CHAPTER XXIV."FAREWELL, PORT BLAIR."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
Richard II.
Mrs. Durand'ssurmises were correct.
A few days after James Quentin's return, without any marked haste he went over and called on Mrs. Home and Miss Denis. The former was an arrant little match-maker, and was delighted to see thatdébonnaireface once more. He was handsome, rich (?), and agreeable, he had been devoted to her young friend previous to his departure for the Nicobars, and,of course, it would be all settled now. With this idea in her head, she presently effaced herself so as to give the gentleman ample opportunity for atête-à-tête. She even kept Tom and Billy out of the way, and this was no mean feat.
Mr. Quentin murmured some polite stereotyped regrets, then he alluded in rather strong language to "that vile hole Camorta." As he talked he stared, stared hard at Helen, and wondered at the change he saw in her appearance. She was haggard and thin; of her lovely colour not a vestige remained, and the outlines of her face were sharp, and had lost their pretty contour. She looked like a flower that had been beaten down by the storm. Never in all his experience had he beheld such a complete and sudden alteration in any one; he was glad he had never thought of her seriously, and as to Lisle, he was well out of it (thanks to his friend James Quentin);hetook everything so seriously he would have been sure to have got the halter over his head, and to have blundered into an imprudent match. His yes meant yes; his no, no. Now he himself had a lightness of method, a nebulous vagueness surrounded his most tender speeches; at a moment's notice, he could slip off his chains, and run his head out of the noose, and always without any outward unpleasantness—that was the best of the affair. Gilbert Lisle was different, he was not used to playing with such brittle toys as girls' hearts. Well, this girl had entirely losther beauty, so thought her visitor, as he contemplated her critically and conversed of malaria and Malays. She had not a penny, and no connections; he supposed, when she went back to England, she would go out as a governess, or a companion, or music-teacher. He entirely approved of young women being independent and earning their own bread. If there was a subscription got up for her passage money, he meant to do the handsome thing, and give fifty rupees (5l.).
"I suppose you were surprised to hear about Lisle?" he said at last.
"Yes," looking at her questioner with complete composure.
"He left me at Camorta, you know. He is a queer, eccentric beggar, and you would never suppose, to see him in his old fishing-kit, and with his hands as brown and horny as a common boatman's, that he had been in the Coldstreams, and was a regular London swell."
Helen made no reply, and he continued glibly,—
"He is considered a tremendous catch; they say his elder brother is dying at Algiers—consumption—but he is not easy to please!"
"Is he not?" she echoed with studied indifference.
"No.—By Jove! Mrs. Creery did not think much of him; she was awfully rough on him. How all you people did snub him! Many a good laugh I had in my sleeve!" and he smiled at the recollection.
"I do not think that many people snubbed him," returned Helen with a flushed cheek and flashing eye.
"Well, perhapsyoudid not," returned Mr. Quentin, somewhat abashed. "You know, you never snubbed any one but me," with a mental note that she should live to be sorry for that same. "Lisle made me promise to keep his secret. He wished to be accepted for himself for once, without anyarrière penséeof money or title; and by George, he got what he wanted with a vengeance—eh? I don't think he will try it again in a hurry. He found his level,—the very bottom of the ladder, something quite new!" and again he laughed heartily at the recollection.
"I suppose it was," with elaborate indifference.
"He had been having a big shoot in the Terai before he came here. He was awfully taken with this place, the queer, unconventional life, and stayed on and on greatly to my surprise. Many a time I wondered what he saw in the place, though, of course, I was delighted to have him. My luck was dead in." (So it was,videIbrahim's domestic accounts!)
"Yes, of course it was pleasant foryou," admitted Helen.
"He should have been a poor man; he had so much energy and resource, and such Spartan tastes. Ten times a day I wished that we could change places."
"I daresay," returned the young lady rather drily.
There was something—was it a tone of lurking scorn?—in this "I daresay!" that irritated her listener, who instantly resolved to administer a rap on the knuckles in return.
"His father is wild with him for roving about the world; he wants him to marry and settle."
"Yes?"
"I believe he has an heiress in cotton-wool for him at home. I wish my governor was as thoughtful!"
"No doubt he knows thatyouare quite equal to finding such a treasure for yourself," returned Miss Denis, with a very perceptible touch of sarcasm.
Mr. Quentin laughed rather boisterously. It was new to him to hear sharp speeches from ladies' lips, and now, looking at his watch and rising with a sudden start, he said,—
"I declare I must be going. I had no idea it was so late. I've an appointment (imaginary) at four o'clock, and I've only two minutes. Well," now taking her hand, "and so you are off on Wednesday? I may see you before that, if not, good-bye," holding her fingers with a lingering pressure, and looking down into her eyes as if he felt unutterable regret, quite beyond the reach of words; but in truth he was conscious of nothing, beyond a keen desire to make a happy exit, and to get away respectably (perhaps he had also a lurking craving for a "peg"!). "Good-bye, I hope we shall meet again some day in England. Perhaps you would drop me a line?" a query he had often found to havean excellent and soothing effect at similar partings.
Helen took no notice of the suggestion, but merely bowed her head and said very quietly,—
"Good-bye, Mr. Quentin, good-bye."
And then the gentleman took himself away in exaggerated haste, muttering as he hurried down to the pier,—
"How white she looked, and how stiff she was. I'm hanged if I don't believe she had a weakness for Lisle, after all. Ifthat'sthe case, this humble, insignificant individual has put a pretty big spoke in her wheel."
It is almost needless to mention that Helen was now accustomed to daily interviews with Mrs. Creery, and to being cross-examined as to how she had been left, whether Mr. Quentin had said "anything," and what she "was going to do with all her coloured dresses?"
Eliza Creery was a pertinacious woman, and had not lost sight of her designs upon the black silk gown (neither had Helen).
"My dear," she said, "if you ask my advice," the last thing that was likely to occur to her listener, "you will sell all your things. They will be a perfect boon here, and it is not unusual in cases of sudden mourning, and utter destitution, such as yours." Helen winced and grew very pale. "I really think that you might have had this made with a little more style," touching her black dress. "But now," seriously, "whatabout your others?"
"Lizzie Caggett was asking about my cottons."
"Yes?" stiffening with apprehension.
"I told her that I would be only too glad to let her have them. There are one or two that I cannot bear to look at.Heliked them," she added under her breath.
"And for how much? What did you ask for them?"
"Why, nothing, of course!" returned Helen in amazement.
"Then she shan't have them. I shall not stand by and see you fleeced. I shall certainly speak to her mother. What a horrible, grasping, greedy girl; taking advantage of your innocence—she would not get roundmelike that!" (Mrs. Creery never spoke a truer word).
"But they are useless, quite useless to me," exclaimed Helen.
"Rubbish! nonsense! ismoneyuseless to any one? Did you give her anything else?" demanded the matron sharply.
"Only my best hat, and a few new pairs ofgants de Suède."
"This must be stoppedat once. She has no conscience, no principle. You will be giving her your white silk next, you foolish girl. You must think of yourself, you have hardly a penny to live on, and are as lavish as a princess, and utterly indifferent to your own interests. Now, if you had spoken tome, I could have disposed of your cottons and muslins for ready money. As it is, I shall take your black silk, your white silk, your blue surah," running over these items with infinite unction, "and give you a good price for them, considering that they are second-hand. Your white satin low body would be too small, I'm afraid; and your gloves are not my size (Mrs. Creery took sevens, and Helen sixes); but I'll have your pinafore and brown hat."
"But indeed, thanking you very much for thinking of me, I do not wish to sell anything. Some day I may want these things, and have no money to replace them, don't you see?"
Mrs. Creery failed to see the matter in that light at all, and argued and stormed; nevertheless, Helen was adamant.
"Aunt Julia would not be pleased, I'm sure," she said firmly. "And I really could not do it, really I would not, Mrs. Creery."
"And I had such a fancy for your little black lace and jet shoulder-cape!" whimpered that lady, on the verge of tears.
Helen paused, looked at her hesitatingly, and said,—
"I wonder if you would be very much offended if—if I——" here she broke down.
But Mrs. Creery knew exactly what she wished to say, and rushed to her rescue.
"Yes, that's it exactly," she cried eagerly, "acapitalidea, we will exchange! I'll take your cape, which would be brown next year, and give you something you will like far better, something that won't wear out, and will serve to remind you of the six months you spent at Port Blair." (As if Helen needed anything to remind her of that.) "Something that, I'm sure, you will be delighted to have."
On these conditions the barter was agreed to, and the elder lady folded up and carried away the cape. Doubtless she feared that Miss Denis might yet change her mind.
The same afternoon Mrs. Creery's ayah sauntered down with a small paper parcel in her hand, and when it was opened, Helen discovered an exceedingly trumpery pair of shell bracelets, tied with grass-green ribbon—total value of these ornaments, one Government rupee, in other words, eighteen-pence!
Mrs. Home, who had heard of the fate of the little shoulder-cape, became quite red with indignation, and was loud (for her) in her denunciation of Mrs. Creery's meanness. But Helen was no party to her anger and scorn, nay, for the first time for many weeks, she laughed as merrily and as heartily as she had been wont to do in the days that were no more.
The eventful Wednesday came that brought the English letters, and took away Mrs. Home and Helen. The whole community rowed out to theScotiato see them off, laden with books and flowers, and eau de Cologne and fruit. When I say the whole community, Mr. Quentin was the exception that proved the rule. Jim Quentin was conspicuous by his absence, and neither note nor bouquet arrived as his deputy. Mrs. Home was keenly alive to his defection and extremely put out, though her anger smouldered as fire within her, and she never breathed a word to Helen, and thought that she had never seen a girl bear a disappointment so beautifully.
There was maiden dignity! There was fortitude! There was self-control! Mrs. Durand hung about her friend with little gifts and stolen caresses,—she had not failed to notice that Apollo was not among thecrowd, and had whispered to her husband as they stood together, "Heis not here, you see, and the bonnet ismine."
To Helen she said,—
"Mind you write to me often; be sure you do not drift away from me, my dear. When I go home, you have promised to come and see me, and, you know, you would be going to my people now only they are in Italy at present. Be sure you don't forget me, Helen."
"Is it likely?" she returned. "Have I so many friends? Do not be afraid that I shall not write to you often, perhaps too often. I shall look out for your letters far more anxiously than you will for mine, and is it likely that I can ever forget you? You know I never could."
Mrs. Creery was present of course, and when time was up, and the bell rang for visitors to descend to their boats, she actually secured the last embrace, saying as she kissed Helen on either cheek,—
"So sorry you are going, dear. Of course you will write? I have your address—15, Upper Cream Street. It has all been very sad for you, but life is uncertain;" then—as abonne bouchereserved for the last, a kind of stimulant for the voyage—she added impressively, "My sister, Lady Grubb, will call on you in London—and now, really, good-bye." One more final whisper yet in her ear, positively the last word, "Quentin has treated you disgracefully."
A pressure of the hand and she was gone.
The steamer's paddles began to churn, to grind the water, the boats rowed on alongside, their occupants waving handkerchiefs, till theScotiagradually forged ahead and left them all behind.
Helen leant over the bulwarks, watching them and waving to the last. How much she liked them all, how good they had been to her! As they gradually fell far behind, even the final view of Mrs. Creery's broad back and mushroom topee caused her a pang of unexpected regret.
The surrounding hills, woods, and water looked lovelier than she had ever seen them, as if they were saying, "How can you bid us good-bye? Why do you leave us?"
She gazed with straining vision towards the graveyard on the hill, now fading so fast from eyes that would never see it more. Presently Mount Harriet became sensibly diminished, then Ross itself dwindled to a mere shadowy speck; Helen stood alone at the taffrail, taking an eternal farewell of these sunny islands, which had once been to her as an earthly paradise, where the happiest hours of her life had been spent, and the darkest—where she had first made acquaintance with love and death and grief! The little-known Andamans were gradually fading—fading—fading. As she stood with her eyes earnestly fixed upon the last faint blue outline, they were gone, merged in the horizon, and lost to sight. She would never more behold them, save in her dreams!
With this thought painfully before her mind she turned slowly away, and went below to her own cabin, and shutting fast the door, she threw herself down on her berth and wept bitterly.