Transcriber's Note:
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and
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A BIRD OF PASSAGE.
BY
B. M. CROKER,
AUTHOR OF "PROPER PRIDE," "PRETTY MISS NEVILLE,"
"SOME ONE ELSE."
"Such wind as scatters young men thro' the world
To seek their fortunes further than at home,
Where small experience grows."
THE TEMPEST.
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, W.C.
1887.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.—PORT BLAIR 1
II.—EXPECTATION 9
III.—FIRST IMPRESSIONS 24
IV.—MISS DENIS HAS VISITORS 31
V.—WHAT IS SHE LIKE? 37
VI.—QUEEN OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS 48
VII.—MR. QUENTIN'S PIANO 53
VIII.—"I WAS HIS DEAREST LIZZIE!" 61
IX.—A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS 69
X.—MR. LISLE FORGETS HIS DINNER 76
XI.—THE FINGER OF FATE 86
XII.—THE WRECK 95
XIII.—"BLUE BEARD'S CHAMBER" 103
XIV.—"MR. LISLE HAS GIVEN ME A RING" 110
XV.—"WHY NOT?" 116
XVI.—"STOLEN FROM THE SEA!" 123
XVII.—THE BALL 132
XVIII.—"BUT WHAT WILL PAPA SAY?" 141
XIX.—PROOF POSITIVE 154
XX.—"A GREAT BATTLE" 160
XXI.—THE NICOBARS 168
XXII.—THE FIRST GRAVE 175
XXIII.—"WAS IT POSSIBLE!" 180
XXIV.—"FAREWELL, PORT BLAIR" 191
XXV.—THE STEERAGE PASSENGER 198
XXVI.—A POOR RELATION 206
XXVII.—EVERYTHING IS SETTLED 215
XXVIII.—MALVERN HOUSE 227
XXIX.—"YOU REMEMBER MISS DENIS?" 239
XXX.—FINNIGAN'S MARE 256
XXXI.—"CROWMORE CASTLE" 267
XXXII.—BARRY'S GUESS 274
XXXIII.—"THE FANCY" 284
XXXIV.—"THE SLAVE OF BEAUTY" 293
XXXV.—"THE APPARITION" 303
XXXVI.—"THE APPARATUS" 312
XXXVII.—"IN CONFIDENCE" 317
XXXVIII.—"SALLY'S SUBSTITUTE" 325
XXXIX.—"THE MARKET GIRL" 337
XL.—"BARRY'S CHALLENGE" 342
XLI.—"THE POACHER'S GHOST" 351
A BIRD OF PASSAGE.
CHAPTER I.
PORT BLAIR.
"Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower; hangs the heavy-fruited tree:
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea."
_Locksley Hall._
FEW travellers penetrate to the Andamans, unless it be an enthusiastic
astronomer to witness a rare comet, or an enterprising professor, who
happens to be fired with a desire to study the language and the skulls
of the aborigines.
These islands are as yet sacred from the foot of the globe-trotter,
Cook's tourists ignore them, and they lie in serene semi-savage
seclusion, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, dimly known to the great
outer world as the chief Indian convict settlement, and the scene
of Lord Mayo's murder in 1872. The inland portions of the great and
lesser Andamans have been but cursorily explored, (those who have made
the attempt, having learnt by tragic experience that the inhabitants
were addicted to cannibalism); but outlying islets, and fringes of the
coast, have been opened up by the Indian Government, and appropriated
for the benefit of thousands of convicts (chiefly lifers), who are
annually poured into Port Blair—from Galle to the Kyber, from Aden to
the borders of China, the cry is still they come!
Port Blair, the Government headquarters, is situated on Ross, a high
conical islet that lies about a mile south of the Middle Andaman,
and although of limited circumference, it boasts a stone church,
barracks, a Commandant's residence, several gaols, a pier, a bazaar,
a circulating library, and a brass band! Every foot of ground is laid
out to marvellous advantage, and the neat gravelled pathways, thick
tropical hedges, flowering shrubs and foliage plants, give the numerous
brown bungalows which cover the hillsides, the effect of being situated
in a large and well-kept garden.
The summit of the island commands a wide view: to the north lies the
mainland with its sharply indented shores, and a wide sickle-shaped
estuary, sweeping far away into the interior, where its wooded curves
are lost among the hills; the southern side of Ross looks sheer
out upon the boundless ocean, and receives the full force of many
a terrible tropical hurricane, that has travelled unspent from the
Equator.
There was not a ripple on that vast blue surface, one certain August
evening, a few years ago—save where it fretted gently in and out,
between the jagged black rocks that surrounded the island; the sea was
like a mirror, and threw back an accurate reflection of boats, and
hills, and wooded shores; distant, seldom-seen islands, now loomed in
the horizon with vague, misty outlines; a delicate, soft, south wind
barely touched the leaves of the big trees, among whose branches the
busy green parrots had been chattering, and the gorgeous peacocks,
screeching and swinging, all through the long, hot, sleepy afternoon.
Surely the setting sun was making a more lingering and, as it were,
regretful adieu to these beautiful remote islands than to other parts
of the world! No pen could describe, no brush convey, any idea of the
vivid crimson, western clouds, and the flood of blinding golden light,
that bathed the hills, the far-away islets, the tangled mangroves, and
the glassy sea.
To the cool dispassionate northern eye, which may have first opened on
a leaden sky, snow-capped hills, pine woods, and ploughed lands, there
was a general impression of wildly gaudy, south sea scenery, of savage
silence, and lawless solitude.
Soon that scarlet ball will have plunged below the horizon, a
short-lived grey twilight have spread her veil over land and sea, the
parrots' noisy pink bills will be tucked under their wings, and the
turbulent peacocks have gone to roost.
Close to the flagstaff (which was planted on a kind of large, flat
mound, at the highest point of the island), one human figure stood
out in bold relief against the brilliant sunset; an elderly gentleman
with grizzled hair and beard, a careworn expression, and mild, brown
eyes,—eyes that were anxiously riveted on the at present sailless sea.
He carried a small red telescope in his hand, and divided his time
between pacing the short grass plateau, and spasmodically sweeping the
horizon. For what was he looking so impatiently? He was looking for the
smoke of the Calcutta steamer, that brought mails and passengers to
Port Blair once in every six weeks. Think of but one mail in six weeks,
ye sybarites of Pall Mall, revelling in a dozen daily posts, scores
of papers, and all the latest telegrams from China to Peru! Imagine
reading up forty days' arrears of your _Times_ or _Post_; imagine six
_Punches_ simultaneously! Gladly as Colonel Denis usually hailed his
letters, and especially the _Weekly Gazette_, yet it was neither news
nor promotion that he was so restlessly awaiting now—his thoughts
were altogether centred on a passenger, his only daughter, whom he
had not seen for thirteen years, not since she was a little mite in
socks and sashes, and now she was a grown-up, a finished young lady,
coming out from England by this mail to be the mistress of his house!
He was glad that this long anticipated day had dawned at last, and yet
he scarcely dared to analyze his own feelings—he was ashamed to own,
even in his inmost heart, that mingled with all his felicity, there is
a secret dread—a kind of stifled misgiving. This girl who is to share
his home within the next few hours, is in reality, as far as personal
acquaintance goes, as much a stranger to him as if he had never seen
her before, although she is his own little Nell, with whom he used to
romp by the hour in the verandah at Karkipore, thirteen years ago.
Those thirteen years stand between him and that familiar merry face,
dancing gait, and floating yellow hair; they have taken that away, and
what are they going to give him instead? Of course he and his daughter
had corresponded by every mail, but what are nice affectionate letters,
what are presents, yea photographs, when the individuality of the
giver has long been blurred and indistinct; when the memory of a face,
and the sound of a voice, have faded and faded, till nothing tangible
remains but a name! Children of five years old have but short memories,
and in Helen Denis's case, there was no one near her to revive her
dying recollections.
"I wonder if she will know me among the crowd," her father muttered as
he paced the platform, with the telescope behind his back.
"I'm sorry now, I never had my photo taken, to prepare her! How strange
I shall feel with a girl in the house, after all these years. I've
quite forgotten woman's ways!" From an expression that came into his
eyes, one might gather that a backward glance at "woman's ways" was
not altogether one of the most agreeable memories of the past. "If
she should be like—" and he paused, shuddered, and looked out over
the sea for some minutes, with a face that had grown suddenly stern.
His thoughts were abruptly recalled to the present, by the sound of
footsteps coming up the gravel pathway behind him.
"Hullo, colonel!" cried a loud, cheery voice, "why are you doing sentry
here? Oh! of course, I forget; you expect Miss Denis this mail!"
"Yes. I'm looking out for the steamer," he replied, as he turned
round and accosted a very handsome young man, with aquiline features,
brilliant teeth, and eyes as blue as the surrounding sea. A tall young
man, carefully dressed in a creaseless light suit, who wore a pale silk
tie run through a ring, gloves, and carried a large white umbrella.
He had an adequate appreciation of his own appearance, and with good
reason, for men frequently referred to him as "the best-looking
fellow of their acquaintance," and women—well—women spoiled him,
they had petted him and made much of him, since he was a pretty
little curly-headed cherub, with a discriminating taste in sweets,
and a rooted objection to kissing old and ugly people, down to the
present time, when he (although you would not think it) had passed his
thirty-second birthday! He had been sent to Port Blair in connection
with some new works on the mainland, and was "acting" for another
man, who had gone on furlough. His name was James—variously known
as "Beauty," "Apollo," or "Look and Die"—Quentin, and he was really
less conceited than might have been expected under the circumstances!
Mr. Quentin was not alone; his companion was a shorter, slighter, and
altogether more insignificant person, dark as an Arab, through exposure
to the sun; he wore a broad-leafed, weather-beaten Terai, pulled so far
over his brows that one could only guess at a pair of piercing eyes, a
thin visage, and a black moustache; his clothes were by no means new,
his hands burnt to a rich mahogany, and innocent of gloves, ring, or
umbrella.
Somehow, with his slouched hat, slender figure, and swarthy skin,
he had rather a foreign air, and was a complete contrast to his
broad-shouldered patron, "Look and Die" Quentin, whom he followed
slowly up the hill, and muttering an indistinct greeting to Colonel
Denis, he walked on a few paces, and stood with his arms folded,
looking down upon the sea, somewhat in the attitude of the well-known
picture of Napoleon at St. Helena! This sunburnt, silent individual was
known by the name of "the Photographer;" he was a mysterious stranger,
who three months previously had dropped into the settlement—but _not_
into society—as if from the clouds, and during these three months, the
united ingenuity of the community had failed to discover anything more
about him, than what they had learned the very first day he had landed
on Ross; to wit, that his name was Lisle, and that he had come from
Calcutta to take photographs among the islands. Immediately after his
arrival, he had established himself in the Dâk Bungalow, on Aberdeen,
had hired a boat, and in a very short time had made himself completely
at home; his belongings consisted of a small quantity of luggage, a
large camera, some fishing-tackle, and a native servant, who refused to
elucidate any one on the subject of his master, and the public were
very inquisitive about that gentleman,—and who shall say that their
curiosity was not legitimate!
People never came to Ross, unless they were convicts, settlement
officers, formed part of the garrison, or were functionaries like Mr.
Quentin, who was "acting" for some one else. Mr. Lisle did not come
under any of these heads; he was not an officer, Hindoo or otherwise,
he did not belong to the settlement, nor was he one of the class for
whose special behoof the islands had been colonized. The problem still
remained unsolved, who was Mr. Lisle, what was he doing at Port Blair,
where did he come from, when, and where, was he going, was he rich or
poor, married or single? All these queries still remained unsolved, and
opened up a fine field of speculation. Society, so isolated from the
outer world, so meagrely supplied with legitimate news, were naturally
thrown a good deal upon their own resources for topics of conversation
and discussion. A week after mail-day, most of the papers had been
read and digested, and people had to fall back upon little items of
local intelligence—and such items were wont to be scarce: think, then,
what a godsend for conjecture and discussion Mr. Lisle would, and did
prove! this waif blown to them from beyond the sea, without address or
reference! If he had been a common-looking, uneducated person, it would
have been totally different; but the aggravating thing was, that shabby
as were his clothes, he had the unmistakable bearing and address of a
gentleman,—yet he spent all his days photographing natives, trees,
islands, as if his daily bread solely depended on his industry! He
lived not far from where Mr. Quentin dwelt, in a splendid bungalow, in
solitary state; and the former, constantly meeting the photographer,
had scraped up an acquaintance with him, had dropped in and smoked
friendly cigarettes in the Rest House verandah, had thrown out feelers
in vain—in vain!—had come to the conclusion that Lisle was a very
gentlemanly fellow in his way,—that he was no fool, that he was a most
entertaining companion, and wound up by insisting that he should come
and share his roof!
To this Lisle objected, in fact he refused the invitation point-blank,
but when he learned that the Rest Bungalow was requisitioned for some
missionaries, and when his would-be host became the more pressing, the
more he was reluctant, he gave in, after considerable hesitation.
"You see, it's not a purely unselfish idea," said Mr. Quentin; "I'm
awfully lonely at this side—not a soul to speak to, unless I go to
Ross, and I'm often too lazy to stir, and now I shall have you to
argue with, and to keep me company of an evening. Then, as to your
photographs, there's lots of room for them. You can have a whole side
of the house to yourself, and do as you please."
"I'll come on one condition," replied the other, looking straight
at him; "I'll come, if you will allow me to pay my share of the
butler's account, and all that sort of thing. We are speaking quite
frankly—you require some one to talk to, I want a roof, since you say
the missionaries are coming to the Rest House,—and I doubt if we would
assimilate!"
Mr. Quentin, who had been lounging in a low cane chair, took his cigar
out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke, and hesitated; it was all very
well to have this chap up to keep him company of an evening, but to
chum with him—by Jove!
The other seemed to read what was passing through his mind, for he
said, with a twinkle in his eye,—
"I'm not a fellow travelling for a firm of photographers, as no
doubt every one imagines. I'm"—pushing an envelope over to his
companion—"that's my name."
Mr. Quentin took up the paper carelessly, cast his eye over it, became
rather red, and laughed nervously. From this time forward, Mr. Lisle
and Mr. Quentin chummed together on equal terms,—somewhat to the
scandal of their neighbours, who were amazed that such a fastidious
man as "Look and Die" Quentin should open his house, and his arms, to
this unknown shabby stranger! His manners were studiously courteous
and polite, but he understood how to entrench himself in a fortress
of reserve, that held even Mrs. Creery, the chief lady of Port Blair,
at bay, and this was saying much—driven very hard, two damaging
statements had been, as it were, wrested from him! he liked the
Andamans, because there was no daily post, and no telegrams, and he
had no occupation _now_. Did not admission number one savour of a
dread of suggestive-looking blue envelopes, and clamouring, hungry
creditors—to whom he had effectually given the slip; and admission
number two was worse still! no occupation now, was doubtless the
result of social and financial bankruptcy. Mrs. Creery was disposed to
deal hardly with him—in her opinion, he was an "outlaw." (She rather
prided herself upon having fitted him neatly with a name.) If he had
thrown her one sop of conciliation, or given her the least little hint
about himself and his affairs, she _might_ have tolerated him, but
he remained perversely dumb. Mr. Quentin was dumb too—though it was
shrewdly suspected that he knew more about his inmate than any one—and
indeed he had gone so far as to deny that he was a professional
photographer; when rigidly cross-examined by a certain lady, he only
laughed, and shook his head, and said that "Lisle was a harmless
lunatic—rather mad on the subject of photography and sea-fishing,
but otherwise a pleasant companion;" but beyond this, he declined to
enlighten his questioner. No assistance being forthcoming, society was
obliged to classify the stranger for themselves, and they ticketed him
as a genteel loafer, a penniless ne'er-do-well, who had come down to
Port Blair in hopes (vain) of obtaining some kind of employment, and
had now comfortably established himself as Mr. Quentin's hanger-on and
unpaid companion!
It must be admitted that the stranger gave considerable colour to this
view; he did not visit and mix with society on Ross, he wore shabby
clothes and shocking hats, and spent most of his time tramping the bush
with a gun on his shoulder or a camera on his back, "looking for all
the world like an Italian organ-grinder or a brigand," according to
that high authority, Mrs. Creery. For three months he had been without
a competitor in the interest of the community, but now his day was
over, his star on the wane: he was about to give place to a very rare
and important new arrival, namely, an unmarried lady, who was currently
reported to be "but eighteen years of age and very pretty!"