EXPECTATION.
"For now sits expectation in the air,
And hides a sword."
— _Henry V._
ALL this time Colonel Denis had been engaged in animated conversation
with Mr. Quentin. Nature had been doubly generous to the latter
gentleman, for she had not merely endowed him with unusual personal
attractions, but had increased these attractions by the gift of a
charming manner that fascinated every one who came in contact with
him—from the General himself down to the sullen convict boatmen; it
was quite natural to him, even when discussing a trivial subject, with
an individual who rather bored him than otherwise, to throw such an
appearance of interest into his words and looks that one would imagine
all his thoughts were centred in the person before him and the topic
under discussion.
To men this attitude was flattering, to women irresistible, and what
though his words were writ on sand, his manner had its effect, and was
an even more powerful factor in his great popularity than his stalwart
figure and handsome face. At the present moment he stood leaning on
his furled umbrella, listening with rapt attention to what Colonel
Denis had to say on the subject of whale-boats _versus_ gigs (every
one at Ross kept a boat of their own, like the O'Tooles at the time of
the Flood). The Colonel was enlarging on the capabilities of his new
purchase—bought expressly in honour of his daughter, as he would have
bought a carriage elsewhere—when he was interrupted by Mr. Lisle (who
meanwhile had been keeping watch on the horizon and whistling snatches
of the overture to "Mirella" under his breath), abruptly announcing,
"Here she is!"
Colonel Denis was so startled that he actually dropped the telescope,
which rolled to his informant's feet, who, picking it up, noticed as he
returned it that Colonel Denis was looking strangely nervous, and that
the hand stretched towards him was shaking visibly. He gazed at him
with considerable surprise, and was about to make some remark, when Mr.
Quentin exclaimed in a tone of genuine alarm,—
"By George! here is Mrs. Creery. I see the top of her topee coming up
the hill, and I'm going."
But he reckoned without that good lady, who had already cut off his
retreat. In another moment her round florid face appeared below the
topee, followed by her ample person, clad in a sulphur-colour sateen
costume, garnished with green ribbons; last, but not least, came her
fat yellow-and-white dog, "Nip," an animal that she called "a darling,"
"a treasure," "a duck," and "a fox-terrier," but no other person in the
settlement recognized him by any of these titles. Before she was within
twenty yards, she called out in a thin, authoritative treble,—
"Well, what are you all doing here? what is it, eh? Any news? You
need not be looking for the _Scotia_; she can't possibly be in till
to-morrow, you know—I told you so, Colonel Denis. Oh," in answer to a
silent gesture from Mr. Lisle, "so She _is_ coming in, is she?" in a
tone that gave her listeners to understand that she had no business to
be there, contradicting Mrs. Creery.
"And so you have been up playing tennis at the General's," to Mr.
Quentin. "I saw your peon going by with your bat and shoes; but what
has brought _you_ over to Ross, Mr. Lisle—I thought you rarely left
the mainland?" fastening on him now for that especial reason.
"I don't often come over," he replied, parrying the question.
"You've been shopping in the bazaar," she continued; "you have been
buying collars."
"Mrs. Creery is unanswerable—she is gifted with 'second sight.'" (All
the same it was not collars, but cartridges, that he had purchased.)
"Not she!" returned the lady with a laugh, "but she has eyes in her
head, and that's a collar-box in your hand! I can tell most things by
the shape of the parcel. Still as charmed as ever with Aberdeen?"
Mr. Lisle bowed.
"I heard that you were going away?"
"So I am—" he paused, and then added, "some day."
"What do you do with all your photographs—sell them? Oh, but to be
sure you can't do that here. You must find the chemicals terribly
costly."
"They are rather expensive."
"I'll tell you what, I will give you a little commission! How would
you like to come over some morning and take me and Nip, and then the
bungalow, and then a group of our servants?"
If Mr. Lisle's face was any index of his mind, it said plainly that he
would not relish the prospect at all.
"I want to send home some photos to my sister, Lady Grubb. Of course I
shall pay you—that's understood."
During this conversation, Colonel Denis looked miserably uncomfortable,
and Mr. Quentin as if it was with painful difficulty that he restrained
his laughter; the travelling photographer alone was unmoved; he
surveyed his patroness gravely, as if he were taking a mental plate of
her topee with its purple puggaree, her little eager light eyes, her
important nose and ruddy cheeks, and then replied in a most deferential
manner,—
"Thank you very much for your kind offer, but I am not a professional
photographer."
Was Mrs. Creery crushed? Not at all, she merely raised her light
eyebrows and said,—
"Oh, not a professional photographer! Then what _are_ you?"
"Mrs. Creery's very humble slave," bowing profoundly.
"Photographs are rather a sore subject with him just now," broke in Mr.
Quentin in his loud, hearty voice. "You have not heard what happened to
him yesterday when he was out shooting?"
"No; how should I?" she retorted peevishly.
"Well, I must say he bore it like a stoic. I myself, mild as I am, and
sweet as you know my temper to be, would have killed the fellow."
"What fellow?"
"My new chokra. Time hung heavily on his hands, and I suppose he
thought he would be doing something really useful for once in his
life, so he went into the room where Lisle keeps all his precious
plates—photographic plates, not even printed off—plates he has
collected and treasured like so many diamonds—"
"Well, well, well?" tapping her foot.
"My dear lady, I'm coming to it if you won't hurry me. My confounded
chokra took them all for so much DIRTY GLASS, and washed every man Jack
of them, and was exceedingly proud of his industry!"
"And what did you do to him?" demanded Mrs. Creery, turning round and
staring at the victim of ignorance.
"Nothing—what could I do? he knew no better; but I told my fellow not
to let him come near me for a few days."
"Colonel Denis," said the lady, now addressing him, "is it true that
you have not seen your daughter for thirteen years?"
"Yes, quite true, I am sorry to say."
"Why did you not go home on furlough?"
"I never could manage it. When I could get home I had no money, and
when money was plentiful, there was no leave."
"Ah, and you told me she was a pretty girl, I believe; I hope you are
not building on _that_, for pretty children are a delusion; I never yet
saw one of them that did not grow up plain."
"Excepting _me_, Mrs. Creery," expostulated Mr. Quentin; "if history is
to be believed, I was a most beautiful infant—so beautiful that people
came to see me for miles and miles around, and (insinuatingly) I'm sure
you would not call me plain now?"
Mrs. Creery (who had a secret partiality for this gentleman) laughed
incredulously, and then replied, "Well, perhaps you are the exception
that proves the rule. Of course," once more addressing Colonel Denis,
"your daughter will bring out all the new fashions, and have no end of
pretty things—that is if you have given her a liberal outfit."
She here paused for a reply, but no answer being forthcoming went
on, "If you feel at all nervous about meeting her, I'll go on board
with you with pleasure; I should _like_ it, and you are well enough
acquainted with me to know that you have only to say the word!"
At this suggestion, the eyes of the two bystanders met, and exchanged a
significant glance, and whilst Colonel Denis was stammering forth his
thanks and excuses, they hastily took leave of Mrs. Creery and made
their escape.
"The steamer is coming in very fast, and I think I'll go home and see
that everything is ready," said the Colonel after a pause.
"Well, perhaps it would be as well," acceded the lady; "but are you
really certain you would not like me to meet her, or, at any rate, to
be at your bungalow to receive her?"
Once more her companion politely but firmly declined her good offices,
assuring her earnestly that they were quite unnecessary, and the lady,
visibly disappointed, said as she shouldered her parasol and turned
away, "Perhaps you will have your journey for nothing! I should not be
the least surprised if she did not come by this steamer after all! and
mark my words, that ayah—that Fatima—that you would engage in spite
of my advice, will give you trouble _yet_!"
* * * * *
Colonel Denis, nothing daunted, hurried down to his own bungalow, a
large one facing the mainland, entirely surrounded by a deep verandah,
and approached by a pathway hedged with yellow heliotrope. A good many
preparations had been made for the expected young mistress; there were
flowers everywhere in profusion, curious tropical ones, berries, and
orchids, and ferns.
The lamps were lit in the sitting-rooms, and everything was extremely
neat, and yet there was a want; there was a bare gaunt look about the
drawing-room, although it had been lately furnished and Ram Sawmy, the
butler of twenty years' standing, had disposed the chairs and tables
in the most approved fashion—in his eyes—and put up coloured purdahs
and white curtains, all for "Missy Baba." Nevertheless, the general
effect was grim and comfortless. There were no nick-nacks, books, or
chair-backs: there certainly were a few coarse white antimacassars,
but these were gracefully arranged, according to Sawmy's taste, as
coverings for the smaller tables! Colonel Denis looked about him
discontentedly, moved a chair here, a vase there, then happening to
catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he went up to it and anxiously
confronted his own reflection. How wrinkled and grey he looked! he
might be fifteen years older than his real age. After a few seconds
he took up and opened a small album, and critically scanned a faded
photograph of a gentleman in a long frock-coat, with corresponding
whiskers, leaning over a balustrade, his hat and gloves carelessly
disposed at his elbow—a portrait of himself taken many years
previously.
"There is no use in my thinking that it's the least like me _now_; she
could not know me again—no more than I would know her—" then closing
the book with a snap, and suddenly raising his voice, he called out:
"Here, Sawmy, see that dinner is ready in half an hour and have the
ayah waiting. I'm going for missy."
Doubtless dinner and the ayah had a long time to wait, for it was
fully an hour before the _Scotia_ dropped anchor off Ross; she was
immediately surrounded by a swarm of boats, including that of Colonel
Denis, who boarded her, and descended among the crowd to the cabin,
with his heart beating unusually fast.
The cabin lamps were lit, and somewhat dazzled the eyes of those who
entered from the moonlight. There were but few passengers, and the
most noticeable of these was Helen Denis, who sat alone at the end of
a narrow table, with a bag on her lap, the inevitable waterproof over
her arm, and her gaze fixed anxiously on the door leading from the
companion ladder. Colonel Denis would not be disappointed; his daughter
_had_ fulfilled the promise of her youth, and was a very pretty girl.
She was slight and fair, with regular features and quantities of light
brown hair—hair that twenty years ago was called fair, before golden
and canary-coloured locks came to put it out of fashion. Her eyes
were grey—or blue—colour rather uncertain; but one thing was beyond
all dispute, they were beautiful eyes! As for her complexion, it was
extremely pale at present, and her very lips were white; but this was
due to her agitation, to her awe and wonder and fear, to her anxiety
to know _which_ of the many strange faces that came crowding into the
cabin was the one that would welcome her, and be familiar to her, and
dear to her as long as she lived? She sat quite still, with throbbing
heart, surveying each new-comer with anxious expectation. As Colonel
Denis entered she half rose, and looked at him appealingly.
"You are Helen?" he said in answer to her glance.
"Oh, father," she exclaimed tremulously, now putting down the bag and
stretching out her hands, "how glad I am that you are _you_!—it sounds
nonsense, I know, but I was half afraid that I had forgotten your face.
You know," apologetically, "I was such a very little thing, and that
man over there, with the hooked nose, stared at me so hard, that I
thought for a moment—I was half afraid—" and she paused and laughed a
little hysterically, and looked at her father with eyes full of tears,
and he rather shyly stooped down and touched her lips with his grizzly
moustache—and the ice was broken.
Helen seemed to immediately recover her spirits, her colour, and
her tongue—but no, she had never lost the use of that! She was a
different-looking girl to what she had been ten minutes previously—her
lips broke into smiles, her eyes danced; she was scarcely the same
individual as the white-faced, frightened young lady whom we had first
seen sitting aloof at the end of the saloon table.
"I remember you now quite well," said Miss Denis. "I knew your voice;
and oh, I am so glad to come home again!"
This was delightful. Colonel Denis, a man of but few words at any
time, was silent from sheer necessity now. He felt that he could not
command his utterance as was befitting to his sex. If this meeting was
rapturous to Helen, what was it not to him? Here was his own little
girl grown into a big girl—this was all the difference.
In a short time Miss Denis and her luggage (Mrs. Creery would be
pleased to know that there was a good deal of the latter) were being
rowed to Ross by eight stout-armed boatmen, over a sea that reflected
the bright full moon. It was almost as light as day, as Helen and her
father walked along the pier and up the hill homewards. As they passed
a bungalow on their left-hand, the figure of a girl (who had long been
lying in wait in the shadow of the verandah) leant out as they went by
and watched them stealthily; then, pushing open a door and hurrying
into a lamp-lit room, she said to her mother, an enormously stout,
helpless-looking woman,—
"She has come! She has a figure like a may-pole. I could not see her
face plainly, but I don't believe she is anything to look at."
However, those who had already obtained a glimpse of Miss Denis in the
saloon of the _Scotia_ were of a very different opinion, and, according
to them, the newly-arrived "spin" was an uncommonly pretty girl, likely
to raise the average of ladies' looks in the settlement by about fifty
per cent.!
Almost at the moment that Colonel Denis and his daughter were landing
at Ross, another boat was putting her passengers ashore at Aberdeen,
_i.e._ Mr. Quentin's very smart gig. A steep hill lay between him and
his bungalow, but declining the elephant in waiting, he and Mr. Lisle,
and another friend, to whom he had given a seat over, commenced to
breast the rugged path together. This latter gentleman was a Dr. Parks,
the principal medical officer in the settlement; a little man with a
sharp face, grey whiskers and moustache, and keen eyes to match; he
was comfortable of figure, and fluent of speech, and prided himself on
having the army list of the Indian staff corps at his fingers' ends;
he could tell other men's services to a week, knew to a day when Brown
would drop in for his off-reckonings, and how much sick-leave Jones had
had. More than this, he had an enormous circle of acquaintances in the
three Presidencies, and if he did not know most old Indian residents
personally, at any rate he could tell you all about them—who they
married, when, and why; who were their friends, enemies, or relations;
what were their prospects of promotion, their peculiarities, their
favourite hill-stations; he was a sort of animated directory (with
copious notes), and prided himself on knowing India as well as another
man knew London. He was unmarried, well off, and lived in the East
from choice, not necessity; he was exceedingly popular in society, was
reputed to have saved two lacs of rupees, and to be looking out for a
wife!
After climbing the hill for some time in silence, Dr. Parks
paused—ostensibly to survey the scene, in reality to take breath.
"Hold hard, you fellows," he cried, as the other two were walking on.
"Hold hard, there's no hurry. Looks like a scene in a theatre, doesn't
it?" waving a hand towards the prospect below them.
"With the moon for lime light?" rejoined Mr. Quentin as he paused and
glanced back upon the steamer, surrounding boats, and the sea, all
bathed in bright, tropical moon-shine; at the many lights twinkling up
and down the island, like fire-flies in a wood.
Dr. Parks remained stationary for some seconds, contemplating Ross,
with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. At length he said,—
"I daresay old Denis hardly knows himself to-night, with a girl sitting
opposite him. I hope she will turn out well."
"You mean that you hope she will turn out good-looking," amended Mr.
Quentin, turning and surveying his companion expressively. "Ah, Parks,
you were always a great ladies' man!"
"Nonsense, sir, nonsense. I'm not thinking of her looks at all; but the
fact of the matter is, that Denis has had an uncommonly rough time of
it, and I trust he is in shallow water at last, and that this girl will
turn out to be what they call 'a comfort to him.'"
"I hope she will be a comfort to us all. I'm sure we want some
consolation in this vile hole; but why is Old Denis a special charity?"
inquired Mr. Quentin.
"_Old_ Denis—well, he is not so old, if it comes to that; in fact, he
is five years my junior, and I suppose _I'm_ not an old man, am I?"
demanded Dr. Parks, with a spark of choler in his eye.
"Oh, you! you know that you are younger than any of us," rejoined Mr.
Quentin quickly; "time never touches you; but about Denis?"
"Oh! he has had a lot of bother and worry, and you know that that plays
the deuce with a fellow. The fact of the matter is, that Tom Denis
came to awful grief in money matters," said Dr. Parks, now walking on
abreast of Mr. Quentin, and discoursing in a fluent, confidential tone.
"His father's affairs went smash, and Tom became security to save the
family name, mortgaged all his own little property that came to him
through his mother, exchanged from a crack regiment at home, and came
out here into the staff corps. It was a foolish, quixotic business
altogether; no one was a bit obliged to him: his sisters thought he
might have done more, his father was a callous old beggar, and took
everything he got quite as a matter of course, and Tom was the support
of his relations, and their scapegoat."
"The very last animal I'd like to be," remarked Mr. Quentin; "but don't
let me interrupt you; go on."
"Well, as if Tom had not enough on his hands, he saddled himself with
a wife—a wife he did not want either, a beautiful Greek! It seems
that she burst into tears when he told her he was going to India, and
I'm not sure that she did not faint on his breast into the bargain.
However, the long and the short of it was, that Tom had a soft heart,
and he offered to take her out with him as Mrs. D——.
"Mrs. Denis had a lovely face, an empty head, no heart, and no money;
in fact, no interest, or connections, or anything! and she was the
very worst wife for a poor man like Tom. She came out to Bombay, and
carried all before her; one would have thought she had thousands at her
back—her carriages, dresses and dinners! 'pon my word, they ran the
Governor's wife pretty hard. There was no holding her; at least, it
would have taken a stronger man than Tom Denis to do that. She flatly
refused to live on the plains, or to go within five hundred miles of
his native regiment; and his _rôle_ was to broil in some dusty, baking
station, and to supply my lady up in the hills, or spending the season
at Poonah or Bombay, with almost the whole of his pay.—I believe she
scarcely left him enough rupees to keep body and soul together!"
"The man must have been a fool!" said Mr. Lisle emphatically, now
speaking for the first time.
"Aye, a fool about a pretty face, like many another," growled the
doctor. "There was no denying her beauty! The pure Greek type; her
figure a model, every movement the poetry of motion. She was Cockney
born, though; her father a Greek refugee, conspirator, whatever you
like, and of course, a Prince at Athens, and the descendant of Princes,
according to his own tale—meanwhile a fourth-rate painter in London,
whose Princess kept lodgers! Well, Mrs. Denis was very clever with
her pen, and made capital imitations of her husband's signature! She
borrowed freely from the Soucars, she ran bills in all directions,
she had a vice in common with her kinsfolk of Crete, and she was the
prettiest woman in India! Luckily for Denis (I say it with all respect
to her ashes), she died after a short but brilliant social career,
leaving him this girl and some enormous debts. The fact of the matter
was, Tom was a ruined man. And all these years, between his father's
affairs and his wife's liabilities, his life has been a long battle,
and poor as he was, and no doubt _is_, he never could say no to a needy
friend; and I need scarcely tell you, that people soon discovered this
agreeable trait in his character!"
"It's a pity he has not a little more moral courage, and that he never
studied the art of saying 'no,'" remarked Mr. Lisle dryly; "it's merely
a matter of nerve and practice."
"It's not that, exactly," rejoined Dr. Parks, "but that he is too much
afraid of hurting people's feelings, too simple and unselfish. I hope
this girl who has come out will stand between him and this greedy
world!"
"_I_ should have thought it ought to be the other way."
"So it ought, but you see what Denis is yourself," turning and
appealing to Jim Quentin. "Go over to him to-morrow morning, and tell
him that you are at your wits' ends for five hundred rupees, and he
will hand it out to you like a lamb."
"I only wish lambs _were_ in the habit of handing out five hundred
rupee notes, I'd take to a pastoral life to-morrow!" returned Mr.
Quentin fervently, casting a woeful thought to the many long bills he
owed in Calcutta, London, and elsewhere.
"Let us hope Miss Denis will have some force of character," said
Dr. Parks; "that's the only chance for him! A strong will, like her
mother's, minus her capabilities for making the money fly, and a few
other weaknesses; and here," halting and holding out his hand, "our
roads part."
"No, no. Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Quentin, taking him forcibly by
the arm. "You just come home and dine with us, doctor, and tell a few
more family histories."
Dr. Parks was a little reluctant at first, declaring that he was due
elsewhere, that it was quite impossible, &c. &c.
"It's only the Irwins, I know, and they will think you have stopped at
Ross—it will be all right. Come along."
Thus Dr. Parks was led away from the path of duty, and down the road
approaching Mr. Quentin's bungalow;—he was rather curious to see the
_ménage_; that was the reason why he had been such an unresisting
victim to Mr. Jim's invitation,—Mr. Jim rarely entertained, and much
preferred sitting at other people's boards to dispensing hospitality at
his own.
Dinner was excellent—well cooked, well served. Dr. Parks, who was not
insensible to culinary arts, was both surprised and pleased; he had
known his host for many years, had come across him on the hills and
on the plains, on board ship, and in the jungle; they had a host of
acquaintances in common, and after a few glasses of first-rate claret,
and a brisk volley of mutual reminiscences and stories, Dr. Parks began
to tell himself that "he was really very fond of Apollo Quentin, after
all, and that he was one of the nicest young fellows that he knew!"
And what about the man who sat at the foot of the table? Hitherto he
had not been able to classify this Mr. Lisle, nor had he been so much
interested in the matter as other, and idler, people. He had seen him
often coming and going at Aberdeen, and had nodded him a friendly
"Good-morrow," and now and then exchanged a few words with him; his
clothes were shabby, his manner reserved; Dr. Parks understood that
he was a broken-down gentleman, to whom Quentin had given house-room,
and, believing this, he could not help feeling that he was performing
a gracious and kindly action in noticing him, and "doing the civil,"
as he would have called it himself, to this beggarly stranger! But
now, when he came to look at the fellow, his appearance was changed.
What wonders can be worked by a decent coat! Seen without his slouch
hat and rusty Karki jacket, he was quite another person; and query,
was that reserved manner of his _humility_? Dr. Parks noticed that
there was nothing subservient in his way of speaking to Quentin; quite
the reverse; that far from holding a subordinate position in the
establishment, servants were more prompt to attend on him than on any
one else, and sprang to his very glance; that he, more than Quentin,
looked after his (Dr. Parks') wants, and saw that his plate and glass
were always replenished to his liking, in which duties Apollo (who
was a good deal occupied with his own dinner and speculations on Miss
Denis's appearance,) was rather slack. When the meal was over, and the
silent, bare-footed servants had left the room, cigars and cigarettes
were brought out, and conversation became general, Mr. Lisle had plenty
to say for himself—when he chose—had travelled much, and had the
polished manners and diction of a man who had mixed with good society.
Dr. Parks scrutinized him narrowly, and summed up his age to be a year
or two over thirty—he looked a good deal younger without his hat;
his hair was black as the traditional raven's wing, slightly touched
with grey on the temples, his eyes were deep-set, piercing, and very
dark, there was a humorous twinkle in them at times, that qualified
their general expression—which was somewhat stern. On the whole, this
Lisle was a handsome man; in quite a different style to his _vis-à-vis_
Apollo (who lounged with his arm over the back of his chair, and seemed
buried in thought), he was undoubtedly a gentleman, and he looked
as if he had been in the service. All the same, this was but idle
speculation, and Dr. Parks had not got any "forrader" than any one else.
The pause incident to "lighting up" lasted for nearly five minutes,
then Mr. Quentin roused himself, filled out a bumper of claret, pushed
the decanter along the table, and said,—
"Gentlemen, fill your glasses. I am about to give you a toast. Miss
Denis—her very good health."
"What!" to Dr. Parks. "Are you not going to drink it? Come, come, fill
up, fill up."
"Oh, yes. I'll honour your toast, I'll drink it," he replied, suiting
the action to the word. "And now I'll follow it up by what you little
expect, and that's a speech."
"All right, make a start, you are in the chair; but be brief, for
goodness' sake. What is the text?"
"The text is, Do not flirt with Miss Denis."
"Oh, and pray why not, if she is pretty, and agreeable, and
appreciative?"
"You know what I told you this very evening. She is a mere school-girl,
an inexperienced child, she is Denis's one ewe lamb, she is to be his
companion, the prop of his old age; if you have any sense of chivalry,
spare her."
"Spare her!" ejaculated Mr. Quentin with a theatrical gesture of his
hand. "One would think I was a butcher, or the public executioner!"
"I know," proceeded Dr. Parks, "your proclivities for tender
whisperings, bouquet-giving, and note-writing, in short the whole gamut
of your attentions, and that they never _mean_ anything, but too many
forlorn maidens have learnt to their cost, you most agreeable, but
evasive young man," nodding towards his host with an air of pathetic
expostulation.
"I say, come now, you know this is ridiculous," exclaimed Mr. Quentin,
pushing his chair back as he spoke. But Dr. Parks was in the vein for
expounding on his friend's foibles, and not to be silenced.
"You know as well as I do your imbecile weakness for a pretty face, and
that you cannot resist making love to every good-looking girl you see,
until a still better-looking drives her out of your fickle heart."
"Go on, go on," cried his victim; "you were a loss to the Church."
"Of course," continued the elder gentleman, clearing his throat, "I can
readily imagine that for you—a society man before anything—these
regions are a vast desert, you are thrown away here, and are
figuratively a castaway, out of humanity's reach. And now fate seems
induced to smile upon you once more, in sending you a possibly pretty
creature to be the sharer of your many empty hours. If I thought you
would be serious, I would not say anything; or if this girl was a
hardened veteran of a dozen seasons, and knew the difference between
jest and earnest, again I would hold my peace; but as it is, I sum up
the whole subject in one word, and with regard to Helen Denis, I say,
_don't_."
"Hear hear," cried his friend, hammering loudly on the table. "Doctor,
your eloquence is positively touching; but you always _were_ the
ladies' champion. All the same you are exaggerating the situation; I am
a most innocent, inoffensive——"
"Come now, James Quentin; how about that girl at Poonah that you
made the talk of the station? How about the girls you proposed to
up at Matheran and Murree; what about the irate father who followed
you to Lahore, and from whom you concealed yourself behind the
refreshment-room counter? Eh!"
"Now, now, doctor, I'll cry peccavi. Spare me before Lisle."
Who lay back in his chair smoking a cigar—and looking both bored and
indifferent.
"_You_ don't go in for ladies' society on Ross?" said Dr. Parks,
addressing him abruptly.
"I—no—" struggling to an erect posture, and knocking the ash off his
cigar. "I only know one lady over there, and she is a host in herself."
"You mean Mrs. Creery?"
"Yes, I allude to Mrs. Creery."
And at the very mention of the name, they all three laughed aloud.
"And how about Miss Denis, Quentin? you've not given your promise,"
said Dr. Parks once more returning to the charge.
"I'll promise you one thing, doctor," drawled the host, who was
beginning to get tired of his persistence. "I'll not marry her, now
that you have let me behind the scenes about her bewitching mother, and
I'll promise you, that I'll go over and call to-morrow, and see if I
can discover any traces of a Grecian ancestry in Miss Denis's face and
figure."
"You are incorrigible. I might as well talk to the wall; there's only
one hope for the girl, and that's a poor one."
"Poor as it is, let us have it."
"A chance that she may not be taken like twenty-three out of every two
dozen, with fickle Jim Quentin's handsome face!"
"Where has Lisle gone to?" he added, looking round.
"Into the verandah, or to bed, or out to _sea_! The latter is just as
likely as anything; he did not approve of the conversation, he thinks
that ladies should never be discussed," and he shrugged his shoulders
expressively.
"Quite one of the old school, eh?" said the elder gentleman, raising
his eyebrows and pursing out his under-lip.
"Quite," laconically.
"By-the-bye, Quentin, I daresay you will think I'm as bad as Mrs.
Creery, but _who_ is this fellow Lisle, and what in the name of all
that's slow is he doing down here?—eh, who is he?" leaning over
confidentially.
"Oh, he fishes, and shoots, and likes the Andamans awfully.—As to who
he is—he is simply, as you see, a gentleman at large, and his name is
Gilbert Lisle."
Thus Dr. Parks, in spite of his superior opportunities, was foiled; and
returned to his own abode no wiser than any of his neighbours.