Ye who send sons and daughters to India, imagine not that they are always reposing on beds of roses.
Alas! poor Tom, thou hadst a gallant spirit, but heavy was the sigh which ever and anon escaped thee, as thou didst detail thy difficulties to me during the brief hour we then spent together!
Much hadst thou to tell of the trials of a married sub, on small means, and kept much on the move; but I must reserve it for some other occasion, “with the rest of Tom’s story,” as Corporal Trim would say, “for it forms a part of it.”
In Julia—the shawled, be-capped, and languid invalid—I could scarcely think that I was indeed looking on the belle of Barrackpore, truly the “light of the ball-room.”
I had nearly omitted to mention a circumstance which occurred on the previous day, with which it is of importance that the reader should be made acquainted—to wit, an unexpected visit I had from my friend Chattermohun Ghose.
On going into Tom’s verandah, to order the despatch of some chattels to my bolio, I observed a Bengalee at one extremity of it, his head going like that of a Chinese mandarin.
I discovered that these profound salaams were intended for me. I advanced towards the automaton, and immediately recognized the patriarchal proprietor of “five effective children of various denominations,” Chattermohun Ghose.
“Hah! Chattermohun, my fine fellow, is that you?” said I. “What brought you to Barrackpore?”
“I came, sair, for argent private affair; two, three gentilman owe me little bill here, and accidentally I have learn by chance that master was ishtaying here; therefore I think my duty to pay respect; master make me great obligation; master is my father, to whom my everlasting gratitude will be due.”
“As for being your father, Chattermohun,” said I, laughing, “no one would suspect that, for if I am not mistaken, you are old enough to be mine; and why you should be so grateful towards me, I cannot imagine.”