“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 29th.
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.”