FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
"And I am something curious, being strange."
_Cymbeline._
THE morning after her arrival Helen Denis found herself alone, as her
father was occupied with drills and orderly-room till twelve o'clock,
when they breakfasted.
She went out into the verandah, and looked about her, in order to
become better acquainted with the situation of her new home. The
bungalow stood a little way back from the gravel road, that encircled
the whole island, and was shaded by a luxuriant crimson creeper; a
hedge of yellow flowers bordered the path leading up to the door, and
between the house and the sea was a clump of thick cocoa-nut palms,
that stood out in bold relief against the deep cobalt background of
the sky. Jays, parrots, and unfamiliar tropical birds were flitting
about, and from the sea a faint breeze was wafted, bearing strange
fragrant odours from the distant mainland; a light haze lay over the
water, betokening a warm meridian. A few white clouds slumbered in the
hot heavens overhead; and save for the hum of insects and birds, and a
distant sound of oars swinging to and fro in the rowlocks, the place
was as silent as a Sunday morning in the country, when every one has
gone to church.—At first Helen stood, and then she sat down on the
steps to contemplate this scene, which formed the prelude to a new
epoch in her life—she gazed and gazed, and seemed afraid to move her
eyes, lest the vision should escape her. She sat thus without moving
for fully half an hour.
"Well, what do you think of it all, young woman?" from a voice behind
her, caused her to spring up, and she found her father standing there
in his white uniform, with his sword under his arm.
"Oh, papa! I never, never saw anything like it; I never dreamt or
fancied there could be such a beautiful spot—it's like fairyland! like
an enchanted country, like"—her similes running short—"like Robinson
Crusoe's island."
"Rather different to Brompton, eh? I suppose you had not much of a view
there?"
"View!" she exclaimed; "if there had been one, we could not see it!
for in the first place we were shut in by high, dirty brick walls, and
in the second, all the lower windows were muffled glass; there was one
window at the end of the school-room that overlooked the road, and
though it was pretty high up, it was all painted, but some one had
scratched a little space in it, right in the middle, and often and
often, when I've been saying my lessons, or reading translations in
class, every idea has been sent right out of my head, when I've looked
up at that pane and seen an _eye_ watching us—it always seemed to be
watching _me_! but of course that was imagination; it used to make me
feel quite hysterical at times, and many a bad mark it cost me!"
"Well, you are not likely to get any bad marks here," said her father,
laying his hand on her shoulder as he spoke; "and you think you will
like Port Blair?"
"Like—why it seems to me to be a kind of paradise! I wonder half the
world does not come and live here," she replied emphatically.
To this remark ensued a rather long silence, a silence that was at
length broken by a noise as strange to Helen's ears, as the lovely
scene before her was to her still admiring eyes; this noise was a loud,
fierce, hoarse shout, something like an angry cheer. She glanced at her
father with a somewhat heightened colour, and in answer to her startled
face he said,—
"Those are the convicts! they leave off work at twelve o'clock, they
are busy on the barracks just now. Stay where you are, and you will see
them pass presently."
The approach of the convicts was heralded by a faint jingling of chains
that gradually became louder and louder; and in a few moments the
gang came in sight, escorted by four burly, armed warders. Helen drew
back, pale and awe-struck, as she watched this long, silent procession
file past, two and two, all clad in the same blue cotton garment, all
heavily manacled, otherwise there was but little resemblance among
them. There passed the squat Chinaman, chained to the tall, fiery
Pathan (who flung as he went by a glance of bitter hatred and defiance
at the two European spectators); they were in turn followed by a brace
of tattooed Burmans, who seemed rather cheerful than otherwise; then a
few mild Hindoos, then more Arabs, more Burmans, more fierce Rohillas,
more mild Hindoos!
Helen stood almost breathless, as they glided by, nor did she speak
till the very last sound of clanking chains had died away in the
distance.
"Poor creatures! I had forgotten _them_!" she said; "this place is no
paradise to 'a prisoner.'"
"Poor creatures!" echoed her father, "the very scum and sweepings
of her Majesty's Indian Empire—poor murderers, poor robbers, poor
dacoits!"
"And why are they in chains? such heavy cruel-looking chains?"
"Because they are either recent arrivals or desperate characters, the
former probably; the worst of the 'poor creatures' are not kept in
Ross, but colonized in other gaols on the mainland, or at Viper."
"And are there many here on Ross?"
"About four thousand, including women, but some of these have
tickets-of-leave, and only go back to 'section'—_section_ is a
delicate way of putting it—at night; many of them are our servants."
"_Our_ servants, papa!"
"No, I am speaking of the settlement, but our boatmen, our
water-carrier, and—I may as well break it to you at once—our cook,
are, each and all, people who have a past that does not bear close
inquiry! And now, my dear, shall we go in to breakfast?"
It was a delightful change from his usual solitary meal to have that
bright, pretty face sitting opposite to him; he watched her intently
for some minutes—she was pouring out tea with all the delight of a
child.
"I've never done it before, papa!" she exclaimed as she despatched his
tea-cup; "be sure you don't let Sawmy know, or he will despise me.—Of
course, being at school I never got a chance. Miss Twigg herself
presided over the hot water, and then in the holidays I had much better
tea, but I never made it."
"Ah, your holidays, Helen; that is what puzzled me so much about your
Aunt Julia. I understood that you were always to spend your vacation
with the Platts."
"I did once, when I was small, and I do not think they liked me; so
after a lapse of five years they tried me again—I suppose to see if I
was improved; but these holidays were even _worse_ than the others. I
have a quick temper, and I got into fearful trouble."
"How?"
"Oh, it's a very old story, and I hope and trust that I have more
command of my feelings now. I remember I was in the room at afternoon
tea, rather by accident, for I usually took that refreshment
in"—lowering her voice to a stage whisper—"the kitchen! My cousins
are a good deal older than I am—they were grown up then, I perfectly
recollect, though they declare they were _not_——"
"Well, but it is not a question of your cousins' age, but of some
domestic fracas that you were about to tell me."
"Yes, I'm always wandering from the point. I recollect it was a Sunday
afternoon, some gentlemen were calling, and they noticed me, and talked
to me, and I was flattered, and doubtless pert; they asked Cousin Clara
who I was, and where I and my classic profile came from, and Aunt Julia
told them that I was her poor brother's child, and added something
about—about—no matter."
Helen had never heard a word with regard to her other parent, save that
she was a beautiful Greek, who had died young. Her picture she had
seen, and this in itself was sufficient for her to idealize her and
adore her memory—for Azalie Denis had the face of an angel! "She—no,
I won't tell you what she said! but I have never forgotten it; in a
passion of rage, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I snatched up
a cup of scalding tea, and flung it in Aunt Julia's face. Yes! cup
and all! You may imagine the commotion; you can believe that I was
in disgrace. I was led solemnly from the room, and locked away in a
lumber-closet upstairs, where I remained for the rest of my vacation.
Each day I was asked to apologize, and each day I said 'I _won't_,' so
there I stayed till I went back to school. Ere leaving I was taken down
to my aunt's apartment and told that I was a wicked, bad, abominable
child, and that I would come to an untimely end; and then Cousin Clara
took up a pair of big scissors, and seizing my beautiful thick plait of
hair, sawed and hacked it off close to the nape of my neck!"
"What! cut off your hair!" exclaimed Colonel Denis, roused to sudden
animation.
"Yes; though I screamed and struggled, it was of no use. I well
remember the appearance of my poor pigtail in Clara's hand! Well, after
_this_ you will not be surprised to hear that I was never asked to
Upper Cream Street again,—and I was not sorry. I never could get on
with Aunt Julia; I'm so glad that _you_ are not a bit like her, papa!
She used to make me shake in my shoes."
"And how do you know that I won't do the same?" he asked with a smile.
"I'm sure you won't. Have another cup of tea, do, please."
"It's strange that we have so few relations," he said, obediently
passing his cup as he spoke. "Besides your Aunt Julia there's only my
sister Christina; she has been an invalid for years, and never writes."
"Is not she married to a queer Irishman who lives at a place with a
ridiculous name—Crow-more? And Aunt Julia won't have anything to do
with her?"
"Yes, your Aunt Julia did not approve of the match. This Sheridan was a
kind of professor that Christina met abroad, a most dreamy, unpractical
genius, with a magnificent head, and a brogue that you could cut with a
hatchet. After living for some years in a small German town, they went
over to Ireland, and there they reside on a property that was left to
him. I write now and then" (and he might have added, enclose a cheque),
"but Christina never sends me a line—I'm afraid they are very badly
off," shaking his head as he stirred his tea.
"Now tell me something about this delightful place, papa! I've been
reading a good deal about it, I mean the Andamans. They were first
taken possession of in 1789 by the British Government, or rather, the
East India Company, were abandoned in 1796, and resumed in 1858, the
year after the Mutiny; don't I know it all nicely?"
"You know a great deal more about it than _I_ do."
"This is Ross, is it not?"
"Yes, the other settlements are scattered about. People come over here
to church, to shop, to play tennis, and to hear the news."
"And are there many other people—I don't mean convicts and soldiers?"
"There are about fifty men, and fifteen or sixteen ladies. No doubt you
will have a good many visitors to-day."
"Oh, papa! you don't mean it—not to call on _me_?"
"Yes, of course; who else would they come to see?"
"It makes me feel quite nervous, the palms of my hands are cold
already; only six weeks ago I was doing French composition and German
translation, and not daring to speak above my breath without leave. And
now all at once I am grown up! I am to receive visitors, I may wear
what I like, and," with an interrogative smile across the table, "do as
I _please_?"
"As long as you don't throw cups of tea at people, my dear."
"Now, papa, I'm very sorry I mentioned that if you are going to use it
against me. But do tell me something about the fifteen ladies,—and who
are likely to come and call."
"Well, there is Mrs. Creery; she is the wife of the head of the
Foolscap Department, and lives close to this. She—well," hesitating,
"she is a very energetic woman, but her"—hesitating again—"manner
is a little against her! rather arbitrary, you know; but we all have
our faults. Then there is Mrs. Caggett; her husband has some trade
with Burmah, and his wife lives here in preference to Moulmein. Miss
Caggett is our only young lady, and"—rather dubiously—"you will see
what you think of _her_. Mrs. Home is the wife of the colonel of this
regiment—I'm only second fiddle, you know; you are certain to have a
kind friend in her. Then there is Mrs. Durand, wife of Captain Durand
of the European detachment here; she is away just now, and a great loss
to the place. There are several ladies at out-stations, whom you are
sure to like."
"I wish I was sure that they would like _me_," rejoined his daughter
in rather a melancholy voice. "You must bear in mind that I am not
accustomed to the society of grown-up people, and I know that I have
_no_ conversation!"
"_No_ conversation! and pray what have we been having for the last
three-quarters of an hour?"
"Oh, that is quite different. I can talk away to you by the week, but
with strangers what can I discuss?—not even the weather, for I don't
know what happens here; it's always fine, I suppose?"
"You will find plenty to say, I'll engage," returned her father, with
emphasis; "and I have no doubt"—whatever he was going to add was cut
short by the imperious rapping of an umbrella on the wooden steps of
the verandah, and a shrill female voice calling "Boy!"