George Manville Fenn (continued 8)

“I am afraid that Mary would be rather angry,” he muttered, “if she saw me now. Poor Mary! how happy she seems with the doctor; but she is just a little too strict sometimes.”

Thinking about his sister, he went on in the most abstracted manner, the thoughts of his sister bringing up Helen Perowne, and he went on talking to himself half aloud, while a flock of parroquets in the trees above his head kept travelling on with him, flitting from branch to branch, climbing by foot and beak, hanging by one leg, heads up and heads down, and always seeming to watch him, and be mocking and gibing at him like a set of green and scarlet feathered implings who made derisive gestures, while they were astounded at the sight of an English clergyman journeying through that savage place.

“I’m afraid dear Mary would not like it,” he said, simply, “even if finally Helen were to give me her consent. And yet dear Mary would never be able to resist so much beauty as Helen possesses. I wonder where she is now?”

He sighed deeply, and then paused to consider the beauty of a lovely acacia with its graceful pinnate leaves. Then came a hard struggle through a dense cane-break which left him hot and panting.

“It’s much pleasanter travelling through the English woods,” he said. “The heat here is very trying, and I’m getting faint and hungry. I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.”

He looked about for some little time, but saw nothing till he had dragged his weary legs on for about another half-mile, when the appearance of the ground told him that people had not long since passed that way.

“Then I shall find a village,” he said, “and the people will give or sell me something, and—Bless me, how strange!”

He stopped short and listened, but all was still but the chattering and whistling of the birds.

“It must have been one of the parrots,” he said, “but it sounded remarkably like a woman’s voice. It is an unaccountable thing to me how it is that nature should have given the parrot family so remarkable a power of imitating the human voice. Now, as I walked along there I could have been sure that a woman had called to me aloud for help. It sounded very peculiar in this wild jungle, echoing and strange, and it seemed to startle me.”

There was a regular chorus of whistling and chattering just now, and the chaplain started, for there came directly after a loud whirring of wings; the air seemed full of flashes of green, and blue, and scarlet, and then the stillness was almost painful.

“How easily one may be deceived!” he said, quietly. “One notices such things more when one is tired and hungry; and it is very dull work to be alone out here. I wish Bolter could be my companion and—there it was again.”

The chaplain stopped short and listened, for a wild cry certainly rang out now; and, willing as he was to attribute the strange noise to a bird, it seemed impossible that it could have proceeded from one of them.

“If it is a cry,” the chaplain said, hastily, “I must be very near to a village, and someone is in trouble.”

The idea of help being needed roused him so that he hurried on, and kept thrusting back the hanging and running canes which impeded his way, till at the end of a few minutes he came suddenly upon an open space surrounded by trees, with evidently a broad track, leading away towards what, from the difference in the growth of the foliage, must be a stream.

Away to the right he could see the gable-end of what was apparently a large palm-thatched house, and over it there was a group of magnificent cocoa-palms, such as at another time would have secured his attention; but now different feelings were awakened, for from out of a low clump of trees he suddenly saw a Malay woman come running, her gay silken sarong and scarf fluttering in the breeze.

She saw him evidently, and made signs to him, which, instead of attracting him to her side, made him shrink away.

“It is some quarrel among themselves,” he muttered, for he recalled the advice he had heard given him as to his behaviour to the people, and the danger of interfering with their home lives.

As he thought this, he stopped, and was about to turn away, when a fresh cry smote his ear, and the woman ran a few paces towards him, tottered as she caught her foot in a trailing cane, and fell heavily to the ground.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Desperate Attempt.

More long weary days of stifling heat, without a breath of air to relieve the oppression, and more hot suffocating nights, during which, half wild with terror and despair, Helen, like some newly-captured bird, had beaten the bars of her prison in vain.

She had appealed to the Malay girl, but only for her to turn away and seem at last weary and troubled by the importunity she had received. Then she had appealed to the second girl, who was of a morose jealous aspect, and who evidently detested her. But all appeal here was vain, for the girl evidently did not understand her words, and turned sullenly away. It was so, too, with the rest of the women, who came to the door and just entered the room in obedience to some call.

But Helen might as well have appealed to the trees that stood tall and columnar just outside the prison window. Those who did not understand her words looked at her with a heavy scowl; while those who could comprehend laughed, or made her keep away from them, for they disliked her coming, and their eyes plainly told the hatred that there was in their hearts. Beside which, they knew the punishment that would fall to their lot should they go in opposition to their lord’s orders, and the danger was too great to tempt the most willing of them to run any risks.

The girl who had been most gentle to her, and who had not scrupled to talk freely about her own affairs, now seemed to keep aloof; and feeling more and more her helplessness, Helen awoke to the fact that if she were to escape from her present durance it must be by her own effort.

In this spirit she tried to restrain herself, and waited patiently for some opportunity for communicating with her friends; though when this opportunity would come she was obliged to confess was doubtful in the extreme.

Naturally enough her thoughts turned to writing, and feeling the folly of applying in a place like her prison for pens and paper, she set herself to contrive some means upon which she could describe her position, finding it at last in the form of a book, one of whose fly-leaves she covered with a pitiful appeal to any Englishman who would read it, and imploring help. This she kept by her, ready to send should opportunity occur, and still the dreary days glided by.

There was one redeeming point, though, in her captivity, and that was the fact that so far she had not been troubled by a visit from Murad; but at last one morning, when the fresh beauty of the scene outside her window and the elasticity of the brisk air made her feel more cheerful than of old, she awoke to the fact that there was a little stir about the place; the women calling to each other and seeming busier than was their wont. The two girls who acted as Helen’s gaolers ran to the glass as soon as they entered, and with all the coquetry of some London belle in her first season, placed wreaths of white flowers in their braids, twisted their sarongs into more graceful folds, and then turned their attention to Helen.

She refused to allow them to approach her at first, but her resistance was useless, and finding that without violence there were no means of overcoming their tolerably good-humoured pertinacity, she submitted, wearily telling them to do what they pleased, when one, the most friendly, insisted upon taking down her magnificent hair.

“Only to make it more beautiful,” she said.

At this moment the other woman left the room.

“Will you help me to escape?” said Helen, quickly, as soon as they were alone.

“No; I dare not. Murad would have me killed.”

“Then will you send this paper by a messenger down to the station?”

“Paper?” said the girl, wonderingly.

“Yes, paper. I have written for help; send it by a messenger. Here are my rings and watch to pay him for going. Take them, and if you have any womanly feeling, help me now.”

“I cannot; I dare not,” whispered the woman; but Helen forced paper and trinkets into her hand, just as the second attendant was heard coming, when her companion burst out into one of the minor songs of the country, and busied herself with her task.

Helen’s heart gave one great throb of hope, and raising her eyes to those of her attendant, she read there that her message would be sent.

The second woman brought in a bunch of what seemed to be a kind of waxy yellow jasmine of an extremely powerful odour. These she proceeded to twine in and amongst Helen’s magnificent dark hair; and when the prisoner shudderingly attempted to resist, feeling as she did that she was being decked out for, as it were, a sacrifice, the flower-bearer stormed at her angrily in the Malay tongue, and seemed to threaten her with some severe punishment if she persisted in tearing them out.

“It would be childish to keep on opposing them,” thought Helen, whose spirits were lighter now that she had found some means, as she hoped, of communicating with the station; and she resigned herself to her attendant’s clever hands.

As she sat back, listening languidly to the whistling, chattering noise of the parroquets that swarmed in the jungle, she felt a pang shoot through her, for very faintly heard there was a sound familiar to her ear—a sound that she had frequently listened to at her open window at the station. It was the plashing of oars coming from a distance, and she felt that at last the Rajah was approaching the place, to see his prisoner.

Helen’s teeth gritted together as she set them hard, calling upon herself for all her fortitude and strength of mind for what she knew must be a terrible ordeal.

The scene at home on that morning when Murad had come to propose for her hand came back most vividly, and for the moment she trembled as she realised the evil she had done.

She recovered herself though somewhat, and striving hard to be prepared for what was to come, sat listening and wondering whether Murad really was close at hand.

She had not long to wait in indecision, and she knew that her hearing had not played her false, for the two girls had heard the same sound, and running to the window, stood listening as the plash of oars now came nearer and nearer.

Then the sounds ceased, and there was to Helen a painful silence. The heat grew oppressive, and the leaves hung motionless in the glowing air. For the moment it seemed like one of the oppressive July days in her old school; but the fancy was gone directly after, and the horrors of her position came back so strongly that she could hardly refrain from running wildly about the room and crying for help.

Just then the two girls left the window, and crossed to where Helen was seated, darting at her, as it seemed in her then excited condition, furious and angrily envious looks before turning now to the doorway, passing through, and letting the great curtain fall behind.

As Helen waited her heart began to beat violently, for there was no mistaking the import of the sounds she heard. So far they had been women’s voices, now unmistakably they were men’s; and growing more and more agitated, and ready to start at every sound, she sat waiting for the interview that she knew must come.

To her surprise the day glided on till the afternoon was well advanced, and still, beyond the occasional sound of male voices, there was nothing to distinguish between this day and any other, save that once, when left alone together, the Malay girl whispered to her:

“I have sent a messenger with your paper, but he may never take it where you wish.”

Before Helen could declare her thankfulness the girl was gone, giving place to the other, who looked at her morosely, and then stood leaning by the door till a loud voice called her, and she answered, going out quickly, while Helen sat trembling and pressing her hand upon her palpitating heart.

Could it be true? and if true, were there not attendants waiting to guard the entrance, for unmistakably it seemed that the Malay girl had hurried to obey the call and left the door open.

Helen rose, and walked with tottering step to the door, to find that not only was it open, but that there was no one in the room beyond—a room whose door opened straight upon a kind of bamboo veranda, with a flight of steps down to the ground; while beyond that was a clearing, and then the jungle.

She paused for a minute listening. There was not a sound but the loud whistling and chattering of the birds in the trees. The place might have been deserted, everything was so still; and it did not occur to her that this was a time when many of the people would be asleep till the heat of the day was past.

It was enough for her that the way to freedom was there; and hesitating no longer, she passed out into the farther room, reached the door unseen, and was in the act of descending the flight of steps, when one of the Malay women of the place saw and ran at her, catching her by the dress and arm, and holding her so tenaciously, that Helen, in her anguish at being thus checked, uttered a cry for help, escaped her retainer, and then leaped down and ran.

The Malay woman was joined by another now; and in her excitement and ignorance of which way to go, she was driven into a corner, but only to make a brave dash for liberty as the girls caught and held her again.

In her excitement Helen cried again and again for help, forgetful of the fact that she was more likely to summon enemies than friends.

The cries of a woman had little effect there, for beyond bringing out a couple more of the Malay women, Helen’s appeals for help seemed to create no excitement; and she was beginning to feel that her efforts would prove in vain, when she saw a figure come from amongst the trees, and stretching out her hands towards it, she made one last effort to reach what she had looked upon as safety.

For there could be no mistaking that figure. It was the chaplain. At the moment it seemed to her that Arthur Rosebury had been sent there expressly to save her from her terrible position; and half-fainting, panting, and thoroughly exhausted, she tottered on, tripped, and fell.

The effort to escape was vain, for a couple of Malay women seized Helen’s arms and dragged her off, followed by the chaplain, but not for many yards. Before he had gone far he too was seized, and hurried back in the way by which he had come. It was vain to struggle, and he had to resign himself, but it was with feelings mingled with indignation and disgust.

The Malay lady was evidently of superior station by her dress; and that she was ill-used there could be no doubt. His English blood glowed at the thought, and clergyman though he was, and man of peace, he still felt enough spirit to be ready to have undertaken her defence.

He cooled down, though, as he was hurried back through the jungle—cooled in temper, but heated in body; while the faintness and hunger soon increased to such an extent that his adventure with the Malay lady was forgotten.

But not by Helen Perowne, who, once more shut up in her room, rejoiced to think that, though surrounded by enemies, there was one friend near—a true friend whom she could trust—one who would be ready to do anything for her sake, badly as she had behaved to him.

“He cannot be far away,” she said, half aloud, and with the hysterical sobs in her throat. “He is near, and there must be friends with him. He saw me, and he will not lose a minute without bringing help; and then—”

And then she stopped as if paralysed, for the thought came upon her with a flash that, though the Reverend Arthur Rosebury had seen her, he had only gazed upon a tall, swarthy Malay woman, in whom he could not possibly have recognised Helen Perowne.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Eight.

Murad at Home.

The place was very still once more as Helen sat thinking, with her two attendants idling by the window. She had heard the sound of oars, and there had been men’s voices, but nothing more.

She was angry with herself for the ill success of her attempt to escape; but by degrees she calmed down, and her excitement passed off, for there was something inexpressibly comforting in the knowledge that the chaplain was not far away. She succeeded so well at last in recovering her equanimity that she told herself she was ready to crush Murad with the outburst of righteous indignation that would flow from her lips.

There was a calm, dreamy feeling about the place now, and her attendants seemed half asleep. It was intensely hot, and the birds and insects had ceased their whistlings and busy hum. So quiet did it seem in the late afternoon that everything might have been supposed asleep, when once more the sound of voices sent a thrill through Helen, and she began to tremble and feel weak once more, till suddenly there was one voice heard above the others, giving orders, and this voice sent a thrill through her—not of dread, but of anger.

She drew herself up, for the time had come, and, like one who has been for weeks dreading some painful scene, shrinking within herself, but grows brave and ready at the last moment when she is face to face with the difficulty, so Helen Perowne suddenly felt herself firm and ready for the encounter she had to endure.

It was Murad’s voice undoubtedly, giving orders in a sharp, commanding way; and though he spoke in the Malay tongue, she readily recognised the tones that had been used at the station, when he had hung over her ottoman, softened his words to the occasion, and then gazed at her with love-softened eyes.

“Idiot! idiot! weak coquette that I was!” she cried to herself. “Had I no more sense than to lead this savage on for the sake of gaining a little more adoration. Oh! father, it was a curse you gave me, and not a blessing, in those handsome features that all people praised.”

The weak tears rose to her eyes, and it was only by an effort that she kept them back, clenching her teeth and fingers, and striving to be firm.

“It is too late now,” she muttered then. “Oh! Grey Stuart, would to Heaven that you were here!”

Then, with forced composure upon her face and her heart palpitating wildly, she took up one of the Chinese fans that lay by her ottoman, and sat listening as she plainly heard steps ascending the broad ladder to the platform. Then, with her heart beating in unison to the footsteps that came across the adjoining room, she waited till the door was thrown open; the great curtain was hastily drawn aside by the two Malay attendants, who both stood with head reverently bowed and eyes cast down, as if they dared not gaze upon their lord, while Murad entered with a quick imperious step, and stood there, in his semi-European costume.

He gazed sharply from one to the other for a moment or two, and then made an imperious gesture, signing to the two girls to leave the room.

Helen did not move, but sat with her head raised, her eyelids drooped, but watchfully noting everything that went on. She forced down her terrible emotion, and moment by moment gained greater command over herself.

The two girls looked up at their lord appealingly for a moment, but there was so fierce a look directed at them that they crossed their hands deprecatingly upon their breasts, bent their heads, and with their eyes upon the bamboo flooring, passed slowly out.

The time had come. Helen had determined to be brave and to resume her mastery over this savage prince; but in spite of her efforts to be calm, her timid woman’s nature prevailed, and found vent in a quick, short command to the girls.

“No, no,” she cried. “Stay!”

But as she uttered her order they were passing through, the door shut heavily behind them, and the Rajah let the heavy curtain fall back in its place.

Then she felt that she was alone indeed, and for a moment her head swam as she gazed through her long dark lashes at the daring Malay who was the author of this outrage and its cruel sequence.

He was still by the door, standing erect and proud, his head drawn back, one hand resting upon the hilt of his kris, and a mocking smile of triumph upon his face, as if he were rejoicing at the success of his plans.

“You do not rise to welcome me,” he whispered softly. “Are you angry because I have been so long away?”

She did not answer, but nerved herself more and more, and to her great joy she felt that it was anger rather than fear that now filled her breast, though she told herself that perhaps diplomacy might be more successful than threats.

“It is because I have stayed so long,” he said, half mockingly; and then, speaking once more in his low, passionate tones—the tones Helen had thought so musical in the drawing-room of their home at the station—he whispered:

“I could not have hoped for so great a change. You are a thousand times more beautiful than you were before.”

Helen essayed to speak, but her emotion choked her utterance; and always watchful of his slightest movement, she still sat with her eyelids drooping, and he went on in excellent English, but with the metaphorical imagery so loved of Eastern people:

“Always beautiful; but now, robed as a princess of my nation, decked with Malayan flowers, your white skin softened to the sun-kissed nature of a beauty of our land, you shine before me like some star.”

Still she remained silent, and he went on: “They have done their work well, and could you but see your beauty with these eyes of mine, you would not wonder that I should have thought the hours weary that kept me from your side. Helen—beautiful Helen, you used not to hide those eyes from mine. Look up; let me see them once again. We are alone here now. No prying creatures of your English people can see us. I have prayed to Allah that this hour might come, and now that I am here, humble—thy very slave—where is thy look of welcome—where is the tender look? For in thy maiden coyness say what thou wilt; but let thine eyes speak to me of love as they used so often at thy English home.”

“How dare you!” she cried, finding words at last; “how dare you insult me by such a speech!” and she rose imperiously from her seat. “How dare you have me dragged from my home like this, and submitted by your orders to this disgraceful treatment, to make me look like one of your degraded race?”

“If my race be degraded,” he said, quietly, “I try to elevate it by choosing you.”

“I desire—I insist, sir, that you have me taken to my father now—at once.”

The Rajah smiled, and crossed his arms over his breast.

“Let me think,” he said. “Take you back? No; I could not take you back save as my wife. Your English people would have me shot.”

“You were my father’s guest, sir,” continued Helen. “You were admitted to his house as friend, and you have behaved to him with the basest treachery. See! Look at me! It was by your orders I was disfigured thus!”

“Treachery!” he said, quietly. “No, there was no treachery, when I came as a prince and rajah, and said to the English merchant, ‘I love your daughter: I will stoop and make her my wife.’”

“Stoop!” cried Helen, with a flash of her beautiful eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “stoop! She has confessed her love!”

“It is false!” cried Helen.

“Not with words, but with her fierce dark eyes,” he continued. “‘I shall offend my people, but what of that? Love is all-powerful. I will dismiss all my wives, and she shall reign alone.’ I went and said all that, as an English gentleman would have asked your hand, and what followed?”

Helen’s eyes were fixed upon him sternly, and her heart condemned her, but she did not speak.

“I was treated with contempt and insult! I—I, Prince and Rajah here, was shown that I, who had stooped to love a woman of an infidel race, had been mocked and played with by the beautiful English maiden; and at that moment, Helen, had I seen you, I should have killed you with my kris, and then, in my mad rage, I would have done as my people do—run headlong here and there, killing and slaying as I went, my bare kris dripping with the blood I spilt—running amok, my people call it—and killing till they slew me where I ran. I, as a Malay, should have done all this. It is the custom among my people; but your English ways prevailed. I had learned English, and I, as a Prince, after my first wild rage was past, said that I must wait—be patient—and that the time would come when my revenge could be had. I waited patiently—and waited longer, to see if the lady would be kind and gentle to me once again; but she would not while she was among her people; so I said I would bring her amongst mine, where she would soon learn to be gentle and as kind as she was of old.”

“Coward!” she cried, fiercely.

“I knew you would say that,” he replied, mockingly. “I knew that you would assume to be very angry. You coquettes, as you English people call them, always do; and then, when all your angry, cruel things are said, you become tender, and gentle, and sweet. I do not mind.”

Helen stamped her foot with impotent rage, as she felt how justly she had been appraised by this half-savage prince; but she could find no words in reply.

“Your people thought me contented, and that peace was made,” he said, laughing. “I know all. There was a terrible state of fright at first, when you refused my hand. I know all, you see. Your people armed themselves and kept watch. ‘The people of Murad will attack us, and take revenge,’ you said, ‘and we shall be all crushed;’ and so you armed yourselves. Then you all feared to go to the fête lest there should be treachery, and I was watched; but they did not know my ways. I meant to have revenge; but what good would the blood of all your people be to me? That was not the revenge I wanted. I could wait, and I have waited with the result you see. There, is that good English? Do you understand these my words well?”

Helen did not answer, but stood there proud and defiant, though her heart quailed as she listened, and thought of the patient way in which this man had waited his time.

“I have had patience,” he said, with a calm smile of superiority, which changed, to her horror, to one of earnestness, almost of appeal.

“You do not speak,” he continued. “Must I say more—must I tell you how I loved you with all my soul! You made me love you, and were not content until I did. You led me on; you smiled at me, and lured me to your side. Your eyes told me you delighted in the passion you had roused, and you seemed to triumph in making me your slave. Then I asked you to be my wife, and I was cast aside, thrown off to make room for another, and I awoke from my dream to find that I had only been a plaything of your mocking hour. I was only a Malay—a black as your people call me in their contempt—and your father and all your people laughed at my pretensions to an English lady’s hand. You all told me by your looks and treatment that I was presuming on the kindness I had received; but do you think that, though I bent to it then, as if you and yours were right, that I, an Eastern Prince, would bear this treatment at your hands? No; I planted my revenge at once, like some tiny seed, and since have watched it grow hour by hour till it was time to cut it down ripe and ready to my hand.”

“Do you hear my words, sir?” said Helen, contemptuously. “I order you to take me back.”

“The slave orders her master to take her back,” said Murad, quietly. “You English think you have power over all.”

“How dare you call me slave!” she cried.

“I call you what you are,” he said, calmly; “my wife if you will; if not, one of my lowest slaves. I was your slave once, and would have been to the end. Now you are mine.”

Helen shivered, but she mastered her fear, and exclaimed:

“Have you reckoned what your punishment will be for this? Do you suppose my people will let this pass?”

“I have weighed all,” he said, coolly. “But let me talk, for I have much to say yet; I find relief in speaking of it all. Did you think that I was going to submit without resentment to the insult you had put upon me? Oh, no! You did not know what we Malays could do. We take a blow, and perhaps bear it then. It may be wise; but we never forgive the hand that gives that blow. We hide our suffering for a time, but at last we turn and strike. Do you understand me now? The time came at last, and I have turned and struck.”

Helen remained silent, listening to his words, which sounded like a sentence of death; but she still fought hard not to show her terror, and kept up her defiant, half-contemptuous gaze as he went on:

“I hid all my sufferings, and patiently bore with all your cruelty, seeing without a word how you lavished your smiles upon this one and that, and all without making a sign; but all the time I was waiting, and telling myself that some day you should pay me for all this suffering; and when the good time came I said to my people: ‘Take her and carry her to the house in the jungle; let her people think she is dead,’ and it was done.”

“And now that it has been done,” cried Helen, “your plans are known. You have been followed, and you will have to suffer as you deserve—death is the punishment to the cowardly native hand that is raised against an English lady.”

“Nonsense!” he said, laughing. “I have taken my steps better than that;” and his words which followed chilled Helen, as they robbed her of a hope. “No one saw you taken but that dreamy priest of your people, and he has been taken too. He wanders through our jungle finding flowers and plants, forgetting you half his time.”

“It is false!” cried Helen. “He was here to-day.”

“Yes, he was here to-day,” said Murad, coolly, “and he has been taken back. He did not follow you. Do you suppose me so weak that I should let your people know where you had gone?”

“They must—they will know—that it is you who have done this cruel wrong,” she cried, indignantly.

“No,” he said, with a contemptuous laugh. “It it very easy to throw dust in English eyes. I will tell you for your comfort, and to make you settle to your fate, the people at the station think I am their friend, and that I have been helping them with my people to find you. And now you are only living in their hearts.”

“In their hearts?” cried Helen, starting; and her thoughts involuntarily turned to Neil Harley.

“Yes,” he said, quietly; “they think you dead.”

“Dead!” she cried, in spite of her efforts to be calm.

“Yes; they believe you dead, and so you are to them. Helen the Englishwoman is dead, and this a beautiful Malay—my wife.”

“Dead?” she cried again, for his announcement came like a terrible shock.

“Yes; they found a boat down the river far below the station. They think you went with two of your lovers on the water, and that the boat filled and sank, to be washed up on a bank. It was well managed, and Helen and three of her friends or lovers are mourned as dead.”

“Mr Harley is not imprisoned too?” cried Helen.

“No; he is not a lover,” said the Sultan, smiling.

“Oh, Heaven help me!” muttered Helen.

“So you are dead to them,” he said, quietly. “Helen Perowne, the beautiful English girl, is no more, and in her place lives the Malay princess I see before me now. Ah, Helen, no one would know you. It is only I who have the knowledge of the change. What is it to be—my honoured wife or slave?”

“It is horrible!” thought Helen, as now she realised more fully the extent of the iniquitous plot of which she had been made the victim. By Murad’s words the hopes of succour she had nurtured had been swept one by one away, for she did not doubt him in the least, but felt her heart sink as she realised how helpless her position was, for his words seemed to carry truth with them, and she knew that she alone was to blame.

Then she started violently, and shrank back towards the wall, for he had taken a step or two towards her and stretched out his hands.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Nine.

At Bay.

The Rajah stopped when Helen shrank away, as if he did not wish to alarm her unduly.

“Why do you shrink from me?” he said, with a laugh. “You were not so timid when I talked with you after dinner, and you invited me with smiles to stay by your side. Did you think when you began to play with my love that it was of the same cold stuff as that of your poor, weak English wooers?”

Helen made no reply, but gazed at him watchfully, meaning to elude his grasp and run to the door should he approach her again.

“Your English wooers’ hearts are like ice, and their love is cold; while that of a Malay, under his calm, quiet demeanour, glows like fire, and once kindled, is never more extinct. Do you hear me, Helen? Once you set it burning with the light of love, his heart flames until it ceases to beat. There, why be angry with me, and try to wither me with those cruel looks? I took you because you made me love you; and as you did make me love you, I shall never believe that you are anything but glad that I forced you to be my wife.”

“Be your wife?” she cried, passionately, in spite of her determination not to speak. “I would sooner die!”

“Yes,” he replied with a contemptuous laugh, “that is what all women say. The girls who waited upon you said just the same. They told me they hated me, and ended by hanging upon my neck and calling me husband and their own. Tell me you hate me!” he cried, with his dark eyes seeming to flash; “tell me you will have me killed for what I have done—tell me you will never look upon my face again, and make those beautiful eyes dart anger at me. It makes me happier than I can tell you, for I know that the storm will pass away; and when the lightning of your eyes and their rain of tears have gone, the sunshine of your love will gladden my heart. Helen, I have waited for you—oh, so long!”

He took another step or two forward, and was about to catch her hand in his, but she avoided his touch and fled to the window.

“Come a step nearer to me,” she panted, her face convulsed with dread, “and I will call for help.”

“Nonsense!” he said, with a smile. “Why should you call? Is it for the birds to hear? The tigers will not awaken till ’tis night. Why should you weary yourself and hurt that sweet-tuned throat? Call for help? Who would hear you call?”

“Your people!” she panted, as her dread increased. “They are here below!”

“Yes,” he said, “they are here below and about the place, but they are deaf. You forget that I am not the poor Malay, looked down upon with disdain by your proud English friends, but Prince and Rajah. You would make my servants and my slaves hear, but not one would stir. You do not understand my power, Helen—the power of the man you scorned! Should one of my people dare to come here ere I summoned him, he would die!”

“It is not true!” cried Helen, with spirit. “Knowing who I am, they would come, and if I appealed to them, protect me.”

Murad laughed a contemptuous, cynical laugh.

“You forget where you are,” he said. “This is one of my homes, and this is my land. I am poor Rajah Murad whom you look upon with contempt at Sindang station; but here I am the people’s Lord. Who dare contradict me or disobey commands? No one. For the life or death of my people rests with me. So you may leave that window and accept your lot.”

Helen did not move.

“There, put away all that silly woman’s play!” he cried. “I tell you it is like my foolish native girls behave. You are an English lady, and should be wiser. Come, let us be friends at once, and I will become more English for your sake. You will forgive me for bringing you away; it was the love I bore you made me act as I did. You will forgive me, will you not? Have I not had you made ten times more beautiful than you were before?”

He made a feint, and then a couple of quick strides towards her, and this time caught her by the wrist; but in her dread and horror she wrenched it away, and struck him sharply across the face as she would have struck at some noxious beast; and as he started back in surprise, she bounded to the door, and tried to wrench it open.

Murad’s love appeared to turn in a moment to furious hate; his eyes darkened and seemed to emit a lurid light; his teeth appeared between his lips, which were drawn apart like those of some wild beast, and the man’s savage nature blazed out in a moment under the affront. In an instant his hand sought the hilt of his kris, and tearing the weapon from its sheath, he pursued his prisoner as she fled from him shrieking round the room.

Helen fled from him but for a few moments, and then she stopped short and faced him, offering herself to his blow.

This brave act disarmed him, checking his rage, which seemed to have flashed out, and his English education began to tell. Muttering impatiently, he thrust the kris back into its sheath, and uttered a forced laugh.

“Foolish girl!” he cried, “why did you strike me? It is folly! It makes me angry. A Malay never forgives a blow; but you have made me English, and I forgive you because—because you make me fond. But it was wild and foolish. I give you my love, you play with me and strike me a blow. A woman should not strike the man she loves.”

Helen did not reply, but rushed to and tore furiously at the door.

“Why do you tire yourself?” he cried, with a contemptuous laugh. “What good can you do? I tell you once again my people dare not stir to help you, even if you wished; and I know enough of woman’s nature to tell that, from such a finished coquette as you have always been, this is but a false show of dread.”

Helen’s despair grew deeper as she listened to the Rajah’s words, and reading her thoughts aright, he went on calmly enough:

“I do not mind. You know I love you, and at heart I believe you love me. But what matter if you do not? You will when you are my wife. You will be quite contented here, and very soon forget your own people and their ways. It will be a change for an English beauty to become a Malay princess, and you shall even have a new name. Still angry? There, pray calm down. It is because I had you fetched so suddenly away; for I know you, Helen. You are not weeping for any other lover. Out of so many you could care for none more than for me.”

Still Helen did not reply, but stood at bay, her eyes dilated, and backing from him whenever he made as if to approach her, till, with a scornful laugh, he gave up the pursuit and threw himself carelessly upon one of the divans.

“Why should I weary myself by running after you?” he said, with a mocking laugh. “That is all past, and you must plead to me. Foolish girl, how could you return even if you wished! They think you dead, and who would know Helen Perowne in you?”

She started a little here, and he noted it and smiled.

“I have waited and can wait still, for I know that as soon as this fit is over you will creep to my feet like any other slave I have. I know what you are thinking—that you will escape.”

“And mark my words, I shall!” cried Helen, impetuously.

“Don’t try it,” he said, smiling. “Don’t try it, for your own sake as well as mine. It sounds cruel, but it is a custom of this country to spear a slave who is seen to run away; and if my people fail to take you, and I do not think they would, the tigers would prove less merciful. You must have heard them when the night has come; they roam about this place, and the more I kill them the more they seem to come.

“What!” he said, laughing, “you would rather trust to the tender mercies of the beasts than trust to me! I read it in your scornful eyes, but that is not true, or a time back you would not have looked tenderly in mine and sighed and pressed my hand at parting.”

He laughed aloud as he saw her shrink and cower away in her abasement for very shame. She was reaping now the fruits of her career of folly; and if ever woman bitterly repented her weakness and the trifling of which she had been guilty in her love of admiration, that woman was Helen Perowne, as she stood there shamefaced and crushed as it were by the thoughts of the past.

“That is right,” he said, quietly. “You are thinking of the past. But never mind; that is all gone now. It was English Helen who was so weak; it is Malay Helen who will become strong. My people have done well, and how it becomes you! Your friends would never know you now.”

What should she do?

Helen’s hands closed, and her fingers were tightly enlaced as she tried to find a way out of her difficulties. She knew that threats would be in vain, and supplication to him to set her free like so many wasted words. There was no way out but by gaining the mastery over her enemy once more. Her enemy! But he must be treated like a friend. Only a few brief months back, and this man, at whose mercy she now was, seemed the veriest slave. Well, why not once again? she asked herself. She was as young and beautiful as ever they said. He loved her—he must love her—and why should she not sway him by this love? It was her only hope, and she grasped at it to try.

“Well,” he said, smiling mockingly, “will you not find a place here by my side?”

She was silent for a few moments, and then, making an effort:

“You have done me a cruel injury, Rajah,” she exclaimed, her voice trembling, but becoming firmer with each word she spoke.

“Injury!” he said, smiling; and his eyes glittered at the success that promised to attend his plans. “Oh, no; not injury. It can be no injury to a beautiful woman to make her the wife of a rich Malay prince—one who loves her with all his heart—a rajah who loves your English ways, and who will surround you with everything you wish.”

“You will give me my liberty?” said Helen.

“Yes,” he said; “whatever my beautiful princess can desire.”

She made a gesture full of impatience, and remained silent for a few moments to gather calmness before she spoke again.

“You have spoken of the past, Rajah Murad,” she said at last, in a low musical voice.

“Yes,” he said, smiling; “that happy past.”

“I was very weak and foolish then, Rajah,” she said. “I was but a girl, and I fear I loved admiration. It was that which made me act so foolishly and ill. But when I tell you my sorrow for my acts—when I tell you how bitterly I repent it all—you will forgive me, and will take me back.”

“For your people to seize and shoot me like a dog?” he said, quietly.

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, “they would not do you harm. You will have taken me back, and for this they shall not do you ill.”

“Speak again like that,” he cried with his eyes lighting up. “That makes you look more beautiful than you were before.”

She started and shuddered, but she went on:

“I ask your forgiveness for the wrong I, in my foolish, girlish wilfulness, did you; and now that you have punished me so severely as you have, you will pardon me, Rajah—the weak, helpless woman who prays you to send her back.”

“I punish you!” he cried, with an affectation of surprise. “I would not punish you. To keep you with me it was necessary that you should look like these my people, and I was sorry to give orders that it should be done. I half feared the result; but I do not repent it now that I have seen how it makes you more beautiful than ever.”

“But you will take me back to my father?” she pleaded. “I will forgive everything. I will not breathe a word about this outrage. No one shall know that it was Rajah Murad who took me from my home. Only send me back safely, and I will bless you.”

He laughed softly.

“There are steps some men take,” he said, “that can never be retraced, and this I have done is one of those steps. You are a woman of sense, and know your people. I staked all upon this cast, and I have won. If I give way now, what will the English people, who are so proud of their honour, say to the beauty of their station, who comes back to them darkened like one of us? What will they say to the lady who comes back to them after so many days in Rajah Murad’s harem?”

Helen started as if she had been stung, and her eyes flashed their indignation at this cowardly speech.

But she felt directly after that anger would be useless—that she must gain time; and once more trembling in every limb, she forced herself to plead.

“I have some mastery over him,” she thought, and determining to retain, and if possible strengthen it, she forced back every semblance of anger, and placed her hands together in supplication.

“You told me once that you loved me,” she said softly.

“I told you once? I have told myself I loved you a thousand times,” he cried passionately.

“Then you would not disgrace me in the eyes of my people?” she pleaded.

“No,” he cried. “I would not; I love you far too well.”

“Then set me free—send me back to my home.”

“That would be to disgrace you, foolish girl,” he cried. “Do you not see why I took this step? You made me love you, and when you cast me off, I tell you I made a tow that you should still be mine. I had you brought here. Well, I am as jealous of your honour as you are yourself. You cannot leave here but as my wife.”

A sob of rage and indignation choked Helen’s utterance for the moment, but she mastered it once more and turned upon him.

“Is this your love for me,” she cried, “to cause me this dreadful pain.”

“Pain perhaps now,” he said quietly; “but happiness will come for both. You proud and foolish girl, you do not know what it is to be the wife of a prince such as I am. Let your people go. Mine will do far more honour to their new princess; they will worship you. They must and shall. There, I see you are listening to what I say. You are growing sensible; let this strange feeling wear away. Be gentle to me Helen—love—and be content to stay!”

Helen’s brow grew wrinkled, and her eyes were half-closed as she stood there with clasped hands, asking herself how she should act. She was checked at every double, and the hopelessness of her position had never appeared more strongly to her than it did now. Her eyes wandered to the door, to the window, and then to the Rajah, as he half reclined upon the mats, gazing at her with a smiling, satisfied look, as if watching the feeble efforts made by his captive to escape from his toils.

“Well,” he said, laughing, “has the fit of anger passed away? If not I can wait.”

She did not answer, but stood gazing at him with a piteous look in her eyes—gazing so pleadingly that he sprang to his feet, a change coming over his countenance as he approached her.

Helen’s heart gave one great throb of joy, for she read now in his face the power she had over him still. He really loved her, and it was he who was the slave, not she, and she would yet be able to mould him to her will.

But not by anger and reproach: they would only weaken her position. She had found that he was one who might be moved by her woman’s grief and tears, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, she waited until he was close at hand, and then, before he could stay her, she sank upon her knees, to clasp his hands in hers, and gazing in his face, burst into a passionate flood of tears.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Chumbley’s Idea.

“Chumbley,” said Bertie Hilton, “your behaviour towards that woman was sickening—almost disgusting! How you could be even civil to her is more than I can understand!”

“Oh, I’m always civil to a woman,” drawled Chumbley. “See how affable I always was to Helen Perowne, who—”

“Will you have the goodness to leave Miss Perowne’s name out of the conversation?” said Hilton, with asperity.

“Certainly, if you wish it, and substitute little Stuart’s name. See how civil I always was to her.”

“A merit certainly,” said Hilton, contemptuously. “Who could help being civil to so amiable and good a little body!”

“Here, hang it, Bertie, old man!” cried Chumbley, in mock alarm, “don’t monopolise all the nice women. It was Helen Perowne the other day. Now you seem dead on little Stuart!”

“Confound Helen Perowne!” muttered Hilton, bitterly.

“Just as you like; and confound the Inche Maida too—I shan’t! Sort of sympathetic pity for woman—weaker vessels, you know.”

“Weaker vessel?” laughed Hilton, scornfully; “what, our captor?”

“Well, she isn’t a bad sort of woman,” replied Chumbley.

“Not a bad sort of woman? Why, she’s a modern Jezebel—a Cleopatra—a Semiramis!”

“Think so?” said Chumbley, quietly.

“Think so? Of course! I’m getting terribly tired of this captivity! I must get away somehow. How many days have we been here?”

“Week,” said Chumbley, laconically.

“A week of weeks it seems to me,” said Hilton. “Horrible woman!”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Chumbley, “she seems to possess very great taste.”

“Taste? The savage!”

“Well, great taste in taking a fancy to you. I think you ought to be very proud.”

“Proud? I sicken with disgust! Pah! Don’t let’s talk about her, but try and make some plan to escape.”

“Well, yes, I suppose we must do that; but ’pon my word, old fellow, I don’t see how. I wish old Bolter were here.”

“I wish Mrs Bolter were here to tackle this dreadful woman!” laughed Hilton. “We men can’t manage her; but that clever, sharp little body would bring her to her senses. What do you want Bolter for?”

“Oh, he’d mix up a dose for the guards, and give it to them in their tea, or whatever they drink; then they’d go to sleep, and we could calmly walk back to the fort.”

“I wonder what Harley thinks of our absence?”

“Thinks we’re dead, probably, and reposing happily each of us in a crocodile sarcophagus. Well, Bertie, old man, what’s to be done? The Inche Maida has quite cut us it seems, and we’re all alone, I suppose. Come, what’s to be done to get us out of this plight? You’re quite right, old fellow; it is most absurd!”

“Absurd? It is disgraceful! I feel as if we were not men, but a couple of silly girls!”

“With beards,” said Chumbley.

“And now give me your advice.”

“Well, that’s soon done,” replied Chumbley. “I’ve quite made up my mind what advice I shall give.”

“Well, what?”

“Do you mean what shall we do?”

“Yes; of course.”

“Nothing.”

Hilton uttered an ejaculation that was far from pious, and began to fume and fret, till Chumbley rose in his slow, cumbrous fashion, placed a cigar in his friend’s hand, and bade him smoke it.

“Look here, old fellow,” he said, quietly, “if we are to escape, it can only be when a chance offers itself; and if you will bring your profound wisdom to bear upon the matter, you will see that all we can do is to wait for that chance.”

“And until that chance comes we must put up with this wretched woman’s insults!”

“Yes, if you like to call them so; and I’d do it, old fellow, without getting into a bad temper and calling names, seeing—”

“Seeing what?”

“That she tries to make up for her rather unladylike conduct by being very civil; while her cooking is good, the dinners excellent, and the breakfasts, the wines well chosen, and the cigars—there, did you ever smoke a better than that?”

“Oh, pish! Everyone can’t take things as quietly as you do, Chumb.”

“Poor fellows, no,” said the latter, with a satisfied air. “It’s the only quality I possess of which I am really proud. You see it makes me perfectly well suited for this climate, for no troubles or worries ever put me in a perspiration. I wish, though, we had a chess-board and men.”

“Chess-board! men!” retorted Hilton, laughing, in a half-amused, half-vexed tone; “who in the world could ever think of playing chess! Really, Chumbley, I believe you are quite happy and contented.”

“Well, not so bad, dear boy—not so bad now the novelty and the unpleasantly of the affair have worn off. You see, a fellow has only so long to live. Well, isn’t it a pity to spoil any of that time by making yourself miserable if you can help it? Take my advice and behave as young Jacob Faithful suggested, ‘Take it coolly;’ and as the sailor in another story I once read said, ‘if you can’t take it coolly, soldier, take it as coolly as you can.’”

Hilton bit the end of his cigar and then bit his lips; lay back thinking of Helen and then of Grey Stuart, the latter obtaining the larger portion of his thoughts.

As for Chumbley, he lay back on his divan and smoked, and thought it was very tiresome to be detained there, but granted that it was better than being detained in hospital from wounds or sickness; and as time wore on, Hilton, removed from the cares and anxieties of being one of Helen’s lovers, settled down more and more into an imitation of his friend’s coolness, his common-sense teaching him that Chumbley was right, and that his best chance of escaping was by waiting for his opportunity—whenever that opportunity should come.

They had not seen anything of the Princess for some days, for she had evidently left them to cool down; but they had been admirably treated, and had grown a little less impatient of their prison, when one day a Malay servant entered their room, and with the most profound respect announced that the Inche Maida awaited the English chiefs in another room.

“Well, that’s not such bad treatment of prisoners, if it don’t mean a polite summons to execution. You first, old fellow; I’m only here as your confidential man.”

As he spoke, Chumbley rose slowly, left his hookah, and prepared to follow the servant; while Hilton frowned, declared that it was all very ridiculous, but smoothing his countenance, he followed the Malay, and was ushered by him into a similar room to that which they had left, to find dinner laid out in a by no means untempting style, the Malay fashion being largely supplemented by additions that the Princess had not been slow to copy from her English friends.

The Inche Maida was elegantly dressed, as Chumbley said, like her table, for her costume was as much European as Malayan, her long sweeping robe, and the delicate lace cap that rested upon her magnificent black hair, having a decidedly Parisian look, while her scarf was the simple sarong of her country, glowing with bright colours.

She smiled as they entered, but her demeanour was full of dignity, as she offered Hilton her hand, that he might lead her to the table.

Hilton drew himself up and was evidently about to refuse. The next moment he relented, and took a step forward, but he was too late to pay his hostess the compliment she asked, for she had turned to Chumbley, who held out his arm and led her to the head of the table, retiring afterwards to the foot, and facing her, while Hilton took the place upon the Princess’s right.

Perfectly unaware of Helen Perowne’s position, the two prisoners, under the genial influences of a good dinner and unexceptionable wine, while granting that their situation was perfectly absurd, were ready to acknowledge that after all it would be nonsense to do otherwise than accept it, make the best of it, and refuse to be angry about a foolish woman’s freak.

“I won’t be disagreeable any more,” thought Hilton, “but take things as they come, and be off at the first opportunity.”

“’Pon my word,” thought Chumbley, “this is better than that hot room at the fort. One always seems to be swallowing hot sunshine like melted butter with everything there one eats.”

The result was that Hilton forgot all about Helen Perowne for the time, and found himself comparing Grey Stuart with the Inche Maida as the two opposite poles of womanly beauty—the acme of the dark, and the acme of the fair. But his thoughts were to a great extent turned from the ladies to the dinner, and following Chumbley’s example, he ate heartily, drank pretty liberally of the wine—to drown care, he said—and by the time that the dessert was commenced he had concluded that life would after all be bearable without the society of Helen Perowne, who was, he told himself, a contemptible coquette.

He recanted from that declaration soon afterwards, the terms being, he thought, too hard; and then he fell into a state of wonderment at his contented frame of mind.

“I shall begin to think soon that the wound is after all not very deep.”

“Your friend seems to be getting resigned to his lot,” said the Princess, in a low voice to Chumbley, as, after dinner, they sat by the open window with a little table covered with fruit by their side, Hilton having kept his place.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Chumbley, thoughtfully; and then, to turn the conversation into another channel, “How do you manage to get such good claret here?”

“Oh,” she said, laughing, “I am able to get most things here to help out the wants of our country. It is easy to have such things from Singapore. You like it?”

“It is delicious.”

“I am glad,” she said, with a satisfied smile. “I reserve it for my best friends.”

“Then why give it to us, your prisoners—and enemies?” said Chumbley, sharply.

“I was trying to show you that you were my friends, and not my enemies,” said the Princess, quietly.

“But you treat us like prisoners, Princess.”

“Only for your good. You shall both be free and lords of the place whenever you will.”

“But, my dear madam,” said Hilton, from his place by the larger table, “this is the nineteenth century—Chumbley, a little more claret? You seize us as a baron might have seized people three or four hundred years ago, and yet you treat us as an English lady would her guests.”

“It is what I have tried to do—this treatment,” she said, simply. Then with spirit, “What is it to me what people did a long while back? I hope, Mr Chumbley, you are satisfied.”

“With my dinner?” said the latter. “Yes, perfectly, for my part. It only wants a cup of coffee.”

“Not poisoned?” said the Princess, with a laughing, malicious look at her guest, as she thus recalled to him his suspicions at the fête.

As she spoke she clapped her hands, and coffee was brought in little silver cups upon a silver tray.

“Hilton, old man,” said Chumbley, as he took and liberally sugared a cup of coffee, smiling at the Inche Maida as he spoke.

“Well?” said his companion in misfortune.

“I have quite made up my mind, as I before hinted, not to knock the feathers off my noble breast against the bars of my cage.”

The Princess looked puzzled.

“Pshaw!” ejaculated Hilton; “don’t be absurd.”

“Why not? If to be patient in our present awkward position is being absurd. Won’t you take coffee, Princess?”

She shook her head, but altered her mind directly.

“Yes,” she said; and she took the cup Chumbley offered with a smile, while as he provided himself with a second, he nodded and said to himself:

“That’s very ladylike; so that we should not feel suspicious, I presume.”

“Ask her how long she means to keep on with this theatrical folly,” said Hilton, in a low voice to his friend—in French.

“What does he say?” cried the Princess, quickly. “He asks if you are still in earnest about keeping us prisoners,” said Chumbley. “If you are serious.”

“Earnest? Serious?” she replied, with her eyes flashing. “Should I have taken such a step as this, and risked offending your people, if I were not serious? Suppose I let you go—what then?”

“If Hilton has his own way,” said Chumbley, laughing, “there will be an expedition to come and burn your place about your ears for abducting two of her Majesty’s subjects.”

“No, no—no, no!” cried the Inche Maida, with a negative motion of her hand. “You would not be so cowardly as to come and attack a weak woman; that is for the Malays to do. You English are too brave and strong. I am not afraid.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Chumbley; “we might, you know.”

“Oh, no, I won’t believe it.”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Chumbley, drily; “but history has a few ugly little records of English doings here and there. Do you know, madam, that you have given us an excellent excuse to pay you a peculiar visit?”

“What! to come and attack and destroy my home—to kill my people?” cried the Princess, excitedly. “You could not—you dare not. But I am safe. I shall not let you go; and as to my other enemies, in a short time you will both be reconciled to your lot, and you will say, ‘Let me stop and defend you.’”

“Hope told a flattering tale,” muttered Chumbley, as he saw the Princess watching Hilton as she spoke; but his distant mien and contemptuous looks so annoyed her that she turned from him angrily and addressed herself to his friend, as if for him to speak.

“Well,” said the latter, coolly, “I am an Englishman, and I like fair play, so I shall speak out. Look here; you know, Princess, it won’t do.”

“What do I know that will not do?” she said, in a puzzled way.

“Why, this foolish kidnapping business of yours; and I frankly tell you that, much as we shall regret leaving such charming quarters, if you only leave the birds’ cage door open for a moment we shall pop out and fly away.”

“I do not quite know what you mean about your birds in cages and your kidnapping,” said the Princess, haughtily; “but I suppose you mean that you will go.”

“Exactly,” said Chumbley, coolly.

“Then,” said the Princess, “I should have thought, for the favours I offer you—the great position and brilliant prospects—you would be grateful now you have had time to reflect, instead of treating me with disdain.”

“Well,” replied Chumbley, in his dry way, “that’s the nature of the English animal.”

“Talk sensibly,” said Hilton, in French; “why do you go on in that flippant way—why do you keep on arguing with her?”

“Because you will not,” retorted Chumbley, in the same language; “so hold your tongue. You see, Princess,” he continued, “you don’t understand the British nature, and this is how it is. If we fellows could not get those positions you offer, we might make a struggle for them; but as you offer them, and tell us we must have them, you set all our bristles erect, and we vow we will not have them at any price. No: my dear madam, you have gone the wrong way to work, and it will not do.”

The Inche Maida recoiled, as if the obstacles she was encountering stung her to the quick. She had evidently been under the impression that her patience and the treatment to which she had subjected her prisoners would have had a different effect, whereas they were as disdainful and obstinate as ever.

“You will think better of this,” she cried, impatiently.

Hilton made a sign as if to negative her words.

“Then if you reject kindness I shall try harshness,” she cried, her dark eyes flashing as she spoke. “I am Princess here, and my slaves obey me. I will have you starved into submission.”

Hilton smiled.

“Tell her she doesn’t know what an Englishman is, Chumbley,” he said, scornfully; “or no—be silent. Do not insult her, but treat her words with contempt.”

“He need not tell me,” said the Inche Maida, starting up and looking furious, as her eyes literally glittered in her rage. “I know, sir, what some Englishmen are—cold, proud, and haughty; men who think themselves almost gods in their conceit; while all who are not pale-faced like themselves they treat as dogs. Go to your prison, sir, and you shall learn that, proud and contemptuous as you are, there are others who can be as proud and cold.”

Chumbley was about to speak, but she waved him back.

“I brought you to my place that I might make you lord, master, and defender of my people. You thrust my favours from you. Let it be so. You shall not enjoy them. Stay as my prisoner till I please to free you, and then go back to your people, and beg, and fawn, and ask Helen Perowne to give you one of the smiles and sweet looks that she shares among so many.”

“I cannot bear this!” muttered Hilton, turning purple with rage.

“Hold your tongue! Don’t be an idiot,” growled Chumbley. “It is only a woman speaking.”

“Idiot!” exclaimed the Inche Maida, who just, caught the word. “She will not have you when you do go back, for by this time she is someone’s wife.”

“I do not believe you!” cried Hilton, angrily.

“You may,” she replied, with an angry gesture. “Now listen; I can be generous, but I can be hard as well, and I shall keep you my prisoner. I have brought you here, and I have done with you; I reject you, I would not listen to you now if you went upon your knees to me. I could not bear it, for I should know then it was only false. I say I shall keep you here for my own safety now; but though I have cast you off, I would not have your blood upon my hands. Remember, my people are charged to watch you, and they are Malays—faithful to the death. They would have been faithful to you, my lord, but you have refused. Now listen. My orders will be obeyed, as they were when I said I wish those two English chiefs brought here unhurt. Mind this, then; any attempt at escape will end in your falling by either kris or spear. Now go.”

She stood there looking very handsome and disdainful, pointing to the door, and the two officers had no alternative but to get up and walk towards the entry. Here, however, Chumbley paused, and turned back to where his imperious captor was standing with flashing eyes.

“We are too old friends to quarrel,” he said, good-humouredly. “Of course we shall try to escape, and we should do so if you had twice as many people to guard us. You have done a very foolish thing.”

“No!” she cried. “It was my will.”

“All the same a very foolish thing in bringing us here. Now, take my advice, as a friend; send us back at once.”

“No!” she said, fiercely.

“Yes; for your own sake.”

“No,” she cried, “leave me.”

“I promise you,” he continued, “that I will do all I can to hush the matter up. You will be reasonable. I should not like to see so brave and good a woman come to grief.”

“Go! Leave me!” she cried, fiercely. “I will not listen. I am a Malay Princess, and he has insulted and wronged me.”

“Well: there,” said Chumbley. “I’m going. Good-night.”

He held out his broad white hand, but the Inche Maida raised hers and struck at it angrily, her palm descending in Chumbley’s with a loud pat.

The young officer only smiled, bent his head, and turned to join Hilton in the other room.

As he reached the door, however, he heard a step, a hand was laid upon his arm, and a hoarse voice whispered:

“I am sorry—I was angry—forgive.”

Hilton had strode to the end of his prison, and thrown himself in a dissatisfied frame of mind upon the mats; the door had swung to, and there was a heavy curtain between, so that he did not hear what was said, nor see the hearty pressure of the hand that succeeded before Chumbley left the dining-room and joined his friend; while the Malay princess stood alone, with her hands clasped and her bosom heaving.

“I have been an idiot, and mad,” she muttered to herself. “He is right; I have done wrong, but I cannot go back now; I should lose all. I do not know these Englishmen. I thought he would have been proud and glad, and now he looks down upon me, and I feel so low—so crushed—that I could kill myself with rage. Ah! why do I not know more of their ways? I am but a poor, weak savage still, and I show my temper like a child.”

She walked wearily to the window, and stood with her broad forehead leaning against the bars, and for quite an hour neither of her women dared to approach her.

“Well, old fellow, feel any better for your dinner?” said Chumbley, heartily, as he strode up to the divan.

“Dinner? No. Hang the woman; how dare she insult us like that?” chafed Hilton. “As if there were anything between Helen Perowne now and me.”

“It was rather warm upon you, certainly,” said Chumbley; “but she was wild, and you were not above a few bitter repartees.”

“Bitter? Why, you are taking the Jezebel’s part!”

“Come, come, come, don’t call ugly names,” said Chumbley, sturdily.

“No name is too bad for such a woman!” cried Hilton.

“Drop it, I say,” cried Chumbley. “We’ve eaten her dinner and drunk her wine. Don’t let’s abuse her now.”

“Why hang it, Chum, have you fallen in love with the black goddess?” cried Hilton. “There, go and beg pardon, then; woo her, and wed her. Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, mockingly, without seeing the hot angry spots in his companion’s cheeks. “I resign in your favour. The life would just suit you. Come: here’s a chance for you to prove a good friend to me, most miserable fellow under the sun. Go and tell her you will be my hostage. You are big enough.”

“And ugly enough,” growled Chumbley.

“You’ll soon get sunburned out here in the jungle. Hail, Rajah Chumbley! Thy servant bends the knee.”

“You be blowed!” said the young officer, speaking like a schoolboy; and the tone of his voice showed so much vexation that Hilton checked his banter. “I’m going to have one pipe,” said Chumbley, “and then I shall have a nap.”

“Stop a minute,” said Hilton. “What did she mean about Helen being another’s wife?” he continued, biting at his moustache—“not that I care.”

“Goodness knows, unless Murad has carried her off at the same time.”

“What!”

“I say unless Murad has been playing the same game.”

“Don’t talk like that,” panted Hilton. “I don’t care a sou for the girl now; I wouldn’t marry her to save my life; I couldn’t after her base treatment. But Chum, old fellow, that idea of yours is like a lance thrust through me, for I did love her, and to come to that—Oh, Heaven help her! I could not bear that.”

“Oh, tush! tush!” said Chumbley, sitting up once more. “Don’t take any notice. An angry woman will say anything. It was only a fancy of mine. It can’t be true.”

“Chum,” said Hilton, in a low whisper, and his voice sounded very strange in the gathering darkness, “I beg your pardon for what I said. I was bitter and angry.”

“All right, old fellow. It’s all gone.”

“Then listen. Can we get away to-night?”

“No. Why?”

“I feel as if I couldn’t stop here after what you said. I tell you I hate Helen Perowne now devoutly, but I’d go through fire and water to save her from that black scoundrel. Why did you think such a thing?”

“I don’t know; it came into my head. It appeared possible. We were spirited off, and it seemed so easy for Murad to carry her off in the same way. I suppose what the Princess said set me thinking.”

“If she is in his power,” began Hilton—“Oh, it is not possible! She led him on so, too. That foolish love of admiration!”

“That’s the right term, Bertie. She never cared for you any more than she did for me.”

“No,” said Hilton, bitterly, “I believe you are right; but I was such a vain, conceited idiot, I thought myself far above you all. Chumbley, do you believe what you said?”

Chumbley looked across the little space between them towards his friend; but it was quite dark now, and the voices seemed to come out of a black void.

“No, old fellow, no,” he replied. “It was a passing fancy. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Then there was silence in the room, though neither of the men slept; Hilton lying in a state of feverish excitement, and Chumbley thinking over his words.

“What made me say that, I wonder?” he muttered. “Suppose it should be true, and that all this while the ruffian has been playing dark. By Jove! it is very likely; much more likely than for a couple of fellows to be carried off. Poor girl! No, it is impossible. I will not believe it. Let’s think of something else. Now then, how are we to get away from here?”

“Sleep, Chumbley?” said Hilton.

“If I answer and say no” thought Chumbley, “he will lie talking for hours. I’ll hold my tongue.”

“Fast asleep,” muttered Hilton to himself; “that fellow has no more soul than an ox,” and turning his head on the cushion that formed his pillow, he lay there in the feverish hot night, thinking of Helen Perowne, while the distant roar of some prowling tiger kept reaching his ear; and it was not until the thought of Grey Stuart’s soft eyes, looking truthfully at his, came like something soft and gentle to cool his heated imagination, that he finally dropped asleep, forgetting his troubles for the time.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

A Search for Gold.

If anyone else on the station had even talked of making an expedition up the river beneath the beams of that ardent sun Dr Bolter would have exclaimed:

“Ah, of course. Here am I, toiling from morn to night with hand and brain, to keep you people in decent health, and yet you propose such a piece of insanity as that! Why, sir, you must be mad!”

But then the doctor was mad upon his own particular subject, and neither heat nor storm would would have kept him back. The sun now had tremendous power, and even his Malay boatmen looked hot; but the doctor’s face only shone, and he sat back in the stern, gun in hand, carefully scanning the shore, ready to bring down the first attractive specimen he saw to add to his collection.

The boat was well supplied with necessaries, including a waterproof sheet, and a handy tent if he should camp ashore; but the boat was to be for the most part his camping-place; and, according to his preconceived plan, the doctor meant to force his way right up a branch or tributary of the main river—a stream that had never yet been, as far as he knew, explored; and here he was hopeful of making his way close up to the mountains, continuing the journey on foot when the river became too narrow and swift for navigation.

In this intent the boat was steadily propelled up-stream, and at the end of the second day the Inche Maida’s campong and home had been passed, and unseen they had placed some miles between them and the Princess’s people.

The Inche Maida was very friendly, but the knowledge that she would perhaps be down before many hours were over at the station, made the doctor fix his time for passing in the dusk of the evening, for he did not wish his movements to reach his wife’s ears sooner than he could help, nor yet to be canvassed by his friends.

Hence, then, he slept that night with his boat secured to the trunk of a large cocoa-palm, well covered in from the night dew, and with a bit of quinine on the tip of his tongue when he lay down to keep off the fever.

Neither he nor his men troubled themselves about the weird noises of the jungle, nor the rushings and splashings that disturbed the river. There were dangerous reptiles and other creatures around, but they did not disturb them; and when the loud roar of a tiger was heard not many yards away, amidst the dense bushes of the shore, the doctor merely turned over and uttered a low grunt, muttering in his sleep about Mrs Bolter breathing so hard.

The next morning before the white mist had risen from the river, the Malays were busy with their paddles, and they had gone on about five or six miles when one of the men ceased rowing, and held up his hand to command silence.

“A big boat coming down the river pulled by many oars, master,” said the man, “a fighting prahu, I think. Shall we hide?”

“Hide? no,” exclaimed the doctor. “Why?”

“It may be an enemy who will make us prisoners, perhaps kill us,” said the Malay, softly. “We are thy servants, and we will go on if you say go.”

“Perhaps I had better not,” said the doctor, thoughtfully. “It would spoil the expedition. Hah! yes, I can hear the oars now. But where could we hide?”

“If the master bids us, we will place the boat so that no one passing shall see, and we can see all,” replied the Malay.

Doctor Bolter did not like hiding, but thinking that in this case discretion might be the better part of valour, he replaced his shot cartridge with ball, as he gave the signal to the man, who turned the sampan in shore; and cleverly guiding it in amongst the overhanging vegetation, this dropped behind them and they were in a verdant tunnel, the branches and leaves just touching their heads, and though themselves completely concealed, able to see everything that passed or repassed upon the river.

They had occupied their place of hiding so long, that, had he not still heard the regular beat-beat of the large boat’s oars, the doctor would have concluded that it had passed. Still it seemed wonderful how the water bore the sound, for it was what seemed to be a considerable time before they saw the prow of a long prahu come round a bend of the river with its long banks of oars making the calm surface of the rapid river foam, as the long vessel glided on, coming in very close to them, so as to cut off a good deal of the next bend.

They were so close that Doctor Bolter could note the expression upon the countenances of the men, and it seemed almost impossible that the little boat and its crew could remain unseen; but the prahu passed on, and round the next bend, the doctor waiting till the beat of the paddles was growing faint before he gave the word for them to proceed.

“Are those friends or enemies?” he said to one of the boatmen.

The Malay smiled.

“Who knows?” he said. “To-day they may be friends, to-morrow enemies. The prahu is Rajah Murad’s, and the crew his men.”

The doctor did not pay much heed to the rather oracular words of the Malay, though he recalled it all afterwards, his attention now being taken up by some choice specimens of the sunbird family, hovering about the blossoms on the banks.

Ten miles or so farther up, and the boatmen pointed to the overgrown mouth of the little river of which they were in search.

Anyone unacquainted with the place would have passed it unseen, but it had been noted down by the doctor during one of his expeditions, as a place to be explored at some future time.

The men turned the head of the sampan towards the tangled mass of bushes and overhanging trees, and then, as they drew near, one of them rose in the prow, and drew the long heavy parang he wore, a sword-like knife much used by the poorer Malays for cutting back the thorns and canes that a few days’ rapid growth led across their path; but the next moment he had lowered the weapon, and rested the point upon the edge of the boat.

“Someone has been here, master,” he said; “a big boat has broken its way through.”

“All the better for us,” said the doctor, and instead of having to cut and hack right and left, the sampan passed easily along the tangled channel, the masses of huge water-lilies giving way before the boat, while, as they got farther on past the grown-up mouth, the river seemed to widen, and the route of the vessel that had passed before could be plainly seen in a narrow channel of leaf-sprinkled water.

“That prahu must have been along here, master,” said the elder of the two Malays, thoughtfully. “No small sampan could have broken a way like this.”

“So much the better,” said the doctor again; but he grew more thoughtful, for the fact of a boat having been along this little river so lately seemed to rob it of a good deal of its mystery. He had hoped to find it completely unexplored, and here only that day someone had passed along.

It was, however, in its upper portion that the doctor hoped to find something to interest him; and after all it was not probable that the occupants of the prahu would be searching for gold.

Under these circumstances he set himself to examine the banks on either side, and his men steadily paddled on hour after hour, till a halt was made at an open part where they landed, and made a fire to cook the birds that had been shot on the way up. Then a fresh start was made, and all through the long hot afternoon the doctor sat back scrutinising most diligently the sides of the little river.

But it was always the same—one dense bank of verdure on either side, with the trees hanging over the river, and encroaching so that at last the stream was only a few yards wide; but by pulling the branches aside the boat could have been thrust in, to glide along under a natural arcade—the home of thousands of crocodiles, from monsters fifteen and twenty feet long to their spawn not many more inches.

It was a perfect paradise for a naturalist, and the doctor grew so much interested that he forgot the prime object of his visit, seeing nothing but birds and insects, to the exclusion of old gold-workings, though had there been anything of the kind it would have been completely hidden amongst the tangled, luxuriant growth.

It was growing fast towards sunset when the doctor was suddenly brought back to the matter-of-fact every-day life from a kind of dream about the wondrous beauties of some peculiar beetles he had captured and held beneath his magnifying glass, by a sudden exclamation from the elder Malay.

“What is it?” exclaimed the doctor, sharply.

“The prahu came no farther than this. See, master, we shall have to cut the branches now to get along.”

He pointed with his paddle, and it was plain enough to see that the water-weeds and lilies were unbroken higher up, and that some large vessel must have been turned here, for the aqueous growth was crushed to a much greater extent.

“There is a path there,” said the Malay, and he showed his employer the bank beaten down by footsteps, and that the bushes and trees had been cut away.

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “someone has landed there, but it does not matter. We have come to the fresh ground. Let’s get a few miles farther, and then we’ll rest.”

The doctor was so anxious to get on that no further notice of the marks of other travellers was taken, and with his spirits growing more elate as he went on, he watched the dense jungle on either side, and peered down into the black water as night came rapidly on, so swiftly indeed that they had not progressed more than a couple of miles before the darkness made a halt absolutely necessary.

The waterproof sheet made a good covering, and the night passed undisturbed, the rising sun being the signal for a fresh start; but the difficulties of the journey began rapidly to increase.

The stream that had been deep as well as swift seemed to have suddenly grown shallow, indicating by its noisy brawling, and sparkling over masses of rock, that the country was rising fast.

In fact, the course of the river was now between high escarpments of rock, the jungle and its dense masses of trees seeming to be left behind, the grasses that grew in patches amongst the chinks of the rocks being different in kind from that which tangled the jungle where it touched the water.

But in spite of the difficulties of the journey, the doctor was in ecstasies, and, regardless of getting his feet wet, he was constantly out of the boat to examine the shallow sands for signs of gold.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

A Time of Trial.

Murad was startled for the moment, Helen’s act was so unexpected. Then a calm look of satisfaction crossed his face, and he smiled as he stood there, gazing down at the swarthy beauty, and folding his arms, he waited for her to speak.

“Do you wish to abase me more than this?” she said at last, in a choking voice.

“No,” he replied, calmly, “that will do. I meant to bring the proud English beauty to my feet. See, I have done so, and very much sooner than I expected.”

Helen felt that she had made a false move, and the blood ran back to her heart, as she crouched there, trembling.

“You have brought me to your feet,” she said softly. “Be satisfied, and spare me further degradation.”

“What do you wish me to do?” he said in a low, deep voice.

“Send me back home!” she cried excitedly.

“And what then—what of your father and the Resident? What of my position at the settlement?”

“No one shall know. I will keep it all a secret.”

“And you would risk all the remarks that your appearance would excite by going back?”

“Yes!” she cried passionately, as she thought of Mr Harley, and felt that he would take her to his heart even then.

“And you honestly believe that no trouble would follow?” said Murad quietly.

“I am certain of it!” she cried. “I tell you I would keep it secret.”

“And I know better,” he said contemptuously. “My good girl, do you think I am a child? If I let them at the settlement know of the step I have taken, your people would send for help, and my country would be invaded, my campongs burned, and after they had driven me out, they would take possession of my land.”

“But I would not betray you.”

“Pish! They would discover it for themselves. They think you dead now. Let them think that you had been carried off, and my days would be but few in my land.”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried; “the English are not cruel.”

“Oh, no,” he echoed, with a derisive smile, “not cruel, only just. Look here, Helen, I have been gambling: I staked all I had, even to my life, to win you, and I have won. Now you ask me to resign my gains. It is ridiculous. How would it be—how does the matter stand? On the one hand, here is ruin to my place and people and death to myself; on the other hand, happiness and joy—the happiness of a gratified love, as I rejoice in my triumph over the woman who first made my pulses throb, and then trifled with my love.”

Helen started to her feet and shrank away, feeling instinctively that she had as much prospect of finding pity from the tigers of the jungle as from Murad.

As she retreated from him he smiled with all the consciousness of his power, and rested upon one elbow, as he reclined upon the mats, watching her movements, a very idealisation of some glistening serpent, gazing languidly at the trembling victim that has been placed within its cage, ready to be stricken down at his good pleasure.

“There,” he said, at last, “it is foolish to weary yourself and try to escape. I tell you it is impossible. You have now the skin and the dress of a Malay lady; why do you not adopt our ways as well? We are fatalists, as your people call us. When we see that a thing is to be, we take it as it comes, and do not murmur and strive against fate. You see now that it is your fate to be my favourite wife. Why should you strive against it like some dove that beats its breast against the close bars of its cage. Come,” he continued, making a place for her by his side, “let us be friends at once, Helen. You do not wish to make me angry with you, I am dangerous then.”

“Angry? With me?” she cried, her indignation asserting itself now, and her eyes flashed as they met his. “I do not fear your anger.”

“And yet it is to be feared,” he said quietly. “Ask one of the women here about my rage, and you will find that it may mean death. They fear it, and shrink from me when I frown.”

For answer, Helen strove once more to tear open the door, and then she uttered a wild and piercing shriek, for, as silently as one of the tigers of his own jungle, Murad had gathered himself up and sprung forward, catching her by the arms, and the next moment he held her strained to his breast.

Helen’s wild shriek was answered on the instant by one without; and Murad’s face became less swarthy in his rage, as he loosed his prisoner and threw open the door, admitting the younger of the two Malay girls who had been Helen’s gaolers, and who ran to the Rajah and flung herself upon his breast.