Locksley Hall.
Few travellers penetrate to the Andamans, unless it be an enthusiastic astronomer to witness a rare comet, or an enterprising professor, who happens to be fired with a desire to study the language and the skulls of the aborigines.
These islands are as yet sacred from the foot of the globe-trotter, Cook's tourists ignore them, and they lie in serene semi-savage seclusion, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, dimly known to the great outer world as the chief Indian convict settlement, and the scene of Lord Mayo's murder in 1872. The inland portions of the great and lesser Andamans have been but cursorily explored, (those who have made the attempt, having learnt by tragic experience that the inhabitants were addicted to cannibalism); but outlying islets, and fringes of the coast, have been opened up by the Indian Government, and appropriated for the benefit of thousands of convicts (chiefly lifers), who are annually poured into Port Blair—from Galle to the Kyber, from Aden to the borders of China, the cry is still they come!
Port Blair, the Government headquarters, is situated on Ross, a high conical islet that lies about a mile south of the Middle Andaman, and although of limited circumference, it boasts a stone church, barracks, a Commandant's residence, several gaols, a pier, a bazaar, a circulating library, and a brass band! Every foot of ground is laid out to marvellous advantage, and the neat gravelled pathways, thick tropical hedges, flowering shrubs and foliage plants, give the numerous brown bungalows which cover the hillsides, the effect of being situated in a large and well-kept garden.
The summit of the island commands a wide view: to the north lies the mainland with its sharply indented shores, and a wide sickle-shaped estuary, sweeping far away into the interior, where its wooded curves are lost among the hills; the southern side of Ross looks sheer out upon the boundless ocean, and receives the full force of many a terrible tropical hurricane, that has travelled unspent from the Equator.
There was not a ripple on that vast blue surface, one certain August evening, a few years ago—save where it fretted gently in and out, between the jagged black rocks that surrounded the island; the sea was like a mirror, and threw back an accurate reflection of boats, and hills, and wooded shores; distant, seldom-seen islands, now loomed in the horizon with vague, misty outlines; a delicate, soft, south wind barely touched the leaves of the big trees, among whose branches the busy green parrots had been chattering, and the gorgeous peacocks, screeching and swinging, all through the long, hot, sleepy afternoon.
Surely the setting sun was making a more lingering and, as it were, regretful adieu to these beautiful remote islands than to other parts of the world! No pen could describe, no brush convey, any idea of the vivid crimson, western clouds, and the flood of blinding golden light, that bathed the hills, the far-away islets, the tangled mangroves, and the glassy sea.
To the cool dispassionate northern eye, which may have first opened on a leaden sky, snow-capped hills, pine woods, and ploughed lands, there was a general impression of wildly gaudy, south sea scenery, of savage silence, and lawless solitude.
Soon that scarlet ball will have plunged below the horizon, a short-lived grey twilight have spread her veil over land and sea, the parrots' noisy pink bills will be tucked under their wings, and the turbulent peacocks have gone to roost.
Close to the flagstaff (which was planted on a kind of large, flat mound, at the highest point of the island), one human figure stood out in bold relief against the brilliant sunset; an elderly gentleman with grizzled hair and beard, a careworn expression, and mild, brown eyes,—eyes that were anxiously riveted on the at present sailless sea. He carried a small red telescope in his hand, and divided his time between pacing the short grass plateau, and spasmodically sweeping the horizon. For what was he looking so impatiently? He was looking for the smoke of the Calcutta steamer, that brought mails and passengers to Port Blair once in every six weeks. Think of but one mail in six weeks, ye sybarites of Pall Mall, revelling in a dozen daily posts, scores of papers, and all the latest telegrams from China to Peru! Imagine reading up forty days' arrears of your Times or Post; imagine six Punches simultaneously! Gladly as Colonel Denis usually hailed his letters, and especially the Weekly Gazette, yet it was neither news nor promotion that he was so restlessly awaiting now—his thoughts were altogether centred on a passenger, his only daughter, whom he had not seen for thirteen years, not since she was a little mite in socks and sashes, and now she was a grown-up, a finished young lady, coming out from England by this mail to be the mistress of his house! He was glad that this long anticipated day had dawned at last, and yet he scarcely dared to analyze his own feelings—he was ashamed to own, even in his inmost heart, that mingled with all his felicity, there is a secret dread—a kind of stifled misgiving. This girl who is to share his home within the next few hours, is in reality, as far as personal acquaintance goes, as much a stranger to him as if he had never seen her before, although she is his own little Nell, with whom he used to romp by the hour in the verandah at Karkipore, thirteen years ago. Those thirteen years stand between him and that familiar merry face, dancing gait, and floating yellow hair; they have taken that away, and what are they going to give him instead? Of course he and his daughter had corresponded by every mail, but what are nice affectionate letters, what are presents, yea photographs, when the individuality of the giver has long been blurred and indistinct; when the memory of a face, and the sound of a voice, have faded and faded, till nothing tangible remains but a name! Children of five years old have but short memories, and in Helen Denis's case, there was no one near her to revive her dying recollections.