull the grating back to its place
and hide the traces of my doings before Misery came back. I was bathed
in sweat and trembling with fright, and my wounded hands alone would
have betrayed me had my Abigail’s sharp eyes catched sight of ’em, but
I was able to huddle them up in my gown, pretending that I was tired
after my wakeful night, and desired to rest, and so threw myself upon
my couch and waited.

Misery sat down opposite to me, and smoked her water-pipe very
contentedly for I don’t know how many hours, until one of the other
women came to tell her there was that _boxwaller_ again at the door,
that had visited the house before, and called her to come and see his
wares. None of these Indians can ever resist the delight of chaffering
over a bargain, and away went Misery, her anklets clattering. No
sooner was she out of sight than I, who had been enduring her presence
in a tumult of eagerness and impatience that I can’t attempt to
describe, nor would my Amelia appreciate it if I did, sprang up from
my bed, and catching up a piece of rag, began to bind up my hands,
standing at the window as I did so. Opposite me was a similar window
in the other house, and as I threw a glance across the street it
seemed to me that there was something white behind it. Looking more
intently, I perceived that this was the white wrapper of a Moor-woman,
who was lifting her hand and making vehement signs to me to go up to
the roof. My dear girl will judge that I did not delay, but as I
reached the top of the stairs I saw something thrown, which struck the
stones with a hard sound. Running to it, I picked it up, to find that
’twas only a piece of plaster from a wall, to my great disappointment.
The parapet was too high to permit me a view over it, but I was doing
my utmost to raise myself so as to peer over its edge, when something
soft came over it and struck me in the face. Astonished, I seized it,
believing it at first to be nothing but a common ball of worsted, but
soon perceived an edge of white paper peeping out. In an instant I had
the worsted unwound, and was reading the billet, which runs thus:--


 “Be at this same spot as soon as it’s dark this evening, and watch for
 a second ball of yarn, which wind up gently until you find a piece of
 twine in your hands. Pull that in also, and there will be a rope at
 the end of it. Make this fast securely to some solid body, and wait
 for your friends. Be secret and speedy, but feel no alarm. You will
 yet be saved.”


I had only time to glance at this delightful message when I heard
Misery returning, and thrust it into my bosom with the yarn as the old
woman came up the steps to look for me. Her discourse on the folly of
exposing myself to the sun at such an hour I endured with becoming
meekness, and laid myself down again, with my face turned away from
Misery. A new thought was come to me. The writing of the billet,
though hasty and careless, appeared familiar. Scarce daring to credit
the notion, I compared it, on the first opportunity, with the precious
post-scriptum belonging to Mr Fraser’s letter, which has never left me
night or day, and I could not doubt but the same hand had wrote both.
Picture my feelings, Amelia! So far from finding myself alone in
India, there was close at hand, and at large, the very person I would
have chose to be there! You’ll wonder to find me calm enough to write
this, but indeed, if I had not my writing to occupy me, I believe I
should go mad with joy, or at least arouse Misery’s suspicions by my
transports. My smarting fingers are stiff, but my heart is so light
that the pen fairly flies over the paper. Misery believes I am making
my will, or so she told me just now. My will, Amelia! But oh, my dear,
think--if Heaven had answered my impious and undutiful prayers last
night, I should have lost this happiness. I was repining against the
prospect of the most charming day that has ever opened to me! And
moreover, while I have been murmuring that God wrought no huge and
signal miracle to save me, I have overlooked the constant succession
of miracles that has preserved me thus far--my being brought out alive
from the dungeon at Fort William, the plot of Misery and Sinzaun, my
fever even, and all those exactions of the Nabob that have kept
Sinzaun perpetually occupied in going to and fro with messages for
Mons. Bussy, instead of remaining here to torment me, not to speak of
the extraordinary crowning mercies of to-day!


                                      Moidapore, _June ye_ 10_th._

Oh, my dearest friend, I have the strangest, the most charming and
perplexing news to tell you. You can’t be more surprised to hear than
I am to write it. I give you my word, I scarce credit it myself. But
how my pen is running away with me! I _will_ be orderly; I won’t,
after my usual fashion, impart to my Amelia the end of the history
first and then proceed to turn back to the beginning.

Well, then, my dear, where was I? Oh, yes; I was writing to my sweet
girl in Sinzaun’s house in Muxadavad, with my hands all swathed up in
rags, and it was only two days ago. Only two days! But I am wandering
again. Back to your proper course, Miss Sylvia Fr--ah, well, I mean my
good Sylvia--and recount your tale in a methodical style from its
earliest original. That day of anticipation came at last to an end,
Amelia, and at sunset Misery went as usual to gossip with the rest of
the servants at supper, and also, questionless, to watch for the
coming of the Nabob and Sinzaun. She had done her best to induce me to
put on the Persian dress she had brought me long before, alleging that
’twould render the Nabob more kindly disposed towards me; but when I
told her roundly that was the very last thing I desired, she gave up
her attempts, and was so good as to leave me alone. My Amelia will
find no difficulty in picturing with what delight I gathered my papers
together, and tying them into a pacquet, with two or three garments
(all the baggage I possessed!), hastened up the stairs to the roof,
and waited there while darkness came on. Never, it seemed to me, had
night been so long in falling--never had the people in the streets
been so late in seeking the decent shelter of their abodes. At last I
heard the Cotwal, who is the head of the city watch, pass with his
constables, and knew that he was clearing the streets of belated
passengers, so rendering them all the safer for my escape!

As soon as the watch were fairly passed out of the vicinity, I heard
something soft fall close beside me, and on picking it up, found it to
be the promised ball of worsted, which I began to wind up very gently
and delicately, in the most horrid fear lest I should break it. But
’twas not long before I felt a knot, and the twine came to my fingers
instead of worsted, and when I had wound that for a little, I found
the hard end of a stout rope in my hands. You won’t be surprised, my
dear, to hear that I found no little difficulty in securing this rope,
having no experience in such matters; but I twisted it round and round
the stone pillar that stood at the head of the stairs, and fastened it
with as many and as tight knots as I could devise. Then, guessing that
my friends on t’other side would look for some signal from me, I
pulled the rope smartly three times, and waited, breathless. Presently
the rope began to creak and strain, as though it felt the weight of
some heavy body, and almost at the same moment I observed that my
knots appeared to be slipping. In a frightful agony of fear I threw
myself on the rope, kneeling upon it and gripping it with all my
strength, scarce able to believe that it was not sliding through my
fingers. I heard more creaking, and then all on a sudden there stood
on the parapet a huge tall figure in the dress of a Moorman, and I’ll
assure you I had screamed if I could have uttered a sound.

“Are you there, madam?” says a voice that I knew, though it was but a
whisper.

“Here, sir!” I answered; “but I fear this rope en’t safe.”

The man let himself down softly from the parapet, and undoing my
knots, fastened the rope again in the twinkling of an eye, with so
much art that the harder he pulled the firmer the knot became. Then,
leaving the rope, he dropped down at my feet, and seizing my two hands
covered them with his kisses, in which, as I can’t help fancying,
there was mingled not a few tears.

“Oh, dearest madam, do I behold you at last?” he said.

“Dear, dear sir,” I murmured, shaking from head to foot, for his
warmth deprived me of all my self-command, “pray--oh, pray--this kind,
this obliging behaviour--indeed I can’t support it--I had given up all
hope--I fear I shall swoon.”

“No, that you must not do,” said Mr Fraser, rising and supporting me
in his arms. “Forgive me, dear madam, for agitating you to such a
degree with my transports of joy. But I know my dear Miss Freyne won’t
endanger the lives of those that are come to save her by yielding to a
feminine weakness at this moment. Compose yourself, madam, and let me
bring you across the gulf.”

Drawing me to the parapet as he spoke, he clambered up it with an
extraordinary agility, and having seated himself at the top, turned
and held out his hands to me. I don’t know whether I climbed or
whether the gentleman pulled me up, but I reached the ledge of the
parapet in some way, only to shrink aghast from the next stage of the
journey. The means of accomplishing this was nothing more nor less
than a basket, Amelia--a shallow sort of car made of wickerwork, hung
on the rope by its handles, and swinging at the side of the house over
the black chasm of the street. Do you wonder that I shuddered?

“Oh, dear sir, I can’t,” I cried; if it be possible to cry out in a
whisper.

“Oh, pardon me, madam, you must,” says Mr Fraser. “Only permit me to
lower you into the basket, and if you remain perfectly still you’ll be
drawn across in absolute safety. I worked myself across with my hands
on the rope.”

Was this said to remind me what danger he was braving for my sake? I
don’t know, but if it was so I had deserved the rebuke. I thought of
Sinzaun and of my desperate resolves of the night before, and took
shame to myself for my cowardice. Mr Fraser was holding the basket
steady with his left hand, and, extending the right to me, I found
myself somehow or other in the machine, but how I don’t know, for I
was not sensible of having moved--indeed I felt powerless to do so.

“Keep quite still,” says Mr Fraser with a cheerful air, perceiving,
perhaps, that my trembling imparted a rocking motion to the basket;
and making a low hissing sound, I found myself drawn along the rope by
a cord attached to one of the sides, while Mr Fraser moderated the
speed by means of one that he held. I suppose I was not left swinging
in this way between heaven and earth for more than a minute, but it
might have been a life-time, and when I reached the parapet of the
house opposite, the Tartar who stood there was forced to lift me out
of the basket as though I had been an infant, before he sent it
spinning along the rope back to Mr Fraser.

“Why don’t the young Saeb come?” I heard him murmur to himself in
Moors, when he had placed me safely on the roof itself, and stood
waiting, as I guessed, for the signal to pull the basket across again.
Still he waited, and still no signal came, and in a prodigious
agitation I clutched at the man’s foot.

“Why does he delay? Have they killed him?” I gasped out.

“They won’t kill the young Saeb so easy as that,” he growled, without
looking at me, his eyes still fixed on the house I had just left.

“Oh, if they have taken him, let me go back and give myself up
instead!” I cried; but the man shook me off, and bade me roughly be
silent.

“Here he is!” he muttered at last, and almost as he spoke Mr Fraser
appeared on the parapet, having crossed as before, without giving the
signal.

“I fear I alarmed you, madam,” he said, breathlessly; “but at the
moment when I was about to leave the roof, I heard a slight jingle of
ornaments, and, glancing towards the stair, saw a woman creeping away.
To allow her to give the alarm would have been fatal to our hopes, and
I sprang upon her like a wild cat. She was old, but she fought
fiercely enough, and ’twas more than a minute before I could get her
gagged and bound with strips of her own cloth. She was more frightened
than hurt, I fancy; but I trust I han’t inconvenienced any friend of
yours?”

“Oh, sir, ’twas my woman Misery, the second worst of my enemies,” I
said, almost sobbing, as Mr Fraser paused in unfastening the basket
from the rope, and looked at me.

“Why, then, save that she’s a woman, I could wish I had used her
worse,” said he, cutting the rope, and so leaving it to hang down from
the side of Sinzaun’s house. “Is she likely to be soon discovered, do
you fancy, madam?”

“When Sinzaun brings the Nabob to the feast he has prepared, which may
be at any moment. Oh, dear sir, take me away,--save me; don’t let me
be dragged back to slavery after enjoying this one taste of liberty!”

“Why, no, madam; we’ll carry you to the Agency at once, and there
you’re on British ground. Put this on over your clothes,” and he
handed me just such a white wrapper as the woman had worn who had
directed me through the window at noon, and who I now perceived must
have been himself in disguise, “and we’ll set out.”

While speaking, he and the Tartar had been excessively busy in hacking
to pieces the basket and other traces of their occupation that lay
about; then Mr Fraser took up my pacquet of papers, and the Tartar led
the way down the stairs and so through a passage and two doors into
the street. Do you realise, Amelia, that I had not stood in a street
for near a year? ’Twas that time, also, since I had walked any
distance, and the Moorish slippers I wore were not the easiest of
foot-gear to walk in. Seeing my difficulty, Mr Fraser offered me his
hand, and though the Tartar grumbled at the civility, as being
inconsistent with our disguise, we held each the other’s hand for the
whole distance, to my great comfort, under the cover of my veil.
Stealing along thus in the darkness, with the Tartar going first to
watch for any danger, and choosing out the narrowest and darkest
by-ways for us to pass through, we saw at a distance a glare of
lights, and heard the sound of music and shouting.

“Sure his Highness is on his nightly rounds,” says the Tartar.

“The Nabob? Then he’s going to Sinzaun’s house--for me!” I murmured,
and would have fallen, had not Mr Fraser supported me.

“Courage, madam! We’ll reach the Agency before he can discover your
evasion. Which way, Mirza Shaw?”

“This way,” said the Tartar, and led us down a lane and into an open
doorway, where we stood and trembled, for although our party might
have hoped to pass the Cotwal, with the help of a suitable present, as
two respectable Moormen guarding some relative to her abode, we knew
that the Nabob and his loose companions were accustomed to maltreat
any unoffending person they met, and only to release such an one,
after loading him with shocking insults and the most degrading
injuries, with the loss of all the property he might have about him.
But the riotous rabble passed the end of our lane without discovering
us, though they turned their lights into most corners in the hope of
catching sight of some crouching wretch, and when they were gone we
left our concealment and hastened on, Mr Fraser cheering me with the
assurance that we had not now far to go. The words had scarce left his
mouth, when the music, which had been dying away, became on a sudden
louder again in our ears.

“Some one from the house has met ’em and given the alarm,” says Mr
Fraser.

“Pray leave me, sir, and save yourselves,” said I. “You have done your
utmost.”

“Pray, madam, what do you take me for?” he asked.

“Here’s the door,” said the Tartar, who had been groping with his
hands along a wall, and Mr Fraser whistled softly. The door opened,
and I was hurried inside, and into a sort of closed shed filled with
packages.

“Pray, madam, be so good as to rest here for a moment, while we
acquaint Mr Watts of your arrival,” says Mr Fraser, and I was left
alone in the dark.


(_Miss Freyne’s next letter appears unfortunately to have been lost._)




 CHAPTER XIX.
 IN WHICH A KNOT IS TIED.

_From Colvin Fraser, Esq., to Mrs Hurstwood._

                              Muxidavad, _June ye_ 8_th, Evening._

My pen, madam, ought by rights to be dipped in joy, since it has the
charming task of announcing to the most faithful of friends that the
dear sufferer, in whose fate she and I have experienced a joint
concern, is now safely restored to the society of her countrymen, and
that no long time will, I trust, elapse, before she hastens to
Calcutta to embrace her Mrs Hurstwood. This agreeable news, you’ll
say, should stimulate me to impart it in fitting terms, but to tell
you the truth, madam, I have begun this letter already three times
over, for I can’t satisfy myself in communicating the rest of my
intelligence. ’Tis not only that I lack the fitting words for so
tremendous an announcement, my heart fails me in imagining Mrs
Hurstwood’s scorn and resentment on hearing of my presumption; yet I
would cheerfully brave even these did my mind supply me with terms
appropriate to my situation, but rather than degrade the occasion by
my poverty of speech, I’ll leave my news untold. In short, madam, I
can’t write; my heart is too full. My revered and obliging friend Dr
Dacre will take up the task I have abandoned, and permit me to
subscribe myself, Mrs Hurstwood’s most obedient, humble servant,

                                                     C. Fraser.

_From the Rev. Dr Dacre to Mrs Hurstwood._

                           Mucksadabad, _June ye_ 8_th, Midnight._

In obedience, madam, to the urgent entreaty of my young friend
Lieutenant Fraser, I venture to intrude myself upon the notice of Mrs
Hurstwood, confiding in that sprightly and indulgent temper of which
none can be ignorant that have been in company with the gentlemen whom
she honours with her acquaintance--a favoured band in which it is my
earnest desire to be numbered at the earliest possible period. In the
joyful confusion of mind which is the natural accompaniment of Mr
Fraser’s present situation, he has been unable to direct me in any way
in the task I have undertaken, and I purpose, therefore, to follow the
extremely just precedent which I understand him to have established in
his former epistles to Mrs Hurstwood, and relate the events of this
evening in their proper historic order. If, in so doing, I should lay
myself open to that reproach which has been recorded against old men
by my honoured friend Mr Samuel Johnson, that they too often grow
narrative in their age, and weary where they hope to please, let my
fair correspondent be so gracious as to ascribe the fault to the
respectful awe in which I stand of her, and not either to my subject
or my ill-will.

Seated this evening, madam, upon the varendar here with my obliging
host, Mr Watts, I took occasion to remark upon the absence of the two
young gentlemen, Mr Fraser and Mr Ranger, neither of whom I had seen
since early morning.

“Mr Ranger I sent to Maudipore on an errand as soon as it was cool,”
replied Mr Watts, “and I heard him come in a while ago. As for the
Lieutenant, he’s engaged on his own business, but what that is I don’t
know, nor do I ask it.”

“What’s this noise of shouting and singing that I hear approaching?” I
asked him. “Sure there’s no idol-pagoda so close as that?”

“No, ’tis but the pagans holding one of their _tamashes_, or as like
as not the Nabob is taking an evening walk with his intimates. One of
my correspondents in the Durbar brought me word to-day that Meer
Sinzaun’s influence with his master is on the wane, and that he was
endeavouring to re-establish it by presenting him with some very
choice entertainment this evening at a house he has on the skirts of
the town. Questionless the Prince and his favourites are now on their
way thither. If there was the faintest touch of spirit in Meer
Jaffier, he would sally out and capture Surajah Dowlah when he’s
passing through the streets with all this riot and noise, but the
fellow has no more enterprise than any _bawboo_. However, provided the
Nabob don’t pay me a visit, there’s nothing to trouble us in his
nightly perambulation.”

“Am I mistaken, or is the noise stopping before the gate?” said I.

Mr Watts raised himself on his elbow to listen, just as Mr Ensign
Ranger approached us from the direction of the gate, having the
liveliest contempt imaginable depicted upon his visage.

“Sir,” says he to Mr Watts, “there’s Rajah Moneloll[19.01] at the
gate, with a whole rabble of _louchees_ at his heels. They say there’s
a slave-girl--a country-born wench--missing from the seraglio, and
demand to know whether she has took refuge here. I have assured ’em of
the contrary, but they require to see you.”

“See me they may, but they won’t find the door opened to ’em,” said Mr
Watts, turning towards the gate, whither we were accompanied by Mr
Fraser and the servant Mirza Shah, who had just joined with us. We
found Moneloll very particular in his enquiries, though he offered no
reason why the wench should seek refuge with us.

“I have told you that she en’t here,” says Mr Watts at last. “The only
woman in the place is the _chokeydar’s_ grandmother, and she’s near a
hundred years old, but if you’re desirous to see the old lady, I’ll
have her step this way.”

This handsome offer raised a laugh, but the favourite represented that
the Nabob would be better satisfied if his men were permitted to
search the house in order to assure themselves of our innocence.

“Then I fear his Highness won’t be satisfied,” said Mr Watts, “for no
one enters this house to search it but over the bodies of these
gentlemen and myself, and for that you’ll have to answer to Saubut
Jung Behader.”[19.02]

“Why do you feign to take my jest for earnest, Watch Siab?” says
Moneloll, with an air of reproach, and withdrew with his followers.

“Because it would have turned to deadly earnest when once these
fellows had laid hands on the treasonable papers I have in the house,”
said Mr Watts to me in a low voice.

“They’re setting guards to watch the house, sir,” says Mr Ranger, “so
as to allow no one to enter unperceived.”

“This might have been serious a week ago,” said Mr Watts, “but
now----”

“Sir,” said Mr Fraser on a sudden, “I must ask your pardon for
correcting what you said a moment back, but the lady that Moneloll
seeks is in the house.”

“In the house, sir? Where?”

“In the godown at the back of the courtyard, close to the small door,
sir.”

“And you choose this moment, sir, when all our lives hang upon a
thread, and spies among our servants are watching not only our
motions, but our looks and words, to embroil me with the Nabob for the
sake of a half-_cast_ wench?”

“Sir! the lady is she of whom I told you, who survived the fall of
Calcutta.”

“Pray, Mr Fraser, remember I warned you that I could not listen to any
account of your aspirations in coming here. Still, you have set the
affair in a better light, and kept me from handing the woman back at
once to the Nabob, as I was about to do. But if I may presume to ask
it, what’s your object in bringing her here?”

“To procure for her your protection, sir, and the means of rejoining
her friends.”

“And this when every foot of the way to Calcutta swarms with enemies!
Perhaps you en’t aware, sir, that to-morrow you’re to repair to
Maudipore with Dr Dacre and Mr Ranger, in order to be ready should I
be compelled to quit Mucksadabad suddenly. Pray, is the lady to go
with you or remain here with me? How, pray, do you hope to convey her
to Calcutta? Sure you had better have left her where she was.”

“Had I done so, sir, I would be the most calculating coward that ever
breathed.”

“Say you so, indeed? Come, sir, what’s your relation to the lady?”

“I honour and esteem her infinitely, sir.”

“Pray, are you her humble servant?”

“That’s the position to which I aspire, sir.”

“Well, will you marry her to-night?”

“To-night, sir? But I han’t asked her.”

“That’s an omission can quickly be repaired. Will you do it?”

“But, sir, such haste--indecent haste--her friendless situation--she
would feel her delicacy outraged by the mere suggestion----”

“Oh, we won’t press you, sir. Mr Ranger, you’re acquainted with the
lady. Will you assume the office of protecting her?”

“With all my heart, sir, this very moment.”

“Sir!” cried Mr Fraser to Mr Watts. “Jem!” to Mr Ranger.

“Why, what a selfish cur art thou, Colvin!” cried the young gentleman.
“A true dog in the manger, and sullen at that. Because the poor girl
don’t find favour with thee, would’st have her lose all chance of a
kind spouse?”

“Put up your sword, sir,” cried Mr Watts angrily to Mr Fraser. “How
will you quarrel with Mr Ranger for obliging me where you refuse? Have
you anything to say against him?”

“This, sir,” said Mr Fraser, standing and confronting Mr Watts very
stiffly. “Shortly before the fall of Calcutta I received a letter from
my cousin Colquhoun, with whom you was acquainted, saying that in
response to my urgent desire expressed to him, he was setting on foot
a treaty of marriage between Miss Freyne and myself, but beyond adding
that she had offered no opposition to the match, he told me nothing of
her temper towards me. The troubles that followed brought the
negotiation to an abrupt conclusion, so you’ll perceive I can’t tell
how I stand with regard to the lady.”

“I’ll promise you this, at least,” says Mr Ranger; “I won’t run off
with your mistress before your eyes, Colvin.”

“Pray, sir, be silent,” says Mr Watts. “Am I to understand that you’re
willing for the completion of the treaty, Mr Fraser, if the lady be
the same?”

“Why, yes, sir, with all my heart. But how approach the subject
without seeming to the lady to presume upon such slight service as I
have been able to render her? She is the very soul of delicacy, and to
be lowered in her eyes would be intolerable to me.”

“Give me your hand, Mr Fraser!” says Mr Watts, warmly. “You’re a youth
of spirit, and I honour your scruples. You shan’t have this odious
task forced upon you. I will myself approach the lady on your behalf,
and take her mind in the matter.”

I have never, madam, seen a young gentleman with so astonished an air
as Mr Fraser. “But, sir,” he stammered, “the haste will be the same.”

“My good sir,” says Mr Watts, “I’ll assure you the lady shall be told
that you’re about to be forced to the altar at the sword’s point. I’ll
swear to her that you’d wish to delay the ceremony for ten years if it
could be compassed. In fact, to satisfy you I’ll intimate to her that
you marry her but to oblige me. What, en’t this enough?”

“Sir, sir!” cried the unfortunate young man, and stopped, unable to
say more.

“Come, sir,” said Mr Watts, “trust me to guard both the lady’s
punctilio and your own. Her father was one of my most intimate
friends, and I desire nothing but good to his daughter. If she’s
reluctant to have you, I’ll say no more, but if you’re both willing,
why delay? Come, doctor, you shall add your persuasions to mine.”

Taking the lantern which the Tartar brought him, Mr Watts led the way
to the godown, leaving Mr Fraser a lively image of despair, and his
friend plying him with mocking consolations. Mr Watts unlocking the
door, we passed into the warehouse, and discovered a female form
seated on one of the bales. To you, madam, who enjoyed for so long the
felicity of being continually in company with Miss Freyne, I need not
express the sensations with which my friend and myself beheld the
extraordinary loveliness of this young creature, more especially when
we remembered the affecting situation in which she was placed, as she
rose and saluted us with an air of modest dignity that added, if that
were possible, another to the many graces of her aspect.

“Your servant, gentlemen,” said she.

“Madam,” says Mr Watts, “your most humble servant. My old comrade Hal
Freyne’s daughter don’t, I hope, hear for the first time the name of
William Watts? This here is my friend Dr Dacre, a learned divine and
most ingenious author.”

Miss Freyne curtseyed again, in acknowledgment of my host’s too
partial mention of myself, but methought her eyes rested with a more
assured confidence on Mr Watts, who (worthy man!) experienced, as I
thought, some embarrassment in fulfilling the task he had chosen, but
in this I was to find myself mistaken.

“Doctor,” he said, turning to me, “you was right and I wrong.”

“Indeed, sir, this handsome acknowledgment----” said I, altogether
ignorant of his meaning.

“Yes, indeed. I thought the young gentleman’s fears uncalled-for, but
now I’m inclined to believe him rather presumptuous than modest.”

I began to understand. “He seemed to me to carry himself very
properly, sir.”

“But in face of so much beauty, sir! Why, Prince George himself would
have good cause to tremble in the presence of such a lady. The
assurance of these young fellows is prodigious! I’m unwilling to
prejudice the foolish youth in the eyes of a person he reveres so
highly, but I must confess I should be glad to see his arrogant
pretensions suitably rebuked.”

“Sure, sir, you’re too hard,” I said, while Miss Freyne turned her
eyes in bewilderment from one of us to the other. “The young gentleman
displayed a very proper sense of his own unworthiness as compared with
the lady, and after all, he has done his best to serve her.”

“A plague on his services, sir!” cried Mr Watts. “Is it to be endured
that the mere risque of finding himself dismissed the navy, together
with a paltry five months’ residing and working here for Miss Freyne’s
release, should inspire the coxcomb with the notion of possessing a
claim on the lady’s gratitude?”

Here Miss Freyne interrupted us. “Sir,” she said, with the most
charming blush imaginable, “I can’t help guessing that you speak of Mr
Fraser. I trust I han’t been so unfortunate as in any way to injure
his prospects in life through the generous ardour that impelled him to
attempt my release?”

“Why, madam,” says Mr Watts, pushing his wig on one side, as one
greatly perplexed, “this is the fact of the matter--though indeed, if
I didn’t know that Miss Freyne’s wit and discretion are reported to
exceed, if possible, her beauty, I should not venture to lay it before
her. I can’t deny but Mr Fraser is in bad odour with his superiors,
and runs some risque of being put on his trial for desertion, owing to
his exceeding the time allowed him here by the Admiral; but as I said
just now, any man should count himself honoured in being permitted to
run some risque for Miss Freyne’s sake.”

But here I thought that Mr Watts was gone too far, for the unfortunate
lady fell back against the goods behind her, as pale as death. “Alas!”
she murmured, “must I involve yet another in the miseries I bring on
all concerned with me--and this one my brave deliverer?”

“Nay, madam,” cried Mr Watts, “the young gentleman is of opinion that
you may compensate him if you will for any risques to which he may
have been exposed. But, as I was saying, who could expect Miss Freyne
to sacrifice herself for such an insignificant person?”

The lady’s face was whiter than before. “Sacrifice myself? I offered
that very thing, but he refused,” she breathed, so low that we could
scarce hear her, “and now he sends to ask it of me! No, sir,” she
cried out suddenly, “’tis unpossible. You must have mistook him. He
could not be so base.”

“Why, madam,” said Mr Watts, in extreme surprise, “I have said that I
think the young gentleman presumptuous, but I can’t see that there’s
any baseness in asking you to be his.”

“What! is that all?” she cried, and immediately fell to laughing and
weeping in a style that I found vastly alarming. “I thought you was
telling me that he desired I should give myself up again to Meer
Sinzaun, sir.”

“Oh, madam,” said I, “indeed you wrong the young gentleman.”

“I know I do, and I’m an ungrateful wretch!” she cried, still sobbing.

“Well, madam, ’tis in your power to make him full amends,” said Mr
Watts. “May I inform him that you have no objection to marry him
to-night?”

“Sir!” cried Miss Freyne, drawing herself up with all the dignity in
the world.

“Why, madam, here are you in extreme need of a protector, and out
yonder is Mr Fraser, languishing under the conviction that he’s
offended you beyond pardon in hinting at his desires by my lips. Here
also is Dr Dacre at your service. If this be the right moment for
exhibiting severe justice towards the man that loves her, I’m
convinced Miss Freyne will show it; but if it’s possible for mercy to
override punctilio, then I believe she has sufficient greatness of
mind to lay aside the privilege of her sex, and make Mr Fraser happy
without tormenting him further--unless,” added Mr Watts with great
anxiety, “you have already, madam, entered into any engagement of
marriage that would forbid this?”

“No, sir, I am happily free. Refusing Meer Sinzaun’s addresses, he
desired to revenge himself by resigning me to the Nabob; but from this
frightful slavery I was rescued--by Mr Fraser. I hope, sir, you don’t
expect me to agree with you in the remarks you was pleased to pass on
the gentleman just now? I have such a confidence in him, and I am so
deeply indebted to his kindness, that I could not hesitate a moment in
making him happy, as you are obliging enough to call it, if I could
believe it really for his advantage. But this extraordinary haste--my
desolate situation--the want of the merest necessaries of life--” the
lady looked at her gown, and blushed again; “and also---- But pray,
sir, if Mr Fraser’s feelings are so deeply engaged, why don’t he
approach me himself on the matter? Sure you’ll agree that he owes me
the compliment of declaring his own wishes and enquiring mine?”

“Why, madam, the poor young gentleman is in so sad a state, from
apprehension of his own unworthiness and your deserved severity, that
I refused to allow him to plead his own cause, lest he should do
himself less than justice. And that reminds me, we are prolonging his
agony with the most exquisite cruelty. Madam, you’ll consent?”

“Oh, sir--oh, Dr Dacre, you are a clergyman--advise me. I don’t desire
to be unkind, but----”

“Why, madam, I can but advise you to follow your own heart.”

“And that,” says Mr Watts, “Miss has been good enough to show us
already. Come, doctor, let us inform Mr Fraser of his good fortune.
Madam, I’ll attend you again in a few minutes.”

“Sir--Mr Watts!” I heard Miss Freyne cry, but my host shut the door
behind him.

“I think you’ll say I know how to humour the ladies as well as the
Indians, doctor?” he said to me, very complacently, as we came to the
house. “Come, Mr Fraser, your mistress consents to make you happy. Go
and get ready, sir.”

“But, pray tell me, sir--she en’t offended?”

“Be thankful for what you’ve got, sir, and ask no questions.”

“Don’t be too curious in your enquiries, Colvin,” says Mr Ranger.
“Come at once and get rid of that undress of yours. I must have you
wear your uniform to be married in.”

“Stop, Mr Ranger!” cried Mr Watts. “Have you forgot that we must keep
this wedding a secret from the servants? What will Mr Fraser’s boy say
to see him in full dress?”

“I vow, sir, I had quite forgot it; though, indeed, most of the
servants are gone to their houses for the night. But sure, sir, you
won’t forbid me to oblige our friend with the loan of a ruffled shirt,
and the merest sprinkling of powder? Why, the lady might cry off from
her bargain if she discovered the true colour of his hair!”

This having the desired effect in inducing a smile on Mr Fraser’s
serious countenance, Mr Ranger led away his friend in triumph, while
Mr Watts and I disposed the room as orderly as we might for the
marriage. Presently the two young gentlemen rejoined us, demanding
earnestly what was to be done for a ring? Incredible though it may
appear, not one of us was provided with this essential feature of the
ceremony.

“Has no one so much as a signet-ring?” cried Mr Watts. “Come, Mr
Fraser, sure you possess one with a coat-of-arms on it, to show the
noble house from which you’re sprung? I never knew a Scotchman yet
that did not carry with him so convenient a testimony to his
ancestry.”

“Any small article of the required shape will serve,” said I,
observing that Mr Fraser appeared to regard this jest as a reflection
cast upon his nation. “I have known the handle of the church-key
masquerade as a ring.”

“Why, then, we need make no further trouble,” said Mr Watts, taking a
seal from his watch chain, and unfastening the ring that held it.
“This will about fit your lady’s finger, Mr Fraser, and she’ll be able
to say that she was married with the seal of the Cossimbuzar factory.
I’ll have some goldsmith make me another.”

“Sure, gentlemen, we are keeping the bride waiting,” says Mr Ranger.
“Pray, Dr Dacre, lend me a prayer-book, and let me be clerk. As the
lady has no bridemaid, Mr Fraser won’t need a brideman, but some one
must deliver the responses.”

Having a second prayer-book with me, I was able to oblige Mr Ranger,
and Mr Watts departed to fetch the bride. I had observed that Mr
Fraser was wearing an extraordinary resolved air, and as soon as the
lady appeared he stepped forward to meet her, saying very earnestly as
he took her hand--

“Madam, the happiness you offer me is so extravagantly great that I
scarce dare accept it, for I can hardly believe that you would
condescend to bestow it of your own accord. Pray, madam, don’t think I
desire to press you unduly. If you have any doubt of my sentiments
towards you, or hesitate to honour me by confiding yourself wholly to
my affection, say so, and I will hint no more of marriage, but swear
to convey you safe to Calcutta and restore you to your friends, if it
cost me my life.”

“Will you assure me on your honour, sir, that you desire this
marriage?” The lady raised her eyes, and regarded him earnestly.

“Why, madam, ’twould make me the happiest man on earth,” he stammered,
meeting her glance with a sort of modest resolution which I thought
one of the prettiest things I had ever seen.

“I thank you, sir. I have had my answer, and there’s yours,” and she
placed her other hand in his, an action that transfigured Mr Fraser’s
face with delight. But Mr Watts, declaring that the lady was
anticipating the service, and seeking to supersede him in his duty of
giving her away by doing it for herself, took her hand again to
conduct her where I stood, and I proceeded with the office in a low
but distinct voice, the Venetian blinds being drawn to prevent any of
the servants catching sight of what was going on, and the Tartar
keeping guard in the varendar, armed with a sword and buckler. I
observed that Mr Fraser made the prescribed answers in a clear tone,
instead of merely bowing, a careless custom of this _æra_ that has
nothing to excuse it, and the lady also could be heard without much
effort.

“Come, sir, salute your lady,” said Mr Watts, when the service was
over, compassionating the bashfulness of the married pair so far as to
refrain from commencing the usual indecorous struggle (which a politer
age will sure abandon) for the first kiss from the bride. “What, will
you put a public affront upon Mrs Fraser?” for the bridegroom offered
only to salute the lady’s hand. “Well, sir, fools make fortunes, and
wise men spend ’em,” and Mr Watts saluted her cheek very gallantly. I
won’t deny that I put in my claim for the parson’s fee, or that Mr
Ranger exceeded his duty as clerk by demanding one also, but ’twas Mr
Fraser observed that his bride was trembling, and hard put to it to
restrain her tears. With a delicacy that I had scarce expected in him,
he led her to a seat and begged her to compose herself, while Mr
Watts, bustling about with a great air of mystery, brought out a
bottle of champaign.

“Here,” he said, “this is my last bottle. I was reserving it against
the day Colonel Clive enters Mucksadabad, but now we’ll drink Mrs
Fraser’s health in it. At least the liquor won’t be wasted if our
schemes miscarry. Put on a brighter countenance, doctor, or I shall
congratulate myself in having foiled you in a design to run off with
the lady yourself. I don’t wonder you have a shame-faced air.”

“Why, indeed, sir,” said I, following with his humour in the hope of
bringing a smile to Mrs Fraser’s face, “I should have been sore
tempted but for the remembrance of a remark of my friend Mr Samuel
Johnson. Asked whether he regarded it as expedient that a young divine
should make a runaway match with the object of his affections, ‘Why
no, sir,’ he cried, ‘for who should then perform the ceremony?’ Sure
that would have been my case also.”

Perceiving my design, as I can’t help believing, the lady smiled
slightly, but Mr Watts took advantage of her cheerfulness to dash her
spirits afresh. “Our next business, Mr Fraser,” he said, “will be to
devise some plan for getting your lady safely out of the city.”

“Sure, sir,” said I, “the Moors would not venture to lay hands on the
wife of a British officer?”

“I would not recommend Mrs Fraser to ride out openly and put the
matter to the test,” says Mr Watts, “since even if they were disposed
to respect a British officer’s wife, what could be easier than to make
her his widow?”

“Oh, sir!” cried Mrs Fraser, starting up from her seat.

“I don’t purpose to assist ’em to do it, madam. I should fancy ’twould
be quite possible to smuggle you out dressed as a boy.”

The lady blushed deeply, and was silent, but her spouse interposed--

“Pray, sir, oblige us with some other expedient if you can. That you
name is excessively repugnant to Mrs Fraser’s feelings.”

“I’ll take Beeby Fraser in a palanqueen openly through the city and
out at the gate,” put in the Tartar, “if she’ll wear a _notch_-girl’s
dress.”

“Who asked you to speak, Mirza Shah?” cried Mr Watts angrily, while a
deeper crimson spread itself over the poor lady’s face.

“Sir,” she said to her husband, “I’ll submit even to this frightful
degradation, if it be necessary for your safety and that of these
gentlemen, but I know you’ll spare it me if you can.”

“I’ll ride out with you openly, madam,” he answered, “before you shall
be forced to it.”

“It appears to me,” said I, “though I speak with some diffidence, that
we might hope to put in practice successfully a device mentioned by
several ingenious authors. Cleopatra, on being denied Cæsar’s
presence, caused herself, we are told, to be conveyed into his
apartments concealed in a bale of carpets. Without for a moment
resembling Mrs Fraser to the too-notorious queen, I think it might be
possible to conceal her, when we quit the city to-morrow, among those
wadded quilts we use for mattresses.”

“Now, doctor, you talk like a man of sense!” cried Mr Watts. “Your
device spares the lady’s punctilio, and avoids endangering her spouse.
Are you prepared, madam, to submit to a certain measure of
inconvenience for the sake of freedom?”

“Indeed, sir, I am,” she replied.

“Why then, Mr Fraser and Mirza Shah shall carry out the affair. But
remember, sir, your lady is Mirza Shah’s care on the journey, and not
yours. If you was perpetually hovering about the baggage, the simplest
Syke could not fail to discover your secret. Doctor, we owe you many
thanks.”

Pray, madam, don’t take it ill in me thus to conclude my epistle with
my own praises. Mrs Hurstwood won’t misunderstand me, I’m convinced.
The having served her friend, however slightly, will commend to her
kindness her most obedient, humble servant,

                                                      Jno. Dacre.

(_The preceding letter, as well as those written by Mr Fraser, was
transcribed, as is afterwards explained, by Mrs Fraser, and sent with
her own to her friend Miss Turnor, by whom they were preserved. The
curious fragment which follows may be found in No._ 17 _of the thirty
large MS. volumes containing Dr Dacre’s miscellaneous remains. As no
transcript of it has been discovered among the Johnson papers, it is
probable that the letter was never sent._)


_From the Rev. Dr Dacre to Saml. Johnson, Esq., M.A._

                                 Maudipore, _June ye_ 13_th_, 1757.

My dear Sir,--You will questionless experience some surprise to
receive a communication from me out of my usual order, and dealing
with none of those important matters to the elucidation of which my
present journey is directed, and the surprise will be increased when
you are good enough to examine the enclosed Pastoral Piece, belonging
to a species of composition never yet attempted by me. It has so
chanced, however, that the necessity of inditing to an elegant and
virtuous lady an epistle in a somewhat more lively style than
ordinary, has inflamed me with the desire of turning to the
improvement of others the history of two young persons in whom I have
conceived a paternal concern. Remembering my honoured friend’s design
of composing at some future period a second series of papers similar
in their treatment to his immortal ‘Rambler,’ I have ventured to
compile this little anecdote for his acceptance, disguising slightly
the names of the persons affected, and adhering with the utmost
strictness to the just rules he has propounded for the writing of
Pastoral. I had, I’ll own, some notion of following the precedent set
by the erudite Sannazarius, and presenting my personages as fishers
instead of shepherds (and this in relation more especially to the
gentleman, who pursues the maritime calling); but the recollection of
the arguments which you, my good sir, have directed against this
innovation, quickly dissuaded me, for how should one whose chief
passport to favour, even in these distant regions, is the fact that he
is the friend of Samuel Johnson, oppose himself to the erudition of
his preceptor? In one point, sir, I’ll confess you will discover me to
have forsook your example, and this is with respect to the
introduction of the scenery and products of the East. The bird of
Paradise, I am informed, is not a native of Indostan, nor does it
utter any song worth mentioning, while the oak and the primrose are
not to be discovered among the spice-groves of these
countries.[19.03] To enter into a discussion of the subject would be
impertinent in a work of the imagination, and I have therefore
contented myself with citing such natural objects as I required,
without describing them. Any criticisms that my honoured friend may be
so kind as to offer will be welcomed by his most obliged, obedient
servant,

                                                     Jno. Dacre.

                _The Exacting Lovers. A Pastoral._

Colin and Silvia were two young persons who appeared to all their
acquaintance to be formed for each other. His mind was something of a
gloomy cast, while she was possessed of a sprightly turn of humour; he
was apt to be overbearing in his air, and she was endowed with that
easy softness which is the most admirable characteristic of her sex;
his disposition was of the sort that is on the watch for slights, hers
inclined her to believe anything of her friends rather than that they
were intentionally unkind. The chain that bound their lives in one was
forged out of a long series of affecting incidents, which it is not
convenient to include in the present tale. It will suffice to say,
that Sinzonius, the tyrant of a town adjacent to the pastoral region
in which Colin and Silvia fed their flocks, captivated by the beauty
of the lovely maid, carried her away to his stronghold, proposing to
himself to keep her immured until she consented to his desires. This
execrable project was foiled by the resolution of Colin, who,
assembling hastily his brother-shepherds, took advantage of the
tyrant’s absence to release the imprisoned fair. Such a service, in
the estimation of all around, entitled the rescuer to the highest
recompense that Silvia could bestow, and attended with a numerous
throng of swains and nymphs, the youthful pair betook themselves to
the temple of Venus, where they plighted their eternal vows amid the
acclamations of all present. There being among the ministers of the
temple, however, a spy in the pay of Sinzonius, this fellow hastened
to inform his patron of what he had witnessed, whereupon the haughty
prince vowed to be avenged upon those who had so successfully defied
him, although he did not venture to attack them openly.

In a commodious cave that extended into the mountains overhanging the
vale in which Colin and Silvia had fixed their modest abode, resided a
venerable and pious hermit named Damœtas, who had beheld with a
paternal satisfaction the establishment of their humble household.
Living remote from the converse of men, he had not become sensible of
the alarming menaces of Sinzonius when, quitting his rugged solitudes,
he repaired one morning to the smiling plains beneath for the purpose
of enquiring into the welfare of his youthful friends. His progress
was frequently interrupted by the respectful greetings of the
shepherds he passed, who, leaving their pastoral avocations, hastened
to implore his benediction; but arriving at length in the vicinity of
Colin’s hut, what was his astonishment to discover in the youth, who
lay stretched on the turf in an agreeable glade, a prey to the
liveliest manifestations of grief. The garlands were fallen unheeded
from his locks, and his sheep wandered at will, unrestrained by his
idle crook. Profoundly affected by the sight of such extreme
melancholy, Damœtas made haste to ask him how he did, and whether all
was well with the amiable Silvia.

“Alas, Damœtas!” sighed the unfortunate Colin, “my imagined felicity
is no more. I find myself shipwrecked when I fancied I was arrived in
port.”

“Unhappy youth, unfold your sorrows to me,” said the sympathising
hermit. “Have wild beasts attacked your flock, or is the herbage
parched with drought?”

“Such misfortunes as these,” replied Colin, “would be trivial to that
which is befallen me. My adored Silvia repents already of her
condescension.”

“Is it possible?” cried the hermit; “she repents that she plighted her
vows to you?”

“That, my kind patron, is Colin’s unhappy case. You will bear me
witness that I felt my happiness too extreme to continue, and it is
already eclipsed. I have become sensible that ’twas not, as I dared to
hope, the return of my own affection, but that obliging softness of
temper which distinguishes my charmer, that induced her to be mine. A
mere rude shepherd, I felt myself infinitely unworthy of so much
beauty and virtue, but I fancied that the continual society of my
beloved girl might in time elevate me nearer to her. But when I find
her regarding me with apprehension, if not with aversion, what hope
can I cherish?”

“Pray, good youth, inform me what has led you to this mournful
conclusion.”

“Indeed, Damœtas, I discover in my Silvia such a fixed melancholy as
affects me inexpressibly. She beholds me depart in the morning with
tears, and welcomes me with tears when I return at night, while coming
upon her suddenly I have several times found her weeping. Add to this
that she avoids my caresses, and won’t permit me to enjoy her company
in peace even at our frugal meals, but is for ever rising to peer
round the corner of our hut, or among the trees, as though she
anticipated the approach of some enemy, although I have assured her
repeatedly that there’s none in the vicinity. Whence can this
uneasiness proceed but from aversion for her Colin? But even worse
than this is the passion she displays for serving me and anticipating
my desires (in all but the matter I have most at heart), such as the
merest slave might exhibit. This morning only I bade her be seated,
and told her with some sharpness that ’twas for me to serve her, when
she cried out with tears that this was the sole recompense she could
make me for the horrid injury she had done me.”

“And this injury--what do you understand it to be, Colin?”

“Oh, sir, what can it be but the permitting herself to listen to my
addresses, merely in order to oblige her friends? I don’t deny but she
hoped to oblige me as well, her grateful spirit estimating far too
high the slight service I had rendered her, and indeed, my sentiments
towards the dear creature are such that I could be content with being
allowed to serve her, in the hope of bringing her in time to regard me
with affection, but for the thought of the wrong I am inflicting on
her in keeping her bound to a spouse she abhors.”

“But you have made no attempt to enquire of your Silvia whether you
have judged her aright?”

“Oh no, sir; how would it profit me to hear the dreadful truth
confirmed by the lips of the woman I adore? No, I won’t pain her by
exhibiting what she has made me suffer. I may serve her better than
that.”

The good hermit folded his hands upon his staff, and looked fixedly at
Colin. “Rash youth,” he said, “what are these wild dreams in your
mind?”

“There are none, Damœtas, but if in the strife with Sinzonius’ forces
an arrow should penetrate to this sad heart, my charmer would once
more be free.”

“I don’t, I won’t believe,” said the hermit, “that she desires her
liberty. Accept my counsel, Colin. Meet your Silvia always with a
smiling and affable countenance, consult her wishes, and disregard her
melancholy, which may be dissipated when once her spirits are
recovered from her imprisonment. If you don’t succeed in banishing it,
at least you won’t have added to it.”

“Alas, Damœtas, this is mournful counsel for a man not three days
married!” sighed the unhappy shepherd, and resumed his melancholy
musings, to which the hermit sorrowfully left him. Continuing his
journey, Damœtas arrived presently in view of Colin’s rustic cot,
which was seated on a gentle eminence, commanding a charmingly
diversified prospect. Here he discovered the beauteous Silvia, who had
thrown herself weeping on the ground in the delicious shades of the
grove, paying no heed to the whispers of the balmy gale, nor to the
music of the rill that murmured beside her. Hearing the approaching
footstep, however, she sprang up from her lowly couch.

“Oh, sir, what of Colin?” cried the lovely nymph. “Is he safe?”

“I left him but now in perfect safety,” replied the good Damœtas.
“But what ails the fair Silvia, and why is she concerned for her
Colin’s safety?”

“Oh, sir,” she replied with tears, “I think I have not enjoyed one
easy moment since hearing of the menaces uttered by Sinzonius. I can’t
endure that Colin should be out of my sight, and yet when he is with
me I am tormented with apprehensions of beholding him murdered before
my eyes, and it is I have brought this danger upon him. Thoughtless
and wicked damsel that I was, I consented to unite my own evil fate
with his, forgetting the misfortunes that are come upon all connected
with me.”

“But sure Silvia was acquainted with this when she consented to oblige
Colin?”

“Alas, sir! I forgot it, as I have said, for the moment, transported
as I was with joy to think that I might hope to render him happy. But
’twas a deceitful hope. Colin has already learned his mistake.”

“Has he discovered that his Silvia can’t make him happy?”

“Alas, sir, yes! I have observed his uneasiness grow continually these
two days. He has questionless determined that his poor Silvia en’t
worth the perils that the possessing her involves. My tears distress
him, and I seek to hide them, but my apprehensions I can’t conceal,
and they tease him excessively. If I had but the assurance of his
affection I could be happier, but the cup of my misery is filled by
the thought that he was persuaded by his friends to take pity on me
owing to my desolate situation. This very day I sought to express to
him something of the distress I experience for the wrong I have done
him, when he answered me very shortly that we had both made a mistake,
but that ’twould do no good to weep over it.”

The hermit, now become fully sensible of what the tragedians call the
irony of the situation, was at some loss how to proceed, but said at
length--

“In that remark, as I can’t deny, Silvia’s spouse was justified. I
would have her dry her tears and meet Colin with a cheerful
countenance. Let her dress herself in her best----”

“Ah, sir, I have but this one gown,” said the lovely girl. How will
this pastoral simplicity be despised by the ladies who read these
pages!

“True,” said the frugal Damœtas, “and ’tis a credit to Silvia that
she can say so. But at least she may welcome her spouse in a cheerful
style, and abstain from vexing him further with her tears. Did she
entreat of him any explication of his unkind remark? It may be she
misunderstood his words.”

“Alas, sir, how could they be mistaken? Their meaning was too plain.”

Finding himself again at a loss, Damœtas remained for some moments
plunged in thought, until the notes of a melancholy strain discoursed
on a shepherd’s pipe heralded the return of Colin, which Silvia,
absorbed in the violence of her grief, had not observed. Rubbing his
hands merrily, the venerable hermit went forth to meet the mournful
youth, and leading him into the cot, presented him to Silvia.

“In the glade,” he said, “I met with a shepherd who was inconsolable
because the nymph he worshipped did not return his affection, and in
this hut I find a young woman refusing to be comforted because her
adored spouse don’t love her. Perhaps they may console one another.”

“Is’t possible?” cried one. “’Twas all my fault!” cried t’other, and
they embraced with all imaginable tenderness, while the good Damœtas
went on to say--

“Indeed, I can’t but declare you both in the wrong. You, Colin, erred
in permitting your gloomy constitution to persuade you of your wife’s
aversion for you, and in neglecting to enquire particularly into the
truth; and you, Silvia, because you suffered your apprehensions to
blind you to the care of that Providence which has so often assisted
you in the past, and to go far to alienate the affection of your
spouse. Learn then, both of you, to be wiser in the future.”

In this strain Damœtas continued for some time to improve the
occasion, until, perceiving with regret that his auditors were so
profoundly engrossed in each other as to be altogether unconscious of
his exhortations, he withdrew, and left them alone.




 CHAPTER XX.
 WHICH DESCRIBES A STRATEGIC RETREAT.

_From Mrs Fraser to Miss Amelia Turnor._

                                         Culnah, _June ye_ 15_th._

I have amused myself not a little, my dear friend, during this last
few days, in picturing the manner in which my Amelia would receive the
astonishing news contained in my last letter, which I was so eager to
place in her hands that I writ it in scraps, as the time offered, at
Moidapore, and despatched it the night of last Saturday (the 11th), by
a _cossid_ that was carrying an epistle from Mr Watts to Colonel
Clive, and called at the hunting-lodge for any private letters the
gentlemen might wish to send. ’Tis true I have been inclined to repent
of this precipitancy, for since arriving at the army we have heard a
rumour that the fellow, being pursued by _decoyts_ or highway robbers,
lost in his flight some of the missives with which he had been
entrusted. Still, I can’t bring myself to believe that the epistle in
which I acquainted my dear girl of all the incidents (whether
alarming, affecting, or comical) of my marriage, and of the
misunderstanding that, but for the interposition of good Dr Dacre,
might have wrecked for ever my happiness with my dear Mr Fraser, could
be the one of all the rest to go astray. Should it prove to have been
thus ill-advised, I fear my Amelia must be the sufferer, for I could
not bring myself to write that letter again.

At Moidapore, which is a country-house situated about one _coss_, or
rather over two miles, to the south of Cossimbuzar, we spent in all
five days, a period during which I was apparently as much a prisoner
as when in Sinzaun’s house, but with how great a difference! Carried
into the place rolled up in a bundle of mattresses (believe me, my
dear, I could have imagined myself again in the Black Hole, such was
the heat and the want of air on my journey), I had allotted to me the
_Ginanah_, or women’s part of the house, with an agreeable small
garden on which it looked; and here I remained without my presence
being so much as suspected by any of the domestics, with the exception
of the gentlemen’s body-servants, who, being honest fellows, and
continually employed about the house, were admitted into the secret.
Of the anxious kindness shown me by Mr Fraser I need not speak, for
the generosity of his mind is abundantly testified by the history I
gave you of our first quarrel, if quarrel it may be called, which was
so productive in misery at the time, but yet has something droll in
it. The consideration of the other two gentlemen displayed itself in
the most engaging manner, as my Amelia will perceive when I tell her
that I had not to resent a single free remark from Mr Ranger, and that
Dr Dacre was so obliging as to translate for me on the spot all the
quotations from the ancient authors that he happened to employ in his
discourse. What can I say more? As long as our stay lasted, my spouse
and Mr Ranger occupied themselves during the morning and evening
principally in hunting, which was necessary to give colour to their
removal to the place; and your Sylvia found plenty to do in cutting
out and making up from the stout cotton cloth of the country a
riding-dress for herself, which Mr Watts had warned her she might need
at any moment; while Dr Dacre, pursuing his studies with the most
philosophical composure in the world, was so polite as to read aloud
to her occasionally certain extracts from the work he is preparing on
the relation of the Sanskerreet to the classical tongues, to cheer her
labours.

During this blessed period we were not left entirely without news from
the outer world, for Mr Watts despatched a messenger to us on some
pretext or other once a day. The first of his messages was that which
awoke in your foolish Sylvia’s bosom all the apprehension which her
Fraser misread so unfortunately. It acquainted us that Sinzaun had
accosted him that day in a very affable style at the Durbar, asking
his pardon for Moonloll’s attempted invasion of the night before, and
saying he was certain the female who had escaped was not at the
Agency, for he had found a clue to her presence in a different part of
the city, and expected to recover her immediately. To this Mr Watts
had added: “I can’t doubt but this complaisant address was designed to
throw me off my guard, to the end that Monsieur Sinzaun, who has
satisfied himself that Mrs Fraser was not of the party that rid to
Moidapore, may find opportunity to introduce his spies into this
house. His bribing some of the servants is merely a matter of time,
and when by this means he has discovered that the lady en’t here, he
will divine that we have succeeded in overreaching him, and will turn
his attention to Moidapore. When that happens, gentlemen, look to
yourselves.”

On the day after this alarming letter came a second to say that
Aume-beg, an officer of the Buckshy Meer Jaffier, with whom Mr Watts
has covenanted to turn traitor to the Nabob, was returned from
Calcutta, whither he had gone to convey the treaty between his master
and the British, bringing the news that the secret of the alliance had
got abroad, and was the common talk of the soldiers at that place and
Chandernagore. The wicked old Gentoo, Omy Chund, of whom my Amelia has
heard before, having played a leading part in obtaining the treaty,
had become alarmed that his advantage was not sufficiently regarded in
it, but his apprehensions were pacified (I fear, by what Mr Fraser
hints to me, in some not over honourable manner), and he was content
to do no more than watch over his interests by accompanying Colonel
Clive and his army when they marched against Muxadavad. Since this
might take place any day, Meer Jaffier had sent to warn Mr Watts to
make his escape, but the good gentleman was resolved to maintain his
position until the last extremity, and, if possible, until he had
permission from Colonel Clive to leave it. All this time the Nabob and
Meer Jaffier, shut up in their respective castles within the city,
were making preparations, the one for defence and t’other for attack,
and exchanging such bloodthirsty menaces as might well terrify those
who heard as well as those who received them.

Last Monday was the day on which our fears arrived at a climax, and
our fortunes at a crisis. As soon as the heat of the day was over, Mr
Ranger, who was gone to the stables to tell the grooms to have the
horses ready for going hunting that evening, found an old woman of one
of the gipsy tribes in the compound. On his tossing her the piece of
money for which she begged, the crone requested to see his hand, and
told him his fortune so accurately as regards the past, and so
flatteringly as regards the future, that he was most extravagantly
delighted, and carried the old creature to the house, where he
summoned Mr Fraser and Dr Dacre, who submitted their hands to her
inspection with an equally agreeable result. Mr Ranger’s kind concern
for my entertainment next caused him to suggest to Mr Fraser that he
should bring the old woman into the Ginanah, that she might tell my
fortune also. Always ready to consult my pleasure, and grown now
somewhat secure through our continued safety, Mr Fraser came to
propose the visit to me, suggesting that I should wrap myself in my
Moorish veil, so that the sorceress might not know me to be a
European. The notion of admitting this stranger did not commend itself
to me, but seeing my spouse so eager, and attributing my reluctance to
a foolish shyness springing from my long seclusion, I begged of him to
bring her in. I could not doubt her possession of the powers to which
she pretended when, after examining my hand very minutely, she
informed me that I had of late passed through many trials, hinting not
obscurely at their nature, and that I had been married only a few
weeks, perhaps even days. To test her further, Mr Fraser asked her
whether I had any enemies, to which she made answer that my safety was
menaced by a very great person, but that I might rest easy, for his
plots against me should not prosper. To this she added further
prophecies, such as awoke in Mr Fraser an extraordinary delight, and
he carried her out in great good humour. Returning to me, he remarked
on the woman’s having contrived to bite the coin he gave her, in order
to test its goodness, although she appeared to possess no teeth to
speak of. “I observed the marks,” said he.

“Sir,” I cried, a frightful conviction seizing me, “the woman was
Misery in a disguise, and with her teeth blackened.”

“What! the hag that betrayed my beloved girl to Sinzaun?” cried Mr
Fraser, catching up his sword, and ran out, calling to Mr Ranger to
accompany him. But although they searched high and low, and questioned
the servants closely, they could find no trace of the sorceress, and
returned disappointed, cursing their own credulity.

“How will my dearest life forgive me for bringing her into this new
peril?” said my spouse, with the kindest, most melancholy air
imaginable. “But at least the hag prophesied the downfall of her own
schemes,” he added, seeking to cheer me.

“’Twas but to throw us off our guard, I fear, sir. Relieved from dread
of Sinzaun, she looks that we shall grow careless. But, oh, dear sir,”
and I catched hold of Mr Fraser’s two hands, “if we are indeed exposed
to that wicked person’s attacks, let me alone be the sacrifice.
Believe me, ’twould add infinitely to my affliction to know that I had
endangered others.”

“I fear, Mrs Fraser,” says my spouse very solemnly, “you forget
sometimes that you’re married. How otherwise could you coldly propose
that I would resign my wife to that lawless villain? Or perhaps you
are good enough to intimate that you prefer him to me?”

“Oh, sir, sir!” I cried; and Mr Fraser embraced me with the most
obliging tenderness.

“My foolish girl knows now what I’ll think if I hear her say that
again,” he said, and went away to consult with Mr Ranger on plans of
defence. But as it chanced, their valour proved unnecessary; for their
council was interrupted with the commotion caused by the arrival of a
palanqueen, out of which stepped Mr Watts, very cheerful and sedate,
while among the servants attending on him was Mirza Shaw Buzbeg,
riding a very fine horse of his own. The palanqueen and bearers Mr
Watts sent back to Cossimbuzar, saying that he was going hunting with
the gentlemen, and would carry them thither with him for supper, which
(as he bade them remind the cooks) must be on the table without fail
at the hour he had named. Coming in then among us, and rubbing his
hands very complacently--

“Come,” he said, “the hour is arrived, gentlemen, and Surajah Dowlah’s
knell has begun to toll. Meer Jaffier sent to me this afternoon to
entreat that I would leave the city, since a rumour had reached the
Nabob that Colonel Clive was advancing from Calcutta as far as
Chandernagore with his troops. You’ll guess that I was not catched
unprepared, for I think ’twould be scarce kind in me to permit Surajah
Dowlah to add to his crimes by compassing all our deaths. Leaving the
city house in my palanqueen, I betook myself to Cossimbuzar, as I have
done pretty often of late on pretence of business, and ordered the
servants there to have supper ready against the time I should bring
you back with me, gentlemen; but I fear that supper will be cold
indeed before we return to eat it. Pack up your falbalas, madam; you
have prepared an equestrian habit as I recommended you, I hope? To
horse in half an hour, gentlemen! The beasts are in good condition, I
trust?”

“Sure, sir,” I heard Dr Dacre say, as I returned into my own
apartment, “you can’t intend to ride the whole distance to
Chandernagore? Have you forgot we have a female of our party? Mr
Fraser consulted me as to your intentions, and I assured him that you
was but proposing to ride as far as some point on the river where we
might obtain boats. You won’t contradict me, I hope?”

“Why, look ye here, doctor,” cried Mr Watts, “no man knows better than
I do that the length of the journey and the extreme heat of the season
will make this adventure of ours excessively fatiguing and not a
little dangerous, but our lives are at stake. One of my reasons for
lingering on in the city longer was that I was in hopes of hearing
from Colonel Clive that he desired our retreat, and had provided boats
to meet us on the way. But since he han’t chose to be so considerate,
we can only trust that the rumour which has alarmed the Nabob is true,
and that we shall find the army on the march to Muxadavad. The Colonel
knows our danger, for Aume-beg tells me that it has several times been
reported in Calcutta that I had been seen slain, and my head set on a
pole, and I don’t doubt but he’ll help us if he can. As for the lady,
if I know anything of her, she’ll share our hardships without whining
or peevishness, and prefer ’em to the alternative of remaining here.
And pray, gentlemen, do me the favour to get ready at once. I may be
pursued even now.”

The words were not out of Mr Watts’ lips when the other gentlemen
scattered each to his apartment, and Mr Fraser, lifting the
_antiporta_ of reeds through which I had heard all their conversation,
came to me.

“My incomparable girl must show the stuff she’s made of to-night,” he
said, with as great an air of cheerfulness as he could command. “We
will have a long hard ride, but I know she’ll do her best to support
it for her Fraser’s sake.”

“Indeed, dear sir, I’ll endeavour not to disappoint you,” I said, the
tears coming into my eyes at the kind and flattering style in which he
spoke. Truly, my dear, I can conceive nothing that would grieve me
more than to disappoint the dear gentleman in any particular, though I
fear I shall never attain to the high ideal he has so obligingly
formed of me. My Amelia would, I am convinced, discover a perpetual
fund of amusement in the mutual dread which Mr Fraser and I entertain
of losing each other’s good opinion. I must tell her that so many
years spent on shipboard have rendered my spouse an adept in what he
prefers to call _making things fast_. His apartment at the Agency made
me laugh, for everything that could by any means be packed up, put
away, rolled up or hung up, had been so treated, until the place
looked as bare as my hand. Observing my surprise, Mr Fraser told me
that he liked to have things shipshape; and when I asked him whether
he anticipated a flood, in which the whole house might sail gaily
away, he looked at me as though I had displayed a design to attack his
nation. It needs a woman, my dear, to diffuse that air of elegant
disorder without which the finest apartment has an uninhabited air. To
our sex alone does it belong to be easy without being untidy; for if
men dispose things neatly they become also stiff. But seeing that Mr
Fraser piques himself on his neatness, I allow him to do as he pleases
at present, and to devise all manner of expedients for stowing
everything away, until even the water-jar is furnished with a sort of
rack on the wall. And here at Moidapore, when I had put on my
riding-dress, he showed me a device of his by which my little bundle
of clothes (containing my only gown, Amelia) might serve me for a
cushion when I rode behind him, and was so pleased with his
contrivance that I could not find it in my heart to rebuke his
ingenuity by asking him what he thought the gown would look like when
I wore it next. En’t I a pattern wife, my dear?

“Alas, alas!” cried Mr Ranger, when I joined with the rest of the
party, “sure the shade of good Mr Addison must wander distressed
to-night. His fairest disciple has forsook him, and adopted the
equestrian habit he detested.”

This was said because I was forced to complete my riding-dress with a
laced hat and undress frock of Mr Fraser’s, suiting very well with my
skirt, which is of a dark blue colour, but giving me (I can’t deny)
something of the air of the young ladies rebuked by Mr Spectator for
aping men. Indeed, I think I should figure very passably in Hyde Park,
unless the mode has altered since I left England.

“Don’t tease the lady, sir,” says Mr Watts. “She has acted like a
woman of sense in dressing herself so as to attract as little
attention as possible to our party. She might pass for a man at a very
short distance.”

If this was said to comfort me it failed of its effect, but I said
nothing as we walked out through the garden to a spot remote from the
servants’ quarters, where the horses were waiting, each with its
groom, called a _syce_, who can keep pace with his beast for several
hours, even when the speed is very great. The Tartar, who had seen to
the security of all the straps and buckles, was already mounted, and
several dogkeepers, holding greyhounds in leashes, were present to
give our evasion the air of a simple hunting-party. Having mounted (Mr
Fraser had devised a sort of side-saddle for me, with the aid of a
stirrup fastened over a peg) we rode out gently to the southward for
some miles, feigning to be very eager in the search for antelopes or
game of any kind, but displaying the utmost care not to fatigue the
horses. Mr Ranger seemed to find this leisurely progress very
wearisome, for he began presently to rally Mr Fraser on his appearance
in the saddle, diverting himself with various odd comparisons
respecting sailors on horseback. This mockery I should have found very
annoying had I believed it to be well grounded, but Mr Fraser was
accustomed to riding in his early youth, and has never neglected the
accomplishment when on shore, so that he acquits himself with as much
elegance as any gentleman need exhibit, and was able to endure Mr
Ranger’s raillery with the greatest complaisance. The young gentleman
was so good-humoured as not to turn his attention to me, or I should
have been less happy than my spouse, not having mounted a horse for
over a year, but riding gently over level ground I found myself easy
enough. Having started on our ride when it wanted about an hour to
sunset, we had gone over six miles before darkness began to come on,
which happens very suddenly in these countries, and Mr Watts drew rein
at the summit of a slight eminence.

“See here,” he said to the dogkeepers, “we don’t seem to discover any
game, so ’tis scarce worth while to keep the dogs out longer. Take ’em
back to Moidapore at once. The gentlemen and I will ride quietly round
by Cossimbuzar, and sup there before returning, and we’ll hope for
better luck another evening.”

The dogkeepers obeying without any reluctance (for the Indians have a
great fear of the darkness, both on account of wild beasts and of evil
spirits), Mr Watts called upon us to follow him, and rid smartly down
the further side of the rise.

“A moment back,” he said, “before it was grown so dark, I catched
sight of two men coming from the south, and if they en’t wandering
_juggies_[20.01] they’re _cossids_.”

We came upon the men before long, for it seemed that they had
perceived our figures against the sky upon the hill-top, and directed
their steps towards us. One of them was known to Mr Watts, who cried
out to him to say where he had left Colonel Clive, to which he replied
that ’twas at Chandernagore, but that he was only halting there for
the night on his march to Muxadavad. This news served to raise all our
spirits, which the _cossid_ observing, he increased the effect by
delivering to Mr Watts a letter which he had carried concealed in the
folds of his turbant (for so scanty is the clothing of these swift
messengers that they have no other place in which to deposit the
missives with which they are charged), and which caused our leader
infinite delight.

“Good!” he cried. “Here’s the Colonel’s letter desiring me to quit
Muxadavad and join him with all possible speed. He will send forward
boats with a military escort to the point where the Jelingeer[20.02]
River meets this from Cossimbuzar, which will cut a fine slice off our
journey, and he looks to have reached Culnah before we meet him.”

Bidding the _cossids_ continue their journey to the factory and
refresh themselves there, Mr Watts saw them out of sight and then
turned to us.

“Now, my good friends, our real work is to begin. Madam, allow me to
assist you to dismount. Mr Fraser will put his saddle on your horse,
and you’ll find it best to ride behind him. Mirza Shaw will lead
t’other nag, and you can change to it again half-way. Are your pistols
charged, gentlemen, and your swords loose in the scabbards? We may
have to fight our way to-night--indeed it’s scarce probable we shall
escape without a tussle with the blackfellows--and in such a case all
will hang on our being able to ride ’em down before they see how few
we are.”

Almost as soon as Mr Watts had finished speaking, the saddles had been
changed and Mr Fraser was mounted again, when Mr Ranger helped me to
spring up behind him, and we started afresh, moving cautiously at
first, but soon quitting the road and striking to the left. Here the
country for a prodigious distance is uninhabited, and covered with
thickets of an extraordinary denseness, along the skirt of which we
rode at the utmost speed of which our beasts were capable, still
maintaining a southerly direction. My dear, I have no inordinate
desire, I hope, to establish myself as a heroine, nor to indulge in
any extravagant descriptions of that night’s sufferings, but since I
contrived at the moment to refrain from any expression of the miseries
I endured, in order not to incommode my kind protectors further, I
may, perhaps, be permitted to confide them to the faithful bosom of my
Amelia. Oh, my dear girl, the heat, the dust, the rough paces of the
horse when we passed over a tract of hard parched ground, the thirst,
the constant alarms, and worst of all, the sounds! Do you know what it
is to _hear_ the heat, Amelia? Don’t think my intellects are
disordered when I tell you that I heard it come rolling up like huge
waves. I imagined it to be thunder until the gentlemen had assured me
positively there was none. Then the sounds of the horses’ feet
multiplied themselves into the tramp of an immense army marching upon
us, or there was a continual roar, such as might be made by a whole
mighty river pouring over a precipice, and from the thickets we
skirted came shrieks and groans and cries, which I was told were due
to night-birds and wild animals, but which sounded at once more
alarming and more mysterious from the uncertainty with which they
reached the ear. These terrors did not, of course, attain their
greatest height immediately. During the first part of the journey Mr
Watts astonished us all by the gay good-humour with which he
encountered the situation. Whenever we slackened speed for a rise in
the ground, he would break into such agreeable and rallying discourse
as made us forget our discomforts. The skill and temper with which he
had braved the Nabob’s threatenings and disarmed his suspicions, while
at the same time plotting with his courtiers for his overthrow, formed
his chief theme, as though, like the great Roman commander, he would
have banished our fears by reminding us that we were in company with
himself and his fortunes. Again, as though the sudden removal of the
heavy anxieties under which he had laboured so long had left him as
careless as a boy, he would set to rallying one of the other
gentlemen, as when we stopped once that Mr Fraser and I might transfer
ourselves to the fresh horse, and I sat panting on the ground while
the saddles were changed.

“Come, doctor,” he cried, in answer to a Greek quotation from Dr
Dacre, “confess that you’re cherishing a grudge against me at this
moment for dragging you away from your books. I’m persuaded that in
your heart of hearts you’d prefer to die with your dear classical
authors rather than be saved without ’em. The blackfellows will make a
fine bonfire of them, I’ll warrant you.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the doctor, with something of a guilty air, “I
must confess I would not trust the Indians with any of my treasures.”

“Would not, sir? Pray what does that mean? I have observed your horse
flagging very painfully--sure your saddle-bags are prodigious hard,
and your pockets. Oh, doctor, doctor! can it be that you have loaded
the poor dumb beast with the weight of your library--and you a _burra
Padra_?”

“Only the most precious volumes, sir, I’ll assure you.”

“The cruelty’s the same. Come, doctor, pitch ’em all out. Lighten the
ship, as Mr Fraser would say. Will you exhibit less strength of mind
than his lady, who was content to bring the smallest possible package
with her?”

“Ah, sir, Mrs Fraser had no more to bring,” said the poor divine with
a deprecating air, which made Mr Watts laugh heartily. But having
alarmed Dr Dacre sufficiently, he was good-natured enough to relieve
him of the weight of one or two of the books, and Mr Ranger doing the
same, the doctor’s horse displayed a good deal more vivacity than
before. On starting on our journey again, Mr Watts changed our course,
remarking that we must have rode over twenty miles since parting with
the _cossids_, so that there were thirty miles at least between us and
Muxadavad, and ’twas now safe to turn our steps westward, and seek to
come upon the river. Horses and riders were now alike fatigued, and
even Mr Watts appeared to lose his cheerfulness as we rode on through
the night, with the poor _syces_ still keeping close to the heels of
their beasts. Occasionally there was an alarm that a village might be
near, when the Tartar, who was considered to possess the most
perspicuous eye of the party, would ride forward alone and return to
report his discoveries, but we succeeded in avoiding almost entirely
the habitations of man, although, to speak truth, I could almost have
welcomed the being taken prisoner, if it had signified that I was at
liberty to leave the horse and throw myself on the ground. Longing
only to be still and to slumber, it caused me the extremest agony to
be borne along in this unceasing motion, afraid to indulge the
drowsiness that tormented me lest I should lose hold of Mr Fraser’s
belt and find myself dashed to the ground. My dear Mr Fraser lost no
opportunity of endeavouring to raise my spirits, praising my endurance
in the kindest terms (oh, had he but known that I could barely keep
myself from crying out to him for mercy’s sake to stop the horse and
suffer me to rest!), and cheering me constantly with anticipations of
arriving shortly at the boats, but I fear he met with but slight
response. I felt as though all the strength I possessed was needed for
maintaining my hold, and yet I must have been able to speak, for on a
sudden I found Mr Fraser addressing me with great concern.

“Why, what’s the matter, sir?” I asked him, as he checked the horse.

“You cried out that you was forced to let go of your hold, my dearest
life.”

“I didn’t know it, sir,” I said, and laughed, and my voice had so
droll a sound that I laughed again, “but indeed I can’t wonder.”

“Don’t get light-headed, child,” said my spouse, sharply. “Hold the
bridle for me a moment,” and when I reached forward and obeyed him, he
unbuckled his sword-belt, and slipping it off, fastened it round
himself and me both, so that I could not fall even though I loosed my
hold. This occupied but an instant, but Mr Ranger came riding back to
see what had detained us, and was very merry with Mr Fraser on his
riding with his sword out, as though at a review. After this I must
believe that I fell asleep in spite of the awkwardness of my position,
for when the horse stopped suddenly I should have fallen off had it
not been for the belt. As it was, I slipped helplessly from the
beast’s back when Mr Fraser unfastened the strap, and should have fell
to the ground if Mr Watts had not catched me.

“Come, madam, keep your heart up,” says the good gentleman. “We have
made huge progress, and met with the most marvellous good luck
throughout.”

“How, sir?” I asked him.

“Why, we have encountered no enemy nor wild beast, there’s light
enough to see our way, and the rains en’t begun, as they might well
be, since last year they commenced so late. Figure to yourself what
our flight would have been with rain falling, and the entire country a
swamp!”

“Come, my dear, you must rest while we halt here,” says Mr Fraser,
while I endeavoured with my confused brain to picture the situation
suggested by Mr Watts, and I resigned the attempt thankfully, lying
down on the cloak my husband had spread for me on the ground, and
suffering him to cover me with another. I must have fallen asleep
immediately, for I dreamed that Mr Fraser came and looked at me very
earnestly, but without speaking, and then went away, and waking, I
found that he was gone. In the obscurity of the grove in which we
were, I could discern the figures of Mr Watts and Dr Dacre, wrapped in
their cloaks and stretched upon the ground; at a little distance were
the _syces_, crouched upon their heels close to the horses, and Mirza
Shaw, with his scymitar drawn, stood guarding his master with the most
extreme vigilance, but my spouse and Mr Ranger were not to be seen.

“Where’s Mr Fraser?” I cried out to the Tartar, sitting up in my
place, but it was Dr Dacre that answered me.

“Why, madam, your spouse believed you asleep. He’s but this moment
gone forward with Mr Ranger to ascertain our position. There was some
talk of a force of the Nabob’s horse encamped in the village ahead of
us, and blocking our way to the river, and Mirza Shaw has wounded his
foot with a thorn----”

“But you’ve sent him into the midst of the enemy? Sure they’ll murder
him!” I cried, but Mr Watts, waking, silenced me roughly.

“Be quiet, madam, and pray let other people rest if you won’t do it
yourself. Mr Fraser’s in no such terrible danger. If he’s the wise man
I fancy him, the enemy will have no chance so much as to catch sight
of him.”

Mr Watts fell asleep again at once, but I could not follow his
example. The desire for sleep, which had tormented me so long, seemed
to have left me, and a hundred horrid visions took its place. I saw Mr
Fraser discovered, tracked, pursued, seized, tortured, slain, in all
the circumstances that my apprehensive mind could suggest, and even
the most ordinary sound that reached me was the signal to start a
fresh train of horrors. I was a prey to the most cruel, the most
poignant anxiety, and at the same moment to the liveliest remorse, and
this because I had not awaked when Mr Fraser came and regarded me,
thus losing what I persuaded myself was his last farewell. The
shocking selfishness, which had caused me a year ago to destroy my
dear Captain Colquhoun in obtaining for me the water that cost him his
life, I saw repeated now in the insensibility I had shown to the
presence of the person to whom I owe everything, and my heart was
almost broken with the thought of such unparalleled ingratitude.
Trembling all over with apprehension, I sat leaning against a tree,
listening for a distant shot or shout that might confirm my worst
fears. Presently Mirza Shaw, catching sight of me, limped across the
glade to recommend me in a low voice to lie down.

“Is it near morning yet?” I asked him.

“Why, no, Beebee; only a little past midnight.”

“But sure we must have been riding a dozen hours at least.”

“Less than six, Beebee.”

“Why, how long is it then since Mr Fraser started?”

“Twenty minutes, Beebee.”

“But that’s not possible. I have been listening for him for hours.”

“Not so, Beebee. He has scarce had time to reach the village yet, much
less to return to us. Beebee Fraser need not fear for him.”

This was excessively consoling, questionless, but it failed to calm my
fears, and I sat and shuddered until there was a rustling of the
bushes, and the two missing gentlemen crept back safe into our midst.
Mr Watts, awake at once, questioned them eagerly, and they told him
they had reached the village, which is named Augadeep, and found the
Nabob’s force encamped on both sides of the road, but all fast asleep
and without a single sentinel, after the manner of the Indians in war,
so that they believed it possible to ride straight through them
undiscovered, and reach the river on the further side.

“And so we will!” cried Mr Watts. “Wake up, doctor. The Retreat of the
Ten Thousand will be naught to ours. Straight through the enemy’s
camp!”

The _syces_ began saddling the horses again immediately, Dr Dacre
arose with a good deal of sadness, and unwound himself from his cloak,
Mirza Shaw put up his sword and led up Mr Watts’ beast for him to
mount, and Mr Fraser approached softly the spot where I was, intending
to awake me gently.

“What, my dear, awake? and I recommended you to rest!” he cried.

“Excellent, sir!” cried Mr Watts. “You might have been married ten
years, Mr Fraser.”

“Save that then he would scarce have looked for his lady to obey him,
sir,” says Mr Ranger; but I paid no heed to their raillery.

“Oh, dear sir,” I cried, throwing myself into Mr Fraser’s arms, “how
could I sleep when I imagined each instant that you was fallen into
the enemy’s hands?” and the remembrance of my frightful imaginations
overpowering me, I burst into a passion of tears and sobs, which I
endeavoured in vain to check.

“My dearest creature,” said Mr Fraser at last, “these transports will
endanger all our lives if you don’t moderate ’em. Come, that’s my
brave girl! But you en’t fit to ride any further to-night.”

“Pray, Mr Fraser, do you purpose settling down for life in this patch
of _jungul_?” cried Mr Watts, who was waiting impatiently. “No man can
sympathise more heartily with your lady than I do, but delay will mean
her destruction as well as ours.”

Mr Fraser made no further protestation, but when Mr Ranger approached
to assist me to mount, he gave him a sign, and together they lifted me
to the saddle before my husband, so that he could hold me with his
left arm, and still have his right at liberty. Mr Watts murmured a
little, representing that in the event of a fight Mr Fraser would find
himself sorely encumbered, but he was good-humoured enough, and we
rode out of the wood. Before we had gone very far, Mr Ranger declared
that we were approaching Augadeep, and the speed of the horses was
checked. The road was happily deep in dust, so that there was no sound
made, and we approached the village in dead silence, the ashes of
expiring watch-fires alone showing where the Nabob’s troops were
encamped. And now I am about to record a confession that will force my
Amelia to despise me, but not more heartily than I despise myself. As
we passed between the watch-fires to right and to left, there came
upon me the most horrid temptation imaginable to shriek aloud. I tried
to reason with myself, in vain; I felt that I must scream, although I
knew that all our lives would be the forfeit. Sure it was a heavenly
inspiration that saved me, for I seized my handkerchief and stuffed it
into my mouth with all my strength. “At least there’ll be no sound
now, even if I should scream,” I said to myself, and then I must have
swooned, for I knew no more until I found myself laid flat on a pile
of cloaks in a small boat, with Mr Fraser endeavouring to force some
spirit between my teeth. I wondered in a foolish sort of style whether
he would succeed in getting it down, but never thought of assisting
him in any way, even by opening my mouth, until he ceased his efforts
and turned with a hopeless air to Mr Watts, who, with a pistol in one
hand and t’other on his sword, was watching the black men that were
rowing.

“’Tis too late, sir!” said Mr Fraser, heavily.

“What’s too late, sir?” I asked him, finding my tongue all of a
sudden, and Mr Watts broke into a loud laugh, which he sought
anxiously to check.

“Why, the dram, madam. Here has your spouse been tearing his hair and
vowing you was dead, and he your murderer. Pray why did you try to
throttle yourself? That had more the air of suicide.”

“I--I was afraid of crying out, sir. But where are we, and where are
all the rest?”

“Why, madam, we are rowing down the Cossimbuzar river, as fast as
these rascally _dandies_ will take us. The Padra and Mr Ranger are in
another boat, but since we could find no more than two, and there was
no room for the horses, Mirza Shaw refused to abandon his nag, and
preferring the beast to his master, remained behind with the _syces_,
undertaking to save the whole caravan. Pray, Mr Fraser, keep an eye on
that _mangee_ there. I doubt he’s purposing to run us aground.”

“Now, my dearest life, I must have you try to sleep,” said my kind
spouse, making at the same time a threatening motion towards the
helmsman, as Mr Watts desired. “My good girl won’t be alarmed, knowing
her Fraser is close at hand?”

“Why, no, dear sir,” said I, and composed myself to sleep upon the
cloaks, as though this strange situation were the most natural thing
in the world. It seemed I had slept but a moment, when I was awaked
with a great sound of cheering and huzzaing, and saw that we were
arrived at a point where two rivers met, and off which there were
lying several large boats. On board of these boats was a number of
Europeans (whom I judged to be soldiers by the clothes they had
hastily catched up), and these were all testifying their delight in
seeing us by excessive shouts of joy. It needed no telling that we had
met with the guard sent by Colonel Clive to greet us and bring us to
the army, and there was little delay in rewarding the Indian boatmen
who had done us such good service against their wills, and sending
them about their business, while we were taken on board the Colonel’s
boats. My Amelia will set me down as a sad lazy creature, but I’ll
confess to her honestly that no sooner had I laid myself down in a
cabin than I fell asleep again, and slept--how long does she
imagine?--why, my dear, for twelve hours! Your idle girl never woke
once until the boats reached Culnah at three o’clock in the afternoon,
and I can quite believe she would have slumbered again after that but
for the agitating news that reached her. Mr Watts has since rallied me
more than once upon this feat, and says there’s not a European in
India but would gladly purchase the secret of sleeping so well in the
hot weather, though I doubt they would scarce choose to earn their
slumber by riding from Moidapore to Augadeep. But what, you’ll ask,
was the agitating news that I mentioned? Why, my dear, while I was
eating some breakfast at four in the afternoon on board the boat, in
comes Mr Fraser, who had gone on shore with Mr Watts to pay his
respects to Colonel Clive, with an air of huge triumph.

“The Colonel made particular enquiry how you did, my dearest life, and
desired his compliments to you. He also requested the honour of your
company at his table to supper this evening if you feel sufficiently
restored.”

“Oh, dear sir--sup with Colonel Clive! But I have no gown.”

“Why, madam, where’s that thin white thing you wore at Moidapore?”

“That muslin? ’Tis a simple rag, sir, nothing more, and all in the
most frightful creases.”

“’Twill but set off my lovely girl’s face all the better. Come, dear
madam, you wouldn’t have me disoblige the Colonel? He showed me
extraordinary kindness before I set out on my quest for my lost
mistress, and I would wish him to see her now she’s found.”

“Oh, if you desire it particularly, dear sir----” Did you ever know a
young woman more sweetly obliging than your Sylvia, Amelia? How
otherwise could she have consented to appear at the table of the first
general of the age in a horrid limp muslin gown without a hoop, made
by her own hands, and a cap hastily fashioned (yes, my dear, I’ll own
it) out of one of her spouse’s pocket-handkerchiefs? But there was no
other ladies present, so that at least no comparisons could be drawn
to her disadvantage, and the gentlemen were all in undress, as was,
indeed, only proper at an entertainment held in a captured town in the
middle of a campaign. Distinguished with the most flattering
civilities by Colonel Clive, who came himself to the gate of his
quarters to hand her out of her palanqueen, and set her at his right
hand during the meal, won’t you give your girl some credit, Amelia,
that her head was not turned? But I must not leave my dear friend in
ignorance of one fact that should surely have prevented the lightest
mind from being uplifted by the elegant kindness of the Colonel. Among
the officers and others that were invited, and whom Colonel Clive
presented to me, were Mr le Beaume, now a captain in the Company’s
army, and Mr Fisherton, who is advanced to be the Colonel’s secretary.
When you remember, Amelia, the scenes in which I last beheld these two
gentlemen, Captain le Beaume carried wounded into Fort William after
the batteries had been abandoned, and Mr Fisherton in that place of
horror, the Black Hole itself, will you wonder that they both
approached me without a word, and that their feelings came near to
overcome them when they touched my hand? Those who stood round were
sensibly affected, and I needed but a little encouragement to give way
to the melancholy recollections that thronged upon me. This the
Colonel had not observed, for he was searching among those present for
one whom he did not appear to find.

“Where’s Captain Grant?” he said at last. “I hoped to present all your
old friends to you, madam, and you must have been well acquainted with
him.”

“Here, sir, at the lady’s service,” said a gentleman wearing the dress
of Adlercron’s Regiment.

“No, not you, Major,” says the Colonel. “’Twas Captain Alexander Grant
of the Bengall Service I was seeking, an old acquaintance of Mrs
Fraser’s.”

“The Captain sent his most humble apologies, sir, but he’s indisposed
this evening,” says Mr Fisherton, and his eyes chanced to meet mine.
You know in what posture I saw Captain Grant last, Amelia. Perhaps it
en’t to be wondered at that he should shrink from meeting the woman
whom, in his eagerness for his own safety, he had refused to turn back
to save. Something of this I think Colonel Clive must have read in our
faces, for he muttered angrily to himself as though he had remembered
something suddenly, and brought forward another gentleman, whom I
recollect seeing once or twice at Calcutta, although he belonged to
the Cossimbuzar factory.

“Mr Hastings, madam,” said the Colonel. “Like Mr Fraser he’s a
new-married man,[20.03] but unhappily he han’t had the foresight to
bring his lady with him on this campaign, when Mrs Fraser and she
might have exchanged confidences and allayed each other’s fears.”

Mr Hastings replying very genteelly that he hoped before long to have
the honour of making his wife acquainted with Mrs Fraser, we went to
supper, I being placed, as I said, on Mr Clive’s right, with Dr Dacre
on t’other side. The Colonel conversed continually with me in the most
agreeable manner, asking me whether I had seen much of the army yet,
and what I thought of his _loll pultun_?[20.04] This is a regiment of
Seapoy soldiers which he has clothed and drilled like Europeans, thus
giving them a much more martial air than our old _buxerries_, who were
dressed after the Indian fashion in the long breeches called
_panjammers_,[20.05] a _cabay_ or vest, and a turbant. I told him
that I had observed a number of these men as I passed through the
place on my way to his quarters, and been much pleased with their air
of neatness and discipline, and then, his words recalling to me that
old mystery of Misery’s and the other servants respecting the _loll
addama_, I ventured to inform him with what awe and submissiveness the
Indians were watching his progress, counting it to be of little use
opposing him.

“I hope Mrs Fraser is so obliging as to share this persuasion of
theirs?” said he.

“Why, yes, sir. How could I look to see a cause so good as ours
permitted to suffer defeat at the hands of such a wretch as the
Nabob?”

“Pray, madam, is it the case in your experience that Providence always
awards the victory to the most deserving side?”

“Alas, sir, no! But I can’t bring myself to believe that so great a
commander as Colonel Clive would have been brought to Bengall merely
to add another trophy to the blood-stained laurels of Surajah Dowlah.”

“I thank you, madam, for the thought, which comes in pat enough with
one that has occurred to me before. There was a young fellow of my
acquaintance once that was sunk to the lowest depths of melancholy. He
was poor and proud and in debt, and had not a friend that he could
call his own, for besides being of a sad unsociable temper, there was
a petulant roughness about him that alienated his acquaintances and
outraged his superiors. The severities of this climate, added to his
misfortunes, so affected the lad that he resolved to put an end to his
existence. There was a loaded pistol at hand, and he placed the muzzle
to his head, and pulled the trigger. The piece missed fire, but he was
not to be put off. After examining the condition of the charge, he
pulled the trigger a second time. Again it missed, and the youth,
wondering at this unaccountable failure, determined that he must be
intended for some great work, and laid aside the thought of
self-destruction. I was that young fellow, madam, and it has seemed to
me more than once that the liberation of Bengall may be the task I was
destined for.”

“Oh, sir, what cause has Britain to thank Heaven that your rash
resolve was frustrated!” I cried. “Sure you can’t now entertain a
doubt of your ultimate success, for which all you have yet achieved is
but a preparation?”

“Do you know what are the odds against us, madam? Do you know that
this army which is called mine is held together only by the memory of
my past successes? One disaster and my officers will recollect that
their general was bred a clerk, and failed as a writer, and the
Tellinghies will forsake the standard of the man whose luck is gone.
For myself, madam, I may say without boasting that I have sufficient
courage and patience to retrieve a disaster, if I may but retain the
confidence of my friends. But to find myself forsaken by those on
whose fidelity I had relied, to meet contempt where I had once
inspired respect, and distrust where I looked for loyal confidence,
that would be intolerable to me. To renew acquaintance with the
miseries of my early Madrass days after having tasted of success and
public favour, this I could not support--and the pistol is at hand now
as then.”

“Oh pray, dear sir, don’t tempt Heaven a second time to alter its
designs.”

“Why, madam, have I not told you that so long as I am sure of my
friends I can go on boldly? and I thank Heaven that’s the case at
present. But how solemn and serious is this discourse for so joyful an
occasion! Sure it’s very unkind in Mrs Fraser to tempt me into such
melancholy recollections and confessions.”

“May I venture to ask a favour of you, sir?” I saw Mr Clive desired to
change the subject.

“Any favour Mrs Fraser asks is already granted. But perhaps I can
guess what it is. You would have leave, madam, for your spouse to quit
the army when we advance from hence, and attend you at once to
Calcutta--en’t that it?”

“Why, no, sir, I was about to entreat you to find some situation for
Mr Fraser in which he may contrive to take part in the battle you
expect.”

“What, madam! tired of him already?” cried the Colonel; but seeing me
covered with confusion and my eyes filled with tears at this unkind
remark, he testified extreme penitence, and begged me to explain my
desire more fully.

“Indeed, sir, I can’t help being sensible that Mr Fraser lost his
share in the taking of Chandernagore by his concern for my safety,
which detained him at Muxadavad, and I would not be the cause of
depriving him of this also.”

“Why, madam, I thought there was but one woman in the world, and she
my own wife, that would extend any sympathy to the concern a man has
in his calling, but now I see there’s another. I’ll promise you to
find a post for your spouse, if I have to make him Lord High Admiral
of my fleet of rowboats.”

“But, sir, you’ve only heard half my request. You’ll permit me to
accompany him?”

“Oho, madam, is that it? A battlefield’s no place for women.”

“Oh pray, dear sir, don’t send me away from him. Picture the miserable
apprehensions I should be under for his safety. Indeed I’ll give no
trouble.”

“Will you be contented to remain with the sick and the baggage when
the army marches out to fight, madam? Otherwise I’ll have none of
you.”

“Oh yes, sir, provided you won’t leave me too far behind.”

“Madam, I’m not to be conditioned with by non-combatants. If I see too
much of you, I’ll send you down the river again under a guard. Our
good Mr Watts is minded to accompany the army[20.06] and see the
coping-stone set on his labours for the liberation of Bengall, and
you’ll be under his orders. Mr Fraser, I need volunteers for the
artillery, sir, since I was forced to leave Lieutenant Hay and near
all his seamen to garrison Chandernagore. What do you say to giving us
the advantage of your sea-experience? Your lady tells me she won’t let
you out of her sight, but I hope we may be able to oblige her without
losing your services.”

“Indeed, sir, I’ll be only too much honoured in being permitted to
place myself at Colonel Clive’s disposal.” Mr Fraser’s face was so
full of delight, Amelia, that I felt rewarded for my sacrifice. After
all, one must do one’s best to oblige a man that’s so ready to oblige
you, and at least I shan’t be parted from him.

This letter is frightfully long, Amelia. I wrote a good piece of it at
Culnah, where the army remained until the 16th, and went on with it at
Pultee, where we halted that night and part of the next day, while
Major Coote with a portion of the army went forward to receive the
surrender of the fortress of Cutwah, which had been promised by the
governor of the place, although he thought it expedient to make some
slight show of resistance. After a little firing the garrison
retreated, leaving Cutwah, with a vast quantity of grain and
considerable military stores, to us, and none too soon, for yesterday
the rains began, and the army, who had spent the night in their tents,
were forced to seek refuge in the houses of the town. I am finishing
my letter in a commodious apartment of the fortress, overlooking the
river Agey,[20.07] while all around preparations are making for the
next advance. On the day of our reaching Culnah, Mr Watts despatched a
messenger to our ally Meer Jaffier informing him of his safety and of
the approach of the army, while almost at the same moment there
arrived from this nobleman an Armenian, called Cojah Petroos by the
Europeans and by the Moors Aga Bedross, to entreat Colonel Clive to
hasten his advance. (I must not omit to say that Mr Watts’ servant,
Mirza Shaw, arrived safe on the 15th, with the _syces_ and all the
horses, which, having contrived to find another boat, they had swum
across the river, holding them with the bridles lengthened.) From
Muxadavad the Colonel hears that on learning of Mr Watts’ evasion the
Nabob exhibited the most abject terror, and breaking off the attack he
was about to make on Meer Jaffier’s castle, humbled himself so far as
to seek a reconciliation with him, and received his oath of
allegiance, which has caused some apprehension here. Elated with this
triumph, Surajah Dowlah has wrote in terms of defiance to the Colonel,
and though hindered by a mutiny of his troops, which was only appeased
by the distributing among them a vast sum of money, is about taking up
his ancient position at Placis,[20.08] a spot where he has a
hunting-lodge, some fifteen miles from here. He has summoned Mons. Law
and the other fugitive French to join him from Bogglypore, and Sinzaun
and the rest of his countrymen that are with him already have shown
the first taste of their quality by plundering and burning the
Cossimbuzar factory in their rage at Mr Watts’ escape. I write on June
the 20th. What happened a year ago this day I need not remind my
Amelia, but sure it’s strange enough that the avenging of Calcutta
should arrive at a time so closely joined with its fall.




 CHAPTER XXI.
 SHOWING HOW CALCUTTA WAS AVENGED.

                                         Cutwah, _June ye_ 23_rd._

Once more, my dear, I am left solitary, and as of old turn to my
Amelia for consolation. My dear Mr Fraser quitted me early yesterday
morning, and proceeded to Placis with Colonel Clive and the army, and
here in the fort at Cutwah there remains a meagre company, awaiting
with an incredible eagerness and anxiety every morsel of intelligence
that may reach them. Nor is this apprehension excessive in view of the
situation. We Britons, as my Amelia knows, are said to be too prone to
undervalue our enemy, and that this is so is questionless Colonel
Clive’s opinion, although he himself offers no example of the fault.
He has no fear, I heard him say two days ago, for a favourable result
of the approaching battle, if every man of his force do his duty and
his Indian allies keep their promises, but a single piece of
carelessness or treachery may prove the ruin, not only of the army,
but of the entire British cause in this region of the world. With
another commander this unflattering estimate of the future might be
expected to damp the spirits of the soldiers, but so great is their
confidence in Mr Clive that they are sensible of no resentment even
for his implied doubt of them, and are resolved to support him to the
utmost of their power. The Indian allies are less to be trusted, I
fear. Immediately after I closed my letter to you on Monday there
arrived from Muxadavad the messenger despatched by Mr Watts from
Culnah to Meer Jaffier, declaring that he had been received with
distinction by that nobleman in private and assured of his fidelity,
but that on the entrance of some intimates of the Nabob’s, Meer
Jaffier changed his tone immediately, while his son Meerham threatened
to have the messenger put to death for a spy, uttering the most
extravagant menaces against the English should they venture to advance
towards the city. This unaccountable behaviour, coupled with the
ambiguous epistles brought by Meer Jaffier’s own messengers, startled
Colonel Clive and induced him to waver in his design of advancing,
insomuch that on Tuesday he summoned a council of war (the first, so
Mr Fisherton tells me, that he has ever held) to determine whether to
go forward against the enemy at once, or to strengthen this fortress
of Cutwah and maintain ourselves here until the rains are over. To the
great scandal of all the officers, the Colonel, instead of taking the
opinion of the youngest gentleman first, and so through all the
members until his own turn came as president, began by giving his own
vote for delay, in which he was followed by the majority, although
Major Coote and a few others spoke stoutly on the other side, the
Major declaring with great warmth that he would rather abandon Cutwah
and retire at once to Calcutta than give the Nabob the triumph of
shutting up our army here. However, the council broke up, after doing
nothing but invite the Raja of Burraduan to join the army with any
reinforcements he could command, and the officers dispersed with the
most dissatisfied air imaginable. The Colonel, whose ordinary resolved
aspect was changed for a dejected and uncertain look, shunned the
company of the other gentlemen, and as I sat at my window in the tower
which has been assigned to us for an abode, I saw him wander away into
a grove of trees near. He must have spent over half an hour in
solitude, when up comes Mr Watts to me and demands to know whether I
had perceived which way the Colonel went. After directing him, I
ventured to hope that he was the bearer of good news.

“Why, yes, madam,” said he. “Here’s a _cossid_ just come in with a
message sent from Meer Jaffier by word of mouth, and containing very
satisfactory assurances. It seems he’s honest after all.”

“Pray Heaven you may get the Colonel to believe it, sir.”

“Indeed, madam, you can’t desire it more than I, since my credit hangs
on Meer Jaffier’s honesty. I know Mr Clive would have chose to advance
had he been acting alone, but our valiant Calcutta gentlemen, and the
excellent Quaker in especial, have worked hard to imbue him with their
own fears, so that he can’t resolve to risque a second destruction of
the factory. Yet he’s excessive uneasy to find himself hanging back
for the first time in his life, and I would lay a _lack_ of rupees
that he’s seeking some good argument that would justify him in going
forward. I hope to supply him with it.”

And Mr Watts departed to seek the Colonel, finding him, as we learned
afterwards, seated under a tree, and plunged in a gloomy meditation.
What arguments were used I don’t know, but presently, watching eagerly
from my window, I saw the two gentlemen returning in company, both
wearing a determined and confident air, and Colonel Clive’s eyes,
which are the keenest I have ever seen, full of the most unbending
resolution. Meeting Major Coote, the Colonel exchanged a few words
with him, and no long time after Mr Fraser came leaping up the stairs
to my room to tell me that the army was to commence its advance at
daybreak on the morrow.[21.01]

“And am I to ride, sir?” I asked him; “or will it be possible to
proceed by boat?”

Mr Fraser turned his face aside. “Why, my dearest life,” he said,
“considering this frightful weather and the danger from the enemy, I
fear----”

“Oh, dear sir, you would not leave me behind?” I cried. “Sure the
Colonel promised----”

“But my beloved girl won’t press that promise to an extreme when she
knows how much it would add to her Fraser’s anxiety? She’ll do him the
favour to believe that ’tis only his concern for her makes him entreat
her to remain here under good Dr Dacre’s care, and I think she’ll
oblige him by consenting to stay behind.”

The tears were in my eyes. “Dear sir, how could I bring myself to
refuse a request which you are good enough to express in such a
charming style?”

“Nay, dearest madam, your complaisance in gratifying me would make me
ashamed to ask a favour if I did not know that it caused you a
pleasure to grant it,” said Mr Fraser, but perceiving that what he had
said might be taken in two different styles, he came and embraced me
kindly, begging me with the utmost earnestness to remain behind at
Cutwah, where the sick were to be left under a small guard, and not to
insist upon exposing myself in the neighbourhood of the battle. I
could not refuse to oblige him, having once consented, and that’s the
reason, Amelia, why I am writing to you from my tower in the fortress,
instead of accompanying my spouse to the field.

At sunrise yesterday the army began crossing the river, but the
transit was not accomplished until four in the afternoon. By this time
Colonel Clive had received another reassuring letter from Meer
Jaffier, stating that the Nabob was encamped with his army at a
village called Muncarra, some little way to the north of Placis, and
suggesting that the Colonel should march thither to attack him. The
march was at once commenced, the boats carrying the camp equipage
being towed against the stream, and the troops making their way along
the bank, although, thanks to the inundation caused by the heavy rain,
they were forced to plod through water up to their waists. The rain
fell continuously almost the whole of the day, driving me from my
station at the top of my tower, whence I had hoped to view a great
part of the march, since it commands a vast extent of country, and I
passed the weary hours in unravelling lint and sewing bandages for the
surgeon here, although the damp weather has made my needles and
scissors almost useless with rust. The need I felt of occupying my
mind made me work so prodigiously hard that when I asked the doctor
this morning whether he had anything more for me to do, he laughed,
saying that he had already sufficient dressings to bandage the whole
army from head to foot, and thus rejected, I fell back naturally into
my old habit of making my Amelia the depositary of my anxieties.
Indeed, my dear, I don’t know what can be better, in such a situation
as mine, than a faithful friend like yourself, unless it be the
practice I have always pursued of writing to her constantly.

But my dear girl must not imagine that I have been left to pine,
uncheered by any scrap of news, since daybreak yesterday. My dear Mr
Fraser was so good as to despatch me a billet this morning, wrote with
infinite difficulty in the most unpropitious circumstances. Reassuring
my anxious mind by declaring that he has suffered no inconvenience
from the discomforts of the march, he says that a halt was called soon
after midnight in a grove of mango-trees close to the Nabob’s seat of
Placis, and that in this grove the troops encamped in the greatest
comfort imaginable. (I fear this is only said to console me, Amelia,
for you must remember the rain and the floods.) The sound of drums and
other barbaric instruments was clearly to be heard from the enemy’s
camp a mile distant (for on hearing of the Colonel’s advance from
Cutwah, Surajah Dowlah had at once quitted Muncarra and marched to
confront him), but this served rather to soothe than to disturb the
grateful slumbers of our wearied army.

At daybreak the Nabob’s army moved out from its entrenchments and
disposed itself in the form of a crescent, as though designing to
enclose our troops altogether, with the aid of the river, while Meer
Sinzaun (oh, my dear, think what it is to me to hear that dreadful
name again!) with four guns and his forty vagabond Frenchmen took post
on the lofty banks of earth surrounding a tank that commanded the
mango-grove. In order to reply to their fire, Colonel Clive posted two
hovitzes[21.02] and two field-pieces at some brick-kilns in advance
of the grove, and lest the enemy should imagine him alarmed by their
approach, brought his army out of its shelter, and drew it up in order
of battle, his left resting on the Nabob’s hunting-lodge. The centre
of the line was occupied by the European troops in four divisions,
next came three field-pieces on either flank, Mr Fraser being in
charge of one of those on the right, and at each extremity of the line
a body of Seapoys. The battle began by the Frenchmen’s discharging one
of their cannons, which did some damage, and our artillery replying,
the action became general, although we were at a huge disadvantage
owing to the lightness of our guns. Having endured a heavy cannonade
for about half an hour, and finding his losses considerable, the
Colonel retired his troops again into the grove, leaving a small
detachment at the brick-kilns and another at Placis House, and ’twas
at this moment of disappointment and mortification that Mr Fraser
wrote his letter to me. Having with the rest of the officers of the
train besieged the Colonel in vain for permission to carry all the
guns forward to the advanced posts, and finding himself compelled to
crouch down among the troops behind a bank to avoid the enemy’s fire,
my spouse sought to mitigate his impatience by scribbling in pencil
the history of the morning, which he had leave to despatch about
half-past nine by a messenger that Mr Watts was sending back to
Cutwah. The brilliancy of the spectacle presented by the enemy seems
to have affected Mr Fraser a little disagreeably when compared with
the travel-stained and wretched aspect of our own men, for he remarks
somewhat bitterly on the magnificent display of elephants all covered
with scarlet cloth and embroidery, of horsemen with drawn swords
glistering in the sun, of heavy cannons drawn by vast trains of oxen,
and of countless standards waving in the breeze--all this show being
employed by Surajah Dowlah to conceal the badness of his cause. The
dear gentleman closed the letter in somewhat better spirits, however,
for our retreat having animated the enemy to an extreme degree of
vivacity, they were advancing their guns with a great air of boldness,
and Colonel Clive had just given orders for holes to be made in the
banks of earth surrounding the grove, through which our field-pieces
might be fired.

There, Amelia! ’Tis now two in the afternoon, and this pencilled
chitt, which reached me about an hour back, contains the latest
intelligence we possess. All the morning I have spent at the top of
the tower, with every man of our sick garrison that was strong enough
to climb so high, watching for messengers, and listening to the
distant sound of cannon brought to us on the wind. At noon the rain
began again, and drove me indoors and to my writing, and so far as we
can discern, forced the cannonade almost entirely to cease. I had no
notion that a battle took so long to fight, had you, Amelia? I have
wrote this letter with all the minuteness possible, for the sake of
filling up the time; how, I wonder, shall I spend the weary hours
still before me, until this battle, which is to decide the fate of
Bengall, if not of India (not to speak of your poor girl and her
beloved Fraser) be ended? Happily the rain is almost ceased again, and
Dr Dacre, who has established himself as a vigilant guardian over me,
gives me hope of being allowed once more on my watch-tower.


                                            _Half-past six o’clock._

Joy, Amelia! we are victorious. Colonel Clive has justified the
confidence of his troops rather than his own misgivings, and Calcutta
is avenged upon the cruel barbarian who destroyed her a year ago. A
breathless messenger, mounted upon a horse that he had ridden almost
to death, arrived a few minutes back and brought us the news, although
his errand was to demand the despatch of certain stores immediately to
the surgeons accompanying the army. It appears that the cannonade
begun by our guns in the morning after Mr Fraser closed his letter to
me, was successful in keeping off the enemy, and that Meer
Modin,[21.03] one of the Nabob’s generals, and the only one among ’em
that was truly faithful to him, was slain. The rain that commenced
about noon spoiled the enemy’s powder, while ours was kept under
shelter and dry, and the semicircle of Moorish troops was observed to
be retiring within the entrenchments where they had passed the night.
Even before this, however, Surajah Dowlah, panic-stricken by his fears
and by the death of Meer Modin, had mounted a swift camel, and
forsaking his army, fled to Muxadavad. It had been agreed between
Colonel Clive and his officers that no advance against the Nabob’s
camp should be made until night; but seeing the Frenchmen isolated at
their tank, Major Kilpatrick could not resist pushing forward to
dislodge them, without any orders from the Colonel, who was snatching
a brief repose in the hunting-lodge. On being informed of the
movement, Colonel Clive hastened out in much displeasure, and reproved
the officer smartly for his independent action; but on receiving an
apology from him, sent him back to the grove to fetch up the rest of
the troops, and placed himself at the head of the detachment, with the
determination to bring matters at once to an issue, and not encourage
the enemy by a second retreat. Seeing the resolution with which the
English advanced, Sinzaun withdrew his force from the tank, and
planted his cannon in a redoubt at the corner of the Nabob’s
entrenchment, in readiness for the final assault.

All this time, says the messenger, our commander’s spirits had been
perturbed by the perplexing behaviour of a portion of the enemy’s
troops, which, being under the orders of Meer Jaffier and Yar Cawn
Latty, should, in accordance with the engagements entered into by
those chiefs, have changed sides during the battle, a manœuvre for
which the amplest opportunity was offered by their position in that
part of the half-circle nearest our posts and furthest from the
Nabob’s entrenchments. Far from taking this step, however, Meer
Jaffier, whether moved by timidity or by the affecting entreaties
addressed to him by the despairing Surajah Dowlah, did not even
embrace the chance afforded him by the retreat of the rest of the army
to separate himself from it, but advanced his troops with such a
menacing air against our position in the grove that if his designs
were amicable no one could have credited it, and a force was detached
to hold him in check. Meanwhile Colonel Clive, having reached the tank
abandoned by Sinzaun, planted his guns on its banks, and began a brisk
cannonade on the entrenchment, following this up by an advance to a
second tank and a piece of rising ground nearer still. The fire was
replied to by Sinzaun’s field-pieces and a strong force of
matchlockmen, the cavalry also offering several times to charge, but
being drove back in disorder by our guns. At last the Colonel,
perceiving that Meer Jaffier’s troops were moving off the field
without attempting to support those in the entrenchments, recognised
that he was secure from an attack in the rear, and prepared for the
concluding effort. A strong detachment was sent forward from either
flank to attack Sinzaun’s redoubt and a hillock near it, the main body
following more slowly as a support. The hillock was gained without a
shot fired, and the redoubt abandoned by Sinzaun with only a little
fighting, our forces entering it at five o’clock precisely. The exact
issue of these last movements our informant was unable to describe to
us, since he had been despatched by the surgeons to bring up the
additional stores before the final attack was made, and only beheld it
from a distance, checking his horse for a moment that he might see its
success, and bring the news of the victory to us at Cutwah. Nor was he
able, again, to furnish us particulars of the safety of any special
person, save that he had seen Mr Fraser working his gun unhurt when he
quitted the tank, although there were more killed and wounded in that
situation than during all the rest of the day. It was commonly
reported, said the man, that Colonel Clive would press on with his
troops immediately the battle was concluded to the village of
Doudpaur,[21.04] where he had promised to meet Meer Jaffier, so that
I must resign myself, I suppose, to a further separation from my dear
Mr Fraser; but I can support that with more equanimity, since I am
tolerably assured of his safety.


                                         Cutwah, _June ye_ 24_th._

Alas, my Amelia! I began to rejoice, or at least to feel satisfied,
too soon. Having finished writing to my dear girl, I descended to the
lowest room of the tower, intending to join Dr Dacre at supper, but
even as I entered the apartment the good divine stood forward as
though to turn me back, and I saw that he was talking with a man in
the dress of a common soldier. I could not doubt what was the matter.

“You’re come to tell me Mr Fraser is hurt?” I said to the soldier.

“Why, no, madam,” said he, and it seemed to me that I had heard his
voice before at some very frightful moment of my life. “I was bid to
bring you his honour’s loving duty, and to tell you as how there
wasn’t truly nothing wrong with him.”

I turned to Dr Dacre. “Oh pray, dear sir, don’t torment me. What is
happened?”

“Indeed, madam, there’s so little happened that I had hoped to keep it
from you until morning. Our good Mr Fraser has received a bullet
through the thigh, but the bone en’t injured, and save for the loss of
blood he’ll suffer little inconvenience.”

“But I must go to him, sir. You’ll help me to start immediately?”

“What, madam?” It was the surgeon left in charge of the sick here who
came in behind me. “Go to your spouse to-night? and I had believed you
a woman of sense! Pray what do you think you could do for him? Nothing
but vex his mind and tease his doctors, I’ll assure you. He’ll come
down in the boats to-morrow, and if I find you are to be trusted I’ll
let you have him to nurse.”

“I’ll assure you, sir, whatever you may find, you won’t keep me from
Mr Fraser’s side!” I cried, dashing away my tears.

“Pray, madam, look at me,” says the surgeon, gruffly. “Have I the air
of being a man of my word, or not? ’Twill hang upon your behaviour
whether I suffer you to approach your spouse. Why, you’re shedding
tears, madam! Was you purposing to weep over Mr Fraser? He don’t want
to be wept over, but to be kept quiet and cheerful, and that signifies
that you’ll take a good rest to-night, and eat your meals in a proper
style, for if you don’t, I’ll have your good man brought into hospital
and you shan’t come near him. Remember, I must have your word for it
in the morning that my prescription has been followed.”

The surgeon went out, leaving me speechless by reason of his coarse
and unfeeling language, and Dr Dacre, perceiving my agitation, said
with great gentleness--

“Come, madam, our friend’s counsel is sound enough, if rough. If
you’ll take your supper, this honest fellow here will join us, and
tell us something of the manner in which Mr Fraser met his wound.”

“Aye, madam,” said the soldier, seeing me look eagerly at him, “I was
by his honour’s side all day at his six-pounder, first in the grove
and then at the tank, and when he got leave to join the storming party
I followed him again. We was climbing over the front of the redoubt
before the Frenchies scuttled out at the back, and one on ’em, an
ugly, black-looking fellow, stood his ground and called out something
in French to his honour, who sprang forward in a fury to shoot him,
but as he fired, a musket-ball passed through his leg, and his pistol
went off as he fell, without doing any harm to the Mounseer. The
fellow laughed, and turned to walk off, as cool as you please, but Mr
Fraser catched hold of me (I was run to lift him up, as you may guess,
madam) and cried out, ‘Kill him, Jones! kill the villain that dares to
slander my wife. ’Tis Sinzaun himself, the renegado!’ There was a man
of Adlercron’s fell dead just beside me, and I catched up his piece
and charged it, and fired twice at the villain, but missed him both
times. His honour, seeing me stamp with rage, guessed how ’twas, and
presently, ‘Take this, Jones,’ says he. ‘Questionless the wretch bears
a charmed life.’ ’Twas a silver button cut from his coat that he held
out to me, and I charged the piece with it instead of a bullet--for
you know, madam, as how a silver bullet is good against all sorts of
wicked charms. Sure enough it brought him down, and I cried out to his
honour that he was done for. ‘Well done!’ says he, and faints away,
and I carried him back to the doctors. But when I went to look for the
villain’s body, I found as how the other Mounseers had carried it off,
so as I can’t be certain he was dead, but I do believe it, madam.”

“I know you now,” I cried. “Sure you’re Captain Colquhoun’s sergeant!”

“Yes, madam, and proud to do a service to the Captain’s cousin and his
lady.”

“Can I say better of you than that you’re worthy of your Captain,
Sergeant Jones? Though you don’t mention it, I can’t doubt but you
saved Mr Fraser’s life by carrying him so promptly to the surgeons.”

“Come, my dear madam,” says Dr Dacre; “instead of exchanging
compliments with this worthy man, why not give him some supper and
join him in the meal? That will refresh him and sustain you.”

To please the good divine I consented to sit down to the table, but
you’ll guess that I could scarce swallow a morsel, although the
sergeant made an excellent supper, offering profuse apologies for what
he fancied his unfeeling behaviour, which indeed I could well pardon,
since after fighting all day he had obtained leave to ride fifteen
miles to apprise me of my dear Mr Fraser’s situation. As soon as the
meal was over I excused myself, and returning to my own chamber, did
my best, after offering for my husband’s recovery the most earnest
supplications that gratitude and affection could suggest, to put in
practice the second part of the surgeon’s prescription. But a person
of my Amelia’s sensibility won’t be surprised to hear that my sleep
was perpetually broken with fancied alarms, and that I was haunted
with the image of Mr Fraser lying prostrate and bathed in blood, and
dying at a distance from me.

The morning brought with it something more of cheerfulness, and having
satisfied the surgeon of my earnest endeavours to obey his commands,
he was so obliging as to consent to “turn my spouse over to me” (that
was his odd phrase) for nursing, and to add that if I would but keep a
smiling face he would be better off than in the hospital. The boats
arrived about eleven o’clock, and by taking advantage of an interval
of fine weather the wounded were brought on shore in comparative
comfort. Even to my dearest friend I can’t describe my feelings when I
beheld Mr Fraser carried in helpless and frightfully pale. The wound
had been of such a nature as to produce an extraordinary effusion of
blood before the surgeons could attend to him, and he was in a
condition of extreme weakness, although his concern for me enabled him
to wear a cheerful countenance and rally me on my too evident alarm
and apprehension.

“I have a chitt here for you, madam,” he said, as soon as I had
assisted the surgeon to make him as easy as possible, “and I desire
you’ll read it in my presence.”

I opened the billet he presented to me, and regarded it incredulously,
unable to believe that after such a day of fighting, in the interval
between deposing one prince and setting up another, Colonel Clive
should have found opportunity to write to me.

“The Colonel gave it to me in the evening, when he came to visit the
wounded,” said Mr Fraser, “saying that he knew you would not regret my
losing a share in the plunder of Muxadavad provided you had me again.”

“Sure the Colonel’s a discerning person,” said I, and read the billet
aloud:--


 “Madam,--I am fully sensible that by this time Mrs Fraser is
 heartily repenting her heroic conduct of t’other night, and wishing
 that she had carried her spouse in her train to an ignominious safety
 at Calcutta, but will she permit the horrid wretch that has led him
 into danger one word of excuse? Our victory, madam, I don’t hesitate
 to say, we owe chiefly to the excellent working of our artillery, in
 which Mr Fraser took a principal part. Without Mr Fraser our fire
 could not have been so effective; with a less effective fire we could
 not have won the battle, _ergo_, Mr Fraser’s presence with us was
 necessary to the victory. If Mrs Fraser declare she would have
 sacrificed her country’s interest to her spouse’s safety, such a
 sentiment from her lips will surprise none more than her most
 obedient, humble servant,

                                                   Robt. Clive.”


Do you wonder that this letter will be preserved among my most
precious treasures, Amelia? Sure I perceive now how it is that Colonel
Clive’s soldiers cherish so great an affection for him, since he can
write with such affable condescension to a silly girl who was playing
at being heroical without knowing what the part demanded of her. That
he should have cheered my dear Mr Fraser’s weakness with kind words of
praise for his services is no cause for surprise, but how few persons
in his high situation would have cared to dry the tears of an anxious
wife!


                                          Cutwah, _July ye_ 5_th._

It is now near a fortnight since the battle of Placis, Amelia, and my
dear Mr Fraser, I am thankful to say, continues to make good progress.
By the way, in looking over these papers of mine, my spouse insists
that I have spelt the name of the battle wrong, since the Indians, who
should surely know their own language, call it Palassy. But I tell him
that Colonel Clive, in dating his billet wrote to me, spelt it Plassy,
while Mr Watts, than whom no man knows more of this country, writes it
Plaissy, so who shall decide? You’ll wonder, perhaps, that I should
submit my correspondence with my Amelia even to my husband’s eyes, but
I think my dear girl won’t grudge him the entertainment he is pleased
to find in what I write, for which he has made me to-day the prettiest
return in the world. Going to fetch out my papers but now, I found
among them a copy of verses addressed to myself, and soon perceived
that they were of Mr Fraser’s own composing. You know, my dear, that
in the old days at Calcutta there was many such tributes offered me,
but none of them, be sure, ever gave me one-tenth of the pleasure of
this one. Not even for my Amelia can I bring myself to copy out this
charming piece. Perhaps Mr Fraser may favour me in the future with
some verses of a less intimate nature, but these must remain sacred to
her for whom they were wrote; happy, thrice happy creature that she
is! Will it surprise you, Amelia, to learn that your Sylvia’s only
fear is lest she be too happy? You must not fancy she can ever forget
the horrors of the past year, nor the frightful deaths of the persons
she honoured and revered the most; but in her marriage there’s nothing
wanting to render her felicity absolute. Indeed (I fear you’ll laugh
at this), all this past fortnight my dear Mr Fraser has shown himself
so patient, so uncomplaining, that coupling this behaviour of his with
the extraordinary consideration he has displayed towards me since our
wedding, I have been terrified lest he should be about to be torn from
me, and it gave me the greatest pleasure imaginable when he began to
grow restless and irritable, and to chafe at the inaction made
necessary by his wound. True, the verses he writ were designed as an
atonement for this impatience, but I can’t tell you how vastly glad it
made me to find my spouse still the Colvin Fraser of old days.

But how I am running on, when I purposed only to tell you of Mr
Fisherton’s visit last night. Despatched by Colonel Clive from
Muxadavad to this place, in order to arrange certain matters, of which
more hereafter, he was so obliging as to sup with Mr Fraser and
myself, and describe to us the concluding scenes of that tragedy of
retribution which the Colonel has just brought to a close. Meeting
Meer Jaffier at Doudpaur on the morning after the battle, our
victorious commander accepted with the utmost complaisance the halting
excuses of his ally for his equivocal behaviour of the day before, and
having saluted him as Soubah of Bengall, despatched him at once to
secure Muxadavad, whence the wretched Surajah Dowlah succeeded in
escaping on his arrival. Meer Jaffier having established himself in
the possession of the city, Colonel Clive followed him thither, and
attended with a numerous train took up his quarters at the palace of
Moraudbaug.[21.05] The next day he proceeded to the Killa, the whole
population of Muxadavad assembling in the streets to gaze upon him
with awful respect, and there placed Meer Jaffier upon the _musnet_,
complimenting him with a _nuzzer_,[21.06] or friendly tribute, of a
hundred gold _mohrs_, an example which was followed by all the nobles
that stood round, in token that they acknowledged him to be the Nabob
of the province. The grateful barbarian, desiring to acquit himself of
his obligations to the English, waited the next day upon Colonel
Clive, and entered into engagements for the punctual payment of the
sums which he had already promised in relief of the distressed
inhabitants of Calcutta, and as a compliment to the gentlemen of the
Council and others, and this scene Mr Fisherton described to us very
particularly, saying--

“And now, madam, I am come to a point that can’t but be especially
grateful to you, since it concerns the punishment of a villain at
whose hands you have suffered not a little in time past. On the
Colonel’s entering the apartment where he designed to receive the
Soubah’s visit, old Omy Chund, with his usual bustle, pushed forward
among his attendants, but not finding himself received with any
distinction, withdrew in something of a pet to another part of the
hall. You may not be sensible, madam, that this white-haired traitor
was expecting to pocket the monstrous sum of twenty _lacks_, which he
imagined himself to have secured as the price of his not betraying to
Surajah Dowlah our confederacy with Meer Jaffier. The Soubah having
entered and been received with the usual courtesies, the business on
which he was come went forward, the treaty signed between us and him
being produced. When various matters had been arranged, Omy Chund, who
had again joined with the party in his eagerness to lay hands on his
imagined wealth, cried out with an air of stupefaction, ‘But it was a
red treaty I saw!’ ‘Yes, Omy Chund, but this is a white treaty,’ says
Colonel Clive; then to Mr Scrafton, ‘’Twill be as well to undeceive
the fellow.’ Upon this Mr Scrafton, approaching the deluded Gentoo
with no particular tenderness, and having in his hand the treaty wrote
on red paper, which he supposed secured his claims, said, ‘Omy Chund,
you have been deceived. This _loll coggedge_ is a forgery.’ It took
some time before Omy Chund could be brought to believe that in the
genuine treaty his name did not so much as appear, and that he stood
to gain no more by our victory than the other Gentoos of Calcutta; but
being at last persuaded of his misfortune (when the resentment and
indignation expressed in his countenance bars all description), he
appeared suddenly bereft of his intellects, and was assisted out of
the room by his attendants, remaining still, as we understand, in the
same deplorable situation.”

“But, sir,” I cried, “you confound me! Is it possible that an
assemblage of Britons, of Christians, should have conspired to delude
this wretched pagan with a forged instrument? Sure the Colonel--sure
Mr Watson--would never----”

“Indeed, madam, the notion was the Colonel’s own, and all the other
gentlemen attached their names to the red treaty without a spark of
hesitation, save only the Admiral; and understanding that, though he
demurred to take an active part, he experienced no repugnance to the
affair, I took the liberty of adding his signature.”

“Pray, sir,” cried Mr Fraser with great warmth, “don’t try to drag Mr
Watson into your plot. If I were not persuaded that he’ll disavow with
indignation the infamous use you have chose to make of his name, I
would throw up my commission sooner than serve under him again.”

“Why, sir, he may disavow it and welcome, if he’ll support his
disavowal by withdrawing also from the benefits secured to him by
means of the treaty as the officer in command of the squadron, but he
won’t.”

“Pray, sir, don’t judge of a seaman’s honour by that of your most
high-minded Colonel.”

“Sir, I have suffered your injurious language to myself, but when you
see fit to attack my generous patron in my presence I must resent it
with my----”

“Pray, young gentlemen,” said Dr Dacre, “remember there’s a lady
present, and leave Colonel Clive and the Admiral to settle their own
shares of the matter. But come, Mr Fisherton, have you no compunction
for your own part in this deception?”

“Not the slightest, sir. Even were I not persuaded that I had obliged
the Admiral by relieving his conscience from the odium of signing the
false treaty, while he retains the benefits it secured him, I have no
pity for Omy Chund. You was not in the Black Hole, sir. Omy Chund
contrived to bring about the miserable destruction of Calcutta in
revenge for his own fancied wrongs, and ’tis no thanks to him that the
happy issue of Mr Watts’ negotiations han’t been frustrated again and
again. He practised for the death of Mr Holwell, and he was the
instrument to betray Mrs Fraser into the hands of the vile Sinzaun.
Sure the lady’s spouse should be the last person in the world to find
fault with me for the joy I experience in having assisted to punish
the double-dyed traitor.”

“Sir,” said Mr Fraser gruffly, “I don’t dispute the justice of the
punishment, but only its means. Believe me, ’twill be a lasting blot
on Colonel Clive’s fame that he and those with him consented to enrich
themselves while depriving their confederate of his share of the
spoils.”

“Are you pointing at me there, sir?” cried Mr Fisherton.

“Nay, sir, I don’t doubt but the 50,000 rupees allotted you were
worthily earned otherwise than by your dealings with the treaty.”

“However they were earned,” says the young gentleman, with something
of a sigh, “they’ll be well spent. Every _anna_ but what I need for
the most pressing necessaries shall go home to my family. ’Twill
furnish marriage portions for my sisters, place my brothers out in
life, and relieve my honoured father of his cruellest anxieties. I’ll
assure you, gentlemen, that at least the money shall be better
employed than if Omy Chund had received it.”

And turning resolutely from the topic, he described to us the
miserable end of Surajah Dowlah, who, escaping in disguise with one of
his favourite women and a single servant, was recognised by a
_facquier_ whose nose and ears he had ordered to be cut off a year
ago, when on his march against the Purranea Nabob, and being seized
and brought back to Muxadavad was murdered secretly by emissaries of
Meer Jaffier’s son Meerham. So surely have the crimes of this wretched
prince brought their own punishment! Of Sinzaun nothing certain can be
learned. There’s a rumour of his being still alive, but if so, he’s a
fugitive in the Berbohm[21.07] country, with the rest of the
Frenchmen that escaped from Placis, and have failed to join with Mons.
Law, who is refuging at Patna, whither Major Coote was to start to-day
with a sufficient force to bring him and his soldiers in as prisoners.
The first instalment of the treasure due to the inhabitants of
Calcutta as a compensation for their losses of last year is to be paid
over to-morrow by Raja Doolubram, who has been set over the Muxadavad
treasury, and it is to be sent down the river at once, when Colonel
Clive is so good as to suggest that Mr Fraser and I should take
advantage of the chance to travel by one of the boats carrying it,
which will ensure both our comfort and safety.


            _At Mr Hurstwood’s House_, Calcutta, _July ye_ 12_th._

Once more, Amelia, I date my letter from Calcutta, after a voyage
which has been one long triumph, owing to the precious freight of our
fleet of boats. No less than a hundred of these were required to
convey the Muxadavad treasure, which was packed in seven hundred
chests, and guarded by a strong force of troops as far as the town of
Nudiah.[21.08] Here the vessels were met by the boats of the
squadron, and thus attended, with flags flying and bands of music
playing, we sailed on to Calcutta, where the entire population,
overwhelmed with delight at this extraordinary accession of wealth,
gave way to the most extravagant rejoicing, and testified the utmost
esteem and affection both for one another and for those in authority.
Of these affecting demonstrations Mr Fraser and I were not witnesses,
for an urgent letter from my dear Mrs Hurstwood had entreated us to
land at Chitpore, and take breakfast with her at a _bungulo_ or
country-seat that Mr Hurstwood has lately bought. I found myself
welcomed with tears of joy by my Charlotte, who appeared unable to
make enough of me, and piqued me not a little by telling Mr Fraser
roundly that much as she valued him, ’twas solely for my sake, and if
he had any business in Calcutta, the day was his in which to do it,
for she promised herself the pleasure of hearing my history from my
own lips, and his interruptions were not desired. My dear spouse,
knowing that I can’t endure to hear his punctilio slighted, even in
jest, laughed at me for my vexation, and declared he had suffered far
worse things from Mrs Hurstwood, offering to prove it by one of her
letters, which had been effectual, he said, in making him less ready
to take offence than he had once been, since ’twas impossible to speak
of him in less flattering terms, which he had yet endured meekly at
her hands. Having seen him depart in a palanqueen, for his wound is
now so far recovered that he is able to sit up, though not to walk, my
Charlotte and I set to work to exchange a year’s confidences. Figure
to yourself, my dear girl, the prodigious task! If I had more to tell,
Charlotte’s kind expressions of sympathy and her eager questions gave
her full as large a part in the conversation, although she insisted
that I should recount all my tale before she would consent to impart
any news of her own. When at last all was told, I demanded of her with
indignation how she could find it in her heart to put a slight upon a
person that had behaved with the courage and generosity Mr Fraser had
shown, at which she laughed.

“Why, child,” she said, “your zeal for your spouse charms me, I’ll
assure you. I vow I must reward it by letting you see the letters he
wrote to me during his search for you. ’Tis no breach of confidence,
for he has promised to show you mine. Come, there’s the precious
pacquet, which you may study in your palanqueen as we ride home, for I
won’t have a moment of our talking-time wasted to-day.”

I leave you to picture, my Amelia, what your Sylvia’s feelings were on
reading these charming letters, every page in which breathes the
respect and affection with which her spouse is kind enough to regard
your unworthy friend. I am determined to obtain Mrs Hurstwood’s leave
to copy them out for myself, so that in case I am ever so base as to
be in danger of forgetting how infinitely Mr Fraser has obliged me in
the past, I may read them and be overwhelmed with shame, and I will
contrive to grant my Amelia the privilege of reading them also. Those
utterances in them which may appear extravagant, she’ll pardon as the
evidence of the too-partial kindness entertained for her Sylvia by the
writer, for indeed I could not bring myself to leave ’em out.
Something of this sort I said to my Charlotte when we were arrived at
Mr Hurstwood’s house, and she received it in her usual contradictory
style.

“Indeed, child, I’m glad you’re pleased. As for me, I took no pleasure
in your Fraser until he left off writing letters.”

“I am sorry my spouse annoyed Mrs Hurstwood with reports of his search
for me.”

“I’m sorry to see Mrs Fraser petted about nothing. Why, child, when I
received Dr Dacre’s letter announcing your marriage, and Fraser’s
incoherent scrawl saying that he could find no words in which to
write, I was satisfied at last that the fellow loved you as he ought.
So long as he could talk about his transports, even to his mistress’s
near friend, I could not repose in him the confidence I desired.”

“Sure you’re a person of vast authority on matters of love and
marriage, madam.”

“Questionless, my dear. Han’t I set the fashion for Calcutta in
weddings for many a long day? A surprise-wedding lends a charming
touch to an evening party.”

“But sure there have been no weddings here of late?”

“No weddings? Why, there’s been little but weddings. You forget that a
whole parcel of widows have required to be furnished with spouses.”

“Sure you can’t mean that the widows of the gentlemen who perished
last year----?”

“But I do mean it. I don’t desire to startle my Sylvia, but there’s
some things she must know.”

“You’d have me understand that--that--Mrs Freyne----?”

“Precisely. Mrs Freyne is entered upon a second matrimonial
experiment.”

“And the happy person favoured with the transfer of her affections?”

“Come, child, I can’t have you sarcastic. It don’t become a young
woman of my Sylvia’s charming disposition. The favoured suitor, my
dear, is Captain Bentinck, who got his company through the entreaties
of the Presidency when he was left to undertake the defence of
Calcutta on Colonel Clive’s going to the war.”

“She could scarce have insulted my papa’s memory worse than by such a
choice, made in such haste.”

“Indeed, my dear, there was no haste, I’ll assure you. The full year
and a day--not a moment less--did Mrs Freyne wear her weeds to the
admiration of the whole town, and ’twas in the evening of the 21st of
last month she was married. Perhaps you would not say that this proved
her a model of inconsolable constancy, but indeed she was thought to
be extraordinary strict. Why, Mrs Campbell, who married Mr Hastings
just before the hot weather began, only lost her Captain at the taking
of Buzbudgia in January. She, I grant you, wasted no time. But I vow
there’s no need for you to regret Mrs Freyne’s action, for you’ll have
the less to do with her. I thought I had best warn you of the affair,
as you’re about to meet her to-night.”

“Sure my Charlotte will never ask me to do anything so repugnant to my
sentiments.”

“Your Charlotte does ask it of you. To tell truth, my dear, I have
played a little trick on Mrs Bentinck. Shortly after her marriage she
came with the solemnest face in the world to ask me whether I had not
resigned all hope of seeing you again, since a year was past without
any news of you. I had just received the news of your wedding, and
made no scruple of assuring the lady that I was persuaded my Sylvia
Freyne was no more, when she departed comforted, and is now wearing
mourning for you. You perceive my plot?”

“Oh, my dear, don’t attempt anything dreadful. I have no desire to
alarm the lady into fits, or perhaps madness.”

“There’s no fear of that, child. ’Tis your papa’s property Mrs
Bentinck was concerned for, and that she can’t hope to keep now you’re
returned. Sure you can’t desire me to break the news to her gently? Is
it to be announced as joyful or melancholy? If she learn it on a
sudden, she can decide for herself. And now come to dress.”

In Mrs Hurstwood’s hands I feel myself a child, and when she desired
me to wear one of her gowns, which she had had a tailor alter during
the day to fit me, I obeyed her with all the meekness imaginable. I
can’t tell you how strange it appeared to me to put on a dress of
ceremony once more, and I thought I had never seen anything so
charming as the white satin petticoat and gown of white gauze sprigged
with gold that my Charlotte had chose for me. When I was dressed, she
came into the room with her hands full of crimson flowers.

“You look well enough, child,” she said, “but you han’t sufficient
colour left to carry off a dress all of white. Besides, you was
married more than a month ago, and we can’t have you look too like a
bride. So sit down, and let me adorn you.”

I sat down as she bade me, and she fastened her red blossoms in my
hair and in the bosom of my gown, then turned me round and told me in
her impudent style that she thought I might pass tolerably for a
boarding-school Miss just arrived from Europe if I would but keep that
Fraser of mine from following me about everywhere. Having succeeded in
making me angry, she informed me that I should find my adored spouse
in the saloon, as indeed I did, with his wounded limb laid on a couch.
It seemed to me that there was a slight gloom on his countenance, but
he drove it away when I joined him, and we were talking over the
events of the day when Mrs Hurstwood entered the apartment, bringing
with her my stepmother and Captain Bentinck.

“This is the dear friend I desired to present to you, madam,” said my
Charlotte, with an air of extraordinary sweetness. For the instant I
feared Mrs Bentinck’s falling into a fit as she regarded me with
consternation, but she recovered her coolness by a prodigious effort.

“I hope, miss,” she said to me, with an air of grave rebuke, “your
conscience tells you that you’re a suitable object for Mrs Hurstwood’s
kindness?”

“Indeed, madam, my dear Mrs Hurstwood has always been too partial to
my faults.”

“Perhaps you han’t considered, miss, that what we have heard of your
adventures” (yes, Amelia, she went so far as to use that term) “will
scarce entitle you to be received again in Calcutta. I had thought
better of you than to expect to find you imposing on Mrs Hurstwood’s
good nature. Sure a humble retirement would befit you better.”

Mr Fraser had raised himself angrily to speak when Mrs Bentinck made
use of the horrid word _adventures_, but Charlotte gave him a signal
to keep silent. Now she spoke with the greatest coolness in the world.

“Sure, madam, you must mistake my friend for some other person. This
is Mrs Fraser, the wife of the gentleman yonder, with whom your spouse
has, I believe, some acquaintance.”

“Questionless he has married her in hopes of her papa’s money,” says
Mrs Bentinck, as though she spoke to herself, but so loud that we
could all hear.

“Madam!” I cried, very hotly, “Mr Fraser married me at a moment when
all that he could hope for was to share the perils that menaced me.”

“I fear, sir,” she continued, as though I had not spoken, “you’ll be
disappointed to hear that Mr Freyne’s wealth was by no means so great
as was commonly supposed.”

“Why, then I’m rightly punished, madam,” says Mr Fraser, with infinite
cheerfulness.

“And of what there is,” she cried, vexed by his coolness, “not an
_anna_ that I can keep my hands on shall go to the creature you’ve
married.”

“Any remarks you may be pleased to pass upon my own conduct, madam,
I’ll be charmed to listen to, but I permit no one to insult Mrs Fraser
in my hearing.”

“Come, come, my dear,” says Captain Bentinck, “there’s been enough
said. Mr Fraser and his lady will questionless pardon your natural
agitation after such a start as you’ve had, and I need not say I shall
be glad to meet the gentleman or any person he may please to appoint
for the discussion of business.”

“Oh, forgive me, sir!” cried his lady, making him a curtsey. “I had
forgot you would scarce choose to meet Mr Fraser a second time at the
sword’s point.”

“Madam,” said the poor gentleman (I did truly compassionate him at the
moment, Amelia), “I’m sorry to disoblige you, but if you’ll be so kind
as leave this matter to Mr Fraser and me, there’ll be all the more
hope of a peaceful settlement.”

“And that signifies that you’ll see your wife despoiled for the sake
of the saucy creature there. Would that I had married a person with a
spark of courage or manly sentiment in him! Well, sir,” turning to Mr
Fraser, “I perceive you’ll have reason to bless the Captain’s easy
temper, but I wish you joy of what you may get. You’ve found your lady
obliging enough when you was all she had to depend upon for
entertainment, and she owed her precious life to you from day to day,
but wait and see how she’ll use you in Calcutta, when she has plenty
of money and trains of admirers, and her dear Mrs Hurstwood to support
her in all her whims. I fancy the spouse of the lovely Sylvia will
find himself less important with his lady than he’d desire.”

Sure some malignant spirit must have prompted Mrs Bentinck thus to
foster the misgiving that I had discerned in Mr Fraser’s mind already
that day, but he answered her coolly enough--

“Since any kindness Mrs Fraser may please to show me is beyond my
deserts, madam, I’ll trust to be always grateful for it.”

Disappointed of the effect she had hoped to produce, the lady left us
with a disdainful air to join with the rest of the company, in order
to receive whom Charlotte had been compelled to depart, hugely to her
annoyance, and Captain Bentinck following her after a few civil words,
I found myself for a moment alone, so to speak, with Mr Fraser. I
could not resolve to lose this chance.

“Oh, dear sir,” I said, very earnestly, “have I deserved this lack of
confidence at your hands? Can you think so meanly of the creature you
have so infinitely obliged as to imagine that the possession of any
advantages would alter her carriage towards you? At least do me the
favour to test my abiding gratitude, and if you find it wanting,
recall me to a sense of my duty. I’ll assure you it shan’t be
necessary to upbraid me twice.”

“Why, what a bear I must be,” cried Mr Fraser, “to have drawn this
affecting appeal from my beloved girl! Indeed, my dearest life, if I
looked sour on parting from you this morning, ’twas but the thought of
a whole day spent without you, or if I answered that saucy lady less
warmly than I felt, ’twas because I feared to give her cause to cry
out on me as extravagant. That’s my wretched pride again, you’ll say.
Well, so it is, and I’m more ashamed of it than ever in my life
before. Won’t my charmer extend me her pardon?”

“So long as I know I have your confidence, dear sir----”

“So long as my Sylvia pleases herself, let her know that she can’t
disoblige her Fraser. His confidence she must always possess.”

I was made happy by hearing this, but none the less was I thankful not
to have delayed making my appeal, for, knowing as I do my dear Mr
Fraser’s cast of disposition, I tremble at the prospect of the least
interruption of the happy understanding between us. You’ll own,
Amelia, that I have some experience of the gloomy pride that possesses
him when he imagines himself wronged, and to give him cause to display
it would break my heart.

“Come, come,” cried Mrs Hurstwood, coming up to us just as Mr Fraser
had kissed my hand, “I can’t suffer these public endearments now that
you’re returned to polite life. You must learn to carry yourselves
towards each other with the indifference of persons of fashion.
Besides, I want my Sylvia here, to present an old acquaintance to her.
I’ll find a consoler for Mr Fraser in a moment.”

She carried me into the next room in a prodigious hurry, and bade me
seat myself upon an ebony couch, then brought in no less a person than
Admiral Watson, who walks now always with the aid of a stick, and
bears traces in his countenance of the distemper from which he has
suffered since almost his first arrival in Bengall.

“Now here, dear sir,” says Charlotte, “is the beloved friend of whom I
spoke to you. Pray did I exaggerate her charms in describing ’em?”

“Even Mrs Hurstwood can’t perform the impossible,” said the Admiral,
bowing. “Her portrait I must pronounce to have fallen far short of the
reality.”

If I was puzzled by this introduction, and by the look my Charlotte
cast at me as she departed, as though recommending me to do my best to
gain Mr Watson’s favour, I was worse perplexed by the good gentleman’s
conversation, for I soon learned that he imagined me to be a stranger
to India, only newly landed from Britain.

“I fear Admiral Watson’s memory en’t so strong as his kindness,” I
said at last, after acknowledging several genteel compliments, “for I
had the honour to meet him at Madrass near two years ago.”

“Oh, madam,” and the Admiral laughed, “’tis strong enough to recollect
that Mrs Hurstwood has been known to play tricks upon her
acquaintances, and I fear her lovely friend en’t ashamed to copy her.”

“Sure her trick was to make you believe I was newly from home, sir.”

“She assured me positively that you was but just arrived in Calcutta,
madam. But stay--pray, madam, may I be favoured with your name?”

“My name is Fraser, sir,” and I permitted Mr Watson to catch a glimpse
of the wedding-ring upon my finger. Figure to yourself my alarm,
Amelia, when he burst into a great shout of laughter.

“What! the lady over whom Mr Fraser and I have been quarrelling all
day?” he cried.

“Oh, dear sir, have I brought Mr Fraser into fresh difficulties?”

“Why, madam, I thought he had taken undue advantage of my easy temper
when he confessed he had married the lady I permitted him only to
rescue. But I protest I’d have done the same myself on the like
provocation.”

“But you won’t make him suffer, sir, for his generosity to a poor
desolate creature that had no friend but him?”

“He has plenty of consolation, madam, if I did. But figure to yourself
how the affair appears to his comrades. Lieutenant Fraser, admitted
through the Admiral’s softness to an indulgence he don’t in the least
deserve, outstays his leave without permission, and contrives not only
to take part in Colonel Clive’s battle at Placis but to marry a
handsome wife. It’s clear he must be punished.”

“Oh, pray, dear sir, pray----”

“Now pray, madam, don’t cry. I was about to say that for the sake of
others I must leave Mr Fraser in his old station, not allowing him to
profit by the accidents that have of late advanced so many of our
officers to a higher rank, but if he’ll carry himself in that
situation so as to merit my favour (and with such a lady to inspire
him I don’t doubt but he will), why, he shall have it!”

Sure I can’t tell, my dear girl, whether at the moment I was more
grateful for my Charlotte’s trick to gain the Admiral’s kindness for
Mr Fraser, or more ashamed of my jealous misinterpreting of the
natural melancholy my spouse had shown on his return from waiting on
Mr Watson, seeing his prospects all in danger.


                                     Calcutta, _August ye_ 19_th._

How little I imagined, when I closed my last letter to my Amelia, that
the truly great and benevolent man whose affable kindness it recorded
was shortly to quit the world in which he had obliged so many and
displeased none! Three days ago Admiral Watson, the most condescending
of patrons, the most skilful of commanders, breathed his last in the
hospital here. The disorder from which he suffered had increased
continually upon him; but the mournful termination might have been
avoided had it not been for a sudden attack of what is called in
Bengall a _pucker_[21.09] fever (which is to say a severe and violent
one), of which he expired in four days. There are no words to express
the grief and consternation experienced by all in this place, as well
Indians as Europeans, on hearing of the shocking event. This excellent
person had so endeared himself to all classes by the justness of his
sentiments, the politeness of his manners, and the nobility of his
disposition, that there’s not a creature but feels the loss of a
friend. No such funeral procession has ever been seen in Calcutta as
that which on Wednesday attended to the burying-ground the remains of
one so universally venerated. Not only the officers and seamen of the
ships, but the army, the black and Armenian inhabitants, and even the
French prisoners, desired to testify their regret for his decease;
while Colonel Clive, the only individual that could at all compete
with Mr Watson in the public estimation, was present with the rest,
and dropped an unfeigned tear. A fortnight back all the talk of the
place was of the claim put in by the Admiral for a share in the
Muxadavad treasure proportionate to the post he held, and how Colonel
Clive, in proposing to deduct for his benefit a certain portion of
each person’s share, and actually paying over his own part of the sum,
had disobliged the Presidency and the army officers; but now there can
be few but feel that the Colonel alone has nothing to regret in
considering his dealings with the amiable and virtuous person whom we
have lost.

Must I confess to my dear friend that in my heart there has been,
united with that sense of public loss which could not but make itself
felt, a particular grief that the only patron to whom Mr Fraser might
reasonably look for advancement in his profession could now oblige him
no further? That this unworthy strain has mingled with my sorrow I
can’t deny; but my Amelia may judge of the shame with which I
contemplated the sentiment when I learned that even on his death-bed
Mr Watson remained mindful of the interests of those who had served
under him. Yesterday Admiral Pococke, who succeeds the lamented
gentleman in the command of his Majesty’s naval forces in these
waters, having summoned to his presence those officers for whom Mr
Watson had been chiefly concerned, promised them his countenance and
favour in the future, and made them the most obliging offers of
advancement under his own eye. Until that moment, as he confessed to
me, Mr Fraser had entertained serious thoughts of quitting the navy
and entreating the favour of a commission in the Artillery from
Colonel Clive; but finding himself confronted with the same agreeable
prospects as before, he is now joyfully resolved to remain in the
calling of his choice.

You’ll be surprised to hear that we are still residing with Mr and Mrs
Hurstwood; but to tell truth we have found it impossible to quit their
dwelling. As soon as Mr Fraser proposed seeking a house for ourselves,
our friends assured us that theirs was far too large for their wants,
and that they would regard it as a favour if we relieved them of a
part of it. Now this liberal offer was so great a convenience,
considering the huge rents asked here, that we could scarce consent to
accept of it; but when my Charlotte painted a moving picture of the
solitude I should experience when Mr Fraser was absent on his voyages,
and the consolation she might afford me if she needed only to step
across the varanda to pay me a visit, my spouse went over to her side
at once. Then she sought to compliment me with visions of the
assistance I might furnish to her in her household œconomy when she
felt vapourish (for indeed she is not strong), and declared at last
that if I removed to another part of Calcutta she would compel Mr
Hurstwood to remove also and hire the house next to ours, so that I
also was brought to consent to remain. But my dear girl must not
suppose that we are so poor as to find it difficult to live according
to our station. Under the influence of good Mr Holwell and Mr
Hurstwood, Captain Bentinck has behaved like a person of honour and
probity respecting my dear papa’s estate, although his good designs
were sorely hindered by his lady; and Captain Colquhoun’s gift, of
which I can scarce bear to think even now, ensures us a genteel
maintenance. With this and Mr Fraser’s pay, I’ll assure you we find no
cause to envy even the wealthiest persons here.


_P.S._--Miss Dorman (who is now Miss Dorman no longer, but Mrs Weeks)
is come in, and finding me writing, desires her compliments to you,
saying that she regards you as a friend of her own. Her humble
servant, who was fighting in the Carnatic, came hither with the
Madrass detachment, and married her at Fulta, “just in time,” says
she, “for I had near determined on resigning my pretensions to him and
youth together, calling myself Mrs before others tired of calling me
Miss,[21.10] and settling down to cards and scandal as the only old
maid in Calcutta, with a cat, an ape, and a poll-parrot to keep me
company.” But I know my Amelia will rejoice with me that this amiable
creature en’t compelled to so melancholy a fate.


                                      Calcutta, _Sept. ye_ 18_th._

Has my Amelia ever pleased herself with speculations upon the
sentiments of mankind after the Deluge? I hope she won’t accuse me of
irreverence, but I have been wondering whether, when the patriarch and
his descendants returned to the scenes with which they had been
formerly acquainted, they were at any time wont to spare a
compassionate thought for those who had once trod with them the turf
of the umbrageous grove, or listened to the murmuring of the brook.
Sure they could not have succeeded in forgetting them as completely as
though they had never been, and yet our people in Calcutta have
contrived to attain to an eminence as uncommon, as inhuman almost, as
this. And such a malevolent oblivion is the more astonishing, that
those who perished in the miseries of last year were not the worst,
but the best, of our community. My papa, Captain Colquhoun, good Padra
Bellamy and his son, Mr Eyre, Ensign Piccard, and all the rest--the
first two commemorated indeed by the elegant tablets which the pious
care of Mr Fraser has had erected in the burying-ground in their
honour, but the names of the others allowed to perish unless the
excellent Mr Holwell (like your Sylvia a sharer and a survivor of the
horrors of those days) should carry out his projected design of
raising a suitable monument to their common memory.[21.11] Is there
no pathetic[21.12] in this strange neglect? ’Tis little wonder,
you’ll say, that Mr Drake and the Council should desire to shroud in
darkness such recollections as could only blacken their own behaviour,
but sure it had been but a delicate action on Colonel Clive’s part to
put them to shame by taking the matter in hand. The Colonel don’t
think so, however, and Calcutta goes on its way forgetful of the
persons in whom it should take most pride. Indeed, my dear, the state
of this place now is far worse than when our good Captain Colquhoun
used to anticipate a judgment upon it, owing, I fear, to the
prodigious sums of money poured into the town as the result of the
victory of Placis. True, there was no disputes about the division of
the treasure, which was distributed by a committee of the most
respectable inhabitants, whose award was received with the greatest
complaisance imaginable, but the common men of the army and navy spend
their portion of the spoils in the most extravagant folly and
wickedness conceivable, and even the gentlemen of the services seem to
have lost their senses by reason of this sudden accession of wealth.
As I rode through the city this afternoon in my palanqueen, I saw on
all sides of me the signs of the most ostentatious luxury, of the most
prodigal expenditure of the treasure so unhappily obtained.

Sure I must be vapourish, you’ll say, to give vent to these gloomy
reflections. Why, so they are gloomy, my dear, but my situation is a
melancholy one. Yesterday there arrived in the river the Revenge
sloop, which had made an extraordinary quick voyage from Madrass,
bringing news of the arrival of a great French fleet on the
Choromandel Coast. The season of the year forbids Mr Pococke to take
the sea against ’em, but he has thought it well to carry his ships to
Ballisore Road, there to keep watch in case of an attempted attack on
Bengall, and the vessels dropped down the river to-day. Many friends
and relations of the officers were permitted to share the passage as
far as Culpee, and Captain Latham complimented me with an invitation
on board the Tyger, so that I was able to enjoy Mr Fraser’s company
for a little longer. But this was not wholly charming, for I could not
but see that the dear gentleman was so placed that persons much
inferior to him in attainments, and even in age, were entitled to give
him their orders. I could not help deploring this to him before we
parted, and lamenting that his determined search for me had involved
him in such a loss of sea-time and of opportunities for distinction as
had brought him into so painful a situation, but he checked me
immediately.

“Pray, my dearest girl,” he said, “have done once and for all with
this talk of obligation between you and me. Sure I had willingly
undertook what I did simply to know that my Sylvia was restored to
freedom and safety; but when to that is added the honour of possessing
her, I am overpaid a thousand times. The favour is all on my side, and
if you love me, you’ll permit me to rejoice in that thought.”

To so affecting an appeal ’twas not possible to return a refusal,
although it deprives me of that exercise which is the most charming of
all to a generous mind--the consideration of the obligations one owes
to one’s friends. But my dear Mr Fraser is gone, and what little his
Sylvia can do to please him shall be done--although not altogether as
my Charlotte desired me just now. Having made me drink a dish of tea
on my return from the Gott, and sought in vain to engage me in a
cheerful conversation, “Oh, there!” she cried, “go and write to your
Fraser. I see you’ll take no pleasure in anything until that’s done.”
But I hope I en’t so extravagant as Mrs Hurstwood feigns to believe. I
will begin a letter to Mr Fraser to-morrow; at present I’ll finish
that to my Amelia. Do you know, my dear, I fancy this will be the last
of my huge pacquets? Letters you’ll receive from me in the future, I
hope, but scarcely those minute histories which it has so often
solaced me to write. These, if I am able to write them at all, must go
to my spouse, and my dear girl won’t grudge it, knowing that in heart
her friend is, as ever, her

                                                  Sylvia Fraser.




 APPENDIX.

 A.--ON THE SPELLING OF WORDS AND NAMES.

It will be noticed that the orthography of Indian words in the text
differs with each writer, and this is the case in all the writings of
the period. That phonetic method of spelling, which has passed into
literature in the works of Thackeray and Macaulay, and for a return to
which a writer in one of the magazines recently entered a plea,
reigned supreme, but with this drawback, that each man expressed
differently the sounds he heard. To take one instance, the
comparatively simple name Baj-baj appears in various writings as
Buz-buzia, Buz-budgee, Busbudgia, Budje Boodjee, and Bougee Bougee,
besides the more modern Budge-Budge. The first person that rendered
Murshidabad as Muxidavad evidently pronounced the _x_ in the
Portuguese way, as _sh_, when the name is quite recognisable if the
accent be placed on the first syllable, but those who followed him,
ignorant of this fact, passed from Muxadavad into Mucksadabad--a
terrible example of the dangers of a follow-my-leader policy. Some
writers, and notably Holwell, made an effort to obtain uniformity.
Aghast at discovering the long _a_ sound (as in Khan) variously
rendered by _o_, _u_, _au_, and _aw_, they employed _aa_ for the
purpose, and hence we are confronted with such monstrosities as
_Rhaajepoot_ for Rajput. Considering the difficulty of rendering
Hindustani words by means of English letters, the modern student may
be thankful for the Hunterian system, which at least ensures
uniformity, even though upon a purely conventional basis. It may be
mentioned that the diversity is not confined to Indian words. The name
of le Beaume is spelt in four different ways.




 B.--THE FAMILY OF ALIVARDI KHAN.

The following table has been compiled from Orme’s History and the
_Seïr-ul-Mutaqharin_ to show the relationship of Alivardi Khan’s
descendants. The three daughters of Alivardi married the three sons of
his brother Hodjee Hamet (Haji Ahmad), while his half-sister
Shah-Khanum was married to Mir Jafar, and became the mother of his son
Miran.

[image: img_462.jpg (Genealogy Tree)]




 C.--AUTHORITIES FOLLOWED IN THE TEXT.

The period treated in this book is singularly rich in contemporary
personal records. Holwell, Watts, and Scrafton have left us lengthy
narratives of their experiences, and Ives, Admiral Watson’s surgeon
and clerk, supplies a detailed account of the campaign of vengeance
which terminated at Plassey. Clive’s letters give us the military
point of view, and in the _Seïr-ul-Mutaqharin_ we have that of the
natives. Orme’s History (1763) appears to have been compiled from
other documents still, probably the official letters addressed to the
Court of Directors, since his account of Mr Watts’ escape from
Madhupur, for instance, is far more detailed than that contained in
Watts’ own ‘Memoirs of the Revolution in Bengal.’ Orme’s account is
followed in the text, save that other names have been substituted for
those of Messrs Collet and Sykes and Dr Forth, whom the historian
mentions as Watts’ companions in addition to the Tartar servant. The
evidence given before the Parliamentary Committee of 1772 adds many
interesting details, and the same may be said of two MSS. in the
Hastings Collection, one written by the anonymous junior civilian who
is called Mr Dash in the text, the other the _apologia_ of Captain
Grant, who had fought under Prince Charles Edward at Culloden, and
succeeded, when the Jacobite cause was lost, in escaping to Bengal,
where ill-fortune still pursued him. I am indebted to Dr Busteed,
whose book, ‘Echoes from Old Bengal,’ is a mine of curious information
on eighteenth-century Calcutta, for directing my attention to these
writings. The description of Siraj-u-Daula’s Durbar is taken from the
_Discours Préliminaire_ of Anquetil du Perron’s translation of the
‘Zend-Avesta,’ the French traveller having visited Murshidabad during
the prince’s short reign. For various minor details, the ‘Voyages’ of
Grose and of Mrs Kindersley have been laid under contribution, while
Broome’s ‘History of the Bengal Army’ has afforded a standard by which
to compare the often varying contemporary authorities.

The variations and discrepancies in these narratives form indeed the
great difficulty of the historian, and with these must be joined their
omissions, particularly in matters of date. Thus there are no means of
knowing the exact time at which Mr Watts’ letter of warning as to the
Nawab’s intentions arrived, or when the Delawar entered the Hugli with
the instructions of the Court of Directors, when Siraj-u-Daula was
formally proclaimed in Calcutta and the Governor’s letter of
congratulation forwarded, or when “Fuckeer Tongar” and the Nawab’s
second messenger arrived, or lastly, when the “first prohibition of
provisions” took place, at which time Holwell recommended the seizure
of Tanna. I have endeavoured in the text to place these events in
their probable order and in a right relation to one another.




D.--THE HISTORICAL PERSONAGES INTRODUCED.

In consequence of the abundant information obtainable, there is little
scope for imagination in the treatment of the historical personages
brought into the story as secondary characters. Messrs Holwell, Eyre,
Bellamy (father and son), Mapletoft, le Beaume, Watts, and Hastings,
and Governor Drake and his two friends, stand revealed either in their
own writings or those of their contemporaries. The characters of the
five captains commanding the Calcutta forces are drawn for us by
Holwell, but students of the original narrative will observe that I
have substituted the name of Captain Colquhoun for that of Buchanan.
So also the brilliant young civilian who survived the Black Hole to
become Clive’s instrument in the matter of the false treaty is called
in the text by the name of Fisherton. It may be objected that the
character of Drake and his fellow deserters is drawn too exclusively
from the records of those who suffered by their cowardice in forsaking
Fort William, but to that I may reply that neither Grant in his MS.
defence, nor Manningham in his evidence before the House of Commons
Committee, succeeds in shedding any more agreeable light on the
disgraceful exploit, while Drake’s opinion of the affair is shown by
his having, in conjunction with the Council, sentenced Captains Grant
and Minchin to be dismissed the Service, for following his own
example. Grant, it may be remarked, was afterwards reinstated, in view
of his unsuccessful efforts to induce the President to return to the
help of those left in the Fort, and he took part in the hostilities
which culminated at Plassey.

Admiral Watson’s character is described in detail by Ives, and
sketched at some length by Watts, while the chance allusions of other
writers concur in assuring us of his extreme amiability as a man, and
his high qualities as a commander. (His tomb, like that of young
William Speke, is still to be seen at the Old Cathedral, Calcutta, and
it may be news to some Londoners to learn that there is a monument to
him in the north transept of Westminster Abbey.) The remarkable
indecision displayed by Clive before the engagement at Plassey is
historical, and appears to have been due to one of those fits of
depression to which he was subject. The name of Sinzaun will not be
found in the records of the period, but we learn from Grant that the
Nawab’s artillery at the siege of Fort William was under the command
of a French renegade, who called himself the Marquis de St Jacques,
while the last stand at Plassey was made by a small company of French
under a leader called St Frais, whose name was spelt Sinfray by the
English and the natives, and who was not killed, as is erroneously
stated in the index to Malleson’s ‘Life of Clive,’ but lived to fight
another day.




 E.--THE TOPOGRAPHY OF CALCUTTA.

One of the chief difficulties in tracing the various localities of old
Calcutta is the extent to which the river-bank has altered its shape
and position, so that where in Orme’s day was water, there are now
streets and squares. It is still possible, however, to discover some
of the old land-marks, although the Fort William of the text must not
be sought for on the site of the present one, for that was built by
Clive where the hamlet of Gobindpur had formerly stood. The Post
Office marks the spot occupied by the original Fort William, and the
site of the Black Hole (the discovery of which in 1883 is recorded by
Dr Busteed) is marked by a stone bearing an inscription. The Park or
Lal Bagh is the present Tank Square or Dalhousie Square. The site of
the church is thought by some to be occupied by St Andrew’s
Presbyterian Church, while the Old Cathedral (St John’s) marks the
site of the burying-ground mentioned in the text. The present
Government House covers, so far as can be determined, the site of the
old Company’s House. The gaol, says Broome in 1850, “was about the
site of the present Lall Bazar Auction Mart.” The present suburb of
Hastings stands on the site of Surmans, and the ground between it and
the city proper, now occupied by Chauringhi and the Maidan, was still
a marshy jungle even at the end of the last century. The Chitpur Road,
an old native pilgrim-way, marked the division between the English and
native quarters of the town, and the Marhata Ditch followed the course
of the present Circular Road. Further information on this interesting
subject may be obtained from Dr Busteed’s book and Sir William
Hunter’s ‘Gazetteer of India,’ art. “Calcutta.”




 F.--SOME POINTS IN CONNECTION WITH THE FALL OF CALCUTTA.

It is difficult to resist the conclusion that never was a city more
thoroughly warned of its impending doom than the Calcutta of 1756, and
the fact renders the alternate defiance and cowardice of the
Presidency the more unaccountable. That the actual approach of peril
took them altogether by surprise appears certain, and Orme blames Mr
Watts for not informing them until the danger was close at hand of the
anxiety as to their intentions displayed by Alivardi Khan in his
death-bed conversation with Dr Forth, which appears to have been
considered by Siraj-u-Daula as a justification for his own subsequent
proceedings. But without adopting the extreme view of the French, that
the siege and its consequences were the outcome of a deliberate plan
formed by Drake and his confederates for the destruction of Holwell,
there can be little doubt that the President and his two friends were
playing a double game, and found themselves defeated only because they
met with opponents still less scrupulous than they were. The
constitution of the Council was such as to render it extremely easy
for them to manipulate public affairs in their own interest. Watts,
the accomptant and second in command, was absent at Kasimbazar, and
the executive was practically in the hands of the Governor, Manningham
the warehouse-keeper, and his “partner” Frankland. The House of
Commons Report makes it clear that these three were suspected not only
of supporting the claims of Ghasiti Bigam against those of
Siraj-u-Daula in the hope of gain, but of accepting a money bribe to
allow the admission of Kishen Das into Calcutta. The writer who in the
text is called Mr Dash goes further, and asserts roundly that their
earlier defiance of the Nawab was intended to alarm the protected
merchants and wealthy men of the surrounding districts, and induce
them to seek refuge in Calcutta, when the Presidency might levy
blackmail on their possessions. After this we are scarcely surprised
to learn on the same authority that Drake and his friends were wont to
apply to their own use as much as 10,000 rupees a month, which was a
part of the sum devoted by the Court of Directors to the payment of
the army--an army practically non-existent--nor that the plunder found
at Tanna was put on board the Doddalay, the ship which belonged to the
three confederates, and transferred to the snow Neptune. Having
attained their object in despatching the expedition, the Presidency
had no further interest in Tanna, but kept up a show of activity
without any real result on the second day, merely in order to cover
the passage of the Neptune up to Calcutta. It is some consolation to
hear that when Fort William was abandoned, this vessel went ashore
near Baj-baj, and the treasure was lost.

Unfortunately for the plans of the Presidency, it can scarcely be
doubted that they were overreached from the first. The hollowness of
the Nawab’s anger against Kishen Das, evidenced not only by the
honours showered upon him on the fall of Calcutta, but by the fact
that Rajballab, the father, and presumably the more guilty of the two,
remained unmolested at the Court from beginning to end of the matter,
seems to show that the affair of Kishen Das was nothing but a ruse,
intended to bring about the ruin of the English by arousing their
cupidity. That it was devised by Amin Chand and his friend Gobind Ram
Mitar, as was suspected at the time, in revenge for what they
considered the injustice with which they had been treated, is scarcely
more doubtful. The double-dyed traitor Amin Chand appears, indeed, to
have played both parties false with the greatest impartiality
throughout his career, but the special malevolence displayed towards
Holwell and the three others by whom he conceived himself to have been
particularly injured seems to prove that the overthrow was plotted by
him, and this is corroborated by the correspondence discovered between
Amin Chand and Manak Chand. In consequence of this unsuspected
treachery, the President and his friends, who had counted confidently
upon the defeat of the Nawab, first at the hands of Ghasiti Bigam and
then at those of his cousin of Parnia, found their confidence futile,
and the airy carelessness with which they had been wont to discuss
affairs of state, both with casual acquaintances and with the natives,
contributed to their downfall by the information it furnished to the
enemy. It is interesting to observe that in his examination before the
Commons Committee, Manningham observes with the greatest coolness that
in his opinion it was not in the power of any man to give a reason for
the disaster, and that he knew of no conduct on the part of the
Company’s servants likely to incense the country government. In regard
to their intentions, this is probably true, but it is almost
impossible not to believe that their plans for their own
aggrandisement recoiled upon them in a way they little expected.

The conduct of the Governor and his friends during the siege appears
to have been due merely to pusillanimity, for even Mr “Dash” does not
venture to hint at treachery on their part. The incapacity of the
engineers prepared a position impossible of defence, and the cowardice
of those in command precipitated a defeat which a more resolute
resistance might have delayed, and thus averted altogether. The flight
of Manningham and Frankland was a natural corollary to the abandonment
of the north and south batteries, and the order to the captain of the
Doddalay to drop down the river followed easily. In the text I have
followed Captain Grant’s account of Drake’s flight, his own share in
which he endeavours to excuse by asserting that the boat in which he
accompanied him was the only one left. If this is true, it seems
scarcely necessary to have locked the Fort gate to prevent further
desertions, as we learn was done, and that others succeeded in getting
away is probable from the narrative of Mr “Dash,” which ends with a
suspicious abruptness after describing the President’s escape. Unless
the anonymous writer was the Mr Lewis who accompanied Mr Pearkes to
the Prince George, and was presumably saved with her crew, he must
have found some means of reaching the ships from the Fort, for we know
on his own testimony that he was among the refugees at Falta. Le
Beaume, who is branded by Broome with the stigma of taking part in the
stampede, is shown by Grant’s narrative to have been wounded, and by
Holwell’s to have been sent on board the Diligence on the night of the
18th with Mrs Drake and the three other ladies who had been left
behind. I have no authority for identifying these ladies (whose vessel
was captured by the enemy off Baj-Baj, and all Holwell’s property
lost) with those mentioned in the _Seïr-ul-Mutaqharin_ as having
fallen into the hands of Mir Jafar, and been by him restored to their
husbands, but the identification appears probable.


 [The End]




 FOOTNOTES.

 CHAPTER I FOOTNOTES.

 [1.01]
 #fit# fainting-fit.

 [1.02]
 #nightgown# the nightgown (a remote ancestor of the tea-gown of 
 to-day) was a semi-fitting flowing robe worn, generally without a 
 hoop, in the morning and on non-ceremonial occasions. 

 [1.03]
 #King’s ribbon# the black or scarlet Hanoverian cockade which 
 distinguished the royal forces. 

 [1.04]
 #What will the noble Captain take?# it was customary to address a 
 subaltern as Captain: officers of higher rank, on the contrary, were 
 often spoken of as Mr. 

 [1.05]
 #Colonel Adlercron’s regiment of foot# this was the 39th Regiment. 
 The men were to be employed as marines on board the ships. 

 [1.06]
 #Select Piquet# this was composed of cadets waiting for commissions. 

 [1.07]
 #capuchin# a hooded cloak, the usual outdoor garment of the time.

 [1.08]
 #Gott# _ghat_, landing-place.

 [1.09]
 #old Roman# the story is told of Themistocles.

 [1.10]
 #whisk# whist.

 [1.11]
 #particular# peculiar.

 [1.12]
 #Emily# Emily was incorrectly used as the diminutive of Amelia.




 CHAPTER II FOOTNOTES.

 [2.01]
 #Fonchial# Funchal.

 [2.02]
 #mob# the mob-cap covered the hair almost entirely.

 [2.03]
 #cuddy# dining-saloon.

 [2.04]
 #behave with justice and humanity to those serving under him# the 
 brutalities described by Smollett must not be taken as typical of the 
 navy at this time as a whole. There is abundant evidence that many 
 commanders were the idols of their men, and a private letter from 
 Captain Latham of the Tyger, contributed by its recipient to the 
 ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ for 1755, shows the gallant officer to 
 have been as full of plans and “fads” for his crew’s health and 
 happiness as the most philanthropic captain of to-day. 

 [2.05]
 #island of St Johanne# Johanna, one of the Comoro Islands.




 CHAPTER III FOOTNOTES.

 [3.01]
 #Culpee# Kalpi.

 [3.02]
 #checks# chiks.

 [3.03]
 #notch# _nāch._

 [3.04]
 #Sawgers# Sagar.

 [3.05]
 #Gioghis# _Jogis_, also spelt _juggies_.

 [3.06]
 #Gentoos# Hindus.

 [3.07]
 #buxies# _bakhshish_.

 [3.08]
 #Surmans# the southernmost suburb of Calcutta.

 [3.09]
 #Buzbudgia# Baj-baj.

 [3.10]
 #Moors# Mohammedans.

 [3.11]
 #Tanners# Tanna.

 [3.12]
 #Govindpoor’s Reach# the present Fort William occupies the site of
 Gobindpur.

 [3.13]
 #near twenty years ago# this was in 1737.

 [3.14]
 #he should by rights have been born a Quaker# this is the most
 probable explanation of the statement made by Voltaire and Grose, that
 Governor Drake was a member of the Society of Friends.

 [3.15]
 #Dutch baby# doll.




 CHAPTER IV FOOTNOTES.

 [4.01]
 #Beebee# _bibi_=lady. The term _mem-sahib_ appears not to have come
 into use at this date.

 [4.02]
 #iya# ayah.

 [4.03]
 #saeb# sahib.

 [4.04]
 #peculiar# characteristic.

 [4.05]
 #fly cap# a small cap which allowed the hair to be seen. A dressed 
 suit was a complete dress of one material, with a distinct trimming. 

 [4.06]
 #mohurry, banyan, secar, compidore, kissmagar, consummer, mussall 
 chye, pyke, and harry# it is perhaps scarcely necessary to give the 
 modern spelling of these words: _muhri_, _baniya_, _sarkar_, 
 _comprador_ (a Portuguese term), _khitmatgar_, _khansaman_, 
 _masalchi_, _paik_, _hari_. 

 [4.07]
 #Fringys# probably a corruption of Farangi.

 [4.08]
 #Muxadavad# Murshidabad.

 [4.09]
 #Cossimbuzar# Kasimbazar.

 [4.10]
 #Delly# Delhi.

 [4.11]
 #Morattoes# Marhatas.

 [4.12]
 #Orixa# Orissa.

 [4.13]
 #phirmaunds and husbulhookums# _firman_, a charter from the Emperor: 
 _hasbalhukm_, a confirmation of it under the Grand Vizier’s seal. 

 [4.14]
 #musnet# masnad.

 [4.15]
 #dussticks# _dastak_, a permission to trade, given to the servants of
 the Company, and conferring certain privileges.

 [4.16]
 #soubahship# _suba_, which is in reality the province or fief governed
 by a _subadar_, the English took as the ruler’s title, and they
 invented the term _soubahship_ to denote his post, which should be
 _subadari_.

 [4.17]
 #French necklace# the ribbon with which the neck of the low-cut gown
 was drawn up.

 [4.18]
 #Three heads# a _head_ was a complete head-dress, including cap and
 lappets, or pinners.

 [4.19]
 #facetious# pleasant, obliging.

 [4.20]
 #Birth-night# the ball on the evening of the king’s birth-day.

 [4.21]
 #shroff# banker. Omy Chund’s name is more correctly spelt Amin Chand.

 [4.22]
 #Train# artillery.




 CHAPTER V FOOTNOTES.

 [5.01]
 #sicca# the sicca rupee was worth 2s. 6d., the ordinary one 2s. 3d.

 [5.02]
 #bedgown# a loose jacket of coloured cotton.

 [5.03]
 #molly# malli.

 [5.04]
 #Moors# Hindustani.

 [5.05]
 #dufter-conna# daftar-khana.

 [5.06]
 #Loll Baug# _lal Bagh_=red garden.

 [5.07]
 #gwallers# bearers.

 [5.08]
 #dessert# the ball-supper was called dessert.

 [5.09]
 #Sucajunk ... Phousdar of Purranea ... Gosseta# Purranea=Parnia. 
 Sucajunk is an ingenious rendering of Shaukat Jang. Gosseta should be 
 spelt Ghasiti, and Phousdar Faujdar. 

 [5.10]
 #Moradda Dowlett# Murad-u-Daula.

 [5.11]
 #ginanah# zenana.

 [5.12]
 #Mr Fraser# the name is carefully crossed out in the original.

 [5.13]
 #Buzars# Bazars.

 [5.14]
 #Gyria# Gheriah.

 [5.15]
 #knots# mazes.




 CHAPTER VII FOOTNOTES.

 [7.01]
 #Burraduan# Bardwan.

 [7.02]
 #Narransing# Narain Sing.

 [7.03]
 #Jemmautdar# Jemadar.

 [7.04]
 #chokey# waterside custom-house.

 [7.05]
 #pycar# native broker.

 [7.06]
 #Sydabad# Saidabad.

 [7.07]
 #Someroo# Walter Reinhardt or Reynaud, an Alsatian by birth, known to 
 the French as Sombre, and to the natives as Samru. 




 CHAPTER IX FOOTNOTES.

 [9.01]
 #hookers# huqa.

 [9.02]
 #Sykes# Sikhs.

 [9.03]
 #make over to you for her use the sum of five thousand pounds# a 
 similar instance of generosity is recorded of an elderly suitor of the 
 beautiful Miss Linley. The lady afterwards became the wife of Richard 
 Brinsley Sheridan. 

 [9.04]
 #buxerries# bakhsharis.

 [9.05]
 #coffle# _kafila_=caravan.

 [9.06]
 #Facquier# Fakir.




 CHAPTER X FOOTNOTES.

 [10.01]
 #Rajamaul# Rajmahal.

 [10.02]
 #Aume-beg# Omar or Emir Beg.

 [10.03]
 #mounsee# munshi.

 [10.04]
 #arasdass# arzdasht.

 [10.05]
 #cossids# kasids.

 [10.06]
 #tuszaconna# toshakhana.

 [10.07]
 #Cotwal# _Katwal_, the head of the town police.

 [10.08]
 #hircara# _harkara_, spy or messenger.




 CHAPTER XI FOOTNOTES.

 [11.01]
 #pawn# _pan_. Miss Freyne’s mistake is excusable, for in her day 
 betel was spelt beetle. 

 [11.02]
 #puckery# pagri.

 [11.03]
 #mulchilca# machalka.

 [11.04]
 #Esplanade# the open space surrounding the factory.

 [11.05]
 #petted# piqued; cf. ‘in a pet.’

 [11.06]
 #deloll# dallal.

 [11.07]
 #top# tope.

 [11.08]
 #buckshy# _bakhshi_, lit. paymaster.

 [11.09]
 #Piccard# also spelt Picard, Paccard, and Pischard.

 [11.10]
 #Bungulo# bungalow.

 [11.11]
 #Doddalay# also spelt Doddaly, Dodalay, and Dodley. Is it possible
 that the ship’s name was Dudley?




 CHAPTER XII FOOTNOTES.

 [12.01]
 #shamsingees# probably a kind of blunderbuss fired from a stand.

 [12.02]
 #bercundauzes# barkandaz.

 [12.03]
 #seerpaws# apparently _siropa_--_i.e._, a robe from head to foot.

 [12.04]
 #15 feet square# “A cube of about 18 feet” (Holwell); “18 feet long
 and 14 feet wide” (Cooke).

 [12.05]
 #a good hundred and fifty# Holwell’s final calculation makes the
 number 146.




 CHAPTER XIII FOOTNOTES.

 [13.01]
 #Mudden# Madan.

 [13.02]
 #Marrato# Marhata.

 [13.03]
 #sewaury# _sowari_--_i.e._, retinue.

 [13.04]
 #Buxey# Bakhshi.

 [13.05]
 #It may be that the Buxey has used Mrs Carey...# Dr Busteed doubts 
 whether Mrs Carey was ever sent to Murshidabad, but her contemporaries 
 were fully persuaded of the fact. 

 [13.06]
 #rain which began on the night of our sufferings# the rains are 
 generally said to have begun on the night of the 21st, but Holwell 
 mentions that on emerging from the Black Hole he lay on the _wet_ 
 grass. 

 [13.07]
 #hackery# this, we are told, was a chaise drawn by two trotting oxen, 
 and provided for the Admiral at the public expense. 




 CHAPTER XIV FOOTNOTES.

 [14.01]
 #Misery Bye# Misri Bai. _Misri_=sugar-candy.

 [14.02]
 #louchees# _lutis_ (?).

 [14.03]
 #hallicores# I have been unable to identify this word. It is also 
 spelt _hallachores_. The _harri_ or _hallicore_ caste is described as 
 the dregs both of _Musselmen_ and _Gentoos_, speaking _Pariar_ 
 Portuguese.--Ed. 

 [14.04]
 #hussy# housewife.

 [14.05]
 #campaign against the Phousdar of Purranea# the exact date of the 
 beginning of this campaign is not stated. 

 [14.06]
 #Nezmennessa Beebee# probably Nijm-ul-Nissa, _i.e._, star of women.




 CHAPTER XV FOOTNOTES.

 [15.01]
 #Tannasery# Tenasserim.

 [15.02]
 #Tellinghy# from Telingana, _i.e._, the Telugu country, whence most of 
 the Sepoys were recruited at this time. 

 [15.03]
 #French house at Sydabad# the French factory near Murshidabad.

 [15.04]
 #Captain Coote# afterwards Sir Eyre Coote.

 [15.05]
 #Adlercron’s Regiment# this was the old 39th, the present Dorsetshire
 Regiment.

 [15.06]
 #Cossipore# Kasipur.

 [15.07]
 #Coja Petruce# Khoja Petrus.

 [15.08]
 #haubitzer# howitzer.

 [15.09]
 #Siab# sahib.

 [15.10]
 #tyre# tier.




 CHAPTER XVI FOOTNOTES.

 [16.01]
 #muster# pattern.

 [16.02]
 #Persic# Persian was the language of the Moguls, or ruling race among 
 the Mohammedans, and therefore that also of Courts and diplomacy. 

 [16.03]
 #milaner# this spelling exhibits the derivation of the word.

 [16.04]
 #Salabatzing# Salabad Jang.

 [16.05]
 #our new great fleet under Lally wasn’t far off# this fleet did not 
 really arrive until 1758. 

 [16.06]
 #a whisper from Omy Chund# there is no evidence to show who was the 
 real betrayer of Hastings’ plot. 




 CHAPTER XVII FOOTNOTES.

 [17.01]
 #Augadeep# Aghadip.

 [17.02]
 #Phousdar Nuncomar# the notorious Nanda Kumar of later days.

 [17.03]
 #Bawboo# Babu.

 [17.04]
 #Shaw# Shah.

 [17.05]
 #Calcapore# the Dutch factory near Murshidabad.

 [17.06]
 #Pitans and Afguhans# Pathans and Afghans. Possibly Afghaun is the
 spelling aimed at.

 [17.07]
 #Kella# Killa.

 [17.08]
 #Huzzoor Nevees# _Hazur Nawiz_--_i.e._, court secretary.

 [17.09]
 #Sanskerreet# Sanscrit.

 [17.10]
 #Mr Laws# The French agent at Murshidabad, and nephew of the famous 
 financier. Why Law of Lauriston should have been called Laws is a 
 mystery, but the custom was so well established that the native form 
 of his name was Lāss. 

 [17.11]
 #Terrano# Terraneau.

 [17.12]
 #Billy Speke ... sustaining an injury that is like to be mortal# Young 
 William Speke died at Calcutta shortly afterwards from the effects of 
 his wound. 

 [17.13]
 #Balagerow# Balaji Rao.

 [17.14]
 #Armiral Dilleer-jing-behauder# Dilir Jang Bahadar.

 [17.15]
 #sopha# divan.

 [17.16]
 #Merzee Mundee# Mirza Mehdi.

 [17.17]
 #Rajamahol# Rajmahal.

 [17.18]
 #Palassy# Plassey.

 [17.19]
 #Moonloll# Mohan Lal.

 [17.20]
 #Godar Yar Caun Laitty# Khuda Yar Latif Khan.

 [17.21]
 #Boglipore# Bhagalpur.

 [17.22]
 #boxwaller# pedlar.

 [17.23]
 #dussutary# _dasturi_=commission.

 [17.24]
 #Govindroy# Gobind Rai.

 [17.25]
 #Badgerow# Baji Rao, a form of Balaji Rao.

 [17.26]
 #lol coggedge# _lal kaghaz_=red paper.

 [17.27]
 #Meerum# Miran.

 [17.28]
 #Maudipore# Madhupur.




 CHAPTER XVIII FOOTNOTES.

 [18.01]
 #loll addama# The English soldiers were so called, either from their 
 sunburnt faces, or, more probably, their red coats. 

 [18.02]
 #Farashdanga ... Zubdatook Toojah# Farashdanga was the native name of 
 Chandernagore, and Zubdatook Toojah that of Renault, its chief. 




 CHAPTER XIX FOOTNOTES.

 [19.01]
 #Moneloll# Mohan Lal.

 [19.02]
 #Saubut Jung Behader# Sabat Jang Bahadar, the name given to Clive.

 [19.03]
 #The bird of Paradise ... the oak and the primrose# The allusion is 
 evidently to “Obidah and the Hermit,” in No. 65 of the 
 ‘Rambler.’ 




 CHAPTER XX FOOTNOTES.

 [20.01]
 #juggies# _jogis_.

 [20.02]
 #Jelingeer# Jalingi.

 [20.03]
 #Mr Hastings ... Like Mr Fraser he’s a new-married man# the date 
 1756, usually given for Hastings’ first marriage, is impossible if, 
 as is stated by his biographers, the bride was the widow of the 
 Captain Campbell killed at the capture of Baj-baj. 

 [20.04]
 #loll pultun# lal Paltan--_i.e._, red regiment.

 [20.05]
 #panjammers# paijamas.

 [20.06]
 #Mr Watts is minded to accompany the army# Malleson, misreading an 
 ambiguous sentence of Broome’s, says that Mr Watts remained at 
 Kalna, but his own memoirs state decisively that he was present at 
 Plassey. 

 [20.07]
 #Agey# Ajai.

 [20.08]
 #Placis# Plassey.




 CHAPTER XXI FOOTNOTES.

 [21.01]
 #the army was to commence its advance at daybreak# Clive’s sudden 
 change of plan, which is left unexplained by most writers, is 
 accounted for by Ives and Scrafton as in the text. 

 [21.02]
 #hovitzes# howitzers.

 [21.03]
 #Modin# Madan.

 [21.04]
 #Doudpaur# Daûdpur.

 [21.05]
 #Moraudbaug# Muradbagh.

 [21.06]
 #nuzzer# nasr.

 [21.07]
 #Berbohm# Birbaum.

 [21.08]
 #Nudiah# Nadiya.

 [21.09]
 #pucker# pakka.

 [21.10]
 #calling myself Mrs before others tired of calling me Miss# Spinster 
 ladies of a certain age were still called Mrs. 

 [21.11]
 #a suitable monument to their common memory# This monument was 
 erected, but was destroyed in 1821, apparently by the vandalism of the 
 Little Englanders of the period. 

 [21.12]
 #pathetic# pathos.

 [End of Footnotes]




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Indian Historical Series.” The full
series, in order, being:

  In Furthest Ind
  Like Another Helen
  The Great Proconsul

Note: _#_ is used in the plain-text version of this book to indicate
bolded text.

Alterations to the text:

Adjust a few letter headings to maintain uniform formatting.

Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies (_e.g._
postscriptum/post-scriptum, writing-implements/writing implements,
etc.) have been preserved.

[Title Page]

Add a brief note indicating this book’s position in the series. See
above.

[Footnotes]

Relabel footnote markers, collect footnotes at end of text, and add
an entry to the TOC.

[Chapter I]

Change “as I heard _say_ on my voyage home” to _said_.

“I leave the _mattter_ with” to _matter_.

[Chapter V]

“rewarding my _inqusitiveness_” to _inquisitiveness_.

[Chapter VIII]

“two men like the _lieuteuant_” to _lieutenant_.

[Chapter IX]

“talk with Miss Freyne will never never be done” delete one _never_.

[Chapter X]

“acquainted with _Captain’s_ Colquhoun’s generous conduct” to
_Captain_.

[Chapter XI]

“his skilful _diposition_ of his men” to _disposition_.

[Chapter XII]

“had the prudence to _made_ his escape with the President” to _make_.

[Chapter XVII]

“with the _carrriage_ of his despatches” to _carriage_.

[Chapter XVIII]

“But I _wont_ speak hardly of one to” to _won’t_.

“nay, _there’s some are_ plotting to do so at this moment” to _there
are some_.

“I became sensible that there _was_ eyes regarding me” to _were_.

[Chapter XX]

“and _every_ the most ordinary sound that reached me” to _even_.

 [End of Text]




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