"FAREWELL, PORT BLAIR."
"Farewell at once—for once, for all—and ever."
_Richard II._
MRS. DURAND'S surmises were correct.
A few days after James Quentin's return, without any marked haste he
went over and called on Mrs. Home and Miss Denis. The former was an
arrant little match-maker, and was delighted to see that _débonnaire_
face once more. He was handsome, rich (?), and agreeable, he had been
devoted to her young friend previous to his departure for the Nicobars,
and, _of course_, it would be all settled now. With this idea in her
head, she presently effaced herself so as to give the gentleman ample
opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_. She even kept Tom and Billy out of the
way, and this was no mean feat.
Mr. Quentin murmured some polite stereotyped regrets, then he alluded
in rather strong language to "that vile hole Camorta." As he talked
he stared, stared hard at Helen, and wondered at the change he saw
in her appearance. She was haggard and thin; of her lovely colour
not a vestige remained, and the outlines of her face were sharp, and
had lost their pretty contour. She looked like a flower that had
been beaten down by the storm. Never in all his experience had he
beheld such a complete and sudden alteration in any one; he was glad
he had never thought of her seriously, and as to Lisle, he was well
out of it (thanks to his friend James Quentin); _he_ took everything
so seriously he would have been sure to have got the halter over his
head, and to have blundered into an imprudent match. His yes meant
yes; his no, no. Now he himself had a lightness of method, a nebulous
vagueness surrounded his most tender speeches; at a moment's notice,
he could slip off his chains, and run his head out of the noose, and
always without any outward unpleasantness—that was the best of the
affair. Gilbert Lisle was different, he was not used to playing with
such brittle toys as girls' hearts. Well, this girl had entirely lost
her beauty, so thought her visitor, as he contemplated her critically
and conversed of malaria and Malays. She had not a penny, and no
connections; he supposed, when she went back to England, she would
go out as a governess, or a companion, or music-teacher. He entirely
approved of young women being independent and earning their own bread.
If there was a subscription got up for her passage money, he meant to
do the handsome thing, and give fifty rupees (5_l._).
"I suppose you were surprised to hear about Lisle?" he said at last.
"Yes," looking at her questioner with complete composure.
"He left me at Camorta, you know. He is a queer, eccentric beggar, and
you would never suppose, to see him in his old fishing-kit, and with
his hands as brown and horny as a common boatman's, that he had been in
the Coldstreams, and was a regular London swell."
Helen made no reply, and he continued glibly,—
"He is considered a tremendous catch; they say his elder brother is
dying at Algiers—consumption—but he is not easy to please!"
"Is he not?" she echoed with studied indifference.
"No.—By Jove! Mrs. Creery did not think much of him; she was awfully
rough on him. How all you people did snub him! Many a good laugh I had
in my sleeve!" and he smiled at the recollection.
"I do not think that many people snubbed him," returned Helen with a
flushed cheek and flashing eye.
"Well, perhaps _you_ did not," returned Mr. Quentin, somewhat abashed.
"You know, you never snubbed any one but me," with a mental note that
she should live to be sorry for that same. "Lisle made me promise to
keep his secret. He wished to be accepted for himself for once, without
any _arrière pensée_ of money or title; and by George, he got what he
wanted with a vengeance—eh? I don't think he will try it again in a
hurry. He found his level,—the very bottom of the ladder, something
quite new!" and again he laughed heartily at the recollection.
"I suppose it was," with elaborate indifference.
"He had been having a big shoot in the Terai before he came here. He
was awfully taken with this place, the queer, unconventional life, and
stayed on and on greatly to my surprise. Many a time I wondered what he
saw in the place, though, of course, I was delighted to have him. My
luck was dead in." (So it was, _vide_ Ibrahim's domestic accounts!)
"Yes, of course it was pleasant for _you_," admitted Helen.
"He should have been a poor man; he had so much energy and resource,
and such Spartan tastes. Ten times a day I wished that we could change
places."
"I daresay," returned the young lady rather drily.
There was something—was it a tone of lurking scorn?—in this "I
daresay!" that irritated her listener, who instantly resolved to
administer a rap on the knuckles in return.
"His father is wild with him for roving about the world; he wants him
to marry and settle."
"Yes?"
"I believe he has an heiress in cotton-wool for him at home. I wish my
governor was as thoughtful!"
"No doubt he knows that _you_ are quite equal to finding such a
treasure for yourself," returned Miss Denis, with a very perceptible
touch of sarcasm.
Mr. Quentin laughed rather boisterously. It was new to him to hear
sharp speeches from ladies' lips, and now, looking at his watch and
rising with a sudden start, he said,—
"I declare I must be going. I had no idea it was so late. I've an
appointment (imaginary) at four o'clock, and I've only two minutes.
Well," now taking her hand, "and so you are off on Wednesday? I may
see you before that, if not, good-bye," holding her fingers with a
lingering pressure, and looking down into her eyes as if he felt
unutterable regret, quite beyond the reach of words; but in truth he
was conscious of nothing, beyond a keen desire to make a happy exit,
and to get away respectably (perhaps he had also a lurking craving for
a "peg"!). "Good-bye, I hope we shall meet again some day in England.
Perhaps you would drop me a line?" a query he had often found to have
an excellent and soothing effect at similar partings.
Helen took no notice of the suggestion, but merely bowed her head and
said very quietly,—
"Good-bye, Mr. Quentin, good-bye."
And then the gentleman took himself away in exaggerated haste,
muttering as he hurried down to the pier,—
"How white she looked, and how stiff she was. I'm hanged if I don't
believe she had a weakness for Lisle, after all. If _that's_ the case,
this humble, insignificant individual has put a pretty big spoke in her
wheel."
* * * * *
It is almost needless to mention that Helen was now accustomed to daily
interviews with Mrs. Creery, and to being cross-examined as to how she
had been left, whether Mr. Quentin had said "anything," and what she
"was going to do with all her coloured dresses?"
Eliza Creery was a pertinacious woman, and had not lost sight of her
designs upon the black silk gown (neither had Helen).
"My dear," she said, "if you ask my advice," the last thing that was
likely to occur to her listener, "you will sell all your things. They
will be a perfect boon here, and it is not unusual in cases of sudden
mourning, and utter destitution, such as yours." Helen winced and grew
very pale. "I really think that you might have had this made with a
little more style," touching her black dress. "But now," seriously,
"_what_ about your others?"
"Lizzie Caggett was asking about my cottons."
"Yes?" stiffening with apprehension.
"I told her that I would be only too glad to let her have them. There
are one or two that I cannot bear to look at. _He_ liked them," she
added under her breath.
"And for how much? What did you ask for them?"
"Why, nothing, of course!" returned Helen in amazement.
"Then she shan't have them. I shall not stand by and see you fleeced. I
shall certainly speak to her mother. What a horrible, grasping, greedy
girl; taking advantage of your innocence—she would not get round _me_
like that!" (Mrs. Creery never spoke a truer word).
"But they are useless, quite useless to me," exclaimed Helen.
"Rubbish! nonsense! is _money_ useless to any one? Did you give her
anything else?" demanded the matron sharply.
"Only my best hat, and a few new pairs of _gants de Suède_."
"This must be stopped _at once_. She has no conscience, no principle.
You will be giving her your white silk next, you foolish girl. You
must think of yourself, you have hardly a penny to live on, and are as
lavish as a princess, and utterly indifferent to your own interests.
Now, if you had spoken to _me_, I could have disposed of your cottons
and muslins for ready money. As it is, I shall take your black silk,
your white silk, your blue surah," running over these items with
infinite unction, "and give you a good price for them, considering that
they are second-hand. Your white satin low body would be too small, I'm
afraid; and your gloves are not my size (Mrs. Creery took sevens, and
Helen sixes); but I'll have your pinafore and brown hat."
"But indeed, thanking you very much for thinking of me, I do not wish
to sell anything. Some day I may want these things, and have no money
to replace them, don't you see?"
Mrs. Creery failed to see the matter in that light at all, and argued
and stormed; nevertheless, Helen was adamant.
"Aunt Julia would not be pleased, I'm sure," she said firmly. "And I
really could not do it, really I would not, Mrs. Creery."
"And I had such a fancy for your little black lace and jet
shoulder-cape!" whimpered that lady, on the verge of tears.
Helen paused, looked at her hesitatingly, and said,—
"I wonder if you would be very much offended if—if I——" here she
broke down.
But Mrs. Creery knew exactly what she wished to say, and rushed to her
rescue.
"Yes, that's it exactly," she cried eagerly, "a _capital_ idea, we will
exchange! I'll take your cape, which would be brown next year, and
give you something you will like far better, something that won't wear
out, and will serve to remind you of the six months you spent at Port
Blair." (As if Helen needed anything to remind her of that.) "Something
that, I'm sure, you will be delighted to have."
On these conditions the barter was agreed to, and the elder lady folded
up and carried away the cape. Doubtless she feared that Miss Denis
might yet change her mind.
The same afternoon Mrs. Creery's ayah sauntered down with a small
paper parcel in her hand, and when it was opened, Helen discovered an
exceedingly trumpery pair of shell bracelets, tied with grass-green
ribbon—total value of these ornaments, one Government rupee, in other
words, eighteen-pence!
Mrs. Home, who had heard of the fate of the little shoulder-cape,
became quite red with indignation, and was loud (for her) in her
denunciation of Mrs. Creery's meanness. But Helen was no party to her
anger and scorn, nay, for the first time for many weeks, she laughed
as merrily and as heartily as she had been wont to do in the days that
were no more.
* * * * *
The eventful Wednesday came that brought the English letters, and took
away Mrs. Home and Helen. The whole community rowed out to the _Scotia_
to see them off, laden with books and flowers, and eau de Cologne and
fruit. When I say the whole community, Mr. Quentin was the exception
that proved the rule. Jim Quentin was conspicuous by his absence,
and neither note nor bouquet arrived as his deputy. Mrs. Home was
keenly alive to his defection and extremely put out, though her anger
smouldered as fire within her, and she never breathed a word to Helen,
and thought that she had never seen a girl bear a disappointment so
beautifully.
There was maiden dignity! There was fortitude! There was self-control!
Mrs. Durand hung about her friend with little gifts and stolen
caresses,—she had not failed to notice that Apollo was not among the
crowd, and had whispered to her husband as they stood together, "_He_
is not here, you see, and the bonnet is _mine_."
To Helen she said,—
"Mind you write to me often; be sure you do not drift away from me, my
dear. When I go home, you have promised to come and see me, and, you
know, you would be going to my people now only they are in Italy at
present. Be sure you don't forget me, Helen."
"Is it likely?" she returned. "Have I so many friends? Do not be afraid
that I shall not write to you often, perhaps too often. I shall look
out for your letters far more anxiously than you will for mine, and is
it likely that I can ever forget you? You know I never could."
Mrs. Creery was present of course, and when time was up, and the bell
rang for visitors to descend to their boats, she actually secured the
last embrace, saying as she kissed Helen on either cheek,—
"So sorry you are going, dear. Of course you will write? I have your
address—15, Upper Cream Street. It has all been very sad for you, but
life is uncertain;" then—as a _bonne bouche_ reserved for the last, a
kind of stimulant for the voyage—she added impressively, "My sister,
Lady Grubb, will call on you in London—and now, really, good-bye." One
more final whisper yet in her ear, positively the last word, "Quentin
has treated you disgracefully."
A pressure of the hand and she was gone.
The steamer's paddles began to churn, to grind the water, the boats
rowed on alongside, their occupants waving handkerchiefs, till the
_Scotia_ gradually forged ahead and left them all behind.
Helen leant over the bulwarks, watching them and waving to the last.
How much she liked them all, how good they had been to her! As they
gradually fell far behind, even the final view of Mrs. Creery's broad
back and mushroom topee caused her a pang of unexpected regret.
The surrounding hills, woods, and water looked lovelier than she had
ever seen them, as if they were saying, "How can you bid us good-bye?
Why do you leave us?"
She gazed with straining vision towards the graveyard on the hill,
now fading so fast from eyes that would never see it more. Presently
Mount Harriet became sensibly diminished, then Ross itself dwindled
to a mere shadowy speck; Helen stood alone at the taffrail, taking an
eternal farewell of these sunny islands, which had once been to her
as an earthly paradise, where the happiest hours of her life had been
spent, and the darkest—where she had first made acquaintance with
love and death and grief! The little-known Andamans were gradually
fading—fading—fading. As she stood with her eyes earnestly fixed upon
the last faint blue outline, they were gone, merged in the horizon, and
lost to sight. She would never more behold them, save in her dreams!
With this thought painfully before her mind she turned slowly away,
and went below to her own cabin, and shutting fast the door, she threw
herself down on her berth and wept bitterly.