George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

He threw it over the side, and it gave an angry hiss as it fell into the water.

“Try another, doctor,” said Chumbley, offering his case. “It’s of no use to make yourself miserable about it if it is as I say.”

“But the ladies!” cried the doctor. “My poor little wife,” he added, softly.

“Well, they would be no better off if we make ourselves wretched,” said Chumbley, coolly.

“Bight away from all help! Not so much as a bottle of quinine at hand!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” said Chumbley. “Here, light a fresh cigar, man, and don’t look like that amiable person who pulled Priam’s curtains in the dead of the night. Come, doctor, I thought you fellows were always calm.”

“So we are,” cried the doctor, feeling his own pulse. “Ninety-four! That’s pretty good for this climate. Yes, I’ll take another cigar. But I say, Chumbley, this is very awkward.”

“Would be very awkward, you mean.”

“Yes, of course. And we are all unarmed.”

“Well, not quite all,” said Chumbley. “Being a sort of man-at-arms—a kind of wasp amongst the human insects—I always carry my sting.”

“What! have you anything with you?”

“Pistol and a few cartridges,” replied Chumbley, coolly.

“And I should have had my gun. You know my little double-barrelled Adams, don’t you?”

“Yes; the one with the dent in the stock.”

“That’s the one, my lad! Well, I should have had that with me if it had not been for Mrs Bolter. I wanted to bring it, so as to collect a little, and she said it was folly, so I had to put it away. Have the others any arms?”

“Two apiece,” said Chumbley. “Fleshy.”

“And you can joke at a time like this?” exclaimed the doctor excitedly, while the swarthy steersman looked down at him wonderingly.

“Well, where’s the use of doing anything else about what was only a passing fancy on my part. Come, doctor, smoke your cigar in peace. Perhaps, after all, Murad means to be as amiable as host can be, and we shall all get back to the station, having found no worse enemies than the sun and the champagne.”

“Champagne? Nonsense, man. We shall have to drink palm wine.”

“Perhaps so; but I’ll make an affidavit, as the lawyers call it, that there are half a dozen cases on board with the brand Pfüngst, Épernay upon them, and—”

“Look—look!” exclaimed the doctor, laying his hand upon his companion’s arm.

“What—what at?” said Chumbley, coolly. “I don’t see anything dangerous.”

“Dangerous—no! Look at that tree laden with blossoms to the water’s edge.”

“Yes, I see it. Very pretty. Can you see a tiger’s nose poking through?”

“No, no, man; but look at the magnificent butterflies—four of them. Why, they must be nine inches across the wings. Where’s Rosebury?”

“Oh! come, doctor: you are better,” exclaimed Chumbley, smiling. “That’s right; don’t think any more about my scare.”

“This trip is completely spoiled,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly. “No shooting—no collecting! Oh! for goodness’ sake, look at that bird, Chumbley!”

“What, that little humpbacked chap on the dry twig?”

“Yes.”

“Hah! he looks as if he has got the pip.”

“My dear fellow, that’s one of the lovely cinnamon-backed trogons. Look at his crimson breast and pencilled wings.”

“Yes, very pretty,” said Chumbley; “but I often think, doctor, that I’d give something to see half a dozen sooty London sparrows in a genuine old English fog.”

“Nonsense, man. There, too—look!” he cried, pointing, as like a streak of white light a great bird flew across the river. “That’s a white eagle. I never have such chances as this when I’m out collecting.”

“S’pose not,” said Chumbley, drily. “It’s always the case when a fellow has no gun. Precious good job for the birds.”

“Oh! this is maddening!” cried the doctor. “Look—look at that, Chumbley,” and he pointed to the dead branch of a tree, upon which a bird sat motionless, with the sun’s rays seeming to flash from its feathers.

“Yes, that is rather a pretty chap,” said Chumbley. “Plays lawn tennis evidently. Look at his tail.”

“Yes, that is one of the lovely racket-tailed kingfishers, Chumbley. Ah! I wish, my dear boy, you had a little more taste for natural history. That is a very, very rare specimen, and I’d give almost anything to possess it.”

“Aren’t those long feathers in his way when he dives after fish?” said Chumbley.

“There it is, you see,” cried the doctor. “You unobservant men display your ignorance the moment you open your lips. These Malay kingfishers do not dive after fish, but chase the beetles and butterflies.”

“Poor beetles! and poor butterflies!” said Chumbley, with his eyes half closed. “I say, doctor, this is very delightful and dreamy. I begin to wish I was a rajah somewhere up the river here, with plenty of slaves and a boat, and no harassing drills, and tight uniform, and no one to bully me—not even a wife. I say, old fellow, if I am missing some day, don’t let them look for me, because I shall have taken to the jungle. I’m sick of civilisation and all its shams.”

“Hallo! you two,” cried a voice. “Come, I say, this isn’t fair. Here they are, Hilton.”

It was the Resident who spoke, and Captain Hilton also appeared the next moment, the four gentlemen so completely filling up the space that the steersman hardly had room to work his oar.

“It’s all right,” said Chumbley, coolly. “The doctor was giving me a lesson in natural history.”

“With the help of a cigar,” said Hilton. “Shall we join them, Harley?”

“Yes—no. We had better get back. The Rajah might think himself slighted if we stayed away.”

“Yes, you’re right,” exclaimed Chumbley; and getting up slowly, they all made their way back to the covered-in portion of the boat, where the beauties of the river were being discussed, and where Hilton found a seat beside Helen Perowne.

“How nice little Stuart looks in her white dress!” thought Chumbley to himself. “A fellow might do worse than marry her. Humph! Is Mr Rajah Murad going to try it on there, as he has been disappointed in Helen Perowne? No; it is only civility. ’Pon my word the fellow is quite the natural gentleman, and can’t have such ideas in his head as those for which I gave him credit.”

Chumbley chatted first with one and then with another; while in his soft, quiet way, looking handsome and full of desire to please his guests, the Rajah threw off his Eastern lethargy of manner, and seemed to be constantly on the watch for some fresh way of adding to the pleasures of the trip.

Not that it wanted additions, for to sit there in the shade, listening to the plash of oars and the musical ripple of the clear water against the sides of the boat, while the ever-changing panorama of green trees waving, rich bright blossoms, with now and then a glimpse of purple mountain and pale blue hazy hill, was sufficiently interesting to gratify the most exacting mind.

Now and then they passed a native village or campong, with its bamboo houses raised on platforms, the gable-ended roofs thatched with palm-leaves, and the walls frequently ingeniously woven in checkered patterns with strips of cane. The boats attached to posts or palm-tree trunks told of the aquatic lives of the people, this being a roadless country, and the rivers forming the highway from village to village or town to town.

The easy motion of the boat, the musical ripple of the water, the rhythmical sweep of the oars, and the ever-changing scenery in that pure atmosphere, redolent with the almost cloying scent of the flowers, seemed to produce its effect on all, and the conversation soon gave place to a dreamy silence, in which the beauty of the river was watched with half-closed eyes, till after some hours’ rowing against stream, a loud drumming and beating of gongs was heard, making the doctor and Chumbley exchange glances, and the former whispered to the lieutenant:

“Does that mean mischief?”

“Don’t know: can’t say,” was the reply. “It may mean welcome. All we can do is to keep quiet and our eyes open, then we shall see.”

“Very philosophical, but precious unsatisfactory,” muttered the doctor, as the boats went on towards where a cluster of houses showed their pointed roofs amidst the cocoa-palm, and here a couple of flags were flying, one yellow, the other the familiar union-jack; while under the trees could be seen a party of gaily-dressed women, among whom, by the aid of a lorgnette, Hilton could make out the tall, commanding figure of the Malay Princess.

“Looks more like peace than war,” thought Chumbley, as the boats neared the landing-place—a roughly-constructed platform of bamboo, alongside of which the steersman cleverly laid the first naga, the second boat being steered beside the first and there made fast. The Inche Maida, with her female attendants, then came slowly up between two lines of her slaves to welcome with floral offerings the party of guests.

“Oh, it’s all nonsense, Chumbley,” whispered the doctor to the lieutenant.

“Yes. I think it is,” was the reply, “unless,” he added, with a laugh, “they come one of the Borgia tricks and poison the cups. I mean to drink with the Princess so as to be safe.”

“I don’t mean to think any more about it,” said the doctor.

As there was a good deal of ceremony observed by the Princess in coming to meet them, something in the form of a procession was made, the Rajah with great courtesy and good taste offering his arm to the oldest lady of the party—Mrs Doctor Bolter; and the pleasant little lady flushed slightly as she was led up to the Princess, who took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, bidding her welcome and thanking her for coming; and then taking a magnificent bouquet of sweet-scented flowers from one of her attendants, she presented it to her guest.

Chumbley was one of the next to approach with the lady of a merchant settled at the station; and the Princess’s eyes flashed as the bright look of welcome to the great manly young fellow changed into one of anger.

It was but a flash though, and the next moment she was smiling as if in contempt of her suspicions, for the lady Chumbley escorted was sallow and grey, and the greeting to her was made as warm and affectionate as that to the doctor’s lady.

Then the Princess held out her plump, brown, well-shaped hand to Chumbley.

“I am glad to see you,” she said, with a smile, and her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon his goodly proportions. “Take that,” she added, as she removed a great yellow jasmine sprig from her rich black hair; and Chumbley bowed, and placed it in his buttonhole.

They passed on, and other guests approached to be presented to the Princess in this sylvan drawing-room, held in the pale green light of the shade beneath the palms and lacing ferns, through which an arrowy rain of silver threads of sunlight seemed to be ever falling, flashing and scintillating the while.

The Resident was greeted with the most friendly warmth; and Grey, who held his arm, was folded in quite a warm embrace. The choicest bouquet of sweetly-scented flowers being placed in her hands, the fair English girl flushed with pleasure as her tawny hostess said, softly:

“Don’t go away, Miss Stuart. You will stay and sit near me.”

“You seem to have thoroughly won the Inche Maida’s heart, Miss Stuart,” said the Resident, looking smilingly into his companion’s face.

“I like her very much,” replied Grey. “She seems to be very natural and feminine. I hope she means it all.”

“Yes; it would be unpleasant to find out that it was all glaze,” said the Resident, thoughtfully. “But do you know,” he continued, speaking very slowly, and watching the continuation of the reception the while, “I think she is a very jolly, good-hearted sort of woman, and—I—should—think—she—is—very genuine. Yes,” he added, after a pause and speaking now quickly, “I am sure now that she has no more dissimulation in her than a fly. What do you say?”

“Oh, Mr Harley, what does that mean?”

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Forest Banquet.

Grey Stuart’s exclamatory question was drawn from her as she, like the Resident, watched the way in which the Princess continued to receive her guests.

Grey, in obedience to the Inche Maida’s request, and remained with the Resident close by, where they had an excellent view of what was taking place, and as, rather flattered by her reception, Grey looked on, a pang shot through her breast, as she saw that almost the next couple to advance were Captain Hilton and Helen Perowne, the former looking flushed and happy as he walked proudly forward with his handsome companion upon his arm; the latter with her red lip slightly curled and her eyelashes half shading her large eyes, as she seemed to be superciliously, and with a contemptuous air, smiling at the people she looked upon as far beneath her and hardly worthy of her consideration.

As the Princess saw them approach—the most goodly couple of the company—her eyes seemed to dart a furious flash at Hilton, and then to become fixed and hard as her features, as she encountered the supercilious gaze of Helen Perowne.

For a brief space she paused, as if too angry to continue her task. The pause was but momentary: for, apparently making an effort over herself, she received Helen Perowne with a grave, almost majestic courtesy, taking a bouquet from an attendant and handing it to her with a slight inclination of the head; while Helen Perowne made her the deportment curtsey that she had been taught at the Miss Twettenhams’, throwing into it the dignity of a queen.

“Enemies!” said the Resident to himself. “Strange how women read each other’s thoughts!” The Princess darted a quick, reproachful glance at Hilton, and then the couple passed to the other side of the hostess as others advanced, and the Resident made his comment upon the Princess, while Grey Stuart exclaimed, in an eager whisper: “Oh! Mr Harley, what does all this mean?”

“Another diplomatic complication apparently, my dear child,” he said. “Why, you and I ought to be very happy and contented to feel that we are not of an inflammable nature and are heart-whole.”

“But, Mr Harley,” said Grey Stuart, colouring slightly, “I do not understand it.”

“And you will not give me time to explain,” he said laughingly. “Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that just as we have comfortably got over the little piece of incendiarism done upon the Rajah Murad’s heart by the lightning of Helen Perowne’s eyes, the Inche Maida has singed her tawny wings in the light of the handsome brown optics of Master Hilton.”

“Oh! but, Mr Harley,” said the girl, hoarsely, “you don’t think that—”

“She has taken a fancy to him?” said the Resident, quickly. “Indeed, my dear, but I do.”

“I—I did not mean that,” faltered Grey. “I meant, do you think—he had trifled with the Princess?”

“No, certainly not,” said the Resident, sternly, and his voice was very cold and grave as he spoke; “but I do see one thing, and that is, that it is an utter mistake to have a pack of handsome young officers and good-looking girls about the station. It makes my duties twice as hard,” he continued firmly, “for we have no secret instructions, no Colonial Office despatches that deal with the unions of the sexes; and if this sort of thing is going on, I shall have to ask the Government to send me out an assistant-resident well schooled in affairs of the heart.”

He smiled grimly now, and there was a faint reflection of his smile in Grey Stuart’s face as she looked up at him rather piteously, as if to see whether he was in earnest or in jest.

Further private remark was stopped by the Princess greeting her last guests, and then turning to lead the way towards what was literally her palm-tree palace in the jungle.

“You will stay with me, will you not?” she said, laying her hand affectionately upon Grey Stuart’s arm; and she smiled down at the fair Scottish girl, who looked up at her in a half-doubting fashion; but dreading to show her feelings she took the offered hand, and the Princess led the way, the Rajah following with Mrs Bolter, and the others bringing up the rear. They passed through quite an arcade cut in the wood, whose rich growth of wondrous canes and creepers was rapidly encroaching upon the narrow space, and sending out long waving strands as if in greeting to others upon the opposite side.

At interval were openings where the green twilight was brightened by patches of sunshine; and here amidst the rich green mosses sprang up patches of many-tinted pitcher plants, while on the trunks of the huge forest trees clustered orchids of wondrous shape and hue. Bight and left was the jungle, dense and utterly impenetrable, except by cutting a way through; and as they passed along this shady tunnel, the greens of some of the lower shrubs seemed to be of a velvety blackness that had a charming effect.

At last a patch of bright sunshine could be seen, showing the end of the woodland arcade, and beyond this, framed, as it were, the Inche Maida’s home, with its high-pitched gabled roofs, chequered walls, woven windows, and palm-tree thatch, stood out bright and clear.

As they drew nearer they found that the house was placed on the farther side of a large lake that was literally ablaze with the crimson and golden blossoms of a kind of lotus, while its shores were fringed with an arrowy, gorgeously-spotted calladium, the surface of whose leaves seemed burnished and silvered in the sun.

“I say, doctor,” said Chumbley, suddenly, “it doesn’t seem such a very bad place for a picnic; and if they do mean mischief I hope it will not be till after we have had a good feed.”

“Hungry?” said the doctor.

“Atrociously! I could eat the Inche Maida herself.”

“She looked to me as if she could eat you,” said the doctor. “I say, though, Chumbley, that was all nonsense of yours; the Rajah’s as square as a cube. Not half a bad fellow; says he’s coming to consult me about some of his symptoms, and is going to get me to put him right. Precious stupid of you to put such an idea in a fellow’s head.”

“Pitch it out, then,” said the lieutenant, coolly.

“I’ve done it, my boy. I say, Chumbley, I’m like you, precious hungry, too. Look out for the sambals, my boy, and the curry. You’ll get them all in delicious trim, I’ll be bound. They say the Inche Maida keeps a capital cook, and I think it was a splendid idea to bring us here. The dinner will be ten times better than in a boat or on the shore. I say, my dear boy, what a tip-top place! Why, if I were a bachelor, I wouldn’t mind marrying the Inche Maida myself, and succeeding to all her estates.”

“It really is a charming place,” said Chumbley, thoughtfully. “A man might make himself very jolly here. There’s plenty of fishing, and shooting, and—”

“He could learn to chew betel, and smoke opium, and settle down into an Eastern dreamer.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Chumbley, quietly. “He might make himself a sort of example to the people, and do a deal of good.”

“Yes,” said the doctor drily, “or let them do him a lot of harm. Hallo! where are the ladies going?”

“Oh, up to the rooms, I suppose,” said Chumbley. “I expect the Princess does things in style. I wouldn’t bet a sovereign that she has not got a regular dining-room and drawing-room with a Broadwood piano.”

“I don’t care a dump what she has got so long as she has a good cellar and a good kitchen,” replied the doctor, “for I’m ravenous.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Rajah, coming forward, “the Princess begs me to act as host. Will you come indoors until the dinner is ready to be served?”

“There, doctor,” whispered Chumbley, “I told you so;” and they followed the smiling Rajah into the drawing-room of the Inche Maida’s house—a large roomy apartment, kept cool by mat-covered windows, and whose polished bamboo floor would have delighted a modern aesthete.

The place was a strange compound of Malay and European customs, showy articles of French furniture being mixed up with the mats and hangings made by the natives; but everywhere there were traces of the Princess possessing an ample income to enable her to indulge in any little whims or fancies in the way of decorative art.

But the group of gentlemen had hardly had time to look round before the Inche Maida appeared with her lady guests, and not being accustomed to the etiquette of modern society, led the way to a lofty room, in the middle of which, upon English table linen, was spread such a repast as would have satisfied the most exacting; and about this the party took their seats upon the soft mats in the best way they could, for there was neither chair nor table.

Still it was a picnic party, so everyone was, or professed to be, satisfied.

The Princess made a place beside her for Grey Stuart, and Captain Hilton had paused with Helen Perowne right at the other end of the room. For a moment or two, with rather lowering looks, the hostess seemed disposed to acquiesce in this, but a sudden flush animated her face, and she sent one of her slaves to request that the couple would come up higher, making room for Hilton by her side on the right—Helen being again on Hilton’s right.

For a few minutes the repast was eaten in silence, but the doctor, who was in excellent spirits, started the conversation, and the next moment there was a regular buzz mingled with laughter; for the Princess threw off all appearance of annoyance, and with the Rajah, devoted herself eagerly to the comforts of her guests.

It was a novel and piquant affair; the pale, dim light of the palm-thatched room, with its waving cocoa-trees seen through the open windows; the comparative coolness after the walk through the jungle, and above all the quaint mingling of culture and half-savage life made the visitors delighted with the scene.

Then, too, the repast was unexceptionable. The very poorest Malays are clever cooks, and have excellent ideas upon the best ways of preparing a chicken; while the slaves of the Princess had placed such delicious curries and other Eastern dishes before the hungry visitors, that one and all fell to without giving further thought as to the strange kitchen in which everything had been prepared.

Delicious sweets and confections, cool acid drinks, evidently prepared from fresh fruits, with an abundance of palm and European wines were there; and the fruits alone would have been a sufficient attraction for the guests.

Durians, those strange productions of the fruit-world, that on being opened reveal to the eater so many chestnut-like seeds lying in a cream-like pulp—the said pulp tasting of sweet almonds, well-made custard, sherry, cheese, old shoes, sugar and garlic formed into one delicious whole.

Mangosteens, with their glorious nectarine aroma, and plantains or bananas of the choicest flavoured kinds; these, mingled with other fruits luscious and sweet to a degree, but whose names were unknown to the guests, formed a dessert beyond compare.

Chumbley, seeing that a good deal of the Resident’s attention was taken up elsewhere, divided his time between talking to Grey Stuart and watching the Malay Princess, upon whose countenance not a shade of her former annoyance remained.

Every now and then, as her eyes wandered about, she caught Chumbley’s glance as he watched her, and she always met it with a frank, open smile, and begged his acceptance of fruit or wine.

At the same time, she was constant in her attentions to Hilton and Helen Perowne, selecting choice fruits for them with her own hands, and pressing them to eat.

“Well, Miss Stuart, is not this a novelty?” said Chumbley at last. “What do you think of it all?”

Grey Stuart, who had been making a brave effort to appear bright and free from care, replied that it was all very delightful and strange.

“It seems so different from anything I have ever seen before!” she said, with animation.

“Beats a lawn party and tennis in the old country hollow!” said Chumbley. “What a capital hostess the Princess is!”

“She seems to take so much kindly interest in—in—” said Grey.

“In you, you mean,” said the great fellow, smiling.

“Oh, no,” said Grey, naïvely, “I think it was in you.”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Chumbley, thoughtfully; “she has been very attentive and kind certainly, but then she has been far more so to Hilton and Miss Perowne. Why I saw her peel an orange for old Hilton with her own fair—I mean dark—fingers.”

“I suppose it is the Malayan way of showing courtesy to a guest,” said Grey, in an absent tone of voice, as her eyes were wandering from Captain Hilton to Helen Perowne and back; and then, in spite of herself, she sighed gently, a fact that did not pass unnoticed by Chumbley, who made of it a mental note.

Meanwhile, the half-savage banquet went on with fresh surprises from time to time for the guests, who were astonished at the extent to which the Malay Princess had adopted the best of our English customs.

Perhaps the most critical of all was Mrs Bolter, who did not scruple about making whispered remarks to her brother about the various delicacies spread around.

“If Henry does not come soon, Arthur,” she whispered, “I shall send you to fetch him. By the way, those sweets are very nicely made. Taste them.”

“Thank you, dear Mary, no,” he said, quietly, as he turned an untasted fruit round and round in his long, thin fingers.

“Arthur, how can you be so absurd?” whispered his sister. “The people will be noticing you directly.”

“What have I done, my dear Mary?” he replied, looking quite aghast.

“Nothing but stare at Helen Perowne,” she said, in a low angry voice. “Surely you don’t want her to flirt with you!”

“Hush, Mary!” he said gravely. “Your words give me pain.”

“And your glances at that proud, handsome, heartless creature give me pain, Arthur,” she replied, in the same tone. “I cannot bear it.”

The Reverend Arthur sighed, let his eyes rest upon his fruit, raised them again, and found himself in time to arrest an arrow-like glance from Helen’s eyes sent the whole length of the table, and he closed his own and shuddered as if the look had given him a pang.

“I cannot get Henry to look at me,” whispered Mrs Bolter after a time. “He seems quite guilty about something, and ashamed to meet my eye. Arthur, I am sure he is drinking more wine than is good for his health.”

“Oh, no, my dear Mary,” replied her brother. “Surely Henry Bolter knows how to take care of his constitution.”

“I don’t know that,” said the little lady, with asperity, “and he keeps talking to the Princess more than I like.”

She telegraphed to the little doctor with her eyes, but in vain; he evaded summons after summons, and Mrs Bolter began to grow wroth.

Suddenly she saw him give a bit of a start, and he seemed to be watching the slaves, who were carrying round trays of little china cups full of some native wine.

Chumbley saw it too, and for a moment he felt excited, but directly after he laughed it off.

“The doctor thinks that the Borgia dose is going round,” he said to himself, but half aloud, and Grey caught a portion of his words and turned pale.

“Borgia?” she faltered, turning to him. “Do you mean poison?”

“Did you hear my words?” he said, quickly. “Oh, it was only nonsense.”

“But you think there is poison in those little cups, Mr Chumbley? Quick! stop him!” she gasped, with an agonised look. “Mr Hilton is going to drink. Too late! too late!”

“Hush, Miss Stuart, be calm,” whispered Chumbley; “you will draw attention to yourself. I tell you it is all nonsense: a foolish fancy. Here is a tray,” he continued, as a slave came up. “Now see, I will drink one of these cupfuls to convince you.”

“And I will drink too!” she cried, excitedly; and Chumbley stared to see so much fire in one whom he had looked upon as being tame and quiet to a degree.

“No; don’t you drink,” he said, in a low voice.

“Then you do believe there is danger?” she said, excitedly.

“I do and I do not,” he replied, in the same low tone. “There,” he said, tossing off the contents of the cup, which was filled with a delicious liqueur, “I don’t think so now; but I would not drink if I were you.”

As the words left his lips, Grey Stuart raised the little cup to her mouth, slowly drained it, and set it down.

Chumbley’s brow contracted, but he could not help admiring the girl’s firmness.

“Do you like my wine?” said a voice then, and the lieutenant started on finding that the Princess had been narrowly watching them.

“Yes, it is delicious,” he said, smiling.

“I drink to you, as you English do,” she said, taking a cup from the same tray as that which had borne those of Chumbley and Grey Stuart. “I drink to your health—you two,” she said again, and she seemed to drain the cup. “Do you not think it good?” she said, in a low voice, and with a singularly impressive smile. “Surely you do not think I would give poison to my friends.”

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Eight.

After the Feast.

The Inche Maida turned her head just then in reply to some remark made by Captain Hilton, and Chumbley took advantage thereof to whisper to his companion:

“The Princess must have understood what we said. How provoking that I should have uttered such a foolish remark! Why, I quite frightened you!”

“I was a little alarmed,” faltered Grey, who seemed agitated. “It sounded so very dreadful, Mr Chumbley,” she added, after a pause. “You have always been so kind and gentlemanly to me, may I ask a favour?”

“To be sure,” he replied.

She paused again, and he saw that she was growing more agitated, and that she could hardly speak.

“I want you to promise me—”

Here she stopped again, and looked piteously in his face, her lips refusing to frame the words she wished to say.

“You wish me to promise never to take notice of the secret you betrayed just now, Miss Stuart?”

She nodded quickly, and her eyes sought his in a pleading way that set him thinking of what her feelings must be for Hilton.

“Give me the credit of being a gentleman, Miss Stuart,” he said, at last, quietly.

“I do—I do!” she said, eagerly. “Indeed I do, Mr Chumbley!”

“I am an old friend of Captain Hilton. We knew one another when we were quite lads, and I exchanged into this regiment so that we might be together. He’s a very good fellow, is Hilton, although he has grown so hot-headed and liable to make mistakes. I like him for many reasons, and I can’t tell you how glad I am to have learned what I have to-day.”

“Pray say no more, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, with a troubled look.

“But I shall say more, even at the risk of being considered rude,” continued Chumbley. “He is making a great mistake, just as a great many more men have made the same blunder.”

Grey tried to speak, but the words would not come.

“He’ll wake up some day,” continued Chumbley. “At present his eyes are dazzled.”

“Mr Chumbley!” said Grey, in a low, earnest, appealing tone.

She only uttered the young officer’s name, but the way in which it was spoken sufficed, and he bowed his head in answer, and for the next few minutes neither spoke.

“Miss Stuart, you may trust me,” he said, at last.

“I do, Mr Chumbley,” she replied, and a conscious feeling of pride and satisfaction thrilled the young soldier, as he looked in the frank grey eyes.

The conversation went buzzing on all around, nobody seeming to notice him; and Chumbley began to commune with himself as he gazed straight before him now.

“She’s taken with Hilton,” he said. “There’s no mistake about it. Now, why didn’t the little maid take a fancy to me? She’s very nice—very nice indeed; and I think she would be as earnest and truthful as a woman could be. Isn’t my luck, though—no, not my luck.

“By Jove, what an idiot that Hilton is,” he continued, as he glanced at the young officer, who did not seem to be aware of the fact that anyone was present but Helen, whose every look and gesture were watched with rapt attention; while from time to time she seemed to rouse herself from her languid indifferent way, and repay him with a smile.

It was rather a curious scene, and as she recovered from the agitation consequent upon her little encounter with Chumbley, Grey Stuart read a good deal of what was going on around.

It seemed to her that Helen Perowne, whom she had promised their old instructresses to befriend and aid, was the principal object of attraction to all. She felt no jealousy on this account, only a curious sense of trouble. Her affection for Helen was as great as ever, but always there seemed to be a gathering cloud of trouble right ahead, and in an undefined way this seemed to gather and threaten them both.

Sometimes her eyes fell upon little Mrs Bolter, who appeared far from enjoying the day, but to be ready at any moment to go in quest of the doctor, who kept leaving his seat to chat with someone at another part.

There was always a smile for Grey though, whenever Mrs Bolter caught her eye, and the exchange of glances seemed to comfort the little lady for the time.

The next minute Grey would see that the Rajah was looking in Helen’s direction, and she trembled at the idea of further trouble arising; but the Malay’s thoughts were hidden beneath a set smile, which did duty on all occasions now, and was bestowed upon Helen, upon the Princess, Mrs Bolter, even upon the watcher in turn.

Then, as she saw how impressive were Captain Hilton’s attentions, Grey sighed softly, and in remembrance of what had been said at Mayleyfield, she told herself that perhaps the best thing that could happen to Helen would be for her to become the young officer’s wife.

Just then Chumbley turned to her, and as if their conversation had had no pause—

“Let me add this,” he continued, “Hilton is one of the best fellows that ever breathed, only he has gone a little wild over this affair.”

“Pray say no more, Mr Chumbley,” pleaded Grey.

“Why not?” said the other, quietly. “I thought we were to be friends, Miss Stuart. Do you know I’m going to risk your displeasure by saying a word on my friend’s behalf?”

Grey tried to speak—to recover her usual calm self-possession, but her words would not come.

“This is all nonsense, you know,” continued Chumbley, “and I don’t know that I blame Hilton much. It’s only natural, you know, and the poor fellow’s only like everyone else. They all get caught by the beauty just the same as I was. You’re not a man, you know, so you can’t understand it. Now, for instance, take me. I’m a great big fellow—a sort of a small giant in my way—strong as a horse. I could take that Rajah up by his neck and one leg, and pitch him out of window; but when Helen Perowne came here, and gave me one of her looks, I was done, and she led me about just as she pleased. Ah! there’s a very comic side to it all.”

“But you soon broke your silken string, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, trying to speak in his own bantering tone.

“Not really,” he said confidentially. “The fact is, she broke it. I couldn’t have got away if I had not seen that she was only playing with me. It was she who broke it by beginning to lead others on. I say, Miss Stuart, what awful old women your schoolmistresses must have been!”

“Awful old women?” exclaimed Grey. “Yes, to bring up Miss Perowne as such—a man-killer.”

“Oh! Mr Chumbley,” cried Grey, “the Miss Twettenhams were the sweetest, most amiable of ladies, and Helen Perowne made them really very anxious—”

She checked herself suddenly, as if annoyed at having spoken against her friend, at whom she glanced now, to see that she seemed to be really the queen of the feast.

“Yes,” said Chumbley, drily, “you’re right. They must have been nice old ladies; but about Hilton,” he continued. “You see it’s like this; a fellow gets caught before he knows where he is, and then he thinks he has arrived at the happiest time of his life; then, a few days later, he sees some other fellow coming to the happiest point of his life; and then, after a flush or two of fever, the first fellow begins to feel much better. I say, Miss Stuart, I was awfully in love with Helen Perowne.”

“Yes, I think you were,” she replied, with a sad little smile.

“Awfully,” he said again. “It was all over with me. I fell in love in five minutes, and I thought her quite a goddess; while now—”

“Yes,” said Grey, smiling; and her face looked very bright and ingenuous. “While now?”

“Well now—I don’t,” he said, slowly. “Master Hilton won’t by-and-by. I say, Miss Grey,” he whispered, laughing merrily, “do you feel as if you were going to die?”

“To die?” she said, opening her eyes very widely in her surprise; and as they met those of Chumbley he could not help thinking what sweet, earnest eyes they were.

“Just like those of that girl tying the handkerchief round the fellow’s arm in Millais’ picture of The Huguenot,” he said to himself. “Hah! he’ll be a lucky fellow who wins her for his own!”

“Yes,” he said aloud, after a pause, during which he had looked so earnestly at her that she had cast down her eyes and blushed; “yes, of the poisoned cup. No; out here in this land of romance, and living as we are amongst sultans, and princes, and slaves, just as if the Arabian nights had been brought into private life—I ought to say poisoned chalice or envenomed goblet, but I won’t; I’ll say cup, with a dose in it. I say, Miss Stuart,” he drawled, “it was too bad of you to be so suspicious.”

“Are you two lovers?” said a deep, rich voice, close by them; and they both turned suddenly, to see that the Princess was watching them with a peculiar smile upon her lip.

“Why do you ask that?” said Chumbley, laughing.

“Because you look like it,” said the Princess. “I am glad: I like you both. You are a very wise man,” she added, tapping Chumbley on the shoulder with her fan.

“As you are wrong about the engagement, my dear Princess,” said Chumbley, laughing, “so it is natural that you should be wrong about my wisdom, for Miss Stuart and I are only the best of friends.”

The Princess looked at him very sharply, and then turned her eyes upon Grey Stuart, who, though her colour was slightly heightened, felt amused at their host’s frank, bold questioning, and met the Princess’s eyes with so ingenuous a look that the latter’s suspicions were half disarmed.

“Well,” said the Inche Maida, smiling, “what do you say?”

“That Mr Chumbley is my very good friend; that is all.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the Princess, smiling. “I don’t see why you two should not be more than friends; and sometimes I feel half glad, sometimes half sorry. What strange people you English are!”

She took Grey’s hand and held it, patting it affectionately as she spoke.

“Why are we so strange?” said Grey, smiling.

“Because it is your nature; you seem so cold and hard to touch, while a spark will set us on fire. I thought when I went to your head chief, Mr Harley, and told him and his officers of my troubles—how I, a weak woman, was oppressed by cruel neighbours—that it would have been enough to make him send fighting men to drive my enemies away. But no; it is talk, talk, talk. You are cold and distant, and you love your friends!”

“But when we make friends we are very faithful and sincere,” said Grey, earnestly.

“Some of you, my child—some of you,” said the Princess, nodding her head, and looking intently at the fair, sweet face before her. “Some of you can be very true and sincere as you call it; some of you I would not trust. And you think,” with a quick look of her dark eyes, “that you could not trust some of us. Well, perhaps you are right; but we shall see—we shall see.”

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Nine.

Later On.

Seeing how earnestly the Princess was talking to Grey Stuart, Chumbley looked around for another companion amongst the busy, chatting throng, and found him in the person of Doctor Bolter, who was coming that way.

“Well?” said the latter.

“Well?” replied Chumbley.

“It’s all right.”

“Right? Oh, yes, I think so; but, I say, doctor, the next time you are lunching with a native, and you think the cups are poisoned, don’t show it quite so plainly.”

“Did I show it, my dear boy?”

“Horribly,” said Chumbley, coolly. “Here are you, a man who passes his time in giving other people numbers of poisonous doses, and yet you make so much fuss about taking one yourself!”

“Tut—tut, man! Tut—tut!” ejaculated the doctor. “Hold your whisht, as old Stuart says. I couldn’t help the thought; but it was a very unjust one I must say.”

“So purposeless,” said Chumbley. “Why should the Princess want to poison us?”

“Out of spite perhaps,” said the doctor. “I don’t think we have behaved very generously to her in reply to her appeal.”

“On the head of the Colonial Secretary be it,” said Chumbley, relapsing into his slow drawl.

“But unfortunately it does not fall upon his head,” retorted the doctor, grimly. “The Princess, disappointed in her appeal, could not reach the Colonial Secretary in London, but she could reach us.”

“And she won’t do anything of the kind, doctor,” said Chumbley, warmly. “She’s a very good sort of woman, in spite of her skin, and her party is a great success. It will be our turn to do something next.”

“What, in the shape of a feed?”

“Yes, I think so; only this hot climate seems to take all the energy out of a fellow.”

For the Princess’s party was undoubtedly a grand success, the fairy-like aspect of the scene adding immensely to the effect. The conduct of the Sultan was simply perfect; and his efforts to supplement the hostess in her endeavour to give pleasure won the encomiums of all.

As evening approached there was a little nervousness displayed by the ladies at the idea of staying late; and one and all appealed to Mrs Bolter, who immediately began metaphorically to play the part of hen, and displayed a desire to gather the whole of the ladies beneath her wings.

“I promise you there is no occasion for fear,” said the Princess, earnestly; “and besides, if you depart so soon, the preparations my people have made to illuminate the jungle will be all in vain.”

“What do you say, Mr Harley?” said little Mrs Bolter, rather petulantly, for she was growing tired. “Dr Bolter is not near for me to appeal to him. Don’t you think we ought to go?”

“You will miss the moonlight ride down the river if you go so soon,” said the Princess, “and that will be far more beautiful than anything here.”

“I think,” said the Resident, quietly, “that when our friend and ally—”

“Ally, Mr Harley?” said the Princess, in a low voice.

“Has taken so much pains for our gratification, we should be behaving coldly if we hurried away. Ladies, I think I may promise you a safe return.”

“Safe return?” said the Princess.

“Yes,” said the Resident; “the river is deep, but perfectly clear of obstructions, and we have good rowers and good boats.”

The Princess was on the whole so pressing, and seemed so likely to be offended if her proposals were slighted, that after a little consultation it was finally determined to stay, and the time passed rapidly on.

The Rajah had provided music and Malay dancers, while the Inche Maida’s women proved to be possessed of pleasant voices, singing in chorus in a mournful minor way. Then, as the evening closed in, and the ingeniously-arranged lamps kept starting into life amidst the lustrous green of the forest trees, the scene became more and more fairy-like, and beautiful in the extreme.

“Talk about the Arabian nights,” said Chumbley in the interval of a dance, during which he had Helen Perowne for partner, “I think they would have had to be very fine nights indeed to come up to this. It is about the best thing I ever saw.”

“Yes,” said Helen, dreamily, “it is very charming;” and she glanced carelessly round from beneath her long fringed lids, as if she were quite accustomed to displays made in her honour and they quite palled upon her.

“Yes, it is charming,” said Chumbley, in an amused way. “Get much of this sort of thing at school?”

Helen’s eyes opened wide, and she darted an angry look at the speaker.

“How she would like to bring me to my knees,” thought Chumbley to himself.

“The insolent! How dare he treat me as if I were a schoolgirl? but I’ll punish him yet.”

The quadrille went on, and at the end Chumbley led his partner round the open space set apart for the dancers; Helen languidly using her fan, and lowering her eyes or talking to the lieutenant whenever they passed the Rajah.

“I say, Miss Perowne,” said Chumbley, lightly, just as they were near the Princess, who was talking quietly to Grey Stuart and the Resident, “how would you like to give up civilisation, and live out here?”

“What an absurd question, Mr Chumbley!” she replied, haughtily, and with the knowledge that question and answer were heard by the group they passed. “Not at all; I detest the barbarity of the country, and the Malay customs!”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Chumbley; “I don’t see much barbarity. The people are simple in their habits, but decidedly refined.”

“Absurd!” said Helen, contemptuously.

“I think Miss Perowne promised me her hand for the next dance,” said the Rajah, approaching with a soft, cat-like step, smiling and bowing the while.

Helen looked annoyed, but she was mistress of her emotions; and quietly relinquishing Chumbley’s arm, she laid her gloved hand upon the Rajah’s sleeve as coolly as if there had never been between them the slightest cause for uneasiness.

“She’s a clever one and no mistake,” said Chumbley to himself. “I hope she won’t be stupid enough to begin flirting again. Matters seem to; have settled down now, and it will be a pity for them to become troublesome once more. Wonder where the doctor is? I think I’ll lure him behind the trees, and we’ll have a cigar together. It’s too hot to dance.”

He turned to go, after a final glance at Helen and the Rajah, but found himself face to face with the Inche Maida.

“Ah, giant?” she said, in excellent English, laying her hand upon his arm, and, as it were, taking him into custody. “I heard what you said a little while ago to beautiful Helen Perowne, and I am going to ask you the same question.”

“I say,” thought Chumbley, “this isn’t leap-year, is it?”

“How would you like to give up civilisation and live out here in the wilds?”

Chumbley strolled on with the Princess in the soft light shed by the paper lanterns beneath the spreading palms, between whose mighty pinnate leaves an occasional glimpse of the lustrous starlit sky could be obtained. All around was very beautiful, and through the soft, scent-laden summer air came the strains of music sounding soft and subdued. There was a delicious languor in the breeze that seemed to prison the spirits in a gentle calm; and as Chumbley strolled softly on, he said, slowly:

“Well, I don’t know, Princess; but just now I seem to fancy that it would be just the sort of life that would suit me.”

“And Captain Hilton?” said the Princess, smiling.

“I don’t know about Hilton,” replied Chumbley. “I fancy he’s more ambitious than I am. For my part I should want an elephant, plenty of fishing, plenty of shooting—”

“Anything else?” said the Princess, who seemed amused at the young man’s cool, easy-going way.

“Well, it’s a regular paradise out here. Very beautiful.”

“Yes, my country is beautiful,” said the Princess.

“Well, if I were to come out to such a place to play Adam, I should want an Eve. You don’t understand that.”

“What savages you think us,” said the Princess, warmly. “I challenge you! I know more of your religion and history than you do about mine.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Chumbley heartily; and the Princess looked angry, but afterwards seemed to enjoy the young man’s genuine mirth.

“Do you English think it good manners to laugh at a Malay lady?” she said reproachfully.

“Laugh? At you?” he said frankly. “My dear Princess, I was laughing at myself. Why, I’m one of the most ignorant fellows under the sun. I know my drill, and how to handle a gun; that’s about all.”

“You depreciate yourself,” said the Princess, in an admonitory tone; “but I do know who were Adam and Eve. You mean that if you lived out here you would want a wife.”

Chumbley nodded.

“Marry Helen Perowne and settle down out here. I would build you a house.”

“Heaven forbid!” said Chumbley, laughing. “No, Princess, I am not one of her slaves. I look at her now as I should at a beautiful picture.”

“You look at a beautiful picture?” replied the Princess, wonderingly. “Oh, yes, I understand now. What? so soon! Well, well, I daresay you are right, Mr Harley,” she said, in reply to a remark made by the Resident.

“Yes, he’s quite right, madam,” said Dr Bolter, who also bustled up. “Dew’s falling fast. We must not have any of my folks down with fever after so pleasant a trip.”

“I always take your advice, doctor,” said the Princess, smiling; “and say it is good.”

“It is a long way back,” said the Resident, smiling.

“Yes, but you have the stream with you,” said the Princess. “Where is the Sultan? There: you shall go. I will not keep you longer than is right, for I want you to come again.”

“After so pleasant a welcome, I’m sure all will be too happy,” said the Resident.

“I shall only be too glad to entertain you,” replied the Princess, “if I am in a position to do so. Who knows? You English refuse to help me; and perhaps by another month I may be poor, and little better than a slave.”

“But with plenty of friends in Sindang,” said the little doctor, warmly. “Here is one.”

“I know it doctor,” she replied, taking his outstretched hand.

“Grey, my child,” whispered Mrs Doctor, who was some distance away, “I’m sure that is a very dreadful woman! It does not take so long as that to shake hands!”

“I think it is only the Princess’s manner,” replied Grey, smiling.

“And very bad manners too,” said the little lady. “Now, where is Arthur?”

“That is he,” said Grey, “following Helen with her cloak.”

“Now, there!” cried the little lady, angrily, “now is my brother Arthur the man to be carrying Helen Perowne’s cloak? Oh, dear me! I do wish we were safe back at home! I don’t like these picnics in savage lands at all!”

“Good-bye, if I don’t have a chance to speak to you again, Mr Chumbley,” said the Princess. “Is not your friend coming to say good-bye? Ah, I see! he is in attendance with your Mr Chaplain upon the beauty.”

“I’d go and say good-night to Madame Inche Maida, Hilton,” whispered Chumbley, the next minute to his friend, and the latter went up and shook hands, thanking the Princess for the pleasant evening they had had, and hoping soon to see her again.

“I thank you,” said the Princess, coldly. “I hope you have enjoyed yourself; but, you are keeping Mr Perowne’s little girl waiting. Good-night.”

That was imagination on the Princess’s part, for Helen was talking to the chaplain, and had her back to them.

“She’s a curious woman,” said Hilton; “and I don’t like her a bit!”

And then, taking advantage of his dismissal, he bowed, and went to where Grey Stuart was talking to Mrs Bolter, as a half-way house to Helen, at whose side he was soon after.

Half an hour later the whole party were safely embarked. The boats were hung with lanterns, the full moon was above the black jungle-trees, and the river looked like molten silver as the oars dipped in regular cadence to the rowers’ song. Then on and on floated the two great nagas; the whole scene, as they glided between the two black banks of trees, being so weirdly beautiful, so novel, and so strange, that it affected all present, though in different ways.

Helen was hot and peevish; Mrs Bolter was petulant and fretting about the doctor stopping so long away; while Grey Stuart felt as if at the smallest provocation she would burst into tears.

“I say, Chum, old fellow,” said Hilton, as they stood outside their quarters in the brilliant moonlight smoking a cigar before turning in for the night, and after a chat about their pleasant passage down to the landing-stage—“I say, Chum, old fellow.”

“Hullo!”

“She doesn’t seem to like me, but not a bad sort of woman that Princess.”

“Not at all. Pity she’s so brown.”

“Yes, rather; but I say, Chum.”

“Hullo!”

“I’ll bet a dollar she squeezed your hand when you were coming away, eh?”

“Never tell tales out of school,” said Chumbley, slowly. “Squeezes of hands leave no impression, so they don’t count. I didn’t ask you if you squeezed Helen Perowne’s hand.”

“I shouldn’t mind if you did, old lad. Perhaps so; but don’t bother, and pass me a match.”

Chumbley chuckled softly to himself; and after a time they finished their cigars and turned in, the lieutenant sleeping soundly, while the rest of the principal personages in this narrative were wakeful and tossing from side to side, perhaps the most restless being the successful beauty, Helen Perowne.

Volume One—Chapter Thirty.

The Return Party.

Mr Perowne’s was acknowledged to be by far the best garden at the station; its favourable position—sloping, as it did, down to the river—prevented any approach to aridity, and as he had gone to the expense of getting three Chinese gardeners—men who were ready enough, if not to originate, to take up any suggested idea—the result was a charmingly-picturesque succession of smooth lawns and shady walks, sheltered by the choicest flowering trees the country produced.

He spared no expense to make the garden attractive, and on the night of Helen’s twenty-first birthday, when they gave a garden-party, the place, with its Chinese lanterns and illuminated summer-houses, had an effect that seemed to Grey Stuart the most lovely she had ever seen.

“I quite envy you sometimes,” she said, as Helen, in her calm assurance, kissed her and welcomed her in a patronising way; “surrounded as you are with luxuries, you ought to be very happy.”

“And yet I am not,” said Helen, bitterly, and she turned to meet some fresh arrivals.

“You’ve a deal to grumble about,” said old Stuart, who had heard his daughter’s words. “What’s all this but show and tinsel? What’s it worth? Bah!”

Her father’s words did not comfort her, for she felt very sore; and as she strolled with him down one of the paths she thought to herself that there was an old fable about a dog in a manger, and in her quiet, homely fashion, it seemed to her that Helen was playing that part.

For she had, in her unselfish sorrow, seen that for some little time past Hilton was not happy in his love. Helen was playing with him, and he seemed to feel it bitterly, though he was too proud to show it; and she thought to herself, what would she not give to be able to whisper comfort to the young officer, and pour out for him the riches of her love—an impossibility, for in her way she was as proud as Helen herself.

“Ah, Mr Stuart! How do, Miss Stuart?” drawled a voice just behind them. “Glad to see you both. I say, Miss Stuart, do you want a fellow to play cavalier? I’m quite at liberty. Mr Stuart, there’s plenty of claret-cup, champagne, and cigars in the little pagoda, and it’s nice and cool.”

“It’s like an oven out here,” growled the merchant. “I say, Grey, you don’t want me, do you? Chumbley will take care of you. Come to me when you want to go.”

For answer she placed her hand on the lieutenant’s arm, and he took her round the grounds.

“Looks nice, doesn’t it?” he said. “Seen all the grandees?”

“I have only seen Helen and Mr Perowne,” she replied.

“Looks well to-night, ’pon my word. I saw Murad’s eyes light up like a firefly as he shook hands with her, but he pulled himself to directly. Perowne does these things well. Old boy must be pretty rich.”

“They say he is, very,” replied Grey. “Here is the Rajah coming up. Mr Chumbley, I always feel afraid of that man.”

“Hold tight by my arm, then, and I’ll punch his head if he looks at you. He shan’t run away with you while I am by.”

Grey laughed merrily, and in the midst of her mirth the Rajah came up.

“You English people always seem so bright and merry,” he said, smiling, and looking very handsome as he stood by the side of a lantern. “We people always feel dull and sad.”

“Have a glass of champagne then, Rajah. It is a fine cure for sadness. I say,” continued Chumbley, “you’ll have to imitate this, and give an evening fête.”

“Yes,” he said, eagerly; “I was thinking so. But I would have more lanterns in the trees, and more flowers.”

“To be sure,” said Chumbley. “You’ll invite me?”

“Will you promise me to come?” said the Rajah, holding out his hand.

“I will indeed,” replied Chumbley, grasping it in return.

“And you too, Miss Stuart?”

“You must ask papa,” she said, quietly.

“I will,” said the Rajah, earnestly. “Where is he?”

“Having a cigar in the little pagoda, Rajah,” replied Chumbley; and the Malay Prince nodded and smiled, and went away.

“Here, I say,” said Chumbley, as soon as they were alone. “I’m going to have a quarrel, Miss Stuart. I thought there would have been a chance for me, and that my rejected addresses would be accepted, and now you have behaved like this.”

“What do you mean, Mr Chumbley? If it is an enigma, I cannot guess it; if it is a joke, you must explain it; for I am only a Scottish maiden.”

“Joke?—no,” he said; “I call it no joke. Here you and the Rajah have the effrontery to make up matters before me.”

“I and the Rajah!” cried Grey.

“Yes; you told him to go and ask papa. I heard you.”

“Oh, Mr Chumbley, what a poor joke,” she cried; and then she stopped short, for the handsome face and stately form of the Inche Maida, followed by one attendant, suddenly came upon them from out of a dark side-walk.

“Then I was right,” she said, holding up her finger at both in turn. “You two are lovers.”

“And we always talk about other people,” said Chumbley, as the Princess kissed Grey rather coldly upon the forehead. “Come along with us, and you shall hear.”

His frank, easy manner seemed to chase away the Inche Maida’s coldness, and laying her gloved hand upon the young man’s arm, she pressed it rather more warmly than English etiquette requires, and together they promenaded the grounds, coming twice over upon Hilton, who seemed dull and out of sorts; while Helen was full of vivacity, her eyes sparkling, her words full of bright repartee; and even the Resident, with his rather sardonic humour, seemed to look at her more kindly than usual.

This look seemed to spoil her, for she immediately after began to flirt merrily, first with one and then with another, sending poisoned stabs through Hilton’s breast, and making him gnaw his lip as he darted reproachful glances at her from time to time.

Grey saw a good deal of this as the party gradually drew together to where an al fresco supper was spread upon the lawn, and her sufferings were as acute as those of Hilton.

“She does not care for him in the least,” she said to herself, as she noted Helen’s conduct with a young officer present.

“Miss Stuart, may I take you to a seat? They are going to have supper now.”

Grey started and turned pale. Why had Captain Hilton asked her? she thought. Then her heart answered,—Because Helen was trifling with him.

“I am engaged to Mr Chumbley, I think,” she said, coldly, torturing herself by her words; for she felt as if she would have given worlds to have been seated at his side.

“Perhaps the Princess will allow me to be her escort?” said Hilton, stiffly.

“Yes, I will,” said the Princess, quickly, and she went with him towards the supper-table.

“Well,” said Chumbley, “suppose we go and find places, Miss Stuart; only if I bore you don’t be above telling me.”

She turned her soft grey eyes upon him laughingly—

“I am very much obliged to you,” she said with a smile; “but I fear you will find me very dull company.”

“Well, as I’m dull too, it will be all right.”

The supper was all that could be desired, and very beautiful everything seemed beneath the bright suspended lamps. Flowers, fruit, all that money could provide, were there; and the mingling of English and Eastern customs added to the charm of the banquet beneath the great mellow stars.

The wine sparkled, merry voices chatted; and the doctor’s speech proposing their young hostess’s good health, and many happy returns of the day, was so great a triumph, that Mrs Bolter, who had been looking very cross, and trying in vain to get her husband to her side, began to seem a little better satisfied, especially as, a few minutes after, he came behind her chair and whispered:

“I hope I did not say anything to displease you, my dear.”

Then, as the little band, composed of half a dozen soldiers of the force, began a waltz, the company strolled once more in couples about the grounds; but only to return before long to the front of the house and form one huge group composed of smaller groups, with the conversation in full swing.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

Strange Behaviour.

In a tropical climate, where the days are too often one long punishment of heat and weariness, people believe in the dim early mornings and in the comparative coolness of the dark star-spangled nights. The day seems there a time for shelter, rest, and often for siestas of a protracted kind. Hence it follows that an evening-party is often drawn out long into the night, and guests who are comfortably seated upon a cool, dimly-lit lawn feel in no hurry to leave the open air for the mosquito-haunted heat of a sleeping-chamber.

But all pleasant things come to an end, and guests began to leave Mr Perowne’s. The absence of the two young officers passed unnoticed, and several friends took their departure after a glance round, not seeing Helen, and concluding that she was engaged.

Mrs Doctor Bolter had been, to use her own expression, “on pins and needles” for quite two hours, trying to get the doctor home; but to every fresh appeal he had something to say by way of excuse. This one had to be seen—that one had said he wished to have a few words with him—it was impossible to go at present.

“Helen Perowne will think it rude of you, my dear,” he said, reproachfully. “Go and have a chat with her again.”

Mrs Bolter tightened her lips, and made up her mind, as she subsided, to talk to the doctor next day; but at last she was driven to extremity, and captured her husband after a long hunt—in every minute of which she had made more and more sure that he was flirting with some lady in one or other of the shady walks. She found him at last under a tree, seated upon one bamboo chair with his legs on another, in company with Grey Stuart’s father, who was in a precisely similar attitude. A bamboo table was between them, upon which was a homely looking bottle and a great glass jug of cold water to help them in the mixings that took place occasionally as they sat and smoked.

“Oh, here you are, Dr Bolter,” said the lady, with some asperity.

“Yes, my dear, here I am,” he replied: “arn’t you nearly ready to go?”

Mrs Doctor Bolter gasped, for the effrontery of this remark was staggering after she had been spending the last two hours in trying to get him away.

“Ready to go!” she exclaimed, angrily. “I think it is disgracefully late; and I can’t think how Mr Stuart can sit there so patiently, knowing all the while, as he does, that his child ought to be taken home.”

Mr Stuart chuckled.

“Bolter, old fellow,” he said, “you’d better go. That’s just how my wife used to talk to me.”

“Mr Stuart, I’m surprised at you,” said Mrs Doctor, in her most impressive manner.

“Yes, it was very rude,” he said drily. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking Grey home with you? I don’t think I shall come just yet.”

“Certainly, I will take the dear child home,” replied Mrs Bolter. “I don’t think it is proper for her to be here so late.”

“Humph! Who’s she with?” said the old merchant.

“The Princess,” was the reply.

“Oh, she’s all right then. Good-night, Bolter, if you must go. Won’t you have just one wee drappie mair?”

The doctor shook his head with Spartan fortitude, and buttoned up his coat, but only to unbutton it directly.

“Good-night, Stuart; we’ll take your little lass home.”

“Thankye; do,” was the reply, and the dry old Scot sat back in his chair chuckling, as he saw the doctor marched off.

“Seen Helen about, Stuart?” said Mr Perowne, coming up five minutes later.

“No; not for an hour.”

“If you see her, tell her I’m up by the drawing-room window. People keep going, and she’s not here.”

“All right.”

“By the way, when can I see you to-morrow?” said Mr Perowne, eagerly. “I want to chat over that matter with you.”

“I shall be in my office all day if you like to call.”

“Yes; to be sure—of course. I’ll call in,” said the merchant, hastily, as if the business was unpleasant to him; and he went away muttering.

“Hah!” grunted the old merchant, “pride must have a fall, they say; and when pride does fall, it always bumps itself pretty hard upon the stones.”

The remarks made by Mrs Bolter to her husband, as they left the old Scotch merchant, were of rather a forcible nature; but there was this excuse for her: that she was very hot and extremely tired after the long evening in the enervating climate; and this had no doubt acidified her temper. But no matter what she said, the amiable little doctor took it all in good part.

He was a naturalist and student of the human frame, and it was quite natural, he told himself, that his wife should be cross now that she was weary.

“Babies are always fretful when they are tired,” he said to himself; “and a woman is only a grownup baby. Poor little soul! she will be all right in the morning.”

“Why are we going in this direction, Dr Bolter?” said the little lady. “This is not the nearest way to the gate.”

“Must go and say good-night to Perowne and Madam Helen,” he replied.

“They would not miss us,” said Mrs Doctor, tartly. “I daresay we should only be interrupting some pleasant flirtation.”

“Oh—oh—oh! I say,” said the doctor, jocularly. “For shame, my dear, for shame! I’ll tell Perowne what you say about his flirtations.”

“Don’t be foolish, Bolter,” said his wife, sharply. “You know what I mean.”

“What, about Perowne flirting with the ladies?” he said, with a smothered chuckle.

“About Helen Perowne,” she said, shortly. “Well, here we are upon the lawn, and of course there’s no host here and no hostess.”

“But there’s little Grey,” said the doctor. “By jingo, I’d about forgotten her.”

“No wonder, sir, when you have been drinking with her father to such an extent.”

“Fine thing in this climate, my dear,” said the doctor. “Where’s Arthur?”

“Tired of all this frivolity, I suppose, and gone home like a sensible man. He does not drink whiskey.”

“Oh, dear,” said the doctor, “I’ll never take another drop if you talk to me like this, but poison myself with liquor-ammoniae instead.”

“Liquor what, sir?”

“Ammonias, my dear, sal-volatile as you call it when you require a stimulus. Well, Grey, my child, we are to take you home.”

“So soon, Dr Bolter?” said the Inche Maida, by whose side Grey was seated.

“I think it quite late enough, Princess,” said Mrs Bolter, austerely. “Have you seen my brother?”

“Yes, I saw him following Miss Perowne down the walk,” said the Princess, quietly enjoying Mrs Bolter’s start. “I suppose it is pleasanter and cooler in the dark parts of the garden.”

“My brother is fond of meditation,” said Mrs Bolter, quietly; and she looked very fixedly in the Princess’s eyes.

“Yes, I suppose so; and night is so pleasant a time for thought,” retorted the Princess. “You must come with your brother and the doctor, and stay with me, Mrs Bolter.”

“Thank you, madam,” replied the little lady. “Never, if I know it,” she said to herself.

“I suppose it is late to English views?” said the Princess, smiling. “Good-bye, then, dear Miss Stuart. I will try and persuade papa to bring you to stay with me in my savage home. You really would come if he consented?”

“Indeed I should like it,” said Grey, quickly, as she looked frankly in the Princess’s handsome face, the latter kissing her affectionately at parting.

“Now we must say good-night to Perowne and our hostess,” said the doctor, merrily. “Come along, my dear, and we’ll soon be home. But I say, where are these people?”

Neither Helen nor Mr Perowne was visible; and the replies they received to inquiries were of the most contradictory character.

“There, do let us go, Dr Bolter,” exclaimed the lady, with great asperity now. “No one will miss us; but if the Perownes do, we can apologise to-morrow or next day, when we see them.”

“But I should have liked to say good-night,” said the doctor. “Let’s have one more look. I daresay Helen is down here.”

“I daresay Captain Hilton knows where she is,” said Mrs Doctor, sharply, and Grey gave quite a start.

“But I can’t find Hilton, and I haven’t seen Chumbley lately.”

“Perhaps they have been sensible enough to go home to bed,” said Mrs Doctor, after she had been dragged up and down several walks.

“Almost seems as if everybody had gone home to bed,” said the doctor, rubbing his ear in a vexed manner. “Surely Perowne and Helen would not have gone to bed before the guests had left.”

“Well, I’m going to take Grey Stuart home, Doctor,” said the lady, decisively. “You can do as you like, but if the hostess cannot condescend to give up her own pleasure for her guests’, I don’t see why we should study her.”

“Ah, here’s Perowne,” cried the doctor. “Good-night, old fellow. Thank you for a pleasant evening. We are just off. Where is Madam Helen?”

“Don’t know; but don’t wait for her,” said Mr Perowne; and after a friendly leave-taking the party of three moved towards the gates, Mrs Doctor heaving a satisfied sigh as they went along.

They had to cross the lawn again, where a goodly group of guests yet remained; and as they passed, the Inche Maida smiled and kissed her hand to Grey, while the Rajah rose to see them to the gates.

“Not gone yet, Rajah?” said the doctor. “I say, how are you going to get home?”

“My boat is waiting. We like the night for a journey, and my rowers will soon take me back.”

“And the Inche Maida, will she go back home to-night?”

“No; I think she is to stay here. Shall I go and ask her?”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Mrs Doctor, “he does not want to know. Good-night, Rajah.”

“Good-night—good-night.”

They parted at the gate, and the Rajah returned to the lawn, staying with the remaining guests till they departed; he and the Inche Maida being about the last to leave—the latter being handed by Mr Perowne into her boat, for the Rajah was wrong—the Princess had not been invited to stay, and her strong crew of boatmen were very soon sending the long light naga swiftly up stream, the smoothly-flowing water breaking up into myriads of liquid stars, as it seemed to rush glittering along on either side while they progressed between the two black walls of foliage that ran up from the surface high in air, one mass of leafage, from which the lowermost branches kissed the stream.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Missing.

The hum of a mosquito was about the only sound to be heard in the Residency house, as, clad in silken pyjamas, Mr Harley lay sleeping easily upon his light bamboo bedstead, dimly seen through the thin gauzy curtains by the light of a well-subdued lamp.

The bedroom was furnished in the lightest and coolest way, with matting floor and sides, while jalousie shutters admitted the cool night air.

The Resident had been smoking, partly in obedience to a bad bachelor habit, partly to keep at bay that Macbeth of insects that haunts all eastern rooms, and tries so diligently to murder the sleep of the inoffensive and just.

The faint pungent odour of a good cigar still pervaded the room, and the extinct end was yet between Neil Harley’s white teeth, as he lay there dreaming about Helen Perowne, seeing her admired and followed by all the single men at the station, while he was the only one who made no sign.

He sighed in his sleep, and then uttered a low moan, as if in spite of his placid face and show of indifference he suffered deeply on Helen’s account; but a calm smile, well resembling indifference, rested upon his features, and seemed to say that, come what might, he was patiently waiting his time.

Then came a change, for the calmness seemed to be swept away by a gust of passion, and the strong man’s hands clenched, his brow grew rugged, and as if suffering from some acute agony, the white teeth of the sleeper closed tightly with a sharp click, and a portion of the bitten-through cigar rolled from his lips on to the floor.

Then all was very still. The heat seemed to grow more intense, and the faint ripple of the river, as it glided by the island, could be distinctly heard. Now and then from the distant jungle some wild, uneasy cry rose upon the still air, riding as it were across the river like a warning to tell the slumbering Europeans that the savagery of the primeval forest lay close beside their civilisation; while the wakeful might have pondered on the fact that their safety rested solely upon the British prestige, and that a spark might ignite a train that would result in a terrible conflagration sufficient to sweep them all away.

Some such thoughts crossed the sleeping brain of Neil Harley that night, and his sleep grew more and more troubled as he thought how love-blinded he had been, and the risks they had run from Helen’s treatment of the young Rajah.

The trouble had passed away now, but such another affair might result in ruin to them all; and yet he had allowed her to go on and trifle, looking on with assumed indifference, though his heart was stung the while.

Neil Harley’s sleep again grew restful and calm; for in a pleasant dream he fancied that Helen, more beautiful than ever, had bidden him to her side, telling him that all her weak and wilful coquetry was but to try him. That she had loved him from the first, for he was the only man who had really touched her heart; and that, though she had fought against the restraint he had placed upon her, and told herself that she hated him and the way in which he had mocked at her trifling, she was his—his alone—that she resigned herself to his keeping—his keeping—that of the only man who could ever sway her heart.

The night grew hotter still, and the faint breath that was wafted between the open laths that covered the window seemed to have passed from the mouth of some furnace. A harsh roar came from the jungle, and then a loud plash or two echoed over the surface of the stream, as some great reptile plunged in from the muddy bank.

Then all was very still once more for a time, till suddenly the faint plash-plash of oars was heard, seeming now to be coming nearer, now to be fading away, drowned by the shrill insect hum. Again it sounded nearer, and all doubt of its proceeding from a boat bound for the Residency island was ended by the loud challenge of the sentry at the landing-place.

Then came voices in reply, and once more the hum of the mosquitoes was all that could be heard: now low and deep, now shrill and angry.

The faint lapping of the river and the plash of oars had died away, and the silence and heat were painful enough to draw a low sigh from the sleeper, just as the bedroom door was softly opened, and a dark figure glided in, crept over the matting floor without making a sound, and bent over the bed.

For the moment it seemed as though he was there upon some errand of ill; and one who watched would have been ready to raise an alarm, the insecurity of the station life being sufficient to warrant such a supposition; but the idea of the dark figure being bent on an evil errand was at once destroyed, for after waiting for a moment, he cried, softly:

“Master—master!”

The Resident started lip with the sudden awakening of a man accustomed to suspect peril at every turn, and his hand darted beneath his pillow even as he raised himself, to be withdrawn grasping the butt of a loaded revolver.

“Ah, you Ling,” he said, with a sigh of relief, as he lowered his hand. “What is it? Someone ill?”

“Mr Perowne has come across in his boat, sir.”

“Mr Perowne? at this time! what does he want?”

“To see you, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll be there directly.” The Chinese servant glided away as silently as he had come, and the Resident hastily dashed some water in his face to clear away the sleepy feeling.

“I hope nothing serious!” he muttered. “Has Helen been taken ill?”

A pang shot through him at the thought, and the reckless behaviour of the night, that had stung him again and again during the course of the evening, was forgiven.

“Poor child!” he muttered. “I believe she loves me, and bird-like, is fluttering and timorously striving to escape from the string that holds her.” He glanced at his watch as it hung upon a stand. “Two o’clock. I have not been in bed above an hour. What can be wrong?”

The next minute he was in the dining-room, where he found Mr Perowne agitatedly walking up and down; but as soon as the Resident entered he advanced and caught him fiercely by the arm. “Harley, do you know anything of this?” he cried.

“Of this? Of what?”

“Helen! Where is she?”

“Helen? In bed and asleep I hope. What do you mean?”

“I missed her somewhere about eleven. I have not seen her since.”

The Resident looked curiously at Mr Perowne, whose flushed face and excited manner seemed to suggest that he had been playing the host too freely during the evening, and to his own deterioration in balance.

“Tired, and gone to bed. A bit peevish with weariness,” suggested the Resident, who drove back a curious sense of uneasiness that troubled him.

“No,” said Mr Perowne, hoarsely; “she has not gone to bed, and the house and the gardens have been searched again and again. Do you know anything of this?”

“I? Absurd! I left in good time. I bade her good-night when she was talking to the chaplain; he was trying to persuade her to let him cover her shoulders with the shawl he carried.”

The Resident ceased speaking to dwell for a moment upon the luminous look he had seen Helen bestow upon the chaplain—a look meant, he told himself, to annoy him, while he knew that it would give poor Rosebury food for sweet reflection during weeks to come.

“It is very strange,” said Mr Perowne excitedly; and his haggard gaze was directed about the place, as if he half expected to find that Helen was there. “Where did you see her last, do you say?”

“Talking to Rosebury, and before then she was with Hilton. I fancy they were having words. Well, perhaps I ought hardly to say that; but Hilton was certainly remonstrating angrily.”

“When was that?”

“Half-past ten or eleven; I cannot say for certain.”

“Let us go and see Hilton,” said Mr Perowne; “but stay. Am I to believe you, Harley?”

“As you please, Mr Perowne,” said the Resident, with dignity. “Why should you doubt my word?”

“I do not doubt it!” cried Mr Perowne, catching his hand. “Pity me, Harley. I seem cold and strange; but I love that girl, and she is gone.”

He gasped painfully as he spoke, but smiled sadly directly after as the Resident warmly grasped his hand.

“One minute,” said the Resident; and hastily adding something to his clothing, he joined his visitor again, and the two sallied forth into the still, hot night, to make their way to the little fort, which was stronghold and barracks in one.

Here they were challenged by another sentry, for, peaceful times as they were, the military arrangements were always kept upon the sternest war footing.

“We want to see Captain Hilton,” said Mr Harley, in his quick, commanding way.

“Captain’s ashore, sir. He went to Mr Perowne’s party.”

“Yes, yes,” said that gentleman; “we know: but he has come back.”

“No, sir; not while I’ve been on guard—three hours, sir.”

“Call the sergeant,” said Mr Harley, sharply.

He needed no calling, for, hearing voices, he had come out to see who came so late.

“Where is Captain Hilton?”

“I thought he was stopping to sleep at Mr Perowne’s, sir,” said the sergeant, saluting. “Hasn’t been back. Beg pardon, sir; didn’t see it was Mr Perowne.”

“But he left my house hours ago,” said that gentleman.

“Gone to stay at Dr Bolter’s, perhaps, sir,” suggested the sergeant.

“Are you sure he did not return while your back was turned?” said Mr Harley.

“Quite sure, sir. Still, he might, sir; it’s no use to be too sure. Like to go to his quarters, sir?”

“Yes, we’ll go in,” said the Resident, quickly; and following the sergeant, after exchanging glances, the two gentlemen entered Hilton’s room.

The bed had not been pressed, and everything was in order, just as the regimental servant had placed it after his master had dressed to attend the evening fête.

“Mr Chumbley hasn’t come back neither,” said the sergeant.

“Not come back!” said the Resident, wondering. “This is strange. I don’t know, though. They have gone to smoke a cigar with someone, and then decided to stay all night.”

Mr Perowne shook his head, and the Resident felt that his explanation was not good, and both were silent as they walked back towards the entrance of the fort.

“What does this mean?” said Mr Perowne, at last.

“Can’t say yet,” replied the Resident, sharply. “Sergeant, have a look round, and make sure that Captain Hilton and Mr Chumbley have not come back.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll look round,” said the sergeant; “but they couldn’t have landed without the sentries knowing.”

“Go and see,” said the Resident, sternly; and the sergeant saluted and walked away.

“They must be staying somewhere,” said the Resident, who suffered from the desire to keep back the question that so agitated his breast. “Depend upon it, they have gone to the doctor’s to smoke a cigar.”

He felt as he spoke that this was impossible; for he was sure that the hours kept at the doctor’s were too regular for such a relapse.

“And my daughter?” said Mr Perowne, in a cold, stern voice.

“I’ll have the men out to search if it is necessary,” said the Resident, eagerly; “but before we proceed to such an extreme measure, had we not better make more inquiries? Yours is a large house and grounds. She may be back by now.”

Neil Harley felt a strange choking sensation as he spoke, and he knew that his words were weak; but he clung to the hope that there was some mistake, and that Helen was by now safely at home.

“She may,” said Mr Perowne, bitterly. “But it seems to me that there is some trick here. I gave you the credit of it at first.”

“Am I a man so wanting in respect for Helen that I should insult her and you?”

“I—I can’t help it, Harley!” groaned the father. “There seems to be no end to my troubles!”

The Resident looked at him sharply, for that evening he had seemed all life and gaiety.

“Yes, you may look!” groaned the unhappy man; “but everything goes wrong with me. There is, I am sure, some planned affair here; and I believe that Hilton is at the bottom of it.”

“Do not be so ready to condemn, Perowne,” said the Resident, quickly. “I feel sure that Hilton would be guilty of no rash, foolish escapade like this. It is absurd! Good heavens, man! do you think that Helen would degrade herself by eloping? I will not believe it!”

“I wish I could feel you were right,” groaned the unhappy father.

“Why Chumbley is away too. It is like saying that he is implicated.”

“He is Hilton’s chosen companion,” said Mr Perowne, sadly.

“Tut, man; we shall have to look farther afield than that.”

“Then why are they not here to speak for themselves?” cried Mr Perowne, in a querulous, excited way. “Hilton has been constantly hanging about my place a great deal more than Helen liked, and she showed it to-night by completely turning her back upon him.”

“But surely you do not think that Hilton—” began the Resident.

“I do not think anything,” said Mr Perowne, angrily. “But here is the fact before us: my daughter is missing, and Captain Hilton has not returned to his quarters.”

“Neither has Chumbley,” said the Resident, uneasily.

“Neither has Chumbley,” assented Mr Perowne.

“A man who, beneath his languid indifference, is the soul of honour,” said the Resident; and he led the way to the boat by which Mr Perowne had come across.

The men were lying in the bottom asleep; but they roused up directly as the two gentlemen entered and were rowed to the landing-stage at the foot of Mr Perowne’s garden, where the swift stream was lapping the stones placed to keep it from washing the lawn away.

As they were rowed across Neil Harley found himself looking thoughtfully down into the water time after time, and a curious shuddering sensation came upon him, one which he strove hard to cast off.

He could not, he would not believe it possible, he told himself; but in spite of his efforts, and the mastery he generally had over self, the thought would come.

They found the servants ready with the answer that nothing had been seen of their young mistress, though they had continued searching ever since their master had gone away.

“Shall we look round ourselves?” said Mr Perowne.

“No, if you say the house has been searched.”

“I have been in every room myself.”

“Then let us go on to the doctor’s. We may find Hilton and Chumbley there, and they perhaps can throw some light upon the matter.”

Mr Perowne bowed, and they hurried off to the doctor’s pretty bungalow, a short distance away.

“They are not here, unless they are stopping to sleep.”

“How do you know?”

“There is no light.”

All the same the Resident tapped sharply at the door, and his summons was followed by a thump on the floor, as if someone had leaped out of bed.

The next moment a window was thrown open, and the doctor’s voice was heard.

“Now then: who’s ill?”

“Don’t be alarmed, doctor,” said the Resident.

“Oh, it’s you, Harley. Had too much supper?”

“No, no. Tell me quickly. Did Hilton and Chumbley come home with you?”

“No; they went away ever so long before.”

“Did you see them go?”

“No. Can’t say I did.”

“They have not been back to their quarters.”

“Stopped to have a cigar somewhere.”

“Perhaps so; but tell me, when did you see Hilton last?”

“I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do. He went down towards the river, with a cigar in his mouth.”

“When did you see my daughter?” said Mr Perowne.

“Oh! are you there, Perowne? Well, I don’t know. Not for an hour before we came away.”

“An hour and a half,” said Mrs Bolter’s voice. “We didn’t see her when we came away.”

“Did she go away with anyone, Mrs Bolter?” exclaimed Perowne, eagerly.

“No; I saw her walk towards the house by herself. I’ll get up and dress directly. Perhaps I can do some good. The poor girl has been overcome by the heat, Bolter, and fainted away somewhere in the grounds. We’ll both dress and come on directly, Mr Perowne. Have the shrubberies searched again. Henry, go and rouse up Arthur; he may be useful.”

“Yes, call him,” said the Resident; “he was seen with her last, and may know where she went.”

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

In the Middle of the Night.

All Mrs Bolter’s dislike to Helen vanished now that there was trouble on the way; and dressing hastily, she ran across the little bamboo landing to knock at her brother’s door, but without receiving any answer, and knocking again sharply, she ran back to her own room to continue dressing.

She threw open the window to admit a few breaths of fresher air, and in the silence of the night she could hear the receding steps of their late visitors. Then turning sharply she found Dr Bolter yawning fearfully.

“Don’t be so unfeeling, Henry!” she cried; “who knows what may have happened?”

“Unfeeling be hanged!” he said, tetchily. “I only yawned.”

“And very rudely, Henry. You did not place your hand before your mouth.”

“A yawn, Mrs Bolter,” he said didactically, “is the natural effort made for ridding the system—”

“Of the effects of too much smoking and drinking,” said Mrs Doctor, quickly. “There, do make haste and dress, and then call Arthur again. He does not seem to be moving. How soundly he sleeps. He did not hear us when we came home or he would have spoken.”

“Oh, dear!” yawned the doctor. “I was just in my beauty sleep, and this calling me up is the heigh—hey—ho—ha—hum! Oh! dear me! I beg your pardon, my dear.”

“Are you nearly ready, Henry?” said the lady, who would not notice the last most portentous yawn.

“Where the—”

“Henry!”

“I mean where are my studs? Oh! all right.”

“Go and see if Arthur is awake, and tell him to get up directly.”

The doctor went slowly and sleepily out of the door, fumbling with his studs the while; and without pausing to knock, walked straight into his brother-in-law’s room.

“Here, Arthur, old man, rouse up!” he cried. “We’re going on to—hullo! Here, Mary, he hasn’t been to bed!” he shouted.

“Not been to bed!” cried the little lady. “Why, Arthur, you foolish—”

“He isn’t here, my dear,” said the doctor.

“But—but he was here when we came back, was he not?” said Mrs Bolter.

“I don’t know; I only knocked at his door. I was too sleepy to speak, my dear.”

“Oh! Henry,” exclaimed Mrs Bolter, excitedly, “something must have happened, or dear Arthur would not have stopped away like this.”

“I—I hope not,” said the doctor. “There, be calm, my dear; we know nothing yet.”

“Yes—yes, I will be calm,” said the little lady, fighting hard to master her excitement; “but, Henry, if we have brought my poor brother over here to be the victim of some terrible accident, I shall never forgive myself.”

“Oh, stuff—stuff!” cried the doctor, as they looked round the room to find that the bed had not been touched. “Don’t jump at conclusions. What did Harley say?”

“That Arthur was seen last with Helen Perowne—in the garden, I suppose.”

“What? Our Arthur was seen with her last? She missing—he missing—why, by jingo, Mary, that handsome puss has run away with him!”

The doctor burst into a hearty, chuckling laugh.

“Is this a time for jesting, Henry?” said Mrs Bolter, angrily.

“Not at all, my dear,” replied the doctor, “only it looks as if Arthur had made up his mind to do something startling.”