THE NICOBARS.
"Once I loved a maiden fair,
But she did deceive me."
WHEN last we saw Mr. Quentin, he had just succeeded in convincing his
companion that he was Miss Denis's favoured suitor. This was well—this
was satisfactory. But it was neither well, nor yet satisfactory, to
behold Lisle calmly appropriate the posy ring, and put it in his
waistcoat pocket.
"Hullo! I say, you know," expostulated Apollo, "give me back my
property."
"No," returned the other very coolly; "it was originally mine, and as
it has once more come into my hands, I will keep it."
Mr. Quentin became crimson with anger and dismay.
"I found it on the wreck, and gave it to Miss Denis, who said she
valued it greatly, but as she has passed it on to you, I see that her
words were a mere _façon de parler_, and if she asks you what you have
done with it, you can tell her that you showed it to me, and that _I_
retained it."
There was a high-handed air about this bare-faced robbery that simply
took Mr. Quentin's breath away, and the whole proceeding put him in, as
he expressed it himself, "such an awful hat;" for he had never meant
to steal the ring—he only wanted the loan of it for half an hour,
and now that it had served his purpose, it was to be restored to its
mistress; but here was Lisle actually compelling him to be a _thief_!
Vainly he stammered, blustered, and figuratively flapped his wings!
he might as well have stammered and blustered to the wall. Lisle was
impassive—moreover, the boat was waiting; and Abdul returned to Ross
and Fatima, plus twenty rupees, but minus the ring. And what a search
there was for that article when Helen Denis missed it; rooms were
turned out, matting was taken up, every hole and corner was searched,
but all to no purpose—considering that the ring was, as we know, on
its way to the Nicobars.
Fatima, the Cleopatra-like, was touched when she saw her Missy actually
weeping for her lost property; but all the same, she positively assured
her that she had never seen it since she had had it on her finger
last—indeed, if it had been in her power to return it she would have
done so, for Helen offered a considerable reward to whoever would
restore her the most precious of her possessions. Days and weeks went
by, but no ring was found.
The _Scotia_ left Calcutta once every six weeks, calling firstly
at Port Blair, then at the Nicobars, then Rangoon, and so back to
Calcutta; and the reason of Mr. Quentin's hurried departure was that
the order to start for the Nicobars came in the steamer that was to
take him there, otherwise there would have been the usual delay of six
weeks. Once on board, he went straight below to his cabin, turned in,
and recouped himself for his sleepless night. He slept soundly all day
long, having immense capacities in that line. Mr. Hall, the settlement
officer, walked the deck with Mr. Lisle, and subsequently they
descended to the saloon and played chess. The group near the flagstaff
had not been unnoticed by the passengers of the _Scotia_ as she steamed
by under the hill; there had been some waving of handkerchiefs, but
Mr. Lisle's had never left his pocket. He had something else in that
selfsame pocket that forbade such demonstration—the fatal ring, and a
ring that bore for motto, as he had now discovered, "Love me and leave
me not"—a motto that implied a bitter mockery of the present occasion.
This wreck ring was assuredly an unlucky token! Only last night, and
Helen had seemed to him the very incarnation of simplicity, truth, and
faith—what a contrast to those many lovely London sirens who smiled
on him—and his _rent roll_! Never again would he be deceived by
nineteen summers, and sweet grey eyes; no, never again. This was the
determination he came to, as he paced the deck that night beneath the
stars.
The next morning the _Scotia_ was off the low, long coast of the
Nicobars; so low was it, that it resembled a forest standing in the
water. In the midst of this seeming forest there was a narrow passage
that a casual eye might easily overlook; a passage just barely wide
enough to admit the steamer, with a natural arch of rock on one side;
the water was clear, emerald green, and very deep, and along the wooded
shores of the entrance to Camorta were many white native huts, built on
wooden piles, scattered up and down the high banks clothed in jungle.
Soon the passage widened into a large inland bay, lined with mangroves
and poison-breathing jungles, save for a clearing on the left-hand
side, where there was a rude pier, a bazaar of native houses, and some
larger wooden buildings on the overhanging hill. This was Camorta, the
capital of the Nicobars, to which Port Blair was as London to some
small provincial town.
The natives were totally different to the Andamanese; they were Malays,
with brown skins, flat heads, and wide mouths, and came swarming round
the three Europeans as they landed, and commenced to climb the hill.
One, who was very sprucely dressed in a blue frock-coat, grey trousers,
white tie, and tall hat, and flourished a gold watch, was bare-footed,
and had it made known to Mr. Lisle, before he was five minutes on
_terra firma_, that he was prepared to give him one thousand cocoa-nuts
in exchange for his boots.
The buildings on the hill included a big, gaunt-looking bungalow, in
which the three new arrivals took up their quarters. It was rather
destitute of furniture, but commanded a matchless view of this great
inland bay and far-away hills; it also overlooked a rather suggestive
object, an old white ship, that lay off Camorta, the crew of which
had been killed and eaten, many years previously, by the inhospitable
Nicobarese! Gilbert Lisle had never in all his wanderings been in any
place he detested as cordially as his present residence. Days seemed
endless, the nights hot and stifling, the sun scorching, the sport
bad. And other things, such probably as his own frame of mind, did not
tend to enhance the charms of Camorta. Mr. Hall had ample occupation;
Jim Quentin an unlimited capacity for sleep. He had also a box full of
literature, a good brand of cigars, and, moreover, was at peace with
himself and all mankind. He could do a number of doubtful actions, and
yet he always managed to retain himself in his own good graces. He had
squared Lisle, who was going away direct from the Nicobars to Rangoon,
thence to Singapore and Japan. This was a most desirable move, and
there would be no more raking up of awkward subjects, and _he_ would
never be found out. His period of expatriation was nearly at an end,
he was financially the better for his exile at Port Blair, and then,
hurrah for a hill-station, fresh fields, and pretty faces, or, better
still, Piccadilly and the Park! Meanwhile, he was at the Nicobars, and
there he had to stay, so he accepted the present philosophically, and
slept as much as possible, and grumbled when awake at the food, the
climate, and the heads of his department, and was not nearly as much
to be pitied as he imagined, not half as much as Lisle, who neither
read novels nor slept many hours at a stretch, or had agreeable
anticipations of future flirtations in hill-stations. He was remarkably
silent, and smoked many of the drowsy hours away. When he _did_ join in
the conversation, his remarks were so cynical, and his words so sharply
edged, that Mr. Quentin was positively in awe of him, and was more
than usually wary in the choice of his topics. Out of doors, he shot
the ugly, greedy caymen, caught turtle, and sketched, or explored the
country recklessly; making his way through the rank, dank jungle, where
matted creepers hung from tree to tree, and snakes and spotted vipers
darted up their hideous heads as he brushed past their moist, dark
hiding-places.
A good deal of Mr. Lisle's time was spent in absolute idleness, and
though the name of Helen Denis never crossed his lips, he had by no
means cast her out of his mind. Hourly he fought with his thoughts:
hourly he weighed all the _pros_ and _cons_. Her acceptance of
Quentin's attentions went to balance against her coolness to him
subsequently; her blushes when he appeared were a set-off against her
solemn denial of any understanding between them; her evident agitation
when he himself had wooed her was neutralized by the bestowal of his
ring upon Quentin—the ring kicked the beam; the ring was the verdict.
After all, Quentin was ten times more likely to engage a girl's fancy
than himself. Apollo was handsome, gay, and fascinating—when he chose;
_he_ was sunburnt, shabby, rather morose, and seemingly a pauper;
that part of it was his own fault, he had no one but himself to blame
for that. Query, would it have been better if he had permitted the
truth to leak out, and allowed the community to know that they had the
Honourable Gilbert Lisle, the owner of ten thousand a year, dwelling
among them? In some ways things would have been pleasanter, but he had
not come down to the Andamans for society, but for sea-fishing, and
sailing, and an unfettered, out-door life. And when he was accidentally
thrown into the company of a pretty girl, who was as pleasant to him as
if he were a millionaire, who smiled on him as brightly as on others,
in far more flourishing circumstances, who could ask him to resist the
temptation that had thrust itself into his way—the triumph of winning
her in the guise of a poor and un-pretending suitor?
The temptation led him on, and dazzled him, and for a moment he seemed
to have the prize in his hands; and what a prize! especially to him,
who was accustomed to being flattered, deferred to, and courted in a
manner that accounted for his rather cynical views of society. But,
alas! his treasure-trove (his simple-minded island maiden), had been
rudely wrested from him ere he had realized its possession; and
yet, after all, it was no loss, the apparently priceless jewel was
imitation, was paste!
Why had she told him a deliberate lie? He might forgive a little
coquetry (perhaps); he might forgive the unpleasant fact of her having
"made a fool of him," as his friend had so delicately suggested, but a
falsehood, uttered without a falter or a blush, _never_!
Week succeeded week, and each day seemed as long as seven—each week
a month. Lisle, the ardent admirer of strange scenes, and strange
countries, was callous and indifferent to the natural beauties of the
place. He had actually come to _hate_ the magnificent foliage, golden
mid-day hazes, and the gorgeous, blinding sunsets, of these sleepy
southern islands. All he craved for, was to get away from such sights,
and never, never, see them more! Latterly, he found ample occupation in
nursing Mr. Hall to the best of his ability—Mr. Hall, who had fallen a
victim to the deadly Nicobar fever, and tossed and moaned and raved all
through the scorching days and suffocating nights, and was under the
delusion that the hand that smoothed his pillow, and held the cup to
his parched lips, and bathed his burning temples, was his mother's! Jim
Quentin (the selfish) merely contented himself with languidly inquiring
after the patient once a day, and shutting himself up in his own side
of the bungalow, as it were in a fastness, partaking of his meals
alone, totally ignoring his companions, since one of them was sick, and
the other was stupid.
The thin veneer of Mr. Jim's charm of manner, could not stand much
knocking about; a good deal of it had worn off, and Mr. Lisle beheld
him as he really was; selfish to the core, vain and arrogant,—yet
not proud, not very sensitive on the subject of borrowing money, and
with rather hazy ideas with regard to the interpretation of the word
"honour."
Lisle, in his heart, secretly despised his fascinating inmate; but,
needless to say, he endeavoured to keep this sentiment entirely in the
background, though, now and then, a winged word like a straw, might
have shown a looker-on which way the wind blew.
At length, the long-desired _Scotia_ came steaming up Camorta Bay,
like a goaler to set free her prisoners; she remained off the pier
for a few hours, and Mr. Lisle was unfeignedly delighted to see her
once more, for she was to carry him away to Rangoon, to civilization,
occupation and oblivion. His traps were ready, but ere he took leave
of his companions and went on board, he sat for a while reading the
newly-arrived letters in the verandah, along with Jim Quentin.
"Hullo!" exclaimed the latter, suddenly looking up. "I say, what do you
think! here is a letter from Parkes, and poor old Denis is dead!"
"Dead?" ejaculated his companion.
"Yes, listen to this,"—reading aloud,—"he was on the ranges one
morning, and in trying to save a native child who ran across the line
of fire, he was shot through the heart. We are all very much cut up,
and as to Miss Denis, the poor girl is so utterly broken-down you would
scarcely know her."
"It must have been a fearful shock," said Mr. Lisle. "I'm very sorry
for Denis, very. Of course you will go back at once—now!"
"How?" thrown completely off his guard, "why?"
"How? by the _Enterprise_, which will be here in three days with
stores, and why? really, I scarcely expected you to ask _me_ such a
question. She——"
"Oh," interrupting quickly, "oh, yes! I quite understand what you mean.
Oh, of course, of course!"
After this ensued a rather long silence, and then Mr. Lisle spoke,—
"I now remember rather a strange thing," he said reflectively. "Denis
and I were looking over the wall of the new cemetery together one
evening, and I recollect his saying, that he wondered how long it would
be till the first grave was dug.—Strange that it should be his own!"
"Strange indeed!" acquiesced his companion tranquilly, "but, of course,
everything must have a beginning. Here's a Lascar coming up from the
pier," he added, rising hastily, and collecting his letters as he
spoke, "and we had better be making a start."
In another hour Mr. James Quentin was walking back to the bungalow
alone. As he stood on the hill above the pier, and watched the smoke of
the departing steamer above the jungle, he felt a curious and unusual
sensation, he actually felt,—his almost fossilized conscience told
him,—that he had not behaved altogether well to Lisle! Lisle, who had
been his friend by deeds, not words; Lisle, who had borne the blow he
had dealt him like a man; had never once allowed a word, or allusion
that might reflect on Helen, to pass his lips, and had accepted the
ring with unquestioning faith. Yes, Lisle, though rather silent and
unusually dull (for generally he was such an amusing fellow), had
taken his disappointment well. Mr. Quentin, however, rated such
disappointments very lightly. Judging others by himself, they were mere
pin-pricks at the time, and as such consigned to the limbo of complete
oblivion within a week.
"After all," he said aloud, as he slowly strolled back with his hands
in his pockets, "I am in reality his _best_ friend! It would never have
done for him, to entangle himself with a girl without connections, a
girl without a penny, a girl he picked up at the Andamans! Haw! haw! by
Jove! how people would laugh! No, no, Gilbert Lisle, you must do better
than that; you will have to look a little higher for the future Lady
Lingard. I don't suppose she has a brass farthing, and she certainly
would not suit my book at all."
Needless to add, that this mirror of chivalry did not return to Port
Blair an hour sooner than was his original intention.