George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“Tut—tut—tut!” he exclaimed. “Why do I speak of her as gone? What a girl she is! Well, so far so good. Harley makes no objection to my going away. Now let us see what the general will say.”

Doctor Bolter felt that he had his most terrible task to perform in getting leave of his wife, and he returned home with a peculiar sensation of dread.

“It is very strange,” he said; “but I am getting nervous I think. I never feel it at any other time but when I am going to make some proposal to Mrs Bolter.”

To his great discomposure he found the lady within. This might have been looked upon as an advantage but he was not, he said, quite prepared; and he sat listening to her accounts of Mr Perowne’s state, and Grey Stuart’s kindly help. She suddenly turned upon him:

“Henry,” she exclaimed, “You were not thinking, of what I said.”

“I—I beg your pardon, my dear,” he replied. “Of what were you thinking, then?” The doctor hesitated a moment, and then he felt that the time had come for speaking.

“I was thinking, my dear, that no better opportunity is likely to offer for one of my expeditions.”

Mrs Bolter looked at him rather wistfully for a few moments, and then said, with a sigh: “Perhaps not, Henry. You had better go.”

“Do you mean it, Mary?” he said, eagerly. “If you think the station can be left in safety, perhaps you had better go,” she said, quietly. “I will have Grey Stuart to stay with me. I will not stand in your way, Henry, if you wish to leave.”

“It almost seems too bad,” he said, “but I should really like to go for a day or two, Mary. Harley says he can spare me, and no better chance is likely to come than now.”

“Then by all means go,” said Mrs Doctor, “only pray take care, and remember, Henry,” she whispered affectionately, “I am alone now.”

Vowing that those last words would make him come home far more quickly than he had intended, the doctor prepared the few necessaries he always took upon such occasions, and was about to start, when there was a fresh impediment in the person of Mrs Barlow, who came in, looking the picture of woe, and ready to shake hands effusively, and to kiss Mrs Bolter against her will.

“Going out, doctor?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, for some days.”

“But you will come to my house first? there is an injured man there. He came and begged me to fetch you to him, for he could not come himself.”

“A Malay?”

“Yes; a native. And he begged so hard that I was compelled to come.”

“Just as I was going out, too,” muttered the doctor, pettishly; but he never refused a call to duty, and hurrying out, he left the widow with his wife, while he went down to the well-appointed little house sleeping in the sunshine close to the river.

As he drew near he saw, at a little distance, a scuffle going on amongst a party of Malays, one of whom seemed for a moment to be struggling against five or six others; but no outcry was made, and deeming it to be some rough play upon the part of the fishermen, he paid little heed to what followed, merely noting that the men hustled their companion into a boat and paddled away.

The next minute he was at Mrs Barlow’s house, where a swarthy-looking Malay presented himself and told his symptoms, which were of so simple a character that the doctor was able to prescribe, and then hurry back to send the medicine required.

This last was received by the sick man from the doctor’s messenger; and no sooner was he gone than it was observable that the invalid rose from the mat upon which he had lain. He laughingly stole off to the river-side, where he entered a sampan, and paddled away after his companions, one of whom had left him to personate the only messenger who had been able to reach the station, though only then to fail in eluding the keenness of those who watched every house, and who kept their eyes upon the doctor, when half an hour later, totally regardless of the heat of the sun, he embarked in a boat and was paddled up the river by a couple of men, the companions of former excursions, old friends, whom he knew he could trust.

There were several boats lying lazily upon the water, with sleepy-looking Malays in each, and as the doctor’s swift little vessel pushed off, eyes that had looked sleepy before opened widely and watched his departure.

“Shall we follow?” said one man, in a low voice.

“No; he goes to shoot birds. Let him be.”

The sun poured down his rays like silver flames through the leaves of the cocoa-palms; and while the doctor’s boat grew smaller and smaller till it turned a bend in the stream, the occupants of the sampans lying so idly about the landing-stage exchanged glances from time to time, but seemed asleep whenever the owner of a white face drew near.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

Murad’s Slave.

It was with a feeling that something dreadful had happened that Helen opened her eyes and stared wildly about her. How long she had been insensible she could not tell, but her impression was that very few minutes had elapsed since she was struggling with her assailants.

She had been roughly used she knew, for her arms felt wrenched and bruised, her head throbbed painfully, there was an acute smarting about her lips, and a peculiar acrid, pungent, bitter taste in her mouth, while when she placed her hand to her lips she withdrew it stained with blood.

She shuddered and looked round at the Malay women, some of whom were standing, some squatted about on the bamboo floor, watching her with a gratified smile in their faces, and one and all evidently without the slightest sympathy for her state.

“What—what have you done?” she panted, with anger now taking the place of fear. “You shall be punished—bitterly punished for this!”

For answer there was a merry laugh, and the women chatted to each other; but one of the girls who had been Helen’s attendant rose and left the room, to return in a few minutes with a large braes basin of clear cold water and a cotton cloth.

Helen tried hard to check her sobs, and gladly availed herself of the opportunity to bathe her eyes, finding as she did so that one of her lips smarted and bled quite profusely; there was a wretched sensation too about the lower part of her face, and her teeth ached violently.

“They shall be bitterly punished for this!” she cried, furiously. “What have they done?”

Then, like a flash, as she saw the girl who held the basin smile mockingly, she knew what had taken place, and with a piteous cry she placed her hands to her mouth, to find that her surmise was correct; the second girl laughing heartily, and fetching the hand-glass to hold upon a level with the prisoner’s face.

The cold wet dew gathered upon Helen’s brow as she gazed at the strange countenance before her. It was not that which she knew so well, and upon whose handsome features she had been wont to gaze with half-closed eyes and with a smile of satisfaction at its beauty; for there before her was the face of a noble-looking Malay woman, between whose swollen lips she could see the filed and blackened teeth considered so great a perfection to her toilet; and with a piteous cry Helen covered her eyes with her hands, shrank back upon her couch, and sobbed forth:

“What would he think of me now?” Humbled as she was by the treatment she had received, and agitated by her position, Helen Perowne had enough of the old nature left to suffer terribly upon every question relating to her personal appearance. It was a dreadful shock to find that she had been completely transformed, as it were, into a woman of the country—one of those upon whom she had been accustomed to look with such disdain; but the shock was surpassed by the sensation of misery to find that her self-worshipped beauty was gone, as it were, for ever. Her greatest enemy could not have inflicted upon her a more cruel pang; and one constantly-recurring question kept repeating itself:

“What would he say to me now?”—he; and it was not of Captain Hilton, her father, or any of her rejected lovers that she thought, but always of the Resident. What would Neil Harley think of her if he could see her distorted features? He could not recognise her, of that she felt sure, and in her agony of mind a complete change took place in her feelings. But an hour ago she had watched window and door, listened to every sound, however slight, and interpreted it to mean the coming of help—of Neil Harley and her father to fetch her away. But how could she wish for them to come now? Why should she be taken away? Instead of Helen Perowne, the beauty of the station, they would find, and would not recognise, a swarthy native woman, whose aspect would repel them, and they would be ready to doubt her word should she assert who she was.

She was ready to pray now that no help might come—even that she might die.

The women stole softly away, whispering to each other that she would soon come round; and as the suffering girl crouched there in her abasement her anguish did not grow less poignant, and she found herself, in spite of the repugnance she felt at the idea of being seen, somehow looking once more to Neil Harley for help. She recalled how she had laughed at his pretensions, even to treating them with indignity, and turning upon him a resentful stare; how, too, tried to pique him by laughing and flirting directly with some favoured lover. But what had followed? He had only smilingly told her that he was in nowise jealous, and that she would come to him with open arms at last.

She recalled, as she sat thinking there, how she had turned from him with a haughty feeling of annoyance; while now that she was so cruelly abased he seemed to be her only hope, the one to whose strong arm she was forced to look for aid; and with a bitter wail of misery, as she thought of him once more, in spite of her efforts to drive away the fancy, she kept on asking herself those ever-recurring questions, what would he think of her—what would he say?

“I am too cruelly punished,” she moaned to herself, and for the next hour or so she was completely prostrated both in body and mind. For her position was one that must have daunted the stoutest-hearted woman. She could not hope that, now she had been so degraded, if seen, any Englishman would recognise her and so give notice of her whereabouts; while the insolent Rajah might arrive at any moment to triumph over the downfall of the proud beauty of the station.

But somehow, in spite of her peril, her thoughts wandered from the Rajah, and kept centring themselves upon that question of what Neil Harley would think and say, if ever he should look again upon her terribly-disfigured face.

By degrees her sobs grew less painful, and she lay back with her face still hidden in her hands, thinking of the harsh file that had been used to her beautiful teeth, and the powerful stain that had been applied, and wondering why she had not foreseen, after the dyeing of her face, that a further attempt would be made to liken her to the native women. She realised, too, now how strong was the Malay nature in cunning, for their proceedings would more effectually secure her from being found than concealment in the deepest recesses of the jungle. In fact, though she kept her eyes closed, ever staring, as it were, straight out of the darkness, was the swarthy distorted countenance she had seen in the glass, with its filed and blackened teeth; and as this was burned into her brain, she felt that so long as speech was denied her she might be kept even in the native town close to her friends, none of whom would recognise in her the Helen Perowne they sought.

She knew that it was a cunningly-devised and clever plan for destroying her identity, and by it she felt, as she shuddered, she had become as it were one of the Rajah’s slaves—one of the wretched, hopeless women branded as his like so many cattle, and in her anguish the hot blinding tears gathered once more as she realised the degradation of her position, and her spirits sank lower and lower as she once more lay back and wept.

At length, after how long a time she could not tell, she was aroused by one of her Malay attendants who seemed to be somewhat moved by her distress. This, the gentler of the two, brought a little vessel of perfumed water, and bending over the sobbing prisoner, she gently removed her hands, and after a little resistance succeeded in bathing her burning eyes and stinging lips, talking to her soothingly the while in Malay, a good portion of which Helen, whose senses were sharpened by her position, contrived to understand.

“Why do you cry, dear?” said the girl tenderly. “I ought not to like you, but you are so handsome, and in such trouble, that I feel sorry. But why do you cry? You cannot tell how you are improved. You were dreadful before with your English look—your sickly pale face, your white teeth and poor thin lips. Now you are lovely and our people would worship you with your soft brown skin and shining dark teeth. The filing has made your poor thin lips grow large and fresh as they should be. Look; they are nearly as big and full as mine. He will love you more and more now, and though I laughed when I saw you first, and thought you a poor weak white thing, now I begin to feel afraid and jealous and to hate you for coming here.”

As Helen caught the meaning of these words, fully realising what was meant, and heard her companion speak of someone who would be gratified by her changed appearance, a shiver of dread ran through her, and she lay back staring wildly at the speaker.

“Jealousy—hate me,” thought Helen. “Yes; she talked of hating me.”

A ray of hope shot through the darkness here.

“She cannot like to have me here, and she would be glad to see me gone. What am I,” she cried, mentally, “to crouch here in this pitiful way, weeping and bewailing my misfortunes, asking myself what those who love me will think and say? Have I been such a wretched handsome doll all my life, that now I am cast upon myself for protection my actions are those of a child?”

A change was coming over Helen Perowne, forced by the terrible position in which she was placed, and roused now in spirit, she thought more and more deeply of all this, till it seemed to her that the Malay girl had struck the keynote of her future action, and that after feeling her way cautiously she had but to appeal to this attendant for her aid, and she would win her goodwill in an attempt to escape.

The day wore on, and in spite of herself the weariness produced by exhaustion brought on a sensation of drowsiness that Helen could not overcome. One minute she had determined that she would not yield to sleep, the next she was starting with a cry of fear from a deep slumber which had surprised her almost as she thought.

The Malay girl smiled, laid her cool hand upon her forehead, and kissed her very tenderly—so tenderly that, with a sob, proud disdainful Helen Perowne caught the brown hand in hers, and laid it upon her throbbing breast.

Again the drowsy sensation began to master her, and she started up with a face distorted, fleeing as she believed from some terrible danger. The girl spoke a few soothing words, and gazed so kindly in the prisoner’s eyes, that Helen sank back once more, yielding to the powerful influence that came upon her, and almost the next moment she was sleeping deeply, quite exhausted by what she had suffered.

The Malay girl bent over her for a few minutes, and then softly withdrew her hand from between Helen’s, to follow her companion to the window, where she was sitting droning over some native ditty about meeting her love beneath the moonbeams among the waving rice, and then they sat chatting and laughing together in a low tone. Now they discussed Helen’s features, then her want of courage, and lastly, in a dull indifferent way, they began to wonder whether their lord would be satisfied with what they had done, and when he was likely to come.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

The Inche Maida at Home.

“Ah, Princess,” cried Hilton, flushing with pleasure as he saw help and liberty shining as it were in the face of a friend, whose extended hand he took, “this is kind of you indeed. You had heard, then, of the outrage of these Malay people, and have come to have us freed.”

“Outrage!” cried the Princess indignantly. “Who has dared to hurt you?”

“That we do not know,” cried Hilton, eagerly. “You must discover that. I am glad to see you indeed.”

“And I you,” she replied, smiling in the young officer’s face, as he retained her hand. “Ah, Mr Chumbley,” she continued, extending her left. “I am very pleased to meet you once again.”

Chumbley shook the hand stretched out to him, and smiled as he looked curiously at their visitor, for slow of movement as he was, he was quick of apprehension, and he did not place his companion’s interpretation upon the meeting.

“I hope you were not hurt, Mr Chumbley,” she said.

“Oh, but we were,” cried Hilton, quickly, and before his friend could speak. “We were seized and dragged here by a pack of scoundrels who did not spare us much.”

“Ah, yes, I have just come,” she said. “I heard that you both fought very hard, like the brave, strong Englishmen you are, and some of the men were hurt, and badly too.”

“Chumbley there did his best,” said Hilton, “of course; but by whose orders was this done? You can tell me, I hope.”

“Yes,” drawled Chumbley, drily, “the Princess can tell you, I should say.”

“Yes,” said the Princess, smiling from one to the other. “You were brought here to this my hunting-home in the jungle by my orders, but no violence was to be used.”

“By your orders!” cried Hilton, dropping her hand as if it had burned him, and falling back a step, with the anger flashing from his eyes.

“The Princess tells you it is her hunting-box,” drawled Chumbley, drily; “she evidently meant to give us a surprise.”

“Be silent, Chumbley,” said Hilton, indignantly.

“Her highness was afraid that we might not get leave of absence, or that we should decline to come,” continued Chumbley.

“Oh, this is too much!” cried Hilton.

“Do not be angry,” said the Princess, speaking in a low, sweet tone, full of pleading tenderness. “I know it seems strange to you English people, but our ways are different to yours.”

“Well, yes: a little,” said Chumbley, who was laughing in a quiet internal way. “You have studied some of our etiquette, but you did not find this sort of thing.”

“Will you be silent, Chumbley?” thundered Hilton, indignantly.

“Did you not hear me?” said the Princess; and Chumbley noted that there was a very tender look in her eyes as she advanced and laid her hand upon Hilton’s arm. “I asked you not to be angry with me.”

“Angry?” cried Hilton, fiercely. “Angry? Why, madam, this is the act of some mad savage, and you professed to be a civilised friend!”

“It is the act, sir, of a princess!” said the Inche Maida with dignity. “One who is as a queen among her people!”

“And do you profess, madam, to be a friend of the English?”

“Yes, Captain Hilton, I have sought to be as far as I could.”

“Will you not sit down?” said Chumbley, pointing to the heap of cushions close at hand.

“Not while my guests are standing,” she said, with dignity. “Are you going to scold me and be angry too, Mr Chumbley?” she said, with a smile.

“Englishmen boast of being fair,” he replied. “If I scold it shall be when my friend has done.”

“Oh! I have done for the present!” said Hilton, with a mocking laugh. “Pray go on.”

“I have not much to say,” said Chumbley slowly; “only that it seems rather a determined way of inviting a couple of fellows to your country home, Princess. It has its good points, though, for you can always make sure of the number you want to have.”

The Princess inclined her head as if in acquiescence, and then looked pleadingly at Hilton, whose brow displayed an angry frown, and who had begun to pace the room, making the bamboo laths bend and creak beneath his weight.

“I knew she had taken a fancy to him,” said Chumbley to himself, as in his quiet dry way he noted what was going on; “but I never could have believed in this. I suppose I was caught and brought to play propriety, and to act as witness to the native ceremony, for she’ll marry Hilton as sure as he’s alive.”

“Of course you will give orders at once for a boat to be in readiness to take us back?” said Hilton haughtily.

“No,” said the Princess, smiling, “I shall not. Surely you are not tired of my hospitality quite so soon?”

“You are trifling, madam,” said Hilton, “and it is time this childish farce was brought to an end. I insist upon your ordering a boat to be in readiness at once.”

“I am sorry I cannot oblige you, Captain Hilton,” said the lady gloomily.

“Why have you done this?” he cried. “Why are we brought here?”

“Why have I had you brought here?” said the Princess in a low, musical voice. “Shall I tell you?”

“If you wish to,” said Hilton carelessly.

The Inche Maida’s eyes flashed at his indifferent manner.

“If I were one of my women,” she said, “I could not tell you. If I were only my own simple woman-self I could not tell you for the shame that I should feel. But I am a chief, and as a chief I can speak. I have the right to choose whom I would have for partner of my life, and I have chosen you.”

“Chosen me?” cried Hilton, with a look of disgust at the tall, handsome woman before him.

“Yes; because I love you,” she replied. “He knows that I love you. I read it weeks ago in his eyes.”

“Have you been a partner to this accursed outrage, Chumbley?” cried Hilton fiercely.

“No, dear boy; not to, I’m a partner in it,” said Chumbley, coolly. “Wise question that of yours. Was it likely?”

“No,” said the Princess, “he did not know; but you were great friends and companions, and I brought you both. I love you.”

He looked at her indignantly.

“I like your friend,” she continued, turning and smiling at Chumbley, “he is so good-natured and big, and manly, and strong. I always feel as if he would be a man whom I could trust.”

She held out her soft, shapely hand to him, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, Chumbley took it in his, pressed it warmly, and then raised it to his lips before it was withdrawn.

Hilton stamped his foot upon the bamboo floor, and then burst into a derisive laugh.

“Is this real, Chumbley?” he cried, “or is it part of a play?”

“I know what you mean by part of a play,” cried the Princess, whose eyes began to flash as she felt the sting of Hilton’s words. “It is no false make-believe, but real. I told you without shame, as a chief, that I love you, and that is why I brought you here.”

“I am greatly honoured by your attention, madam,” said Hilton, mockingly.

“Listen to me,” cried the Princess, “while I remind you that I am a poor oppressed woman. I have been trampled upon by my enemies, because I am a woman. I am constantly plundered; my people are cruelly treated; and soon I shall be a princess no longer, for my people will say that I am no mother and protector to them, and they will leave me.”

“And pray, madam, what is this to me?” said Hilton, coldly. “Do you forget that I have heard all this before?”

“What is it to you?” said the Inche Maida, drawing herself up, and speaking fiercely now. “Did I not tell you that I loved you? From the first day I saw you I loved you, and said you should be my lord.”

“’Pon my honour, Chumbley,” cried Hilton, “this is too ridiculous!” and he looked his indignation. “Why, what a handsome fellow I must be. Are we going back into the regions of romance?”

“Mind what you are saying,” said Chumbley, quietly, as he saw a fierce look of anger in the Inche Maida’s eyes, lit by the mocking, contemptuous manner in which Hilton listened to her words.

“Mind what I am saying? I have no patience,” he cried. “Pray,” he continued, turning to the Princess with a sneering laugh, “does your ladyship intend to marry me now you have carried me off?” The Princess did not speak. “By Jupiter! Chumbley,” cried Hilton, bursting into a forced laugh, “it must be leap-year. I had forgotten it, and the ladies are having it all their own way. May I ask again,” he cried, “does your ladyship intend to marry me?”

“Yes,” she replied, quietly, and in a slow decided way, “I do. Why do you mock at me? Is it such a hard fate to be my husband—my prince—when I say to you—see how I and my people suffer? You are a warrior—a captain—who can fight, and lead, and train men to defend themselves, a few against crowds. Here is my home—here are my lands; take all—take me and my people. Be rajah, and rule over us all. You shall have my wealth, and the rich things my people will bring you; but train them to fight so that they can protect our lands and make our enemies hold us in respect and fear. They will shrink away then like the cowards they are, as soon as they know that it is a prince who rules, and no longer a weak woman.”

“Why don’t you join me in laughing at all this, Chum, old fellow?” cried Hilton, who seemed bitter and soured by the treatment he had received from Helen.

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Chumbley, sturdily, as he watched his companions intently.

“No; why does he laugh?” cried the Inche Maida, whose fierce dark eyes now grew soft with tears.

“I laugh,” cried Hilton, angrily, “because your proposals are absurd. There must be an end to all this. Let me and my friend go away at once.”

“And my people—what of them—what of mine enemies?” said the Inche Maida, almost imploringly.

“You appealed to our Government, madam, and they regretted that they could not interfere,” said Hilton. “I am honoured by your proposals, but I must say the same.”

“I do not understand quite everything you say,” she replied; “but do not mock me. I can bear everything but that. Think of what I have said, and forgive me if I have been too rough with you, for remember, if I had said ‘come to me,’—you would not have come.”

“No,” said Hilton, smiling, “I should not.”

“You see you drove me to do this thing,” said the Princess, eagerly, “and it has made your wrath hot against me; but I ask you to pardon me, my lord. See, I kneel to you for forgiveness. Can I be more humble?”

“Will you be good enough to rise, madam,” said Hilton, who was beginning to regret his former mocking way, now he saw the Inche Maida’s earnestness and trust in him; and he raised her by her hands, which clung to his entreatingly.

“Shall I retire somewhere else?” said Chumbley, in a manner that might have been taken for either serious or mocking.

“For Heaven’s sake, no, man!” cried Hilton; “stay where you are. Madam, will you be good enough to take a seat! There, that is better,” he said, seating himself near her, as, in obedience to his request, she sank upon the cushions.

“I will do whatever you wish,” she said, humbly.

“Then please remember, madam,” continued Hilton, “that you are almost an English lady, and surely you know enough of our ways to realise that you have been guilty of a most foolish act.”

“I was driven to act as I did,” she said, softly. “You know how I implored for help.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Hilton, speaking now in a tone of gentlemanly consideration for one whom he looked upon as weak and ignorant. “I am sorry you were not assisted; but now that you have had time to realise our positions, I must tell you that what you propose is impossible.”

The Princess, who had been seated in a humble, supplicating attitude, no sooner heard this last word than she sprang to her feet.

“It is not impossible!” she cried fiercely; and her eyes flashed with anger as she drew herself up to her full height.

“I am compelled to contradict you, madam,” said Hilton, also rising; “and to tell you that, even were I disposed to accept your strange offer, I could not, for I am an officer in the service of her Majesty the Queen, and I could not leave my duties, even at your command.”

“But you would have more and greater duties here,” cried the Princess. “Your people wish to improve ours. Come, then, and be chief and rajah over my children.”

“I tell you, madam, it is impossible,” said Hilton, coldly.

“I say it is not impossible,” she retorted, proudly. “Did not a brave Englishman become a rajah in Borneo, where they are people similar to ours? and is not the name of Rajah Brooke, of Sarawak, held in veneration to this day?”

Hilton uttered an impatient ejaculation, and glanced at Chumbley for help; but that gentleman was balancing himself upon his toes and gazing at the Princess.

“I was angry a minute since,” she said, smiling a very sweet smile, and she looked a very Cleopatra of the jungle. “You will not say no,” she continued, appealing to her prisoner. “I am a Princess, and once more I say boldly, what none of my people dare confess for very shame, I love you, Captain Hilton, and once again I ask you to make me your wife. Listen; you do not know how great and happy your life shall be, for your wishes shall be all obeyed, and—”

“Pray listen to me, madam!” cried Hilton, sternly, “you must know that this cannot be. But let us part friends, and no punishment shall follow this foolish escapade. So at once pray order your people to prepare a boat, that I and my friend may go.”

He turned now to Chumbley, who had thrust his hands down as far as possible into his pockets, and stood looking very stern and cold, but evidently pondering deeply upon all that had been said.

The Princess clenched her hands, and stood there with flashing eyes, gazing from one to the other, and for some moments it seemed as if she could not speak.

“No,” she cried at last, in a short, angry voice, “no boat shall take you back!”

“Then we must go back without,” said Hilton, firmly. “Now, Chumbley, this folly has gone too far. Come quickly, and use force if we are driven to it by this foolish woman’s acts!”

As he spoke he moved towards the door, and laying his hand upon the latch, he threw it open so that it struck loudly against the bamboo wall.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.

“Our Position Is Absurd.”

As the door flew open, Hilton found himself confronted by a dozen spearmen; and he would have still advanced had not Chumbley held him back.

“You forgot that you were a prisoner,” said the Princess, quietly, but with a triumphant look in her eyes. “There are fifty more brave men beyond those, and they would kill you at a word from me.”

“And that word you would not speak,” said Hilton, smiling in her face.

“Why not?” she cried defiantly.

“For several reasons,” he said, quietly. “First, because I am an officer of the Queen of England, madam.”

“I am queen here,” she retorted. “What is your queen to me?”

“Another reason is—that you would not have me killed,” he said, lightly; and he evaded Chumbley’s touch and stepped through the door; but six razor-keen spear-points were presented so suddenly at his breast, that, brave as he was, Hilton involuntarily started back, and to his great annoyance the Princess smiled mockingly in turn.

Captain Hilton was a soldier, and ready to risk his life when need should be; but he felt that there were limits even to the valour a man should show, and this was evidently a time to make a movement towards the rear.

He turned to Chumbley, to find that he had not moved, but was leaning, with his arms folded across his broad chest, against the wooden framework of the cane-woven wall, and he looked his companion steadily in the face.

“Well!” exclaimed Hilton, angrily, as he sought some object upon which to vent the spleen rising within his breast; and his friend being the nearest object, he received the verbal blows. “Why don’t you come and face these scoundrels with me? Are you afraid?”

“Eh? Afraid?” said Chumbley, rousing himself from his dreamy state. “No, I don’t think I was, old fellow. I was wondering whether we were British officers in a Malay jungle facing realities, or the same two fellows fresh from dining at the club, turned into a couple of stalls at a theatre and watching the progress of some drama of a certain type.”

“Then wake up to the fact that it is reality!” cried Hilton, sharply, “and help me to act, unless you want to stay here for life.”

“All right, dear boy,” said Chumbley, resuming his drawling style. “Only, what are we to do? I’m ready for anything almost, but I’m not going to run my noble chest against those fellows’ spears. Where’s the good?”

“Good?” cried Hilton, angrily; “are we to stop here and be a pair of slaves?”

“No; only it’s as well to wait. There are times to fight, and there are times when it’s as well to draw off your forces, even if the London papers do revile and talk of want of pluck. You see a fellow can’t fight in a case of this sort. It’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous indeed!” cried Hilton; as, with the petulance of a boy, he seized the door, and slammed it in the face of the Malays.

“Exactly,” drawled Chumbley, glancing at the Princess, who was watching them from the other end of the room. “You see, Warner or Terriss on the Adelphi stage would have knocked all those fellows over like skittles, or skewered them all upon one spear like a row of larks; but that’s only done upon the boards; a fellow can’t play like that in common life.”

“Is there much more of this, Chumbley?” said Hilton, with mock deference.

“Not a great deal, old man,” said the big fellow, coolly ignoring his friend’s sarcastic manner. “I was only going to say—and I hope her majesty Queen Cleopatra can’t hear me—that the only course open to us seems to be to wait our chance and bolt; and I’ll be blest if I run, or try to run, through this sweltering jungle to save myself or anybody else. If you’ll have me carried down to the river and pitched in, I don’t mind trying to swim.”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha! Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!”

A merry, almost girlish laugh rang out; and as the two officers turned sharply, it was to see that the Inche Maida’s countenance had lost its look of annoyance, and was full of mirth, for she had heard every word that Chumbley had spoken.

“Tchah!” ejaculated Hilton; “our position is growing more and more absurd?”

“You are a very droll man,” said the Princess, turning to Chumbley. “You make me laugh by your way of speaking; but you are very wise and clever all the same. You know that you could not get away; so you are ready to wait patiently to see what comes. You are quite right, Mr Chumbley, and I like you more and more, and will treat you well.”

“That’s very kind of you, Princess,” said Chumbley, slowly; “and I must say that I heard what you said before about me; but speaking like a persecuted maiden in the ancient castle of some baron bold, will you excuse me if I say your previous remarks are insufficient, and I should be glad to know why the dickens you brought me here when you wanted him?”

“You make such long speeches,” cried the Inche Maida, “and you speak so slowly, that you puzzle me. I never know whether you are serious or laughing at me.”

“Oh, I am not laughing,” said Chumbley, slowly.

“Then do not ask,” said the Princess, shortly. “You are my prisoners, and must submit.”

“For the present, madam,” said Hilton, with a return of his anger; “but if you will take my advice, you will end this sorry farce at once. You will regret it if you stop too long, and find your palm-tree palace—”

“It is no palace,” said the Princess, quietly, “only a simple house.”

“Surrounded by a company of our troops, and burned to the ground.”

The Princess laughed.

“I understand you,” she said, nodding her head; “but that will not be. You English are strong and have great weapons that would destroy us at a touch. We have but our spears and krisses, so we trust to our wisdom to help us out, do you see.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Chumbley, quietly.

“Yes,” continued the Princess, “you are right; your soldiers would soon burn down my place and kill my people to get you back; but they would have first to find us out. Do you know where you are?”

Hilton glanced at the open window, to see through the lattice-work of bamboo the deep green of the impenetrable jungle.

“Yes,” she continued, smiling at the look which came upon the young officer’s face, “we bring cunning to fight upon our side. You see that you are in the jungle; and I tell you there is but one narrow path to this place, and my people guard it night and day.”

“When they are not asleep,” muttered Chumbley.

“I made this place,” she said, “to flee to when my enemies should come. Here I am safe, and here, too, you are safe, for none but my most trusted people know the way.”

“Pleasant news this, old fellow,” said Chumbley.

“Pleasant!” cried Hilton; “but she shall smart for it. She does not think of what will be the result.”

The Inche Maida frowned as she saw his angry looks and heard his words.

“Well, old fellow,” said Chumbley; “it seems to me that we are wasting time.”

“What! are you prepared to make a dash for it?” cried Hilton.

“Not I. I mean wasting time in talking like this. I’m sorry for you, old fellow—very sorry for you; but it’s very hot and tiring this standing about. Hadn’t we better make the best of it?”

“Best of it!” cried Hilton, who now obstinately refused to glance at the author of their trouble, and kept pacing up and down like a caged beast. “Are you mad?”

“Very,” whispered Chumbley; “but one can’t pitch into a woman. She fights with cunning, so must we, and wait for our chance to escape. There, it is of no use to chafe. Let’s be thankful that matters are no worse.”

“Worse!” cried Hilton, passionately, “they could not be worse;” and he spoke loudly enough for the Princess to hear his words.

“There—there, old fellow, calm down,” drawled Chumbley. “Make the best of it till her ladyship here has grown tired of her two caged birds, and has let us out. We are prisoners, I suppose, Princess?” he said, aloud.

“Prisoners or visitors, which you please, Mr Chumbley,” she said, smiling. “Let it be visitors, for though Captain Hilton has said such cruel things—see, I am not angered, but quite calm. You are my visitors, then; but you cannot get away until I give the word.”

“Or our people fetch us,” said Chumbley, throwing himself upon one of the divans with a sigh of relief, for the Inche Maida had pointed to the seat.

“They will not come to fetch you,” said the Princess, smiling.

“Why not?” said Hilton, sharply. “I tell you they will search till we are found, and then you destroy yourself by having us here.”

“Yes,” said the Princess, with her eyes half-closed; “they will search. They have searched, and have given it up. They found a small boat overset upon a bank of sand; part of your clothes were in it, and they think you were both drowned.”

“Confusion!” cried Hilton, fiercely.

“You have a woman to fight with,” said the Princess, smiling, “and I have taken my steps so well that no one will seek you here. I told my people to bring you both, and they obeyed. They would have sooner died than failed.”

“Tell me more,” said Chumbley, quickly. “Have you seen Mr Harley?”

“I will tell you nothing,” said the Princess, “till you are both my friends. There, I must leave you now. Promise me you will be patient, and not so foolish as to try to escape and fight. It would be horrible to me if you or any of my people should be hurt in some mad attempt. Promise me you will be patient and not try.”

“Not I,” said Chumbley, laughing. “I shall try to escape, and so will he.”

“Then you are wicked and foolish!” cried the Inche Maida, angrily.

“Both, I am afraid,” said Chumbley. “I always was; but may I make a request as a prisoner?”

“As a visitor, yes,” said the Princess, smiling. “May I ask, then, if you propose to gild the bars of our cage?”

“I do not understand,” she replied, gazing at him earnestly.

“I mean that it is very hot. May I have a cold drink of some kind; and do you allow smoking in the drawing-room?”

The Princess smiled, and in what Chumbley afterwards called the Arabian Nights style, clapped her hands, when a couple of Malay slave-girls ran in, received their orders, and hurried out again, while their mistress walked to the window, as she had done more than once before, apparently with the idea of giving her prisoners an opportunity to converse and debate their position.

“Well, Hilton, old man, what do you think of this?” said Chumbley, smiling. “We Europeans have gone ahead, and got steam and electricity, and all the luxuries of civilisation, as the fine writers call it, while the East has stopped just where it was, and we might be Ali Baba’s Brothers, or the One-eyed Calender, or some other of those Arabian Night cock-o’-waxes here amongst all these slaves and spearmen. I say, I think I shall write a book about it—‘The adventures of two officers taken prisoners by a wicked queen.’”

“Chumbley,” retorted Hilton, “you used to have one good quality.”

“Had I? What was that, old man?”

“You were a fellow who didn’t talk much,” said Hilton; “but now your tongue goes like a woman’s, and you are a positive nuisance.”

“Thankye, old fellow. But you ought not to grumble, seeing how impressionable you have of late proved to the prattling of a woman’s tongue.”

“The Inche Maida’s?” said Hilton, in a low voice. “Well no: not exactly hers, dear boy. But I say, Hilton, she is a woman and a lady; don’t say hard things to her.”

“Hard things?” cried Hilton, angrily. “Come, I like that! Hang it, man, after this outrage she ought to be shut up in a lunatic asylum!”

“Humph!” said Chumbley, slowly. “I don’t know. They say love is a sort of lunacy, and people do strange things who get the disease badly. You’re been an awful idiot lately!”

“Chumbley, do you want me to strike you?” cried Hilton, fiercely.

“No, dear boy,” drawled his friend; “but you can give me a punch if it will do you good. I shan’t hit you again.”

“Bah;” ejaculated Hilton. “There’s no quarrelling with you!”

“Not a bit of it dear boy; but as I was saying, seeing what stupid things you did about—”

“Chumbley!”

“All right: I wasn’t going to mention her name. I say, seeing what stupid things you did, it was not surprising that a lady in love with your noble features and Apollo-like form—”

“I declare I shall forget myself directly!” cried Hilton, between his teeth.

“No: don’t, old fellow; but you might let me finish my speech. It isn’t often I’m flush of words, and when I am you check me. I say once more it was not so very surprising that her ladyship here should set a trap for you, catch you, and want to persuade you to accept her very eligible offers. There, sit down, man, and make the best of it! Stop that irritating walk of yours! You are like a human pendulum!”

“Idiot!” muttered Hilton, between his teeth, glancing at the Princess’s back, though, as she leaned in a graceful attitude against the window, with her arm through the bamboo bars.

“Calling names!” said Chumbley, coolly. “Imitation’s the sincerest form of flattery. Will you stop that wolf-in-a-cage walk?”

“No!”

“Then you’re a Zoological Gardens beast! I say, why don’t you utter a short howl every time you turn?”

“If you cannot talk sensibly, Chumbley, pray be silent!” said Hilton, in a low, angry whisper. “You are like a big boy more than a man!”

“Go on, old fellow!” said Chumbley, coolly. “If ever I marry, which isn’t likely, I daresay I shall have a woman with a tongue like an arrow. What a chance she will have to shoot sharp words at my thick hide!”

“Will you talk sense for a few moments before this woman goes?”

“Lady.”

“Well, lady, then! I want to try and devise some plan for getting away.”

“What’s the hurry?” said Chumbley. “We’re caught and caged, and I have always noticed that the birds that are trapped and caged are of two kinds.”

“Is there much of this moral sermon to come?”

“No,” said Chumbley, good-humouredly, “not much. It seems tiresome to you because you are standing. Sit down, man, and listen. I feel quite like an Eastern speaker of parables. It is the atmosphere, I suppose. I was saying that the birds that are caught are of two kinds—those that take it coolly and those that don’t. Those that don’t keep on beating their breasts against the bars, and knocking their feathers off in the most insane way, till they die, looking exceedingly bare and uncomfortable; while those that take it coolly sit upon the perches, set up their feathers till they look nice and plump, and keep on saying ‘chiswick’ except when they stop to eat their seed.”

“And, most profound moralist, the restless, brave-hearted birds that breast the bars are the truest,” cried Hilton. “I would not be so spiritless and craven for worlds.”

“Stuff!” said Chumbley. “Nobody’s going to wring your neck and put you in a pie; then it would be uncomfortable. The Princess only wants you to sing. I say, I think I shall ask her if she means to give us the seed that is becoming necessary in the shape of dinner.”

The Inche Maida turned round.

“I could not help being a listener, Mr Chumbley,” she said, quietly; “and surely you did not suppose that you could both talk like that unheard. Now let me speak before I go.”

Chumbley bowed, and Hilton folded his arms, leaning against the wall, while his friend slowly rose, and once more offered the Princess a seat.

“No!” she cried, angrily. “I can only sit with my friends, and you persist in treating me as an enemy. As Captain Hilton’s friend, I ask pardon for the roughness of my people. Can I do more?”

“Well, yes,” said Chumbley; “after we have granted your pardon, you can set us free!”

“That I shall not do!” she cried, with her eyes flashing.

“Not now, Princess,” said Chumbley, speaking calmly, seriously and well; “but after a little reflection. You do not realise the power of England, madam. You do not know what our Government will always do to maintain the honour and prestige of our nation.”

“No,” she said, scornfully, “I do not.”

“Let me tell you then,” said Chumbley, with a return of his dry, sarcastic manner; “I am of no consequence whatever as compared to our handsome young captain there.”

“I think you a ten times better man, and one hundred times as much a gentleman,” cried the Princess, hotly; and her eyes flashed indignation at them both.

“Oh, no,” said Chumbley; “you are angry and indignant, and you forget that we are, too. How can we be pleased that you have so roughly brought us here?”

“But you ought to be, and very proud,” she cried sharply.

“Well, we will not argue that,” said Chumbley; “but I wish to tell you that you must think this over carefully and well. Insignificant as we two men may be, it touches England’s honour that a Malay ruler should seize us and make us prisoners.”

“I care not,” she retorted. “I have thought it over well.”

“I suppose so, madam,” said Chumbley; “but let me tell you that England will not let us stay here your prisoners; sooner than let you triumph she would send an army to search for and take us back.”

“And I tell you,” cried the Princess, fiercely, “that I have thought well over all this, and have made such plans, that even if your people did not think you dead, they would not find you. I am queen with my people, and I will not be beaten when I undertake a task. If they should learn that you were here, and come to shoot and burn, we would flee into the jungle.”

“Where they would hunt you out, Princess, cost what it might,” said Chumbley.

“Let them,” said the Inche Maida, with her eyes flashing, and looking very queenly as she spoke. “They are big and strong, and they have many men. They would surround us then, and think to take us and drag you away; but they do not know our people yet—they do not know what a Malay Princess would do. Mr Chumbley,” she said, speaking to him, but gazing at Hilton as she spoke, “we Malays are gentle and calm, but we have angry passions. If you rouse the hot blood within us, it becomes fierce and hotter still. Don’t think that I shall not have my way; for I tell you that at the last, sooner than be conquered by those your people sent, I would kill you both, and then—then,” she cried excitedly, “I should kill myself!”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

Why Chumbley was Brought.

As the Inche Maida uttered her angry threat she swept out of the room, leaving the two young officers staring at the heavy curtain that closed the door.

“The fury!—the tigress!” exclaimed Hilton.

“Well, I don’t know!” drawled Chumbley. “She seems to me very much like what woman is all the world round.”

“Why, she is a blood-thirsty savage!” cried Hilton.

“No: only a woman who has lived all her life where every man carries a sharp-pointed weapon. Englishwomen are much the same at heart.”

“Why, you blasphemer against the honour of our fair English maids and dames!” cried Hilton, laughing.

“Not I!” said Chumbley. “They don’t live amongst people who carry daggers and spears. We go unarmed—I mean Europeans—and pay soldiers to do our fighting for us; but you baffle a woman of spirit—you cross her and behave badly to her, and you see if she wouldn’t fight.”

“Fight, man?”

“Yea, but not with a dagger; she would fight with her tongue—perhaps with her pen—and sting and wound, and perhaps pretty well slay her foe.”

“But this woman is outrageous!” cried Hilton. “Our English ladies are all that is soft and gentle.”

“Sometimes,” said Chumbley; “some of us get an ugly stab or two now and then.”

“Out upon you, slanderer!” cried Hilton, laughingly, as he paced up and down once more.

“If you don’t stop that irritating, wild beast’s cage-walk,” said Chumbley, “I’ll petition the Inche Maida to have you chained to a bamboo.”

“Pish!” cried Hilton, imitating his friend, and throwing himself down upon one of the divans.

“I thought the other day that I was stabbed to the heart by a pair of glittering eyes,” said Chumbley; “but being a regular pachyderm, the wound only just went through my skin, and I soon healed up.”

“How allegorical we are getting!” said Hilton, laughing.

“Yes,” replied Chumbley, coolly, “very. Then there was my friend Hilton: he did get a stab that pretty well touched his heart, and the wound smarts still.”

Hilton sat up, and glared at his friend.

“And yet he calls a woman a tigress and a savage because she utters threats that an Englishwoman would hide out of sight.”

“You are improving, Chumbley.”

“Yes, I am,” said the other.

“Now, are you ready to try and escape before we are krissed?”

“Bah!—stuff! She wouldn’t kris us! She’d threaten, but she wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head, unless scissoring off one of your Hyperion curls injured it when she took it for a keepsake. I’m going to prophesy now.”

“Going to what?”

“Prophesy—set up as a prophet. Are you ready?”

“Ready?”

“Yes. Can you bear it?”

“If you are going to chatter away like this,” said Hilton, contemptuously, “I shall pray her Malay majesty to find me another cell. There, go on. What is your prophecy?”

“That as soon as the bit of temper has burned out, madam will come back smiling and be as civil as can be.”

“Not she,” said Hilton. “Hang the woman!”

“Where?” said Chumbley. “Round your neck?”

“No, round yours. I’m sorry I was so rough to her; but it is, ’pon my honour, Chum, such a contemptible, degrading set-out, that I can’t keep my temper over it.”

“You’ll cool down after a bit,” said Chumbley, yawning. “I say, though, I’m hungry. I shall protest when she comes in again. She pretended that she was sending those girls for drinks and cigars. I say,” he cried, excitedly, “I shall protest or break the bars of the cage, or do something fierce, if that is her game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, if she is going to starve you into submission, I’ll give in directly if it’s to be that. There, what did I say?” he whispered, as the folds of the heavy curtains were drawn aside, and the Inche Maida entered, looking quite calm and almost sad now as she approached.

“I am sorry,” she said, holding out her hand to Hilton, who rose and bowed, but did not attempt to take the hand she offered.

“I was very angry,” continued the Princess, in a low, penitent voice. “Malay women let their feelings get the mastery when they are angry. I suppose English ladies never do?”

Chumbley coughed slightly and made a grimace.

“Mr Chumbley,” she said, turning to him, “you will shake hands? I am not angry now. You need not be afraid.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” said Chumbley, taking the hand and pressing it warmly.

“You were not?” she cried, with a flash from her dark eyes.

“Not a bit,” he said, laughing.

“Suppose I said I would kill you?” she cried.

“Well, it would be quite time enough to feel afraid when the operation was about to be performed,” said Chumbley, coolly. “I never meet troubles half way.”

“I cannot understand you,” said the Princess. “You are a very strange man. It is because you are so big, I think, that you are not afraid.”

Chumbley bowed.

“Perhaps so,” he said.

“I came back,” said the Princess, “to tell you that I was sorry I spoke so angrily; but you must both know that I will be obeyed. If I were not firm, my people would treat me like you do your servants. I wish to speak to you both now.”

“Say a civil word to her, Hilton,” whispered Chumbley.

“Tell her to put an end to this absurd piece of folly,” said Hilton, in the same tone. “We shall be the laughing-stocks and butts of the whole service.”

The slight twitch at the corner of the Inche Maida’s mouth betrayed the fact that she had heard their words, but she took no notice, and went on addressing Chumbley now.

“I ask you both to share my home,” she said. “You are his friend, Mr Chumbley, and I know he likes you, so I felt that it would be too much to expect him to be quite happy here without an English friend. Besides, I know how great and good a soldier you are.”

“I modestly accept your praise, madam,” said Chumbley, “but I haven’t seen yet the record of my noble deeds.”

“You puzzle me when you speak like that,” said the Princess. “You are laughing at me; but I will not be angry with his friend, whom I brought to be companion, counsellor, and guide.”

“So you had me kidnapped to amuse Captain Hilton—eh?” said Chumbley. “Well, really, madam, I am honoured!”

“Not only for that!” said the Princess, eagerly. “Do I not make you understand? You are a soldier and a brave man!”

“How do you know that?” said Chumbley, with a good-humoured twinkle in his eye.

“How do I know?” cried the Princess. “Would the English Queen have chosen you to guard Mr Harley with your men if you were not? My people know already that you are brave. You beat them so that they could hardly master you; and they talk about you proudly now, and call you the great, strong brave rajah.”

“Well, it’s very kind of them,” said Chumbley, drily; “for I laid about me as heartily as I could.”

“Yes, they told me how you fought, and I was glad; for they would have despised you if you had only been big, and had let them tie you like a beaten elephant.”

“That comes of being big, Bertie,” said Chumbley. “You see, they compare me to an elephant.”

“I have commanded that you shall be chief captain for your friend, and lead our fighting men, as well as being Tumongong, my lord’s adviser. A chief is trebly strong who has a brave and trusty friend.”

“I say, old man, do you hear all this?” said Chumbley.

“Yes, I hear,” said the other, quietly.

“This is promotion with a vengeance! Yesterday lieutenant of foot, to-day commander-in-chief of her highness the Inche Maida’s troops.”

“Yes, you shall be commander,” said the Princess, seriously. “It will save my country, for my people will follow you to the death.”

“Well, ’pon my word, Princess,” said Chumbley, merrily, “you are a precious clever, sensible woman, and I like you after all.”

“And I like you,” she said, innocently. “I do not love you, but I like you very much, you seem so brave and true, and what you people call frank. You will help me, will you not, both of you? Think how I appealed to Mr Harley for help—how that almost my life depends upon it—and what did I get but empty words?”

“You did not get much, certainly,” said Chumbley.

“Then talk to your friend, and advise him. He will do what you say.”

“No,” said Chumbley, laughing, “that is just what he will not do. If ever there was a man who would not take my advice, it is Hilton.”

“Try him now that he is here—now that he knows how useless it is to fight against his fate. Speak to him, and speak kindly!” she whispered. “I am going to my women now.”

She took one step towards Hilton, holding out her hand to him in a gentle, appealing manner; but he only bowed distantly, and turned away.

The soft, appealing look passed from the Inche Maida’s face, giving place to an angry frown; but this died out as she turned to Chumbley.

“We two are friends, I hope?” she said, holding out her hand. “You are not angry with me?”

“Well, not very,” he replied, smiling; “one can’t be angry with a woman long for such a trick as this.”

“Yes,” she said, quickly, “it is a trick, as you English call it. I have won the trick.”

“Yes, you have won the trick,” assented Chumbley; “but you don’t hold the honours,” he added to himself.

“I am glad that you are wise,” she said, smiling now. “I will go, and my people shall bring you dinner.”

“Thanks,” said Chumbley; “that is the kindest act you can do to us now; only please forget the poison.”

“Poison!” she cried, indignantly. “How dare you say that to me! You are prisoners here, but you are quite safe while you do not try to escape. Have I done so little to make myself an Englishwoman that you talk of poison?”

“Yes,” said Chumbley to himself, “so little to make yourself an Englishwoman that you play upon us such a trick as this!”

The door opened, the Inche Maida passed through; and as the curtain fell down again and covered the opening, Hilton turned angrily upon his friend.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.

A Night of Terror.

It was night before Helen again woke, and her first thought was of escape; but as she softly rose to a sitting posture, she felt that one of the girls was by her side, and as she listened to her regular breathing, and tried in the darkness to collect her thoughts and to recall exactly where the door and window lay, the black night seemed a little less black just in one particular part of the room, and she realised that the window must lie there.

“If I could get past that window!” thought Helen, with throbbing brain. “I know it would be hard, but still I might make my way to the river and find someone who would be my friend. There must be paths through the jungle.”

Then with a strange aching sense of misery she thought of how little she had done since she had been out there. No one could be more ignorant of the nature of the jungle than she. She remembered that someone had called it impenetrable; but she knew that Dr Bolter went on expeditions to discover gold, and that the Reverend Arthur Rosebury sometimes wandered there.

“Poor Mr Rosebury?” she said, half aloud. “What he could do sorely I could,” and then the blood in her veins seemed to freeze, and a shudder ran through her, for from out of the darkness came a deep, hoarse, snarling roar that she recognised at once as that of some tiger on the prowl.

She was very ignorant of the jungle and its dangers, but she knew that if she should attempt to leave the building where she was imprisoned now, the result would be that she would encounter a foe of whose savage nature the station was full of tales.

The stories of her childhood came back to her then, and she laughed bitterly as she recalled the faith she had once had in the legend of Una and the lion, and familiar histories of how the helpless had been befriended by the savage creatures of the forest. Then, as she thought of her defenceless state, she once more shuddered, and asked herself whether it would not be better to trust herself to the jungle than stay where she was, to encounter one whom she dreaded far more than the creature whose cry she had just heard.

In a fit of desperate energy as her thoughts were fixed upon Murad and the possibility that he might at any time now present himself, Helen softly glided from her couch and began to cross the uneven floor, stepping cautiously from bamboo lath to lath, and shivering as one gave a crack from time to time.

It seemed darker now, and for guide towards the window there was nothing but the faintly-felt sensation of the dank jungle air coming cool against her cheek; but she kept on, thinking nothing of the way she should turn or how she should escape; all that animated her now was the one great idea that she must steal away beyond the power of these two Malay women to recall her. If she could now do that, the rest might prove easy. Something would no doubt offer itself.

“I must, I will escape,” she half wailed, in a whisper that startled her as it fell upon her ear, so full was it of helpless misery and despair.

She paused to listen, for one of the girls had moved, and then, as she stood in the darkness, there was a very faint rustling noise, and Helen felt that her gaoler had risen and was cautiously stealing towards her. So sure was she of this, that she held up one hand to keep her enemy at a distance; but though the sound continued, no one touched her, and the soft rustling came no nearer to where she stood.

She uttered a sigh of misery at her own dread and overwrought imagination, as she now realised the fact that the soft rustling was that of leaves as the night wind stirred them when it passed, for the soft, heavy breathing of the sleepers came regularly to her ear.

It was very strange and confusing, though, for now in that intense darkness she seemed to have lost herself, and she could not tell exactly from which side the heavy breathing came.

Once, as she listened intently, it seemed to grow so loud that it struck her it was the breathing of some monster of the jungle that had stopped by the open window; but soon she recovered herself sufficiently to feel that she was wrong; it was but the regular sleep of her companions, and laying her hand upon her breast to stay the throbbings of her heart, she gathered up the loose sarong that interfered with her progress, and stepped on cautiously towards where she believed the door to be.

Once more the yielding bamboos bent beneath her weight, creaking loudly, and as they cracked at every step the more loudly now that she was walking beyond the rugs, the sounds were so plain in the still night that she tremblingly wondered why her companions did not wake.

At last one gave so loud a crack that she stood perfectly still, afraid to either advance or recede; but to her great comfort the regular breathing of the two Malay girls rose and fell, as it were, like the pulses of the intensely hot night.

With the feeling that any attempt at haste must result in failure, Helen stood there listening as the low hum of the night-flying insects reached her ear; and somehow, in spite of the peril in which she stood, thoughts of the past came back, and the hot-breathed gloom seemed to suggest those summer nights at the Miss Twettenham’s when the sun-scorched air lingered in the dormitories, and they used to sit by the open windows, enjoying the sweetness of the soft night, reluctant to go to bed. Those were the times when, filled with romantic thoughts, they listened to the nightingales answering each challenge from copse to copse, and making the listeners think of subjects the Misses Twettenham never taught—subjects relating to love, with serenades, cavaliers, elopements, and other horrors, such as would have made the thin hair of those amiable elderly ladies stand on end. For there was something very witching in those soft summer nights, an atmosphere that set young hearts dream of romantic futures. Helen Perowne had perhaps had the wildest imagination of any dreamer there, but in her most exalted times she had never dreamed so wild a life-romance as that of which she had become the heroine; and as she stood there with her throat parched, listening to the hum of mosquitoes and the breathing of her companions, everything seemed so unreal that she was ready to ask herself whether she slept—whether she did not dream still—and would awake to find herself back in the conventual seclusion of the old school.

Then once more came the shudder-engendering roar of the prowling tiger, apparently close at hand, and in its deep, strange tones seeming to make the building vibrate.

Helen shivered, and the cold, damp perspiration gathered on her face, as she felt now the propinquity of the tiger to such an extent that she was ready to sink down helpless upon the floor.

There it was again—that low, deep, muttering roar, ending in a growling snarl, and so close below the window that she trembled, knowing as she did that there were only a few frail bamboo laths between her and the most savage creature that roamed the jungle.

Was it real, she asked herself once more, that she, Helen Perowne, was here in this wild forest, surrounded by beasts of prey, and none of her friends at hand; or had she lost her senses, and would she awaken some day calm and cool at home, with a faint, misty recollection of having suffered from some fever that had attacked her brain.

Yes, it was real; she was alone and helpless in that terrible place, and there, in the pulsating furnace-like heat of the dark night, was the cry of the tiger once again.

There was no doubt of its being one of these huge catlike creatures, for she had heard it frequently by night in the neighbourhood of the settlement, where during the past few years more than one unfortunate Chinese servant had been carried off. But when she had listened to the low, muttered, guttural roar, ending in an angry snarl, she had been at the window of her own home, surrounded by protectors; and awesome as the sound had seemed, it had never inspired her with such dread as now when she had determined to risk everything in her attempt to escape, and expose herself to the tender mercies of such creatures as this now wandering about the place.

Again and again came the cry, now seemingly distant, now close at hand, till at last Helen’s knees refused to support her, and she sank down trembling, for the creature’s breathing could be plainly heard beneath where she stood, the lightly-built house being, like all in the Malay jungle, raised upon stout bamboo or palm posts for protection from wild beasts and flood.

Singularly enough, as the first horror passed away, Helen felt her courage return.

“It will not hurt me,” she said, hysterically; but she crouched there trembling as she listened to the snuffling noise beneath her, and then there was a dull thud as of a heavy leap.

Helen shuddered as she listened, and by some strange mental process began to compare the feline monster, excited by the scent of human beings close at hand, to Murad; and after listening till all seemed still once more—till the muffled cry of the tiger arose now some distance away, she rose cautiously, and made her way towards the door.

A kind of nervous energy had seized upon her now, and she stepped forward lightly to touch the woven walls.

Sweeping her hand over them, she recognised her position now by the hangings, and the darkness-engendered confusion to some extent passed away. She found the door, and the great curtain rustled as she drew it aside to get at the fastening, her hands feeling wet and cold, while her face was burning, and her heart kept up a heavy, dull beat.

There was a faint sound apparently from behind her now, and she stood listening, but it was not repeated. The low hum of the nocturnal insects rose and fell, and once more the soft rustling of the leaves stirred by the night wind came through the window close at hand, and from very far off now, and so faint as to be hardly perceptible, there was the tiger’s growl. There was nothing more but the heat, which seemed in its intensity to throb and beat upon her brain.

But still Helen dared not move for a time, trembling the while lest the first touch she gave the door should awaken her gaolers. At last, though, she nerved herself once more, and tried to find out how the door was fastened. There was no lock, no bolt, such as those to which she was accustomed, and though she passed her hands over it in every direction it was without result.

The time was gliding on, and in her ignorance of how long she might have slept, she felt that morning would at any time be there; so with a weary sigh of misery she left her futile task and crept cautiously to the window.

It did not seem so dark now, or else her eyes were more accustomed to the want of light, for she found the window directly; and as she took hold of the bamboo bars, the hot night air came in a heavy puff against her face, fierce and glowing, as if it were some watching monster’s breath.

She listened as she stood there, and the breathing of the two girls seemed to have ceased. There was the tiger’s cry once more, but sounding now like a distant wail, and her spirits rose as she felt that one of the perils likely to assail her was passing away.

Again she listened, and once more the breathing of her companions reached her ear, the Malay girls seeming to be sleeping heavily, as with nervous fingers Helen now strove to move one of the bars, or to loosen it so that it could be thrust up or down, but without avail; then she strove to draw one of them sufficiently aside to allow her to pass through, but her efforts were entirely in vain, although she kept on striving, in total ignorance of the fact that it would have taken a strong man armed with an axe to have done the work she adventured with her tender fingers alone.

Just as she let her aching arms fall to her side and a weary sigh of disappointment escaped her breast, she felt herself caught tightly by the wrist, and with a sensation of horror so great as to threaten the overthrow of her reason, she snatched herself away, and clung to the bars of the window with all her remaining strength.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.

A Desperate Appeal.

It was some few moments after she had been seized again, and this time held by two hands stronger than her own, that Helen Perowne realised the fact that it was the Malay girl that had shown her the most compassion who had taken her by the arm.

“What are you doing here?” was whispered in a low, angry voice.

Helen made no reply, and as she clung to the window, the girl went on:

“You were trying to get away, but it is of no use. Murad knew that when they brought you here. If you could get out of this place you could not go far through the jungle before the tigers would tear you down. No one kills them here. He has them kept that he may hunt them; but when the time for hunting them comes, Murad is away with the English people, or he is not well, or he has no elephants, so the tigers are never touched. They would tear you down, I say, and when Murad’s men searched for you, they would only find your bones. I remember two girls escaping to the jungle, but they were both killed.”

“Better that than stay here,” said Helen, in a low, excited voice. “Listen to me,” she continued, striving hard to make herself understood; “you do not like me—you do not want me here.”

“No!” said the girl, fiercely. “I wish you had not come—that you would go and be killed; but if you were to escape, Murad would kill us all; and I do not want to die—no—not yet.”

“No, no; he would not be so cruel,” whispered Helen, who trembled with hope and excitement, as she felt that a chance for escape had at last come. “Help me to get away—to get back to my friends!” she cried, appealingly. “Let me escape, and I will reward you—I will give you what you like. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I know what you say,” replied the girl, “but I do not believe it. You are the English lady who made the Rajah love you because he was so handsome. We know all here; and now that he has brought you, what is this you tell me—that you want to go away? Oh, no! it is like a little child. I do not believe one word!”

“But it is true!” whispered Helen. “Speak lower, or you will waken her,” said the girl; “and she hates you more than I!”

“I will obey you in anything,” whispered Helen, restraining her voice, and sinking down and clutching the girl’s knees, “only help me to escape, and my father will fill your hands with gold.”

“What use would it be to me?” said the girl with a quiet little laugh.

“I will give you anything you ask!” panted Helen excitedly, as she seemed to see a faint chance of the girl yielding.

“Do you not understand what would happen if I helped you to go?” said the girl, quietly.

“No; I cannot tell,” replied Helen, “but I will not mind the danger.”

“There is more danger for me than for you,” was the answer, with a little laugh. “I will tell you: Murad would be angry and fierce; he would forget that he loved me once, and brought me here to be one of his wives. He would make his men take me to the river, and force me to kneel down, when I should be krissed and thrown into the water for the crocodiles to eat.”

“Oh, no; it is too horrible!” whispered Helen, as her excited imagination conjured up the dreadful scene.

“It is true,” said the girl, simply. “He had one wife krissed like that because she ran away twice—because she ran away to the boy she loved before she was taken from her home. Murad is Sultan, and he will be obeyed. He is very cruel sometimes!”

Helen shuddered as she thought that if this were true, she could not ask for help at such a price.

“I should have gone away before now,” said the girl, thoughtfully, as her hands played with Helen’s hair; “for I have someone else who followed me here that he might be near me; but I dare not go! Murad would kill me. It would not hurt much, and I don’t think I should mind; but he would kill someone else, and I could not bear that!”

“Go, then,” said Helen quickly. “Leave me to myself. Let me escape without your help!”

“He would kill me and her all the same,” said the girl, sadly; “and if I let you get out, what could you do? You would wander in the jungle till the beasts seized you, or you died. You must have a boat to escape from here; and if you could get a boat you could not row.”

“I would escape along the jungle-paths,” whispered Helen, excitedly.

“No,” said the girl, “you could not do that. There is only one path through the jungle, and that goes from this house to the river. That is all. You cannot escape; why do you try?”

Helen rose from her knees, and clutched the girl’s arms fiercely.

“I can escape, and I will!” she panted excitedly. “How dare he seize an English lady and insult her like this!”

“Because he is Sultan here, and he is stronger and greater than we are,” said the girl. “Murad is a mighty prince, and all the people here are his slaves and have to obey. You must obey him too.”

“I!” cried Helen.

“Yes, you; and you will be happy, for he loves you more than all. He used to come from Sindang here, and talk to us, and praise you, and tell us that you would come and be our mistress here. He loves you very much, and you will be quite happy soon.”

“Happy? With him?” cried Helen, in horror.

“Yes, happy. You have won his love from us, and we here are only like your slaves. It is you who take away our happiness, and I ought to hate you; but I do not, for you are so young. Do you love someone else?”

“Yes—no, no!” panted Helen, excitedly.

“But you love Murad?”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Helen.

“I am sorry—I am sorry,” said the girl, thoughtfully.

“Then help me—pray help me!” whispered Helen, prayerfully, and she flung her arms round the swarthy girl, and held her to her breast. “Help me to get away, for I do not love Murad, and you do!”

The girl started and thrust Helen away, but only to cling to her in turn after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, I think I love him,” she said, softly, “though he is very cruel to me now.”

“And you hate me—very much—because—because Murad loves me?” whispered Helen, with a shudder.

“I don’t think I hate you very much,” said the girl, softly.

“You need not hate me—indeed you need not!” whispered Helen, and her voice, her very ways were changed now. The old pride was entirely gone, and she spoke with winning, womanly sweetness, full of tenderness and caress, as she nestled closer and closer to the girl. “You need not hate me,” she repeated, “for I detest this Murad—I loathe him! I love some one else! Help me, then, to get back to my own people—to escape from Murad. Help me, or I shall die!”

The girl was silent.

“Oh,” moaned Helen, “she does not understand anything I say!”

“Yes,” said the girl, softly, “I understand.”

“Then you pretended you could not!” cried Helen, wrathfully.

“Murad ordered me to pretend that I only knew my own tongue,” said the girl. “But no, I cannot help you, and you will not die. I thought so once; but we do not die because we are taken from our homes and people. Murad makes us love him, and then we forget the past, for we know that it is our fate.”

Helen’s heart sank as she listened to the girl’s words, so full of patient resignation, and she wondered whether she would ever be like this. There was not a ray of hope now in her utterances, and for the moment, in the horror of the despair that came upon her, she felt frantic.

Thrusting her companion from her, she made a dash for the entrance, beating and tearing at it in her madness, as she uttered a series of loud hysteric cries. She shook the door fiercely, but her efforts were in vain; and as she strove to reach the window her fit of excitement seemed to pass, leaving her weak and despairing, heart-sick too, as she felt how lowering her acts must be in the sight of her companions; for the second girl had now sprung up, and she felt herself dragged back to her couch, and there compelled to stay.

They both joined in scolding her angrily; and feeling her helplessness, a strange feeling of weakness came over the prisoner, and she lay there at last a prey to despair, as she realised now more fully how slight was her prospect of escape—how much slighter was the chance of Neil Harley coming to her help, however earnestly he might have searched.

Before morning, when her companions had once more sunk to sleep, in spite of the hope that she felt of perhaps after all winning one of them to her side, so terribly had her misery of feeling increased, that as she pondered on her state, she found herself praying that Neil Harley might never look upon her face again.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.

Escaped by Accident.

The Rev. Arthur Rosebury passed many miserable hours when the sun was down, for then he began to think of Helen Perowne, and wondered where she was. It was a terrible thought that she was in the power of the Malays; and in a dreamy, despairing manner, he wondered how matters were at the station, and whether any steps would be taken to set him at liberty.

But as soon as the daylight came there was solace for the solitary prisoner, for he was amongst wonderful plants, such as he had never before seen, and his guards or attendants, whichever they might be called, were always ready to help him, and to supply him with any specimens he required.

He had lost count of time by devoting himself so earnestly to the botanical treasures of the garden; and one morning, after asking himself whether he ought not to make some effort to escape, he was out in the grounds of his prison-house once more, when, having pretty well exhausted its treasures, he walked straight to the gate.

His guard, who had been seated beneath the veranda calmly chewing his betel-nut, snatched out his kris, and darted fiercely after the chaplain, who was evidently about to escape; but on coming in sight of the prisoner, and finding him stooping over a cluster of orchids in a damp place in the jungle, the man stopped short, a contemptuous smile crossed his face, and he slowly replaced his kris, folded his arms and leaned against a tree.

In his eyes the botanist was a simple maniac, and so long as he made no vigorous effort to escape, it did not seem to matter if he went a little way into the jungle to collect his plants.

Stepping back quietly a few yards, the man held up his hands in a peculiar way, and a couple of dark figures armed with spears, glided from the house to his side, the little party crouching down amongst the dense growth, and holding a consultation for a few minutes, the result of which was that the two last arrivals glided back a short distance, while the principal guard slowly followed the chaplain some twenty or thirty yards behind, and always unseen by him he watched. The foliage was so dense that there was never the slightest difficulty in this, and hence it was that as the Reverend Arthur, forgetful now of everything but his favourite pursuit, went slowly on into the more easily penetrated parts of the jungle, his guards were always close at hand, forming as it were the links of a chain between his prison and himself.

At intervals he would perhaps stop and think of Helen, wondering where she was, and whether he ought not to make some strenuous effort to find her; but as often as not, in the midst of these thoughts, he would catch sight of some fresh flower or woodland moss, objects that he had worshipped long before Helen Perowne had disturbed the tranquillity of his peaceful life, and then he would eagerly stoop down to pick it, most likely ending by kneeling in some wet place, while he fixed a powerful lens in his eye, examined the plant carefully, and stopped to think. Then most likely he would pick some huge leaf to lay upon the ground, and with that as tray to hold the various portions of his specimen, he would take out a penknife, and proceed to dissect the plant, examining its various parts with the greatest care before making the most rigid notes, and then consigning his treasure to the basket he had brought with him.

This went on day after day, till he got into the habit of going off directly after his morning meal, and penetrating some distance along some narrow jungle path, generally losing himself completely at last, and pausing to stare about him, hungry, faint, and bewildered.

It was always the same; after staring about him for a few minutes, wondering what he should do, and feeling oppressed by the vastness and silence of the jungle, he would catch sight of a tall dark figure, standing some little distance off, leaning upon a spear, and go to it for help.

The quiet helplessness of the prisoner seemed to win his guards over to him; and as day after day glided slowly by, and he showed not the slightest disposition to make an attempt at escape, he was allowed more latitude by the Malays and travelled farther and farther from the place that had been made his prison.

It was only natural under the circumstances, that, with the cord that metaphorically held him so much relaxed, it would grow weaker and weaker, and so it proved. In fact, had the chaplain been as other men were, he would have had but little difficulty in making his escape. But after thinking deeply of the possibilities of getting away, the Reverend Arthur concluded that not only was it next to impossible, but that, situated as he was, it was his duty to stay where he was, especially as he believed himself to be near Helen, who was also a captive, and whom, sooner or later, he would be called upon to help and protect. He had, too, a half-formed, nebulous idea that it would be better to leave matters to fate, for in his helpless state he could do nothing; and then one day he began to think that his wanderings about the jungle might prove beneficial in giving him a knowledge of the country, and on the day in question this idea had come upon him strongly.

He actually reproached himself for being so supine, and went off uninterrupted for some distance, growing more and more animated as he went, and telling himself that he felt sure Helen Perowne was somewhere near, and that he must strive to find her.

The result was that he walked laboriously on for miles, till he was hot, weary, and exhausted; and then seating himself upon the trunk of a huge palm, which being situated in a more open place than usual, had been blown down by some furious gale, he began to wipe the drenching perspiration from his face, sighed deeply, and then saw clustering close by his feet a magnificent group of orchids of a species that was quite new.

The Reverend Arthur Rosebury had gone on well into middle life without so much as dreaming of love, and then he had seen Helen Perowne, and his love for her had not prospered. Still it had burned on steadily and brightly month after month, and only wanting a little fostering care upon the lady’s part to make it burst forth into a brilliant flame; but somehow his old pursuits retained an enormous power over his spirit, and although upon this particular day he had come out determined to make some effort—what he hardly knew, but still to make some effort—he was turned at once from his project by the flowers at his feet; and that day Helen’s face troubled him no more.

Heat, hunger, and weariness were all forgotten, and he did not even look round to see if either of his guards was there, though all the same the principal of them had for the last hour been following him with lowering looks. Quite out of patience, and hot and exhausted in his turn, he was about to close up, take the chaplain by the arm, and lead him back, when he saw him seat himself, and soon after stoop down and begin to pick the plants, digging some of them up completely by the roots, and spreading them before him for a long investigation.

The Malay smiled with satisfaction, and the lowering, angry look left his face. He, too, found a resting-place, took out his eternal betel-box, and prepared his piece of nut, chewing away contentedly, like some ruminating animal, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the Reverend Arthur as he busied himself with his plants, cutting, laying open, and making notes. As in the distance the Malay saw the chaplain’s pencil going, he slowly sank back into a more comfortable position; then his eyes began to open and shut, and open and shut, and then forget to open, so that by the time the prisoner had begun to gather up his specimens, a happy smile of content upon his lip, the guard was lying right back, hidden amongst the dense growth, sleeping heavily, and half-covered by different kinds of insects which were investigating the nature of the strange being that had taken possession of their domain.

The time passed, and then the chaplain rose refreshed by his long rest, looked round to see which way he had come, and after satisfying himself that he was quite right, went off in a direction that, for taking him back to whence he came, was quite wrong.

It did not trouble him though in the least, for his mind was intent upon the plants he passed; and so accustomed was he to giving up his thoughts entirely to such pursuits as this, that he was quite lost to everything else, and he went slowly on, finding himself in a more open portion of the jungle, and surrounded on all sides by new plants.

It was a perfect paradise to him, and he did not feel the want of an Eve, but culled the specimens here and there, careless of the fact that there was no path where he was, no trace of human beings having been there before, but there were choice specimens in abundance, and that was enough for him.

Once only did his thoughts go back to his friends, and that was when with much difficulty he had forced his way through some dense thorns with unfortunate results to his clothes.