George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

As this last was placed before her Helen shook her head again and again; but the girls became so urgent with their pressure that she at last essayed to partake of the breakfast; but after a few mouthfuls, each of which seemed as if it would choke her, she broke down and crouched there, humbled and worn out with anxiety, sobbing aloud as if her very heart would break.

She felt that in a few short hours all had been changed. The last night she was Helen Perowne, whose lightest word seemed at the station to be obeyed as if it were law, and at whose look a score of people were ready to exert themselves to obey her wishes would she but indicate them to those who acted as if they were her slaves. To-day she was filled with a shrinking horror, for the terrible suspicion was ever gaining ground, and she shuddered in her misery as she thought of what her fate might be.

The hours went slowly on, but her thoughts were rapid. Her suspicions gathered strength, but her mental and bodily forces appeared to be slumbering, and it was only by a strong effort of will that she was able to keep up some semblance of pride, for she felt that her first display of weakness had lowered her terribly in her attendants’ eyes.

By degrees she grew more composed, and in these calmer moments she began thinking of Grey Stuart, and wished for the protection of her company, as she thought more and more of the calm, self-assured manner of her school companion, and wondered what she was doing now.

Helen could see that she was in a handsomely-decorated room, whose bamboo-barred window looked out upon waving palms and flowering trees. The door was hung with a rich silk curtain, and on two sides were low couches or divans, spread with Indian rugs, several of which were lying on the smooth bamboo floor.

There was little of ornament in the room, but the hangings and rugs looked rich, and Helen’s suspicion grew rapidly stronger as her eyes wandered here and there, and she thought of whose all these things must be.

Suddenly a slight rustle of the silken hangings caught her ear, and turning her eyes in the direction, she drew a breath of relief as she saw that it was caused by a little knot of Malay women, who were eagerly scanning her with their great dark eyes, and evidently regarding her as a curiosity.

These departed and others came—dark-faced, scowling women, in their gay sarongs—whispering to each other, and passing comments on the stranger; while Helen sat there, trying hard to keep up her stately air and to let these insolent gazers know that though a prisoner she was an English lady, and their superior still.

Twice over a couple of these visitors addressed some remark to the girls who seemed to have been placed there as attendants. What these remarks were Helen could not tell, but they drew forth angry expostulations from the girls, who at once went and drew the great curtain, and seemed to forbid further intrusion.

This was evidently the case, for saving that her two attendants remained in the room, Helen was undisturbed; and feeling somewhat recovered, she made an effort to win her companions to her side, beginning by questioning them in as friendly a manner as she could assume, but without effect; for though it was evident that one of them understood English words mingled with such Malay as the prisoner could recollect, the girl made no reply, only looked at her with indifferent eyes, and kept on shaking her head to every question as to why the speaker had been seized and was forcibly detained.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Helen’s Tirewomen.

Helen Perowne’s great horror in her situation of captive was the coming night. The day had been more bearable, as in the comparative coolness of the shaded room with its open windows she had felt the influence of the quietude and calm of the forest at which she gazed. Her mind was tortured by surmises and wonder as to whether her friends would not soon arrive to rescue her, while at every sound she started in fear of seeing her suspicion fully verified; but still she had bravely grown more composed and rested. She was among women, watched by women, and sooner or later she felt sure that someone from the station would arrive in pursuit.

For it was monstrous to suppose that such a crime as the seizure of an English lady would be allowed to pass without swift retribution.

This idea comforted her, and in her more hopeful moments she wondered who would first come to her aid—whether it would be Mr Harley, Hilton, or her father. One of them, well backed by the soldiers, she told herself, would certainly be there ere long; but darkness began to fall. Nobody had been to her help, and shivering with dread, she watched the darkening of the shadows amongst the broad palm leaves, and alternated this with shuddering glances at the door, whose curtain now began to look black and funereal, and added to her dread.

Just at dark a couple of women entered, bearing various dishes for her evening meal; but the sight of food was repugnant to her, and the wine she dared not taste.

Her two attendants were, however, less scrupulous, and they ate and drank heartily, even to finishing the luscious fruit, of which there was a large dish, and whose juice would have been most welcome to Helen’s parched and fevered lips.

At last, though, the remains of the meal were taken away; and after chatting together for some time by the open window, through which the moon shone, and from where Helen sat, turning the two girls into weird-looking silhouettes, they yawned, spoke sleepily, and ended by pointing to the couch the prisoner was to occupy, throwing themselves upon another, and apparently soon falling into a heavy sleep.

Helen lay resting upon her elbow, watching the darkened portion of the great room where her companions lay, and then letting her eyes rest upon the dimly-seen draped door, whose curtain seemed more than once to move, as if being drawn aside.

Watching this till her eyes felt strained, and seeing nothing more, she turned her gaze to the barred window, through which the last rays of the moon were streaming previous to its disappearing behind the dense belt of forest trees. Lower it sank and lower, till the room was in total darkness; and at last, moved by the desire to try and escape from her captivity, Helen rose with her heart throbbing violently, to try in a fearsome hopeless way whether she could not get out of the room, having afterwards some ill-defined idea in her mind that she might, if once clear of the prison where she then was, find her way to some native campong, whose inhabitants would give her shelter, and perhaps take her down the river in their boat to where more certain help might be secured.

It took some time to make up her mind to move, but when she had shaken off her dread and risen softly to her feet, hardly had she gone a yard, when one of the bamboos forming the floor gave a loud creak, and almost before she could realise the fact, the two girls had sprung up, seized her arms, and tenderly but firmly forced her back to her couch.

Helen lay there panting with indignation at the treatment she was receiving, but trying to contain herself, for she felt that any attempt at force would only be to her own injury, and that if she were to escape it must be by some subtle turn. So she lay there perfectly still for quite an hour before making any further attempt to reach the door, this time with as light a step as she could assume.

But though the moment before her companions seemed to be sleeping heavily, her slightest movement made them start up; and after several attempts to escape their watchfulness, one of them took her hand, grasped it firmly, and lay down to sleep by her side.

How that long, stifling night passed Helen Perowne could never afterwards tell; but towards morning she fell into a broken, troubled sleep, from which she awoke to find that the sun was very high, and that the two Malay girls were waiting to act as her tirewomen once again.

She still felt too weak to offer resistance to their acts, and she sat up and allowed them to bathe her face with a delicately-tinted, sweet-scented water, which, with a good deal of merry laughter, they liberally applied. It was cool and refreshing to her fevered cheeks and hands; and seeing that she liked it they kept up the bathing for some little time, chattering to her the while in their own language, which they supplemented now and then with a few words of English.

When this was over at last, and she had dried herself with the perfumed towels they brought, Helen started on finding that a portion of her own clothing had been removed, and that the Malay girls had substituted a couple of gay silken sarongs and a filmy scarf.

She appealed to them to return her own dress, but they only laughed and began to praise the gay colour of the sarongs, playfully throwing them round her to show how well they looked, and then clapping their hands and uttering cries indicative of their admiration of the effect.

Still Helen refused to accept the change, and after trying angry remonstrance, one of the girls ran out, to return directly with a couple of stern-looking, richly-dressed Malay women, who frowningly threatened the miserable girl with the indignity of force.

Still she refused; and clapping her hands, the elder of the two women opened the door for the admission of half a dozen slaves, when, feeling that resistance was vain, Helen signed that she would submit, and with drooping head and throbbing brow allowed her two attendants to drape her as they wished.

This over, breakfast was placed before her, and exhausted nature forced her to partake of the food with a better appetite.

“I shall need my strength,” she said to herself; and she ate and drank, but started at every movement outside the room as she waited the coming of those who would set her free.

“Hilton, in spite of what has passed, will not rest until he has found me—poor fellow!”

She said these last two words with a mingling of contempt and pity in her voice; though had he presented himself then, she would have thrown herself gladly in his arms.

But there was no token of approaching relief. The voices of many women could be heard coming and going about what was apparently a large native house; and the prisoner could not avoid a shudder as from time to time she thought of who must be the owner of the place.

The morning was giving way to the heats of noon, and languid and heart-sick Helen was lying back upon one of the couches, thinking of the happy days of the past, and trying to piece together the broken, incoherent facts connected with her seizure, and wondering whether Murad were the real cause, when the two Malay girls who had left her for a few moments returned, bearing a handful of wreaths of a beautiful fresh white jasmine, which they insisted upon placing in her thick, dark hair.

Helen resisted this trifling for a time, but despair had tamed her spirit; and after a few feeble attempts to stay her persecutors, she sat like a statue, asking herself, with her eyes fixed upon the gay sarong she wore, whether this was the Helen of the past—and what was to be the end.

The two girls placed the lovely white flowers in her hair, laughing with delight, and clapping their hands as they drew back to gaze at their work; after which one of them went off to fetch a common hand-glass of European make, and held it before her face that she might, as they said, “see how beautiful they had made her now.”

Helen was too sick of heart and weary to do more than cast a cursory glance at the glass; but this was followed by another, and then she uttered an anguished cry, shrinking back and cowering down as if with dread as she covered her face with her hands.

Fair Helen was fair no longer. Her face was as swarthy as that of the darkest Malay.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Another Prisoner.

The awakening of the Reverend Arthur Rosebury was not very much unlike that of the other prisoners. He, too, seemed to have been carried a long distance blindfolded, both in boat and litter; and it all appeared like a continuation of the dream in which he had been plunged since he first met Helen Perowne.

The hours he had spent in her company; the giving up of his little English home; his journey abroad; and his wild Eastern life, had all seemed dreamlike and strange; and it was quite, to his mind, in keeping therewith, that he should have been seized, blindfolded, and carried off by slaves for some reason or another; probably, he argued, because a rival was jealous of the favour in which he stood with Helen, who had only that night appointed him her special personal attendant.

It was all quite consistent with Eastern life and romance, and did not strike him as being at all peculiar, for the fact remains that, while the Reverend Arthur Rosebury was exceedingly clever as a student, and quite a master in his own particular subjects, he was weak as water in worldly matters; and, as his sister too well knew, in many things little better than a child. Add to this that the Reverend Arthur was, for the first time in his life, and at middle age, hopelessly infatuated with Helen, and it is not surprising that his weakness was extreme.

It was all, then, to him a matter of no wonderment, and he would have taken his position coolly enough had he been satisfied that Helen was not in danger. But of this he could not feel assured; and he was troubled in his dull, mild way accordingly. For love blinded him effectually to all Helen’s failings. She was beautiful, and she had looked kindly, almost lovingly upon him, more than once, and those tender looks redeemed all else. She flirted, she coquetted with others; she treated him with marked indifference and contempt; but she had made him love her, and he was one of those who, without reward, would go on patiently loving until the end.

He was a good deal troubled, then, in his own mind about Helen’s fate, for he had seen that she was, like him, seized; but in the confusion that followed, what afterwards took place he could not tell.

When he was able to think a little more clearly, he began to ask himself what he should do to help his companion in distress; and of course, ignorant of the fact that he might prove in his humble way a greater safeguard than either of her other admirers, there he stuck fast. What was he to do to help Helen?

No answer came to this question, so there he paused, meditating hour after hour, until he found himself unbound, and free to gaze about him in a pleasant-looking room, whose window opened upon a fairly-kept garden, full of such a profusion of strange and beautiful plants, shining in the heavy morning dew, that, as the Rev. Arthur Rosebury rested his forehead against the bamboo bars, and looked out, he forgot his present troubles in the glories of a rich botanic feast.

He was interrupted by a hand touching him on the shoulder; and turning, he found a couple of tall, well-armed Malays standing at his side, one of whom pointed to a breakfast arranged upon a clean mat upon the floor, and signed to him that he should eat.

The Reverend Arthur sighed, paused, and asked where was Miss Perowne; receiving for answer a shake of the head, and a fresh intimation that he should eat.

This, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down and began to do, evidently in a very abstracted mood.

At the end of a minute he rose, beckoned to one of his guards, led him to the window, and pointing out through the open bars to a very beautiful form of convolvulus he took out his penknife, opened it, and placed it in the Malay’s hand, signing to him that he should go out and cut one of the long twining strands.

The man looked at him in a puzzled manner for a few moments, but ended by comprehending; and after saying a few words to his companion, he went out and came round to the window where the Reverend Arthur was watching, and ready to point to the plant, a portion of which the Malay cut, and also a spray of a large jasmine, and brought in.

The prisoner took the plants and his knife, and sat down crosslegged to his breakfast, which became a prolonged meal, full of enjoyment; for between every two mouthfuls there was a long pause, and sections had to be made of the flowers and seed vessels, while notes were made in the notebook the chaplain always carried in his breast-pocket.

Altogether that was a very pleasant meal; and the two Malay guards stared to see how calm and contented their prisoner seemed to be.

Then came a period of depression, during which the chaplain questioned the Malays, making use of all the words that he had studied up during the voyage and since his stay; but they either could not or would not give him any information respecting the object of his inquiry; and he walked dreamily to the window, and stood gazing out once more.

Whatever might be his troubles or perplexities, it was impossible for the Reverend Arthur Rosebury to gaze at the beauties of nature in a botanical form without forgetting the perturbations of his spirit; and consequently he had not been looking out at the wonderful collection of plants, for the most part strange to him, many minutes, before he was signing to the Malay guard to cut him a fresh specimen.

This the man readily did; and with intervals for meals and fits of despondency at not being able to help Helen Perowne, the Reverend Arthur Rosebury passed his first day in prison.

The next was very similar, for he was treated with the greatest of kindness and consideration, except that he could obtain no information whatever respecting his detention or his fellow-captive.

On the third day, upon signifying a desire to have another specimen of the plants in the garden, the guard handed to him one of the little woven caps worn by the Malays, signed to him to put it on as he had not his own hat, led him out through a doorway into the garden, and then said, in fair English:

“You may walk and pick flowers. If you run away you will be killed.”

The chaplain stared at the man, and asked him some other questions, but the Malay guard pointed to the flowers, waved his hand over the garden as if to say, “You are free to walk here;” and seating himself upon a stump, he took out his betel-box, extracted a sirih leaf, smeared it with coral-lime mixed into a cream, rolled a piece of nut therein, and placing the preparation in his mouth, he began to chew it calmly without seeming to heed his prisoner, though he was watchfully observant of him the whole time.

Helen Perowne was entirely forgotten for the space of three hours, during which the chaplain dreamily revelled in the beauties of the wonderful flowers of that Eastern land. He had no thought outside the present, and in a kind of ecstasy he wandered here and there till, truth to tell, he began to feel hungry, and hunger made him look up at the long, low, palm-thatched building that was his prison.

Hunger made him also, for some occult reason, begin to think of Helen, and he found himself wondering whether she was confined anywhere near him, and if so, could he make known his presence by any means.

Just then, seeing him gazing hard at the house, the Malay rose from his seat, where he had remained patiently the whole time, and pointing to the open door, the chaplain went in laden with flowers sufficient to occupy him in making scientific notes for the rest of the day.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Chumbley’s Coolness.

“I say, this is a rum set-out, Bertie,” drawled Chumbley. “I suppose you are there?”

“Yes, I am here, or there, as you choose to call it,” replied Hilton, rather bitterly, for his bonds gave him no little pain.

“I will loosen the rajahs now,” said the voice that Chumbley had heard all through his unpleasant adventure.

Busy hands were now about them, and a knife was used to cut them free; but their limbs were so cramped by the long confinement, and so tightly bound, that they could hardly move.

Then the handkerchiefs were removed from their eyes, and they lay back on the soft matting gazing about them, the subdued light of the large room in which they found themselves being very grateful to their dazzled eyes.

The man who had set them free from the cords was a stern-looking, muscular Malay in plain cotton jacket and sarong, in whose folds were stuck a couple of formidable-looking krisses; and the place in which the prisoners’ eyes struggled with the light was a tolerably large room floored with split bamboo, the walls being for the most part a kind of basket-work of cane, partially covered with native woven hangings, while the floor was pretty well hidden by Persian and Turkish rugs.

Everything looked cool and comfortable; and, in spite of the absence of tables and chairs, there was a good deal of elegance in the way in which various ornaments of bronze and china were arranged about the apartment. Here and there, too, were objects of European manufacture, principally in glass, Italian imitations of old Venice being principally chosen.

Naturally enough the first glances of the prisoners were aimed at the windows, of which there were two, and at the door; but they were evidently strongly made, and though the bars of the windows were but wood, they were stout bamboos externally almost as hard to cut as flint.

The Malay saw their looks; and making a sign to them, he crossed to the door and threw it open, admitting with the rays of the morning sun the glinting of the spear-heads of half a dozen stout Malay guards.

Closing the door, he beckoned to the prisoners to come to the windows.

Hilton essayed to rise, but sank back upon his mats with an ejaculation indicative of pain, for the attempt was full of suffering to his swollen limbs.

Chumbley, though in pain, was more successful, or more fall of fortitude, for he struggled to his feet, and heavily tottered across the bamboos and mats to the window, which was covered with a beautifully-scented creeper, and through which a pleasant prospect was visible of undulating woodland and dense jungle.

“Quite fresh to me,” muttered Chumbley; “I wonder where we are?”

Not till he had had this glance round did he pay any heed to the Malay, who was pointing to a group below each window of three well-armed men.

“They are to kill you if you try to go,” he said, quietly; and then, with a meaning smile, he left the room, fastening the door with some kind of bar.

“This is atrocious!” cried Hilton, as he bit his lip, and pressed his swollen wrists; while Chumbley dropped at full length upon the mats, turned upon his back, and began to rub his legs.

“A—bom—i—na—ble,” he drawled.

“That scoundrel Murad is at the bottom of it, I’ll swear,” cried Hilton. “Hang the fellow! I could shoot him like a dog.”

“You should have hung him or shot him before he carried out this game,” said Chumbley, rubbing away very softly, and evidently feeling a good deal of satisfaction as his reward.

“It is to get me out of the way while he resumes his attentions to—you know,” he cried, peevishly; “but he might have saved himself the trouble, for I’ve done.”

“He seems to have had an idea of going it wholesale,” drawled Chumbley, “or else he wouldn’t have brought me.”

“What shall we do now?” said Hilton, altering his position, for the numbing sensation was passing off.

“As soon as ever I’ve done rubbing my legs,” said Chumbley, “I’m going to have another cigar; and then if they don’t bring us breakfast I shall have a nap, for I feel as if it would do Mr Chumbley good.”

“Chumbley, I haven’t patience with you!” cried Hilton.

“Not when you have pins and needles in your legs, dear boy; but have a weed to soothe you, and then you can philosophise over our trouble. Say, old chap.”

“What?”

“No parade this morning—no drill. No anything to do at all but lie here and smoke. Hah! this is a nice one. Look out, old man. Catch!”

To Hilton’s annoyance his friend coolly took a cigar from his case, struck a light, and having ignited the end of his roll of tobacco-leaf, he pitched case and match-box to his friend, then lay back and smoked.

For a few minutes Hilton gazed at him in an angry, disgusted manner; but the process of smoking looked so calming in its effects upon his friend, that he submitted to the desire to imitate him, and proceeded to light a cigar himself; but before he had been smoking many minutes, a regular hard breathing told him that Chumbley was dozing, and sure enough he was lying there, heedless of present trouble and that to come, his cigar tightly held between his teeth, and his breath coming and going, as he slept placidly and well.

“I always thought Chumbley cool,” muttered Hilton in an annoyed way; “but he really is the coolest fellow I ever met. Why, that villain may kill us to-morrow—to-day for what I know. Oh, it’s monstrous! and all through that wretched, coquettish girl.”

“I hate myself!” he said, after a few minutes’ pause. Why, he did not say, but he, too, lay back and indulged in his friend’s bad habit, feeling gradually calmer and more at rest, especially as the furtive rub he gave from time to time at one or other of the places where the bonds had been was mollifying in its effect.

Chumbley was fast asleep; of that there could be no doubt, so Hilton determined that it was his duty to watch for both. He could not go to sleep at a time like this, so he began thinking about Helen, muttering angrily the while; but by degrees his countenance softened, his eyes closed, his cigar fell from his lips, the infection of Chumbley’s despised readiness to sleep came over him, and, quite exhausted, he, too, lay breathing heavily, and perfectly unconscious of the lapse of time. Naturally enough he dreamed of Helen and her careless coquettish treatment of his love, which was rapidly cooling down, like the lava after some violent eruption, and giving place to a hard and bitter anger at her heartless ways.

As for Chumbley he was too weary to dream, but slept on as calmly as if he were in his own cot at the fort; perhaps more calmly, for the well-ventilated room was shaded by waving cocoa-palms and the branches of a great durian-tree, while the large leaves of banana kept the sun-rays from the glassless window.

At intervals of about an hour the Malay came in, and stepping softly towards them, seemed to assure himself that they were both asleep, going out directly with a satisfied smile as he saw how calmly they were resting.

“They are brave men, these English,” he muttered. “They will do. It is right. They do not know but that this may be their last day on earth, and yet they sleep.”

Mid-day had long passed before Chumbley awoke suddenly, as if influenced by the presence of the tall Malay, who was standing by him.

“Hallo, old chap!” he drawled, “have I been asleep? I say, have I been asleep?” he added, in the Malay tongue.

“Since morning, rajah, and it is now past mid-day,” replied the Malay, respectfully.

“Here, hi! Hilton! Wake up, old man!” cried Chumbley; and his fellow-prisoner leaped up, looking vacantly before him for a moment or two, and then growing angry as he realised where they were.

The Malay retired at once, and a couple of fresh men entered, bringing brass basins with water, cloths, and English-made hair brushes, and soap. These the two officers gladly used, Chumbley uttering grunts of satisfaction as he indulged in a good wash, and ended by carefully adjusting his short crisp hair.

“That’s better, lad,” he said. “One feels more like a human being now.”

“Yes,” replied Hilton, smiling. “It is surprising what a degraded creature a man feels when he has not made acquaintance for some hours with soap and water.”

“Come, that’s more cheery, my noble. Why, I believe, old fellow, that this affair is doing you good!”

“I suppose I am a little rested,” said Hilton, quietly. “Take away those things,” he said to the Malays, who both bowed respectfully and withdrew.

“I say, Hilton,” said Chumbley, “I suppose this really is Murad’s game, isn’t it?”

“No doubt. Of course it is!”

“Well, he is doing the thing civilly. I wonder whether he treats all his prisoners like this? Hallo! what’s this mean—an execution sheet or a tablecloth?”

“The latter,” said Hilton, quickly.

“And quite right too,” exclaimed Chumbley. “I say, how hungry I do feel!”

These last remarks were elicited by the fact that the tall Malay had returned, ushering in half a dozen more, who quickly spread a white tablecloth in the English fashion; and to the surprise of the prisoners they were served with a capital breakfast, which included, among native luxuries, coffee, very good claret, roast and curried chickens, and fairly-made bread.

“Look here,” said Chumbley, who was staring ravenously at the preparations, “if you have any suspicions about the food being poisoned, don’t say a word about it, old man, until I have fed.”

“Oh, absurd!” replied Hilton. “Why should it be poisoned?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know!” exclaimed Chumbley. “Only let us leave all other discussion till we have discussed our breakfast;” and seating himself in the Malay fashion upon the floor, he at once set an example to his companion, that Hilton was fain to follow.

“As that fellow said somewhere, ‘a child might play with me now,’” sighed Chumbley, and wiping his lips, in token of having finished, he leaned back against the divan. “Done?”

“Yes,” said Hilton, gloomily, “I have done.”

“I wish you had done being glumpy,” said Chumbley. “Why, this is quite a pleasant change. I say, executioner,” he cried, in the Malay tongue, “I have emptied my case. Can we have some cigars?”

The tall Malay, who had been standing with folded arms, looking like a swarthy statue, bowed respectfully, and left the room, the men coming in directly to remove the remains of the breakfast; while their leader returned at the end of a few minutes with a box of cigars, a jar of tobacco, and a couple of large pipes, one of which, a kind of hookah, Chumbley at once appropriated, filled, and began to smoke.

“I say, Hilton, old man, failing the costume—which wants brushing, by the way—I feel quite the Rajah. Take it easy, lad. ’Tisn’t half bad for a change.”

“Hang it, Chumbley, you would make yourself contented anywhere!” cried Hilton, who, now that his hunger was appeased, began to grow angry once more. “Put down that pipe, and let’s see if we cannot contrive some means of getting away from here.”

“Eh?”

“I say put away that pipe, and let’s plan how to get away.”

“Not if I know it,” replied Chumbley. “The tobacco is delicious, and I’m not going to spoil my digestion by putting myself in a fever directly after a meal.”

“But we must make some plans!” cried Hilton.

“Must we? Well, by-and-by will do. I’m very comfortable; and as long as a fellow is comfortable, what more can he want? There, light up and do as I do. I don’t know that I want to escape at all if the cuisine is to be kept up to this mark.”

“But we are prisoners!”

“So we are at the island, man alive. We couldn’t help being brought here; but now we are here, we may as well make the best of it. What splendid tobacco! Real Latakie!”

Hilton fretted and fumed; and finding that he could not move his friend, he went to door and window, examined the walls, and looked up at the open roof; but Chumbley did not move, he merely seemed to be studying their position in the coolest way.

“Look here, sit down, old fellow,” he exclaimed at last, just as Hilton had worked himself into a heat, “it doesn’t seem to me to be of any use to fret and fume. Have a little patience, and let’s see whether this has been done by our dark friend, or else what it does mean.”

“How can a man have patience,” cried Hilton, “seized in this ruffianly way!”

“’Twas rough certainly,” said Chumbley, slowly.

“Torn from his quarters—”

“To better ones, my dear old man. Let’s play fair. One doesn’t get such a breakfast as this at the fort.”

“Dragged from his love!” cried Hilton, who did not seem to heed his companion’s remarks.

“Well, that last’s all sentiment, old man,” drawled Chumbley. “For my part I think it will do you good. I say—happy thought, Hilton—Helen Perowne’s at the bottom of this, and wanting to get rid of you, has had you carried away. Me too, for fear I should make the running in your absence.”

“Do you wish to quarrel, Chumbley?” cried Hilton.

“Not I. You couldn’t quarrel with me. But joking apart, old man, I saw enough yesterday to know that you had got to the end of your tether, and that—”

“And that what?” cried Hilton, fiercely; for Chumbley had halted in his speech.

“That she had pitched you over, same as she had a score of others before you.”

“Silence! It is a falsehood—a calumny—a damned lie! How dare you say that?”

“Oh, easy enough!” said Chumbley, without moving a muscle. “It’s just waggling one’s tongue a bit. Bully away, old man, I don’t mind; and you’ll feel better when you’ve rid yourself of all that spleen.”

“As to Miss Perowne knowing of this—”

“Oh, that’s absurd, of course!” cried Chumbley; “but she has pitched you over, old man, and you now belong to the ranks of the unblessed.”

“I cannot quarrel with you, Chumbley,” said Hilton, cooling down, “because I know you to be too good a fellow to slight; but will you talk sense?”

“Yes, dear boy, of course I will; but I wish you’d try this tobacco. This is sense that I am going to say now. I feel sure that we have been kidnapped so that our new friends may get a nice little sum for us out of the British Government.”

“Well, it is likely,” said Hilton, whose anger had been of a fleeting nature. “But if they do not get the ransom—what then?”

“That’s an unpleasant emergency that it is not worth while to consider until we know that negotiations have failed. It is unpleasant, dear boy, because I suppose we should then get a taste of kris, applied in a dexterous manner peculiar to the Malays, through the hollow of the left shoulder. But that would only be a dernier ressort, and a thousand things might happen in the meantime. It will all come right in the end.”

Seeing that Chumbley was determined to make the best of their position, Hilton gradually began to take somewhat of the same tone; and agreeing with his friend that at present any attempt at escape would be folly, he partook heartily of the excellent second meal provided for them, questioned their guard, but obtained no information whatever as to where they were and why they had been brought, and ended by seating himself by the open window and listening to the weird noises of the jungle as darkness fell.

Feeling weary at last, Hilton sought his couch, and lay thinking once more of Helen, wondering where she was, but with less excitement than of old; and somehow the sweet, earnest face of Grey Stuart rose like a pleasant picture before him, as he fell asleep, thinking that if Helen, with her beauteous face, had only had the sweet disposition of her schoolfellow and companion, what a lovable woman she would have been.

Chumbley was dropping off to sleep at the same time, and he too was thinking of Helen Perowne, and that nature was guilty of making a great mistake in sending such girls abroad upon the earth.

“In fact,” said Chumbley, who was in a drowsy state of content with the rest, good meals, wine and coffee—“in fact, old fellow, I begin to think that women are a great mistake altogether, and I for one am perfectly cured.”

Sleep spread her drowsy wings over his eyes at this point, and his heretical notions had no farther play, for his slumber was dreamless, and he like his friend passed a calm and pleasant night.

They awoke early, and breakfasted in keeping with their time of rising; after which, finding themselves quite alone, and seeing that they were not watched, they had a good quiet investigation of the place, doing what Chumbley called, “a bit of engineering.”

“Don’t seem feasible at present,” said Chumbley at the end of the look round.

“Unless we could bribe the guards,” replied Hilton.

“Yes, it would only be throwing away energy just at present. Let’s bide a wee, as old Stuart would say. I say, old chap, talk about old Stuart, why don’t you marry his pretty little lassie?”

“Why don’t you keep that Solomon-like intellect of yours to bear on the subject in hand?” retorted Hilton. “I’ve done with women.”

“So have I,” said Chumbley. “I’d turn monk if I were offered a nice cell with good shooting and fishing.”

“You’re a queer fish yourself, Chum,” said Hilton, laughing; “but seriously, we must get away from here. It is perfectly absurd! Kidnapped, and nothing else!”

“Quite a romance,” replied Chumbley; “but never mind. We shall know what our ransom is to be to-night.”

“I wonder whether Harley is taking steps to find us?”

“Sure to be, unless he thinks we are drowned,” replied Chumbley. “There’s no knowing. I believe my hat went floating down the river.”

“I hope not,” said Hilton. “If he thought that he would not search for us.”

“Not till he heard about the ransom. I say, old fellow, I’m tired of smoking, I wonder whether they have a billiard table, or chess?”

“Pshaw.”

“Well, then, a pea-rifle to pot the birds.”

“Very likely,” said Hilton, drily, as they sat by the open window, looking out at the soft shadows of the coming night.

“I’d give something to know really why we are boxed up here,” said Chumbley, after a long silence. “It can’t be anything connected with the station, or I should be in a terrible fidget. It must be something to do with us alone.”

“Yes,” replied Hilton; “but it is all darkness at present.”

For the moment it was; but the light came all at once as they sat there having a similar conversation on the evening of the third day, after vainly trying to get some information from their guard, for just before sunset the door was thrown open, and looking very handsome and picturesque, and evidently as if she had paid great attention to her toilet, the Inche Maida entered; and as the two officers started up, she walked straight towards Hilton with extended hand.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

At Fault Again.

“They’ll find out the value of that woman now,” said Dr Bolter to himself; “and if I haven’t done wisely in marrying her, I’m a Dutchman! Why, it’s the very thing! Here am I, Henry Bolter, a duly qualified medical man, physician and surgeon in one, ready to afford bodily relief; and here is Mary Bolter, my wife—fine sound about that,” he said, smiling with satisfaction—“my wife—my little wife—no, my wife is best; it sounds more dignified—my wife, ready to afford mental relief wherever it is needed; and here she is.”

For just then the quick, pattering step of the little lady was heard, and, reticule on arm, she came in bustling, hot, and red-faced.

“Well, my little woman, how are you getting on?” he said cheerily, as he placed his arm round the buxom little waist, and led her to an easy-chair, proceeding afterwards, with all a youth’s tenderness, to take off her broad hat and light scarf, which he carefully laid down for fear of being called to account.

“Oh, don’t ask me, Henry,” she sighed. “My heart is nearly broken with trouble, and I am doing no good at all.”

“Ahem!” ejaculated the doctor, taking her hand and feeling the pulse.

“Don’t be foolish, Henry, dear,” she exclaimed.

“Foolish? No, my dear, certainly not. Hum! Hah! Much fever and exhaustion. Recipe vin Xeres, cochleare magnum. Brisk osculation after the medicine.”

“What?” exclaimed Mrs Bolter.

“You are suffering from weariness and exhaustion, my dear,” said the little doctor; “and I have prescribed for you a drop of sherry, and something to take after it.”

“Not sugar, Henry? and really I would rather not have the wine.”

“Doctor’s orders, my dear. There,” he said, pouring the sherry into a tumbler, and filling it up with cold water, “I have made it as refreshing as I could.”

Mrs Bolter drank off the draught, and made a wry face, holding out her hand.

“Where is the stuff for me to take afterwards?”

“There, my dear,” said the doctor, kissing her very tenderly.

“For shame, Henry!” she cried, blushing like a girl. “Suppose anyone had seen you?”

“Well, it would have been like his or her impudence to look; and if it had been talked about afterwards, really, Mary, my dear, I have grown to be such a hardened sinner over that sort of thing that I shouldn’t care a bit.”

“Really, Henry,” said the little lady, “anyone would think you were a boy, instead of being a middle-aged man.”

“I feel quite a boy,” he said, merrily. “At least, I should if we were not in such trouble.”

“And we are, Henry, indeed,” said the little lady, sadly. “I’m afraid I’m neglecting you terribly, my dear; but I am obliged to try and help that poor man, who is completely prostrate; and if it was not for the help Grey Stuart gives me, I’m sure I should break down. Have you any news?”

“Not a scrap, my dear. Have you?”

“None whatever. But now really, Henry, what do you think of the matter?”

“’Pon my word, my dear, I don’t know what to think.”

“Don’t say you believe they have had a boat accident, dear. I cannot bear to think it possible.”

“No, my dear, I don’t, and I cannot believe it,” he replied. “Here is the case: For there to have been a boat accident, Helen, Arthur, Hilton, and Chumbley must have taken a boat, and they must have all gone in together.”

“Or Hilton may have been trying to carry Helen away, and Chumbley and Arthur, who is as brave as a lion in such matters, may have been trying to stop them, or pursued them in a second boat.”

“And a struggle ensued, and the boats upset, eh?”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Bolter, with a shudder. “Oh, why did you bring us out here, Henry, for such horrors to happen?”

“I did not know that these horrors had happened, my dear,” said the doctor, drily. “Let’s see first if the boat theory holds water. I don’t believe it does.”

“Then you think Murad is at the bottom of it?” she said, sharply.

“I’m for and against,” he replied. “Let’s wait and see. I don’t believe, however, that they are dead.”

“Oh, no—oh, no!” said Mrs Bolter, shuddering. “I cannot believe that. I’m afraid it’s all due, in some way, to Helen’s folly.”

“Yes, my dear,” said the doctor, “and it has quite upset my intended journey in search of the true Ophir.”

“And that’s your folly. Oh, Henry, how much happier I should be if you would give up that weakness of yours.”

“Sorry I can’t, Mary. It’s an old weakness that increases with age. Don’t be angry with me, my dear.”

“I am not angry, Henry; only you do worry me when you will keep talking about Solomon’s ships coming here for gold.”

“If they’d come here for gold, and you had been living at the time, they would have carried you off, for you are richer than refined—”

“Now, Henry, I will not sit here and listen to such outrageous flattery of a very ordinary little woman,” said the lady, looking angry, but feeling pleased. “You must be a very weak man to have taken a fancy to me.”

“Let me be weak then, my dear,” said the little doctor.

“Hush!” exclaimed the lady. “Here is Grey Stuart at the gate;” and they listened to the click of the Chinese-made bamboo latch, and directly after, looking thin and pale, Helen’s schoolfellow was admitted.

She did not speak, but looked at Mrs Bolter in a weary, dejected manner, that made the little lady take her in her arms, kiss her tenderly, and then place her beside her upon the couch.

“Never despair, my dear,” she said, cheerily. “There’s always room for hope.”

“That is what I have been trying to think for days past,” sighed Grey; “but the trouble only seems to grow darker.”

“Don’t say that, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs Bolter. “For my part, I will not believe the story of the boat accident; and I have always this consolation—that wherever that foolish girl may be, she has my brother by her side.”

Mrs Bolter felt her cheeks burn a little as she said this; for in her heart of hearts she had not the faith in her brother’s prudence and ability to protect a lady that she professed.

She glanced at the doctor, and her face became a little hotter, for he too was watching her, and she felt that he was reading her thoughts.

“I will try and be as hopeful as you are, dear Mrs Bolter; but it is very hard!”

“Bless the child! I did not think she felt so warm an affection for Helen Perowne,” thought Mrs Bolter; “but it shows how good a heart she has.”

Then aloud:

“Oh, how tiresome! Here is that dreadful Mrs Barlow coming!”

“Say I’m out, my dear,” whispered the doctor, hurriedly. “I’ll slip round through the surgery.”

“I cannot say you are out, Henry,” said the little lady, reprovingly; “but I will say that you are particularly engaged.”

“Yes, my dear—an operation,” whispered the doctor.

“I shall say nothing of the kind, Harry!” exclaimed Mrs Bolter, sternly.

“But she will want to see me, and describe her symptoms.”

“Then she cannot see you,” replied the little lady, with dignity. “I will take care of that.”

Dr Bolter stepped out by one door, and he had hardly closed it after him, when Mrs Barlow entered by the other.

“Ah, my dear Mrs Bolter,” she sobbed, kissing her in spite of a strong objection evinced by the little lady. “Ah, my dear Miss Stuart, these are terrible times.”

She paused, as if expecting one of those she addressed to speak; but save for acknowledging her salutation, they remained silent. “Have you heard the last news?”

“No,” replied Mrs Bolter, quickly. “Quick! what is it?”

“A couple of boatmen have come in just now with some more relics of our missing party.”

“What relics?” cried Mrs Bolter, as Grey turned deadly pale.

“They have found some scraps of clothing, I believe, and a hat,” said the lady.

“Where? Where are they?” cried Dr Bolter, coming in hurriedly, for he had been waiting by the door in the not very creditable position of an eavesdropper.

“Oh, doctor, how you startled me! I wanted to see you?” exclaimed Mrs Barlow. “I fear I am going to have a bad attack of illness!”

Dr Bolter was saved from a bad attack of Mrs Barlow’s symptoms, described to him at full length, by the opportune arrival of Harley.

“Here, Bolter, I want you,” he said, hastily; and making his excuses for having to leave, the doctor hurried out and joined Mr Harley in the garden.

“You have had something brought in,” said the doctor, hastily. “Where is it?”

“Down by the landing-stage. Perowne has got up from his bed to come and see, and Stuart, Murad, and others are down there inspecting them.”

The doctor accompanied the Resident to the landing-stage, where, in the midst of a little group, lay some wet and torn rags and a sodden hat, muddied and out of shape; while, squatting hard by the foul garments, were a couple of Malay fishermen, who had found the scraps and other articles amongst the mangrove-roots miles away.

Dr Bolter threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeves to go down on one knee by the muddy bank, while with contracted eyes and puckered brow the young Rajah looked on.

“What do you make of them, doctor?” said the Resident, hoarsely.

“Lady’s silk dress that has not been taken off, but dragged from its hooks, and ripped and torn away. It seems to have been rolled over and over in the tide till it became fastened on to some snag.”

A shudder ran through the little party, and the doctor continued his examination.

“Hat,” he said, turning it over. “Dreadfully battered and soaked; but it is Chumbley’s, I think.”

“What is that?” said Mr Harley, in a low voice.

“Coat,” said the doctor. “Gentleman’s; and this is a small white tie.”

“Here is a handkerchief,” said old Stuart, picking up what looked to be a mere wisp.

This the doctor took and rinsed in the clear river, starting back on the instant, and only just in time for, attracted by the motion of the white handkerchief in the water, a small crocodile of some six feet long partially threw itself out of the stream; but falling short of its prey, the reptile shuffled back and was gone.

No one spoke; but the presence of these creatures in such abundance, combined with their daring, whispered plainly enough to the party assembled what must be the fate of one who was thrown out into the stream.

The doctor took a step or two back, and then, as coolly as if nothing had occurred, he shook out the folds of the handkerchief—one of a very delicate texture and edged with lace, while in one corner were the two letters, “H.P.,” embroidered by a woman’s hand.

There was a deep groan here, and as the gentlemen turned, it was to see that Murad was resting his face upon a bamboo fence, his hands to his brow, and, turned from them as he was, the lookers-on could see that his breast was heaving, and that the young man was suffering great agony of mind.

“Collect all these together,” said the doctor in a whisper; and one of the soldiers proceeded to obey his orders, when the young Malay leaped upon him fiercely, and tore the handkerchief from his grasp, thrust it into his bosom, and strode away.

The Resident did not move, but stood gazing after the Sultan, his brows contracted, and a peculiar look of dislike gathering in his eyes; but he did not speak, and without a word the various relics were gathered into a basket and carried across to the Residency island, where Dr Bolter announced that he would make a further and more searching examination.

Then the party separated, save that the doctor and Neil Harley had a long conversation together, in which the latter related how thoroughly the river banks had now been searched by the boats enlisted to carry the soldiers, who were most energetically aided by the people belonging to Rajah Murad and the Inche Maida, both of whom continued to almost live at the station, only going away for a few hours at a time to see to their own affairs, journeys from which they came back, with the rowers of the small boats they used looking terribly distressed.

“You can trust me, Harley,” said the doctor. “I will not chatter, even to my wife, though she is to be trusted, too. How do you feel about the matter now?”

“Feel!” said Neil Harley, quietly. “I feel that little Miss Stuart was right in what she said to me.”

“And what was that?”

“That this is a contest between the wits of the Eastern and the European; that we are being deceived; and that Sultan Murad is playing a part.”

“What, after the miserable relics we have just seen?”

“After the miserable relics we have just seen. He has slaves who would die in his service, and who would consider it a merit to deceive the heathen English.”

“Then he is playing his part marvellously well,” said the doctor.

“Magnificently; and if Miss Stuart is right, as I believe she is, for the simple reason that her ideas accord with mine, he is a born actor. That show of grief, and that seizure of the pocket-handkerchief were admirably done.”

“If you believe all this, then,” said the doctor, “why not boldly charge him with the crime!”

“To create a little war, with no better reason than my suspicions? A charge made in face of the most earnest work—while he is striving might and main to serve us.”

“Apparently,” said the doctor.

“Yes, apparently. But you see my position. Here are our two friendly natives both offended, but professing forgiveness, and working for us. I cannot charge them on bare suspicion. I must have some proof.”

“Then why not search land as well as river?”

“How?” said the Resident. “Be reasonable, Bolter. You know as well as I do that the rivers and streams are almost the only roads here. To penetrate elsewhere is to cut your way through the dense jungle. Say I determine to offend the Prince and Princess, and take soldiers, saying I mean to search their little towns, what good would that do?”

“None, certainly,” said the doctor. “They would not leave their prisoners there if they are prisoners.”

“You doubt, then?”

“I doubt, and I don’t doubt. I am not a diplomat, Harley. This is out of my line. If you have a pain, and give me your symptoms, I’ll tell you what causes that pain. I can cut you anywhere without injuring an important artery, nerve, or vein; and I can extract bullets, cure fevers, mend broken bones. I can also classify most of the natural history objects of our district; but over a job like this we have in hand I am at sea. Try Mrs Bolter or Grey Stuart—they will counsel you better than I. Tell me, though, are you going to do anything?”

“Yes. In confidence, I do not trust either Murad or the Inche Maida. This may all be some deeply-laid plot of both to obtain revenge; perhaps to begin ousting us from this place, where we are looked upon with jealousy.”

“Yes, very likely; but what are you going to do?”

“Meet Eastern cunning with Eastern cunning. I am about to employ some people from lower down the river who are now seeking alliance with us, seeing how well it pays.”

“What, as spies?”

“Yes,” said the Resident, quietly. “I do not believe in the present theory of the disappearance, so I shall try these people. If Murad is playing us false, why then—”

“Well, why don’t you finish?”

“I fear,” said the Resident, fiercely, “that I shall go farther than to exact stern justice for this act; for when a man’s feelings are touched as mine are now—”

He did not finish, but turned sharply away, as if all this was more than he could bear.

That night the doctor whispered to his wife to keep her counsel, and not to fret about those who were lost, for Neil Harley was deeply moved; and if something startling did not come out of it before many days were past, he, Dr Bolter, was no man.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Becoming Humbled.

The secret of the peculiarly-scented water was explained: it was a stain, prepared for the purpose, and face, neck, hands, arms were no longer those of Helen Perowne—whose complexion was acknowledged even by her detractors to be perfect—for as she again gazed within the limits of that little badly-reflecting glass, it was to see that her countenance now was as swarthy as that of the darkest of the Malays by whom she was attended.

It was a great shock; but there was a trouble even worse to come.

The two Malay girls burst into fits of laughter as they saw her horror, their eyes glittering with malicious pleasure; and catching Helen’s arms in their hands, they laid them side by side with their own, to show her that they were as nearly as could be of about the same hue.

Then they mockingly pointed to her face, and to their own, holding the glass before her again and again, while from the smattering she knew of the language, Helen made out that they were telling her how beautiful she looked now, and that she ought to be grateful for that which they had done.

By degrees, though, the anguish she was suffering seemed to be realised, and to wake an echo in their coarser minds, and they began to soften towards her, speaking tenderly, and patting her hands and cheeks, and at last going so far as to kiss her, as they whispered what were evidently meant to be words of comfort.

“You foolish thing,” cried the elder of the two; “what is there so dreadful in it all? He loves you, and you will be his chief wife. It is we who ought to weep, not you.”

“Yes,” cried the other, apparently quite oblivious of the fact that only about one word in ten was comprehended by the prisoner; “we are jealous of you, for you take away his love from us. The Rajah has talked about you for a long time, saying how lovely you were, only that you were so fair.”

“I hate you,” cried the first; “but I will not be cruel, for you are in trouble. You have been brought away from your father. I remember so well how I was ready to beat my head against the trees, and to drown myself in the river, when they brought me from my home. But Murad was very angry when I wept, and after a time I learned how to bear my sorrow, and I wept no more.”

“I wept, too,” said the other, “for I loved a handsome young fisherman, and when they dragged me away from my home I fought, and bit, and tore people, and Murad said I was to be krissed and thrown into the river. Then I thought about the crocodiles, and I felt that it would be too dreadful, and I left off crying, and so will you. There, try and bear it, for it is of no avail to weep. Murad is prince, and what he will have he has.”

Hardly one word in ten, but the recurrence of the name “Murad” and “love” were sufficient to make her suspicions certainties; and as she fully realised the extent of her trouble, she shuddered, and sat with her hands tightly clasped, gazing into vacancy, and asking herself what madness had been hers that she should have allowed her folly to bring her to so sad a pass.

She was soon after left to herself, and leaving the matting divan upon which she had been seated, she paced the room, frantically trying door and windows in turn, but only to find all fast. Again and again she found her follies recurring to her mind, and she blamed herself bitterly for her coquetry, and the thoughtless love of admiration which had tempted her to attract the Rajah’s notice.

So terribly agitating were her thoughts now, that in her excitement her hands shook, her legs trembled beneath her weight, and her busy imagination coursed on so swiftly that she saw herself the injured, helpless wife of the insulted Malay, the occupant of a zenana, and the slave of the man whom she had maddened by her weakness and folly.

It was terrible; and so black did the future outlook become to her excited imagination, that the only gleam of hope through the darkness was represented by a shuddering belief that it would be better now to die.

Carried off as she had been, unknown to any but the Rajah’s followers, and now hidden away in this place, that seemed to be far in the depths of the jungle, there seemed no chance of her whereabouts being discovered; while were it known to any European who should see her, upon what would he gaze but one who was in his eyes an ordinary Malay woman!

This, then, was the goal to which her ambition had carried her. It was for this that she had laughed at the protestations of her many admirers, the humblest of whom she would gladly have accepted now sooner than become the wife, or rather slave, of this petty, half-savage Rajah.

“Poor Hilton!” she thought sadly to herself, as she stood by the window, gazing out at the great green leaves of the jungle. Would he suffer much at her loss? or, feeling too indignant on account of her late treatment, be too angry to care?

Then she began thinking of Chumbley, and wished that he, with his strong arm, were by her side to protect her in this hour of need; and it was a bitter humiliation to her to feel that this man, towards whom she had always felt a kind of good-humoured contempt, should be one to whom she was ready to cling in the time of adversity.

Then the calm, pensive features of Arthur Rosebury seemed to rise before her like an upbraiding spectre, and she, for the first time, seemed to see her cruelty in trifling with the best feelings of a man who was gentle, tender, and true of heart as a woman; she knew now how she must have wounded him, and yet he had borne it all in a patient, uncomplaining way, bearing with her follies, displaying no jealousy, but condoning everything, and seeming only too happy if she paid him with a smile.

There was something very nearly akin to pity and regret in her thoughts at this time; and like some punished child, there came to her mind weak, repentant vows of amendment and simple promises never to do so again.

Lastly, the face of Neil Harley seemed to rise before her, not pitying or pleading like the rest, but with a quiet smile of triumph that made her think upon his words, and what is more, set her longing for him to be by her side to help and protect her.

She passed her hands across her eyes angrily, and seemed to disclaim the wish, but directly after came the recollection of her state, and she uttered a weary cry of misery. She had despised him before—he would despise her now; and if he could see her as she had seen herself in that mirror, he would turn from her in disgust.

She pondered again, as she grew calmer, upon his words to her, uttered as they had been in his quiet, bantering way—that he would wait his time till she was weary of trifling with others, when she would turn to him and gladly become his wife.

Never until now had Helen felt how true these words might prove, for as she rested her burning forehead against the bamboo trellis of her window, asking the outer air to cool her fevered face—that face that he would never look upon again with the eyes of love—his calm, grave manner of dealing with others seemed so representative of power and readiness to help, that her heart went out to him as to her natural protector, and in a low, passionate voice, she murmured:

“Neil—Neil—come to me before it is too late!”

Then came once more as it were a wave of despair to sweep over her and overwhelm her in misery and despair.

“It is too late—too late,” she moaned. “I might have been happy and at peace, but it is too late—too late.”

As she stood there wringing her hands, she found herself thinking more and more of Neil Harley, and she saw now what she had been too indifferent to appreciate before; that beneath his calm, half-mocking mien there was a depth of affection that she now began to realise to its fullest extent.

And yet he had borne with her follies patiently, merely laughing at acts that she knew now must have given him great pain, doubtless feeling that some day she would sorrow for what she had done, and seek by her affection to recompense him for all that had gone before.

Her heart told her, now that she did turn to him—that she was feeling the strength of his love in the echo it met with in her own heart. She had not known that it was there—this love for him—but it surely was; and now her punishment was to be a terrible one—that of one torn by regret for the love that might have been hers, but which she had cast away.

For it was too late now—too late, and those words seemed to be ever repeating themselves in her ears.

She had never cared for either of those who had been her slaves in turn. Their attentions and service had been pleasant, and they had been in favour for the time; but she soon wearied of them, and but for the fact that Captain Hilton was cast in a firmer mould than either of the others, the days of his love-slavery would have been shorter far. Would he come and try to save her? her heart asked—would Neil Harley come?

She asked this again and again, but each time, with crushing violence, the answer seemed to come that if they did, it would be too late—too late.

It was wonderful how, in the few hours she was left alone, her thoughts seemed now to centre upon the Resident. She remembered her father, and thought of how he would be troubled at her absence; and she recalled Hilton, Chumbley, the Reverend Arthur Rosebury, but only as subsidiary portraits in her mental picture. Neil Harley’s was the principal figure, and his face seemed to smile now encouragement to her as she mentally appealed to him for help, looking to him as the one whose duty it was to afford her protection, and save her from the perils which hemmed her in.

“It will he—it is—a bitter lesson to me,” she thought, as she grew more calm. “He will find out where I am—he will never rest until he does; and when he sees me will he cast me off? No,” she cried, hysterically; “he will have pity on me—have pity—for, oh, Heaven help me! I need it now sorely.”

These thoughts brought calmness to the prisoner, and uttering a sigh of relief, she left the window, and threw herself wearily upon the soft mats spread for her use—neither chair nor table being in the apartment—and there she reclined, wondering how long a time would elapse before Neil Harley could come to her help; for minute by minute her belief strengthened that, well supported by her friends, he would soon be there.

Helen’s increasing calmness gave her a return of appetite, and she gained strength for trials to come by partaking heartily of the food placed before her; and, as the evening advanced into night, she lay down and rested, giving her companions no trouble by fresh attempts to escape.

The bright morning sunshine gave her fresh hope and a sense of cheerfulness which she assumed with beating heart was due to the fact that Neil Harley was drawing nearer, and in this elated spirit she partook of breakfast, the two Malay girls laughing merrily and pausing to place some sweet-scented flowers in her tresses. Then she had to submit while they made some alteration in the way in which they had bound up her hair, showing their teeth more than seemed necessary, and drawing her attention to the fact that they were not only dyed, but filed in a particular way.

They were very attentive, bringing her flowers and fruit in large quantities. Then they brought brighter and gayer sarongs, asking her if she would change, telling her that her darkened face was becoming, pointing to her teeth at the same time, and tapping their own.

She was puzzled for the time, but the explanation was not long in coming.

In the course of the morning, while she sat listening to the babble of the two attendants, but with her ears strained to catch every external sound, she suddenly heard voices outside talking earnestly, and her heart gave a hopeful throb as she turned her head, her fond imagination suggesting, at once, the thought that the excitement outside was due to the knowledge of strangers being at hand.

Helen’s hope died out like the flickering flame of an exhausted lamp, as the thick woven curtain hanging over the door was held aside, and a tall, muscular, repulsive-looking Malay woman entered with three others, whom, by their rich dresses, Helen supposed to be the Rajah’s wives.

They looked at her once or twice, and then stood talking together in their own tongue. Then they left the room quickly, and returned to speak eagerly, glancing the while at where Helen sat watchfully scanning them, till the tall, repulsive woman, having apparently received her instructions, they all approached the soft matting couch.

It was a strange experience for an English lady, and Helen’s heart beat fast as she asked herself what all this meant.

“It is some native form of marriage-service,” she thought, to which she was about to be compelled to submit. She had heard of marriage by proxy, and this might be one; for in her state of alarm she was ready to accept any idea, preposterous though it might seem.

“I will not submit!” she said to herself, and setting her teeth fast, she prepared to resist them as long as she had life. This she felt was the meaning of her being attired in the Malay fashion; and gazing from one to the other in an excited way, she drew herself up and awaited the attack, if attack there was to be.

The tall Malay woman came up to her slowly, till she stood smiling beside the couch, while the others seemed to carelessly group themselves together, as if what was to occur was not of the slightest consequence; but Helen saw they were watching her with eager interest all the same.

A fresh regret assailed the prisoner now, and that was her want of knowledge of the Malay tongue, as she sat wondering what was the meaning of the conversation that had taken place.

The tall woman spoke to her then slowly, and trying to make her comprehend, but it was some moments before Helen understood her demand.

“Let me look at your teeth.”

Helen shrank back, but the woman’s hand was upon her lips, and she forced one aside, laying bare the pure white ivory, and then snatched her hand away with a contemptuous ejaculation full of disgust.

“Bad! bad!” she cried in Malay; and then all laughed, as Helen rose up and drew away from them, her eyes flashing with indignation.

“I will make them well,” said the woman, taking a little woven grass bag from her sarong, and drawing therefrom a small brass phial and a steel implement, whose use Helen did not then comprehend.

The woman spoke to her then in an imperative tone, stepped forward, and, taking her arm, tried to force her into a sitting posture; but with a cry of anger Helen thrust her back and ran to the door, dragging aside the curtain, and trying to pass through.

The effort was vain, and uttering some sharp angry commands, the woman advanced to her once more, speaking rapidly in her own tongue, and before Helen could avoid her rapid action, she found herself pinioned by the wrists.

What followed was, as Helen afterwards recalled it, one frantic struggle against superior power. She remembered crying loudly for help, being held back upon the matting, and suffering intense pain, as her tormentors held her lips apart, some of them scolding virulently, others laughing and ridiculing her; and then a feeling of exhaustion came on, and nature could do no more than beneficently bring upon her complete ignorance of the indignity to which she, an English lady, was forced to submit, by steeping her senses in a profound swoon, leaving her at the mercy of Murad’s slaves.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Doctor Bolter Makes Plans.

“I don’t think I can do any good if I stay here,” said Doctor Bolter to himself. “I’ve done everything I could think of, and I am ready to own that it is very terrible; but a month has gone by now, and a doctor who is so used to facing death and seeing people die does not—cannot feel it as others do.

“That is, of course, when a man—his brother-in-law—is dead; but I don’t even know that poor Arthur Rosebury is dead, and as we say, while there’s life there’s hope.

“Humph! How stupid of me! I don’t know that there is life, so how can there be hope?”

Doctor Bolter was on his way back home after a professional round amongst his patients. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and every now and then, as he walked slowly on in the heat, he paused to examine some fly or ant that crossed his path, or settled upon the bamboo railings of a garden.

“Good morning, doctor,” said a pleasant voice, that made him start from the contemplation of a spider to a far more agreeable sight—that of the face of Grey Stuart, who looked up at him in a weary, appealing way.

“Ah, my little rosebud,” he said, smiling. “Tut! I had forgotten. Why Grey, my child, you don’t look well. Hah! this won’t do,” he continued, letting his fingers slip from her hand to her wrist. “Bit feverish, my dear. Grey, my child, you’re fretting about Helen Perowne.”

“It is so terrible, this suspense, doctor,” she said, pleadingly.

“Yes, my dear, it is very terrible; but keep that sunshade up; the sun is very powerful this morning.”

Grey raised her creamy-white sunshade that she had allowed to hang by her side, and as the doctor finished counting the throbs of her pulse, he drew her hand through his arm, patted it into position and then walked slowly on by her side.

“Nature says, my dear, that we must not fret and worry ourselves, because if we do we shall be ill.”

“Oh, yes, doctor,” sighed Grey, with a pitiful look in her soft eyes, “but this passing away of day after day is dreadful. What are we to do?”

“Wait, my dear, wait.”

“Wait!” cried Grey, whose eyes flashed for a moment. “Oh, if I were a man, I think I would find some means of discovering what has become of our friends.”

“Well, my little maiden, you are not a man, and are not likely to be,” said the doctor, smiling; “but no doubt your advice may be good, though your action might be weak. Now, then, tell me—what would you do if you were a man?”

“I would send out parties to search,” cried Grey, indignantly. “Who knows where our poor friends may be!”

“Ah, who knows, my dear inconsiderate little friend?” said the doctor, quietly. “Now, don’t you know that for nearly a month past Harley has had, not parties, but single men—natives—out in search of information about our friends?”

“No,” said Grey, “I did not know that.”

“No, you did not know that, my dear, but he has, and without the slightest success, although he has promised a heavy reward for any valuable information.”

“It is very good of Mr Harley, and I beg his pardon,” sighed Grey.

“And I take upon myself to say that the pardon is granted,” said the doctor. “And now, my dear, I suppose you think that this is not enough, but that we—I mean Harley—ought to send out soldiers?”

“Yes, I have thought so,” said Grey, hesitatingly.

“Hah! yes, I suppose so; but it has never occurred to you, my dear, I daresay, that in this jungle-covered country, where the rivers are the only roads, the passage of soldiers, with the stores they require, is a terribly difficult affair.”

“I fear it would be,” said Grey; “but the case is so urgent, doctor.”

“Terribly urgent, my dear; but like some of the urgent cases with which I have to deal, I have to do all I can, and then leave the rest to nature. Let us hope, my dear, that nature will work a cure for us here, and that one of these days they will all turn up again alive and well.”

“Oh, doctor, do you think so?” cried Grey, who was ready to cling to the slightest straw of promise.

“I don’t say that I think so,” he replied, “I say I hope so.”

Grey sighed.

“There, there, there, I forbid it,” said the doctor, with assumed anger. “We cannot have you fretting yourself ill, my dear, for we want your help. My little wife could not get on at all without you to cheer and comfort her; and I believe if it were not for you poor Perowne would go distraught. Then there’s your father, who looks upon you as the one object of his life; and lastly, there’s your doctor.”

“You, dear Doctor Bolter,” said Grey, smiling in his face.

“Yes; that is the person I mean, my dear. Do you want to disgrace him?”

“Disgrace you, doctor?” said Grey, wonderingly.

“Yes, by turning weak and delicate and ill after all I have done to keep you sound and well. No, Grey Stuart, my dear; there are some people in this busy world of ours who must never break down, never want rest, and never be ill in any shape; those people are doctors like me—and clever, useful little women like you. Depend upon it, my dear, if you were to turn poorly there would be a regular outcry upon the station, and everyone would be finding out your value.”

“But they used to do without me, doctor,” said Grey, smiling.

“Exactly, my dear; but now that they have become used to the luxury of your presence they will not do without it again. No, my dear; you must not turn ill. Ergo, as Shakspere’s clown says, you must not fret. Let’s hope, my dear, that all will come right yet.”

“I will try and hope, doctor,” said Grey, quietly, “and I will not fret.”

“That’s right, little woman. Depend upon it, two such dashing fellows as Chumbley and friend Hilton will not drop out of sight like stones thrown down a well. They’ll turn up again some day. Good-bye. Take care of my little wifie: she’s the only one I’ve got, you know,” he added, laughingly. “Going to see her now?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“When is she going to leave Perowne?”

“He is not fit to leave at present,” said Grey, shaking her head.

“Then I suppose we must stay,” said the doctor, parting from Grey with quite a parent’s solicitude; and then he stood watching her as she went beneath the shady trees.

“That little lassie is fretting about one of those chaps,” said the doctor; “I’ll be bound she is. She wouldn’t turn pale and red, and grow thin and weak, because Helen Perowne has disappeared. I wonder whether it’s big Chumbley. Well, we shall see. Now about my projects.”

He walked slowly homeward and entered the snug cottage-like place, which was the very pattern of primness, and day by day grew more like to the place where he had first set eyes upon his wife.

“Seems precious dull without the little woman,” he muttered; “but I suppose I mustn’t grumble as she’s away to do good to others.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room.

“Dear, dear me,” he said, impatiently; “a man, especially a doctor, can’t go on bemoaning people for ever. Where would science be if he did? Of course I’m very sorry about poor old Arthur, though after all perhaps he’ll turn up all right, with his vasculum full of new orchids. Here’s time galloping away, weeks and months and years, and I never get a bit nearer to the solution of my problem. Here am I, as I may say, right upon the very spot, and yet I do nothing whatever to prove that this is the place to which King Solomon sent to find his gold, and apes, and peacocks.”

Dr Bolter took off his sun-hat, and rubbed his bald head in a peculiarly vicious way, and then went on debating the question so as to work himself up to the carrying out of the project which he had in view.

“Here’s the case,” he said. “My wife’s out; there’s nobody ill, for I’ve polished off all that needs doing this morning, so when could there be a better chance? I’ll go, that I will.”

But there came up, as if to oppose him, the recollection of the morning after Mr Perowne’s party, and he was obliged to ask himself how could he go now?

“I don’t care,” he cried, angrily. “I have done all I could, and thought of all I could, and I can do no more. Here’s my wife out nearly always now, so that she would not miss me, so I ought to go. I might discover that this is the real site of Solomon’s gold mines, and if so—Phew, what a paper to read at the Royal Geographical!

“I’ll go! My mind’s made up. I’ll go, that I will,” he exclaimed; “and somehow I seem to fancy that this time I shall make my great discovery. Hah! yes; what a discovery! And that paper read before the Royal Society—a paper on the discovery of the Ancient Ophir, by Dr Bolter, F.R.S. Why, my name—our name I should say, for Mary’s sake—would be handed down to posterity.”

Here the doctor gave his head another rub, as if to get rid of a tiresome fly.

“I don’t know about posterity,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t matter to me, as I’ve no youngsters. Still it would be a fine discovery to make. But—”

Here he had another vicious rub.

“Suppose in the meantime Helen Perowne and the rest of the party come back!”

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

Dr Bolter Takes a Holiday.

That question of the possibility of Helen Perowne coming back interfered a good deal with Doctor Bolter’s project—one which he had been longing to put in force for months and months—a project which his journey to England and his marriage had set aside, though it was never forgotten.

“Suppose Helen comes back?” he asked himself often.

“Well, I ought to be here,” he said; “but if she were to return in my absence she couldn’t help being pleased, for I might have discovered the gold mines. But ought I to tell Mary where I am going?”

“No,” he said, decidedly; “she would object. She might agree to my going upon a collecting expedition; but she would say as she said before, that the Ophir question was a myth.”

Somehow the more Dr Bolter tried to make up his mind to go, the more undecided he grew. He wanted to make an expedition into the interior very badly, but the hidden influence of that very decided little woman his wife was there still, making him feel guilty and like a child who tries to conceal some fault; and somehow, the more he tried to shake off the sensation, the worse he felt.—“There, it’s no use,” he cried at last, angrily. “No sooner does a man marry than farewell to independence. They say a man and his wife become one flesh, and really I think it’s a fact, for the man is completely absorbed and it’s all wife. The man becomes nobody at all.”

The doctor went into his own room, half museum, half surgery, and in a listless, pettish way he began to pull out drawer after drawer of specimens, some of which required examination badly, for the ants were beginning an attack, and this necessitated the introduction of a pungent acid which these busy little insects did not like.

“I might find gold in abundance,” said the doctor, as he busied himself over his specimens. “I might make such discoveries as would cause my name to be famous for ever, and here am I tied as it were by one unfortunate step to my wife’s apron. Hah! I was a great idiot to sacrifice my liberty.

“Not I,” he added, sharply. “Not I. She is a bit of a tyrant with me, and she’s as jealous as Othello, but she is an uncommonly nice little woman, and bless her, she thinks I’m about the cleverest fellow under the sun.

“Well, there’s not much to grumble at there,” he said, decidedly, as he smiled and settled his chin in his collar. “I don’t see that I need mind her being a bit jealous of me. It shows how fond she is, and she must be very proud of me if she thinks like that.”

This idea gave the little doctor so much satisfaction that for the moment he determined to go up to Perowne’s and ask his wife for leave of absence for a few days.

“N-no! It wouldn’t do,” he muttered, shaking his head dolefully. “She would not let me go. I shall have to make a bold dash for it if I do mean to have a run, and face the consequences afterwards.

“Look here, you know,” he cried gazing round at his specimens; “it’s about pitiful, that’s what it is, and I might just as well give up collecting altogether. Such an invitation from the Inche Maida as I had, to make her place my home, and start from there upon my investigations, only that stupid jealous idea on the part of my wife stopped it! Bah! It is intolerable.”

He thrust in a drawer in a most vicious manner; but Doctor Bolter’s annoyance with his wife came and went like an April shower. On re-opening the drawer he proceeded to arrange the specimens that his petulant fit had disturbed.

“I shall have to give it up,” he said, sadly. “So I may as well make the best of it, and—Hooray!”

Doctor Bolter slapped one of his legs vigorously, as if he were killing a fly, and a sunshiny look of pleasure spread all over his face.

“To be sure! The very idea! I’ll carry it out too—just a little—so as to be quite square with her; and who knows but what I might pick up some news of them after all. Why didn’t I think of this before?

“Let me see,” he continued, thoughtfully, “how shall I manage it? What shall I do? I know. I’ll run right up the river—ten miles or so beyond the Inche Maida’s—and then strike into one of the supplementary streams, and make straight for the mountains.

“That will be capital!” he cried, rubbing his hands. “Who knows but what I may hit upon some one or other of the old gold-workings; find ancient implements—proofs perhaps that Solomon’s ships sailed up this very river. The idea is grand, sir, and I’ll be off at once!”

The idea was so “grand, sir,” that in that hot climate it put the little doctor in a profuse perspiration, and he walked up and down the room, handkerchief in hand, dabbing his face and head.

“Yes,” he cried eagerly, “I may find out something about Helen Perowne and our other friends. I’ve got a good excuse for going now, and go I will!”

He stood thinking for a few minutes; and then, adjusting his puggree so as to give plenty of shelter to the back of his head, he walked down to the river-side, and one of the Malay boatmen paddled him in his sampan across to the Residency island, where he stepped out and walked up to Mr Harley’s official room, to find that gentleman looking older and more careworn than was his wont.

“Well, doctor, what news?” he said, anxiously. “Anything wrong?”

“No; nothing fresh.”

“No fever or cholera to add to one’s trouble, eh?”

“Nothing at all,” was the reply. “No, sir, I can present you with a clean bill of health.”

“Then why have you come? Not for nothing, doctor,” said the Resident sharply.

“Here, I say,” cried the little doctor, “don’t be so horribly inhospitable when a man comes to see you?”

“Inhospitable? Nonsense! You have not come across here to find hospitality. Now, doctor, speak out. What is it? Do you know anything?”

“Plainly, no. But the fact is,” said the visitor, clearing his throat, “I am not busy now; Mrs Bolter is a good deal away from home, so I thought this would be a favourable opportunity for taking a boat and a man or two, and going up the river to explore a few of the side streams so as to try and find Helen Perowne.”

“Rubbish!” said the Resident, sharply.

“Eh?” ejaculated the doctor, who was taken aback by the Resident’s quick, unceremonious way of speaking.

“I said Rubbish, Bolter, and I now say Humbug, man! Do you think I do not know better than that?”

“My dear Harley!” exclaimed the little doctor, indignantly.

“Look here, Bolter, you want an excuse for one of your gold hunts—your Ophir explorations. Why don’t you go, then, without all this childish excuse? You are your own master.”

The doctor was so taken aback by his friend’s onslaught that he shook his head vigorously.

“Well, suppose we say Now that Mrs Bolter is away?” said the Resident, smiling.

“Hadn’t we better drop that line of argument?” said the doctor, uneasily. “Really, Harley, you know, it’s too bad—’pon my honour it is. It isn’t gentlemanly!”

“My dear Bolter,” began the Resident.

“There are private matters!” cried the doctor, fuming, “upon which no man ought to touch, and my domestic relations are of that kind!”

“I should not have spoken,” said the Resident, “only you—a man who can do as he likes about going out collecting—came to me with such a weak piece of sham by way of excuse for your actions, Doctor, I blush for you!”

“Well, come, I will be honest with you; I am going out collecting and exploring.”

“Of course you are. I knew.”

“Stop a moment,” exclaimed the doctor, “let me finish. I should not go, only the idea occurred to me that I might perhaps get upon the track of that poor girl! If I do, I shall follow it to the end.”

The Resident said something in a hasty, indistinct tone, and the doctor stared at him, quite startled by his manner.

“Why, Harley!” he exclaimed, “one would think that you were hard touched in that direction!”

“Touched!” cried the Resident, recovering his equanimity, and putting on his official mask. “Why man, of what stuff do you suppose I am made? Am I not answerable to Government as well as to my own conscience for the welfare of all who are here; and do you suppose that I can bear this terrible visitation, even after this length of time, with equanimity?”

“No, no, of course not—of course not,” cried the doctor, hastily.

“Well, there, go, and good speed to you. I sincerely hope that you may discover something. Would you like Sergeant Harris with you?”

“No, no, certainly not! I believe in going quietly and almost alone. Look here, Harley, you would trust me entirely if you were unwell. Now suppose you do the same over this matter.”

The Resident nodded.

“Now, to tap this subject once again—repetition though it may seem—tell me, after due thought, what is your opinion now? Do you still suspect Murad?”

“I cannot say,” replied the Resident. “I did suspect him, but he has been so earnest in his offers of help, and his men have joined so thoroughly with ours in searching the river and scouring the jungle-paths, that there are times when I cannot believe him guilty.”

“Have you heard any more from your fresh allies?”

“Nothing,” replied the Resident. “They confess themselves at fault; while Murad has been here this morning to tell me that he was put upon a new scent yesterday, but that it turned out to be a false one. This man puzzles me, clever as I thought myself, for I have not found out yet whether or no he has been throwing dust in my eyes. Probably I never shall.”

“I am afraid he is deep,” said the doctor, thoughtfully.

“Very deep or very shallow,” said the Resident. “Some day, perhaps, we shall know. You are going up the river, then? When do you start?”

“As soon as I have had a little chat upon the subject with you know. I will not be very long away, Harley, and you will take care of my people like the rest—I mean have an eye on home.”

“Go, and good luck go with you,” said the Resident warmly. “Trust me, Bolter, I will do my best.”

“You don’t think, then, I ought to stay?”

“No; we have done all we can. Who knows but what you may hit upon some clue in your wanderings.”

“Ah! who knows!” said the doctor. “More wonderful things have happened, eh?”

“Chance sometimes solves problems that hard work has not mastered, Bolter,” said the Resident, smiling. “There, good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” said the doctor, shaking hands heartily; and leaving Neil Harley’s room, he began to wipe his face.

“I’m afraid I’ve been acting like a terrible humbug,” he muttered, “for I have not the remotest hope of finding Helen Perowne. I wish I were not such a moral coward over such things as this. Poor old Harley! he’s terribly cut up about matters, and I must seem strangely unfeeling. What a girl that was!