A bird of passage

by B. M. Croker

The elephant at Mount Harriet was a character; he was fifty years of age, and his name was "Chootie;" once upon a time he had got tired of drawing timber, and slaving for the Indian Government, and had coolly taken a holiday and gone off into the bush, where he had remained for three whole years. However, here he was, caught and once more in harness, waiting very discontentedly at the foot of the hill, with a structure on his back resembling an Irish jarvey, minus wheels, which was destined to carry six passengers.

Helen and Lizzie Caggett, with happy Dr. Malone between them, went on one side; Mrs. Creery, Mr. Quentin and Mrs. Home on the other, and presently they started off at quite a brisk pace; but the day was hot, the hill-road was rugged, and "Chootie" paused, like a human being, and seemed to express a wish to contemplate the landscape. His mahout expostulated in the strongest language (Hindustani). "What did he want?—water? Then he was not going to get water—pig that he was!" Nevertheless he exhausted his vocabulary in vain. Vainly did he revile Chootie's ancestors in libellous terms; Chootie remained inflexible, until two policemen armed with very stout sticks arrived, and whacked him with might and main, and once more he started off again, and kept up a promising walk for nearly half a mile; and now the praises lavished on him by his doating driver were even sweeter than new honey, but alas! he was praised too soon. Without the slightest warning, he suddenly plunged off the road down a place as steep as the side of, not a house—but a church; deaf to Mrs. Creery's screams and the mahout's imprecations! He had happened to notice a banana tree—he was extremely partial to bananas!—and he made his way up to it, tore off all the branches within his reach, and devoured them with as much deliberation and satisfaction, as if there were not seven furious, frightened, howling, screaming human beings seated on his back. He flatly refused to stir until he chose! The policemen were not within sight, and he seemed to be tossing a halfpenny in his own mind, as to whether he would go for a ramble through the jungle or return to the path of duty which led to Mount Harriet and his afternoon rice. The afternoon rice had it, and he accordingly strolled back, nearly tearing his load off the howdah as he passed under big branches—but that he evidently considered was entirely their affair—and then climbed in a leisurely manner up the steep bank he had recently descended, and resumed the public road,—merely stopping now and then, to snatch some tempting morsel, or to turn round and round in a very disagreeable fashion. The fact was he was not accustomed to society, nor to carrying a load of pleasure-seekers, and he did not like it. Dragging timber and conveying stores was far more to his taste, and, besides this, Mrs. Creery's squeals, and her lively green umbrella, annoyed him excessively; he had taken a special dislike to her;—Chootie was not an amiable elephant, and would have thoroughly enjoyed tossing the lady with his trunk—and stamping on her subsequently. At last the party found themselves in front of the Mount Harriet bungalow, to their great relief and delight, and scrambled down a ladder, for of course, their late conveyance would not condescend to kneel. Mrs. Creery, once safe on terra firma, was both bold and furious; and, standing on the steps, harangued the mahout in Hindustani on the enormity of the elephant's behaviour. She called him all the epithets she could immediately bring to mind, said she would complain to the General, and have him shipped to the Nicobars—that he was an ugly, unruly, untamed brute!

Naturally the elephant understood every word of this! (Hindustani is to them, as it were, their native language.) He calmly waited till the irate lady had said her say and furled (oh, foolish dame!) her umbrella; and then he slowly turned his trunk in her direction like a hose; there was a "whish," and instantly she and her elegant costume were drenched from head to foot in dirty water. What a spectacle she was! What a scene ensued! Vainly she fled; the wetting was an accomplished fact; it had been very sudden, and disastrously complete. Dr. Malone actually lay down and rolled in the grass, like the rude uncivilized Irish savage that he was; Miss Caggett was absolutely hysterical, and screamed like a peacock. Helen and Mrs. Home, with difficulty restraining themselves, endeavoured to ameliorate the condition of the unhappy lady. They escorted her inside the bungalow, helped her to remove her gown, gloves, and hat; she was for once in her life actually too angry to speak—she wept. Her dress had to be dispatched to the cook-house to be washed and dried, and she, of course, was in consequence prevented from taking the head of the table, and had to have her meal sent out to her in the retirement of the bedroom, where she discussed it alone. And the worst of it was, that she met with but little real sympathy. When she reappeared once more in public, she was met with wreathed smiles and broad grins. Such is friendship! The company wandered about the hill after dinner, and Helen, thinking to checkmate James Quentin for once, offered her society to Dr. Parkes, who was only too pleased to accompany her—as long as she did not go too far, and there was no climbing. To punish Miss Denis for her want of taste, Apollo once more devoted himself to Lizzie,—being under the foolish impression that, in so doing, he was searing Helen's very soul. It was soon tea-time; there was no moon, for a wonder; people had to depend on the stars and the fire-flies, and Mrs. Creery,—who had had a most disagreeable day,—gave the signal for an early departure. They all descended by a long, steep, winding pathway through the jungle, instead of by the more public road, as their boats were awaiting them at Hopetown pier; Mrs. Creery led the van, in a jampan carried by four coolies—and, indeed, all the ladies preferred this hum-drum mode of transport to trusting themselves again to "Chootie," who was the bearer of some half-dozen adventurous spirits, whom he took right through the jungle, thereby reducing their garments to rags, and covering their faces with quite a pretty pattern of scratches! Mr. Quentin travelled per jampan, but Mr. Lisle walked, and considered that he had much the best of it; so he had—for he walked at Helen Denis' right hand, and they both found this by far the most delightful part of the day!—whether this was due to the surrounding influences, or to each other's society, I will leave an open question. About a dozen ticket-of-leave men accompanied the procession with flaring lights, as it wound down and down the rugged pathway through the forest, and gave the whole scene a fantastic and picturesque appearance. It was a lovely night, though moonless; millions of silent stars spangled the heavens, millions of fire-flies twinkled in the jungle. Helen never forgot that balmy tropical evening, with the glow of torches illuminating the dark, luxuriant underwood, the scent of the flowers, and the faint sound of the sea.

Mr. Lisle realized as he descended that steep hill-path, that he was deeply in for it at last, and in love with this Helen Denis, helplessly in love—hopelessly in love—for he might not speak, nor ever "tell his love;" he could only play the part of confidant to James Quentin, and, perchance, the thankless rôle of best man!

Little did he guess that the young lady at his side was not wholly indifferent to him; that her blushes, when he appeared with Jim, were to be put down to his own, not to his companion's credit; that his mere presence had the curious effect of abstracting the interest from every one else, as far as she was concerned—though, to be candid, she never admitted this tell-tale fact to herself. A gleam of the truth, a ray of rapture, came to Gilbert Lisle by the flash of one of those flaming torches,—was it imaginary? or was it not? She smiled on him, as, he believed, a girl only smiles on a man she cares for—and yet Jim was absent—Jim was yards behind, a leaden burden to his lagging bearers.

A wild, ecstatic idea flashed through his mind, that she might—might not care for Quentin, after all! But this notion was speedily extinguished by his friend, who had noticed Lisle in attendance on Miss Denis on the way down the hill,—noticed that they stood a little apart on the pier before embarking, and neither "liked nor loved the thing he saw!" Lisle the invulnerable was proof no longer. Lisle was a good-looking fellow, despite his shabby clothes and sunburnt skin. Yes, he had somewhat overlooked that fact. But Lisle was not a ladies' man, and he was a man of honour, and Mr. Quentin fully determined to give him to understand that he must not trespass on his preserves. Miss Denis belonged exclusively to him. And now let us privately examine Mr. Quentin's mind. Briefly stated, he did not "mean anything," in other words, he did not wish to marry her now—that fevered dream was past. He was not an atom in love with her either; she was too irresponsive, and, in fact, too—as he expressed it to himself—"stupid." Between ourselves, if any wandering damsel had appeared upon the scene, he was ready to whistle Miss Denis down the wind at once! But damsels were rare at Ross—and he still admired her greatly; he did not mean to "drop" her, till he went away, and he intended to take precious good care that no one should have it in their power to say that she had dropped him—much less, abandoned him for another. His character as a lady-killer was at stake; he could not, and would not, lose what was as precious to him as the very breath of his nostrils.

He accordingly took an early opportunity of giving Lisle what he called "a bit of a hint."

"I saw you making yourself very agreeable to the fair Helen yesterday," he remarked with affected bonhomie. "You mustn't make yourself too agreeable, you know!"

"Why not?" demanded his companion with exasperating composure.

"Why, not? My dear fellow, the idea of your asking me such a question! You know very well why not."