“As you please, sir,” said I, very carelessly, though I could have bit my tongue out with vexation to think of the way he had catched me, and turned away.
“Where’s my Miss Freyne and my scarf?” cried the bride, coming to the door, followed by the rest of the company, who had been making her their final compliments; and remembering my duty, I went to take the scarf from Miss Dorman and throw it round Mrs Hurstwood’s shoulders.
“I shall see you in church to-morrow, miss?” I said, forgetting the changes of the day until I saw every one laughing at my mistake.
“Why, I hope so,” said she; “but pray understand, miss, that a married woman en’t to be browbeaten by you. You may call me Charlotte, if you choose, but don’t otherwise try to put me off with less than madam.”
She tripped laughing down the steps to her palanqueen, followed by the bridegroom, and attended by the whole company in their own equipages. I can assure you, my dear, that I was glad Mr Hurstwood’s house lay on our road home, for otherwise I think there would have been little rest for us that night. As it was, Sunday was well begun when I got to bed, only to dream over again with added discomfort the strange events of the evening.
My Amelia will guess with what joy I welcomed the Sabbath, as a pleasing respite from those cares which have agitated my mind of late. There was little at first to mark it from the former Sundays I have spent here, although it startled me at first to see my Charlotte (I must call her so, I suppose) curtseying to me from Mr Hurstwood’s pew instead of her uncle’s, and to observe that she was wearing the pink gown worked with gold flowers of which she had spoken to Mr Fraser on that night of our voyage when, with a kindness that seemed cruel at the time, she opened my eyes to see whither I was drifting. Her place in Mr Hamlin’s pew was filled by Mr Fraser himself, and I wondered to see him there, since I had determined the night before that the mysterious Araminta who has caused me so much uneasiness could be no other than my fellow-bridemaid, Miss Dorman. Not, indeed, that I had observed Mr Fraser to be much engaged with her, but that Miss is almost the only young person of our sex unmarried in Calcutta. There he sat, however, and I was pleased to notice that he did not put himself forward to hand me into church before service, but only bowed genteelly, and without too great particularity, from his place as I entered. I was thankful indeed for the high walls of the pew during the sermon, for Mr Mapletoft, the junior chaplain, who preached it, thought fit to address us on the duties of the married state, with special reference to the event of the night before, as though he believed that the good Mr Bellamy had let slip his opportunity at the time, and I think I should have died of shame if those who knew how nearly I had been married myself had been able to see me.
It may be, however, that my timidity was unnecessary, for on coming out of church it seemed that every one had other matters to think of. Some one declared that Mr President had received letters from Muxadavad, and there was much talk on the subject, though no one could tell what they contained. ’Twas only to be expected, therefore, that the elder gentlemen should appear occupied and somewhat gloomy, but I was surprised to see that the younger, whom I have never known before to pretend any knowledge of public affairs or concern with them, seemed to be fully as much taken up. There was about them an air of mystery, and a strange absence of that rallying humour which generally distinguishes them, and which was replaced by an affectation of meeting one another with dignity, even with distance. Not that this involved any want of ceremony towards myself, for they were all even more than usually forward to offer me civility, but ’twas all done with so precise and particular an air that I could almost have found it in my heart to be alarmed, had it not been for assuring myself that the young fellows were ashamed of the freedom with which they had treated my name last night, and desired to display their penitence to me. Even Ensign Bellamy, who had taken no part in my mortification, seemed afraid to trust himself near me, and only approached in order to present to me a newcomer in the place, to wit, a young French gentleman of the name of Mons. le Beaume, who was until lately an officer at the factory of Chandernagore, belonging to that nation, but has quitted it on a point of honour, and chosen to throw in his lot with us. This gentleman had much to say of the felicity he experienced in being presented to the loveliest lady in Calcutta (so the foolish, flattering fellow phrased it, my dear), and would have had me believe that ’twas the report of my charms which had drawn him from Chandernagore hither. To this extravagant speech I returned a suitable reply, not ridiculing his words, but allowing him to see that I penetrated their excessive homage, and knew it merely for politeness, and was passing on, when I heard him cry out—
“Ah, sir, do I meet you here? What pleasure, to find in a strange place a gentleman whose face is so familiar to me.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Mr Menotti (he was in my train, of course, the wretch!), very stiffly; “I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”
“A thousand pardons!” cried the Frenchman. “But—but surely I have seen you at Chandernagore, in the company of our directeur?”