"WAS IT POSSIBLE!"
"Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows,
Like the wave.
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of man;
Love lends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles; and then,
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave."
_M. Arnold._
DAYS crawled by, and Helen gradually and painfully began to realize
her lot. Hers was a silent, stony grief (now that the first torrent of
tears had been shed) of that undemonstrative, reserved nature, that it
is so difficult to alleviate, and that shrinks from outward sympathy.
People (ladies) came to her, and sat with her, and held her hand, and
wept, but she did not; this grief that had come upon her unawares,
seemed almost to have turned her to stone. She opened her heart to Mrs.
Home only; and in answer to affectionate attempts at consolation, she
said,—
"I sometimes sit and wonder, wonder if it is _true_! You see, Mrs.
Home, my case is so different to others. Now, if you were to lose one
child—which heaven forbid—you have still eight remaining; if Colonel
Home was taken from you, you have your children; but _I_ have no one
left. Papa was all I had, and I am alone in the world; I can scarcely
believe it!"
"My dear, you must not say so! you have many friends, and friends are
sometimes far better than one's own kin. Then there is your aunt. I
wrote to her myself last mail."
"Aunt Julia! She is worse than nobody. She is an utter stranger, in
reality, a complete woman of the world. She and I never got on; she was
always saying hard things about _him_!"
"Well, you won't be with her long, you know! and you cannot say that
you are alone in the world; you know very well that you will not be
alone for long, you understand," squeezing her fingers significantly as
she spoke.
Helen did understand, and coloured vividly. It seemed to her almost a
sin to think of Gilbert Lisle now, when every thought was dedicated to
her father, when all ideas of love or a lover had been, as it were,
swept out of her mind by the blast of her recent and terrible calamity.
Mrs. Home noticed the blush, but again attributed its cause to the
wrong person.
* * * * *
Colonel Denis' effects were sold off in the usual manner; his
furniture, boat, and guns, were disposed of, his servants dismissed,
and his papers examined. And what discoveries were not made in that
battered old despatch-box! Not of money owing, or startling unpaid
bills, but of large sums due to him; borrowed and forgotten by
impecunious acquaintances—one thousand rupees here, three thousand
rupees there, merely acknowledged by careless, long-forgotten I. O.
U.'s. Then there were receipts for money paid,—drained away yearly by
his father's and wife's creditors—his very pension was mortgaged. How
little he appeared to have spent upon himself. All his life long he had
been toiling hard for other people, who gaily squandered in a week,
what he had accumulated in a year; a thankless task! a leaden burden!
Apparently he had begun to save of late, presumably for Helen; but,
including the auction, all that could be placed to his daughter's
credit in the bank was only four hundred odd pounds!
"Say fifteen pounds a year," said Colonel Home, looking blankly at Mr.
Creery.
"I know he intended to insure his life, he told me so last week."
"Ah! if he only had. What is to become of the poor girl?" continued
Colonel Home; "fifteen pounds a year won't even keep her in clothes,
let alone in food and house-room. I believe he had very few relations
in England, and see how some of his friends out here have fleeced him!"
"They ought to be made pay up," returned Mr. Creery. "I'll see to
_that_," he added with stern, determined face.
"How can they pay up? The fellows who signed those," touching some I.
O. U.'s, "are dead. Here's another, for whom Denis backed a bill; he
went off to Australia years ago. I wonder Tom Denis had not a worse
opinion of his fellow-creatures."
"In many ways, Tom was a fool; his heart was too soft, his eyes were
always blind to his own interests: some people soon found that out."
"Well! what is to become of his daughter? That is what puzzles me,"
said his listener anxiously. "She is a good girl, and uncommonly
pretty!"
"Yes; her face is her fortune, and I hope it will stand to her,"
rejoined Mr. Creery, dubiously. "But, to set herself off, she should go
into fine society and wear fine clothes, and she has no means to start
her in company where she would meet a likely match. As they say in my
country, 'Ye canna whistle without an upper lip.'"
"She might not have _far_ to go for a husband," returned Colonel Home
significantly.
"Ah, well! I believe I _know_ what you mean, but that man will be
needing a fortune. He is too cannie to marry 'a penniless lass without
a lang pedigree!'"
"My wife has her fancies," said Colonel Home, "and thinks a good deal
of him."
"So does mine," returned the other, "and has _her_ fancies too; but all
the same—between you and me, Home—I never liked the fellow; you know
who I mean. He is just a gay popinjay, taking his turn out of everybody
that comes in his way."
(Observe, cannie Scotchman as he was, that all this time, he had never
mentioned any _name_.)
* * * * *
Several doors were opened to Helen, offering her a home, but she
steadily resisted all invitations. She felt that she would be occupying
an anomalous position by remaining on at Port Blair, without having any
real claim on any one in the settlement. If there had been some small
children to teach,—save those in the native school,—or if there were
any means by which she could have earned her livelihood, it would have
been different; but, of course, in a place like the Andamans, there was
no such opening. The community were extremely anxious to keep her among
them, and were kinder to her than words could express. Mrs. Graham
besought her most earnestly to remain with her as a sister, and urged
her petition repeatedly.
"The favour will be conferred by _you_, my dear, and you know it," she
said. "Think of the long, lonely days I spend at Chatham, cut off from
all society in bad weather, and in the monsoon, I sometimes don't see
another white woman for weeks. Imagine the boon your company would be
to me. Remember that your father was an old friend of Dick's, and say
that you will try us for at least a year. We will do our very best to
make you happy."
And other suggestions were delicately placed before Helen. Would she
remain, not as Miss Denis, but as _Mrs._ somebody? To one and all, she
made the same reply, she must go home, at least, she must go back to
England; her aunt had written, and desired her to return at the first
opportunity, and her aunt was her nearest relation now, and all her
future plans were in her hands. Mrs. Home was returning in March, they
would sail together.
"If I were not obliged to place Tom and Billy at school, and see after
my big boys, I would not _allow_ you to leave at all, Helen," said her
friend and hostess decidedly, "but would insist on your remaining with
us as one of our family, a kind of eldest daughter."
Nevertheless, Mrs. Home cherished strong but secret hopes that her
young _protégée_ would stay at Port Blair, in spite of her own
departure. Was not Mr. Quentin expected from Camorta by the very next
mail?
Mrs. Creery would have liked Helen to remain with some one (not
herself, for she was not given to hospitality). She considered that
she would be a serious loss to the community, and was quite fond
of her in her own way. Why should she not marry Jim Quentin? was a
question she often asked herself in idle, empty moments. It would be
a grand match for a penniless girl; a wedding would be a pleasant
novelty, no matter how quiet, and she herself was prepared to give the
affair her countenance, and to endow the young couple with a set of
plated nut-crackers that had scarcely ever been used! One day, roaming
rather aimlessly through the bazaar, she came across "Ibrahim," Mr.
Quentin's butler, and was not the woman to lose a rich opportunity of
cross-examining such an important functionary. She beckoned him aside
with an imperious wave of the hand, and commenced the conversation by
asking a very foolish question, "When did you hear from your master?"
seeing that there had been no mail in, since she had seen Ibrahim last,
"when is he expected?"
"Mr. Quentin not my master any more," he returned, with dignity, "I
take leave that time Sahib going Nicobars."
"Having made your fortune?" drawing down the corner of her mouth as she
spoke.
"I plenty poor man, where fortune getting?" he replied, with an air of
surprised and injured innocence.
"Stuff and nonsense! you know you butlers make heaps out of bachelors
like Mr. Quentin, who never look at their accounts, but just pay down
piles of rupees, like the idiots they are; and what about Mr. Lisle?"
Ibrahim grinned and displayed an ample row of ivory teeth.
"Ah," with animation, "that very good gentleman, never making no
bobbery! Plenty money got!"
"Plenty money! How do you know?"
"First time coming paying half—after two weeks paying _all_;" in
answer to the lady's gesture of astonishment. "Truth I telling! wages,
boats, bazaar, and _all_!"
"And what did Mr. Quentin say?"
"Oh," laughing, "telling Lisle, Sahib plenty rupees got, I poor devil!
Mr. Quentin very funny gentleman, making too much bobbery, swearing too
much, throwing boots and bottles, no money giving; I plenty fraiding,
and so I taking leave," concluded Ibrahim majestically.
This little side-light on Mr. Quentin's manners was a revelation to
Mrs. Creery. And so Lisle was _really_ rich! the dinner she had graced
at Aberdeen (on a mutton day), had been given at _his_ expense, and all
the establishment of servants, coolies, and boatmen had been maintained
by him. She pondered much over this discovery—and, marvellous to
relate, kept it to herself.
Colonel Denis had now been dead about two months, and his daughter was
once more to be seen out of doors, and walking about the island; but
how different she looked, what a change a few weeks had made in her
appearance. She was clad in a plain black dress, her eyes were dim and
sunken, her face was thin and haggard, her figure had lost its nice
rounded outlines. She was trying to accustom herself to her new lot in
life; to that empty bungalow on the hill-side, that she never passed
without a shudder, for did it not represent the wreck of her home?
Something else had also been scattered to the winds, blown away into
space like gossamer-web in a gale, I mean that airy fabric known as
"Love's Young Dream."
She had been dwelling on four words, more than she herself imagined; on
the promise, "I shall come back," breathed under the palm-trees that
night, that saw "flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all
armed!"
* * * * *
Helen occasionally spent a day with Mrs. Graham or Mrs. Durand; they
liked to have her with them, and endeavoured by every means in their
power, to distract her mind from dwelling, as it did incessantly, on
her recent loss. One morning, as she sat working in Mrs. Durand's cool,
shady drawing-room, doing her best to seem interested in her hostess'
remarks, they heard some one coming rapidly up the walk, and Captain
Durand sprang up the steps, and entered, holding a bundle of letters in
his hand.
"The mail is in from Rangoon," he said; "Rangoon and the Nicobars."
If he and his wife had not been wholly engrossed in sorting their
correspondence, they would doubtless have noticed, that their young
lady guest had suddenly become very red, and then very white, but they
were examining their letters, with the gusto of people to whom such
things are both precious and rare.
"By the way," exclaimed Captain Durand, looking up at last, "Quentin is
back; I met him on the pier."
Helen almost held her breath, her heart stood still, whilst her hostess
put into words a question she could not have articulated to save her
life.
"And Gilbert Lisle, did you see him?"
"Oh, no! he has gone on to Japan," responded her husband, as he
carelessly tore open a note. "He is a regular bird of passage!"
"Ah, I _thought_ we should not see him again," rejoined Mrs. Durand,
with a tinge of regret in her voice.
Helen listened as if she were listening to something about a stranger,
she bent her eyes steadily on her work, and endeavoured to compose her
trembling lips. Mrs. Durand, happening to glance at her, as, opening
an envelope, she said, "Why, here's a note from him!" was struck
by the strange, dead pallor of her face, and by the look of almost
desperate expectation in her eyes—eyes now raised, and bent greedily
on the letter in her own hand. This change of colour, this eager
look, was a complete revelation to that lady, who paused, drew in her
breath, and asked herself, with a thrill of apprehension, "Could it be
possible that Helen had lost her heart to Gilbert Lisle? Was _she_ the
attraction that had held him so fast at Port Blair?"
As she stared in a dazed, stupid sort of way, her young friend dropped
her eyes, bent her head, and resumed her work with feverish industry;
but, in truth, her shaking fingers were pricking themselves with the
needle, instead of putting in a single stitch!
"A note from Lisle? And pray what has he to say?" inquired Captain
Durand, ignorant of this by-play. "Here," holding out his hand, "give
it to me, and I'll read it."
"Camorta, March 2nd.
"DEAR MRS. DURAND,—As I have changed my plans, and am not returning
to Port Blair, I send you a line to bid you good-bye, and to beg you
to be good enough to accept my small sailing-boat which lies over at
Aberdeen. You will find her much more handy for getting about in, than
the detachment gig. My nets and fishing-gear I bequeath to Durand. I
am going on to Japan, _viâ_ rangoon and Singapore, and shall make my
way home by San Francisco. Hoping that we shall meet in England ere
long, and with kind regards to all friends at Ross,
"I remain,
"Yours sincerely,
"GILBERT LISLE."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Captain Durand, "that smart cutter of his is the
very thing for you, Em, and the fishing-tackle will suit me down to the
ground. I like Lisle uncommonly, but," grinning significantly as he
spoke, "this note of his, consoles me wonderfully for his departure."
Yes, so it might—but who was to console Helen? She felt like some
drowning wretch, from whom their only plank has just been torn, or as
a shipwrecked sailor, who had painfully clambered out of reach of the
waves and been once more cruelly tossed back among them.
It was only now at this moment of piercing anguish that she thoroughly
realized how much she had been clinging to Gilbert Lisle's promise, how
steadfastly she had believed in his words, "I shall come back."
With a feeling of utter desolation in her heart, with her ideal and
her hopes alike shattered, what a task was hers to maintain an outward
appearance of indifference and composure!
After a time Captain Durand went off to the mess, to hear the news,
and to look over the papers, leaving the two ladies _tête-à-tête_; his
wife affected to peruse her letters, reading such little scraps of them
aloud from time to time as she thought might amuse her companion, but
she was not enjoying them as usual. That look she had surprised in the
girl's eyes, haunted her painfully. She longed to go over to her, and
put her arm round her neck and whisper in her ear,—
"What is it? Tell me all about it, confide in _me_."
But somehow she dared not, bold as she was.—Recent grief had aged
Helen, and given her a gravity far beyond her years, and as she looked
across at that marble face, those downcast eyes, and busy fingers, she
found her kind, warm heart fail her. Whatever the hurt was, ay, were it
mortal, that girl meant to bear it alone.
She was more affectionate and sympathetic to her young friend than
usual, smoothed her hot forehead, kissed her, caressed her, and whilst
they sat together in the twilight in the verandah, looking out on the
dusky sky, found courage to murmur,—
"Dearest Helen, remember that I am your friend, not merely in name
only. Should you ever have any—any little trouble such as girls have
sometimes, you will come and share it with me, won't you? I am older,
more experienced by years and years, and I will always keep your
secrets, exactly as if they were my own!"
This was undoubtedly a strong hint; nevertheless, her listener merely
smiled and nodded her head, but made no other sign. "_Little_ trouble!"
She was on the rack all day long. She bore the torture of her hostess's
soft whispers and tender, sympathetic looks, which told her that she
guessed _all_. She bore the brightly-lit dinner-table, and Captain
Durand's cheerful recounting of the most thrilling news. She even
endured his eloquent praises of Gilbert Lisle without flinching. Little
did her gallant host guess the effort that those smiles and answers
cost her. Good, commonplace man! he had got over his brief love affair
fifteen years previously, and had forgotten it as completely as a tale
that is told. Mrs. Durand had a more vivid recollection of her own
experiences,—and a share of that fellow-feeling that makes us all
akin. She was amazed at Helen's fortitude, especially when she glanced
back over the past and remembered (and I hope this will not be put down
to her discredit) that when _she_ had seen the announcement of the
marriage of her first fancy in the paper, she had spent the remainder
of the day in hysterics and the subsequent week in tears. She walked
back with Helen, and left her herself at Colonel Home's door, and bade
her good-night with unusual tenderness. Then she retraced her steps,
arm-in-arm with her husband, whose mind was abruptly recalled from
planning a long day's sea-fishing, by her saying rather suddenly,—
"I know _now_ why Helen refused Dr. Parkes!"
"Oh!" contemptuously, "I could have told you the reason long ago, if
you had asked me. Because he was the same age as her father!"
"No, you dear, stupid man—but this is quite private. I am sure,"
lowering her voice, "that she likes Gilbert Lisle."
A long whistle was the only reply to his information for some seconds,
and then he said,—
"Now what has put _that_ into your head?"
"Her face when you came in and told us that he was not coming back. I
cannot get it out of my mind, it was only a momentary expression, she
rallied again at once; but that moment told me a tale that she has
hitherto guarded as a secret."
"You are as full of fancies and ridiculous, romantic ideas as if you
were seventeen instead of——"
"Don't name it!" she interrupted hastily, "the very leaves here have
ears!"
Her husband laughed explosively, and presently said,—
"I never knew such a woman as you are for jumping at conclusions. She
had a twinge of face-ache, that was all."
"A twinge of heart-ache, you mean. But what is the use of talking to
_you_?—you are as matter-of-fact as a Monday morning. And now, pray
tell me, though I suppose I might just as well ask Billy Home, did
Gilbert Lisle ever show her any attention?"
"Ha—hum—well, do you think that saving her life could be called an
attention?"
"Yes," eagerly; "yes, of course! I'd forgotten about that!"
"And another time he picked her off the mainland and brought her home
in what is now your boat, through a series of white squalls."
"Did he really?" the really, as it were, in large capitals.
"And he was there a few times. But you need not get any ideas into your
head about _him_, it was always Quentin, he was always hanging about
her in that heavy persistent way of his—it was Quentin, I tell you!"
"And _I_ tell you," responded his wife emphatically, "that it was, and
is, Gilbert Lisle. I recollect his saying, the night of the ball, what
a nice girl she was; or _I_ said it, and he agreed, which is the same
thing. And I remember perfectly, now that I think of it, noticing them
leaning over a gate, and looking just like a pair of lovers."
A loud and rudely incredulous haw-haw from Captain Durand was his only
reply.
"You may laugh as much as you like, but Mr. Lisle told me that he would
gladly give a thousand pounds to get out of the Nicobars trip, and the
last thing he said to me, as he bade me good-bye, was, 'I shall see
you again soon.' I remember all these things now, and put two and two
together, but I cannot make it out—I am utterly puzzled. Perhaps Mr.
Quentin will be able to throw some light on the subject!"
"Quentin wants to marry her himself."
"Not he! He only wished to be a dog in the manger, to engross the only
pretty girl in the place, that was all. I know him _well_. And now that
she has been left an orphan, without a fraction, he has as much idea of
making her Mrs. Quentin, as he has of flying over the moon!"
"All right, Em, time will tell.—I bet you a new bonnet that this time
next year, she will be Mrs. Q."
"No more than she will be Queen of England," returned his wife with
emphasis. This was positively the last word, and Mrs. Durand's
property, for they had now reached the steps of their own bungalow, and
consequently the end of their journey.