CHAPTER XXIII."WAS IT POSSIBLE!"
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,Like the wave.Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave."
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,Like the wave.Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave."
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,Like the wave.Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave."
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,Like the wave.Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;Love lends life a little grace,A few sad smiles; and then,Both are laid in one cold place,In the grave."
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,
Like the wave.
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;
Love lends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles; and then,
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave."
M. Arnold.
Dayscrawled by, and Helen gradually and painfully began to realize her lot. Hers was a silent, stony grief (now that the first torrent of tears had been shed) of that undemonstrative, reserved nature, that it is so difficult to alleviate, and that shrinks from outward sympathy. People (ladies) came to her, and sat with her, and held her hand, and wept, but she did not; this grief that had come upon her unawares, seemed almost to have turned her to stone. She opened her heart to Mrs. Home only; and in answer to affectionate attempts at consolation, she said,—
"I sometimes sit and wonder, wonder if it istrue! You see, Mrs. Home, my case is so different to others. Now, if you were to lose one child—which heaven forbid—you have still eight remaining; if Colonel Home was taken from you, you have your children; butIhave no one left. Papa was all I had, and I am alone in the world; I can scarcely believe it!"
"My dear, you must not say so! you have many friends, and friends are sometimes far better than one's own kin. Then there is your aunt. I wrote to her myself last mail."
"Aunt Julia! She is worse than nobody. She is an utter stranger, in reality, a complete woman of the world. She and I never got on; she was always saying hard things abouthim!"
"Well, you won't be with her long, you know! and you cannot say that you are alone in the world; you know very well that you will not be alone for long, you understand," squeezing her fingers significantly as she spoke.
Helen did understand, and coloured vividly. It seemed to her almost a sin to think of Gilbert Lisle now, when every thought was dedicated to her father, when all ideas of love or a lover had been, as it were, swept out of her mind by the blast of her recent and terrible calamity.
Mrs. Home noticed the blush, but again attributed its cause to the wrong person.
Colonel Denis' effects were sold off in the usual manner; his furniture, boat, and guns, were disposed of, his servants dismissed, and his papers examined. And what discoveries were not made in that battered old despatch-box! Not of money owing, or startling unpaid bills, but of large sums due to him; borrowed and forgotten by impecunious acquaintances—one thousand rupees here, three thousand rupees there, merely acknowledged by careless, long-forgotten I. O. U.'s. Then there were receipts for money paid,—drained away yearly by his father's and wife's creditors—his very pension was mortgaged. How little he appeared to have spent upon himself. All his life long he had been toiling hard for other people, who gaily squandered in a week, what he had accumulated in a year; a thankless task! a leaden burden!
Apparently he had begun to save of late, presumably for Helen; but, including the auction, all that could be placed to his daughter's credit in the bank was only four hundred odd pounds!
"Say fifteen pounds a year," said Colonel Home, looking blankly at Mr. Creery.
"I know he intended to insure his life, he told me so last week."
"Ah! if he only had. What is to become of the poor girl?" continued Colonel Home; "fifteen pounds a year won't even keep her in clothes, let alone in food and house-room. I believe he had very few relations in England, and see how some of his friends out here have fleeced him!"
"They ought to be made pay up," returned Mr. Creery. "I'll see tothat," he added with stern, determined face.
"How can they pay up? The fellows who signed those," touching some I. O. U.'s, "are dead. Here's another, for whom Denis backed a bill; he went off to Australia years ago. I wonder Tom Denis had not a worse opinion of his fellow-creatures."
"In many ways, Tom was a fool; his heart was too soft, his eyes were always blind to his own interests: some people soon found that out."
"Well! what is to become of his daughter? That is what puzzles me," said his listener anxiously. "She is a good girl, and uncommonly pretty!"
"Yes; her face is her fortune, and I hope it will stand to her," rejoined Mr. Creery, dubiously. "But, to set herself off, she should go into fine society and wear fine clothes, and she has no means to start her in company where she would meet a likely match. As they say in my country, 'Ye canna whistle without an upper lip.'"
"She might not havefarto go for a husband," returned Colonel Home significantly.
"Ah, well! I believe Iknowwhat you mean, but that man will be needing a fortune. He is too cannie to marry 'a penniless lass without a lang pedigree!'"
"My wife has her fancies," said Colonel Home, "and thinks a good deal of him."
"So does mine," returned the other, "and hasherfancies too; but all the same—between you and me, Home—I never liked the fellow; you know who I mean. He is just a gay popinjay, taking his turn out of everybody that comes in his way."
(Observe, cannie Scotchman as he was, that all this time, he had never mentioned anyname.)
Several doors were opened to Helen, offering her a home, but she steadily resisted all invitations. She felt that she would be occupying an anomalous position by remaining on at Port Blair, without having any real claim on any one in the settlement. If there had been some small children to teach,—save those in the native school,—or if there were any means by which she could have earned her livelihood, it would have been different; but, of course, in a place like the Andamans, there was no such opening. The community were extremely anxious to keep her among them, and were kinder to her than words could express. Mrs. Graham besought her most earnestly to remain with her as a sister, and urged her petition repeatedly.
"The favour will be conferred byyou, my dear, and you know it," she said. "Think of the long, lonely days I spend at Chatham, cut off from all society in bad weather, and in the monsoon, I sometimes don't see another white woman for weeks. Imagine the boon your company would be to me. Remember that your father was an old friend of Dick's, and say that you will try us for at least a year. We will do our very best to make you happy."
And other suggestions were delicately placed before Helen. Would she remain, not as Miss Denis, but asMrs.somebody? To one and all, she made the same reply, she must go home, at least, she must go back to England; her aunt had written, and desired her to return at the first opportunity, and her aunt was her nearest relation now, and all her future plans were in her hands. Mrs. Home was returning in March, they would sail together.
"If I were not obliged to place Tom and Billy at school, and see after my big boys, I would notallowyou to leave at all, Helen," said her friend and hostess decidedly, "but would insist on your remaining with us as one of our family, a kind of eldest daughter."
Nevertheless, Mrs. Home cherished strong but secret hopes that her youngprotégéewould stay at Port Blair, in spite of her own departure. Was not Mr. Quentin expected from Camorta by the very next mail?
Mrs. Creery would have liked Helen to remain with some one (not herself, for she was not given to hospitality). She considered thatshe would be a serious loss to the community, and was quite fond of her in her own way. Why should she not marry Jim Quentin? was a question she often asked herself in idle, empty moments. It would be a grand match for a penniless girl; a wedding would be a pleasant novelty, no matter how quiet, and she herself was prepared to give the affair her countenance, and to endow the young couple with a set of plated nut-crackers that had scarcely ever been used! One day, roaming rather aimlessly through the bazaar, she came across "Ibrahim," Mr. Quentin's butler, and was not the woman to lose a rich opportunity of cross-examining such an important functionary. She beckoned him aside with an imperious wave of the hand, and commenced the conversation by asking a very foolish question, "When did you hear from your master?" seeing that there had been no mail in, since she had seen Ibrahim last, "when is he expected?"
"Mr. Quentin not my master any more," he returned, with dignity, "I take leave that time Sahib going Nicobars."
"Having made your fortune?" drawing down the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
"I plenty poor man, where fortune getting?" he replied, with an air of surprised and injured innocence.
"Stuff and nonsense! you know you butlers make heaps out of bachelors like Mr. Quentin, who never look at their accounts, but just pay down piles of rupees, like the idiots they are; and what about Mr. Lisle?"
Ibrahim grinned and displayed an ample row of ivory teeth.
"Ah," with animation, "that very good gentleman, never making no bobbery! Plenty money got!"
"Plenty money! How do you know?"
"First time coming paying half—after two weeks payingall;" in answer to the lady's gesture of astonishment. "Truth I telling! wages, boats, bazaar, andall!"
"And what did Mr. Quentin say?"
"Oh," laughing, "telling Lisle, Sahib plenty rupees got, I poor devil! Mr. Quentin very funny gentleman, making too much bobbery, swearing too much, throwing boots and bottles, no money giving; I plenty fraiding,and so I taking leave," concluded Ibrahim majestically.
This little side-light on Mr. Quentin's manners was a revelation to Mrs. Creery. And so Lisle wasreallyrich! the dinner she had graced at Aberdeen (on a mutton day), had been given athisexpense, and all the establishment of servants, coolies, and boatmen had been maintained by him. She pondered much over this discovery—and, marvellous to relate, kept it to herself.
Colonel Denis had now been dead about two months, and his daughter was once more to be seen out of doors, and walking about the island; but how different she looked, what a change a few weeks had made in her appearance. She was clad in a plain black dress, her eyes were dim and sunken, her face was thin and haggard, her figure had lost its nice rounded outlines. She was trying to accustom herself to her new lot in life; to that empty bungalow on the hill-side, that she never passed without a shudder, for did it not represent the wreck of her home?
Something else had also been scattered to the winds, blown away into space like gossamer-web in a gale, I mean that airy fabric known as "Love's Young Dream."
She had been dwelling on four words, more than she herself imagined; on the promise, "I shall come back," breathed under the palm-trees that night, that saw "flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all armed!"
Helen occasionally spent a day with Mrs. Graham or Mrs. Durand; they liked to have her with them, and endeavoured by every means in their power, to distract her mind from dwelling, as it did incessantly, on her recent loss. One morning, as she sat working in Mrs. Durand's cool, shady drawing-room, doing her best to seem interested in her hostess' remarks, they heard some one coming rapidly up the walk, and Captain Durand sprang up the steps, and entered, holding a bundle of letters in his hand.
"The mail is in from Rangoon," he said; "Rangoon and the Nicobars."
If he and his wife had not been wholly engrossed in sorting their correspondence, they would doubtless have noticed, that their young lady guest had suddenly become very red, and then very white, but they were examining their letters, with the gusto of people to whom such things are both precious and rare.
"By the way," exclaimed Captain Durand, looking up at last, "Quentin is back; I met him on the pier."
Helen almost held her breath, her heart stood still, whilst her hostess put into words a question she could not have articulated to save her life.
"And Gilbert Lisle, did you see him?"
"Oh, no! he has gone on to Japan," responded her husband, as he carelessly tore open a note. "He is a regular bird of passage!"
"Ah, Ithoughtwe should not see him again," rejoined Mrs. Durand, with a tinge of regret in her voice.
Helen listened as if she were listening to something about a stranger, she bent her eyes steadily on her work, and endeavoured to compose her trembling lips. Mrs. Durand, happening to glance at her, as, opening an envelope, she said, "Why, here's a note from him!" was struck by the strange, dead pallor of her face, and by the look of almost desperate expectation in her eyes—eyes now raised, and bent greedily on the letter in her own hand. This change of colour, this eager look, was a complete revelation to that lady, who paused, drew in her breath, and asked herself, with a thrill of apprehension, "Could it be possible that Helen had lost her heart to Gilbert Lisle? Wasshethe attraction that had held him so fast at Port Blair?"
As she stared in a dazed, stupid sort of way, her young friend dropped her eyes, bent her head, and resumed her work with feverish industry; but, in truth, her shaking fingers were pricking themselves with the needle, instead of putting in a single stitch!
"A note from Lisle? And pray what has he to say?" inquired Captain Durand, ignorant of this by-play. "Here," holding out his hand, "give it to me, and I'll read it."
"Camorta, March 2nd."DEAR MRS. DURAND,—As I have changed my plans, and am not returning to Port Blair, I send you a line to bid you good-bye, and to beg you to be good enough to accept my small sailing-boat which lies over at Aberdeen. You will find her much more handy for getting about in, than the detachment gig. My nets and fishing-gear I bequeath to Durand. I am going on to Japan,viârangoon and Singapore, and shall make my way home by San Francisco. Hoping that we shall meet in England ere long, and with kind regards to all friends at Ross,
"Camorta, March 2nd.
"DEAR MRS. DURAND,—As I have changed my plans, and am not returning to Port Blair, I send you a line to bid you good-bye, and to beg you to be good enough to accept my small sailing-boat which lies over at Aberdeen. You will find her much more handy for getting about in, than the detachment gig. My nets and fishing-gear I bequeath to Durand. I am going on to Japan,viârangoon and Singapore, and shall make my way home by San Francisco. Hoping that we shall meet in England ere long, and with kind regards to all friends at Ross,
"I remain,
"Yours sincerely,
"GILBERT LISLE."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Captain Durand, "that smart cutter of his is the very thing for you, Em, and the fishing-tackle will suit me down to the ground. I like Lisle uncommonly, but," grinning significantly as he spoke, "this note of his, consoles me wonderfully for his departure."
Yes, so it might—but who was to console Helen? She felt like some drowning wretch, from whom their only plank has just been torn, or as a shipwrecked sailor, who had painfully clambered out of reach of the waves and been once more cruelly tossed back among them.
It was only now at this moment of piercing anguish that she thoroughly realized how much she had been clinging to Gilbert Lisle's promise, how steadfastly she had believed in his words, "I shall come back."
With a feeling of utter desolation in her heart, with her ideal and her hopes alike shattered, what a task was hers to maintain an outward appearance of indifference and composure!
After a time Captain Durand went off to the mess, to hear the news, and to look over the papers, leaving the two ladiestête-à-tête; his wife affected to peruse her letters, reading such little scraps of them aloud from time to time as she thought might amuse her companion, but she was not enjoying them as usual. That look she had surprised in the girl's eyes, haunted her painfully. She longed to go over to her, andput her arm round her neck and whisper in her ear,—
"What is it? Tell me all about it, confide inme."
But somehow she dared not, bold as she was.—Recent grief had aged Helen, and given her a gravity far beyond her years, and as she looked across at that marble face, those downcast eyes, and busy fingers, she found her kind, warm heart fail her. Whatever the hurt was, ay, were it mortal, that girl meant to bear it alone.
She was more affectionate and sympathetic to her young friend than usual, smoothed her hot forehead, kissed her, caressed her, and whilst they sat together in the twilight in the verandah, looking out on the dusky sky, found courage to murmur,—
"Dearest Helen, remember that I am your friend, not merely in name only. Should you ever have any—any little trouble such as girls have sometimes, you will come and share it with me, won't you? I am older, more experienced by years and years, and I will always keep your secrets, exactly as if they were my own!"
This was undoubtedly a strong hint; nevertheless, her listener merely smiled and nodded her head, but made no other sign. "Littletrouble!" She was on the rack all day long. She bore the torture of her hostess's soft whispers and tender, sympathetic looks, which told her that she guessedall. She bore the brightly-lit dinner-table, and Captain Durand's cheerful recounting of the most thrilling news. She even endured his eloquent praises of Gilbert Lisle without flinching. Little did her gallant host guess the effort that those smiles and answers cost her. Good, commonplace man! he had got over his brief love affair fifteen years previously, and had forgotten it as completely as a tale that is told. Mrs. Durand had a more vivid recollection of her own experiences,—and a share of that fellow-feeling that makes us all akin. She was amazed at Helen's fortitude, especially when she glanced back over the past and remembered (and I hope this will not be put down to her discredit) that whenshehad seen the announcement of the marriage of her first fancy in the paper, she had spent the remainder of the day in hysterics and the subsequent week in tears. She walkedback with Helen, and left her herself at Colonel Home's door, and bade her good-night with unusual tenderness. Then she retraced her steps, arm-in-arm with her husband, whose mind was abruptly recalled from planning a long day's sea-fishing, by her saying rather suddenly,—
"I knownowwhy Helen refused Dr. Parkes!"
"Oh!" contemptuously, "I could have told you the reason long ago, if you had asked me. Because he was the same age as her father!"
"No, you dear, stupid man—but this is quite private. I am sure," lowering her voice, "that she likes Gilbert Lisle."
A long whistle was the only reply to his information for some seconds, and then he said,—
"Now what has putthatinto your head?"
"Her face when you came in and told us that he was not coming back. I cannot get it out of my mind, it was only a momentary expression, she rallied again at once; but that moment told me a tale that she has hitherto guarded as a secret."
"You are as full of fancies and ridiculous, romantic ideas as if you were seventeen instead of——"
"Don't name it!" she interrupted hastily, "the very leaves here have ears!"
Her husband laughed explosively, and presently said,—
"I never knew such a woman as you are for jumping at conclusions. She had a twinge of face-ache, that was all."
"A twinge of heart-ache, you mean. But what is the use of talking toyou?—you are as matter-of-fact as a Monday morning. And now, pray tell me, though I suppose I might just as well ask Billy Home, did Gilbert Lisle ever show her any attention?"
"Ha—hum—well, do you think that saving her life could be called an attention?"
"Yes," eagerly; "yes, of course! I'd forgotten about that!"
"And another time he picked her off the mainland and brought her home in what is now your boat, through a series of white squalls."
"Did he really?" the really, as it were, in large capitals.
"And he was there a few times. But you need not get any ideas into your head abouthim, it was always Quentin, he was always hanging about her in that heavy persistent way of his—it was Quentin, I tell you!"
"AndItell you," responded his wife emphatically, "that it was, and is, Gilbert Lisle. I recollect his saying, the night of the ball, what a nice girl she was; orIsaid it, and he agreed, which is the same thing. And I remember perfectly, now that I think of it, noticing them leaning over a gate, and looking just like a pair of lovers."
A loud and rudely incredulous haw-haw from Captain Durand was his only reply.
"You may laugh as much as you like, but Mr. Lisle told me that he would gladly give a thousand pounds to get out of the Nicobars trip, and the last thing he said to me, as he bade me good-bye, was, 'I shall see you again soon.' I remember all these things now, and put two and two together, but I cannot make it out—I am utterly puzzled. Perhaps Mr. Quentin will be able to throw some light on the subject!"
"Quentin wants to marry her himself."
"Not he! He only wished to be a dog in the manger, to engross the only pretty girl in the place, that was all. I know himwell. And now that she has been left an orphan, without a fraction, he has as much idea of making her Mrs. Quentin, as he has of flying over the moon!"
"All right, Em, time will tell.—I bet you a new bonnet that this time next year, she will be Mrs. Q."
"No more than she will be Queen of England," returned his wife with emphasis. This was positively the last word, and Mrs. Durand's property, for they had now reached the steps of their own bungalow, and consequently the end of their journey.