“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 12th.