the honour of waiting upon the young person, whom I saw in your excellency’s company yesterday morning,” answered Hartley, with assumed respect. “I have had long the honour of being known to her in Europe, and I desire to offer my services to her in India.”
“Much obliged—much obliged; but Miss Gray is gone out, and does not return for one or two days. You may leave your commands with me.”
“Pardon me, madam,” replied Hartley; “but I have some reason to hope you may be mistaken in this matter—And here comes the lady herself.”
“How is this, my dear?” said Mrs. Montreville, with unruffled front, to Menie, as she entered; “are you not gone out for two or three days, as I tell this gentleman?—mais c’est egal—it is all one thing. You will say, How d’ye do, and goodbye, to Monsieur, who is so polite as to come to ask after our healths, and as he sees us both very well, he will go away home again.”
“I believe, madam,” said Miss Gray, with appearance of effort, “that I must speak with this gentleman for a few minutes in private, if you will permit me.”
“That is to say, get you gone? but I do not allow that—I do not like private conversation between young man and pretty young woman; cela n’est pas honnete. It cannot be in my house.”
“It may be out of it, then, madam,” answered Miss Gray, not pettishly nor pertly, but with the utmost simplicity.—”Mr. Hartley, will you step into that garden?—and, you, madam, may observe us from the window, if it be the fashion of the country to watch so closely.”
As she spoke this she stepped through a lattice-door into the garden, and with an air so simple, that she seemed as if she wished to comply with her patroness’s ideas of decorum, though they appeared strange to her. The Queen of Sheba, notwithstanding her natural assurance, was disconcerted by the composure of Miss Gray’s manner, and left the room, apparently in displeasure. Menie turned back to the door which opened into the garden, and said in the same manner as before, but with less nonchalance,—
“I am sure I would not willingly break through the rules of a foreign country; but I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of speaking to so old a friend,—if indeed,” she added, pausing and looking at Hartley, who was much embarrassed, “it be as much pleasure to Mr. Hartley as it is to me.”
“It would have been,” said Hartley, scarce knowing what he said—”it must be a pleasure to me in every circumstance—But this extraordinary meeting—But your father”—
Menie Gray’s handkerchief was at her eyes.—”He is gone, Mr. Hartley. After he was left unassisted, his toilsome business became too much for him—he caught a cold which hung about him, as you know he was the last to attend to his own complaints, till it assumed a dangerous, and, finally, a fatal character. I distress you, Mr. Hartley, but it becomes you well to be affected. My father loved you dearly.”
“Oh, Miss Gray!” said Hartley, “it should not have been thus with my excellent friend at the close of his useful and virtuous life—Alas, wherefore—the question bursts from me involuntarily—wherefore could you not have complied with his wishes?—wherefore”—
“Do not ask me,” said she, stopping the question which was on his lips; “we are not the formers of our own destiny. It is painful to talk on such a subject; but for once, and for ever, let me tell you that I should have done Mr. Hartley wrong, if, even to secure his assistance to my father, I had accepted his hand, while my wayward affections did not accompany the act.”
“But wherefore do I see you here, Menie?—Forgive me, Miss Gray, my tongue as well as my heart turns back to long-forgotten scenes—But why here?—why with this woman?”
“She is not, indeed, every thing that I expected,” answered Menie; “but I must not be prejudiced by foreign manners, after the step I have taken—She is, besides, attentive, and generous in her way, and I shall soon”—she paused a moment, and then added, “be under better protection.”
“That of Richard Middlemas?” said Hartley with a faltering voice.
“I ought not, perhaps, to answer the question,” said Menie; “but I am a bad dissembler, and those whom I trust, I trust entirely. You have guessed right, Mr. Hartley,” she added,—colouring a good deal, “I have come hither to unite my fate to that of your old comrade.”
“It is, then, just as I feared!” exclaimed Hartley.
“And why should Mr. Hartley fear?” said Menie Gray. “I used to think you too generous—surely the quarrel which occurred long since ought not to perpetuate suspicion and resentment.”
“At least, if the feeling of resentment remained in my own bosom, it would be the last I should intrude upon you, Miss Gray,” answered Hartley. “But it is for you, and for you alone, that I am watchful.—This person—this gentleman whom you mean to intrust with your happiness—do you know where he is—and in what service?”
“I know both, more distinctly perhaps than Mr. Hartley can do. Mr. Middlemas has erred greatly, and has been severely punished. But it was not in the time of his exile and sorrow, that she who has plighted her faith to him should, with the flattering world, turn her back upon him. Besides, you have, doubtless, not heard of his hopes of being restored to his country and his rank?”
“I have,” answered Hartley, thrown off his guard; “but I see not how he can deserve it, otherwise than by becoming a traitor to his new master, and thus rendering himself even more unworthy of confidence than I hold him to be at this moment.”
“It is well that he hears you not,” answered Menie Gray, resenting, with natural feeling, the imputation on her lover. Then instantly softening her tone she added, “My voice ought not to aggravate, but to soothe your quarrel. Mr. Hartley, I plight my word to you that you do Richard wrong.”
She said these words with affected calmness, suppressing all appearance of that displeasure, of which she was evidently sensible, upon this depreciation of a beloved object.
Hartley compelled himself to answer in the same strain.
“Miss Gray,” he said, “your actions and motives will always be those of an angel; but let me entreat you to view this most important matter with the eyes of worldly wisdom and prudence. Have you well weighed the risks attending the course which you are taking in favour of a man, who,—nay, I will not again offend you—who may, I hope, deserve your favour?”
“When I wished to see you in this manner, Mr. Hartley, and declined a communication in public, where we could have had less freedom of conversation, it was with the view of telling you every thing. Some pain I thought old recollections might give, but I trusted it would be momentary; and, as I desire to retain your friendship, it is proper I should show that I still deserve it. I must then first tell you my situation after my father’s death. In the world’s opinion we were always poor, you know; but in the proper sense I had not known what real poverty was, until I was placed in dependence upon a distant relation of my poor father, who made our relationship a reason for casting upon me all the drudgery of her household, while she would not allow that it gave me a claim to countenance, kindness, or anything but the relief of my most pressing wants. In these circumstances I received from Mr. Middlemas a letter, in which he related his fatal duel, and its consequences. He had not dared to write to me to share his misery—Now, when he was in a lucrative situation, under the patronage of a powerful prince, whose wisdom knew how to prize and protect such Europeans as entered his service—now, when he had every prospect of rendering
