A bird of passage

by B. M. Croker

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.