"WHY NOT?"
"Friendship is constant in all things, save in the office and affairs
of love."
_Shakespeare._
THINGS went on much as usual after this at Port Blair; there were no
more tragedies, nothing startling to record, and people had quietly
settled themselves down to wonder if Lizzie Caggett would catch Dr.
Malone, and when the Quentin and Denis engagement would be given out?
There had been the ordinary settlement amusements, including a grand
picnic to Mount Harriet (the last place Lord Mayo visited before he
was stabbed on the pier below). Mount Harriet was a very high hill,
covered with trees and dense jungle, and on the top of it was situated
the general's country bungalow. He did not often live there himself,
but it was in constant demand by people who "wanted a change," also
for honeymoons and picnics. From the summit of the hill, there was a
magnificent view of inland winding water, islands, mountains, and sea;
but this view was only to be obtained by a steady two-mile climb from
the pier, and an elephant, Jampanees (men carrying chairs), and two
ponies, awaited the picnic party.
The elephant at Mount Harriet was a character; he was fifty years of
age, and his name was "Chootie;" once upon a time he had got tired of
drawing timber, and slaving for the Indian Government, and had coolly
taken a holiday and gone off into the bush, where he had remained
for three whole years. However, here he was, caught and once more in
harness, waiting very discontentedly at the foot of the hill, with a
structure on his back resembling an Irish jarvey, minus wheels, which
was destined to carry six passengers.
Helen and Lizzie Caggett, with happy Dr. Malone between them, went on
one side; Mrs. Creery, Mr. Quentin and Mrs. Home on the other, and
presently they started off at quite a brisk pace; but the day was hot,
the hill-road was rugged, and "Chootie" paused, like a human being,
and seemed to express a wish to contemplate the landscape. His mahout
expostulated in the strongest language (Hindustani). "What did he
want?—water? Then he was not going to get water—pig that he was!"
Nevertheless he exhausted his vocabulary in vain. Vainly did he revile
Chootie's ancestors in libellous terms; Chootie remained inflexible,
until two policemen armed with very stout sticks arrived, and whacked
him with might and main, and once more he started off again, and
kept up a promising walk for nearly half a mile; and now the praises
lavished on him by his doating driver were even sweeter than new honey,
but alas! he was praised too soon. Without the slightest warning, he
suddenly plunged off the road down a place as steep as the side of, not
a house—but a church; deaf to Mrs. Creery's screams and the mahout's
imprecations! He had happened to notice a banana tree—he was extremely
partial to bananas!—and he made his way up to it, tore off all the
branches within his reach, and devoured them with as much deliberation
and satisfaction, as if there were not seven furious, frightened,
howling, screaming human beings seated on his back. He flatly refused
to stir until he chose! The policemen were not within sight, and he
seemed to be tossing a halfpenny in his own mind, as to whether he
would go for a ramble through the jungle or return to the path of duty
which led to Mount Harriet and his afternoon rice. The afternoon rice
had it, and he accordingly strolled back, nearly tearing his load off
the howdah as he passed under big branches—but that he evidently
considered was entirely their affair—and then climbed in a leisurely
manner up the steep bank he had recently descended, and resumed the
public road,—merely stopping now and then, to snatch some tempting
morsel, or to turn round and round in a very disagreeable fashion. The
fact was he was not accustomed to society, nor to carrying a load of
pleasure-seekers, and he did not like it. Dragging timber and conveying
stores was far more to his taste, and, besides this, Mrs. Creery's
squeals, and her lively green umbrella, annoyed him excessively; he had
taken a special dislike to her;—Chootie was not an amiable elephant,
and would have thoroughly enjoyed tossing the lady with his trunk—and
stamping on her subsequently. At last the party found themselves in
front of the Mount Harriet bungalow, to their great relief and delight,
and scrambled down a ladder, for of course, their late conveyance would
not condescend to kneel. Mrs. Creery, once safe on _terra firma_,
was both bold and furious; and, standing on the steps, harangued the
mahout in Hindustani on the enormity of the elephant's behaviour.
She called him all the epithets she could immediately bring to mind,
said she would complain to the General, and have him shipped to the
Nicobars—that he was an ugly, unruly, untamed brute!
Naturally the elephant understood every word of this! (Hindustani is
to them, as it were, their native language.) He calmly waited till
the irate lady had said her say and furled (oh, foolish dame!) her
umbrella; and then he slowly turned his trunk in her direction like a
hose; there was a "whish," and instantly she and her elegant costume
were drenched from head to foot in dirty water. What a spectacle
she was! What a scene ensued! Vainly she fled; the wetting was an
accomplished fact; it had been very sudden, and disastrously complete.
Dr. Malone actually lay down and rolled in the grass, like the rude
uncivilized Irish savage that he was; Miss Caggett was absolutely
hysterical, and screamed like a peacock. Helen and Mrs. Home, with
difficulty restraining themselves, endeavoured to ameliorate the
condition of the unhappy lady. They escorted her inside the bungalow,
helped her to remove her gown, gloves, and hat; she was for once in
her life actually too angry to _speak_—she wept. Her dress had to
be dispatched to the cook-house to be washed and dried, and she, of
course, was in consequence prevented from taking the head of the
table, and had to have her meal sent out to her in the retirement of
the bedroom, where she discussed it _alone_. And the worst of it was,
that she met with but little real sympathy. When she reappeared once
more in public, she was met with wreathed smiles and broad grins.
Such is friendship! The company wandered about the hill after dinner,
and Helen, thinking to checkmate James Quentin for once, offered her
society to Dr. Parkes, who was only too pleased to accompany her—as
long as she did not go too far, and there was no climbing. To punish
Miss Denis for her want of taste, Apollo once more devoted himself to
Lizzie,—being under the foolish impression that, in so doing, he was
searing Helen's very soul. It was soon tea-time; there was no moon,
for a wonder; people had to depend on the stars and the fire-flies,
and Mrs. Creery,—who had had a most disagreeable day,—gave the
signal for an early departure. They all descended by a long, steep,
winding pathway through the jungle, instead of by the more public
road, as their boats were awaiting them at Hopetown pier; Mrs. Creery
led the van, in a jampan carried by four coolies—and, indeed, all
the ladies preferred this hum-drum mode of transport to trusting
themselves again to "Chootie," who was the bearer of some half-dozen
adventurous spirits, whom he took right through the jungle, thereby
reducing their garments to rags, and covering their faces with quite
a pretty pattern of scratches! Mr. Quentin travelled per jampan, but
Mr. Lisle walked, and considered that he had much the best of it; so
he had—for he walked at Helen Denis' right hand, and they both found
this by far the most delightful part of the day!—whether this was
due to the surrounding influences, or to each other's society, I will
leave an open question. About a dozen ticket-of-leave men accompanied
the procession with flaring lights, as it wound down and down the
rugged pathway through the forest, and gave the whole scene a fantastic
and picturesque appearance. It was a lovely night, though moonless;
millions of silent stars spangled the heavens, millions of fire-flies
twinkled in the jungle. Helen never forgot that balmy tropical evening,
with the glow of torches illuminating the dark, luxuriant underwood,
the scent of the flowers, and the faint sound of the sea.
Mr. Lisle realized as he descended that steep hill-path, that he was
deeply in for it at last, and in love with this Helen Denis, helplessly
in love—hopelessly in love—for he might not speak, nor ever "tell his
love;" he could only play the part of confidant to James Quentin, and,
perchance, the thankless _rôle_ of best man!
Little did he guess that the young lady at his side was not wholly
indifferent to him; that her blushes, when he appeared with Jim, were
to be put down to his own, not to his companion's credit; that his mere
presence had the curious effect of abstracting the interest from every
one else, as far as she was concerned—though, to be candid, she never
admitted this tell-tale fact to herself. A gleam of the truth, a ray
of rapture, came to Gilbert Lisle by the flash of one of those flaming
torches,—was it imaginary? or was it not? She smiled on him, as, he
believed, a girl only smiles on a man she cares for—and yet Jim was
absent—Jim was yards behind, a leaden burden to his lagging bearers.
A wild, ecstatic idea flashed through his mind, that she might—might
not care for Quentin, after all! But this notion was speedily
extinguished by his friend, who had noticed Lisle in attendance on
Miss Denis on the way down the hill,—noticed that they stood a little
apart on the pier before embarking, and neither "liked nor loved the
thing he saw!" Lisle the invulnerable was proof no longer. Lisle was a
good-looking fellow, despite his shabby clothes and sunburnt skin. Yes,
he had somewhat overlooked that fact. But Lisle was not a ladies' man,
and he was a man of honour, and Mr. Quentin fully determined to give
him to understand that he must not trespass on _his_ preserves. Miss
Denis belonged exclusively to him. And now let us privately examine Mr.
Quentin's mind. Briefly stated, he did not "mean anything," in other
words, he did not wish to marry her now—_that_ fevered dream was past.
He was not an atom in love with her either; she was too irresponsive,
and, in fact, too—as he expressed it to himself—"stupid." Between
ourselves, if any wandering damsel had appeared upon the scene, he was
ready to whistle Miss Denis down the wind at once! But damsels were
rare at Ross—and he still admired her greatly; he did not mean to
"drop" her, till he went away, and he intended to take precious good
care that no one should have it in their power to say that _she_ had
dropped him—much less, abandoned him for another. His character as a
lady-killer was at stake; he could not, and would not, lose what was as
precious to him as the very breath of his nostrils.
He accordingly took an early opportunity of giving Lisle what he called
"a bit of a hint."
"I saw you making yourself very agreeable to the fair Helen yesterday,"
he remarked with affected _bonhomie_. "You mustn't make yourself too
agreeable, you know!"
"Why not?" demanded his companion with exasperating composure.
"Why, not? My dear fellow, the idea of your asking _me_ such a
question! You know very well why not."
"Am I to understand that she is engaged to you?"
Mr. Quentin hated these direct questions, and why should Lisle look at
him as if he were a witness that he was examining on his oath?
"What is it to you?" he returned evasively. "Come now, Lisle," leaning
on his elbow, and smiling into the other's face with one of his most
insinuating expressions.
"Answer my question first," roughly.
"Well, I will."
Word fencing was easy to him, and he never thought it any harm to
dissemble with a woman, and juggle his sentences so that one almost
neutralized another; _they_ were fair game, but a man was different.
With men he could be frank enough—firstly, because he had more respect
for his own sex; and secondly, because their eyes were not likely to be
blinded by love, admiration, or vanity. Meanwhile, here was Lisle, an
obstinate, downright fellow, sternly waiting for his reply. An answer
he must have, so he made a bold plunge, and said, with lowered eyelids
and in a confidential voice,—
"What I tell you is strictly masonic, mind—but I know you are to be
depended on. There is no actual engagement as yet between Helen and
me—but there is an understanding!"
"I confess, the distinction is too subtle for me. Pray explain it!"
"How can I go to her father whilst my money affairs are in such a
confounded muddle? Until I can do that, we cannot be what you call
engaged. Do you see?"
"I see. But there is one thing I fail to see—that Miss Denis treats
you differently to any one else, or as if she were attached to you—in
fact, latterly, it has struck me that she rather avoids you than
otherwise!"
This was a facer, but his companion was equal to the occasion. "That is
easily explained," he replied. "She is the very shyest girl that you
ever saw—in public."
Mr. Quentin thoroughly understood the art of innuendo, and the
management of the various inflections of the human voice. He was a
matchless amateur "star," and could "act" off, as well as on the stage.
After receiving this confidence, Mr. Lisle was silent; he leant back in
his chair, and nearly bit his cigar in two. That last speech of Jim's
had made him feel what the Americans call "_real_ bad." A very long gap
in the conversation ensued, and then he, as it were, roused himself
once more,—
"Then she _is_ engaged to you!"
"No, not quite, not altogether—but our position is such, that no man
of honour, knowing it, would take advantage of the situation,—would
he?"
"No—of course not."
And with this admission the subject dropped.
Mr. Quentin had succeeded brilliantly. He had assured Lisle that he
was not engaged; and yet he had impressed him with the fact that an
engagement existed—indeed, he had almost persuaded _himself_, that
there was an understanding between him and Helen! "Understanding" was
a good, useful, elastic word; it might mean an understanding to play
tennis, to sit next each other at an afternoon tea, or to share the
same umbrella!
"No, no, Mr. Gilbert Lisle," he said to himself exultantly, as he
watched the other's gloomy face, "I'm not just going to let you cut me
out—not if I _know_ it. 'Paws off, Pompey.'"