George Manville Fenn (continued 11)

There was nothing for it but to lie still and wait, for there was a possibility of the search being ended; but to their agony and despair, the vessel was allowed to come slowly floating back, the search being continued till, as they came nearly opposite, one of the crew uttered a loud shout, and pointed to where, like a silvery patch in the darkness, the sun was shining in upon the doctor’s glistening bald head.

The next minute the prahu’s stem was forced in amongst the bushes and overhanging boughs, and half a dozen Malays dropped from her side right into the boat.

Doctor Bolter made a desperate attempt at defending his charge, but one of the prahu’s crew leaped right down upon his back, jerking his arm so that the first shot from his revolver went into the jungle, the second through the bottom of the sampan, and the third remained in the pistol-chamber, for the trigger was not drawn, the pistol being wrenched from his hand.

The next few minutes were occupied in binding roughly him and his men, and then, in spite of his angry denunciations and threats of the British vengeance, they were hauled into the prahu. Helen was slung up—she being quite prostrate now—and amidst the laughter and chattering of the swarthy Malays, the prahu’s head was turned towards the little river, with the sampan towing behind, and the boats soon after went rushing through the water on their upward way.

“Horrible!” muttered the doctor, as he realised his position. “They will take us up the little river to that scoundrel’s place in the jungle, and I never told a soul where we were going. Was ever anything so unlucky? As for that Murad, once let me get the opportunity, and he shall smart for this—a vile, treacherous scoundrel! Poor Helen, what can I do!”

He drew his breath painfully through his teeth as he uttered these words, for just then a showily-dressed Malay went to where Helen was seated, and going down upon one knee, he raised her head.

“Poor girl, she is fainting!” muttered the doctor. Then his heart seemed to stand still, for Helen uttered a piteous cry for help, and for the first time the doctor saw that the showily-dressed Malay supporting Helen’s head was the Rajah himself!

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

Riches Take to Themselves Wings.

“Ah, Grey, my child,” said little Mrs Bolter, with a loud burst of sobbing, as soon as they were alone, “if ever you marry, don’t marry a medical man! I try so hard—Heaven knows how hard—not to let such thoughts come into my mind; but I’ve altered terribly, my dear, since I was married. The doctor has made me love him very much; and it’s being so fond of him that has caused this dreadful jealous feeling to spring up; and it finds vent in my being snappish to him, and complaining about all sorts of trifles that are of no consequence at all!”

“But you ought not to let such thoughts come into your mind,” said Grey, reproachfully.

“I know I ought not, my dear,” said the unhappy little body, clinging to her young friend’s hand; “but they will come. It’s just as if I were being tempted by mocking spirits, which keep on pretending to open my eyes when the doctor is out.”

“Open your eyes, dear Mrs Bolter?” said Grey, who found relief for her own sore heart in trying to soothe another’s.

“Yes, my dear. I’m confessing quite openly to you now, my dear; but I know that you will never betray me. They seem to open my eyes to all sorts of things, and make me see the doctor, when he is called in to ladies, taking their bands and feeling their pulses; and oh, my dear, it is very dreadful to sit at home and think that your husband is holding some handsome woman’s hand and wrist, and feeling the beatings of her pulses, and perhaps all the time forgetting that he has a poor, anxious little wife at home thinking he is so long away!”

“When that same husband loves you very dearly, and is most likely longing to be back by your side,” said Grey, reproachfully.

“If one could only feel that,” said Mrs Bolter, “instead of being in such torture and misery, and wishing a hundred times a day that I had never listened to the doctor, and given up our quiet little home!”

“When you have come out to make his life so happy?” said Grey, smiling.

“I try to, my dear; but I can’t help thinking sometimes,” said the poor little woman, pathetically, “that his heart is more devoted to Solomon’s gold—”

“Oh, Mrs Bolter!”

“And apes.”

“My dear Mrs Bolter!”

“And peacocks,” sobbed the little woman, “than it is to me. Ah, my dear, when you marry—”

“I shall never marry, Mrs Bolter,” said Grey, with a sad ring in her voice.

“Oh, you don’t know, my child. I used to say so, and think that I was as firm as a rock, and as hard as iron; but, oh, these men—these men—when once you listen to their dreadful, insinuating talk, they seem to get the better of your proper judgment, and end by completely turning you round their finger.”

Grey smiled in her face and kissed her.

“There, there!” cried Mrs Bolter, changing her tone, “I am afraid I have lowered myself terribly in your eyes this morning, my dear. I’m growing into a very, very strange creature, and dreadfully weak! Those torturing thoughts keep suggesting to my foolish heart that the doctor has gone up the river on purpose to see the Inche Maida!”

“Oh, no; he cannot!” said Grey, smiling.

“Well, perhaps not, my dear; but whether or no, if he was to come back now, and confess that he had done so, I feel perfectly certain that, after scolding him well, I should forgive him. I’ve grown to be a very different body to the one you knew when you used to come to us from the Miss Twettenhams’.”

“Now, look here, dear Mrs Bolter,” said Grey, who, in her friend’s trouble, seemed to have changed places with her, and become the elder of the two, “I believe Dr Bolter to be a really good, true man, to whom I should go in trouble and speak to as if he were my father, sure that he would be kind and wise, and help and protect me, whether my trouble were mental or bodily.”

“My dear,” cried Mrs Bolter, gazing at her with admiration, “you talk like a little Solomon! Ah!” she cried impatiently, “I wish there had never been a Solomon at all!”

“Why?” said Grey, wonderingly.

“Because then Harry would never have been always dreaming about gold, and Tarshish and Ophir, and all that stuff!”

“My dear Mrs Bolter,” continued Grey, affectionately, “I feel that I am perfectly right about Doctor Bolter, and I hope you will not be hurt when I tell you that I think you are very hard and unjust to him!”

“Hurt, my darling!” sobbed the little woman, “no, indeed I am very grateful, my dear, and I wish you would scold me well. It would do me good!”

“I am sure, then, without scolding you,” said Grey, smiling, “that the doctor is one of the best of men!”

“He is—he is, indeed, my dear!” cried Mrs Bolter; “and I’m sure I’d forgive him anything!”

“And you have nothing to forgive,” said Grey. “I am sure of it; and I hope and pray that you will not be so unjust!”

“Do you think I am unjust, my dear?” said the little lady.

“Unintentionally, yes,” replied Grey; “and it is such, a pity that there should be clouds in such a happy home!”

“You—you are—a dear little angel of goodness, Grey!” sobbed Mrs Bolter; “and you seem to come like sunshine into my poor, weak, foolish heart; and I’ll never be suspicious or unkind to him again! He’s only studying a little up the river of course; and I’m—as you’ve shown me—a weak, foolish, cruel—”

“Affectionate, loving wife,” interrupted Grey, who felt herself crushed the next moment in little Mrs Bolter’s arms.

“Bless you, my dear!” she cried. “I’ll—”

“Hush!” whispered Grey. “Here is my father!” The little lady hastily wiped her eyes as she glanced through the veranda, and saw the bent, thin, dried-up figure of the old merchant coming through the burning sunshine past the window, and then he stopped and tapped at the door.

“May I come in?” he said. “I’m not a patient.”

“Yes, yes, come in!” cried Mrs Bolter, cheerfully.

“How do—how do?” he cried, on entering. “Weel, Grey bairnie, how is it with ye?”

He kissed her in his dry fashion, smiling slightly as he smoothed his child’s fair hair, and bending down to kiss her.

“I’m verra hot, and verra dry and parched up like, so I thought I’d joost step in and ask for a glass of watter, and joost a soospeeshun of the doctor’s bad whuskee to kill the insects.”

“Which I’m sure you shall have, Mr Stuart,” cried little Mrs Bolter, eagerly.

“Weel, Grey, my bairnie, ye look red in your een and pale, when you ought to be verra happy to think things are all so pleasant and smooth for you.”

“Indeed, I try to be very happy and contented, father,” she said, with a slight catching of the breath.

“Try,” he cried, “try? Why, it ought to want no trying; you ought to be as happy as the day is long.”

“For shame, Mr Stuart,” cried Mrs Bolter, handing him the large cool tumbler of water with the whiskey already in. “Would you have her show no sympathy for people who are all in trouble? It’s a weary, miserable world, and I wonder you can look as happy as you do.”

“Hoot—toot, Madam! weary miserable world! Here are you with the best of husbands. You ought to be ready to jump for joy.”

“But I’m not,” said the little woman, passionately. “But I’m not so miserable as I was.”

“That’s a comfort,” said the little merchant, drily; and he took a sip from his tumbler—a goodly sip—as if he intended to finish all that was there. “Hech! madam, ye didna forget the whuskee.”

“Is it too strong, Mr Stuart? Let me put in a little more water.”

“Mair watter! nay; ye’d spoil a verra decent drink for a hot day.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Hah! ye ought to be verra happy indeed, wumman, for the doctor’s a good man, and a trusty fren’. Hah! that’s good whuskee,” he added, with a sigh of satisfaction after a deep draught. “Life would be but a sore lookout in these parts wi’-out joost a soop o’ whuskee to take the taste o’ the crocodiles out o’ the watter.”

“It is very hot out of doors, is it not, father?” said Grey, who was wondering what he meant to say.

“Ay, it’s hot enough,” he replied. “An’ so ye’re not verra happy, Mrs Bolter? Ay, but ye ought to be, and so ought my child Grey here, wi’ every comfort in life except extravagances, which I don’t hold with at all. She lives well, and dresses quietly, as a young lady should, and her father has not set up a grand house to flash and show in, and then have to give it up, and go and live in one that’s wee.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said Mrs Bolter, colouring slightly, and looking indignant. “But if you are hinting at the doctor being extravagant, I cannot sit here without resenting it, for a more careful man never lived.”

“Ay, but he is a sad dog, the doctor,” said old Stuart, with a twinkle full of malice in his eye.

“How dare you say such a thing to me—his wife!” cried Mrs Bolter, indignantly.

“Hoot! wumman; dinna be fashed!” exclaimed old Stuart, who seemed delighted to have roused a spirit of opposition in his friend’s wife. “But I’ll say this o’ him,” he continued, gradually growing more Scottish of accent; “he does keep gude whuskee. Ay, I was na’ speaking o’ him when I talked aboot lairge and sma’ houses, but o’ poor Perowne. Ay, but it’s a bad job.”

“What, about poor Helen?” said Mrs Bolter. “Ay, and his affairs. I suppose ye ken a’?”

“His affairs?” exclaimed Mrs Doctor. “What do you mean?”

“Oh! I thought a’ Sindang knew he’d failed. Sax hundred pounds o’ my money goes with the rest. But there, puir mon, he’s in trouble enough wi’ the loss o’ his daughter, and I’ll never say a word about it more.”

“Is Mr Perowne in fresh trouble then, father?” said Grey, eagerly.

“Weel, my lassie there’s naught fresh about it, for he must have expected it for a year or two. He’s been going down-hill a lang time, and noo he’s recht at the bottom.”

“Has he failed, father?”

“Joost ruined and bankrupt, my lassie, and Helen won’t have a penny to call her own—a proud, stuck-up—”

“Hush, father! I cannot bear it,” cried Grey, with spirit. “Helen Perowne is my friend and schoolfellow, and surely she is in trouble enough to ask our sympathy and not our blame!”

“Why, how now, lassie!” cried the old man angrily. “Ay, but ye’re quite right,” he said, checking himself. “We ought to pity them, and not jump upon ’em when they’re down. Ye’re quite recht, Grey, my bairnie—quite recht.”

“Oh, Mr Stuart, how shocking; and just when he is so ill and cast down! Grey, my child, I must go and see if I can be of help to him. Will you stay with your father?”

“Ay, she’ll stay, and you may too, Mrs Bolter, for Perowne has gone across to the Residency, and before now they’re awa’ up the river to try and find his poor lassie. Ye’re quite recht, Grey, my child; and if they find her and bring her back, stop wi’ her and comfort her, and do the best ye can. I’m sorry for them, for we’re none o’ us pairfect. But this is verra gude whuskee, Mrs Bolter. When do ye expect the Doctor home?”

“I don’t know, Mr Stuart,” she said, sadly. “Soon, I hope; but when he does come back he’ll have to go after the expedition. It’s very sad to be a doctor’s wife.”

“To be wife to some doctors,” said old Stuart, laughing; “but not to our Bolter. Eh, but ye’re a lucky wumman to get him. If ye hadn’t taken him, I believe I should have made him marry my lassie here. There, I must be for going though, for my hands are full. I’m trying to save a few hundreds for poor Perowne out of the wreck.”

“When shall I see you again, father?” said Grey, clinging to him affectionately.

“Oh, heaps o’ times, my bairnie, when ye don’t expect it. I’m always looking out after ye, but I know ye’re all recht wi’ Mrs Bolter here, so do all ye can.”

He nodded and smiled as he went out of the room, but looked in again directly.

“Ye needna be uneasy you two,” he said, “for I’m having a watch kept over ye both, though ye don’t ken it; so go on joost as usual. If I hear of the doctor coming, Mrs Bolter, I’ll let ye know.”

They heard his steps in the veranda, and directly after saw his bent, thin figure out in the scorching sun, with no further protection than a bit of muslin round his old straw hat, and looking as if he were not worth fifty pounds in the world, and the last man to be the father of the graceful little maiden sitting holding Mrs Bolter’s hand.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

The Fire Burns Again.

Days of anxiety and watching, with no news of the expedition which had started directly after Grey Stuart’s father had crossed over to the island. The English community at Sindang were extremely uneasy, for it struck them that the Malays were keeping aloof, and that their servants looked ill-conditioned and sulky.

A strange silence seemed to reign in the place, with an almost utter absence of trade. No boats came down with flowers and fruit, and no cheerful intercourse was carried on as heretofore. Nothing had been seen of the Inche Maida, and Murad was quite an absentee; while not a word had been brought down the river relating to the doings of the expedition.

In accordance with the Resident’s secretly-issued orders, every European left stood in readiness to flee to the Residency island, where the little garrison, under the care of a subaltern, kept strict watch and ward, and held themselves prepared to go to the aid of the merchants and their families, should there be need.

But day after day glided by, and still no doctor—no news.

“Poor Mr Perowne!” said Mrs Bolter one afternoon, as she sat talking to Grey Stuart, and discussing the terrible state of his affairs, of which the merchant made no secret; “it will be a sad downfall for them; but there, there, merchants fall and rise again very quickly, and let’s hope all will come right in the end—Wasn’t that the doctor’s step, my dear?”

“No,” said Grey, quietly, as she tried to look free from uneasiness.

“I wish we could get some news, my dear,” sighed Mrs Bolter.

“All in good time,” said Grey, looking happier than she felt. “We shall hear soon.”

“I—I hope so, my dear,” sighed Mrs Bolter; “but it is very sad to be a wife, waiting as I wait.”

“But with patience now,” said Grey, smiling. “You are happy now in your mind?”

“Ye-s! Oh! yes I am now, my dear; and I will never let such thoughts gain an entrance again.”

“I know you will not,” said Grey, leaning towards her to lay her hand upon the little lady’s arm, in token of gentle sympathy, for the tears were in Mrs Bolter’s eyes, and she showed in pallor how deeply she was feeling the absence of husband and brother.

That day the little station appeared as it were asleep in the hot sunshine, and the silence was oppressive in the extreme. One of the Malays, who seemed to take an interest in Mrs Bolter, consequent upon his having been cured by the doctor of a very dangerous complaint, had been started up the river in his boat, to see if he could learn any news of the party, and this messenger was anxiously expected back.

“I can’t help it, my dear,” said Mrs Bolter, turning to Grey, after some hours’ silence, “I can’t help thinking that something serious is wrong. Oh! how shocking it would be to be deprived of our protectors!”

“But Dr Bolter has been away for longer at a time than this, has he not?” said Grey, as she sat there, wondering whether the officers of the expedition were safe—above all, Captain Hilton.

“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, with a sigh; “he has been away longer before now; but no news of my brother—no news of him—it is very hard to bear.”

“No, no, no,” whispered Grey, passing a soft arm round her neck; “try and be patient—try and think hopefully of everything. We must be patient at a time like this.”

“But you cannot feel as I do, my dear,” cried Mrs Bolter. “You have friends away, but not one whom you dwell upon as I do.”

Grey’s eyes wore a very piteous aspect, but she said nothing, only did battle with a sigh, which conquered and fought its way from her labouring breast.

“But I am trying, Grey, my darling,” said the little woman, drying her eyes; “you know how patient I have been, and how I have taken your advice. Not one allusion have I made to the Inche Maida since you talked to me as you did. Now, have I not been patient?”

“You have indeed,” said Grey, smiling at her sadly.

“And I’m going to take your advice thoroughly, for I’m beginning to think that the little girl I began by patronising has grown wiser than I. There, you see, I have dried my eyes, and—Bless my heart, here is Mr Stuart, and he will see that I have been crying.”

She jumped up and ran out of the room as the little merchant came to the door, and entered without ceremony.

“Well, Grey, my bairnie,” he said, as she kissed him affectionately, while, as soon as he had drawn back, he took out his broad kerchief to dab his brow, and seemed to wipe the kiss carefully away.

“You have news, father?” cried Grey, eagerly. “Pray speak!”

“Well, don’t hurry me, child,” he replied. “I’ve just come from the landing-stage—and I’ve seen that Malay fellow, Syed—and he says the expedition is coming back.”

“Coming back, father? Oh! why did you not speak before?”

“Syed has just come down with the stream. The water’s low and they’ve got aground a few miles up, but they expected to be afloat soon.”

“But is anyone hurt, father? Have they found Helen? Pray—pray speak!”

“Only a few of the men a bit hurt, it seems. Officers all right,” said the old man, speaking very coolly, and consequently in excellent English.

“But Helen? Have they found Helen?”

“It seems not, from what the fellow knew,” said the merchant, coolly. “Where’s Mrs Bolter?” he said, in a low voice.

Grey’s heart seemed to stand still. “Oh! father!” she sighed, “is he hurt?”

“No; he’s aboard,” replied the merchant. “But where is she?”

“She left the room as you came in; but why do you not speak out?”

“I was thinking o’ Mrs Bolter, my dear. Isn’t she a bit—you know—jealous, lassie?”

“Don’t ask me such questions, father,” cried Grey, in a low voice. “What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking she’ll be a bit put out if it is as I hear.”

“Why, father?” cried Grey, as her mind filled with strange imaginations. “But tell me quickly,” she whispered, “is Mr Chumbley safe?”

“Yes, yes,” said old Stuart; “he’s safe enough, lassie.”

“And—and—”

“The Resident? Yes; he’s well.”

“But father, you—you have not told me about Captain Hilton.”

“Hilton? Oh, ay, he’s all well! Hang it if here isn’t that Barlow woman! I left her at the landing-place pumping Syed.”

As he finished speaking, Mrs Barlow, panting, hot, and excited, half ran into the room.

“No news—no news of poor Mr Rosebury!” she cried; “but oh, my dear Mrs Bolter—my dear Mrs Bolter!”

“What is it—what is it?” cried that lady, opening the door, and entering the room, trembling visibly. “You’ve brought me some terrible news! I know you have! Speak to me—speak directly!”

“Yes, yes, my dear: but try and bear it with fortitude.”

“Yes, I will,” she panted. “My brother—is dead!”

“No, no,” sobbed Mrs Barlow; “there is no news of him; but the Malay has told me all!”

“All? All what?” cried Mrs Bolter.

“They found Doctor Bolter at the Inche Maida’s.”

“I knew it!” cried Mrs Bolter, excitedly.

“And he and the Inche Maida have been up one of the little rivers in his boat, and the officers caught them, and brought them back.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

Help in Need.

If little Mrs Bolter had seen her lord—the quiet, suave medical man, who by his genuine admiration had so late in life won her heart—she would have trembled with the idea that he was about to fall down in a fit of apoplexy. For as he realised who was the showily-dressed Malay who had taken Helen Perowne in his arms, he first turned sallow with the heart-sinking sensation consequent upon seeing his helpless charge in the hands of one who, spite of his assumption of English manners and customs, remained at heart a fierce and unscrupulous savage.

But the next moment the pallor passed away, his face flushed with rage, and as his indignation increased, he became absolutely purple.

He made a furious struggle to escape from those who held him and get to Helen’s side; for in those angry moments his English blood was on fire, and little, stout, short-winded, and pretty well exhausted by previous efforts as he was, he forgot everything but the fact that there was a helpless girl—an English lady—in deadly peril, and asking his aid. Numbers—personal danger—his own want of weapons—all were forgotten; and the little doctor would have attempted anything then that the bravest hero could have ventured to save Helen Perowne from her captors.

But it was not to be: one man, however, brave, when left to his natural strength of arm, is as nothing against a score; and literally foaming now with rage, Doctor Bolter, as he was mastered by the Sultan’s men, had nothing left but his tongue for weapon, and this—let him receive justice—he used to the best of his power while Murad remained on deck.

Dog, coward, reptile, contemptible villain, disgrace to humanity, fiend in human form, scoundrel whom he would kick—these and scores of similar opprobrious terms the doctor applied to the Rajah, making the crew of the prahu scowl and mutter, and draw their krisses in a threatening manner, as they looked at Murad for orders to slay the infidel dog who dared revile their chief.

But in his calm triumph Murad stood gazing in a sneering irritating way at the doctor, speaking no word, but seeming to say—so the doctor interpreted it:

“Curse and rail as you will, I have won, and no words of yours can hurt me.”

“Will nothing move you, dog that you are?” cried the doctor. “Oh, if I had but my liberty!” and his rage increased to such a pitch that his anger approached the ridiculous, for, failing English terms, he turned round and swore at the Rajah in Latin, in French, and finally rolled out a series of ponderous German oaths garnished with many-syllabled adjectives.

Murad seemed moved at last, and after calmly walking to and fro the bamboo deck, he suddenly turned upon the doctor.

“Silence, English dog!” he hissed; “or my men shall kris you, and throw you out!”

“Dog yourself!” roared the doctor. “Oh! if I had you sick in bed for twenty-four hours! I’d—”

“Silence!” roared Murad, fiercely, for he noted the ominous looks of his men, and felt that if he did not resent these insults he would be losing caste amongst them; and as he spoke he struck the doctor—bound and helpless as he was as to his hands, and held by a couple of the prahu’s crew—a violent blow across the mouth.

The doctor’s lip was cut, and the blood trickled down his chin as the Rajah turned contemptuously from him, and then staggered head first, and finally fell prone upon his face. For it was the only retaliation in Doctor Bolter’s power, and he took it: as the Rajah turned, the doctor threw all the strength he had left into one tremendous kick, as a scoundrel should be kicked, and the above was the result.

Furious with rage the Rajah struggled to his feet, whipped out his kris and dashed at the prisoner; but just then there was a warning shout, and a small sampan that had been coming rapidly down-stream hitched on to the prahu, and one of the occupants climbed on board.

He ran to the Rajah, and said something in a low voice which made Murad turn colour; and hastily thrusting his kris back in its sheath, he began to issue orders to his crew.

“I’m glad he didn’t kill me,” muttered the doctor; “I’m glad for Mary’s sake; but I’m not sorry I kicked the villain all the same. What are they about to do now?”

He soon learned, for the Sultan’s orders resulted in the prahu’s crew imitating his boatmen’s manoeuvre, running her close into the bank and under the shelter of the broad, overhanging boughs, the place being so well suited that even the large naga was entirely concealed.

As soon as these plans were being carried out, the doctor had been hurried—in spite of some resistance—into the after-part of the boat, where he was roughly thrown down upon the deck; but he knew from what was being done that help must be close at hand—and help of a substantial nature, or else the occupants of this large and well-armed craft would not have hidden and left the river clear.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “it may be meant as an ambush, and some of our friends are running the risk of capture.”

He felt lightened though at heart, and lay perfectly still—not in obedience to his captors, but to listen as he gazed straight up at the leaves and boughs above his head.

The time went on, and from being red hot with passion the doctor began to cool down; his heart had ceased to bound, and the burning sensation in his temples became less painful. He wondered where they had placed Helen, then whether there was any boat coming down the river; and at last, so still was everybody, so silent the leafy arcade, that the doctor’s natural history proclivities began to be even then aroused.

For as he lay there upon his back, first one and then another brilliant fly came and darted about through the network of sunrays; while soon after there was a beautiful bird perched upon a twig not ten feet from his face, where he could see the varied tinting of its feathers. Then, as it flew off, he saw what had alarmed it, and that it was not the crew of the boat, but first one and then another, till there were quite half a dozen monkeys of an extremely rare kind climbing and playing about in the branches of one of the biggest trees. Then came close to him a wonderfully-tinted parroquet, and then a lustrous sunbird began to dart about in an open space.

“If I only had my gun,” muttered the enthusiast; and then he was listening intently to the beat of oars.

The doctor’s thoughts were interrupted the next moment by some one kneeling down beside him, and he saw the gleaming eyes and white teeth of Murad, who drew the doctor’s attention to a bare kris which he held in his hand, and then pointed at his prisoner.

“Look!” he whispered; “if you make a sound while that boat goes by, I shall kill you as I would a dog!”

“Thankye,” said the doctor, quietly; and he lay still thinking.

There was help coming—help for him and for the poor girl whom he had sworn to protect. If he let that help go by he would be resigning Helen Perowne to a fate worse than death; and growing enthusiastic as he thought, he mused on, telling himself that he was an Englishman and very brave, and that he’d die sooner than not make an effort to save the poor girl in his charge.

Then he shuddered as he thought of death, and felt that he would like to live longer at any cost, and that he dare not risk his life; but directly after he began comforting himself with the idea that if matters came to the worst, and he did call for help, the chances were great against Murad striking him in a vital place.

“And I can cure a wound,” he muttered; “and as to poison on those krisses, it’s an old woman’s tale.”

All this time the sound of the oars had come nearer and nearer, till to the doctor they seemed to be just abreast.

But no; they were still coming nearer, and his heart began to beat furiously, as, taking advantage of Murad’s head being turned, the doctor freed his hands from their bonds and then lay thinking.

Should he risk it? Should he give it up?

Life was very sweet. So was honour; and that poor girl had claimed his protection.

“And how could I look her father in the face if I did not try my best to save her?” he thought.

Still the sound of oars came nearer—beat, beat—beat, beat; and now he knew that the boat must be nearly abreast—so plainly did the plashing sound.

He looked up at Murad, who, kris in hand, was listening and watching together. He glanced at the dull-hued wavy blade, and saw its keen point and edge, thinking with a kind of curiosity how wide a wound it would make in him as he recollected how many he had cured for the men who had been in engagements; and then he asked the question again:

“Should he risk his life for Helen’s sake?”

The sound of the oars was louder than ever; and now he knew that the boat must be really abreast—and an English one too—otherwise why this hiding and the Rajah’s anxious look?

“Not only for Helen’s sake, but as an Englishman’s duty,” he said to himself; and he drew a long breath.

“Help!” he roared, “help! boat ah!”

He would have said “Ahoy!” but with a snarl like that of a wild cat, Murad threw himself upon his prisoner, striking savagely at his breast with the keen weapon, to pin him to the naga’s bamboo deck.

But with the effort of a man striving to save his life, the doctor managed to wrench himself a little on one side, and the keen kris passed between his breast and arm as he seized the Rajah by the throat.

The struggle that followed was almost a matter of moments, before Doctor Bolter went over the side, plunging down into deep water, and rising outside the screen of leaves, to swim vigorously towards the English boat, which was coming rapidly towards where the Rajah’s naga lay.

A spear splashed into the water by the doctor’s head, but the boughs prevented the thrower from taking a good aim; and almost directly after the swimmer was hauled on board, and the Rajah’s naga was seen to be trying to steal out some fifty yards ahead.

A call to surrender was answered by a shout of defiance, and the Malays began to manfully ply their oars; but a volley from the soldiers’ pieces seemed to quell their ardour and to cause confusion, in the midst of which the English boat dashed alongside, and Hilton, Chumbley, the Resident, and a score of the soldiers poured over the side, driving the spear-armed crew below, the Rajah going down from a cut over the forehead from the Resident’s sword.

The naga was mastered; and the doctor, hunting out where Helen had been placed, she was soon afterwards sobbing in her father’s arms.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.

The Return to Sindang.

For a time no one spoke in the doctor’s cottage; but old Stuart took a very large and a very loud pinch of snuff, which seemed as if he had been loading his nose with powder, for it went off directly after with a report-like sneeze that made the jalousies rattle.

“Is—is this—these words—are they true?” said Mrs Bolter, at last, with unnatural calmness.

“Yes, yes, my dear, quite true!” cried Mrs Barlow, excitedly.

“Did—did you hear anything of this, Mr Stuart?” said Mrs Bolter, in a low, constrained voice.

“Well, I did hear—am I to tell you?”

“Yes—everything,” replied Mrs Bolter, now perfectly cool and calm.

“I heard that the doctor had been found up the river somewhere with a black lady in his boat; but I didn’t hear it was the Inche Maida.”

“But my heart told me it was,” muttered poor little Mrs Bolter, whose good resolutions were all swept away by her agonising feeling of jealousy. Then aloud, with a fierce look of anger, but speaking in quite a hoarse whisper, “Go!” she said, pointing to the door. “You wicked woman, go! You have taken delight in coming to tell me this!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs Barlow, bursting into tears; “it was from friendship—from the sisterly love I have for you! It was for your brother’s sake!”

“If—if ever my brother returns, he shall never speak to you—bad, weak, wicked woman that you are! Leave my house!”

“But, Mrs Bolter—dear Mrs Bolter—”

“Leave my house!” continued the little woman in the same low, excited whisper; and she seemed to advance so menacingly upon the merchant’s widow, that she backed to the door in alarm, and regularly fled.

“Dear Mrs Bolter—” began Grey.

“Don’t speak to me, my dear,” said the little lady. “I’m not at all angry. I’m perfectly calm. There, you see how quiet I am. Not the least bit in a passion.”

Certainly she was speaking in a low, passionless voice, but there was a peculiar whiteness in the generally rather florid face.

“But the news may not be true,” pleaded Grey; “and even if it is, what then? Oh, Mrs Bolter, pray think!”

“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, “I have thought, and I’m quite calm. I shall suffer it, though, no more. I shall wait till my dear brother is found, and then I shall go straight back to England. I shall go by the first boat. I will pack up my things at once, and get ready. You see I am quite calm. Mr Stuart, you have always been very kind to me.”

“Well, I don’t know, not verra,” said the old Scot; “but ye’ve been verra good to Grey here.”

“I’m going to ask a favour of you, Mr Stuart.”

“Annything I can do for ye, Mrs Bolter, I will.”

“Then will you give me shelter with Grey here for a few weeks?”

“Or a few months or years if ye like,” said the old man, taking a liberal pinch of snuff; “but ye needn’t fash yourself. You won’t leave Harry Bolter.”

“Not leave him?” said the little lady, with forced calmness.

“Not you, for I don’t believe there’s aught wrong. It’s a bit patient he’s found up the river, and if it isn’t, it’s somebody else; and even if it wasn’t, ye’d just give him a bit o’ your mind, and then you’d forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” said Mrs Bolter; “I was always suspicious of these expeditions.”

“Always,” assented old Stuart. “He has told me so a score of times.”

“Then more shame for him!” cried Mrs Bolter; “How dare he! No, Mr Stuart, I am not angry, and I shall not say a word; but I shall wait till my poor brother is found, and then go back to England.”

She sat down very quietly, and sat gazing through the window; while old Stuart went on taking snuff in a very liberal manner, glancing from time to time at the irate little lady, to whom Grey kept whispering and striving to bring her to reason.

This went on for a good hour, till Grey was in despair; when suddenly Mrs Bolter sprang to her feet, red now with excitement, as she pointed through the window.

“Am I to bear this?” she said, in the same whisper. “Look, Grey! Look, Mr Stuart! You see! He is coming home, and he is bringing this woman with him!”

Grey started, for there indeed was the doctor, leading a closely-veiled Malay lady, apparently walking slowly and leaning heavily upon his arm.

Old Stuart took another pinch of snuff, and made a good deal of noise over it, as a cynical smile began to dawn upon his face; and he watched little Mrs Bolter, who drew herself up and stood with one hand resting upon the back of a chair.

“What can I say to her?” murmured Grey to herself. Then softly to Mrs Bolter:

“Pray listen to him: it is only some mistake.”

“Yes, my dear, I will listen,” said Mrs Bolter, calmly; and then she drew a long catching breath, and her eyes half-closed.

Just then the doctor threw open the door, and carefully led in his companion.

“Ah, Grey, you here!” he cried. “Back again. Mary, my love! I’ve brought you a surprise.”

He dropped his companion’s hand, and she stood there veiled and swaying slightly, while he made as if to embrace his wife.

“Hallo!” he exclaimed, as she shrank away.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” she cried, in a low, angry voice, “never again, Bolter; I could not bear it!”

“Why, what the—Oh, I see! Of course! Ha, ha, ha!”

Mrs Bolter stared at him fiercely, then at his companion, as in a curious, hasty way, she tore away her veil with trembling hands, revealing the swarthy skin and blackened and filed teeth, seen between her parted lips; her hair dark as that of the Inche Maida, and fastened up roughly in the Malay style. She was trying to speak, for her bosom was heaving, her hands working; and at last she darted an agonising glance at Grey Stuart, who was trembling in wonderment and fear.

The next moment the stranger had thrown herself at Mrs Bolter’s feet, and was clinging to her dress, as she cried hysterically:

“Mrs Bolter—Grey—have pity on me! You do not know?”

“Helen!” cried Grey; and she filing her arms round her schoolfellow, as Mrs Bolter uttered that most commonplace of common expressions—

“Oh! my goodness, gracious me!”

“Yes, Helen Perowne it is, my dears,” said the little doctor, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “I think I found Solomon’s Ophir this time, eh?”

“Henry!—Henry!” panted Mrs Bolter; “what does this mean?”

“Mean? That you haven’t given me a kiss, my dear! Never mind the company. That’s better,” he cried, as he took the kiss—audibly.

“But you don’t explain, Henry.”

“Explain, my dear,” said the doctor, softly, as he pointed to where Helen lay with her face buried in Grey Stuart’s breast. “Nothing to explain; only that I was up one of the rivers and found the lost one here before the expedition came. But didn’t I say so, Stuart, old fellow? It was Murad, after all.”

A low moan from Helen made Mrs Bolter dart towards her.

“Oh! my child, my child! and to come back to us like this!” cried Mrs Bolter, helping Grey to place Helen upon the couch, the tears running down her cheeks the while; and all dislike to the station beauty seeming to have passed away as she took the swarthy head to her bosom, and knelt there, rocking herself softly to and fro.

“Can we do anything to help, doctor?” said old Stuart, in a whisper.

“No: let ’em all have a good cry together. Nature’s safety valve, old fellow,” said the doctor, coolly.

“Then I propose that we just go and leave ’em. What do you say to a pipe in the surgery?”

“And a cool draught of my own dispensing, eh?” said the doctor, with his eyes twinkling. “One moment, and we will.”

“But where’s Perowne?”

“Upset! Lying down on board the naga, and too ill to come. I brought her on to the women as soon as I could.”

He trotted across to his wife. “That’s right, little woman!” he said, squeezing Mrs Bolter’s arm. “You’ll be a better doctor now than I. She’s very weak and low and—” He whispered something in her ear.

Poor little Mrs Bolter turned up her face towards him with a look full of such horror, misery and contrition that he was startled; but setting it down to anxiety on Helen’s behalf he whispered to her that all would soon be well.

“Take her up to the spare room, dear,” he said, in a whisper. “You must not think of sending her home. You’ll do your best, eh?”

“Oh! yes, Henry,” she said, as she looked at him again so piteously that he forgot Grey’s presence, and bent down and kissed her.

“That’s my own little woman, I knew you would,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll want me; but if you do, I’m in the surgery. Well, little Grey, what do you want—news?”

Grey’s lips said “yes” without a sound.

“Well, everybody’s all right except a few scratches, and I’m choked with thirst.”

Five minutes after he was compounding draughts for himself and the old merchant from a large stone bottle and aqua distil., as the druggists call it; while soon after, over what he called a quiet pipe, he told his adventures to his friend.

It was just about the time when, as Helen’s swarthy head lay upon the cool white pillow in the bungalow spare room, Mrs Bolter poured some cool clear water into a basin, and then dropped in it a goodly portion of aromatic vinegar, which with a sponge she softly applied to Helen’s fevered brow.

Grey held the basin and a white towel, while Mrs Bolter applied the sponge once—twice—thrice—and the weary, half-fainting girl uttered a low moan.

Again Mrs Bolter applied the cool soft sponge to the aching temples, and then, as there was no result but another restful sigh, interrupted this time by a sob, she applied the sponge again after a careful wringing out, still with no effect but to bring forth a sigh.

This time poor Mrs Bolter, who had learned nothing from her lord, took the towel, for she could not resist the temptation, and softly drew it across Helen’s brow, as the poor girl lay there with closed eyes.

The towel was raised from the swarthy forehead, and Mrs Bolter looked at it, to see that it was white as it was before.

This time she exchanged a look of horror with Grey, down whose cheeks the tears flowed fast, as she leant forward and kissed Helen’s lips.

“No, no, don’t touch me,” she moaned, but Grey held her more tightly.

The sobs came fast now as two dark arms were flung round Grey’s white neck, and Mrs Bolter’s eyes grew wet as well, as she drew a long breath, and then sat down by the bedside, saying, softly:

“Oh! my poor girl!—my poor girl!”

Helen heard it as she felt Grey’s kisses on her lips; and as she realised that there was no longer cause for dread as to the reception she would receive, her tears and sobs increased for a time, but gradually to subside, till at last she lay there sleeping peacefully—the first sleep of full repose that she had slept since the eventful night of the fête.

It was not to last, though, for when, an hour later the doctor came softly up, and laid a finger upon one throbbing wrist, his brow contracted, and he shook his head.

“Is there danger, doctor?” whispered Grey, softly, startled as she was by his manner.

“I fear so,” he whispered; “she has gone through terrible trials; fever is developing fast, and in her condition I tremble for what may be the end.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.

Neil Harley’s Prophecy.

The circumstances were so grave, that directly after the return of the Resident’s boat with the prisoners and the captured naga, special communication was sent to the seat of the Straits Government, and pending a reply to the despatch, the Residency island was placed thoroughly in a state of defence.

The Europeans in Sindang held themselves in perfect readiness to flee to the island for safety at a moment’s notice; and every man went armed, and every lady went about as a walking magazine of cartridges, ready for the use of husband or friend.

They were troublous times, full of anxieties, without taking into consideration the cares of the sick in body and mind.

The prisoners were secured in the little fort on the island, where Murad preserved a sulky dignity, remaining perfectly silent; and whenever an attempt was made to question him about the chaplain, he either closed his eyes, stared scornfully at his questioners, or turned his back.

Rigid watch and ward was kept, the men’s pouches were filled with ball-cartridges, and every one fully expected an attack from the people of Sindang, to rescue their Sultan, and avenge the insult of his being placed in captivity.

Among other preparations, the doctor set Mrs Bolter to work to scrape linen for lint in case of the demand exceeding the official supply; but somehow the days glided on, and there was no need for it, not a shot being fired, not a kris or spear used. The people ashore looked gloomy and taciturn, but offered no violence.

On the contrary, they seemed disposed to make advances to the daring, conquering people, who had not scrupled to seize their chief and keep him confined—they, a mere handful of people amongst thousands.

The fact was, they were completely cowed, knowing, as they did, how easily help could be procured, and how formidable that help would be.

But the English at the station could not realise this. They only knew that they were dwelling upon a volcano which might at any time burst forth and involve them in destruction; the military portion feeling certain that sooner or later an attempt would be made to rescue the Rajah.

The days glided by, and the topics of conversation remained the same—another week had passed and there had been no attack.

How was Miss Perowne—had anyone seen her?

Was she never to be “Fair Helen” again?

Was it true that the Rajah had made a daring attempt to escape?

Had the Inche Maida sworn to rescue him, and was she coming down the river like a new Boadicea, with a hundred water war-chariots to sweep the British invader from the land?

Was Helen Perowne dying, and had Mr Perowne died in the night?

These are specimens of the questions that were asked, for the little community was in a perfect ferment. The loveliness of the weather, the brilliant days and delicious nights passed unnoticed, for everyone was intent on danger alone.

It was, then, a matter of intense relief to hear, time after time, that the manufactured dangers were merely the fictions of some of the most timid; and though the rumour was again and again repeated that the Inche Maida was coming, she did not come, but remained quiescent at her home, truth to say, though, with boats manned and armed, not for attack, but ready to take her and her chief people to a place of safety, should the English visit her with inimical intent. She had sinned against them, and could not know how chivalrously Chumbley had kept the matter secret and prevailed upon his friend.

Meanwhile, in the midst of these anxieties, when rumour ran riot through the place, and the more nervous shivered and started at every sound, and took no step without feeling that a kris was ready to strike, Helen—the main cause of all the station troubles—lay happily unconscious of what was passing.

For Doctor Bolter was right; the excitement had borne its seeds, and after her system had bravely battled with disease for a time, fighting it back during all the most trying of her adventures—no sooner was she in safety at the station, than it claimed its own, and she lay now at the doctor’s cottage sick unto death.

Never had sufferer more devoted attention than that which Helen received from her old schoolfellow and Mrs Bolter; while the doctor himself was in almost constant attendance, watching each change, and denying himself rest in his efforts to save the life that seemed to be trembling in the balance.

“This is a pleasant place to have brought you to, Mary,” he said, more than once. “It was a shame! but I never could foresee such troubles as this; and after all, I am not so very sorry.”

“Not sorry?” she replied.

“Well, of course, my dear, I am awfully sorry about the way in which Arthur is missing; but as to myself, one does get very selfish in middle-age.”

“Selfish? Is this a time to talk of being selfish?” said the little lady, reproachfully.

“Well, perhaps not,” the doctor replied; “but really I’m glad I’ve got you here, Mary, for I don’t know what I should have done without you. You’re a perfect treasure.”

Mrs Doctor looked pacified, and worked harder than ever.

“Here, I generally bring you bad news,” said old, Stuart, coming in one day to see his nurse, as he called Grey, who had become a permanent dweller at the cottage, “but I’ve got some good for you this time.”

“What is it?” said the doctor. “Have they found Rosebury?”

“No; but you need not be so nervous any more, for here is a gun-boat coming up the river.”

Boom!

“There it is announcing itself,” said old Stuart, with a chuckle. “That’s the sort of thing to keep the natives in awe, a great gun like that.”

The coming of the powerful war-steamer with reinforcements, and a tender in the shape of a swift despatch-boat, did act as a repressing power, and silenced for good any latent ideas of rising against the English; and in obedience to the despatch received by the Resident, Murad and a couple of his officers were at once placed on board under a strong guard; and, within an hour of the arrival of the steamer and the despatch-boat, he was on his way to Singapore to take his trial.

There was no attempt at resistance, the prisoners meeting their fate in a stolid, indifferent way, while after a short consultation at the Residency, the crew of the Sultan’s boat were brought out from the fort and questioned.

To a man they denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of the chaplain; and when offered their liberty on condition of his being found, they calmly accepted their position, and expressed their readiness to go back to prison.

Harley was the president of the little court; and at last he addressed them, and offered them their liberty on another condition.

“Murad will never return here,” he said, “and you are clear of all allegiance to him. I am empowered to offer you your freedom if you will all swear henceforth to serve the English Government.”

They all brightened up at once, and expressed themselves ready to obey.

“Then you are free,” said the Resident; “you can return to your homes.”

The men stared. They could not believe in such clemency; but no sooner had they realised the fact, than their stolid, sulky look was exchanged for one of extravagant joy, and their delight after having resigned themselves to death knew no bounds.

“Now,” exclaimed the Resident, “tell me at once—where is the chaplain?”

Only one man spoke:

“We do not know, my lord.”

“Is—is he dead?”

“Why should he be dead, my lord?” said the man. “Why should Murad kill him? No; he had reasons, and we know that he had him taken away with the lady—that is all.”

“But where did he imprison him?”

“Allah and our lord the Sultan only know,” said the man, impressively. “Murad was wise. When he made plans it was in his own mind, and he told them to none but the slaves who were to do his bidding. Let us free, and we may perhaps find the Christian priest. If we do, we will bring him back.”

There was nothing more to be done, and the station was relieved of the presence of a danger that seemed imminent so long as Murad was there.

The time glided on, and still there was no news of the chaplain. The Inche Maida’s home had been visited again and again, but she either did not know or would confess nothing, preserving a studied dignity, and seeming to be neither friend nor enemy now; while, this being the case, the chaplain’s absence began to be accepted as a necessity, and there were days when Mrs Barlow was the only one who mourned his loss.

“It’s mind—mind—mind,” said the doctor, as he came out of Helen’s room, over and over again; and the questioner he addressed was Neil Harley. “It’s mind, sir, mind; and until that is at rest, I see no chance of her recovery. Medicine? Bah! it’s throwing good drugs away.”

The constant attention went on, and as almost hourly the Resident or one of the officers came to inquire, there seemed to be times when Doctor Bolter did not know whether Helen or her father would be the first to pass away. He was constantly going to and fro; and after many days of suffering, when Sindang had pretty well sunk into its normal state of quietude, and Helen’s fever began to subside, it left her so weak that the doctor threw up his hands almost in despair.

“It lies with you two now, more than with me,” he said to Grey and Mrs Bolter; and with tears in their eyes, they were compelled to own their helplessness as well.

It was on one of the hottest and most breathless days of the tropic summer, that, with her eyes red, and weary with long watching, Grey Stuart sat in her old school-companion’s chamber, thinking of the changes that had taken place since that morning when Helen and she were summoned to the Miss Twettenhams’ room regarding the levity displayed, as the ladies called it, towards Helen’s first admirer.

Fair Helen then—now she looked more like a native woman than ever, with her piteous great eyes gazing wildly at her friend, as if asking her for help.

But that she had wept till the fount of her tears seemed dry, Grey could have thrown herself sobbing at Helen’s side; now she could only take her wasted hand and try to whisper some few comforting words.

“Has Mr Rosebury been found?” she exclaimed, suddenly; and on being answered in the negative, as she had been fifty times before, she wrung her hands and sobbed wildly.

“My fault—my cruel fault!” she cried, in a weak, high-pitched voice; “you will all curse me when I am dead.”

“My child—my dear child,” sobbed Mrs Bolter; and then, unable to contain herself, she hurried from the room, and Grey strove to calm the excited girl. She had tended her constantly, telling herself that it was a duty; but the task had been a bitter one, for ever, in the hours of Helen’s delirium, she had listened to her wild words as she spoke constantly of him and his love, reproaching him for not coming to save her from Murad, and neglecting her when she was praying for him to come.

Grey felt a pang at every word; and as Helen spoke in this way, she recalled the tender scenes she had witnessed, and the young officer’s infatuation with her beauty.

And now on this particular day her trial seemed to be harder than ever, for suddenly Helen turned her weary head towards her, and clasping her hands with spasmodic energy, she whispered:

“Grey, I have been cruel and hard to you, I know. I stood between you and your love—but you forgive me now?”

“Oh, yes, yes, that is all past and gone!” cried Grey, excitedly.

“Yes, yes, that is all past and gone, and now you will do this for me. I think I am going—I cannot live long like this—tell him, then, quickly—tell him I must see him—tell him that he must come.”

Grey’s heart sank within her, and she rose slowly from her seat, and loosed the two thin hands she had held. It was like signing her own death-warrant to send this message, for if Captain Hilton did not know of her wanderings, and this, Helen’s last wish, he—who was, perhaps, forgetting more and more his love—would hardly dwell upon it again. To do this was to revive it, for she told herself that Hilton would be too generous not to respond.

But Grey Stuart was a heroine—one of those women ready at any sacrifice of self to do a duty; and she turned to go just as Mrs Bolter entered the room.

“What is it—what does she want?” whispered the little lady eagerly.

“Helen wishes to see—” began Grey, in a choking voice.

“Yes, yes, I must—I will see him, to humble myself before I die!” moaned Helen.

“Will you—send at once,” panted Grey, with her hand pressed upon her side, for she could hardly speak the words—“send for Captain Hilton to come?”

She forced the words from her lips, and then sank back in her chair with a blank feeling of misery upon her, to gather force to enable her to flee from a house where she told herself that she could no longer stay.

It was but momentary this sensation, and then she uttered a sob, and the tears began silently to flow, for she heard Helen say, in a quick, harsh, peevish voice:

“No, no, you mistake me! I want Mr Harley quick, or—too late!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.

The Summons.

Neil Harley’s troubles had of late been great. He had gone on striving to be matter-of-fact and business-like, telling himself that he must be calm and cool; but all the same he suffered bitterly.

It had been a great shock to him, the disappearance of Helen; and though her recovery had followed, it was in such a guise that at times he felt half maddened, and as if his troubles were greater than he could bear.

He had loved her from the first; and though he had laughed at and bantered her, treating her numerous flirtations as trifles unworthy of his notice, at the same time he had suffered a terrible gnawing at the heart, and every glance sent at Hilton—every whispered compliment paid to her by the handsome young captain—caused him acute pain.

Time after time he had striven to tear himself from what he felt was a hopeless, foolish attachment; and when he made the effort, Helen’s beautiful face rose before him with a sly, half-mocking, half-reproachful look, and he knew that he was more her slave than ever.

The mishaps that had befallen the various prisoners seemed to recoil upon him, to increase his troubles. He felt, as it were, to blame, and often asked himself if it was not due to his want of clever management that the chaplain had not also been recovered; but for his comfort there were times when he was fain to confess that it would have puzzled the cleverest diplomat to have dealt differently with so wily a Malay as Murad, or with his people, who were ready to hide everything from the English intruders upon their land.

“I ought to be in better heart,” he said to himself, as he sat thinking in his cool room at the Residency; “three out of my four lost sheep are back, and I have hopes of the fourth. But Helen?” His face grew contracted and wrinkled as he sat thinking of the swarthy face and disfigured mouth of the belle of the station, and wondered whether, in spite of his declarations to the contrary, there was any attachment left between Hilton and the suffering girl.

“No,” he said; “none. Hilton is quite honest. His was but a changing love for the bright, handsome face and deep, dreamy eyes. He does not care for her now. What man would?”

There was a pause here, and he sat dreamily gazing through the open window at the silver shimmering of the river.

“What man would love Helen Perowne now?” he said, softly; “now that she comes back with such a social stigma upon her, just rescued from the hands of this Eastern sensualist—changed! ah! how changed! Poor girl—poor girl! What English gentleman would hold out his hand to her now, and say to her, ‘Helen, love! my own! Will you not be my wife?’”

Another pause, broken only by the loud insect-hum from the blossom-laden trees outside the window.

What man would say this to her now?

“I would!” he cried aloud; “for is mine so mean and paltry a love that it is to be checked and turned aside by her misfortune? No; let her but ask me—as I said she some day would ask me—with look or lip, to come, and I should be at her side—for I so love her, in spite of all, and with my whole heart!”

For a moment the abject, frightened face that he had for a few moments seen shrinking from him before its owner concealed it with her trembling brown fingers, when she was transferred from the Sultan’s to his own boat, was there before him; when Helen had uttered a loud, piteous cry as she recognised one of her deliverers. The next moment that scene upon the river, vividly as it was impressed upon his mind, with the swarthy Malays, the prostrate prince, the brilliant sunshine flashing from the river, even as he could see it now, and the dark shadows of the drooping trees, all had passed away, and in place he saw only Helen—the Helen of his love—prostrate upon her bed of sickness, dull of eye, shrunken and thin with fever, suffering and helpless. And as he asked himself, “Did he love her still?” he rested his elbows upon his table, his face went down upon his hands, and with a low moan he felt that he was cruel and wanting in his love for being away from her at a time like this, when he ought to be showing her how true and fervent was his feeling—that it was no light fancy of the young and thoughtless youth, but a strong man’s true and lasting love.

He did not hear the matting-screen drawn aside, nor heed the light step of his Chinese servant, as he softly entered the room, and then stopped short, as if afraid to interrupt his master as he slept.

It was an important message, though, that he had to give, and he went up to the table.

“Master,” he said, softly; but the Resident did not move.

“Master!” said the man again; but the Resident heard him not, for he was dwelling upon the tidings that he had received an hour before, that Helen’s case was utterly hopeless, and that though she might live for days or weeks, her recovery was impossible.

It was on good authority that he received those sad tidings, for they were from Dr Bolter’s lips; and he had to listen, with a composed and placid mien, when all the time he had felt as if he could have thrown himself upon the floor, and torn himself in the bitterness of his anguish.

If he could have been allowed to sit at her pillow, holding one poor wasted hand, he told himself that he could have borne it better, and watched her with patient hope. But he was shut out from her resting-place—from her heart! She had never cared for him, and his words to her had been but an empty vaunt. And yet he loved her so well, that as he thought of all the past and the bitter present, he felt that when Helen died he dared not face the empty present, and something seemed to whisper to him, would it not be better to seek in oblivion for the rest that his heart told him he should never know.

“Master!”

Louder now, and a hand was laid upon his arm.

The Resident started up, and gazed angrily at the intruder upon his sacred sorrow—so fiercely that the servant shrank away.

“What is it?” cried the haggard man, harshly. “Is—is she—dead?”

“A messenger, master, from Miss Stuart,” said the man, shivering still from the wild face and mien.

“I knew it—” moaned the Resident.

“To say, will you go directly to the doctor’s house.”

Neil Harley started from his chair; and then he staggered, and caught at the table for support.

“The heat!” he said, huskily—“giddy!—a glass—water!”

The servant went to a great cooler standing in the draught of the window, and filled and brought a glass of the clear, cold fluid.

“Thanks!” said the Resident, drinking feverishly, and recovering himself. “Who brought the message?”

“Yusuf, the Malay. His boat waits,” replied the man; and making an effort to be calm, the Resident took up his sun-hat, and walked firmly down to the landing-stage, where he was ferried across and then walked up to the doctor’s cottage, overtaking Hilton on the way.

“You going there?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Hilton. “I was going up to ask how Miss Perowne was now. Were you going there?”

“Yes,” said the Resident, bitterly; “I was going there. Were you sent for too?”

“I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me.”

“Not now that she is in misery and distress!” retorted the Resident, and his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.

Hilton flushed angrily.

“Your reproaches are unjust,” he said. “You know that Miss Perowne never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too well. We ought to be good friends.”

“And we are,” said the Resident. “Forgive me for what I have said!”

He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.

“I’m an outsider!” said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. “I’m going to set up for my friend’s friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen Perowne after all.”

“Silence, man!” cried the Resident, harshly. “I have been sent for by Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!”

“Dying!” cried Hilton.

“Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?”

“I am,” said Hilton; “for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste.”

The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton’s words even then caused him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor’s door.

Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that had been struggling in Neil Harley’s breast died out.

The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors’ eyes, and answered, hastily:

“No; I don’t think there is immediate danger, but—She expressed a wish to see you, Harley.”

That but, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming near.

“You may go in, Harley,” said the doctor. “My wife and Miss Stuart are there.”

The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen’s bedroom, seeing nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was tossed her abundant hair.

Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart’s hand, they softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.

For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes, in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she was, a something of the past.

“I sent for you to ask you to forgive me,” she said, in a low, faint voice; but he did not speak.

“I know now how weak—how vain I was—how cruel to you; but—you know—my folly, you will forgive?”

He was down upon his knees by her bedside now, and the words seemed to be literally torn from his heart as he groaned:

“Helen!—Helen! my poor girl! has it come to this?”

“Yes!” she said, softly, “it seems like rest! I am happier now; but I thought—I should like to see you again—to say Good-bye!”

“No, no, no!” he cried, passionately. “You shall not leave me, Helen! My love—my darling—you shall not die!” She smiled faintly.

“I knew you loved me differently from the rest!” she said, softly, as he clasped her thin hand and held it to his lips; “that is why I sent. You said I should send for you—some day.”

“To ask me to take you for my wife,” he panted; “and, Helen, the time has come!”

“Yes,” she said, softly, “but it was the Helen of the past; not this wreck—this—this—Oh, Heaven!” she moaned, passionately, “did I sin so vilely that you should punish me like this?”

“Hush! hush!” he whispered, passing his arm beneath her light, too fragile form, and raising her till her head rested upon his breast. “That is all past now, and it is not the Helen of the past I love, but she who has sent for me at last. Helen, darling, speak to me again!”

“Speak?” she said, faintly; “what should I say, but ask you to forgive me, and say good-bye?”

“Good-bye?” he cried, frantically. “What, now that I have, as it were, begun to live?”

“One kind, forgiving word,” she said, faintly. “One? A thousand!” he panted; “my own—my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love for you so weak and poor that I should let you go—that I should turn from you in this hour of trial? Helen!” he cried; “I tell you it is not the Helen of the past I love, but you—you, my own! Tell me that you have turned to me—truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with your love!”

Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.

“You shall not die,” he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers; “I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe and live, my own—my wife—my all!”

As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.

Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.

There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the doctor entered the room.

“Quick!” he cried. “Lay her down, man!—That’s well.”

“Is—is she dead?” groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient’s throat.

“No,” said Dr Bolter, shortly. “Fainting. Go away.”

“But, Bolter—” protested the Resident.

“Be off, man, I tell you!” cried the little doctor, angrily, showing how thoroughly he was autocrat of the sick room. “Go, and send in my wife, and Miss Stuart. Or no: my wife will do.”

The Resident bent down once over the thin, dark face, and then stole softly out of the room, to find Mrs Bolter waiting; and nodding quickly, she went in and closed the door.

“What news?” asked Hilton, eagerly, as he rose from a chair near the window.

“I don’t know—I dare not say,” replied Harley, sinking hopelessly into a chair; and for a time no one spoke.

It was the doctor who broke the silence by coming back from the sick room, and this time sending a thrill of hope into the breast of all as he began to rub his hands in an apparently satisfied manner, and gazed from one to the other.

“Is—is she better, doctor?”

“Don’t know! won’t prognosticate!” he said, sharply. “I’ll say that she’s no worse. Prostrated by mental emotion, but other symptoms at a standstill. If she lives—well, if she lives—”

“Yes, yes, doctor!” cried the Resident, imploringly.

“Well, if she lives, I think it will be from some sudden turn in her mental state, for I have done all I know, and of course a man—even a medical man—can do no more.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.

More Mating.

Slow work—terribly slow work; but at the end of three days—during which at any moment it had seemed as if the light of life would become extinct—Helen Perowne still lived, and in place of Grey Stuart or Mrs Bolter, Neil Harley was mostly by her side.

She suffered still from wild attacks of delirium, and in her wanderings, if the firm, strong hand of the Resident was not there to hold her, she grew plaintive and fretful, and a look of horror appeared upon her wasted face; but no sooner did she feel Neil Harley’s firm clasp and hear his whispered words, than she uttered a sigh of content, and dropped always into a placid sleep.

To his surprise and delight, these words seemed to pacify her; a long-drawn sigh came from her breast, and she fell into a restful slumber.

During the rest of the critical time of her illness a few whispered words always had the desired effect, and from that hour Helen began rapidly to mend.

“Yes, she is improving fast now,” said the doctor, as he sat beside her bed talking, as if he believed his patient to be asleep. “I shan’t take any of the credit, Harley. I should have lost her, I am sure, for it was not in physic to do more than I had done. There, I am going down now to my specimens, to have a look at them, and talk to my wife, for I have hardly seen her of late.”

He rose and left the room, and the Resident took his place, seeing that the great dark eyes were fixed upon him, full of a strange, pathetic light, that the warm evening glow seemed to give an almost supernatural effect.

“You are awake, then?” he said, softly.

“Yes; I heard all that he said, and it is true.”

“Thank heaven!” said the Resident, fervently, as he took one of the thin brown hands from the white coverlet and held it in both of his.

“I believe it was your tender words that gave me hope,” said Helen, softly. “Now it is time to take them back.”

“Take them back?” he exclaimed, wonderingly.

“Yes; take them back. Do you think I could be so weak and cruel as to let you be burdened for life with such a degraded thing as I?” she cried; and she burst into so violent a fit of sobbing that the Resident grew alarmed; but he must have possessed wonderful soothing power, for when Mrs Bolter came in a short time after, it was to find Helen Perowne’s weary head resting upon Neil Harley’s arm, and there was a restful, peaceful look in her eyes that the little lady had never seen there before.

Helen did not move, and the Resident seemed as if it was quite a matter of course for him to remain there, so little Mrs Bolter went softly forward and bent down to kiss her invalid as she called her, when she was prisoned by two trembling weak arms, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but Helen’s sobs.

When Mrs Bolter went down soon afterwards to sit with the doctor, she said, softly:

“I never thought I could like that girl, Henry, and now I believe I almost love her.”

“That’s because she has changed her colour,” said the doctor, with a hearty chuckle.

“Oh! that reminds me,” cried Mrs Bolter; “I wanted to ask you about that.”

“About what?” said the doctor, looking up.

“About the black stain. Will she always be like that?”

“Pooh, nonsense! my dear. It is only a stain, which has thoroughly permeated, if I may so term it, the outer skin. Soon wear off, my dear—soon wear off.”

“But her teeth, Henry?”

“Come right in time, my dear, with plenty of tooth-powder; all but the filing.”

“But that is a terrible disfigurement.”

“Oh, that will go off in time. The teeth are always growing and being worn down at the edges; but what does it matter? she is ten times as nice a girl as she was before.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, thoughtfully; “and now, Henry, if I could only have my mind set at rest about Arthur, I believe I should be a happy woman.”

“Then we’ll soon set your mind at rest about him,” said the doctor. “I never felt that I could leave you till Helen was safe from a relapse.”

“Leave me, Henry!” cried the little lady.

“Only for a time, till I have found Arthur.”

“Then you do think he will be found?”

“I am sure of it. Why, who would hurt him, the best and most inoffensive of men?”

“Surely no one,” said Mrs Bolter, with a sigh.

“Of course not. I’ve tried to get something out of Murad, but my messengers have failed; but all the same, I feel sure he knows all about it, and burked Arthur for a reason of his own.”

“But what reason could he have?” cried Mrs Bolter.

“Well, I’ll tell you my theory, my dear, and it is this: he meant to silence all Helen’s scruples by marrying her according to our rites.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do; and that is why he secured Arthur. If it was not so, it was because he was in the way. Anyhow, we can get nothing from the rascal, so I mean to go up the river again. I have my plans working.”

“But, Henry!”

“Only to try and find him; for Harley’s and Hilton’s men have made a miserable failure of it all.”

Mrs Bolter sighed, but she made no opposition; and then further conversation was ended by the arrival of Grey Stuart with Hilton, both looking so satisfied and happy that Mrs Bolter exclaimed: “Why, whatever now!” The doctor chuckled, and cried: “Oh! that’s it, is it! Oh! Grey! I thought you meant to be a female old bachelor all your life!”

“I have persuaded her that it is folly,” said Hilton. “But I always thought it was to be Chumbley!” cried the doctor. “Here, I say, this is a horrible take-in.”

“I thought the same, doctor,” said Hilton, smiling; “and have been making myself very miserable about what is a misconception, though Grey here owns to thinking Chum the best and truest of men.”

“And I’m sure he is!” cried Mrs Doctor, enthusiastically.

“Here, I say!” cried the doctor, banging his hand down on the table, “this won’t do! Am I to sit and hear a man praised to my very face?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly; “if it is Chumbley; and if Grey had chosen with my eyes, she would have taken him instead.”

“But she did not choose with your eyes, my dear,” said the doctor, smiling; “and she was wise?”

“And why so?” cried Mrs Bolter, tartly.

“Because she saw what a bad one you were at making a choice, my dear. Look at me for a husband, Miss Stuart; this was the best she could do.”

“Oh, Henry! for shame!” cried Mrs Doctor. “There! I’ll say no more, only that I hardly forgive you, Hilton; and I tell you frankly that you have won a far better wife than you deserve!”

“Then I’m sure we shall be the best of friends over it, Mrs Bolter!” said Hilton, merrily, “for I have been repeating that sentiment almost word for word.”

“There, there, there—the young people know best,” said the doctor. “I congratulate you both; and I must be off now to see Perowne. But here is somebody coming. Mrs Barlow, I believe.”

“Henry, pray say I’m out!” cried Mrs Bolter, starting up. “I really cannot meet that woman to-day!” and she made for the door.

“It’s all right. Don’t go, my dear; it’s only Stuart,” said the doctor, chuckling.

“And you said it was that horrible Mrs Barlow on purpose to frighten me! It’s a very great shame—it is indeed!”

“Ye’re right, Mrs Bolter,” said the little dry Scotch merchant, appearing in the doorway; “it is a great shame! After all my care and devotion, and the money I have spent in her education, here’s this foolish girl takes a fancy to a red coat, and says she shan’t be happy without she marries it!”

“Pray, pray, papa! No, dear father, don’t talk like that!” said Grey, crossing to him, as he took a chair, and resting her hand upon his shoulder.

“Oh, but it’s enough to make any man speak!” he cried. “I suppose it’s natural though, Mrs Bolter?”

“Of course it is, Mr Stuart; and if Captain Hilton undertakes to make her a good husband, why you must be very thankful.”

“Humph! I suppose so; but mind this; you can’t be wed till the chaplain’s found! Ha! ha! ha! I say, doctor, that will stir up Hilton here!”

“We are making earnest efforts to find him without that,” said Hilton, warmly.

“Oh, are you?” said the old merchant. “Well, look here, just a few business words in the presence of witnesses before I go up to Perowne, for I promised to go and smoke a pipe with the poor fellow, who’s as sick in body as he is in pocket and mind.”

“I’m going there, and we’ll trot over together,” said the doctor.

“Verra good,” said old Stuart. “So now look here, Master Hilton, commonly called Captain Hilton, you came to me to-day saying that you had my child’s consent to ask me to give her to you for a wife.”

“Yes, sir, and I repeat it.”

“Well, I sort of consented, didn’t I?”

“You did, sir.”

“Good; but once more—you know I’m a verra poor man?”

“I know you are not a rich one, sir.”

“That’s right, Hilton. And you ken,” he continued, getting excited and a little more Scottish of accent—“ye ken that when puir Perowne failed, he owed me nearly sax hundred pounds?”

“I did hear so, sir.”

“Well, I meant to give little Grey here that for a wedding-portion, and now it’s all gone.”

“I’m glad of it, sir,” cried Hilton, warmly, “for I am only a poor fellow with my pay and a couple of hundred a year besides; but in a very few years’ time I shall be in the receipt of another two hundred and fifty a year, so that we shall not hurt.”

Grey crossed to him, and put her arm through his, as she nodded and smiled in his face.

“Ye’re a pair o’ feckless babies!” cried old Stuart. “So ye mean to say ye’ll be content to begin life on nothing but what ye’ve got, Hilton?”

“To be sure, sir! Why not?”

“To be sure! Why not?” said Mrs Bolter. “I don’t approve of people marrying for money, Mr Stuart; and I’m glad they act in so honest a spirit! Do you know, Mr Hilton, I began my life out here hating Helen Perowne, and thoroughly disliking you; and now, do you know, she has made me love her; and as for you, I never liked you half so well before, and I wish you both every joy, and as happy a life as I live myself when Henry stays at home, and does not glory in teasing me in every way he can!”

“Thank you, Mrs Bolter!” cried Hilton, warmly. “I don’t wonder, though, that you should dislike me, for I did not show you a very pleasant side of my character.”

“Well,” said old Stuart, rising, “you and I may as well be off, doctor. Poor Perowne will be glad to hear you chat a bit about Helen; and as for you two young and foolish people, why—ha! ha! ha! you had better make friends with the doctor. He has always been petting my little girl; now’s the time for him to do something a little more solid.”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs Doctor, warmly, “Grey shall not go to the altar without a little dowry of her own—eh, Henry?”

“To be sure, my dear!” said the doctor—“to be sure!”

“Nay, nay, nay!” cried old Stuart, showing his teeth; “hang your little dowries! I want something handsome down!”

“Oh, father!” cried Grey, turning scarlet with shame.

“You hold your tongue, child! I want the doctor to do something handsome for you out of his findings at Ophir—Solomon’s gold, Bolter. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Laugh away!” cried the doctor; “but I shall astonish you yet!”

“Gad, Bolter, ye will when ye mak’ anything out o’ that!” cried the little merchant. “Don’t let him run after shadows any more, Mrs Bolter. Well, Hilton, my boy, I won’t play with you,” he said, holding out his hand, as he spoke now, with Grey held tightly to his side, and the tears in his pale blue eyes. “I’m a pawkie, queer old Scot, but I believe my heart’s in the right place.”

“I’m sure—” began Hilton.

“Let me speak, my lad!” cried the old man. “I always said to myself that I should like the lad who wooed my little lassie here to love her for herself alone, and I believe you do. Hold your tongue a bit my lad! I’ve always been a careful, plodding fellow, and such a screw, that people always looked upon me as poor; but I’m not, Hilton: and thank Heaven, I can laugh at such a loss as that I have had! Heaven bless you, my lad! You’ve won a sweet, true woman for your wife; and let me tell you that you’ve won a rich one. My lassie’s marriage portion is twenty thousand pounds on the day she becomes your wife, and she’ll have more than double that when the doctor kills me some day, as I am sure he will.”

“Mr Stuart!” cried Hilton.

“Hold your tongue, lad—not a word! Good-night, Mrs Bolter. Doctor, old friend, if you don’t take me up to Perowne’s, and prescribe pipes and a glass o’ whuskee, I shall sit down and cry like a child.”

He was already at the door, and the doctor followed him out, leaving Hilton, as he afterwards told his old companion, not knowing whether he was awake or in a dream.

But he was awake decidedly, as Mrs Bolter could have told, for dream-kisses never sound so loud as those which he printed on the lips of his future wife.

“Oh, it’s all right!” said Chumbley; “and I wish you joy! I knew the little lassie loved you months ago!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.

For Another Search.

“By Jove, we’ve forgotten all about the parson!” exclaimed Chumbley. “What’s become of him?”

“I say, Chumbley, old fellow, we must be getting into a terrible state of mind to go on like this without troubling ourselves about our chaplain—Here comes the doctor.”

“And Harley not far behind.”

“Doctor ahoy!” shouted Chumbley.

“Well, lads—well, lads,” cried the little doctor, bustling up. “What news?”

“That’s what we were going to ask you, doctor. What next?”

“Why, now, my dear boys, that the troubles are about over, my principal patient quite safe, and people seem settling down, with no enemies to fear, it seems to me just the time for making a fresh start up the river.”

“To—”

“Exactly, my dear Chumbley; to take up the clue where I left off when I found Helen Perowne, and go on and discover the gold-workings.”

“The gold-workings, doctor?” cried Hilton, wonderingly.

“To be sure, my dear fellow. Mind, I don’t say that Solomon’s ships ever came right up this river; but they certainly came here and traded with the Sakais or Jacoons, the aboriginals of the country, who worked the gold from surface-mines and brought it down to the coast.”

“Cut and dried, eh, doctor?” said Chumbley. “Dried, of course, my dear fellow. I don’t know about the cut. I feel more and more convinced that here we have the true Ophir of Solomon; and it only wants a little enterprise, such as I am bringing to bear—”

“But you don’t mean to say,” cried Hilton, “that you are going off on another expedition of this sort, doctor?”

“Indeed but I do, sir!”

“And what does Mrs Doctor say?” asked Chumbley. “Does she approve?”

“Of course, my dear boy. Don’t you see that I am combining the journey with one in search of my brother-in-law?”

“Oh,” said Hilton, drily, “I see.

“Harley’s people are back without any news, and my little wife is distracted about it; vows she’ll go herself if I don’t find him. And then there’s that Mrs Barlow. I was up all night with her. Hysterical, and shrieking ‘Arthur!’ at intervals like minute-guns.”

“She has started a devoted attachment to the chaplain, hasn’t she?” asked Chumbley.

“Dreadful!” replied the doctor. “It makes me think that the poor fellow is best away, for she certainly means to marry him when he comes back. I say Chumbley, you’re a big fellow!”

“Granted, oh, wise man of the east.”

“You have no income?”

“The munificent pay awarded by Her Majesty’s Government to a lieutenant of foot, my dear doctor, as you perfectly well know.”

“Exactly,” continued the doctor. “And you would not be afraid of a widow?”

“No, I don’t think I should.”

“Then marry Mrs Barlow. She is to be had for the asking, I am sure; and she has a nice bit of money. It would be a catch for you, and relieve poor Arthur Rosebury from further trouble.”

“Hilton, old man,” said Chumbley, solemnly, “do you think there is a crocodile in the river big enough to receive this huge carcase of mine?”

“Doubtful,” said Hilton, laughing. “I agree with you, Hilton! it is doubtful. But sooner would I plunge in and be entombed there than in the affections of Barlow. No, doctor, if you have my health at heart, you must prescribe differently from that. I say, though, don’t you take it rather coolly about the chaplain?”

“Coolly? Not I, my dear fellow; but how can a man like me sit down and snivel? Here am I watching Helen Perowne one day, her father the next; then up all night with Billy—I mean Mrs—Barlow; without taking into consideration the calls to Private Thomas Atkins, who has eaten too much plaintain and mangosteen, and thinks he has the cholera; Mrs Ali Musto Rafoo, who is in a fidget about her offspring; and all the livers of the European residents to keep in gear. I say I have no time to think of anything.”

“But Solomon’s gold mines,” said Chumbley.

“Get out with your chaff!” cried the doctor. “But seriously, I have got hold of that fellow Yusuf, and he tells me he thinks he can find the chaplain, and I am just off. I couldn’t help the allusion to the gold.”

“But you think it lies somewhere up-country?” said Chumbley, seriously.

“Sure of it, my dear boy!” cried the doctor, eagerly; “and I shall of course use every effort to find Rosebury: but to be honest, it would be unnatural if I did not look out for the great object of my thoughts at times.”

“What, the chaplain?” said Hilton.

“No, the Ophir gold mines,” said the doctor, seriously; “but really it is a great trouble to me, this disappearance of my brother-in-law. You couldn’t go with me, could you, Hilton?”