QUEEN OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS.
"An eye like mine,
A lidless watcher of the public weal."
_Tennyson._
PERHAPS it would be as well, before going further with this story, to
dedicate a page or two to a description of that very important lady,
Mrs. Creery. The gentleman who occupied a position in the background
as "Mrs. Creery's husband," was a hard-working, hard-headed Scotchman,
who thoroughly understood domestic politics, and the art of holding his
peace. He had come to Port Blair soon after the settlement was opened
up, and had subsequently gone home, and returned with a bride, a lady
not, strictly speaking, in her first youth—this was twenty years ago.
But let no one suppose that Mrs. Creery had spent the whole of that
interval on Ross. She had made several trips to England, and had passed
like a meteor through the circles in which her sister, Lady Grubb, was
as the sun. Oh, how utterly weary were Mrs. Creery's intimates of those
brilliant reminiscences—heard for the thousandth time. Did they not,
one and all, detest the very name of "Grubb"?
How was it, people asked each other, that Mrs. Creery had reigned so
long and so tyrannically at Ross? How came she to occupy a position,
from which nothing could dislodge her—there had been mutinies, there
had been social risings, but they all had been quelled. Even a lady
who had positively refused to go in to dinner, unless she was taken in
before Mrs. Creery, had been quenched! Circumstances had placed the
latter on the social throne, and not election by ballot, much less
the potent power of personal popularity. The General was a widower,
the chaplain a bachelor, the next senior officer unmarried also, the
wife of another was an invalid, and spent nearly all her time in the
south of France (according to Mrs. Creery, for south of France, read
lunatic asylum). She herself was a woman of robust constitution, and
always ready to say "present," consequently, the position of leading
lady in the settlement fell to her happy lot! She "received" at the
General's parties and dances, she occupied a chief place at feasts,
a front pew in church, and had a whole programme to herself on band
nights. After all, there was not much in this, one would imagine; but
Mrs. Creery thought otherwise. The General, an urbane and popular
elderly gentleman, was governor over the Andamans, in the Queen's name;
he was her Majesty's representative, and held the lives of fifteen
thousand convicts in the hollow of his hand; his dominions stretched
from the Cocos to Havelock, and included even the distant Nicobars. As
his social coadjutor, Mrs. Andrew Creery considered that she shared
all his other dignities, and had gradually come to look upon herself
as a species of crowned head, ruling not merely the settlement, the
Europeans, and the convicts, but even the far-away savages of the
interior! These royal ideas had developed but gradually—a little germ
(sown by the first strains of "God save the Queen," played as she
accompanied the General to a presentation of prizes) had thrown out
roots and suckers, and planted a sense of her own dignity in her bosom,
that nothing but death could eradicate!
Mrs. Creery had no children and ample leisure, and with such a
magnificent idea of her social status, no one will be surprised to hear
that she condescended to manage the domestic concerns of all within her
realms. She had come to look upon this as a sacred duty, and viewed all
comings and goings with microscopic scrutiny. The position of her house
favoured this self-imposed supervision; it was close to the pier, had
a good back view of the bazaar, and the principal road ran by her door,
and consequently it is no exaggeration to say that _nothing_ escaped
her. From long practice she could tell at a glance where people were
going as they ran the gauntlet of her verandah; if the General wore
a "regulation" helmet, he was probably _en route_ to an execution at
Viper (an island five miles away); if his Terai, he was bound for the
new buildings on Aberdeen, or to make semi-official calls; if his old
topee, he was merely going out shelling. Ross was a small island, very
thickly populated. Mrs. Creery could easily make the circuit of it in
twenty minutes, and did so at least thrice in the twenty-four hours.
She had no home ties, no domestic tastes; she did not care for flowers
nor work; never opened a book, and looked upon shelling as childish
nonsense. Her one taste was for poultry; her one passion, her dog
"Nip," and when she had fed her hens, collected their eggs, given out
daily stores, scolded her domestics, she had nothing to occupy her for
the remainder of the day. After early breakfast she generally donned
her well-known topee, and sallied forth on a tour of inspection; to
quote Captain Rodney, who could not endure her, she "turned out" each
family at least once daily, and never omitted "visiting rounds." She
had by this time pretty well exhausted Ross—and the patience of its
inhabitants; she knew every one's affairs, and what they paid their
servants (and what their servants said of them in the bazaar), and what
stores they got in, just as well as they did themselves.
Mr. Lisle had undoubtedly baffled her (though she had not done with him
yet); however, Helen Denis was a novelty, and opened up an entirely new
sphere of interest; therefore, ere nine o'clock on the day after the
tennis party, Mrs. Creery's umbrella was once again heard imperiously
rapping on the steps of Colonel Denis's verandah.
"You don't breakfast till twelve, I know," she called out; "for I met
your cook and asked him, and it's only just nine"—this to Helen, who
had come to the drawing-room door. "It's only just nine, and we shall
have a nice long morning to ourselves, and be able to look at your
things comfortably. Are you unpacking now?"
Helen very reluctantly acknowledged that she was—had just got all her
boxes open.
"Then I shall come and help you," said her visitor, laying down her
umbrella, and speaking as if she were conferring a great favour. "You
go first, and I'll follow."
She was quite as good as her word. There she sat, with her hands on
her knees, her topee pushed well back (so as not to interfere with her
vision), in closest proximity to Helen's largest trunk, and saw every
article separately taken out and unfolded. Nothing escaped her; all she
saw, she priced; and all she fancied she tried on (or tried to try on),
and meanwhile she kept up a running fire of comments somewhat in this
style:—
"So _that's_ your black silk; and trimmed with lace, I declare! most
unsuitable for a girl like you—quite ridiculous! I shall speak to your
father, and if he likes, I don't mind taking it off his hands. I dare
say there is _some_ letting out, and I'm rather in want of a dress for
my receptions."
"Yes," gasped Helen, who was kneeling on the floor, "but I do not wish
to part with my black silk."
"What use is it? _You_ can't wear it," irritably. "Every one would
laugh at you if you came up to one of the 'at homes' in a gown like
that, and saw _me_ in a simple muslin. It's not suitable to your
position—do you understand that?"
"I did not mean to wear it at tennis," stammered Helen—who was a
little cowed by Mrs. Creery's eye; "but Miss Twigg said that it would
be useful."
"Not a bit of it! What does she know about what would be useful?"
retorted the lady rudely.
Miss Denis made no reply, but was firmly resolved that nothing short
of physical force should part her and her very best dress. Mrs.
Creery said no more either, but determined to have a word with the
Colonel by-and-by, and also to give him _her_ opinion of the absurd
extravagance of his daughter's outfit!
As she sat drawn up beside Helen's trunks whilst she unpacked, her
perpetual queries, "What is this? What did you give for that?" were,
to say the least of it, trying. However, her victim was but recently
emancipated from school, had a wholesome awe of her elders, and a
remarkably sweet temper, so the whole inspection passed off quite
smoothly, and entirely to Mrs. Creery's satisfaction.
"I saw you talking to Lizzie Caggett last evening," she remarked, as
she arranged her topee at the mirror, and dodged her profile in a
hand-glass. "What was she saying to you?"
"She was asking me what I thought of the place?"
"Well, don't tell her much—that's _my_ advice to you! She is certain
to come here borrowing your patterns, but don't lend her _one_! I shall
be really angry with you if you do." (This came well from a lady who
was carrying off the promise of half-a-dozen.) And little did Helen
know the large reading a Dirzee gives to the term "taking a pattern."
It means that he rips up seams, punches holes in the material with his
gigantic scissors, and turns a new garment inside out and upside down,
with as little ceremony as if it were an old thing that was going to
the rag-bag. At present, ignorance was bliss. Mrs. Creery's convict
Dirzee was coming down that very afternoon to carry away Helen's two
prettiest and freshest costumes!
"Now," continued the elder lady, "mind with I say about Lizzie Caggett;
she has dozens of dresses, and is head over ears in debt in Calcutta,
not to speak of the bazaar here—I know myself that she owes Abdul
Hamed two hundred rupees,—and do not encourage her in her wicked
extravagance."
Then walking to the window, she cried out rapturously, "What a view!
Why, I had no idea of this; you can see every _bit_ of the road—and
there's the General going up home, and Mr. Latimer with him! I suppose
he has asked him to breakfast—that's the second time this week! And
here comes Dr. Malone, _running_; he has something to tell him! Oh, I
must go! Where's my umbrella? Don't forget the dresses," and without
further adieux, Mrs. Creery was flying down the steps, brandishing her
arms, and calling out in a shrill falsetto,—
"Stop, stop, Dr. Malone. I'm coming. Wait for _me_!"