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,[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[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,[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 10th.
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.