Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.The Summons.Neil Harley’s troubles had of late been great. He had gone on striving to be matter-of-fact and business-like, telling himself that he must be calm and cool; but all the same he suffered bitterly.It had been a great shock to him, the disappearance of Helen; and though her recovery had followed, it was in such a guise that at times he felt half maddened, and as if his troubles were greater than he could bear.He had loved her from the first; and though he had laughed at and bantered her, treating her numerous flirtations as trifles unworthy of his notice, at the same time he had suffered a terrible gnawing at the heart, and every glance sent at Hilton—every whispered compliment paid to her by the handsome young captain—caused him acute pain.Time after time he had striven to tear himself from what he felt was a hopeless, foolish attachment; and when he made the effort, Helen’s beautiful face rose before him with a sly, half-mocking, half-reproachful look, and he knew that he was more her slave than ever.The mishaps that had befallen the various prisoners seemed to recoil upon him, to increase his troubles. He felt, as it were, to blame, and often asked himself if it was not due to his want of clever management that the chaplain had not also been recovered; but for his comfort there were times when he was fain to confess that it would have puzzled the cleverest diplomat to have dealt differently with so wily a Malay as Murad, or with his people, who were ready to hide everything from the English intruders upon their land.“I ought to be in better heart,” he said to himself, as he sat thinking in his cool room at the Residency; “three out of my four lost sheep are back, and I have hopes of the fourth. But Helen?” His face grew contracted and wrinkled as he sat thinking of the swarthy face and disfigured mouth of the belle of the station, and wondered whether, in spite of his declarations to the contrary, there was any attachment left between Hilton and the suffering girl.“No,” he said; “none. Hilton is quite honest. His was but a changing love for the bright, handsome face and deep, dreamy eyes. He does not care for her now. What man would?”There was a pause here, and he sat dreamily gazing through the open window at the silver shimmering of the river.“What man would love Helen Perowne now?” he said, softly; “now that she comes back with such a social stigma upon her, just rescued from the hands of this Eastern sensualist—changed! ah! how changed! Poor girl—poor girl! What English gentleman would hold out his hand to her now, and say to her, ‘Helen, love! my own! Will you not be my wife?’”Another pause, broken only by the loud insect-hum from the blossom-laden trees outside the window.What man would say this to her now?“I would!” he cried aloud; “for is mine so mean and paltry a love that it is to be checked and turned aside by her misfortune? No; let her but ask me—as I said she some day would ask me—with look or lip, to come, and I should be at her side—for I so love her, in spite of all, and with my whole heart!”For a moment the abject, frightened face that he had for a few moments seen shrinking from him before its owner concealed it with her trembling brown fingers, when she was transferred from the Sultan’s to his own boat, was there before him; when Helen had uttered a loud, piteous cry as she recognised one of her deliverers. The next moment that scene upon the river, vividly as it was impressed upon his mind, with the swarthy Malays, the prostrate prince, the brilliant sunshine flashing from the river, even as he could see it now, and the dark shadows of the drooping trees, all had passed away, and in place he saw only Helen—the Helen of his love—prostrate upon her bed of sickness, dull of eye, shrunken and thin with fever, suffering and helpless. And as he asked himself, “Did he love her still?” he rested his elbows upon his table, his face went down upon his hands, and with a low moan he felt that he was cruel and wanting in his love for being away from her at a time like this, when he ought to be showing her how true and fervent was his feeling—that it was no light fancy of the young and thoughtless youth, but a strong man’s true and lasting love.He did not hear the matting-screen drawn aside, nor heed the light step of his Chinese servant, as he softly entered the room, and then stopped short, as if afraid to interrupt his master as he slept.It was an important message, though, that he had to give, and he went up to the table.“Master,” he said, softly; but the Resident did not move.“Master!” said the man again; but the Resident heard him not, for he was dwelling upon the tidings that he had received an hour before, that Helen’s case was utterly hopeless, and that though she might live for days or weeks, her recovery was impossible.It was on good authority that he received those sad tidings, for they were from Dr Bolter’s lips; and he had to listen, with a composed and placid mien, when all the time he had felt as if he could have thrown himself upon the floor, and torn himself in the bitterness of his anguish.If he could have been allowed to sit at her pillow, holding one poor wasted hand, he told himself that he could have borne it better, and watched her with patient hope. But he was shut out from her resting-place—from her heart! She had never cared for him, and his words to her had been but an empty vaunt. And yet he loved her so well, that as he thought of all the past and the bitter present, he felt that when Helen died he dared not face the empty present, and something seemed to whisper to him, would it not be better to seek in oblivion for the rest that his heart told him he should never know.“Master!”Louder now, and a hand was laid upon his arm.The Resident started up, and gazed angrily at the intruder upon his sacred sorrow—so fiercely that the servant shrank away.“What is it?” cried the haggard man, harshly. “Is—is she—dead?”“A messenger, master, from Miss Stuart,” said the man, shivering still from the wild face and mien.“I knew it—” moaned the Resident.“To say, will you go directly to the doctor’s house.”Neil Harley started from his chair; and then he staggered, and caught at the table for support.“The heat!” he said, huskily—“giddy!—a glass—water!”The servant went to a great cooler standing in the draught of the window, and filled and brought a glass of the clear, cold fluid.“Thanks!” said the Resident, drinking feverishly, and recovering himself. “Who brought the message?”“Yusuf, the Malay. His boat waits,” replied the man; and making an effort to be calm, the Resident took up his sun-hat, and walked firmly down to the landing-stage, where he was ferried across and then walked up to the doctor’s cottage, overtaking Hilton on the way.“You going there?” he said.“Yes,” replied Hilton. “I was going up to ask how Miss Perowne was now. Were you going there?”“Yes,” said the Resident, bitterly; “I was going there. Were you sent for too?”“I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me.”“Not now that she is in misery and distress!” retorted the Resident, and his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.Hilton flushed angrily.“Your reproaches are unjust,” he said. “You know that Miss Perowne never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too well. We ought to be good friends.”“And we are,” said the Resident. “Forgive me for what I have said!”He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.“I’m an outsider!” said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. “I’m going to set up for my friend’s friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen Perowne after all.”“Silence, man!” cried the Resident, harshly. “I have been sent for by Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!”“Dying!” cried Hilton.“Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?”“I am,” said Hilton; “for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste.”The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton’s words even then caused him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor’s door.Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that had been struggling in Neil Harley’s breast died out.The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors’ eyes, and answered, hastily:“No; I don’t think there is immediate danger, but—She expressed a wish to see you, Harley.”Thatbut, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming near.“You may go in, Harley,” said the doctor. “My wife and Miss Stuart are there.”The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen’s bedroom, seeing nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was tossed her abundant hair.Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart’s hand, they softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes, in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she was, a something of the past.“I sent for you to ask you to forgive me,” she said, in a low, faint voice; but he did not speak.“I know now how weak—how vain I was—how cruel to you; but—you know—my folly, you will forgive?”He was down upon his knees by her bedside now, and the words seemed to be literally torn from his heart as he groaned:“Helen!—Helen! my poor girl! has it come to this?”“Yes!” she said, softly, “it seems like rest! I am happier now; but I thought—I should like to see you again—to say Good-bye!”“No, no, no!” he cried, passionately. “You shall not leave me, Helen! My love—my darling—you shall not die!” She smiled faintly.“I knew you loved me differently from the rest!” she said, softly, as he clasped her thin hand and held it to his lips; “that is why I sent. You said I should send for you—some day.”“To ask me to take you for my wife,” he panted; “and, Helen, the time has come!”“Yes,” she said, softly, “but it was the Helen of the past; not this wreck—this—this—Oh, Heaven!” she moaned, passionately, “did I sin so vilely that you should punish me like this?”“Hush! hush!” he whispered, passing his arm beneath her light, too fragile form, and raising her till her head rested upon his breast. “That is all past now, and it is not the Helen of the past I love, but she who has sent for me at last. Helen, darling, speak to me again!”“Speak?” she said, faintly; “what should I say, but ask you to forgive me, and say good-bye?”“Good-bye?” he cried, frantically. “What, now that I have, as it were, begun to live?”“One kind, forgiving word,” she said, faintly. “One? A thousand!” he panted; “my own—my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love for you so weak and poor that I should let you go—that I should turn from you in this hour of trial? Helen!” he cried; “I tell you it is not the Helen of the past I love, but you—you, my own! Tell me that you have turned to me—truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with your love!”Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.“You shall not die,” he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers; “I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe and live, my own—my wife—my all!”As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the doctor entered the room.“Quick!” he cried. “Lay her down, man!—That’s well.”“Is—is she dead?” groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient’s throat.“No,” said Dr Bolter, shortly. “Fainting. Go away.”“But, Bolter—” protested the Resident.“Be off, man, I tell you!” cried the little doctor, angrily, showing how thoroughly he was autocrat of the sick room. “Go, and send in my wife, and Miss Stuart. Or no: my wife will do.”The Resident bent down once over the thin, dark face, and then stole softly out of the room, to find Mrs Bolter waiting; and nodding quickly, she went in and closed the door.“What news?” asked Hilton, eagerly, as he rose from a chair near the window.“I don’t know—I dare not say,” replied Harley, sinking hopelessly into a chair; and for a time no one spoke.It was the doctor who broke the silence by coming back from the sick room, and this time sending a thrill of hope into the breast of all as he began to rub his hands in an apparently satisfied manner, and gazed from one to the other.“Is—is she better, doctor?”“Don’t know! won’t prognosticate!” he said, sharply. “I’ll say that she’s no worse. Prostrated by mental emotion, but other symptoms at a standstill. If she lives—well, if she lives—”“Yes, yes, doctor!” cried the Resident, imploringly.“Well, if she lives, I think it will be from some sudden turn in her mental state, for I have done all I know, and of course a man—even a medical man—can do no more.”

Neil Harley’s troubles had of late been great. He had gone on striving to be matter-of-fact and business-like, telling himself that he must be calm and cool; but all the same he suffered bitterly.

It had been a great shock to him, the disappearance of Helen; and though her recovery had followed, it was in such a guise that at times he felt half maddened, and as if his troubles were greater than he could bear.

He had loved her from the first; and though he had laughed at and bantered her, treating her numerous flirtations as trifles unworthy of his notice, at the same time he had suffered a terrible gnawing at the heart, and every glance sent at Hilton—every whispered compliment paid to her by the handsome young captain—caused him acute pain.

Time after time he had striven to tear himself from what he felt was a hopeless, foolish attachment; and when he made the effort, Helen’s beautiful face rose before him with a sly, half-mocking, half-reproachful look, and he knew that he was more her slave than ever.

The mishaps that had befallen the various prisoners seemed to recoil upon him, to increase his troubles. He felt, as it were, to blame, and often asked himself if it was not due to his want of clever management that the chaplain had not also been recovered; but for his comfort there were times when he was fain to confess that it would have puzzled the cleverest diplomat to have dealt differently with so wily a Malay as Murad, or with his people, who were ready to hide everything from the English intruders upon their land.

“I ought to be in better heart,” he said to himself, as he sat thinking in his cool room at the Residency; “three out of my four lost sheep are back, and I have hopes of the fourth. But Helen?” His face grew contracted and wrinkled as he sat thinking of the swarthy face and disfigured mouth of the belle of the station, and wondered whether, in spite of his declarations to the contrary, there was any attachment left between Hilton and the suffering girl.

“No,” he said; “none. Hilton is quite honest. His was but a changing love for the bright, handsome face and deep, dreamy eyes. He does not care for her now. What man would?”

There was a pause here, and he sat dreamily gazing through the open window at the silver shimmering of the river.

“What man would love Helen Perowne now?” he said, softly; “now that she comes back with such a social stigma upon her, just rescued from the hands of this Eastern sensualist—changed! ah! how changed! Poor girl—poor girl! What English gentleman would hold out his hand to her now, and say to her, ‘Helen, love! my own! Will you not be my wife?’”

Another pause, broken only by the loud insect-hum from the blossom-laden trees outside the window.

What man would say this to her now?

“I would!” he cried aloud; “for is mine so mean and paltry a love that it is to be checked and turned aside by her misfortune? No; let her but ask me—as I said she some day would ask me—with look or lip, to come, and I should be at her side—for I so love her, in spite of all, and with my whole heart!”

For a moment the abject, frightened face that he had for a few moments seen shrinking from him before its owner concealed it with her trembling brown fingers, when she was transferred from the Sultan’s to his own boat, was there before him; when Helen had uttered a loud, piteous cry as she recognised one of her deliverers. The next moment that scene upon the river, vividly as it was impressed upon his mind, with the swarthy Malays, the prostrate prince, the brilliant sunshine flashing from the river, even as he could see it now, and the dark shadows of the drooping trees, all had passed away, and in place he saw only Helen—the Helen of his love—prostrate upon her bed of sickness, dull of eye, shrunken and thin with fever, suffering and helpless. And as he asked himself, “Did he love her still?” he rested his elbows upon his table, his face went down upon his hands, and with a low moan he felt that he was cruel and wanting in his love for being away from her at a time like this, when he ought to be showing her how true and fervent was his feeling—that it was no light fancy of the young and thoughtless youth, but a strong man’s true and lasting love.

He did not hear the matting-screen drawn aside, nor heed the light step of his Chinese servant, as he softly entered the room, and then stopped short, as if afraid to interrupt his master as he slept.

It was an important message, though, that he had to give, and he went up to the table.

“Master,” he said, softly; but the Resident did not move.

“Master!” said the man again; but the Resident heard him not, for he was dwelling upon the tidings that he had received an hour before, that Helen’s case was utterly hopeless, and that though she might live for days or weeks, her recovery was impossible.

It was on good authority that he received those sad tidings, for they were from Dr Bolter’s lips; and he had to listen, with a composed and placid mien, when all the time he had felt as if he could have thrown himself upon the floor, and torn himself in the bitterness of his anguish.

If he could have been allowed to sit at her pillow, holding one poor wasted hand, he told himself that he could have borne it better, and watched her with patient hope. But he was shut out from her resting-place—from her heart! She had never cared for him, and his words to her had been but an empty vaunt. And yet he loved her so well, that as he thought of all the past and the bitter present, he felt that when Helen died he dared not face the empty present, and something seemed to whisper to him, would it not be better to seek in oblivion for the rest that his heart told him he should never know.

“Master!”

Louder now, and a hand was laid upon his arm.

The Resident started up, and gazed angrily at the intruder upon his sacred sorrow—so fiercely that the servant shrank away.

“What is it?” cried the haggard man, harshly. “Is—is she—dead?”

“A messenger, master, from Miss Stuart,” said the man, shivering still from the wild face and mien.

“I knew it—” moaned the Resident.

“To say, will you go directly to the doctor’s house.”

Neil Harley started from his chair; and then he staggered, and caught at the table for support.

“The heat!” he said, huskily—“giddy!—a glass—water!”

The servant went to a great cooler standing in the draught of the window, and filled and brought a glass of the clear, cold fluid.

“Thanks!” said the Resident, drinking feverishly, and recovering himself. “Who brought the message?”

“Yusuf, the Malay. His boat waits,” replied the man; and making an effort to be calm, the Resident took up his sun-hat, and walked firmly down to the landing-stage, where he was ferried across and then walked up to the doctor’s cottage, overtaking Hilton on the way.

“You going there?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Hilton. “I was going up to ask how Miss Perowne was now. Were you going there?”

“Yes,” said the Resident, bitterly; “I was going there. Were you sent for too?”

“I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me.”

“Not now that she is in misery and distress!” retorted the Resident, and his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.

Hilton flushed angrily.

“Your reproaches are unjust,” he said. “You know that Miss Perowne never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too well. We ought to be good friends.”

“And we are,” said the Resident. “Forgive me for what I have said!”

He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.

“I’m an outsider!” said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. “I’m going to set up for my friend’s friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen Perowne after all.”

“Silence, man!” cried the Resident, harshly. “I have been sent for by Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!”

“Dying!” cried Hilton.

“Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?”

“I am,” said Hilton; “for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste.”

The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton’s words even then caused him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor’s door.

Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that had been struggling in Neil Harley’s breast died out.

The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors’ eyes, and answered, hastily:

“No; I don’t think there is immediate danger, but—She expressed a wish to see you, Harley.”

Thatbut, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming near.

“You may go in, Harley,” said the doctor. “My wife and Miss Stuart are there.”

The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen’s bedroom, seeing nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was tossed her abundant hair.

Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart’s hand, they softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.

For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes, in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she was, a something of the past.

“I sent for you to ask you to forgive me,” she said, in a low, faint voice; but he did not speak.

“I know now how weak—how vain I was—how cruel to you; but—you know—my folly, you will forgive?”

He was down upon his knees by her bedside now, and the words seemed to be literally torn from his heart as he groaned:

“Helen!—Helen! my poor girl! has it come to this?”

“Yes!” she said, softly, “it seems like rest! I am happier now; but I thought—I should like to see you again—to say Good-bye!”

“No, no, no!” he cried, passionately. “You shall not leave me, Helen! My love—my darling—you shall not die!” She smiled faintly.

“I knew you loved me differently from the rest!” she said, softly, as he clasped her thin hand and held it to his lips; “that is why I sent. You said I should send for you—some day.”

“To ask me to take you for my wife,” he panted; “and, Helen, the time has come!”

“Yes,” she said, softly, “but it was the Helen of the past; not this wreck—this—this—Oh, Heaven!” she moaned, passionately, “did I sin so vilely that you should punish me like this?”

“Hush! hush!” he whispered, passing his arm beneath her light, too fragile form, and raising her till her head rested upon his breast. “That is all past now, and it is not the Helen of the past I love, but she who has sent for me at last. Helen, darling, speak to me again!”

“Speak?” she said, faintly; “what should I say, but ask you to forgive me, and say good-bye?”

“Good-bye?” he cried, frantically. “What, now that I have, as it were, begun to live?”

“One kind, forgiving word,” she said, faintly. “One? A thousand!” he panted; “my own—my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love for you so weak and poor that I should let you go—that I should turn from you in this hour of trial? Helen!” he cried; “I tell you it is not the Helen of the past I love, but you—you, my own! Tell me that you have turned to me—truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with your love!”

Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.

“You shall not die,” he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers; “I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe and live, my own—my wife—my all!”

As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.

Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.

There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the doctor entered the room.

“Quick!” he cried. “Lay her down, man!—That’s well.”

“Is—is she dead?” groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient’s throat.

“No,” said Dr Bolter, shortly. “Fainting. Go away.”

“But, Bolter—” protested the Resident.

“Be off, man, I tell you!” cried the little doctor, angrily, showing how thoroughly he was autocrat of the sick room. “Go, and send in my wife, and Miss Stuart. Or no: my wife will do.”

The Resident bent down once over the thin, dark face, and then stole softly out of the room, to find Mrs Bolter waiting; and nodding quickly, she went in and closed the door.

“What news?” asked Hilton, eagerly, as he rose from a chair near the window.

“I don’t know—I dare not say,” replied Harley, sinking hopelessly into a chair; and for a time no one spoke.

It was the doctor who broke the silence by coming back from the sick room, and this time sending a thrill of hope into the breast of all as he began to rub his hands in an apparently satisfied manner, and gazed from one to the other.

“Is—is she better, doctor?”

“Don’t know! won’t prognosticate!” he said, sharply. “I’ll say that she’s no worse. Prostrated by mental emotion, but other symptoms at a standstill. If she lives—well, if she lives—”

“Yes, yes, doctor!” cried the Resident, imploringly.

“Well, if she lives, I think it will be from some sudden turn in her mental state, for I have done all I know, and of course a man—even a medical man—can do no more.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.More Mating.Slow work—terribly slow work; but at the end of three days—during which at any moment it had seemed as if the light of life would become extinct—Helen Perowne still lived, and in place of Grey Stuart or Mrs Bolter, Neil Harley was mostly by her side.She suffered still from wild attacks of delirium, and in her wanderings, if the firm, strong hand of the Resident was not there to hold her, she grew plaintive and fretful, and a look of horror appeared upon her wasted face; but no sooner did she feel Neil Harley’s firm clasp and hear his whispered words, than she uttered a sigh of content, and dropped always into a placid sleep.To his surprise and delight, these words seemed to pacify her; a long-drawn sigh came from her breast, and she fell into a restful slumber.During the rest of the critical time of her illness a few whispered words always had the desired effect, and from that hour Helen began rapidly to mend.“Yes, she is improving fast now,” said the doctor, as he sat beside her bed talking, as if he believed his patient to be asleep. “I shan’t take any of the credit, Harley. I should have lost her, I am sure, for it was not in physic to do more than I had done. There, I am going down now to my specimens, to have a look at them, and talk to my wife, for I have hardly seen her of late.”He rose and left the room, and the Resident took his place, seeing that the great dark eyes were fixed upon him, full of a strange, pathetic light, that the warm evening glow seemed to give an almost supernatural effect.“You are awake, then?” he said, softly.“Yes; I heard all that he said, and it is true.”“Thank heaven!” said the Resident, fervently, as he took one of the thin brown hands from the white coverlet and held it in both of his.“I believe it was your tender words that gave me hope,” said Helen, softly. “Now it is time to take them back.”“Take them back?” he exclaimed, wonderingly.“Yes; take them back. Do you think I could be so weak and cruel as to let you be burdened for life with such a degraded thing as I?” she cried; and she burst into so violent a fit of sobbing that the Resident grew alarmed; but he must have possessed wonderful soothing power, for when Mrs Bolter came in a short time after, it was to find Helen Perowne’s weary head resting upon Neil Harley’s arm, and there was a restful, peaceful look in her eyes that the little lady had never seen there before.Helen did not move, and the Resident seemed as if it was quite a matter of course for him to remain there, so little Mrs Bolter went softly forward and bent down to kiss her invalid as she called her, when she was prisoned by two trembling weak arms, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but Helen’s sobs.When Mrs Bolter went down soon afterwards to sit with the doctor, she said, softly:“I never thought I could like that girl, Henry, and now I believe I almost love her.”“That’s because she has changed her colour,” said the doctor, with a hearty chuckle.“Oh! that reminds me,” cried Mrs Bolter; “I wanted to ask you about that.”“About what?” said the doctor, looking up.“About the black stain. Will she always be like that?”“Pooh, nonsense! my dear. It is only a stain, which has thoroughly permeated, if I may so term it, the outer skin. Soon wear off, my dear—soon wear off.”“But her teeth, Henry?”“Come right in time, my dear, with plenty of tooth-powder; all but the filing.”“But that is a terrible disfigurement.”“Oh, that will go off in time. The teeth are always growing and being worn down at the edges; but what does it matter? she is ten times as nice a girl as she was before.”“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, thoughtfully; “and now, Henry, if I could only have my mind set at rest about Arthur, I believe I should be a happy woman.”“Then we’ll soon set your mind at rest about him,” said the doctor. “I never felt that I could leave you till Helen was safe from a relapse.”“Leave me, Henry!” cried the little lady.“Only for a time, till I have found Arthur.”“Then you do think he will be found?”“I am sure of it. Why, who would hurt him, the best and most inoffensive of men?”“Surely no one,” said Mrs Bolter, with a sigh.“Of course not. I’ve tried to get something out of Murad, but my messengers have failed; but all the same, I feel sure he knows all about it, and burked Arthur for a reason of his own.”“But what reason could he have?” cried Mrs Bolter.“Well, I’ll tell you my theory, my dear, and it is this: he meant to silence all Helen’s scruples by marrying her according to our rites.”“Do you think so?”“I do; and that is why he secured Arthur. If it was not so, it was because he was in the way. Anyhow, we can get nothing from the rascal, so I mean to go up the river again. I have my plans working.”“But, Henry!”“Only to try and find him; for Harley’s and Hilton’s men have made a miserable failure of it all.”Mrs Bolter sighed, but she made no opposition; and then further conversation was ended by the arrival of Grey Stuart with Hilton, both looking so satisfied and happy that Mrs Bolter exclaimed: “Why, whatever now!” The doctor chuckled, and cried: “Oh! that’s it, is it! Oh! Grey! I thought you meant to be a female old bachelor all your life!”“I have persuaded her that it is folly,” said Hilton. “But I always thought it was to be Chumbley!” cried the doctor. “Here, I say, this is a horrible take-in.”“I thought the same, doctor,” said Hilton, smiling; “and have been making myself very miserable about what is a misconception, though Grey here owns to thinking Chum the best and truest of men.”“And I’m sure he is!” cried Mrs Doctor, enthusiastically.“Here, I say!” cried the doctor, banging his hand down on the table, “this won’t do! Am I to sit and hear a man praised to my very face?”“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly; “if it is Chumbley; and if Grey had chosen with my eyes, she would have taken him instead.”“But she did not choose with your eyes, my dear,” said the doctor, smiling; “and she was wise?”“And why so?” cried Mrs Bolter, tartly.“Because she saw what a bad one you were at making a choice, my dear. Look at me for a husband, Miss Stuart; this was the best she could do.”“Oh, Henry! for shame!” cried Mrs Doctor. “There! I’ll say no more, only that I hardly forgive you, Hilton; and I tell you frankly that you have won a far better wife than you deserve!”“Then I’m sure we shall be the best of friends over it, Mrs Bolter!” said Hilton, merrily, “for I have been repeating that sentiment almost word for word.”“There, there, there—the young people know best,” said the doctor. “I congratulate you both; and I must be off now to see Perowne. But here is somebody coming. Mrs Barlow, I believe.”“Henry, pray say I’m out!” cried Mrs Bolter, starting up. “I really cannot meet that woman to-day!” and she made for the door.“It’s all right. Don’t go, my dear; it’s only Stuart,” said the doctor, chuckling.“And you said it was that horrible Mrs Barlow on purpose to frighten me! It’s a very great shame—it is indeed!”“Ye’re right, Mrs Bolter,” said the little dry Scotch merchant, appearing in the doorway; “it is a great shame! After all my care and devotion, and the money I have spent in her education, here’s this foolish girl takes a fancy to a red coat, and says she shan’t be happy without she marries it!”“Pray, pray, papa! No, dear father, don’t talk like that!” said Grey, crossing to him, as he took a chair, and resting her hand upon his shoulder.“Oh, but it’s enough to make any man speak!” he cried. “I suppose it’s natural though, Mrs Bolter?”“Of course it is, Mr Stuart; and if Captain Hilton undertakes to make her a good husband, why you must be very thankful.”“Humph! I suppose so; but mind this; you can’t be wed till the chaplain’s found! Ha! ha! ha! I say, doctor, that will stir up Hilton here!”“We are making earnest efforts to find him without that,” said Hilton, warmly.“Oh, are you?” said the old merchant. “Well, look here, just a few business words in the presence of witnesses before I go up to Perowne, for I promised to go and smoke a pipe with the poor fellow, who’s as sick in body as he is in pocket and mind.”“I’m going there, and we’ll trot over together,” said the doctor.“Verra good,” said old Stuart. “So now look here, Master Hilton, commonly called Captain Hilton, you came to me to-day saying that you had my child’s consent to ask me to give her to you for a wife.”“Yes, sir, and I repeat it.”“Well, I sort of consented, didn’t I?”“You did, sir.”“Good; but once more—you know I’m a verra poor man?”“I know you are not a rich one, sir.”“That’s right, Hilton. And you ken,” he continued, getting excited and a little more Scottish of accent—“ye ken that when puir Perowne failed, he owed me nearly sax hundred pounds?”“I did hear so, sir.”“Well, I meant to give little Grey here that for a wedding-portion, and now it’s all gone.”“I’m glad of it, sir,” cried Hilton, warmly, “for I am only a poor fellow with my pay and a couple of hundred a year besides; but in a very few years’ time I shall be in the receipt of another two hundred and fifty a year, so that we shall not hurt.”Grey crossed to him, and put her arm through his, as she nodded and smiled in his face.“Ye’re a pair o’ feckless babies!” cried old Stuart. “So ye mean to say ye’ll be content to begin life on nothing but what ye’ve got, Hilton?”“To be sure, sir! Why not?”“To be sure! Why not?” said Mrs Bolter. “I don’t approve of people marrying for money, Mr Stuart; and I’m glad they act in so honest a spirit! Do you know, Mr Hilton, I began my life out here hating Helen Perowne, and thoroughly disliking you; and now, do you know, she has made me love her; and as for you, I never liked you half so well before, and I wish you both every joy, and as happy a life as I live myself when Henry stays at home, and does not glory in teasing me in every way he can!”“Thank you, Mrs Bolter!” cried Hilton, warmly. “I don’t wonder, though, that you should dislike me, for I did not show you a very pleasant side of my character.”“Well,” said old Stuart, rising, “you and I may as well be off, doctor. Poor Perowne will be glad to hear you chat a bit about Helen; and as for you two young and foolish people, why—ha! ha! ha! you had better make friends with the doctor. He has always been petting my little girl; now’s the time for him to do something a little more solid.”“I’m sure,” said Mrs Doctor, warmly, “Grey shall not go to the altar without a little dowry of her own—eh, Henry?”“To be sure, my dear!” said the doctor—“to be sure!”“Nay, nay, nay!” cried old Stuart, showing his teeth; “hang your little dowries! I want something handsome down!”“Oh, father!” cried Grey, turning scarlet with shame.“You hold your tongue, child! I want the doctor to do something handsome for you out of his findings at Ophir—Solomon’s gold, Bolter. Ha, ha, ha!”“Laugh away!” cried the doctor; “but I shall astonish you yet!”“Gad, Bolter, ye will when ye mak’ anything out o’ that!” cried the little merchant. “Don’t let him run after shadows any more, Mrs Bolter. Well, Hilton, my boy, I won’t play with you,” he said, holding out his hand, as he spoke now, with Grey held tightly to his side, and the tears in his pale blue eyes. “I’m a pawkie, queer old Scot, but I believe my heart’s in the right place.”“I’m sure—” began Hilton.“Let me speak, my lad!” cried the old man. “I always said to myself that I should like the lad who wooed my little lassie here to love her for herself alone, and I believe you do. Hold your tongue a bit my lad! I’ve always been a careful, plodding fellow, and such a screw, that people always looked upon me as poor; but I’m not, Hilton: and thank Heaven, I can laugh at such a loss as that I have had! Heaven bless you, my lad! You’ve won a sweet, true woman for your wife; and let me tell you that you’ve won a rich one. My lassie’s marriage portion is twenty thousand pounds on the day she becomes your wife, and she’ll have more than double that when the doctor kills me some day, as I am sure he will.”“Mr Stuart!” cried Hilton.“Hold your tongue, lad—not a word! Good-night, Mrs Bolter. Doctor, old friend, if you don’t take me up to Perowne’s, and prescribe pipes and a glass o’ whuskee, I shall sit down and cry like a child.”He was already at the door, and the doctor followed him out, leaving Hilton, as he afterwards told his old companion, not knowing whether he was awake or in a dream.But he was awake decidedly, as Mrs Bolter could have told, for dream-kisses never sound so loud as those which he printed on the lips of his future wife.“Oh, it’s all right!” said Chumbley; “and I wish you joy! I knew the little lassie loved you months ago!”

Slow work—terribly slow work; but at the end of three days—during which at any moment it had seemed as if the light of life would become extinct—Helen Perowne still lived, and in place of Grey Stuart or Mrs Bolter, Neil Harley was mostly by her side.

She suffered still from wild attacks of delirium, and in her wanderings, if the firm, strong hand of the Resident was not there to hold her, she grew plaintive and fretful, and a look of horror appeared upon her wasted face; but no sooner did she feel Neil Harley’s firm clasp and hear his whispered words, than she uttered a sigh of content, and dropped always into a placid sleep.

To his surprise and delight, these words seemed to pacify her; a long-drawn sigh came from her breast, and she fell into a restful slumber.

During the rest of the critical time of her illness a few whispered words always had the desired effect, and from that hour Helen began rapidly to mend.

“Yes, she is improving fast now,” said the doctor, as he sat beside her bed talking, as if he believed his patient to be asleep. “I shan’t take any of the credit, Harley. I should have lost her, I am sure, for it was not in physic to do more than I had done. There, I am going down now to my specimens, to have a look at them, and talk to my wife, for I have hardly seen her of late.”

He rose and left the room, and the Resident took his place, seeing that the great dark eyes were fixed upon him, full of a strange, pathetic light, that the warm evening glow seemed to give an almost supernatural effect.

“You are awake, then?” he said, softly.

“Yes; I heard all that he said, and it is true.”

“Thank heaven!” said the Resident, fervently, as he took one of the thin brown hands from the white coverlet and held it in both of his.

“I believe it was your tender words that gave me hope,” said Helen, softly. “Now it is time to take them back.”

“Take them back?” he exclaimed, wonderingly.

“Yes; take them back. Do you think I could be so weak and cruel as to let you be burdened for life with such a degraded thing as I?” she cried; and she burst into so violent a fit of sobbing that the Resident grew alarmed; but he must have possessed wonderful soothing power, for when Mrs Bolter came in a short time after, it was to find Helen Perowne’s weary head resting upon Neil Harley’s arm, and there was a restful, peaceful look in her eyes that the little lady had never seen there before.

Helen did not move, and the Resident seemed as if it was quite a matter of course for him to remain there, so little Mrs Bolter went softly forward and bent down to kiss her invalid as she called her, when she was prisoned by two trembling weak arms, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but Helen’s sobs.

When Mrs Bolter went down soon afterwards to sit with the doctor, she said, softly:

“I never thought I could like that girl, Henry, and now I believe I almost love her.”

“That’s because she has changed her colour,” said the doctor, with a hearty chuckle.

“Oh! that reminds me,” cried Mrs Bolter; “I wanted to ask you about that.”

“About what?” said the doctor, looking up.

“About the black stain. Will she always be like that?”

“Pooh, nonsense! my dear. It is only a stain, which has thoroughly permeated, if I may so term it, the outer skin. Soon wear off, my dear—soon wear off.”

“But her teeth, Henry?”

“Come right in time, my dear, with plenty of tooth-powder; all but the filing.”

“But that is a terrible disfigurement.”

“Oh, that will go off in time. The teeth are always growing and being worn down at the edges; but what does it matter? she is ten times as nice a girl as she was before.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, thoughtfully; “and now, Henry, if I could only have my mind set at rest about Arthur, I believe I should be a happy woman.”

“Then we’ll soon set your mind at rest about him,” said the doctor. “I never felt that I could leave you till Helen was safe from a relapse.”

“Leave me, Henry!” cried the little lady.

“Only for a time, till I have found Arthur.”

“Then you do think he will be found?”

“I am sure of it. Why, who would hurt him, the best and most inoffensive of men?”

“Surely no one,” said Mrs Bolter, with a sigh.

“Of course not. I’ve tried to get something out of Murad, but my messengers have failed; but all the same, I feel sure he knows all about it, and burked Arthur for a reason of his own.”

“But what reason could he have?” cried Mrs Bolter.

“Well, I’ll tell you my theory, my dear, and it is this: he meant to silence all Helen’s scruples by marrying her according to our rites.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do; and that is why he secured Arthur. If it was not so, it was because he was in the way. Anyhow, we can get nothing from the rascal, so I mean to go up the river again. I have my plans working.”

“But, Henry!”

“Only to try and find him; for Harley’s and Hilton’s men have made a miserable failure of it all.”

Mrs Bolter sighed, but she made no opposition; and then further conversation was ended by the arrival of Grey Stuart with Hilton, both looking so satisfied and happy that Mrs Bolter exclaimed: “Why, whatever now!” The doctor chuckled, and cried: “Oh! that’s it, is it! Oh! Grey! I thought you meant to be a female old bachelor all your life!”

“I have persuaded her that it is folly,” said Hilton. “But I always thought it was to be Chumbley!” cried the doctor. “Here, I say, this is a horrible take-in.”

“I thought the same, doctor,” said Hilton, smiling; “and have been making myself very miserable about what is a misconception, though Grey here owns to thinking Chum the best and truest of men.”

“And I’m sure he is!” cried Mrs Doctor, enthusiastically.

“Here, I say!” cried the doctor, banging his hand down on the table, “this won’t do! Am I to sit and hear a man praised to my very face?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly; “if it is Chumbley; and if Grey had chosen with my eyes, she would have taken him instead.”

“But she did not choose with your eyes, my dear,” said the doctor, smiling; “and she was wise?”

“And why so?” cried Mrs Bolter, tartly.

“Because she saw what a bad one you were at making a choice, my dear. Look at me for a husband, Miss Stuart; this was the best she could do.”

“Oh, Henry! for shame!” cried Mrs Doctor. “There! I’ll say no more, only that I hardly forgive you, Hilton; and I tell you frankly that you have won a far better wife than you deserve!”

“Then I’m sure we shall be the best of friends over it, Mrs Bolter!” said Hilton, merrily, “for I have been repeating that sentiment almost word for word.”

“There, there, there—the young people know best,” said the doctor. “I congratulate you both; and I must be off now to see Perowne. But here is somebody coming. Mrs Barlow, I believe.”

“Henry, pray say I’m out!” cried Mrs Bolter, starting up. “I really cannot meet that woman to-day!” and she made for the door.

“It’s all right. Don’t go, my dear; it’s only Stuart,” said the doctor, chuckling.

“And you said it was that horrible Mrs Barlow on purpose to frighten me! It’s a very great shame—it is indeed!”

“Ye’re right, Mrs Bolter,” said the little dry Scotch merchant, appearing in the doorway; “it is a great shame! After all my care and devotion, and the money I have spent in her education, here’s this foolish girl takes a fancy to a red coat, and says she shan’t be happy without she marries it!”

“Pray, pray, papa! No, dear father, don’t talk like that!” said Grey, crossing to him, as he took a chair, and resting her hand upon his shoulder.

“Oh, but it’s enough to make any man speak!” he cried. “I suppose it’s natural though, Mrs Bolter?”

“Of course it is, Mr Stuart; and if Captain Hilton undertakes to make her a good husband, why you must be very thankful.”

“Humph! I suppose so; but mind this; you can’t be wed till the chaplain’s found! Ha! ha! ha! I say, doctor, that will stir up Hilton here!”

“We are making earnest efforts to find him without that,” said Hilton, warmly.

“Oh, are you?” said the old merchant. “Well, look here, just a few business words in the presence of witnesses before I go up to Perowne, for I promised to go and smoke a pipe with the poor fellow, who’s as sick in body as he is in pocket and mind.”

“I’m going there, and we’ll trot over together,” said the doctor.

“Verra good,” said old Stuart. “So now look here, Master Hilton, commonly called Captain Hilton, you came to me to-day saying that you had my child’s consent to ask me to give her to you for a wife.”

“Yes, sir, and I repeat it.”

“Well, I sort of consented, didn’t I?”

“You did, sir.”

“Good; but once more—you know I’m a verra poor man?”

“I know you are not a rich one, sir.”

“That’s right, Hilton. And you ken,” he continued, getting excited and a little more Scottish of accent—“ye ken that when puir Perowne failed, he owed me nearly sax hundred pounds?”

“I did hear so, sir.”

“Well, I meant to give little Grey here that for a wedding-portion, and now it’s all gone.”

“I’m glad of it, sir,” cried Hilton, warmly, “for I am only a poor fellow with my pay and a couple of hundred a year besides; but in a very few years’ time I shall be in the receipt of another two hundred and fifty a year, so that we shall not hurt.”

Grey crossed to him, and put her arm through his, as she nodded and smiled in his face.

“Ye’re a pair o’ feckless babies!” cried old Stuart. “So ye mean to say ye’ll be content to begin life on nothing but what ye’ve got, Hilton?”

“To be sure, sir! Why not?”

“To be sure! Why not?” said Mrs Bolter. “I don’t approve of people marrying for money, Mr Stuart; and I’m glad they act in so honest a spirit! Do you know, Mr Hilton, I began my life out here hating Helen Perowne, and thoroughly disliking you; and now, do you know, she has made me love her; and as for you, I never liked you half so well before, and I wish you both every joy, and as happy a life as I live myself when Henry stays at home, and does not glory in teasing me in every way he can!”

“Thank you, Mrs Bolter!” cried Hilton, warmly. “I don’t wonder, though, that you should dislike me, for I did not show you a very pleasant side of my character.”

“Well,” said old Stuart, rising, “you and I may as well be off, doctor. Poor Perowne will be glad to hear you chat a bit about Helen; and as for you two young and foolish people, why—ha! ha! ha! you had better make friends with the doctor. He has always been petting my little girl; now’s the time for him to do something a little more solid.”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs Doctor, warmly, “Grey shall not go to the altar without a little dowry of her own—eh, Henry?”

“To be sure, my dear!” said the doctor—“to be sure!”

“Nay, nay, nay!” cried old Stuart, showing his teeth; “hang your little dowries! I want something handsome down!”

“Oh, father!” cried Grey, turning scarlet with shame.

“You hold your tongue, child! I want the doctor to do something handsome for you out of his findings at Ophir—Solomon’s gold, Bolter. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Laugh away!” cried the doctor; “but I shall astonish you yet!”

“Gad, Bolter, ye will when ye mak’ anything out o’ that!” cried the little merchant. “Don’t let him run after shadows any more, Mrs Bolter. Well, Hilton, my boy, I won’t play with you,” he said, holding out his hand, as he spoke now, with Grey held tightly to his side, and the tears in his pale blue eyes. “I’m a pawkie, queer old Scot, but I believe my heart’s in the right place.”

“I’m sure—” began Hilton.

“Let me speak, my lad!” cried the old man. “I always said to myself that I should like the lad who wooed my little lassie here to love her for herself alone, and I believe you do. Hold your tongue a bit my lad! I’ve always been a careful, plodding fellow, and such a screw, that people always looked upon me as poor; but I’m not, Hilton: and thank Heaven, I can laugh at such a loss as that I have had! Heaven bless you, my lad! You’ve won a sweet, true woman for your wife; and let me tell you that you’ve won a rich one. My lassie’s marriage portion is twenty thousand pounds on the day she becomes your wife, and she’ll have more than double that when the doctor kills me some day, as I am sure he will.”

“Mr Stuart!” cried Hilton.

“Hold your tongue, lad—not a word! Good-night, Mrs Bolter. Doctor, old friend, if you don’t take me up to Perowne’s, and prescribe pipes and a glass o’ whuskee, I shall sit down and cry like a child.”

He was already at the door, and the doctor followed him out, leaving Hilton, as he afterwards told his old companion, not knowing whether he was awake or in a dream.

But he was awake decidedly, as Mrs Bolter could have told, for dream-kisses never sound so loud as those which he printed on the lips of his future wife.

“Oh, it’s all right!” said Chumbley; “and I wish you joy! I knew the little lassie loved you months ago!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.For Another Search.“By Jove, we’ve forgotten all about the parson!” exclaimed Chumbley. “What’s become of him?”“I say, Chumbley, old fellow, we must be getting into a terrible state of mind to go on like this without troubling ourselves about our chaplain—Here comes the doctor.”“And Harley not far behind.”“Doctor ahoy!” shouted Chumbley.“Well, lads—well, lads,” cried the little doctor, bustling up. “What news?”“That’s what we were going to ask you, doctor. What next?”“Why, now, my dear boys, that the troubles are about over, my principal patient quite safe, and people seem settling down, with no enemies to fear, it seems to me just the time for making a fresh start up the river.”“To—”“Exactly, my dear Chumbley; to take up the clue where I left off when I found Helen Perowne, and go on and discover the gold-workings.”“The gold-workings, doctor?” cried Hilton, wonderingly.“To be sure, my dear fellow. Mind, I don’t say that Solomon’s ships ever came right up this river; but they certainly came here and traded with the Sakais or Jacoons, the aboriginals of the country, who worked the gold from surface-mines and brought it down to the coast.”“Cut and dried, eh, doctor?” said Chumbley. “Dried, of course, my dear fellow. I don’t know about the cut. I feel more and more convinced that here we have the true Ophir of Solomon; and it only wants a little enterprise, such as I am bringing to bear—”“But you don’t mean to say,” cried Hilton, “that you are going off on another expedition of this sort, doctor?”“Indeed but I do, sir!”“And what does Mrs Doctor say?” asked Chumbley. “Does she approve?”“Of course, my dear boy. Don’t you see that I am combining the journey with one in search of my brother-in-law?”“Oh,” said Hilton, drily, “I see.“Harley’s people are back without any news, and my little wife is distracted about it; vows she’ll go herself if I don’t find him. And then there’s that Mrs Barlow. I was up all night with her. Hysterical, and shrieking ‘Arthur!’ at intervals like minute-guns.”“She has started a devoted attachment to the chaplain, hasn’t she?” asked Chumbley.“Dreadful!” replied the doctor. “It makes me think that the poor fellow is best away, for she certainly means to marry him when he comes back. I say Chumbley, you’re a big fellow!”“Granted, oh, wise man of the east.”“You have no income?”“The munificent pay awarded by Her Majesty’s Government to a lieutenant of foot, my dear doctor, as you perfectly well know.”“Exactly,” continued the doctor. “And you would not be afraid of a widow?”“No, I don’t think I should.”“Then marry Mrs Barlow. She is to be had for the asking, I am sure; and she has a nice bit of money. It would be a catch for you, and relieve poor Arthur Rosebury from further trouble.”“Hilton, old man,” said Chumbley, solemnly, “do you think there is a crocodile in the river big enough to receive this huge carcase of mine?”“Doubtful,” said Hilton, laughing. “I agree with you, Hilton! it is doubtful. But sooner would I plunge in and be entombed there than in the affections of Barlow. No, doctor, if you have my health at heart, you must prescribe differently from that. I say, though, don’t you take it rather coolly about the chaplain?”“Coolly? Not I, my dear fellow; but how can a man like me sit down and snivel? Here am I watching Helen Perowne one day, her father the next; then up all night with Billy—I mean Mrs—Barlow; without taking into consideration the calls to Private Thomas Atkins, who has eaten too much plaintain and mangosteen, and thinks he has the cholera; Mrs Ali Musto Rafoo, who is in a fidget about her offspring; and all the livers of the European residents to keep in gear. I say I have no time to think of anything.”“But Solomon’s gold mines,” said Chumbley.“Get out with your chaff!” cried the doctor. “But seriously, I have got hold of that fellow Yusuf, and he tells me he thinks he can find the chaplain, and I am just off. I couldn’t help the allusion to the gold.”“But you think it lies somewhere up-country?” said Chumbley, seriously.“Sure of it, my dear boy!” cried the doctor, eagerly; “and I shall of course use every effort to find Rosebury: but to be honest, it would be unnatural if I did not look out for the great object of my thoughts at times.”“What, the chaplain?” said Hilton.“No, the Ophir gold mines,” said the doctor, seriously; “but really it is a great trouble to me, this disappearance of my brother-in-law. You couldn’t go with me, could you, Hilton?”“I go? No, I’m afraid not, doctor.”Chumbley gave a curious start at this, but was immovable of aspect the next moment.“It’s my belief,” he said quietly, “that when you come to the point and find the chaplain, it will be where the doctor wants to get to so earnestly.”“What do you mean?” cried Dr Bolter.“Depend upon it he has discovered Ophir, and is sitting upon the gold. That’s why he does not come back?”“You don’t think so, do you?” cried the doctor, earnestly.“Well it is possible,” replied Chumbley. “What do you say, Harley?” he continued, as the Resident strolled up.“Say about what?”“I tell the doctor that I think Rosebury has discovered Ophir, and that is why he does not come back.”The Resident smiled.“My dear doctor,” he said, “when do you start?”“To-morrow morning at daybreak.”“And you will take three or four men with you—say a sergeant and three privates?”“Thanks, no,” said the doctor; “but I should like one soldier with me if I can take my pick.”“I will answer for it that you may.”“Then I want Chumbley.”“Oh, I’ll go with you!” cried the latter. “Where do you mean to go first—to the Inche Maida’s district?”“No,” cried the doctor; “what is the good of going there? You know she has had the place well searched, and turned sulky, and holds aloof from us now.”“Yes,” said Chumbley, exchanging glances with Hilton, “I know that. Of course she is annoyed about Murad.”“Of course,” said Hilton frankly, “she does not like being suspected of connivance with the Rajah for one thing, and feels as well that at such a time as this her presence would be out of place and awkward.”“It is a pity too,” said the Resident, “for I would rather be on good terms with so enlightened a woman.”“Sore place,” said the doctor, in his quick, offhand way; “give it time and keep it healthy, and it will soon heal up. The Inche Maida fancies we are suspicious of her. Wait a bit, and send her a little present, and then an invitation. I would not be in too great a hurry. Wait till the Murad business has all settled down, and she has seen that we are not going to usurp her land.”“Yes,” said Hilton; “I think the doctor is right.”“Sure I am,” said the doctor. “Diagnosed the case. Bless your hearts, before long her serene highness will have the vapours, or cut her finger, or chew too much betel, or something or another, and then she will send for yours truly, Henry Bolter, and all will be plain sailing again. Well, Chumbley, will you come with me?”“Yes, doctor, on two conditions,” replied Chumbley.“Firstly?” said the doctor.“That I get leave. It’s too much trouble and worry to desert.”“Granted,” said the doctor. “Eh, Harley. Eh, Hilton?”“Granted,” said the Resident.“Granted,” said Hilton.“That disposes of firstly,” said the doctor. “Now then secondly?”“That you swear not to mention Ophir more than once; and Solomon’s ships seeking gold, and apes, and peacocks more than once in each twenty-four hours,” said Chumbley.“Come, that’s fair,” said the Resident, laughing.“Quite fair,” cried Hilton, roaring with laughter.“Oh, hang it, I say! Come, that is too hard a condition,” said the doctor, tilting his sun-hat on one side so as to get a good scrub at his head.“Shan’t go without,” drawled Chumbley.“Say twelve hours—once in each twelve hours,” protested the doctor. “I couldn’t promise more.”“Would you stick out for the twenty-four?” said Chumbley, very seriously. “I hate being bored.”“Oh, I think I’d meet him,” said Hilton, laughing. “Poor fellow, he can’t help it.”“Well, I’ll give in,” said Chumbley; “only mind this, you are to take your best cigar-box, doctor—not those confounded manillas, but the havanas—and you are to pay a fine of a cigar every time you break out.”“Agreed,” said the doctor, holding out his hand, and the expedition was settled, the doctor going off with the Resident, leaving the two young officers together.

“By Jove, we’ve forgotten all about the parson!” exclaimed Chumbley. “What’s become of him?”

“I say, Chumbley, old fellow, we must be getting into a terrible state of mind to go on like this without troubling ourselves about our chaplain—Here comes the doctor.”

“And Harley not far behind.”

“Doctor ahoy!” shouted Chumbley.

“Well, lads—well, lads,” cried the little doctor, bustling up. “What news?”

“That’s what we were going to ask you, doctor. What next?”

“Why, now, my dear boys, that the troubles are about over, my principal patient quite safe, and people seem settling down, with no enemies to fear, it seems to me just the time for making a fresh start up the river.”

“To—”

“Exactly, my dear Chumbley; to take up the clue where I left off when I found Helen Perowne, and go on and discover the gold-workings.”

“The gold-workings, doctor?” cried Hilton, wonderingly.

“To be sure, my dear fellow. Mind, I don’t say that Solomon’s ships ever came right up this river; but they certainly came here and traded with the Sakais or Jacoons, the aboriginals of the country, who worked the gold from surface-mines and brought it down to the coast.”

“Cut and dried, eh, doctor?” said Chumbley. “Dried, of course, my dear fellow. I don’t know about the cut. I feel more and more convinced that here we have the true Ophir of Solomon; and it only wants a little enterprise, such as I am bringing to bear—”

“But you don’t mean to say,” cried Hilton, “that you are going off on another expedition of this sort, doctor?”

“Indeed but I do, sir!”

“And what does Mrs Doctor say?” asked Chumbley. “Does she approve?”

“Of course, my dear boy. Don’t you see that I am combining the journey with one in search of my brother-in-law?”

“Oh,” said Hilton, drily, “I see.

“Harley’s people are back without any news, and my little wife is distracted about it; vows she’ll go herself if I don’t find him. And then there’s that Mrs Barlow. I was up all night with her. Hysterical, and shrieking ‘Arthur!’ at intervals like minute-guns.”

“She has started a devoted attachment to the chaplain, hasn’t she?” asked Chumbley.

“Dreadful!” replied the doctor. “It makes me think that the poor fellow is best away, for she certainly means to marry him when he comes back. I say Chumbley, you’re a big fellow!”

“Granted, oh, wise man of the east.”

“You have no income?”

“The munificent pay awarded by Her Majesty’s Government to a lieutenant of foot, my dear doctor, as you perfectly well know.”

“Exactly,” continued the doctor. “And you would not be afraid of a widow?”

“No, I don’t think I should.”

“Then marry Mrs Barlow. She is to be had for the asking, I am sure; and she has a nice bit of money. It would be a catch for you, and relieve poor Arthur Rosebury from further trouble.”

“Hilton, old man,” said Chumbley, solemnly, “do you think there is a crocodile in the river big enough to receive this huge carcase of mine?”

“Doubtful,” said Hilton, laughing. “I agree with you, Hilton! it is doubtful. But sooner would I plunge in and be entombed there than in the affections of Barlow. No, doctor, if you have my health at heart, you must prescribe differently from that. I say, though, don’t you take it rather coolly about the chaplain?”

“Coolly? Not I, my dear fellow; but how can a man like me sit down and snivel? Here am I watching Helen Perowne one day, her father the next; then up all night with Billy—I mean Mrs—Barlow; without taking into consideration the calls to Private Thomas Atkins, who has eaten too much plaintain and mangosteen, and thinks he has the cholera; Mrs Ali Musto Rafoo, who is in a fidget about her offspring; and all the livers of the European residents to keep in gear. I say I have no time to think of anything.”

“But Solomon’s gold mines,” said Chumbley.

“Get out with your chaff!” cried the doctor. “But seriously, I have got hold of that fellow Yusuf, and he tells me he thinks he can find the chaplain, and I am just off. I couldn’t help the allusion to the gold.”

“But you think it lies somewhere up-country?” said Chumbley, seriously.

“Sure of it, my dear boy!” cried the doctor, eagerly; “and I shall of course use every effort to find Rosebury: but to be honest, it would be unnatural if I did not look out for the great object of my thoughts at times.”

“What, the chaplain?” said Hilton.

“No, the Ophir gold mines,” said the doctor, seriously; “but really it is a great trouble to me, this disappearance of my brother-in-law. You couldn’t go with me, could you, Hilton?”

“I go? No, I’m afraid not, doctor.”

Chumbley gave a curious start at this, but was immovable of aspect the next moment.

“It’s my belief,” he said quietly, “that when you come to the point and find the chaplain, it will be where the doctor wants to get to so earnestly.”

“What do you mean?” cried Dr Bolter.

“Depend upon it he has discovered Ophir, and is sitting upon the gold. That’s why he does not come back?”

“You don’t think so, do you?” cried the doctor, earnestly.

“Well it is possible,” replied Chumbley. “What do you say, Harley?” he continued, as the Resident strolled up.

“Say about what?”

“I tell the doctor that I think Rosebury has discovered Ophir, and that is why he does not come back.”

The Resident smiled.

“My dear doctor,” he said, “when do you start?”

“To-morrow morning at daybreak.”

“And you will take three or four men with you—say a sergeant and three privates?”

“Thanks, no,” said the doctor; “but I should like one soldier with me if I can take my pick.”

“I will answer for it that you may.”

“Then I want Chumbley.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you!” cried the latter. “Where do you mean to go first—to the Inche Maida’s district?”

“No,” cried the doctor; “what is the good of going there? You know she has had the place well searched, and turned sulky, and holds aloof from us now.”

“Yes,” said Chumbley, exchanging glances with Hilton, “I know that. Of course she is annoyed about Murad.”

“Of course,” said Hilton frankly, “she does not like being suspected of connivance with the Rajah for one thing, and feels as well that at such a time as this her presence would be out of place and awkward.”

“It is a pity too,” said the Resident, “for I would rather be on good terms with so enlightened a woman.”

“Sore place,” said the doctor, in his quick, offhand way; “give it time and keep it healthy, and it will soon heal up. The Inche Maida fancies we are suspicious of her. Wait a bit, and send her a little present, and then an invitation. I would not be in too great a hurry. Wait till the Murad business has all settled down, and she has seen that we are not going to usurp her land.”

“Yes,” said Hilton; “I think the doctor is right.”

“Sure I am,” said the doctor. “Diagnosed the case. Bless your hearts, before long her serene highness will have the vapours, or cut her finger, or chew too much betel, or something or another, and then she will send for yours truly, Henry Bolter, and all will be plain sailing again. Well, Chumbley, will you come with me?”

“Yes, doctor, on two conditions,” replied Chumbley.

“Firstly?” said the doctor.

“That I get leave. It’s too much trouble and worry to desert.”

“Granted,” said the doctor. “Eh, Harley. Eh, Hilton?”

“Granted,” said the Resident.

“Granted,” said Hilton.

“That disposes of firstly,” said the doctor. “Now then secondly?”

“That you swear not to mention Ophir more than once; and Solomon’s ships seeking gold, and apes, and peacocks more than once in each twenty-four hours,” said Chumbley.

“Come, that’s fair,” said the Resident, laughing.

“Quite fair,” cried Hilton, roaring with laughter.

“Oh, hang it, I say! Come, that is too hard a condition,” said the doctor, tilting his sun-hat on one side so as to get a good scrub at his head.

“Shan’t go without,” drawled Chumbley.

“Say twelve hours—once in each twelve hours,” protested the doctor. “I couldn’t promise more.”

“Would you stick out for the twenty-four?” said Chumbley, very seriously. “I hate being bored.”

“Oh, I think I’d meet him,” said Hilton, laughing. “Poor fellow, he can’t help it.”

“Well, I’ll give in,” said Chumbley; “only mind this, you are to take your best cigar-box, doctor—not those confounded manillas, but the havanas—and you are to pay a fine of a cigar every time you break out.”

“Agreed,” said the doctor, holding out his hand, and the expedition was settled, the doctor going off with the Resident, leaving the two young officers together.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Eight.A Find—Not Gold.“I say, Hilton, old fellow, I liked that,” drawled Chumbley.“Liked what?”“Why the way in which you smothered up all your old resentment against that poor woman. You know you were breathing out fire and slaughter against her when we got away.”“Well, I was angry then, and mortified, and troubled.”“And now it’s all balm, and oil-olive, and honey, eh, old fellow? The beating, bounding heart at rest.”“Don’t be an idiot!”“Why not? The ways of wisdom are hard, and cold, and thorny. Folly is pleasant sometimes.”“You don’t think so.”“Indeed I do. You heard what an idiot I was in throwing up that Barlowesque chance?”“Was that meant for a pun on burlesque?”“I didn’t mean it,” said Chumbley. “Take it so if you like. But I say, old fellow, I am glad that you have smoothed down about the Inche Maida.”“Weak, silly woman!” cried Hilton. “Oh, I don’t know. It was her foreign way of looking at her chances. These people are regular gamblers. Look at those two fellows there fighting those gamecocks. I’ll be bound to say they are staking their all upon the event!”“Likely enough. That scoundrel Murad staked his all and lost!”“Heavily,” said the lieutenant. “The Princess staked heavily too, and lost; but thanks to you, she comes off pretty easily except in the disappointment. You bury that affair, of course?”“Yes, of course! It is impossible to avoid it!”“Agreed,” said Chumbley. “Well, I’m glad you kept it down; it would have made us so very ridiculous. I’m off now to have a nap, and then to get ready my gun and things for the journey to-morrow.”“I don’t know that I should care to go with you,” said Hilton.“Won’t be bad. I shall sit back in the boat, and rest a good deal I daresay. Old Bolter will talk me to sleep, safe. Ta-ta.”“Good-bye, old fellow;” and the young men separated, Chumbley for his quarters, Hilton to go and seek out Grey.The next morning at daybreak, after infinite cautions from Mrs Bolter, the doctor prepared to start.“Is there anyone who ought to be seen—anyone you remember?” said the little lady.“No one but the Barlow woman. You might drop in there,” replied the doctor.“Oh, no, Henry; really I could not,” said Mrs Bolter, wringing her hands.“Never mind, then. She won’t hurt. She said, as soon as she knew I was going, that she should die if I did not bring Arthur back. I say, my dear, it’s almost enough to make one say one wishes he may never come.”“Oh, Henry!” cried Mrs Bolter. “I’d sooner suffer a dozen Mrs Barlows than Arthur should not be found!”“Very well, then, I don’t come back without him,” said the doctor.“Henry!”“If I can help it,” he replied; and for the next few moments any one might have taken them for a gushing young couple of eighteen and twenty-three before they tore themselves apart, and the doctor hurried away.Love is an evergreen. Only give it fair treatment, and the leaves will never fall.“Come, doctor,” roared Chumbley, as the little man approached the boat. “Do you call this daybreak?”“Yes, broad daybreak!” said the doctor, chuckling; and the next minute the boat was under weigh, with Yusuf and a crew to use the poles for punting over the shallows.The desire was strong in the doctor to devote himself a good deal to the pursuit of his hobby, but he sternly put it down.“No, Chumbley,” he said, “not this time. I’m a weak man, and I talked to you about Sol—ahem!—about my hobby, eh? Didn’t say it that time—and if we come across anything relating to Oph—I mean my hobby—why, well and good, we’ll investigate it; but I mean business; and Yusuf here has given me good hopes of being successful, for of course it is absurd to imagine that they have killed poor old Arthur!”“What do you propose doing first, then?” said Chumbley, rousing himself from a drowsy contemplation of the banks, and thinking how pleasantly life would glide on in a place like this.“I think I shall leave Yusuf to follow his own bent,” replied the doctor. “He is a close, dry fellow, but he seems to know a great deal, and he will not speak till he is sure. That is it, is it not, Yusuf?”“Yes, master,” said the Malay, who was toiling hard with the doctor’s old boatman Ismael. “If I said to the chiefs I know where the Christian priest is, and took them to the place and he was not there, they would be angry. So I will take them to the place I think of. If the Christian priest is there, it is good. If he is not, the misfortune is not so bad, and the chiefs will not be so hard upon their guide.”“Well, Ismael, what have you to say?” said the doctor, as he caught his old boatman looking at him very intently.“I was thinking of the lives of all here, master,” said Ismael. “We do not wish to die, we people of the country; but when the time comes we say ‘Yes, it is our fate, and we close our eyes;’ but you English chiefs, it is not right that you should die. We love the doctor, for he is good to us, our wives and children.”“Oh, all right,” said the doctor, heartily. “What do you mean? You are afraid there is risk?”“Great danger, master!” said Yusuf. “Murad will surely have us hunted out and slain for showing you his secret house in the jungle!”“Another secret house, eh?” said Chumbley, rousing himself a little more. “Well, look here, old Cockolorum.”Yusuf seemed to consider this a title conferring a dignity, for he smiled gravely and bowed.“And you too, old Beeswax,” continued Chumbley, addressing Ismael, who seemed disappointed at Yusuf getting all the honours, but who now smiled and bowed as well. “You think that Murad will come down on you both for betraying his secrets?”“It is not betraying, master,” said Yusuf. “We have found the place, and we show it to you. Murad did not trust us.”“All right,” continued Chumbley. “Well, let me tell you this, that by this time Rajah Murad, or the Sultan as you call him, is safe under lock and key.”“Thy servant does not understand,” said Yusuf.“The chief means he is shut up in a little box with the key in his pocket,” interpreted Ismael, gravely.“That will do,” said Chumbley, smothering a laugh. “He is safe in prison, and you will never see him here again.”“It is enough,” said Yusuf. “The English are my masters, and I trust to them that their servant shall not have the kris.”“Now then, how long have you known of this place?”“Two days, master: a friend told me that his brother was there as guard, but he knew no more.”“And you will take us there?” said Chumbley.“Straight if the chief commands,” said Yusuf; and the boat was urged forward.It was on the second day that the little boat was turned into the stream that had become familiar to the doctor, and he exclaimed at once:“This won’t do. I know of that place. The chaplain is not there.”“No, not there,” said Yusuf. “We shall see.”The doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction, half an hour later, when, instead of following the windings of this minor stream, the sampan’s head was suddenly turned towards a dense mass of tall reeds, and the men paddled with all their might, driving the boat through the water-growth, and after a hundred yards of rough progression, they passed into a large lagoon, dotted with patches of a kind of lotus, and with other water-plants sufficiently beautiful to drive the doctor into raptures.“But no,” he exclaimed; “I will not be tempted to botanise any more than I will be to look upon the spots where Sol—I mean—that is—”“I say, doctor, we’ve been out over twelve hours,” drawled Chumbley, “and you haven’t yet said it once. Let it go.”“Solomon’s ships came in search of gold!” cried the doctor, as if relieved.“Well, they didn’t come here, doctor, or they would soon have been aground.”“No: of course not,” said the doctor; “but what I mean is, that I will not yield to my hobby this time until poor Arthur Rosebury is found. I promised his sister, and I’ll keep my word.”That lagoon, or rather chain of marshy lakelets, extended for quite fifty miles, sometimes spreading wide, more often dwindling into little openings and ponds united by narrow passages with hardly a perceptible stream. Along this chain the boatmen dexterously sent the little vessel, sometimes forcing it aground, and often having hard work to get it through the dense vegetation that rose from the swampy soil.Two days were spent in getting to the end of the lagoon; and landing upon an elevated place, they encamped for the night, the doctor chatting for long enough about the beautiful specimens that they had passed, and which he had refrained from touching.“There is a remarkable flora in this region, Chumbley,” he said, enthusiastically.“I daresay there is,” said Chumbley, sleepily; “but your wife doesn’t want us to be taking back a remarkable flora, but a matter-of-fact Arthur. Go to sleep, man, and let’s rest.”The doctor told him he had no soul for science.“Not a bit, doctor. Good-night;” and the great fellow was asleep in an instant.“We are very near the place now,” said the guide, as they partook of a hearty breakfast, Yusuf having speared some of the fish that abounded in the waters near.“But we’ve got to the end of the lake,” said the doctor.“Yes, master; and now we must walk.”The way proved to be a long and toilsome journey, through the stifling heat of the jungle, which was here tolerably open, and so full of specimens attractive to the doctor that he fidgeted with disappointment at having to pass them by. He, however, resolutely refrained from attempting to collect, and only forfeited one cigar by the time that, after their weary tramp, gun in hand, the guide pointed to a low palm-thatched house, within a strong bamboo palisade, which protected a garden.“Who’d have thought of finding a house here?” said Chumbley, who began to think of the Inche Maida’s hiding-place, to which this was very similar. “But where is the pathway?”“On the other side, master. I brought you all round this way so as not to alarm the guards. They might have taken their prisoner farther into the jungle where he could not be found.”A short consultation was held, and then Chumbley’s proposal was carried in opposition to the more timid one of the guide’s.Chumbley’s was the very soldier-like one of draw and advance.This they did, the men with their spears, and Chumbley and the doctor double gun in hand; and after a little struggle with nothing more dangerous than canes, they forced their way round to the front of the place and entered, to find everything just as if it had been inhabited an hour before, but neither prisoner nor guards were there.“The birds are flown,” said Chumbley, after they had searched the half-dozen airy rooms that formed the place.“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he has been here. Look!”He pointed to a couple of long shelves made by placing bamboos together, and upon them, carefully dried, were hundreds of botanical specimens, laid as only a botanist would have placed them.There was the chance of the prisoner returning, but it hardly seemed probable; and after some hours waiting, it was decided to return to the boat, to pass the night there, and return the next day.The tramp back seemed harder than the advance; but they persevered, and at last, soaked with perspiration and utterly wearied out, they came in sight of the lagoon head, where Chumbley uttered a sigh of satisfaction.“I wonder what’s for dinner,” he said. “Eh?”He turned sharply, for Yusuf uttered an ejaculation, and stood pointing to where, seated in an opening and leaning against a tree, was the figure of a man, ragged, unshorn, and looking the picture of misery.“Hurrah?” shouted Chumbley, dashing forward, the doctor panting after him; but the figure did not move, seeming to be asleep with its head drooped forward upon its breast.“Rosebury!” cried Chumbley—“Rosebury!” but there was no reply.“Arthur!” cried the doctor, sinking on one knee beside the haggard, hollow-cheeked figure, and changing the position so that its head rested upon his arm.“Dead?” whispered Chumbley, in awe-stricken tones.“He would have been in an hour!” cried the doctor. “Quick! your flask. There, that will do—a few drops with water. That’s right. Now soak a biscuit well. Crumble it up, man—quick, in the cup.”A few drops at a time were poured between the parched lips, and as Arthur Rosebury showed signs of revival, a little of the soaked biscuit was administered; while Yusuf and Ismael rapidly cut down grass and contrived a rough bed, upon which the suffering man was laid.“Is it fever?” said Chumbley, gazing down at the hollow cheeks and wild, staring eyes that had not a spark of recognition therein.“The fever that men have who are starving,” cried the doctor. “Poor fellow! he has not had food for a week.”It was after three days’ camping out beside the boat in a rough shanty which the Malays built up, that the Reverend Arthur Rosebury came round sufficiently to be able to recognise and talk to his friends.“It’s fortunate for you, old fellow, that you had a doctor to find you,” said Bolter. “For—I say it without boasting—if I had not been with Chumbley, you would never have seen Sindang again.”“And shall I now?” was said in a feeble voice.“To be sure you will, and the sooner the better,” said the doctor. “I want more nourishing food for you, so we’ll make up a couch in the stern of the boat, and then get on towards home.”“I’ll try and bear being moved,” he said feebly, “but—but—but—”“But what?” said the doctor, quietly. “There, don’t worry. I see. You have forgotten what you wanted to say. It will come again. Shut your eyes and go to sleep.”Arthur Rosebury was so pitifully weak that he was ready to obey anybody; and he sank back and seemed to go to sleep at once with the doctor and Chumbley seated by his side.“I want some explanation of all this,” said Chumbley, in his drawling way.“So do I,” said the doctor; “but we must wait, my dear boy. He’s as weak as water, and I can’t trouble him with questions. You see, his brain is affected by his bodily want of tone; but it will soon come right if we are patient.”It seemed to the chaplain as if he had not been asleep when he awoke five hours later, and looking at the doctor he went on where he ceased before dozing off; but this time he did not forget.“Where is Helen Perowne?” he asked.“Safe at home,” replied the doctor.“That is well,” said the chaplain. “I have been troubled by a dreamy idea that she was carried off when I was by the Malays, and that I was kept to marry Helen to someone else.”“What someone else?” said the doctor.“I fancied it was Murad,” said the chaplain, feebly; “but my headisconfused and strange. What of Mary?”“Quite well, and anxious to see you again. There, lie back, and we will lift you in this waterproof sheet so gently that you will hardly know you have been moved.”The chaplain lay back, and seemed to drop asleep again as he was lifted into the boat, which put off at once; and in high spirits with the successful termination of their quest, the Malays worked well, and sent the sampan skimming over the still waters of the lagoon.They did not cease poling and paddling all night, and halted at last to land, after catching some fish, which, when broiled, made a good addition to the biscuits and coffee.The chaplain ate heartily, and seemed to enjoy the warm sunshine as they went on again over the sparkling waters of the lake. He talked, too, and asked Chumbley to sit by him, but seemed to have very little memory, till all at once he cried, in a piteous tone:“My specimens!—my specimens! We must not leave them behind!”The doctor took off his hat and rubbed his head, for his feelings were quite with the chaplain; but to go back and land, and search the house in the jungle, meant over a day’s work, and he said, decidedly:“No: it is impossible to go now!”“But they are the work of weeks and months of labour!” protested the chaplain. “If you had only seen them!”“My dear Arthur, I have seen them,” said the doctor. “They will not hurt, and as soon as you are well again we will fetch them.”The chaplain sank back in his place with a sigh; and as the journey was continued he told his friends of his long imprisonment, and of how, as a resource, he had settled down to botanising.This had gone on steadily, till about a fortnight back, when he noticed that his guards were whispering together a good deal, and that evening he missed them, and no meal was prepared.The next day no one was visible, and he found what provision there was, and did the best he could, and so on the next day, when, finding that he was regularly deserted, he made up his mind to escape, and started off, following the track that led from the house, to find that it ended by a little river.There was no possibility of getting to right or left, to follow the stream, on account of the jungle, and after a weary day he was glad to go back to his prison and sleep.The following days were taken up in efforts to find a path that would lead to some inhabited place, but the efforts were in vain; and though he sought constantly, he could not retrace his steps to the house where he had seen the Malay lady trying to get away. Everywhere it was jungle—a wilderness of jungle—and the only possibility of escape was by one of the streams, or by way of the lagoon, which he had discovered in his botanical wanderings.He had no boat, nor the ingenuity to contrive one. To have attempted to wade down a stream meant courting death by the reptiles; so the chaplain’s many wanderings in the wilderness took him over the same ground day after day, and always back to his prison.Then the scant supply of provision was exhausted; there was no fruit to be found; he had no gun, and could contrive no means of capturing fish; and the result was that, growing weaker day by day, and more helpless, he realised how safe was the prison in the jungle in which he had been shut up; and at last sat down, to gradually sink into a stupor, from which, but for the coming of his friends, he would never have recovered.Even when he was taken in safety to the landing-stage, he was too feeble to walk, and fainted as he was carried to his brother-in-law’s house.

“I say, Hilton, old fellow, I liked that,” drawled Chumbley.

“Liked what?”

“Why the way in which you smothered up all your old resentment against that poor woman. You know you were breathing out fire and slaughter against her when we got away.”

“Well, I was angry then, and mortified, and troubled.”

“And now it’s all balm, and oil-olive, and honey, eh, old fellow? The beating, bounding heart at rest.”

“Don’t be an idiot!”

“Why not? The ways of wisdom are hard, and cold, and thorny. Folly is pleasant sometimes.”

“You don’t think so.”

“Indeed I do. You heard what an idiot I was in throwing up that Barlowesque chance?”

“Was that meant for a pun on burlesque?”

“I didn’t mean it,” said Chumbley. “Take it so if you like. But I say, old fellow, I am glad that you have smoothed down about the Inche Maida.”

“Weak, silly woman!” cried Hilton. “Oh, I don’t know. It was her foreign way of looking at her chances. These people are regular gamblers. Look at those two fellows there fighting those gamecocks. I’ll be bound to say they are staking their all upon the event!”

“Likely enough. That scoundrel Murad staked his all and lost!”

“Heavily,” said the lieutenant. “The Princess staked heavily too, and lost; but thanks to you, she comes off pretty easily except in the disappointment. You bury that affair, of course?”

“Yes, of course! It is impossible to avoid it!”

“Agreed,” said Chumbley. “Well, I’m glad you kept it down; it would have made us so very ridiculous. I’m off now to have a nap, and then to get ready my gun and things for the journey to-morrow.”

“I don’t know that I should care to go with you,” said Hilton.

“Won’t be bad. I shall sit back in the boat, and rest a good deal I daresay. Old Bolter will talk me to sleep, safe. Ta-ta.”

“Good-bye, old fellow;” and the young men separated, Chumbley for his quarters, Hilton to go and seek out Grey.

The next morning at daybreak, after infinite cautions from Mrs Bolter, the doctor prepared to start.

“Is there anyone who ought to be seen—anyone you remember?” said the little lady.

“No one but the Barlow woman. You might drop in there,” replied the doctor.

“Oh, no, Henry; really I could not,” said Mrs Bolter, wringing her hands.

“Never mind, then. She won’t hurt. She said, as soon as she knew I was going, that she should die if I did not bring Arthur back. I say, my dear, it’s almost enough to make one say one wishes he may never come.”

“Oh, Henry!” cried Mrs Bolter. “I’d sooner suffer a dozen Mrs Barlows than Arthur should not be found!”

“Very well, then, I don’t come back without him,” said the doctor.

“Henry!”

“If I can help it,” he replied; and for the next few moments any one might have taken them for a gushing young couple of eighteen and twenty-three before they tore themselves apart, and the doctor hurried away.

Love is an evergreen. Only give it fair treatment, and the leaves will never fall.

“Come, doctor,” roared Chumbley, as the little man approached the boat. “Do you call this daybreak?”

“Yes, broad daybreak!” said the doctor, chuckling; and the next minute the boat was under weigh, with Yusuf and a crew to use the poles for punting over the shallows.

The desire was strong in the doctor to devote himself a good deal to the pursuit of his hobby, but he sternly put it down.

“No, Chumbley,” he said, “not this time. I’m a weak man, and I talked to you about Sol—ahem!—about my hobby, eh? Didn’t say it that time—and if we come across anything relating to Oph—I mean my hobby—why, well and good, we’ll investigate it; but I mean business; and Yusuf here has given me good hopes of being successful, for of course it is absurd to imagine that they have killed poor old Arthur!”

“What do you propose doing first, then?” said Chumbley, rousing himself from a drowsy contemplation of the banks, and thinking how pleasantly life would glide on in a place like this.

“I think I shall leave Yusuf to follow his own bent,” replied the doctor. “He is a close, dry fellow, but he seems to know a great deal, and he will not speak till he is sure. That is it, is it not, Yusuf?”

“Yes, master,” said the Malay, who was toiling hard with the doctor’s old boatman Ismael. “If I said to the chiefs I know where the Christian priest is, and took them to the place and he was not there, they would be angry. So I will take them to the place I think of. If the Christian priest is there, it is good. If he is not, the misfortune is not so bad, and the chiefs will not be so hard upon their guide.”

“Well, Ismael, what have you to say?” said the doctor, as he caught his old boatman looking at him very intently.

“I was thinking of the lives of all here, master,” said Ismael. “We do not wish to die, we people of the country; but when the time comes we say ‘Yes, it is our fate, and we close our eyes;’ but you English chiefs, it is not right that you should die. We love the doctor, for he is good to us, our wives and children.”

“Oh, all right,” said the doctor, heartily. “What do you mean? You are afraid there is risk?”

“Great danger, master!” said Yusuf. “Murad will surely have us hunted out and slain for showing you his secret house in the jungle!”

“Another secret house, eh?” said Chumbley, rousing himself a little more. “Well, look here, old Cockolorum.”

Yusuf seemed to consider this a title conferring a dignity, for he smiled gravely and bowed.

“And you too, old Beeswax,” continued Chumbley, addressing Ismael, who seemed disappointed at Yusuf getting all the honours, but who now smiled and bowed as well. “You think that Murad will come down on you both for betraying his secrets?”

“It is not betraying, master,” said Yusuf. “We have found the place, and we show it to you. Murad did not trust us.”

“All right,” continued Chumbley. “Well, let me tell you this, that by this time Rajah Murad, or the Sultan as you call him, is safe under lock and key.”

“Thy servant does not understand,” said Yusuf.

“The chief means he is shut up in a little box with the key in his pocket,” interpreted Ismael, gravely.

“That will do,” said Chumbley, smothering a laugh. “He is safe in prison, and you will never see him here again.”

“It is enough,” said Yusuf. “The English are my masters, and I trust to them that their servant shall not have the kris.”

“Now then, how long have you known of this place?”

“Two days, master: a friend told me that his brother was there as guard, but he knew no more.”

“And you will take us there?” said Chumbley.

“Straight if the chief commands,” said Yusuf; and the boat was urged forward.

It was on the second day that the little boat was turned into the stream that had become familiar to the doctor, and he exclaimed at once:

“This won’t do. I know of that place. The chaplain is not there.”

“No, not there,” said Yusuf. “We shall see.”

The doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction, half an hour later, when, instead of following the windings of this minor stream, the sampan’s head was suddenly turned towards a dense mass of tall reeds, and the men paddled with all their might, driving the boat through the water-growth, and after a hundred yards of rough progression, they passed into a large lagoon, dotted with patches of a kind of lotus, and with other water-plants sufficiently beautiful to drive the doctor into raptures.

“But no,” he exclaimed; “I will not be tempted to botanise any more than I will be to look upon the spots where Sol—I mean—that is—”

“I say, doctor, we’ve been out over twelve hours,” drawled Chumbley, “and you haven’t yet said it once. Let it go.”

“Solomon’s ships came in search of gold!” cried the doctor, as if relieved.

“Well, they didn’t come here, doctor, or they would soon have been aground.”

“No: of course not,” said the doctor; “but what I mean is, that I will not yield to my hobby this time until poor Arthur Rosebury is found. I promised his sister, and I’ll keep my word.”

That lagoon, or rather chain of marshy lakelets, extended for quite fifty miles, sometimes spreading wide, more often dwindling into little openings and ponds united by narrow passages with hardly a perceptible stream. Along this chain the boatmen dexterously sent the little vessel, sometimes forcing it aground, and often having hard work to get it through the dense vegetation that rose from the swampy soil.

Two days were spent in getting to the end of the lagoon; and landing upon an elevated place, they encamped for the night, the doctor chatting for long enough about the beautiful specimens that they had passed, and which he had refrained from touching.

“There is a remarkable flora in this region, Chumbley,” he said, enthusiastically.

“I daresay there is,” said Chumbley, sleepily; “but your wife doesn’t want us to be taking back a remarkable flora, but a matter-of-fact Arthur. Go to sleep, man, and let’s rest.”

The doctor told him he had no soul for science.

“Not a bit, doctor. Good-night;” and the great fellow was asleep in an instant.

“We are very near the place now,” said the guide, as they partook of a hearty breakfast, Yusuf having speared some of the fish that abounded in the waters near.

“But we’ve got to the end of the lake,” said the doctor.

“Yes, master; and now we must walk.”

The way proved to be a long and toilsome journey, through the stifling heat of the jungle, which was here tolerably open, and so full of specimens attractive to the doctor that he fidgeted with disappointment at having to pass them by. He, however, resolutely refrained from attempting to collect, and only forfeited one cigar by the time that, after their weary tramp, gun in hand, the guide pointed to a low palm-thatched house, within a strong bamboo palisade, which protected a garden.

“Who’d have thought of finding a house here?” said Chumbley, who began to think of the Inche Maida’s hiding-place, to which this was very similar. “But where is the pathway?”

“On the other side, master. I brought you all round this way so as not to alarm the guards. They might have taken their prisoner farther into the jungle where he could not be found.”

A short consultation was held, and then Chumbley’s proposal was carried in opposition to the more timid one of the guide’s.

Chumbley’s was the very soldier-like one of draw and advance.

This they did, the men with their spears, and Chumbley and the doctor double gun in hand; and after a little struggle with nothing more dangerous than canes, they forced their way round to the front of the place and entered, to find everything just as if it had been inhabited an hour before, but neither prisoner nor guards were there.

“The birds are flown,” said Chumbley, after they had searched the half-dozen airy rooms that formed the place.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he has been here. Look!”

He pointed to a couple of long shelves made by placing bamboos together, and upon them, carefully dried, were hundreds of botanical specimens, laid as only a botanist would have placed them.

There was the chance of the prisoner returning, but it hardly seemed probable; and after some hours waiting, it was decided to return to the boat, to pass the night there, and return the next day.

The tramp back seemed harder than the advance; but they persevered, and at last, soaked with perspiration and utterly wearied out, they came in sight of the lagoon head, where Chumbley uttered a sigh of satisfaction.

“I wonder what’s for dinner,” he said. “Eh?”

He turned sharply, for Yusuf uttered an ejaculation, and stood pointing to where, seated in an opening and leaning against a tree, was the figure of a man, ragged, unshorn, and looking the picture of misery.

“Hurrah?” shouted Chumbley, dashing forward, the doctor panting after him; but the figure did not move, seeming to be asleep with its head drooped forward upon its breast.

“Rosebury!” cried Chumbley—“Rosebury!” but there was no reply.

“Arthur!” cried the doctor, sinking on one knee beside the haggard, hollow-cheeked figure, and changing the position so that its head rested upon his arm.

“Dead?” whispered Chumbley, in awe-stricken tones.

“He would have been in an hour!” cried the doctor. “Quick! your flask. There, that will do—a few drops with water. That’s right. Now soak a biscuit well. Crumble it up, man—quick, in the cup.”

A few drops at a time were poured between the parched lips, and as Arthur Rosebury showed signs of revival, a little of the soaked biscuit was administered; while Yusuf and Ismael rapidly cut down grass and contrived a rough bed, upon which the suffering man was laid.

“Is it fever?” said Chumbley, gazing down at the hollow cheeks and wild, staring eyes that had not a spark of recognition therein.

“The fever that men have who are starving,” cried the doctor. “Poor fellow! he has not had food for a week.”

It was after three days’ camping out beside the boat in a rough shanty which the Malays built up, that the Reverend Arthur Rosebury came round sufficiently to be able to recognise and talk to his friends.

“It’s fortunate for you, old fellow, that you had a doctor to find you,” said Bolter. “For—I say it without boasting—if I had not been with Chumbley, you would never have seen Sindang again.”

“And shall I now?” was said in a feeble voice.

“To be sure you will, and the sooner the better,” said the doctor. “I want more nourishing food for you, so we’ll make up a couch in the stern of the boat, and then get on towards home.”

“I’ll try and bear being moved,” he said feebly, “but—but—but—”

“But what?” said the doctor, quietly. “There, don’t worry. I see. You have forgotten what you wanted to say. It will come again. Shut your eyes and go to sleep.”

Arthur Rosebury was so pitifully weak that he was ready to obey anybody; and he sank back and seemed to go to sleep at once with the doctor and Chumbley seated by his side.

“I want some explanation of all this,” said Chumbley, in his drawling way.

“So do I,” said the doctor; “but we must wait, my dear boy. He’s as weak as water, and I can’t trouble him with questions. You see, his brain is affected by his bodily want of tone; but it will soon come right if we are patient.”

It seemed to the chaplain as if he had not been asleep when he awoke five hours later, and looking at the doctor he went on where he ceased before dozing off; but this time he did not forget.

“Where is Helen Perowne?” he asked.

“Safe at home,” replied the doctor.

“That is well,” said the chaplain. “I have been troubled by a dreamy idea that she was carried off when I was by the Malays, and that I was kept to marry Helen to someone else.”

“What someone else?” said the doctor.

“I fancied it was Murad,” said the chaplain, feebly; “but my headisconfused and strange. What of Mary?”

“Quite well, and anxious to see you again. There, lie back, and we will lift you in this waterproof sheet so gently that you will hardly know you have been moved.”

The chaplain lay back, and seemed to drop asleep again as he was lifted into the boat, which put off at once; and in high spirits with the successful termination of their quest, the Malays worked well, and sent the sampan skimming over the still waters of the lagoon.

They did not cease poling and paddling all night, and halted at last to land, after catching some fish, which, when broiled, made a good addition to the biscuits and coffee.

The chaplain ate heartily, and seemed to enjoy the warm sunshine as they went on again over the sparkling waters of the lake. He talked, too, and asked Chumbley to sit by him, but seemed to have very little memory, till all at once he cried, in a piteous tone:

“My specimens!—my specimens! We must not leave them behind!”

The doctor took off his hat and rubbed his head, for his feelings were quite with the chaplain; but to go back and land, and search the house in the jungle, meant over a day’s work, and he said, decidedly:

“No: it is impossible to go now!”

“But they are the work of weeks and months of labour!” protested the chaplain. “If you had only seen them!”

“My dear Arthur, I have seen them,” said the doctor. “They will not hurt, and as soon as you are well again we will fetch them.”

The chaplain sank back in his place with a sigh; and as the journey was continued he told his friends of his long imprisonment, and of how, as a resource, he had settled down to botanising.

This had gone on steadily, till about a fortnight back, when he noticed that his guards were whispering together a good deal, and that evening he missed them, and no meal was prepared.

The next day no one was visible, and he found what provision there was, and did the best he could, and so on the next day, when, finding that he was regularly deserted, he made up his mind to escape, and started off, following the track that led from the house, to find that it ended by a little river.

There was no possibility of getting to right or left, to follow the stream, on account of the jungle, and after a weary day he was glad to go back to his prison and sleep.

The following days were taken up in efforts to find a path that would lead to some inhabited place, but the efforts were in vain; and though he sought constantly, he could not retrace his steps to the house where he had seen the Malay lady trying to get away. Everywhere it was jungle—a wilderness of jungle—and the only possibility of escape was by one of the streams, or by way of the lagoon, which he had discovered in his botanical wanderings.

He had no boat, nor the ingenuity to contrive one. To have attempted to wade down a stream meant courting death by the reptiles; so the chaplain’s many wanderings in the wilderness took him over the same ground day after day, and always back to his prison.

Then the scant supply of provision was exhausted; there was no fruit to be found; he had no gun, and could contrive no means of capturing fish; and the result was that, growing weaker day by day, and more helpless, he realised how safe was the prison in the jungle in which he had been shut up; and at last sat down, to gradually sink into a stupor, from which, but for the coming of his friends, he would never have recovered.

Even when he was taken in safety to the landing-stage, he was too feeble to walk, and fainted as he was carried to his brother-in-law’s house.

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