George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“Pray—pray get up!” she cried, still sobbing bitterly; “it would look so foolish if you were seen kneeling to an old woman like me.”

“Foolish! to be kneeling and imploring the most amiable, the dearest woman—the best sister in the world? Let them see me; let the whole world see me. I am proud to be here begging you—praying you to be my wife.”

“Oh! no, no, no! It is all nonsense. Oh, Dr Bolter, I—I am forty-four!”

“Brave—courageous little woman,” he cried, ecstatically, “to tell me out like that! Forty-four!”

“Turned,” sobbed the little lady; “and I never thought now that anybody would talk to me like this.”

“I don’t care if you are fifty-four or sixty-four!” cried the little doctor excitedly. “I am not a youth, Mary. I’m fifty, my dear girl; and I’ve been so busy all my life, that, like our dear old Arthur, I have never even thought of such a thing as marriage. But since I have been over here—seen this quiet little home, made so happy by your clever hands—I have learned that, after all, I had a heart, and that if my dear old friend’s sweet sister would look over my faults, my age, my uncouth ways, I should be the happiest of men.”

“Pray—pray get up, doctor,” said Miss Rosebury sadly.

“Call me Harry, and I will,” he cried, gallantly.

“No, no!” she said, softly, and there was something so firm and gentle in her words that he rose at once, took the seat she pointed to by her side, and would have passed his arm round her shapely little waist, but she laid one hand upon his wrist and stayed him.

“No, Henry Bolter,” she said, firmly; “we are not boy and girl. Let us act like sensible, mature, and thoughtful folk.”

“My dear,” he said, and the tears stood in his eyes, “I respect and love you more and more. What is there that I would not do?”

She beamed upon him sweetly, and laid her hand upon his as they sat there side by side in silence, enjoying a few brief moments of the greatest happiness that had ever been their lot, and then the little lady spoke:

“Henry,” she said, softly, “my dear brother’s dearest friend—my dearest friend—do not think me wanting in appreciation of what you have said.”

“I could never think your words other than the best,” he said, tenderly; and the little lady bowed her head before resuming.

“I will not be so foolish as to deny that in the past,” she went on, “there have been weak times when I may have thought that it would be a happy thing for a man whom a woman could reverence and respect as well as love to come and ask me to be his wife.”

“As I would always strive to make you respect me, Mary,” he said, softly; and he kissed her hand.

“I know you would,” she said, “but it cannot be.”

“Mary,” he cried, pleadingly, “I have waited and weighed all this, and asked myself whether it was vanity that made me think your dear eyes lighted up and that you were glad to see me when I came.”

“You did not deceive yourself,” she said, softly. “I was glad to see my dear brother’s friend when he first came, and that gladness has gone on increasing until, I confess to you freely, it will come upon me like some great sadness when the time is here for you to go away.”

“Say that again,” he cried, eagerly.

“Why should I?” she said, sadly.

“Then—then you do love me, Mary?”

“I—I think so,” she said, softly; and the little lady’s voice was very grave; “but love in this world has often to give way to duty.”

“Ye-es,” he said, dubiously; “but where two people have been waiting such a precious long time before they found out what love really is, it seems rather hard to be told that duty must stand first.”

“It is hard, but it is fact,” she said.

“I don’t know so much about that,” said the little doctor. “Just now I feel as if it was my bounden duty to make you my happy little wife.”

“And how can I think it my duty to accept you?” she said, smiling.

“Well, I do ask a great deal,” he replied. “It means going to the other side of the world; but, my dear Mary, you should never repent it.”

“I know I never should,” she replied. “We have only lately seen one another face to face, but I have known you and your kindness these many years.”

“Then why refuse me?”

“For one thing, I am too old,” she said, sadly.

“Your dear little heart is too young, and good, and tender, you mean.”

She shook her head.

“That’s no argument against it,” he said. “And now what else?”

“There is my brother,” she replied, speaking very firmly now.

“Your brother?”

“You know what dear Arthur is.”

“The simplest, and best, and truest of men.”

“Yes,” she cried, with animation.

“And a clever naturalist, whose worth has never yet been thoroughly known.”

“He is unworldly to a degree,” continued the little lady; “and as you justly say, the simplest of men.”

“I would not have him in the slightest degree different,” cried the doctor.

“I scold him a good deal sometimes,” said the little lady, smiling; “but I don’t think I would have him different in the least.”

“No; why should we?” said the doctor.

That we was a cunning stroke of diplomacy, and it made Miss Rosebury start. She shook her head though directly.

“No, Henry Bolter,” she said, firmly, “it cannot be.”

“Cannot be?” he said, despondently.

“No; I could not leave my brother. Let us join them in the garden!”

“I am not to take that for an answer?” cried the doctor.

“Yes,” she replied; “it would be cruel to leave him.”

“But Mary, dear Mary, you do not dislike me!” cried the little doctor. “I’m not much to look at I know; not a very gallant youth, my dear!”

“I think you are one of the best of men! You make me very proud to think that—that you could—could—”

“And you have owned to liking me, my dear?” he whispered. “Say yea. Arthur would soon get used to your absence; and of course, before long we should come back.”

“No,” she said firmly, “it could not be!”

“Not be!” he said in a tone of so much misery that little Miss Rosebury added:

“Not for me to go out there. We must wait.”

“Wait!”

“Yes; a few years soon pass away, and you will return.”

“But we—I mean—I am getting so precious old,” said the doctor dismally.

“Yes, we should be much older, Henry,” said the little lady sweetly, as she held out her hand; “but surely our esteem would never fade.”

“Never!” he cried, kissing her hand again; and then he laid that hand upon his arm, and they went out into the garden, where the little lady’s eyes soon made out the Reverend Arthur bending over his choicest flowers, to pick the finest blossoms for a bouquet ready for Helen Perowne to carelessly throw aside.

Satisfied that her brother was in no imminent danger with Grey Stuart present, little Miss Rosebury made no opposition to a walk round; the doctor thinking that perhaps, now the ice was broken, he might manage to prevail.

“How beautiful the garden is!” said the little lady, to turn the conversation.

“Beautiful, yes! but, my dear madam,” exclaimed the doctor, in didactic tones, “a garden in Malaya, where I ask you to go—the jungle gorgeous with flowers—the silver river sparkling in the eternal sunshine—the green of the ever-verdant woods—the mountains lifting—”

“Thank you, doctor,” said the little lady, “that is very pretty; but when I was a young girl they took me to see the ‘Lady of Lyons,’ and I remember that a certain mock prince describes his home to the lady something in that way—a palace lifting to eternal summer—and lo! as they say in the old classic stories, it was only a gardener’s cottage after all!”

The matter-of-fact little body had got over her emotion, and this remark completely extinguished the doctor for the time.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

Miss Rosebury Speaks Seriously.

The next day, when the visitors had been driven back by the Reverend Arthur, his sister met him upon the step, and taking his arm, led him down the garden to the vine-house.

“Let us go in here, Arthur,” she said. “It is such a good place to talk in; there is no fear of being overheard.”

“Yes, it is a quiet retired place,” he said thoughtfully.

“I hope you were careful in driving, and had no accident, Arthur?”

“N-no; I had no accident, only I drove one wheel a little up the bank in Sandrock Lane.”

“How was that? You surely did not try to pass another carriage in that narrow part?”

“N-no,” hesitated the Reverend Arthur. “Let me see, how was it? Oh, I remember. Miss Perowne had made some remark to me, and I was thinking of my answer.”

“And nearly upset them,” cried Miss Rosebury. “Oh! Arthur—Arthur, you grow more rapt and dreamy every day; What is coming to you I want to know?”

The Reverend Arthur started guiltily, and gazed at his sister.

“Oh! Arthur,” she cried, shaking a warning finger at him, “you are neglecting your garden and your natural history pursuits to try and make yourself a cavalier of dames, and it will not do. There—there, I won’t scold you; but I am beginning to think that it will be a very good thing when our visitors have gone for good.”

The Reverend Arthur sighed, and half turned away to snip off two or three tendrils from a vine-shoot above his head.

“I want to talk to you very seriously, Arthur,” said the little lady, whose cheeks began to flush slightly with excitement; and she felt relieved as she saw her brother turn a little more away.

“I want to talk to you very seriously indeed,” said Miss Rosebury.

“I am listening,” he said hoarsely; but she did not notice it in her excitement.

There was a minute’s pause, during which the Rev. Arthur broke off the young vine-shoot by accident, and then stood trying to replace it again.

At last Miss Rosebury spoke.

“Arthur,” she said—and her brother started and seemed to shiver, though she saw it not—“Arthur, Henry Bolter has asked me to be his wife!”

The Reverend Arthur turned round now in his astonishment, with his face deadly white and the tiny beads of perspiration upon his forehead. “Asked you to be his wife?” he said. “Yes, dear.”

“I am astonished,” cried the Reverend Arthur. “No, I am not,” he added thoughtfully. “He seemed to like you very much, Mary.”

“And I like him very much, Arthur, for I think him a truly good, amiable, earnest man.”

“He is my dear Mary—he is indeed; but—but—”

“But what, Arthur? Were you going to say that you could not spare me?”

“I—I hardly know what I was about to say, Mary, you took me so by surprise. It would be very strange, though, to be here without you.”

“And you will not be, Arthur. I felt that I must tell you. I have nothing that I keep from you; but I have refused him.”

“You have refused him,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I felt that it would not be right to let a comparative stranger come in here and break up at once our happy little home. No, Arthur, this must all be like some dream. You and I, dear brother, are fast growing into elderly people; and love such as that is the luxury of the young.”

“Love such as that,” said the Reverend Arthur, softly, “is the luxury of the young!”

“Yes, dear brother, it would be folly in me to give way to such feelings!”

“Do you like Harry?” he exclaimed, suddenly.

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “I have felt day by day, Arthur, that I liked him more and more. It was and is a wonder to me at my age; but I should not be honest if I did not own that I liked him.”

“It is very strange, Mary,” said the curate, softly.

“Yes, it is very strange,” she said; “and as I think of it all, I am obliged to own to myself, that after all I should have liked to be married. It is such a revival of the past.”

The curate nodded his head several times as he let himself sink down upon the greenhouse steps, resting his hands upon his knees.

“But it is all past now, Arthur,” said the lady, quickly, and the tears were in her eyes, “we are both too old, my dear brother; and as soon as these visitors are gone, we will forget all disturbing influences, and go back to our happy old humdrum life.”

She could not trust herself to say more, but hurried off to her room, leaving the Reverend Arthur gazing fixedly at the red-brick floor.

“We are too old,” he muttered softly, from time to time; and as he said those words there seemed to stand before him the tall, well-developed figure of a dark-eyed, beauteous woman, who was gazing at him softly from between her half-closed, heavily-fringed lids.

“We are too old,” he said again; and then he went on dreaming of that day’s drive, and Helen’s gentle farewell—of the walks they had had in his garden—the flowers she had taken from his hand. Lastly, of his sister’s words respecting disturbing influences, and then settling down to their own happy humdrum life once again.

“It is fate!” he said, at last—“fate. Can we bring back the past?”

He felt that he could not, even as his sister felt just then, as she knelt beside one of the chairs in her own sweet-scented room, and asked for strength, as she termed it, to fight against this temptation.

“No,” she cried, at last; “I cannot—I will not! For Arthur’s sake I will be firm.”

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

A Difficulty Solved.

A week passed, during which all had been very quiet at the Rectory, brother and sister meeting each other hour by hour in a kind of saddened calm. The Reverend Arthur was paler than usual, almost cadaverous, while there was a troubled, anxious look in little Miss Rosebury’s eyes, and a sharpness in her voice that was not there on the day when Dr Bolter proposed.

No news had been heard of the young ladies at Miss Twettenham’s; and Dr Bolter, to Miss Rosebury’s sorrow, had not written to her brother.

But she bravely fought down her suffering, busying herself with more than usual zeal in home and parish; while the Reverend Arthur came back evening after evening faint, weary, and haggard, from some long botanical ramble.

The eighth day had arrived, and towards noon little Miss Rosebury was quietly seated by the open window with her work, fallen upon her knee, and a sad expression in her eyes as she gazed wistfully along the road, thinking, truth to tell, that Dr Bolter might perhaps come in to their early dinner.

Doctors were so seldom ill, or perhaps he might be lying suffering at some hotel.

The thought sent a pang through the little body, making her start, and seizing her needle, begin to work, when a warm flush came into her cheeks as she heard at one and the same time the noise of wheels, and a slow, heavy step upon the gravel.

The step she well knew, and for a few moments she did not look up; but when she did she uttered an exclamation.

“Tut—tut—tut!” she said. “If anyone saw poor Arthur now they would think him mad.”

Certainly the long, gaunt figure of the Reverend Arthur Rosebury, in his soft, shapeless felt hat, and long, clinging, shabby black alpaca coat, was very suggestive of his being a kind of male Ophelia gone slightly distraught as the consequence of a disappointment in love.

For in the heat of a long walk the tie of his white cravat had gone round towards the nape of his neck, while his felt hat was decorated to the crown with butterflies secured to it by pins. The band had wild flowers and herbs tucked in here and there. His umbrella—a very shabby, baggy gingham—was closed and stuffed with botanical treasures; and his vasculum, slung beneath one arm, was so gorged with herbs and flowers of the field that it would not close.

He was coming slowly down the path as wheels stopped at the gate just out of sight from the window, where little Miss Rosebury sat with her head once more bent down over her work; but she could hear a quick, well-known voice speaking to the driver of the station fly; then there was the click of the latch as the gate swung to, and the little lady’s heart began to go pat, pat—pat, pat—much faster than the quick, decided step that she heard coming down the long gravel path.

Her hearing seemed to be abnormally quickened, and she listened to the wheels as the fly drove off, and then heard every word as the doctor’s quick, decided voice saluted his old friend.

“Been horribly busy, Arthur,” he cried; “but I’m down at last. Where’s Mary?”

Hiding behind the curtain, for she had drawn back to place her hand upon her side to try and control the agitated beating of her foolish little heart.

“Oh, it is dreadful! How can I be so weak?” she cried angrily, as she made a brave effort to be calm—a calmness swept away by the entrance of the doctor, who rushed in boisterously to seize her hands, and before she could repel him, he had kissed her heartily.

“Eureka! my dear Mary! Eureka!” he cried. “I have it—I have it!”

“Henry—Dr Bolter!” she cried, with a decidedly dignified look in her pleasant face.

“Don’t be angry with me, my dear,” he cried; “the news is so good. You couldn’t leave poor Arthur, could you?”

“No!” she cried, with an angry little stamp, as she mentally upbraided him for tearing open the throbbing wound she was striving to heal. “You know I will not leave him.”

“I love and honour you for it more and more, my dear,” he cried. “But what do you think of this? Suppose we take him with us?”

“Take him with us?” said the little lady, slowly.

“Yes,” cried the doctor, excitedly; “take him with us, Mary—my darling wife that is to be. The chaplaincy of our settlement is vacant. Did you ever hear the like?”

Little Miss Rosebury could only stare at the excited doctor in a troubled way, for she understood him now, though her lips refused to speak.

“Yes, and I am one of the first to learn the news. I can work it, I feel sure, if he’ll come. Then only think; lovely climate, glorious botanical collecting trips for him! The land, too, whence Solomon’s ships brought gold, and apes, and peacocks. Ophir, Mary, Ophir! Arthur will be delighted.”

“Indeed!” said that lady wonderingly.

“Not a doubt about it, my dear. My own discovery. All live together! Happiness itself.”

“But Arthur is delicate,” she faltered. “The station is unhealthy.”

“Am not I there? Do I not understand your brother thoroughly? Oh! my dear Mary, do not raise obstacles in the way. It is fate. I know it is, in the shape of our Political Resident Harley. He came over with me, and goes back in the same boat. He has had telegrams from the station.”

“You—you take away my breath, doctor,” panted the little lady. “I must have time to think. Oh! no, no, no; it is impossible. Arthur would never consent to go.”

“If you will promise to be my wife, Mary, I’ll make him go!” cried the doctor, excitedly.

“No, no; he never would. He could not give up his position here, and I should not allow him. It would be too cruelly selfish on my part. It is impossible; it can never be.”

The next moment the doctor was alone, for Miss Rosebury had hurried out to go and sob passionately as a girl in her own room, waking up more and more, as she did, to the fact that she had taken the love distemper late in life; but it was none the weaker for being long delayed.

“It isn’t impossible, my dear,” chuckled the doctor, as he rubbed his hands; “and if I know anything of womankind, the darling little body’s mine. I hope she won’t think I want her bit of money, because I don’t.”

He took a turn up and down the room, rubbing his hands and smiling in a very satisfied way.

“I think I can work Master Arthur,” he said. “He’ll be delighted at the picture I shall paint him of our flora and fauna. It will be a treat for him, and we shall be as jolly as can be. We’ll see about duty and that sort of thing. Why, it will be a better post for him ever so much, and he’s a splendid old fellow.”

There was another promenade of the room, greatly to the endangerment of Miss Rosebury’s ornaments. Then the doctor slapped one of his legs loudly.

“Capital!” he cried. “What a grand thought. What a card to play! That will carry her by storm. I’ll play that card at our next interview; but gently, Bolter, my boy, don’t be in too great a hurry! She’s a splendid specimen, and you must not lose her by being precipitate; but, by Jove! what a capital thought—tell her it will be quite an act of duty to come with me and act a mother’s part to those two girls.”

“She’ll do it—she’ll do it,” he cried, after a pause, “for she quite loves little Grey, and a very nice little girl too. Then it will keep that dark beauty out of mischief, for hang me if I think I could get her over to her father disengaged, and so I told Harley yesterday.”

The doctor did knock off an ornament from a stand at his next turn up and down the room, breaking it right in two; and this brought him to his senses, as, full of repentance, he sought the Reverend Arthur Rosebury in his study to act as medium and confess his sin.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Playing the Card.

The Reverend Arthur had removed the butterflies and wild flowers from his hat by the time Dr Bolter reached him, and was walking slowly up and down the study with his hands clasped behind him.

There was a wrinkled look of trouble in his face.

As the doctor entered he smilingly placed a chair for his friend, and seemed to make an effort to get rid of the feeling of oppression that weighed him down.

Then they sat and talked of butterflies and birds for a time, fencing as it were, for somehow Dr Bolter felt nervous and ill at ease, shrinking from the task which he had set himself, while the Reverend Arthur, though burning to ask several questions upon a subject nearest his heart, shrank from so doing lest he should expose his wound to his friend’s inquisitorial eyes.

“I declare I’m as weak as a child,” said the doctor to himself, after making several vain attempts at beginning. “It’s dreadfully difficult work!” and he asked his friend if the lesser copper butterfly was plentiful in that district.

“No,” said the Reverend Arthur, “we have not chalk enough near the surface.”

Then there was a pause—a painful pause—during which the two old friends seemed to be fighting hard to break the ice that kept forming between them.

“I declare I’m much weaker than a child,” said the doctor to himself; and the subject was the next moment introduced by the Reverend Arthur, who, with a guilty aspect and look askant, both misinterpreted by the doctor, said, hesitatingly:

“Do you know for certain when you go away, Harry?”

“In three weeks, my boy, or a month at most, and there is no time to lose in foolish hesitation, is there?”

“No, of course not. You mean about the subject Mary named?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” cried the doctor, who was now very hot and excited. “You wouldn’t raise any objection, Arthur?”

“No, I think not, Harry. It would be a terrible loss to me.”

“It would—it would.”

“And I should feel it bitterly at first.”

“Of course—of course,” said the doctor, trying to speak; but his friend went on excitedly.

“Time back I could not have understood it; but I am not surprised now!”

“That’s right, my dear Arthur, that’s right; and I will try and make her a good husband.”

“She is a very, very good woman, Harry!”

“The best of women, Arthur, the very best of women; and it will be so nice for those two girls to have her for guide.”

“Do—do they go—both go—with you—so soon?” said the Reverend Arthur, wiping his wet forehead and averting his head.

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor, eagerly.

“And—and does Mary say she will accept you, Harry?”

“No,” said a quick, decided voice. “I told him I could not leave you, Arthur;” and the two gentlemen started guiltily from their chairs.

“My dear Mary,” said the curate, “how you startled me.”

“I have not had time to tell him yet,” said the doctor, recovering himself; and taking the little lady’s hand, he led her to the chair he had vacated, closed the door, and then stood between brother and sister. “I have not had time to tell him yet, my dear Miss Rosebury, but I have been saying to him that it would be so satisfactory for you to help me in my charge of those two young ladies.”

Miss Rosebury started in turn, and coloured slightly.

“And now, my dear old friend,” said the doctor, “let me ask you, treating you as Mary’s nearest relative, will you give your consent to our marriage?”

“No, Arthur, you cannot,” said the little lady, firmly. “I could not leave you.”

“But I have an offer to make you, my dear old friend,” said the doctor; “the chaplaincy at our station is vacant; will you come out with us and take it? There will be no separation then, and—”

He stopped short, for at his words the Reverend Arthur seemed to be galvanised into a new life. He started from his seat, the listless, saddened aspect dropped away, his eyes flashed, and the blood mounted to his cheeks.

“Come with you?” he cried. “Chaplaincy? Out there?”

It seemed as if he had been blinded by the prospect, for the next moment he covered his face with his hands, and sank back in his seat without a word.

“I knew it!” cried little Miss Rosebury, in reproachful tones; and, leaving her chair, she clung to her brother’s arm. “I told you he could not break up his old home here. No, no, Arthur, dear Arthur, it is all a foolish dream! I do not wish to leave you—I could not leave you. Henry Bolter, pray—pray go,” she said, piteously, as she turned to the doctor. “We both love you dearly as our truest friend; but you place upon us burdens that we cannot bear. Oh, why—why did you come to thus disturb our peace? Arthur, dear brother, I will not go away!”

“Hush! hush, Mary!” the curate said, from behind his hands. “Let me think. You do not know. I cannot bear it yet!”

“My dear old Arthur,” began the doctor.

“Let me think, Harry, let me think,” he said, softly.

“No, no, don’t think!” cried the little lady, almost angrily. “You shall not sacrifice yourself for my sake! I will not be the means of dragging you from your peaceful happy home—the home you love—and from the people who love you for your gentle ways! Henry Bolter, am I to think you cruel and selfish instead of our kind old friend?”

“No, no, my dear Mary!” cried the doctor, excitedly. “Selfish? Well, perhaps I am, but—”

“Hush!” said the curate softly; and again, “let me think.”

A silence fell upon the little group, and the chirping of the birds in the pleasant country garden was all that broke that silence for many minutes to come.

Then the Reverend Arthur rose from his seat and moved towards the door, motioning to them not to follow him as he went out into the garden, and they saw him from the window go up and down the walks, as if communing with all his familiar friends, asking, as it were, their counsel in his time of trial.

At last he came slowly back into the room, where the elderly lovers had been seated in silence, neither daring to break the spell that was upon them, feeling as they did how their future depended upon the brother’s words.

They looked at him wonderingly as he came into the room pale and agitated, as if suffering from the reaction of a mental struggle; but there was a smile of great sweetness upon his lips as he said, softly:

“Harry, old friend, I never had a brother. You will be really brother to me now.”

“No, no!” cried his sister, excitedly. “You shall not sacrifice yourself like this!”

“Hush, dear Mary,” he replied calmly; “let me disabuse your mind. You confessed to me your love for Harry Bolter here. Why should I stand in the way of your happiness?”

“Because it would half kill you to be left alone.”

“But I shall not be left alone,” he cried, excitedly. “I shall bitterly regret parting from this dear old home; but I am not so old that I could not make another in a foreign land.”

“Oh! Henry Bolter,” protested the little lady, “it must not be!”

“But it must,” said her brother, taking her in his arms, and kissing her tenderly. “There are other reasons, Mary, why I should like to go. I need not explain what those reasons are; but I tell you honestly that I should like to see this distant land.”

“Where natural history runs mad, Arthur,” cried the doctor, excitedly. “Hurrah!”

“Oh, Arthur!” cried his sister, “you cannot mean it. It is to please me.”

“And myself,” he said, quietly. “There; I am in sober earnest, and I tell you that no greater pleasure could be mine than to see you two one.”

“At the cost of your misery, Arthur.”

“To the giving of endless pleasure to your husband and my brother,” said the Reverend Arthur, smiling; and before she could thoroughly realise the fact, little quiet Miss Mary Rosebury was sobbing on the doctor’s breast.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

On the Voyage.

In these busy days of rail and steam, supplemented by their quick young brother electricity, time seems to go so fast that before the parties to this story had thoroughly realised the fact, another month had slipped by, another week had been added to that month, the Channel had been crossed, then France by train, and at Marseilles the travellers had stepped on board one of the steamers of the French company, the Messageries Maritimes, bound for Alexandria, Aden, Colombo, Penang, and then, on her onward voyage to Singapore and Hong Kong, to drop a certain group of her passengers at the mouth of the Darak river, up which they would be conveyed by Government steamer to Sindang, the settlement where Mr Harley, her Britannic Majesty’s Resident at the barbaric court of the petty Malay Rajah-Sultan Murad had the guidance of affairs.

It was one of those delicious, calm evenings of the South, with the purple waters of the tideless Mediterranean being rapidly turned into orange and gold. Away on the left could be seen, faintly pencilled against the sky, the distant outlines of the mountains that shelter the Riviera from the northern winds. To the right all was gold, and purple, and orange sea; and the group seated about the deck enjoying the comparative coolness of the evening knew that long before daybreak the next morning they would be out of sight of land.

There were a large number of passengers; for the most part English officials and their families returning from leave of absence to the various stations in the far East; and as they were grouped about the spacious quarter-deck of the sumptuously-fitted steamer rapidly ploughing its way through the sun-dyed waters, the scene was as bright and animated as painter could depict.

Gentlemen were lounging, smoking, or making attempts to catch the fish that played about the vessel’s sides without the slightest success; ladies were seated here and there, or promenading the deck, while other groups were conversing in low tones as they drank in the soft, sensuous air, and wondered how people could be satisfied to exist in dull and foggy, sunless England, when nature offered such climes as this.

“In another half-hour, Miss Perowne, I think I shall be able to show you a gorgeous sunset, if you will stay on deck.”

The speaker was a tall, fair man by rights, but long residence in the East had burned his skin almost to the complexion of that of a Red Indian. He was apparently about forty, with high forehead, clear-cut aquiline features, and the quick, firm, searching look of one accustomed to command and master men.

He took off his puggree-covered straw hat as he spoke, to let the cool breeze play through his hair, which was crisp and short, but growing so thin and sparse upon the top that partings were already made by time, and he would have been looked upon by every West-end hair-dresser as a suitable object to be supplied with nostrums and capillary regenerators galore.

“Are the sunsets here very fine?” said Helen, languidly, as she lay back in a cane chair listlessly gazing through her half-closed eyes at the glittering water that foamed astern, ever widening away from the churning of the huge propeller of the ship.

“Very grand some of them, but nothing to those we shall show you in the water-charged atmosphere close to the equator. Ah, Miss Stuart, come here and stop to see the sunset. You grieve me, my child,” he added, smiling, and showing his white teeth.

“Grieve you, Mr Harley, why?” said Grey, smiling.

“Because I feel as if I were partner in the crime of taking you out to Sindang to turn that fair complexion of yours brown.”

“Grey Stuart is very careless about such things,” said Helen, with languid pettishness. “How insufferably hot it is!”

“Well,” said Mr Harley, laughing, “you are almost queen here already, Miss Perowne; everyone seems to constitute himself your slave. Shall we arm ourselves with punkahs, and waft sweet southern gales to your fair cheeks?”

“Here! Hi, Harley!” cried the brisk voice of Dr Bolter from the forward part of the vessel.

“’Tis the voice of the male turtle-dove,” said Mr Harley, laughing. “He is separated from his mate. Have I your permission to go, fair queen?”

Helen’s eyes opened widely for a moment, and she darted an angry look at the speaker before turning away with an imperious gesture, when, with a meaning smile upon his lip, Neil Harley, Her Britannic Majesty’s Political Resident at Sindang, walked forward.

“That man irritates me,” said Helen, in a low, angry voice. “I began by disliking him; I declare I hate him now!”

“Is it not because you both try to say sharp-edged words to each other, Helen?” said Grey Stuart, seating herself by her schoolfellow’s side, and beginning to work. “Mr Harley is always very kind and nice to me.”

“Pah! He treats you like a child!” said Helen, contemptuously.

“Well,” said Grey, smiling in her companion’s face, “I suppose I am a child to him. Here comes Mr Rosebury.”

“I wish Mr Rosebury were back in England,” said Helen, petulantly. “He wearies me with his constant talk about the beauties of nature. I wish this dreadful voyage were over!”

“And we have hardly begun it, Helen,” said Grey, quietly; but noticing that her companion’s face was flushed, she said, anxiously, “Are you unwell, dear?”

“Unwell? No.”

There was something strange in Helen’s behaviour, but she had the skill to conceal it, as the newly-appointed chaplain of Sindang came slowly up and began to talk to Helen in his dry, measured way, trying to draw her attention to the beauty of the evening, but without avail, for she seemed distraite, and her answers were sometimes far from pertinent to the subject in question.

Just then Mrs Doctor Bolter came bustling up, looking bright, eager, and full of animation.

She darted an uneasy look at her brother, and another at Helen, which was returned by one full of indifference, almost defiance, as if resenting the little lady’s way, and Mrs Bolter turned to Grey Stuart.

“Where is my husband, my dear?” she said. “I declare this ship is so big that people are all getting lost! Oh! here he comes! Now there—just as if there were no sailors to do it—he must be carrying pails of water!”

For the little doctor came panting along with a bucket of water in each hand, the Resident walking by his side till the two vessels were plumped down in front of Helen’s chair.

“Now, my dear Harry, what are you doing?” began the little lady, in tones of remonstrance.

“All right, my dear. Two pails full of freshly-dipped sea water. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will close round, I will show you some of the marvels of creation.”

As quite a little crowd began to collect, many being ladies, at whom the little doctor’s wife—only a few days back elderly Miss Rosebury—directed very sharp, searching glances, especially when they spoke to her husband, Helen rose with a look of annoyance from her chair and began to walk forward.

She was hesitating about going farther alone, when a low voice by her ear said, softly:

“Thank you, Miss Perowne. Suppose you take my arm? We will walk forward into the bows.”

“Mr Harley!” said the lady, drawing back, with her eyes full of indignation.

“I think I was to show you the beauty of the sunset,” he said. “We can see it so much better from the bows, and,” he added, meaningly, “I shall have so much better an opportunity to say that which I wish to say.”

“What you wish to say, Mr Harley?”

“Yes,” he replied, taking her hand, drawing it quickly through his arm, and leading her down the steps.

“I wish to return, Mr Harley,” she said, imperiously.

“You shall return, my dear young lady, when I have said that which I wish to say.”

“What can you wish to say to me?” she said, haughtily.

“That which your eyes have been asking me if I could say, ever since we met a fortnight ago, Helen, and that which I have determined to say while there is time.”

Helen Perowne shrank away, but there was a power of will in her companion that seemed to subdue her, and in spite of herself she was led to the forward part of the vessel, just as the sun had dipped below the horizon; the heavens were lit up like the sea with a gorgeous blaze of orange, purple, green, and gold; and little Mrs Doctor Bolter exclaimed:

“That wicked, coquettish girl away again! Grey Stuart, my dear, where has your schoolfellow gone?”

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

A Troublesome Charge.

Neil Harley, in spite of his strong power of will, had said but very few words to Helen Perowne before little Mrs Doctor Bolter bustled up.

“Oh, Mr Harley!” she exclaimed, “you have carried off my charge.”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling pleasantly; “we came forward to have a good view of the sunset.”

“Because you could see it so much better at the other end?” said Mrs Bolter, drily.

“No; but because we could see it uninterruptedly,” replied the Resident, coolly.

“Oh no, you could not, Mr Harley,” continued the little lady, “because you see I have come to interrupt your tête-à-tête. Helen, my dear, will you come back and join us on the other deck?”

“To be sure she will, my dear Mrs Bolter, and I shall come too. There, mind those ropes. That’s better. What a glorious evening! I hope I am to have the pleasure of showing you ladies many that are far more beautiful on the Darak river.”

Little Mrs Bolter looked up at him meaningly; but the Resident’s eyes did not flinch; he only gave her a quiet nod in reply, and they climbed once more to the quarter-deck, where, in preparation for the coming darkness, the sailors were busily hanging lamps.

They had no sooner reached the group of people around Dr Bolter, than, as if to revenge herself for the annoyance to which she had been subjected, Helen disengaged her hand, walked quickly up to the Reverend Arthur, and began to talk to him in a low earnest voice.

“If she would only keep away from poor Arthur,” muttered the little lady, “I would not care—she is making him infatuated. And now there’s Henry talking to that thin dark lady again. I wish he would not talk so much to her.”

“Married late in life,” said the Resident, quietly, as he lit a cigar; “but she seems to have her share of jealousy. She’s a dear, good little woman, though, all the same.”

He walked to the side watching Helen where she stood beneath one of the newly lit lamps, looking very attractive in the faint reflected rays of the sunset mingled with those shed down from above upon her glossy hair.

“Why does she go so much to gossip with that chaplain? If it is to pique me it is labour in vain, for I have not a soupçon of jealousy in my composition. She is very beautiful and she knows it too. What a head and neck, and what speaking eyes!”

He stood smoking for a few minutes and then went on:

“Speaking eyes? Yes, they are indeed. It is no fancy, but it seems to have been to lead me on; and as I judge her, perhaps wrongfully, she loves to drag every man she sees in her train. Well, she has made a mistake this time if she thinks she is going to play with me. I feel ashamed of myself sometimes when I think of how easily I let her noose me, but it is done.”

He lit a fresh cigar, and still stood watching Helen.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “I have called myself idiot for this sudden awakening of a passion that I thought dead; but no, the man who receives encouragement from a woman like that is no idiot. It is the natural consequence that he should love her.”

Just then three or four of the passengers, officers and civil officials, sauntered up to Helen, and after the first few words she joined with animation in the conversation; but not without darting a quick glance once or twice in the Resident’s direction.

“No,” he said, softly; “the man who, receiving encouragement, becomes deeply in love with you, fair Helen, is no idiot, but very appreciative, for you are a beautiful girl and very fond of admiration.”

He did not move, but still watched the girl, who began to stand out clearly against the lamp-light now, more attractive than he had ever seen her.

“Yes,” he said; “you may flirt and coquet to your heart’s content, but it will have no effect upon me, my child. I don’t think I am a conceited man, but I know I am strong, and have a will. Let me see, I have known you since I went down, at Bolter’s request, to be his best man at the wedding, and I had you, my fair bridesmaid, under my charge, with the result that you tried to drag me at your car. Well, I am caught, but take care, my child, prisoners are dangerous sometimes, and rise and take the captor captive.”

“Yes,” he continued, “some day I may hold you struggling against my prisoning hands—hands that grasp you tenderly, so that your soft plumage may not be ruffled, for it is too beautiful to spoil.”

Just then there was a sally made by a French officer of the vessel, and Helen’s silvery laugh rang out.

“Yes, your laugh is sweet and thrilling,” he continued softly. “No doubt it was a brilliant compliment our French friend paid. I don’t think I am vain, if I say to myself even that laugh was uttered to pique me. It is an arrow that has failed, for I am in a prophetic mood. I have seen the maidens of every land almost beneath the sun, and allowing for savagery, I find them very much the same when they turn coquettes. You could not understand my meaning this evening, eh? Well, we shall see. Go on, coquette, and laugh and dance in the sun till you are tired. I’ll wait till then. The effervescence and froth of the cup will have passed away, and there will be but the sweet, clear wine of your woman’s nature left for me to drink. I’ll wait till then.”

Again Helen’s laugh rang out, but the Resident remained unmoved.

“Am I a coxcomb—a conceited idiot?” he said; then softly, “I hope not. Time will prove.”

“I don’t care, Harry; I will not have it!”

“But it is only girlish nonsense, my dear.”

“Then the young ladies in our charge shall not indulge in girlish nonsense. It is not becoming. Grey Stuart never gets a cluster of young men round her like a queen in a court.”

“More fools the young men, my dear,” said the doctor; “for Grey is really as sweet a maiden as—”

“Henry!”

“Well, really, my dear, I mean it. Hang it, my dear Mary! don’t think I mean anything but fatherly feeling towards the child. Hallo, Harley! you there? Why are you not paying your court yonder?”

“Because, my dear Bolter, your good lady here has given me one severe castigation to-day for the very sin.”

“There I think you are wrong, Mary,” said the doctor, quickly; “and I will say that I wish you, a stable, middle-aged man, and an old friend of her father’s, would go and spend more time by her side; it would keep off these buzzing young gnats.”

“If I said anything unkind, Mr Harley,” said the little lady, holding out her hand, “please forgive me. I only wish to help my husband to do his duty towards the young lady who is in our charge.”

“My dear Mrs Bolter,” said the Resident, taking the extended hand, “I only esteem my dear old friend’s wife the more for the brave way in which she behaved. I am sure we shall be the firmest of friends!”

“I hope we shall, I am sure,” said the little lady, warmly.

“What do you say, Bolter?”

“I know you will,” cried the doctor. “You won’t be able to help it, Harley. She is just the brave, true lady we want at the station to take the lead and rule the roost. She’ll keep all the ladies in order.”

“Now, Henry!”

“But you will, my dear; and I tell you at once that Neil Harley here will help you all he can.”

Five minutes later the doctor and his wife were alone, the former being called to account for his very warm advocacy of Mr Harley.

“Well, my dear, he deserves it all,” said the doctor.

“But I don’t quite like his behaviour towards Helen Perowne,” said the little lady; “and now we are upon the subject, Harry, I must say that I don’t quite like your conduct towards that girl.”

The doctor turned, took her hands, held them, and laughed.

“Why, what a droll little body you are, Mary!”

“And why, sir, pray?” said the lady, rather sharply.

“Four or five months ago, my dear, I don’t believe you knew the real meaning of the word love, and now I honestly believe you are finding out the meaning of the word jealousy as well; but seriously, my dear, that girl makes me shiver!”

“Shiver, sir! Why?”

“She’s a regular firebrand coming amongst our young men. She’ll do no end of mischief. I see it as plain as can be, and I shall have to set to as soon as I get home to compound a fresh medicine—pills at night, draught in the morning—for the cure of love-sickness. She’ll give the lot the complaint. But, you dear, silly little old woman, you don’t think that I—oh!—oh! come, Mary, Mary, my dear!”

“Well, there, I don’t think so, Harry,” said the little lady, apologetically, “but she is so horribly handsome, and makes such use of those dreadful eyes of hers, that it makes me cross when I see the gentlemen obeying her lightest beck and call.”

“Well, she does lead them about pretty well,” chuckled the doctor. “She’s a handsome girl!”

“Henry!”

“Well, my dear, I’ll think she’s as ugly as sin if you like.”

“And in spite of all you say of Mr Harley, I don’t think he is behaving well. She gave him a few of those looks of hers when he came down to our wedding, and he has been following her ever since. I’ve watched him!”

“What a wicked wretch!” chuckled the little doctor. “Has he taken a fancy to a pretty girl, then, and made up his mind to win? Why, he’s as bad as that scoundrel Harry Bolter, who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and did not.”

“Now, don’t talk nonsense, Henry. This is too serious a subject for joking.”

“I am as serious as a judge, Polly.”

“What!”

“Is there anything the matter, my dear?” said the little doctor, who was startled by the lady’s energy.

“What did you call me, sir?”

“Polly, my dear; tender pet name for Mary.”

“Never again please, dear Henry,” said the little lady. “I don’t wish to be too particular, and don’t mind tenderness—I—I—rather like it, dear. But do I look like a lady who could be called Polly?”

“Then it shall always be Mary, my dear,” said the doctor; “and I won’t joke about serious matters. As to Neil Harley and Helen Perowne, you’re quite right; but ’pon my word, I don’t see why we should interfere as long as matters don’t go too far.”

“I do not agree with you, Henry.”

“You have not heard my argument, my dear,” he said taking her hand, drawing it through his arm, and walking her up and down the deck. “Now look here, my dear Mary, six months ago you were a miserable unbeliever.”

“A what?” cried the lady, indignantly.

“A miserable unbeliever. You had no faith in its being the duty of all ladies to get married; and I came to your barbarous little village and converted you.”

“Oh, yes, I had great belief,” said the little lady, quietly.

“Well, then, you were waiting for the missionary to come and lead your belief the right way. Now then, my dear, don’t you see this? Suppose a place where there are a dozen ladies and only one gentleman. How many can be married?”

“Why, only one lady, of course,” said Mrs Doctor.

“Exactly, my dear,” said the doctor; “but it is a moral certainty that the gentleman will be married.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” replied Mrs Doctor.

“Suppose so? Why, they’d combine and kill him for an unnatural monster if he did not marry one of them,” said the doctor, laughing. “Well, then, my dear, suppose we reverse the case, and take a young and very handsome lady to a station in an out-of-the-way part of the world, where the proportions are as one to twenty—one lady to twenty gentlemen—what is the moral result?”

“I suppose she would be sure to be married?”

“Exactly, my dear. Well, as our handsome young charge evidently thinks a very great deal about love-making—”

“A very great deal too much,” said Mrs Doctor, tartly.

“Exactly so, my dear. Well, she is going to such a place. What ought we to do?”

“See of course that she does not make a foolish match.”

“Ex—actly!” cried the doctor. “Well, Harley seems to have taken a fancy to her at once. Good man—good position—not too old.”

“I don’t know,” said the lady, dubiously, “I don’t quite think they would match.”

“I do,” said the doctor, sharply. “The very man. Plenty of firmness. He’s as genial and warm-hearted as a man can be; but he has a will like iron. He’d break in my young madam there; and, by Jove! ma’am, if I am a judge of woman’s nature—”

“Which you are not, sir,” said the lady, sharply. “Well, perhaps not; but I do say this—if ever there was a Petruchio cut out for our handsome, dark-eyed Katherine, then Neil Harley is the man!”

“Here, doctor, where are you? Come along!” cried the gentleman in question. “Music—music! Miss Perowne has promised to sing!”

“Have you been persuading her, Mr Harley?” said the little lady.

“I? My dear madam, no! She refused me; but has been listening to the blandishments of Captain Lindley; and—there—she is beginning. By Jove! what a voice!”

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Lieutenant Chumbley.

A rapid and pleasant voyage, with a touch here and there at the various ports, giving the two girls, just fresh from their life of seclusion, a glance at the strange mixture of nationalities collected together in these pauses of commercial transit.

It was one continuous scene of interest to Grey Stuart, who was never weary of gazing at the hurrying crowds and the strange customs of these far-off towns; while Helen, if persuaded to land, found the heat too oppressive, and preferred a cane lounge in the shade of an awning, with four or five gentlemen in attendance with fans, iced water, or fruit.

The Resident was constant in his attentions to her, and tried, whenever the steamer put into port, to get her to join some excursion, the most notable of which was at Ceylon; but she invariably refused, when he would laughingly turn to Grey and ask her to be his companion.

Mrs Doctor looked serious at first; but, particular as she was, she gave way, for the Resident’s behaviour to the bright English girl was beyond reproach.

“You’ll understand Harley better by-and-by,” said the doctor. “He’s a very old friend of her father, and he might be the girl’s uncle from his way.”

“But do you think it will be proper to let her go?” said the little lady.

“I’ll answer for Harley’s conduct, my dear. If ever there was a gentleman it is he. Let her go.”

So Grey often became Neil Harley’s companion in these excursions, returning delighted with the wonders of each place; while the Resident was loud in his praises of her quiet, sensible appreciation of all they saw.

“She’s a very amiable, sweet, intelligent girl, Mrs Bolter,” he said one evening, as he sat with the doctor and his wife.

“Do you think so, Mr Harley?” said the lady drily.

“Indeed I do, ma’am,” he replied, “and I am very proud to know her.”

“Better hook her, Harley,” said the doctor, with a twinkle of the eye, as he saw his wife’s serious, suspicious glances. “She’ll be caught up like a shot.”

“Then I hope you and Mrs Bolter will help and see that she makes no foolish match. I beg her pardon, though,” he added, hastily; “she is not a girl who would do that.”

“You are first in the field,” said the doctor, in spite of an admonitory shake of the head from his lady. “Why not make your hay while the sun shines?”

The Resident sat gazing very seriously out at sea, and his voice was very low and tender as he replied:

“No; Miss Stuart is a young lady for whom I feel just such sentiments as I should presume a man would feel for his bright, intelligent child. That is all, Mrs Bolter,” he said, turning quickly. “I ought to congratulate you upon the warm hold you have upon Miss Grey’s affections.”

He rose then and walked away, with the little doctor’s wife watching him intently.

“Henry,” she said suddenly, “that man is either a very fine fellow or else he is an arch-hypocrite.”

“Well, I’ll vouch he isn’t the last,” said the doctor, warmly, “for I’ve known him ten years, and I’ve had him down twice with very severe attacks of fever. I know him by heart. I’ve sounded him all over, heart, lungs, liver: he hasn’t a failing spot in his whole body.”

“Bless the man!” said Mrs Doctor, “just as if that had anything to do with his character for honesty and truth. Now look there, Henry, really I cannot bear it much longer. That girl’s conduct is scandalous?”

“What, Grey Stuart’s?”

“No; absurd! Helen Perowne’s. Why the young men all seem to be mad.”

“Moths round a candle,” said the doctor. “There, don’t worry yourself, my dear, it’s only her way. She loves admiration, and young fellows admire her, so it suits both sides.”

“But I don’t like a young lady who is under our charge to be so fond of admiration.”

“Oh, there’s no harm in her. She is one of those ladies who seem to have been born to exact attention; and as there are plenty ready to pay toll, why, what does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal,” said the little lady, indignantly; “and no good will come of it. One day she is trying to lead Mr Harley at her heels like a lapdog; the next day it is Captain Lindley; the next, Mr Adjutant Morris; then Lieutenant Barlow. Why, she was making eyes at Captain Pennelle yesterday at dinner. I declare the girl seems quite to infatuate the men, and you see if trouble does not come of it.”

“Oh, tut! tut! Nonsense, my dear, what trouble should come?”

“Quarrels, and duels, and that sort of thing.”

“Men don’t fight duels now, my dear. Oh, no, don’t you be uneasy. We shall soon be at Sindang now, and then we can hand your incubus over to papa Perowne, and be free of it all.”

“I shall be very glad, I’m sure,” said the lady. “There look at her. I suppose that’s the last conquest!”

“Whom do you mean?” said the doctor, drowsily, for he had just settled himself for a nap in the yielding cane chair.

“That great, tall young officer, who came on board at Colombo.”

“Oh, Chumbley,” said the doctor, looking up and following his wife’s eyes to where a great broad-shouldered fellow was bending down talking to Helen Perowne, who seemed to be listening eagerly to his words, as if on purpose to annoy the half-dozen gentlemen forming her court.

He was a fine, well-set-up young fellow, looking like a lifeguardsman picked from among a selection of fair, curly-haired Saxons, and, evidently flattered by the lady’s notice, he was doing his best to make himself agreeable.

“You may call it what you like,” said Mrs Doctor. “I call it scandalous! Here’s the very last arrival in the ship.”

“Regularly subjugated,” laughed the doctor.

“It is nothing to laugh at,” said the lady, indignantly. “I declare I have a good mind to go and interfere.”

“No, no, don’t,” said the doctor earnestly. “She means no harm, and you may only make a breach between you.”

“I don’t care, Henry; it is for the girl’s sake that I should interfere; and as to the breach, she utterly detests me as it is for what I have said. I think she hates me as much as I do her.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Mary, you could not hate anyone; and as to Helen Perowne’s foolish coquetry, it will all settle down into the love of some stout brave fellow.”

“Such as that of Lieutenant Chumbley.”

“Perhaps so.”

“Well I hope so, I’m sure. One ought to have a big strong man to keep all the others away, for if ever there was a heartless coquette it is she; and the sooner we can place her in her father’s hands the happier I shall be.”

“Would you mind whisking a fly off now and then with your handkerchief, Mary,” said the little doctor, drowsily, as he settled himself for his nap.

“I know there’ll be some mischief come out of it all,” said the little lady, as she drove a couple of flies from her husband’s nose.

“Only—few days—old Perowne—sure to meet us, and—”

The handkerchief was kept busily whisking about, for the flies were tiresome, and the doctor was fast asleep, only turning restlessly now and then, when in her eagerness to watch Helen Perowne and Lieutenant Chumbley—the young officer coming out to join the regiment into which he had exchanged with the hope of getting variety and sport—Mrs Doctor forgot to act as guardian against the flies.

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

A Dangerous Creature.

At last Mrs Bolter’s troubles were, as she said, at an end, for the great steamer had transferred a portion of her passengers to the station gunboat at the mouth of the Darak river. There had been a quick run up between the low shores dense with their growth of mangrove and nipah palm. The station had been reached, and the ladies transferred to the arms of their fathers, both waiting anxiously for the coming boat upon the Resident’s island, where in close connection with the fort Mr Harley’s handsome bungalow had been built.

For the first few days all was excitement at Sindang, for the report of the beauty of “Old Stuart’s” daughter, and above all that of the child of the principal merchant in the place, created quite a furore among the officers of the two companies of foot stationed at the fort, and the young merchants and civil officers of the place.

“It is really a very, very great relief, Henry,” said Mrs Doctor. “I can sleep as easily again now those girls are off my hands. I mean that girl; but really I don’t feel so satisfied as I should like, for though I know Helen Perowne to be safe in her father’s charge, I am not at all sure that my responsibility has ceased.”

“Ah, you must do what you can for the motherless girls, my dear. Eh, Arthur? what do you say?”

“I quite agree with you, Harry,” said the new chaplain, quietly; “but the change to here is—is rather confusing at first.”

“Oh, you’ll soon settle down, old fellow; and I say, Mary, my dear, it is a beautiful place, is it not?”

“Very, very beautiful indeed,” replied the little lady; “but it is very hot.”

“Well, say warmish,” said the doctor, chuckling; “but I did not deceive you about that. You’ll soon get used to it, and you won’t be so ready to bustle about; you must take it coolly.”

“As you do?” said Mrs Doctor, smiling.

“As I do? Oh, I’m the doctor, and here is every one getting his or her liver out of order during my absence! My hands are terribly full just now; but we shall soon settle down. How is the church getting on, Arthur?”

“Slowly, my dear Harry,” said the Reverend Arthur, in his quiet way. “They are making the improvements I suggested. Mr Perowne subscribed handsomely, and Mr Harley is supplying more labour; but I’m afraid I was rather negligent this morning, for I strolled away towards the woods.”

“Jungle, my dear fellow, jungle! but don’t go again without me; I’m more at home here than you.”

“But the woods—I mean jungle—looked so beautiful; surely there is nothing to fear.”

“Not much—with care,” replied the doctor, “but still there are dangers—fever, sunstroke, tigers, crocodiles, poisonous serpents, venomous insects and leeches.”

“Goodness gracious!” ejaculated Mrs Doctor. “Arthur, you are on no account to go again!”

“But, my dear Mary—” said the chaplain, meekly.

“Now, don’t argue, Arthur. I say you are on no account to go again!”

“But really, my dear Mary—”

“I will listen to no excuse, Arthur. Unless Henry, who understands the place, accompanies you, I forbid your going again. I hope you have not been into any other dangerous place.”

“Oh, no, my dear Mary; I only went and called upon Mr Perowne.” Mrs Bolter started, and the doctor burst into a roar of laughter.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he cried. “Why, my dear boy, that’s a far more dangerous place than the jungle.”

“I—I do not understand you, Henry,” said the chaplain, with a faint flush in his cheek.

“Not understand me, my dear fellow! Why, Perowne keeps a most ferocious creature there, and it’s loose too.”

“Loose?” cried Mrs Doctor, excitedly.

“Oh, yes: I’ve seen it about the grounds, parading up and down on the lawn by the river, and in the house as well.”

“Gracious me, Henry, the man must be mad! What is it?” cried Mrs Bolter.

“Regular tigress—man-eater,” said the doctor.

“And you allowed your brother-in-law to go there without warning, Henry? Really, I am surprised at you!”

“Oh! pooh, pooh!” ejaculated the doctor. “Arthur can take care of himself.”

“And here have I accepted an invitation for all of us to go there the week after next to dinner! I won’t go. I certainly will not go.”

“Nonsense, my dear Mary—nonsense!” said the doctor, with his eyes twinkling. “We must go. Perowne would be horribly put out if we did not.”

“Now look here, Henry, when I was a maiden lady I never even kept a cat or a dog, because I said to myself that live animals about a house might be unpleasant to one’s friends. So how do you suppose that when I have become a married lady I am going to sanction the presence of dangerous monsters in a house?”

“Oh, but it won’t hurt you,” said the doctor. “I tell you it’s a man-eater. We must go, Mary.”

“I certainly must beg of you not to ask me,” said the little lady. “My dear Harry, it gives me great pain to go against your wishes, but I could not—I really could not go.”

“Not if I assured you it was perfectly safe?”

“If you gave me that assurance, Henry, I—I think I would go; for I believe you would not deceive me.”

“Never,” said the doctor, emphatically. “Well, I assure you that you need not be under the slightest apprehension.”

“But is it chained up, Harry?”

“Well, no, my dear,” replied the little doctor; “they could not very well chain her up. But I was there yesterday though, and I saw that Perowne had given her a very handsome chain.”

“Then why doesn’t he chain her up? I shall certainly tell Mr Perowne that he ought. This comes of the poor man having no wife and living out in these savage parts. Really, Henry, I don’t think we ought to go.”

“Oh! pooh, pooh—nonsense, my dear! You’ve nothing to mind. I’m not afraid of her. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know you are very good, and brave, and strong, Harry,” said the little lady, smiling, “and if you say it is safe I will go, for I do trust in your knowledge, and—there, now, I declare I am quite angry! You are laughing, sir! I’m sure there is some trick!”

“Trick? What trick?” cried the doctor, chuckling.

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that Mr Perowne has a wild tigress running about his place?”

“Oh, no; I never said a wild tigress—did I, Arthur?”

“I—I did not quite hear what you said, Henry,” replied the chaplain.

“You said a dangerous creature—a sort of tigress, sir.”

“Right, so I did; and so he has.”

“What is it then?” said Mrs Doctor, very sharply.

“A handsome young woman,” chuckled the doctor—“his daughter Helen.”

“Now, Henry, I do declare that you are insufferable!” cried Mrs Doctor, angrily, as her brother rose softly, walked to the window of the pretty palm-thatched bungalow, and stood gazing out at the bright flowers with which the doctor had surrounded his place.

“Well, it’s true enough,” chuckled the doctor. “I never saw such a girl in my life. She has had that great fellow Chumbley hanging after her for weeks, and now—”

“And now what, sir?”

Perhaps it was the wind, but certainly just then there was a sound as of a faint sigh from somewhere by the window, and it seemed as if the chaplain was recalling the past days of repose at his little home near Mayleyfield, and wondering whether he had done right to come; but no one heeded him, and the doctor went on:

“Now she seems to have lassoed young Hilton.”

“What, Captain Hilton?”

“Yes, my dear, with a silken lasso; and he is all devotion.”

“Henry, you astound me!” cried Mrs Doctor. “Why, I thought that Mr Harley meant something there.”

“So did I,” said the doctor, “but it seems all off. Harley and Chumbley cashiered, vice Hilton—the reigning hero of the day.”

“Of the day indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Doctor. “I never did see such a girl. It is dreadful.”

“And yet you scolded me for calling her a dangerous creature.”

“Well, I must own that she is, Henry,” said Mrs Doctor; and once more there was a faint sigh by the window.

“She’s a regular man-trap, my dear, and practises with her eyes upon everyone she sees. I don’t think even her great-grandfather would be safe. She actually smiled at me yesterday.”

“What?” cried the little lady.

“Perowne sent for me, you know.”

“Yes, of course, I remember. Go on, Henry.”

“They’d been out together—she wanted to see the Residency island—and then nothing would do but she must have a walk in the jungle; and then, I don’t know whether she began making eyes at the leeches, but half a dozen fastened upon her, of course.”

“Why, of course, sir?”

“Because she went out walking in ridiculous high-heeled low shoes, with fancy stockings.”

“Well, Henry, how tiresomely prolix you are!”

“Well, that’s all, my dear, only that the leeches fastened on her feet and ankles.”

“And did Mr Perowne send for you to take them off?”

“Well, not exactly, my dear, they pulled them off themselves; but one bite would not stop bleeding, and I had to apply a little pad on the instep—wonderfully pretty little ankles and insteps, my dear, when the stockings are off.”

“Doctor Bolter!” exclaimed the little lady in so severe a tone of voice that the subject of Helen Perowne was dismissed, and the culprit allowed to go to his little surgery to see to the compounding of some medicines necessary for his sick.

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

Doctor Bolter’s Theory.

In a little Eastern settlement, in spite of feelings of caste, the Europeans are so few that rules of society are to a certain extent set aside, so that people mix to a greater degree than in larger towns. In spite of her rather particular, and, to be truthful, rather sharp, old-maidish ways, Mrs Bolter soon found herself heartily welcomed by all, and readily accorded, as the doctor’s wife, almost a leading position in the place.

This position would by rights have been given to the lady of the principal merchant, but Mr Perowne had lost his wife when Helen was very young; and Isaac Stuart—“Old Stuart,” as he was generally called—was no better off, his daughter Grey having been left motherless at a very early age.

The idea of Mr Perowne was that upon his daughter joining him she should take the lead and give receptions; and to this end the first party was arranged, to which Mr and Mrs Doctor Bolter and the chaplain had been invited, the time rapidly coming round, and the guests assembling at Mr Perowne’s handsome house, where the luxurious dinner, served in the most admirable manner by the soft-footed, quiet Chinese servants, passed off without a hitch; and at last, with a smile that seemed to have the effect of being directed at every gentleman at table, Helen Perowne rose, and the ladies left the room.

The conversation soon became general, and then the doctor’s voice rose in opposition to a laugh raised against something he had said.

“Oh, yes,” he cried, “laugh and turn everything I say into ridicule: I can bear it. I have not been out all these years in the jungle for nothing.”

“Does Mrs Bolter approve of your theory, doctor?” said the Resident.

“I have not mentioned it to her, sir,” replied the doctor, glancing at the curtains looped over the open doorway; “and if you have no objection, I will make the communication myself. My journey home and my marriage have put it a good deal out of my head. But what I want to tell all here is, that the thing is as plain as the nose on your face.”

Mr Harley, to whom this was principally addressed, gently stroked the bridge of his aquiline nose, half closed his eyes, and smiled in a good-humoured way.

“That’s right,” said the doctor. “Go on unbelieving. Some day I’ll give you the most convincing proofs that what I say is right.”

“But will Mrs Bolter approve of your running wild in the jungle now you are married?” said the Resident, quietly.

“Pooh, sir—pooh, sir! My wife is a very sensible little woman, isn’t she, Arthur?” he cried; and the chaplain smiled and bowed before lapsing into a dreamy state, and sitting back in his chair, gazing at the curtains hanging softly across the open door.

“Oh, we’re ready enough to believe, doctor,” said the Resident; “don’t be offended.”

“Pooh! I’m not offended,” exclaimed the doctor. “All discoveries get laughed at till the people are forced to believe. Here, young man, you’ve had enough fruit,” he cried sharply, as one of the party stretched forth his hand to help himself to the luscious tropic fruits with which the table was spread.

“What a tyrant you are, doctor,” said the young officer.

“Here, boy,” cried the doctor, to one of the silent Chinese servants gliding about the table, “more ice.—You’re as unbelieving as John Chinaman here.”

“We’ll believe fast enough, doctor,” said the last speaker; “but it is only fair that we should ask for facts.”

“Facts, Captain Hilton,” said the doctor, turning sharply upon the sun-tanned young officer, who, like the rest of the party, was attired in white, for the heat of the large, lightly-furnished room was very great, “facts, sir? What do you want? Haven’t you your Bible, and does it not tell you that Solomon’s ships went to Ophir, and brought back gold, and apes, and peacocks?”

“Yes,” said Captain Hilton, “certainly;” and the Reverend Arthur bowed his head.

“Oh, you’ll grant that,” said the little doctor, with a smile of triumph and a glance round the table.

“Of course,” said the young officer, taking a cigarette.

“I say, Doctor,” said the Resident—“or no; I’ll ask your brother-in-law. Mr Rosebury, did the doctor ventilate his astounding theory over in England?”

“No,” replied the chaplain, smiling, “I have never heard him propound any theory.”

“I thought not,” said the Resident. “Go on, doctor.”

“I don’t mind your banter,” said the little doctor, good-humouredly. “Now look here, Captain Hilton, I want to know what more you wish for. There’s Malacca due south of where you are sitting, and there lies Mount Ophir to the east.”

“But there is a Mount Ophir in Sumatra,” said Lieutenant Chumbley, the big, heavy dragoon-looking fellow, who had not yet spoken.

“In Sumatra?” cried the doctor. “Bah, sir, bah! That isn’t Solomon’s place at all. I tell you I’ve investigated the whole thing. Here’s Ophir east of Malacca, with its old gold workings all about the foot of the mountain; there are the apes in the trees—Boy, more ice.”

“And where are the peacocks?” drawled Chumbley.

“Hark at him!” cried the doctor; “he says where are the peacocks? Look here, Mr Chumbley, if you would take a gun, or a geologist’s hammer, and exercise your limbs and your understanding, instead of dangling about after young ladies—”

“Shouldn’t have brought them out, doctor,” drawled the young fellow, coolly.

“Or say a collecting-box and a cyanide bottle,” continued the doctor, “instead of getting your liver into a torpid state by sitting and lying under trees and verandas smoking and learning to chew betel like the degraded natives, you would not ask me where are the peacocks?”

“I don’t know where they are, doctor,” said the young man, slowly.

“In the jungle, sir, in the jungle, which swarms with the lovely creatures, and with pheasants too. Pff! ’tis hot—Boy, more ice.”

“Don’t be so hard on a fellow, doctor,” drawled the lieutenant. “I’m new to the country, and I’ve twice as much body to carry about as you have. You’re seasoned and tough; I’m young and tender. So the jungle swarms with peacocks, does it?”

“Yes, sir, swarms,” said the doctor, with asperity. “Well,” said Chumbley, languidly, “let it swarm! I knew it swarmed with mosquitoes.”

“Sir,” said the doctor, contemptuously, as he glanced at the great frame of the young officer, “you never exert yourself, and I don’t believe, sir, that you know what is going on within a mile of the Residency.”

“I really don’t believe I do,” said the young man, with a sleepy yawn. “I say, Mr Perowne, can’t you give us a little more air?”

“My dear Mr Chumbley,” said the host, a thin, slightly grey, rather distingué man, “every door and window is wide open. Take a little more iced cup.”

“It makes a fellow wish he were a frog,” drawled the lieutenant. “I should like to go and lie right in the water with only my nose in the air.”

As he spoke he gazed sleepily through his half-closed eyes at the broad, moonlit river gliding on like so much molten silver, while on the farther bank the palms stood up in columns, spreading their great fronds like lace against the spangled purple sky.

Below them, playing amidst the bushes and undergrowth that fringed the river, it seemed as if nature had sent the surplus of her starry millions from sky to earth, for the leaves were dotted with fire-flies scintillating and flashing in every direction. A dense patch of darkness would suddenly blaze out with hundreds of soft, lambent sparks, then darken again for another patch to be illumined, as the wondrous insects played about like magnified productions of the points of light that run through well-burned tinder.

From time to time there would be a faint plash rise from the river, and the water rippled in the moonbeams, sounds then well understood by the occupants of Mr Perowne’s dining-room, for as the languid lieutenant made another allusion to the pleasure of being a frog, the doctor said, laughing: “Try it Chumbley; you are young and tolerably plump, and it would make a vacancy for another sub. The crocodiles would bless you.”

“Two natives were carried off last week while bathing on the bank,” said a sharp, harsh voice, and a little, thin, dry man who had been lying back in an easy-chair with a handkerchief over his head raised himself and passed his glass to be filled with claret and iced water. “Hah! Harley,” he continued, with a broad Scotch accent, “you ought to put down crocodiles. What’s the use of our having a Resident if he is not to suppress every nuisance in the place?”

“Put down crocodiles, Mr Stuart, eh? Rather a task!”

“Make these idle young officers shoot them then, instead of dangling after our daughters. Set Chumbley to work.”

“The crocodiles never hurt me,” drawled the young man. “Rather ugly, certainly, but they’ve a nice open style of countenance. I like hunting and shooting, but I don’t see any fun in making yourself a nuisance to everything that runs or flies, as the doctor there does, shooting, and skinning and sticking pins through ’em, and putting them in glass cases with camphor. I hope you don’t do much of that sort of thing, Mr Rosebury?”

“I? Oh, no,” said the Reverend Arthur, raising his eyes from a dreamy contemplation of the doorway, through which a pleasant murmur of female voices came. “I—I am afraid I am guilty as to insects.”

“But you draw the line at crocodiles, I suppose? Poor brutes! They never had any education, and if you put temptation in their way, of course they’ll tumble in.”

“And then repent and shed crocodile’s tears,” said Captain Hilton, smiling.

“A vulgar error, sir!” said the doctor, sharply. “Crocodiles have no tear-secreting glands.”

“They could not wipe their eyes in the water if they had, doctor,” said Captain Hilton, merrily.

“Of course not, sir,” said the doctor; “but as I was saying, gentlemen, when Solomon’s ships—”

“I say, Perowne,” interrupted the little Scotch merchant, in his harsh voice, “hadn’t we better join the ladies? If Bolter is going to ventilate his theory I shall go to sleep.”

“I’ve done,” said the doctor, leaning back and thrusting his hands into his pockets; “but I must say, Stuart, that as an old resident in these parts I think you might give a little attention to a fact of great historical interest, and one that might lead to a valuable discovery of gold. What do you say, Perowne?”

“I leave such matters to you scientific gentlemen,” said the host, carefully flicking a scrap of cigar-ash from his shirt-front.

“You can’t tempt Perowne,” laughed the little Scot. “He is a regular Mount Ophir in himself, and,” he added to himself, “has a flaunting peacock—I mean peahen—of his own.”

“Nay, nay, Stuart,” said the host, smiling meaningly; “I am not a rich man.”

“Oh, no,” chuckled his brother merchant; “he’s as poor as a Jew.”

Mr Perowne shook his head at his harsh-voiced guest, glanced round suavely, as if asking permission of his guests, and then rose from the handsomely-furnished table.

“Then we will join the ladies,” he said, blandly; and the Chinese servants drew aside the light muslin curtains which hung in graceful folds over the arched door.

It was but a few steps across a conservatory, the bright tints of whose rich tropical flowers and lustrous sheen of whose leaves were softened and subdued by the light of some half-dozen large Chinese lanterns, cleverly arranged so as to give the finest effect to the gorgeous plants.

Here several of the party paused for a few moments to gaze through another muslin-draped portal into the drawing-room, whose shaded lamps with their heavy silken fringes cast a subdued light upon a group, the sight of which had a strange effect upon several of the men.

There, in the darker part of the beautifully-furnished room, where the taste of Paris was mingled with the highest and airiest ornamentation of the East, sat little Mrs Doctor very far back in a cane chair—wide awake, as she would have declared had anyone spoken, but with her mouth open, and a general vacancy of expression upon her countenance suggestive of some wonder visible in the land of dreams.

Close by her, upon a low seat, was Grey Stuart, looking very simple and innocent in her diaphanous white dress; but there was trouble in her gentle eyes, and her lips seemed pinched as if with pain, as now and then one of her hands left the work upon which she was engaged to push back a wave of her thick soft hair.

She too was partly in shadow, but as she pushed back the thick fair hair, it was possible to see that there were faint lines of care in her white forehead, for she too was gazing at the group that had taken the attention of the gentlemen leaving their dessert.

For in the centre of the room, just where the soft glow of one of the shaded lamps formed quite a halo round her glistening dark hair, and seemed to add lustre to her large, well-shaped eyes, reclined Helen Perowne. Her attitude was graceful, and evidently studied for effect. One hand rested on the back of the well-stuffed ottoman, so as to display the rounded softness of her shapely arm; while her head was thrown back to place at the same advantage her creamy-hued well-formed throat, and at the same time to allow its owner to turn her gaze from time to time upon the companion standing beside her, grave, statuesque, and calm, but with all the fire of his Eastern nature glowing in his large dark eyes, which needed no interpreter to tell the tale they told.

“A nigger now!” said Lieutenant Chumbley to himself, with a look of contempt at the handsome young hostess. “Well, there’s no knowing what that girl would do.”

“The rajah—the sultan!” muttered Captain Hilton, with a furiously-jealous look. “How dare he! The insolent, dark-skinned cad!”

“Flying at a seat upon an ivory throne in a palm-tree palace, eh, Helen?” mused the Resident, with a quiet smile. “Well, you will exhaust them all in time?”

These thoughts ran through the brains of each of the spectators of the little scene within the drawing-room in turn, but only one of the dinner-party spoke aloud, and that was in a low voice in another’s ear.

It was the little Scotchman, Grey Stuart’s father, who spoke, as he laid his hand upon his host’s shoulder.

“Perowne, mahn,” he whispered, “ye’ll have a care there, and speak to your lass, for there’ll be the deil’s own mischief, and murder too, if she leads that fellow on.”

Volume One—Chapter Eighteen.

Helen Perowne at Home.

Sultan Murad, who, from the aspect of affairs in Mr Perowne’s drawing-room, seemed to be the last captive to the bow of Helen’s lips and the arrows of her eyes, was one of the rajahs of the Malay peninsula, living upon friendly terms with the English, paying allegiance to the government, and accepting the friendly services of a Political Resident, in the shape of Mr Harley, whose duties were to advise him in his rule, to help him in any plans for civilising and opening out his country; and in exchange for his alliance and friendly offices with neighbouring chiefs, who viewed the coming of the English with jealous eyes, the rajah was promised the help of the English arms in time of need. As an earnest of this promise, a couple of companies of an English foot regiment were permanently stationed upon a little island in the river, just opposite to Sindang, the principal native town of Jullah, over which territory Sultan Murad reigned.

But the Prince only adopted such of the English customs as suited his tastes. He had no objection, though a follower of Mahomet, to the wines that were introduced, showing a great preference for champagne. Our dress he took to at once, making a point of always appearing in indigo-blue silk stockings and patent-leather shoes. The widest-fronted shirts were spread over his broad breast, and the tail-coat found so much favour that he had to exercise a good deal of self-denial to keep himself from appearing all day long in full evening-dress.

But he had good advisers to help his natural shrewdness, and finding that his adoption of our costume found favour with his English allies, he adhered to it rigorously, as far as his position as sultan or rajah would allow. For there was and is one part of the native dress that no Malay will set aside, and that is the sarong, a tartan scarf sewn together at the ends and worn in folds around the body, so as to form a kilt.

This article of dress, always a check or plaid of some showy-coloured pattern, is worn by every Malay, in silk or cotton, according to his station, and in the sash-like folds he always carries his kris, a dangerous-looking dagger, that falsely bears the reputation of being smeared along its wavy blade with poison.

A silken kilt and a dagger are rather outré objects for an English drawing-room, and looked barbaric and strange as worn by the young rajah, whose evening-dress was otherwise in faultless English style, being in fact the production of a certain tailor, of Savile Row, an artist who had been largely patronised by Murad for shooting and morning gear, and also for his especial pride, a couple of gorgeous uniforms, something between that of a hussar and a field-marshal bound to a review.

The bad name given to a dog dies hard, and in spite of steam and electricity, the idea still lingers in our midst that the Malay is as evil as his kris, and that he is a brutal savage, accustomed to put forth from his campong in a long row-boat, or prahu, to make a piratical attack upon some becalmed vessel. After this it is supposed to be his custom to put the crew to death, plunder the ship, and set it on fire as a finish to his task.

Such deeds have been done, for there are roughs amongst the Malays, even as there are in civilised England. In bygone days, too, such acts were doubtless as common as among our border chieftains; but, as a rule, the Malays are an educated body of eastern people, professing the Mahommedan religion, with an excellent code of laws, punctilious in etiquette, and though exceedingly simple in their habits, far from wanting in refinement.

Sultan Murad was unmistakably a prince, handsome in person, and naturally of a grave and dignified mien, while since his alliance with the English he had become so thoroughly imbued with our habits and the ordinary ways of a gentleman as to make him a visitor well worthy of Helen’s attention for the time.

There was something delightful to her vanity in the eastern term “sultan,” a title associated in her mind with barbaric splendour, showers of diamonds and pearls, cloth of gold, elephants with silver howdahs, attended by troops of slaves bearing peacock fans, chowries, and palm-leaf punkahs. She saw herself in imagination mounted upon some monstrous beast, with a veil of gossamer texture covering her face; a troop of beautiful slaves in attendance, and guards with flashing weapons jealously watching on every side the approach of those who would dare to sun themselves in her beauty.

Her thoughts were so pleasant, that in place of the languid air of repose in her dark, shaded eyes, they would flash out as she listened with a gratified smile to Murad’s eastern compliments and the soft deference in his voice.

He was a real sultan, who, when with the English, adopted their customs; while with his people no doubt he would assume his barbaric splendour; and to Helen, fresh as it were from school, and, revelling in the joys of her new-born power, there was something delicious in finding that she had a real eastern potentate among her slaves.

The Rajah had been talking to her in his soft, pleasant English for some time before the gentlemen left the dining-room. Now Neil Harley separated himself from the rest, sauntered across, nodded to the Rajah, who drew back, and made a flash dart from the young Malay’s eyes as he saw the Resident seat himself in a careless, quite-at-home fashion beside the young hostess.

“Well, Mad’moiselle Helen,” he whispered in a half-contemptuous tone, “how many more conquests this week?”

“I do not understand you, Mr Harley,” she said, coldly; but he noticed that she could hardly manage to contain the annoyance she felt at his cavalier manner.

“Don’t you?” he said, smiling and half closing his eyes. “As you please, most chilling and proud of beauties. What lucky men those are who find themselves allowed to bask in the sunshine of your smiles! There, that is the proper, youthful way of expressing it poetically, is it not?”

“If you wish to insult me, pray say so, Mr Harley, and I will at once leave the room,” said Helen, in a low voice, as if wishful that the Rajah should not hear her words, but making the Malay’s countenance lower as he saw the familiar way in which she was addressed.

“Insult you? All the saints and good people past and to come forbid! It is you who, after making me your slave, turn from me, the elderly beau, to listen to the voice of our dusky charmer. I don’t mind. I am going to chat and listen to little Grey Stuart. I shall be patient, because I know that some day you will return to me cloyed with conquests, and say, ‘Neil Harley, I am yours!’”

“I do not understand you,” she cried, quickly.

“Let me be explicit then,” he said, mockingly. “Some day the fair Helen will come to me and say, with her pretty hands joined together, ‘Neil Harley, I am tired of slaying men. I have been very wicked, and cruel, and coquettish. I have wounded our chaplain; I have slain red-coated officers; I have trampled a Malayan sultan beneath my feet; but I know that you have loved me through it all. Forgive me and take me; I am humble now—I am yours!’”

“Mr Harley!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “How dare you speak to me like this in my father’s house.”

As she spoke her eyes seemed to flash with anger, and he ought to have quailed before her; but he met her gaze with a calm, mastering look, and said slowly:

“Yes, you are very beautiful, and I do not wonder at your triumph in your power; but it is not love, Helen, and some day you will, as I tell you, be weary of all this adulation, and think of what I have said. I am in no hurry; and of course all this will be when you have had your reign as the most beautiful coquette in the East.”

“Mr Harley, if you were not my father’s old friend—”

“Exactly, my dear child; old friend, who has your father’s wishes for my success with his daughter—old friend, who has known you by report since a child. I have been waiting for you, my dear, and you see I behave with all the familiarity accorded to a man of middle age.”

“Mr Harley, your words are insufferable!” said Helen, still in a low voice.

“You think so now, my dear child. But there: I have done. Don’t look so cross and indignant, or our friend the Rajah will be using his kris upon me as I go home. I can see his hand playing with it now, although he has it enveloped in the folds of his silken sarong in token of peace.”

“I beg you will go,” said Helen, contemptuously; “you are keeping the Rajah away.”

“Which would be a pity,” said the Resident, smiling. “He is a very handsome fellow, our friend Murad.”

“I have hardly heeded his looks,” said Helen, weakly; and then she flushed crimson as she saw Mr Harley’s mocking smile.

“Doosid strange, those fellows can’t come into a gentleman’s drawing-room without their skewers,” said Chumbley, coming up and overhearing the last words. “I say, Miss Perowne, you ought to have stayed and heard the doctor give us a lecture on Ophir and Solomon’s ships. Capital, wasn’t it, Hilton?”