“Yes, he stayed and stayed, and he hung about, till he met me and spoke to me. He was very rich and handsome, and had such beautiful clothes and rings—so different from any of the village people. He took a fancy to me, he told mother, and asked if he might walk out with me; and of an evening we used to walk together, and he told me lovely stories, and was very attentive, and gave me a gold watch and chain; and people talked in a horrid way, but mother shut them up fine! He was a real grand gentleman, and he was going to marry me; he and she had settled it, she said. If I had had to choose, and he had had the same as young Joe the boatman, my own cousin, I’d have married young Joe. However, we were married very quietly, and he carried me off to London, and bought me splendid dresses, and took me to the theatres and parks, and we had a fine hired carriage of our own. Then we went to Paris, and I liked that; and oh! he bought me such lovely diamonds. I never wished for a thing that I did not get it. Just like in a fairy tale. But though he was very kind to me, I never could bring him to speak to me of his relations, his religion, or his home, and I know no more about them now than I did then,” she said with a little sob, “and here we are within four days of Bombay. I have a presentiment that something is going to happen, and I cannot sleep for thinking of it, my heart does palpitate so!” As she spoke, her whole frame quivered.
“Indigestion, my dear! Pray, what could happen to you?” I asked.
“I don’t know; but sometimes Mr. Raymond is very angry with me, and he frightens me. He cannot endure me to speak to any one, scarcely even to you; and he told me that if I ever spoke to Captain Fuller again he would lock me up in my cabin. He is quite capable of it. Ah! what would I not give to be at home? Shall I ever see our dear hills and lakes again?”
“Of course you will,” I hastily rejoined; “and meanwhile you will see a very interesting new country, where I hope you will be very happy.”
“God grant it, Mrs. Paulet!” she returned gravely. “But sometimes I feel that I shall never be happy again,” and she gave a little dry sob.
“You should have reflected well before you married. You are very young; you could hardly know your own mind.”
“Yes; but you see mother is a strong-minded woman, and manages us all. I never chose a dress for myself, let alone a sweetheart. And he was very liberal to mother; he bought her a lease of the house, and poor mother was just dazzled. Oh, if I was only back again, sitting over the fire in the little parlour, with Susan and Lizzie, I’d never ask to see a diamond, or a horse, or a silk dress, as long as I lived! Yes, it’s getting much warmer.”
I looked round to see the meaning of this irrelevant remark, and discovered Mr. Raymond close to us, regarding our confidences with a pair of most suspicious eyes.
The next morning he blandly informed us at breakfast that “Mrs. Raymond was not well, and was going to remain in her cabin—a touch of fever, a mere nothing.”
I volunteered to go and see her, to take her quinine, eau de Cologne, oranges. My offer was stiffly declined. “His wife had everything she required; all she needed was repose.” We did not see her that day, nor the following one, nor could we gain access to her cabin by fair means—or even by foul—for when I surreptitiously tried the door (having left Mr. Raymond on deck), I found Ahmed Khan on duty as sentry, and he assured me with a scowl that “Mem Sahib sota hye” (Mem Sahib asleep).