Volume Two—Chapter Six.A Prince’s Anger.The merchant stared in the young Rajah’s convulsed face without speaking, and Murad exclaimed:“I had heard news, and was coming down. Then came the messengers; but tell me,” he cried, “I cannot bear it! This is not true?”Mr Perowne gazed fixedly in the dark, lurid eyes before him, as if fascinated by their power, and then said sternly:“It is quite true, sir; quite true.”“No, no!” cried the Malay Rajah, excitedly, “not true that she is gone; not true that she cannot be found?”“Yes, sir,” repeated the merchant again, in a low, troubled voice. “She was taken from us last night.”The Rajah uttered some words in his own tongue that sounded like a passionate wail, as he staggered back, as if struck heavily, reeled, clutched at the nearest person to save himself, and then fell with a crash upon the floor.The little party assembled crowded round the prostrate man; but at a word from Dr Bolter they drew back, and he went down on one knee beside the young man to loosen his collar.“A little more air. Keep back, please!” said the doctor, sharply. “Mary, a glass of water.”As Mrs Bolter filled a glass from a carafe upon the sideboard, the doctor took a bottle of strong salts offered by one of the ladies present, and held it beneath the young man’s nostrils, but without the slightest effect.Then the water was handed to the doctor, who liberally used it about the young Prince’s face, as the Resident drew near and gazed upon the prostrate figure, keenly noting the clayey hue of the face and the great drops of dank perspiration that stood upon the brow.“What is it, doctor?” he whispered.“Fainting—over-excitement,” replied Dr Bolter. “He’s coming round.”The fact was beginning to be patent to all, for a change was coming over the young man’s aspect, and he began to mutter impatiently as the drops of water were sprinkled upon his face, opening his eyes at last and gazing about him in a puzzled way, as if he could not comprehend his position.Then his memory seemed to come back with a flash, and he started up into a sitting position, muttered a few Malay words in a quick, angry manner, sprang to his feet, and then, with his eyes flashing, he snatched his kris from the band of his sarong, showing his teeth and standing defiant, ready to attack some enemy with the flame-shaped blade that was dully gleaming in his hand.“Come, Rajah,” said the doctor, soothingly, “be calm, my dear sir. You are among friends.”“Friends!” he cried, hoarsely. “No: enemies! You have let him take her away, I know,” he hissed between his teeth; “but you shall tell me. Who else has gone?”“Captain Hilton,” said the doctor.“Yes, I was sure,” hissed the Malay. “He was always there at her side. I was ref—fused; but I cannot sit still and see her stolen away by another, and I will have revenge—I will have revenge!”The Malay Prince’s aspect told plainly enough that he would have sprung like a wild beast at his enemy’s throat had he been present; and saving Mrs Bolter and Grey, who stood holding her hand, the ladies crowded together, one or two shrieking with alarm as the Resident quietly advanced to the young Malay.“Put up your weapon, sir,” he said firmly. “We are not savages. Recollect that you are amongst civilised people now.”The Rajah turned upon him with so fierce and feline a look that Grey Stuart turned paler than she already was, and pressed Mrs Bolter’s hand spasmodically; but Harley did not shrink, he merely fixed the young man as it were with his eyes, before whose steady gaze the sullen, angry glare of the young Prince sank, and he stood as if turned to stone.“Yes,” he said, in a guttural voice; “you are right;” and slowly replacing his kris in its sheath, he covered the hilt with his silken plaid before standing there with his brows knit, and the veins in his temples standing out as if he were engaged in a heavy struggle to master the savage spirit that had gained the ascendant.“That is better,” said the Resident, quietly. “Now we can talk like sensible men.”“Yes,” replied the Rajah; “but it is hard—very hard. It masters me, and I feel that I cannot bear it. You know what I have suffered, and how I fought it down. Mr Harley, Mr Perowne, did I not act like an English gentleman would have done?”“Yes, yes,” said Mr Perowne, hastily.“I tried so hard that I might,” he whispered. “I was born a Malay; but I am trying to become more like you. I thought I had mastered everything; but when I hear this news it is too much for me, and—Mr Harley—doctor—give me something to make me calm, or I shall go mad.”He turned away and stood for a few moments with his back to them, while the party assembled whispered their thoughts till the young man turned once more, and they saw that his face was calm and impassive, as if no furious storm of rage had just been agitating its surface.“What are you going to do?” he said, in a low, deep voice, gazing from Mr Perowne to the Resident and back again.“Search, sir, until we have found the lady,” said the latter, quietly.“I will help,” said the Rajah; whose eyes emitted a flash that told of the rage in his heart.“Thank you,” said the Resident, quietly.“You will pursue them?” continued the Rajah. “Tell me, by your laws do you kill this man for what he has done?”“We do not think there is any need of pursuit, sir,” replied Mr Harley, quietly; “we fear that there has been an accident.”“I have brought down two nagas, and two smaller boats,” cried the Rajah, eagerly. “There are a hundred of my people waiting. Shall I send them to follow, or will you give them your commands? They are your slaves until this is done.”The Resident stood thinking for a minute or two, and the Rajah turned from him impatiently.“We lose time!” he cried, angrily. “Mr Perowne, you do not speak. Tell me—you are her father—what shall I do?”Mr Perowne held out his hand, which the Rajah seized.“Thank you, Rajah,” he said simply; “but we must be guided by wisdom in what we do. Mr Harley will speak directly. He is trying to help us. I cannot say more,” he faltered. “I am crushed and helpless under this blow.”“Tut, mon! don’t give way!” whispered old Stuart, going to his side. “Keep a stout hairt and all will be well.”A couple of hours of indecision passed away, for the coming of the Rajah had thrown them off the track. They had had one scent to follow, and, however blindly, they were about to attempt it, but were now thrown back upon two other lines—the one being the suggestion of an accident; the other of elopement.The hot day was wearing on, and the boatmen were returning boat by boat, but without the slightest information, not even a vague suggestion upon which hope could be hung. Still, nothing more had been done—nothing seemed possible under the circumstances; and a general feeling of despondency was gathering over the little community, when a new suspicion dawned in the Resident’s mind, and he blamed himself for not having thought of it before.The suspicion had but a slight basis, still it was enough; and eager as he was to find something to which he could cling, Neil Harley felt for the moment glad of the mental suggestion, and felt that all idea of some terrible boat accident might be set aside, for at last he had found the clue.
The merchant stared in the young Rajah’s convulsed face without speaking, and Murad exclaimed:
“I had heard news, and was coming down. Then came the messengers; but tell me,” he cried, “I cannot bear it! This is not true?”
Mr Perowne gazed fixedly in the dark, lurid eyes before him, as if fascinated by their power, and then said sternly:
“It is quite true, sir; quite true.”
“No, no!” cried the Malay Rajah, excitedly, “not true that she is gone; not true that she cannot be found?”
“Yes, sir,” repeated the merchant again, in a low, troubled voice. “She was taken from us last night.”
The Rajah uttered some words in his own tongue that sounded like a passionate wail, as he staggered back, as if struck heavily, reeled, clutched at the nearest person to save himself, and then fell with a crash upon the floor.
The little party assembled crowded round the prostrate man; but at a word from Dr Bolter they drew back, and he went down on one knee beside the young man to loosen his collar.
“A little more air. Keep back, please!” said the doctor, sharply. “Mary, a glass of water.”
As Mrs Bolter filled a glass from a carafe upon the sideboard, the doctor took a bottle of strong salts offered by one of the ladies present, and held it beneath the young man’s nostrils, but without the slightest effect.
Then the water was handed to the doctor, who liberally used it about the young Prince’s face, as the Resident drew near and gazed upon the prostrate figure, keenly noting the clayey hue of the face and the great drops of dank perspiration that stood upon the brow.
“What is it, doctor?” he whispered.
“Fainting—over-excitement,” replied Dr Bolter. “He’s coming round.”
The fact was beginning to be patent to all, for a change was coming over the young man’s aspect, and he began to mutter impatiently as the drops of water were sprinkled upon his face, opening his eyes at last and gazing about him in a puzzled way, as if he could not comprehend his position.
Then his memory seemed to come back with a flash, and he started up into a sitting position, muttered a few Malay words in a quick, angry manner, sprang to his feet, and then, with his eyes flashing, he snatched his kris from the band of his sarong, showing his teeth and standing defiant, ready to attack some enemy with the flame-shaped blade that was dully gleaming in his hand.
“Come, Rajah,” said the doctor, soothingly, “be calm, my dear sir. You are among friends.”
“Friends!” he cried, hoarsely. “No: enemies! You have let him take her away, I know,” he hissed between his teeth; “but you shall tell me. Who else has gone?”
“Captain Hilton,” said the doctor.
“Yes, I was sure,” hissed the Malay. “He was always there at her side. I was ref—fused; but I cannot sit still and see her stolen away by another, and I will have revenge—I will have revenge!”
The Malay Prince’s aspect told plainly enough that he would have sprung like a wild beast at his enemy’s throat had he been present; and saving Mrs Bolter and Grey, who stood holding her hand, the ladies crowded together, one or two shrieking with alarm as the Resident quietly advanced to the young Malay.
“Put up your weapon, sir,” he said firmly. “We are not savages. Recollect that you are amongst civilised people now.”
The Rajah turned upon him with so fierce and feline a look that Grey Stuart turned paler than she already was, and pressed Mrs Bolter’s hand spasmodically; but Harley did not shrink, he merely fixed the young man as it were with his eyes, before whose steady gaze the sullen, angry glare of the young Prince sank, and he stood as if turned to stone.
“Yes,” he said, in a guttural voice; “you are right;” and slowly replacing his kris in its sheath, he covered the hilt with his silken plaid before standing there with his brows knit, and the veins in his temples standing out as if he were engaged in a heavy struggle to master the savage spirit that had gained the ascendant.
“That is better,” said the Resident, quietly. “Now we can talk like sensible men.”
“Yes,” replied the Rajah; “but it is hard—very hard. It masters me, and I feel that I cannot bear it. You know what I have suffered, and how I fought it down. Mr Harley, Mr Perowne, did I not act like an English gentleman would have done?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Perowne, hastily.
“I tried so hard that I might,” he whispered. “I was born a Malay; but I am trying to become more like you. I thought I had mastered everything; but when I hear this news it is too much for me, and—Mr Harley—doctor—give me something to make me calm, or I shall go mad.”
He turned away and stood for a few moments with his back to them, while the party assembled whispered their thoughts till the young man turned once more, and they saw that his face was calm and impassive, as if no furious storm of rage had just been agitating its surface.
“What are you going to do?” he said, in a low, deep voice, gazing from Mr Perowne to the Resident and back again.
“Search, sir, until we have found the lady,” said the latter, quietly.
“I will help,” said the Rajah; whose eyes emitted a flash that told of the rage in his heart.
“Thank you,” said the Resident, quietly.
“You will pursue them?” continued the Rajah. “Tell me, by your laws do you kill this man for what he has done?”
“We do not think there is any need of pursuit, sir,” replied Mr Harley, quietly; “we fear that there has been an accident.”
“I have brought down two nagas, and two smaller boats,” cried the Rajah, eagerly. “There are a hundred of my people waiting. Shall I send them to follow, or will you give them your commands? They are your slaves until this is done.”
The Resident stood thinking for a minute or two, and the Rajah turned from him impatiently.
“We lose time!” he cried, angrily. “Mr Perowne, you do not speak. Tell me—you are her father—what shall I do?”
Mr Perowne held out his hand, which the Rajah seized.
“Thank you, Rajah,” he said simply; “but we must be guided by wisdom in what we do. Mr Harley will speak directly. He is trying to help us. I cannot say more,” he faltered. “I am crushed and helpless under this blow.”
“Tut, mon! don’t give way!” whispered old Stuart, going to his side. “Keep a stout hairt and all will be well.”
A couple of hours of indecision passed away, for the coming of the Rajah had thrown them off the track. They had had one scent to follow, and, however blindly, they were about to attempt it, but were now thrown back upon two other lines—the one being the suggestion of an accident; the other of elopement.
The hot day was wearing on, and the boatmen were returning boat by boat, but without the slightest information, not even a vague suggestion upon which hope could be hung. Still, nothing more had been done—nothing seemed possible under the circumstances; and a general feeling of despondency was gathering over the little community, when a new suspicion dawned in the Resident’s mind, and he blamed himself for not having thought of it before.
The suspicion had but a slight basis, still it was enough; and eager as he was to find something to which he could cling, Neil Harley felt for the moment glad of the mental suggestion, and felt that all idea of some terrible boat accident might be set aside, for at last he had found the clue.
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.No False Scent.Neil Harley’s new suspicion, one which he was cautious not to mention as yet, was that, in accordance with the Malay character, this revengeful blow had come from one who owed the English community or Government a grudge.The Rajah had been the first to suffer from suspicion, but his coming had cleared him somewhat in the eyes of his friends; still there was one who might well feel enmity against the English for the part they had played, and this was one who had not been to clear herself from suspicion.The Inche Maida had come to the Residency island humbly with her petition—a reasonable suppliant for help against her enemies. She had had her request, if not refused, at all events treated with official neglect. It was no wonder, then, that she should feel aggrieved, and, while wearing the mask of friendship, take some steps to obtain mental satisfaction for the slight.The Resident pondered upon all this, and felt that she must naturally be deeply wounded. She had borne her disappointment with the patience and stoicism of one of her religion; but all the same she might have been waiting for an opportunity to strike.“Allah’s will be done!” she had said at their last interview, when the Resident had made a further communication from Government; and she had bent her head and sighed deeply as she turned to go away, but only to return, shake hands with Mr Harley, and thank him.“You are a good man, Mr Harley,” she had said, “and I know you would have helped me if you could.”“Yes, she has been most friendly ever since,” he mused, “and her behaviour last night at the party was all that could have been desired.”Still, he argued, she was a Malay, and all this might have been to serve as a blind to her future acts. She must feel very bitter, and, with all an Eastern’s cunning, she must have been nursing up her wrath till an opportunity occurred for revenge.This, perhaps, would be that revenge.“No,” he said, “it was childish;” and he felt directly after that he was maligning a really amiable woman.He ended by thinking that he could judge her by her acts. If she were innocent of all complicity in the abduction of Helen—if abduction it was—she would come and display her sympathy to her English friends in this time of trouble.“What do you think, Miss Stuart?” he said, leading her into the opening of a window. “The Inche Maida has cause of complaint against us. Do you think she has had anything to do with getting Helen away?”“No, I’m certain she has not,” cried Grey, flushing warmly. “She is too good and true a woman.”“Do you think she likes Helen?” asked the Resident.“No, I think she dislikes her,” replied Grey; “but she could not be guilty of such a crime as you suggest.”“I am suspicious,” said the Resident. “Why does she stay away? She must have heard something by this time. Did you see her very late last night?”“Yes, till very late—till after the disappearance. She was wondering where Helen had gone.”“Yes,” said the Resident, “that is all in her favour, my dear child; but still she stops away.”“No,” said Grey, quietly, “she is not staying away. See: here she comes, with her servants. I think she has arrived to offer her services in this time of trouble.”Grey Stuart was right, for directly after the Malay princess entered the large drawing-room, eager with her offers of help, as her English friend had said.“I did not know till a messenger came in,” she exclaimed, excitedly. “I was home late, and I was asleep. When I heard of the trouble at the station, I came and brought my servants. What shall I do?”She was most affectionate and full of pity for Mr Perowne. To the Resident she was friendly in the extreme, and in a frank, genial way, utterly free from effusiveness; while to Grey Stuart she was tenderness itself, kissing her and talking to her in a low voice of the trouble, and keeping her all the time at her side.“Henry,” said little Mrs Bolter, suddenly.“Yes, my dear.”“I don’t trust these black people a bit. They are very friendly and full of offers of service, but I cannot help thinking that they are at the bottom of all this trouble. Do you hear?”“Yes, my dear, I hear,” said the doctor; “but I cannot say that you are right. It’s as puzzling as the real site of Ophir; but I hope it will all come right in the end.”Suspicious as Mrs Bolter felt, she did not show her feelings, but joined in the conversation; and she was obliged to own that the conduct of the Inche Maida seemed to be quite that of an English lady eager to help her friends in a terrible time of trial.In the midst of the conversation that ensued there was the sound of voices outside, and the Resident, closely followed by Mr Perowne and the Rajah, hurried out to see if there was any news.One of the sergeants, with a private of Hilton’s company, had just arrived on the lawn, these being two of the men who had gone down the river in a sampan.“Ah! Harris,” exclaimed the Resident, eagerly, on seeing something in the sergeant’s face which told of tidings, “what news?”The sergeant glanced at Mr Perowne in rather a troubled manner, and hesitated.“Speak out, my man, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed the latter, “and let me know the worst.”“It mayn’t be the worst, sir,” replied the sergeant, with rough sympathy. “I hope it isn’t, sir; but we found a boat, sir—one of our own boats—left by the ‘Penguin’ for our use at the island.”“Yes—yes, I know!” exclaimed Mr Perowne.“Quick! speak out, Harris. What of her?” cried the Resident.“She was lying bottom up, sir, on a bit of sandbank, a dozen miles down the river, sir; and this was twisted round one of the thwarts—the sleeve just tied round, sir, to keep it in its place.”As he spoke he held up a light coat, saturated with water, and muddy and crumpled, where it had dried on the way back.Neil Harley took the coat and examined it carefully. Then laying it down, he said, slowly:“It looks like Chumbley’s; but I cannot feel sure.”“I made sure it was one of the lieutenant’s coats, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully.“Let us see the boat,” said Mr Perowne. “Where is it?”“Down at your landing-stage, sir, and—”He stopped short, as if afraid he should say too much.“What is it, Harris? Speak out,” said the Resident, sternly.“She seems to have been laid hold of, sir, by one of them great river beasts. There’s a lot of teeth marks, and a bit ripped out of her side.”Mr Perowne shuddered, and Neil Harley recalled the various stories he had heard of crocodiles attacking small boats—stories that he had heretofore looked upon as mythical, though he knew that the reptiles often seized the natives when bathing by the river bank.“As far as I could judge, sir,” said the sergeant, who, seeing that he gave no offence in speaking out, was most eager to tell all he knew, “it seems as if the officers, sir, had taken the ladies for a row upon the river, when the boat perhaps touched one of the great beasts, and that made it turn and seize it in its teeth. Then it was overset, and—”The men started and stopped short, for there was a faint cry of horror, and they all turned to see Grey Stuart standing there pale, with her lips apart, and a look of horror in her fixed eyes, as she saw in imagination the overturned boat, and the vain struggles of those who were being swept away by the rapid stream.The whole scene rose before her eyes with horrible substantiality—all that she had heard or been told of the habits of the great reptiles that swarmed in the river helping to complete the picture. For as she seemed to realise the scene, and saw the struggling figures in the water, there would be a rush and a swirl, with a momentary sight of a dark horny back or side, and then first one and then another of the hapless party would be snatched beneath the surface.But even then her horror seemed to be veined with a curious sensation of jealous pain, for she pictured to herself Helen floating down the stream with her white hands extended for help, and Hilton fighting his way through the water to her side. Then he seemed to seize her, and to make a brave struggle to keep her up. It was a hard fight, and he did not spare himself, but appeared to be ready to drown that she might live. The water looked blacker and darker where they were, and there was no help at hand, so that it was but a question of moments before they must sink. And as, with dilated, horror-charged eyes, Grey stared before her to where the river really ran sparkling in the sunshine, the imaginary blackness deepened, and all looked so smooth and terrible that she watched for where that dreadful glassiness would be broken by some reptile rising to make a rush at the struggling pair; and—yes, there at last it was! And with the name of Hilton half-formed upon her lips, she uttered another cry, and fell fainting in the Inche’s Maida’s arms.
Neil Harley’s new suspicion, one which he was cautious not to mention as yet, was that, in accordance with the Malay character, this revengeful blow had come from one who owed the English community or Government a grudge.
The Rajah had been the first to suffer from suspicion, but his coming had cleared him somewhat in the eyes of his friends; still there was one who might well feel enmity against the English for the part they had played, and this was one who had not been to clear herself from suspicion.
The Inche Maida had come to the Residency island humbly with her petition—a reasonable suppliant for help against her enemies. She had had her request, if not refused, at all events treated with official neglect. It was no wonder, then, that she should feel aggrieved, and, while wearing the mask of friendship, take some steps to obtain mental satisfaction for the slight.
The Resident pondered upon all this, and felt that she must naturally be deeply wounded. She had borne her disappointment with the patience and stoicism of one of her religion; but all the same she might have been waiting for an opportunity to strike.
“Allah’s will be done!” she had said at their last interview, when the Resident had made a further communication from Government; and she had bent her head and sighed deeply as she turned to go away, but only to return, shake hands with Mr Harley, and thank him.
“You are a good man, Mr Harley,” she had said, “and I know you would have helped me if you could.”
“Yes, she has been most friendly ever since,” he mused, “and her behaviour last night at the party was all that could have been desired.”
Still, he argued, she was a Malay, and all this might have been to serve as a blind to her future acts. She must feel very bitter, and, with all an Eastern’s cunning, she must have been nursing up her wrath till an opportunity occurred for revenge.
This, perhaps, would be that revenge.
“No,” he said, “it was childish;” and he felt directly after that he was maligning a really amiable woman.
He ended by thinking that he could judge her by her acts. If she were innocent of all complicity in the abduction of Helen—if abduction it was—she would come and display her sympathy to her English friends in this time of trouble.
“What do you think, Miss Stuart?” he said, leading her into the opening of a window. “The Inche Maida has cause of complaint against us. Do you think she has had anything to do with getting Helen away?”
“No, I’m certain she has not,” cried Grey, flushing warmly. “She is too good and true a woman.”
“Do you think she likes Helen?” asked the Resident.
“No, I think she dislikes her,” replied Grey; “but she could not be guilty of such a crime as you suggest.”
“I am suspicious,” said the Resident. “Why does she stay away? She must have heard something by this time. Did you see her very late last night?”
“Yes, till very late—till after the disappearance. She was wondering where Helen had gone.”
“Yes,” said the Resident, “that is all in her favour, my dear child; but still she stops away.”
“No,” said Grey, quietly, “she is not staying away. See: here she comes, with her servants. I think she has arrived to offer her services in this time of trouble.”
Grey Stuart was right, for directly after the Malay princess entered the large drawing-room, eager with her offers of help, as her English friend had said.
“I did not know till a messenger came in,” she exclaimed, excitedly. “I was home late, and I was asleep. When I heard of the trouble at the station, I came and brought my servants. What shall I do?”
She was most affectionate and full of pity for Mr Perowne. To the Resident she was friendly in the extreme, and in a frank, genial way, utterly free from effusiveness; while to Grey Stuart she was tenderness itself, kissing her and talking to her in a low voice of the trouble, and keeping her all the time at her side.
“Henry,” said little Mrs Bolter, suddenly.
“Yes, my dear.”
“I don’t trust these black people a bit. They are very friendly and full of offers of service, but I cannot help thinking that they are at the bottom of all this trouble. Do you hear?”
“Yes, my dear, I hear,” said the doctor; “but I cannot say that you are right. It’s as puzzling as the real site of Ophir; but I hope it will all come right in the end.”
Suspicious as Mrs Bolter felt, she did not show her feelings, but joined in the conversation; and she was obliged to own that the conduct of the Inche Maida seemed to be quite that of an English lady eager to help her friends in a terrible time of trial.
In the midst of the conversation that ensued there was the sound of voices outside, and the Resident, closely followed by Mr Perowne and the Rajah, hurried out to see if there was any news.
One of the sergeants, with a private of Hilton’s company, had just arrived on the lawn, these being two of the men who had gone down the river in a sampan.
“Ah! Harris,” exclaimed the Resident, eagerly, on seeing something in the sergeant’s face which told of tidings, “what news?”
The sergeant glanced at Mr Perowne in rather a troubled manner, and hesitated.
“Speak out, my man, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed the latter, “and let me know the worst.”
“It mayn’t be the worst, sir,” replied the sergeant, with rough sympathy. “I hope it isn’t, sir; but we found a boat, sir—one of our own boats—left by the ‘Penguin’ for our use at the island.”
“Yes—yes, I know!” exclaimed Mr Perowne.
“Quick! speak out, Harris. What of her?” cried the Resident.
“She was lying bottom up, sir, on a bit of sandbank, a dozen miles down the river, sir; and this was twisted round one of the thwarts—the sleeve just tied round, sir, to keep it in its place.”
As he spoke he held up a light coat, saturated with water, and muddy and crumpled, where it had dried on the way back.
Neil Harley took the coat and examined it carefully. Then laying it down, he said, slowly:
“It looks like Chumbley’s; but I cannot feel sure.”
“I made sure it was one of the lieutenant’s coats, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully.
“Let us see the boat,” said Mr Perowne. “Where is it?”
“Down at your landing-stage, sir, and—”
He stopped short, as if afraid he should say too much.
“What is it, Harris? Speak out,” said the Resident, sternly.
“She seems to have been laid hold of, sir, by one of them great river beasts. There’s a lot of teeth marks, and a bit ripped out of her side.”
Mr Perowne shuddered, and Neil Harley recalled the various stories he had heard of crocodiles attacking small boats—stories that he had heretofore looked upon as mythical, though he knew that the reptiles often seized the natives when bathing by the river bank.
“As far as I could judge, sir,” said the sergeant, who, seeing that he gave no offence in speaking out, was most eager to tell all he knew, “it seems as if the officers, sir, had taken the ladies for a row upon the river, when the boat perhaps touched one of the great beasts, and that made it turn and seize it in its teeth. Then it was overset, and—”
The men started and stopped short, for there was a faint cry of horror, and they all turned to see Grey Stuart standing there pale, with her lips apart, and a look of horror in her fixed eyes, as she saw in imagination the overturned boat, and the vain struggles of those who were being swept away by the rapid stream.
The whole scene rose before her eyes with horrible substantiality—all that she had heard or been told of the habits of the great reptiles that swarmed in the river helping to complete the picture. For as she seemed to realise the scene, and saw the struggling figures in the water, there would be a rush and a swirl, with a momentary sight of a dark horny back or side, and then first one and then another of the hapless party would be snatched beneath the surface.
But even then her horror seemed to be veined with a curious sensation of jealous pain, for she pictured to herself Helen floating down the stream with her white hands extended for help, and Hilton fighting his way through the water to her side. Then he seemed to seize her, and to make a brave struggle to keep her up. It was a hard fight, and he did not spare himself, but appeared to be ready to drown that she might live. The water looked blacker and darker where they were, and there was no help at hand, so that it was but a question of moments before they must sink. And as, with dilated, horror-charged eyes, Grey stared before her to where the river really ran sparkling in the sunshine, the imaginary blackness deepened, and all looked so smooth and terrible that she watched for where that dreadful glassiness would be broken by some reptile rising to make a rush at the struggling pair; and—yes, there at last it was! And with the name of Hilton half-formed upon her lips, she uttered another cry, and fell fainting in the Inche’s Maida’s arms.
Volume Two—Chapter Eight.Danger Ahead.Grey Stuart lost her cavalier Chumbley soon after supper, for the Princess pointed to a chair beside her, Hilton being very quiet and distant, and in spite of several reproachful glances from his companion’s eyes, proving to be very poor company indeed.In fact, as soon as he could with decency give up what was to him a tiresome duty, Hilton left the Malay Princess’s side, making the vacancy that was filled up by Grey, while soon after the Rajah came and took a chair upon the other side of the Scottish maiden, chatting to her with a slight hesitancy of speech, but pleasantly and well.“Do you enjoy—this party?” he said.“Oh! so much!” replied Grey. “It is so different from anything at home.”“At home?” queried the Prince, who knew the simplicity of old Stuart’s household.“I mean at home in England.”“Oh! yes, I see. At home in England,” said the Prince musingly. “I must go and see at home in England. I should like to go.”“You would be much pleased, I am sure,” said Grey, smiling; “but it is a very bad climate.”“That is why you English come to our beautiful land. I see!” exclaimed the Prince. “But you enjoy yourself—this party?”“Oh! very much!” cried Grey; but a shadow crossed her countenance as she spoke.“I have said I will try and pass you all,” said the Prince, laughing. “I mean mine to be the greatest of thefêtes. It must be; for if I do not make mine a grander party than all, my people will look down upon me, and say, ‘See how weak and poor he is compared to the English!’ I must make mine very brave and good.”“I hear what you are saying,” exclaimed the Inche Maida; “but I will excel you; for I will give another party, greater, and brighter, and more beautiful still. Miss Stuart will help me with good advice, and mine shall be more English than yours. We will not be beaten.”“No, no!” said the Rajah, laughing; “do not help her, Miss Stuart; help me, and I will be so grateful. It is so easy to say I will give a grand party, but it is hard to make it so that it will please these English gentlemen and ladies.”“Ladies and gentlemen, Prince,” said the Inche Maida.“Of course—yes,” he replied. “That is where I make things wrong. You English place the ladies first, and I always make mistakes like that.”“You will soon acquire our habits,” said Grey, who could not help her eyes wandering in search of Hilton.“Thank you,” said the Prince. “I shall try; but as I say, it is so hard to make a feast quite right. If I want to make a banquet for my people with flowers, and fireworks, and elephants, and gongs, and tom-toms, it is all so easy; but an English party, to satisfy all you—ah! it is too much.”Meanwhile, heart-sick and disgusted with everything and everybody present, Hilton wandered away to the pagoda, where Mr Stuart had taken up hi quarters directly after supper.“Hullo! young fellow,” said the old merchant, gruffly, “come to your senses again?”“Senses? Haven’t been out of them that I know of,” retorted Hilton.“Well, ye’ve been running wild after Perowne’s lassie.”“Mr Stuart!”“And one never sees her without Captain Hilton ahint her.”“Mr Stuart, I was not aware that I was answerable to you for my conduct,” exclaimed the young officer, hotly.“Nay—nay—nay—dinna—don’t be fashed, laddie, I was vexed to see ye rinning after a lassie who will throw ye over for the next man she sees—that’s a’—”“Mr Stuart, I will not listen to anything in Miss Perowne’s disparagement!” cried the young man hotly. “How dare you speak to me like this!”“Have a cigar, laddie?” said the old Scot, drily. “They’re verra good, and they’ll soothe ye down better than anything I ken.”Hilton glared at him angrily. “There, there, there, let me have my say, laddie. I rather like ye, Hilton, though ye are only a soldier; so don’t fly in a passion with an old man. Tak’ a cigar.”Hilton hesitated, but finally took the cigar, lit it, and began to smoke.“I ken weel what’s wrong,” said the old man; “but never heed it, mon. It mak’s ye sore to-day, but ye’ll soon get over it. I’ve seen ivery thing that’s gone on sin the lassies have been here. Try a drappie o’ that whuskie, laddie; that and yon cigar will mak’ ye forget all about the trouble wi’ the girl.”“Mr Stuart, I must request you to be silent upon this question, unless you wish to quarrel.”“Quarrel? Not I, lad! I’m as peaceable a body as ever lived; but tak’ my advice—don’t wherret yoursel’ about Helen Perowne. She’s not made for ye.”“Sir!”“Hoot, laddie, in a passion again! I tell ye you’re much too good for such a body as she. I ken she’s handsome enough for an angel; but what’s all that if she don’t care a twistle o’ the finger for ye?” Bertie Hilton frowned heavily and smoked furiously; while, when the old merchant thrust the whiskey decanter towards him, he snatched it up, poured out half a tumbler full, and had stretched out his hand to take it and gulp it down, when, to his surprise and anger, old Stuart snatched the tumbler away, poured half of the spirit back into the decanter, and then filled up the tumbler with water.“Not while I’m sitting by ye, Bertie Hilton,” said the old man. “I like my whuskie and I like to see a fren’ enjoy his drappie wi’ me; but it must be a drappie. When I see a man making a fool o’ himsel’ by taking more than is good, I just stop him if I can, as I stopped you.”The young man’s face flushed, and an angry remark was about to issue from his lips, when the ridiculous and friendly sides of the question presented themselves to him, and instead of going into a fit of temper consequent upon his irritable state, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.“Hah! That’s better, my lad,” said the old merchant, smiling in his dry, grim fashion. “I like that. Ye’re an officer and ye know how to command yourself as well as your men. Now then, sit down and sup your whuskie and smoke like a man.”“You shall be obeyed, sir,” said Hilton, good-humouredly.“That’s right, laddie. Tak’ your misfortunes like a man. I know it’s hard to bear, and nothing wherrets a man more than seeing a lassie play wi’ others before his very een, when a’ the time she has been leading him to believe she cares for him alone?”“Would it be a very difficult task to you, Mr Stuart, to leave my private affairs alone?” said Hilton, quietly.“Oh, ay, I’ll leave them alone if ye’ll only be sensible and act like a mon. Bertie Hilton, ye’re a big mon, and a captain in Her Majesty’s service, and ye’re been acting like a weak boy.”Hilton’s eyes flashed again as he turned angrily upon the old man, who seemed to become more Scottish in his language as he slowly imbibed his native drink.“I see ya glowering at me, my lad; but I dinna mind it, for I’m one of your best frens, and when I thrash ye with words about your lassie it’s a’ for your good. There, haud yer whisht. I ken what ye’d say, that ye’re a mon and not a boy to be dictated to by an old Scotchman like this.”“Well, I was thinking something of the kind, Mr Stuart, and so I tell you frankly,” cried Hilton, who could not help feeling amused at the old man’s dry ways. The reproofs, too, came at a time when the younger was very much open to conviction, for his experiences of the last few days had all been towards showing him that Helen Perowne was trifling with him, and if she were now, he felt that she had been from the first.Still, it was very painful to have to be taken to task like this upon so tender a subject; and after sitting awhile with the old man, he suddenly jumped up, relit his cigar, which he had allowed to go out, and nodding shortly, he strolled out of the pagoda into the grounds.“Coming to his senses,” said old Stuart, in a thoughtful way. “Hah! I should go rather cross it my lassie were to carry on like Perowne’s Helen. Why, she drives nearly all the young fellows wild. The young hussy! she ought to be shut up in a convent till she comes to her senses. I’d have none of it at home with me.”
Grey Stuart lost her cavalier Chumbley soon after supper, for the Princess pointed to a chair beside her, Hilton being very quiet and distant, and in spite of several reproachful glances from his companion’s eyes, proving to be very poor company indeed.
In fact, as soon as he could with decency give up what was to him a tiresome duty, Hilton left the Malay Princess’s side, making the vacancy that was filled up by Grey, while soon after the Rajah came and took a chair upon the other side of the Scottish maiden, chatting to her with a slight hesitancy of speech, but pleasantly and well.
“Do you enjoy—this party?” he said.
“Oh! so much!” replied Grey. “It is so different from anything at home.”
“At home?” queried the Prince, who knew the simplicity of old Stuart’s household.
“I mean at home in England.”
“Oh! yes, I see. At home in England,” said the Prince musingly. “I must go and see at home in England. I should like to go.”
“You would be much pleased, I am sure,” said Grey, smiling; “but it is a very bad climate.”
“That is why you English come to our beautiful land. I see!” exclaimed the Prince. “But you enjoy yourself—this party?”
“Oh! very much!” cried Grey; but a shadow crossed her countenance as she spoke.
“I have said I will try and pass you all,” said the Prince, laughing. “I mean mine to be the greatest of thefêtes. It must be; for if I do not make mine a grander party than all, my people will look down upon me, and say, ‘See how weak and poor he is compared to the English!’ I must make mine very brave and good.”
“I hear what you are saying,” exclaimed the Inche Maida; “but I will excel you; for I will give another party, greater, and brighter, and more beautiful still. Miss Stuart will help me with good advice, and mine shall be more English than yours. We will not be beaten.”
“No, no!” said the Rajah, laughing; “do not help her, Miss Stuart; help me, and I will be so grateful. It is so easy to say I will give a grand party, but it is hard to make it so that it will please these English gentlemen and ladies.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Prince,” said the Inche Maida.
“Of course—yes,” he replied. “That is where I make things wrong. You English place the ladies first, and I always make mistakes like that.”
“You will soon acquire our habits,” said Grey, who could not help her eyes wandering in search of Hilton.
“Thank you,” said the Prince. “I shall try; but as I say, it is so hard to make a feast quite right. If I want to make a banquet for my people with flowers, and fireworks, and elephants, and gongs, and tom-toms, it is all so easy; but an English party, to satisfy all you—ah! it is too much.”
Meanwhile, heart-sick and disgusted with everything and everybody present, Hilton wandered away to the pagoda, where Mr Stuart had taken up hi quarters directly after supper.
“Hullo! young fellow,” said the old merchant, gruffly, “come to your senses again?”
“Senses? Haven’t been out of them that I know of,” retorted Hilton.
“Well, ye’ve been running wild after Perowne’s lassie.”
“Mr Stuart!”
“And one never sees her without Captain Hilton ahint her.”
“Mr Stuart, I was not aware that I was answerable to you for my conduct,” exclaimed the young officer, hotly.
“Nay—nay—nay—dinna—don’t be fashed, laddie, I was vexed to see ye rinning after a lassie who will throw ye over for the next man she sees—that’s a’—”
“Mr Stuart, I will not listen to anything in Miss Perowne’s disparagement!” cried the young man hotly. “How dare you speak to me like this!”
“Have a cigar, laddie?” said the old Scot, drily. “They’re verra good, and they’ll soothe ye down better than anything I ken.”
Hilton glared at him angrily. “There, there, there, let me have my say, laddie. I rather like ye, Hilton, though ye are only a soldier; so don’t fly in a passion with an old man. Tak’ a cigar.”
Hilton hesitated, but finally took the cigar, lit it, and began to smoke.
“I ken weel what’s wrong,” said the old man; “but never heed it, mon. It mak’s ye sore to-day, but ye’ll soon get over it. I’ve seen ivery thing that’s gone on sin the lassies have been here. Try a drappie o’ that whuskie, laddie; that and yon cigar will mak’ ye forget all about the trouble wi’ the girl.”
“Mr Stuart, I must request you to be silent upon this question, unless you wish to quarrel.”
“Quarrel? Not I, lad! I’m as peaceable a body as ever lived; but tak’ my advice—don’t wherret yoursel’ about Helen Perowne. She’s not made for ye.”
“Sir!”
“Hoot, laddie, in a passion again! I tell ye you’re much too good for such a body as she. I ken she’s handsome enough for an angel; but what’s all that if she don’t care a twistle o’ the finger for ye?” Bertie Hilton frowned heavily and smoked furiously; while, when the old merchant thrust the whiskey decanter towards him, he snatched it up, poured out half a tumbler full, and had stretched out his hand to take it and gulp it down, when, to his surprise and anger, old Stuart snatched the tumbler away, poured half of the spirit back into the decanter, and then filled up the tumbler with water.
“Not while I’m sitting by ye, Bertie Hilton,” said the old man. “I like my whuskie and I like to see a fren’ enjoy his drappie wi’ me; but it must be a drappie. When I see a man making a fool o’ himsel’ by taking more than is good, I just stop him if I can, as I stopped you.”
The young man’s face flushed, and an angry remark was about to issue from his lips, when the ridiculous and friendly sides of the question presented themselves to him, and instead of going into a fit of temper consequent upon his irritable state, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“Hah! That’s better, my lad,” said the old merchant, smiling in his dry, grim fashion. “I like that. Ye’re an officer and ye know how to command yourself as well as your men. Now then, sit down and sup your whuskie and smoke like a man.”
“You shall be obeyed, sir,” said Hilton, good-humouredly.
“That’s right, laddie. Tak’ your misfortunes like a man. I know it’s hard to bear, and nothing wherrets a man more than seeing a lassie play wi’ others before his very een, when a’ the time she has been leading him to believe she cares for him alone?”
“Would it be a very difficult task to you, Mr Stuart, to leave my private affairs alone?” said Hilton, quietly.
“Oh, ay, I’ll leave them alone if ye’ll only be sensible and act like a mon. Bertie Hilton, ye’re a big mon, and a captain in Her Majesty’s service, and ye’re been acting like a weak boy.”
Hilton’s eyes flashed again as he turned angrily upon the old man, who seemed to become more Scottish in his language as he slowly imbibed his native drink.
“I see ya glowering at me, my lad; but I dinna mind it, for I’m one of your best frens, and when I thrash ye with words about your lassie it’s a’ for your good. There, haud yer whisht. I ken what ye’d say, that ye’re a mon and not a boy to be dictated to by an old Scotchman like this.”
“Well, I was thinking something of the kind, Mr Stuart, and so I tell you frankly,” cried Hilton, who could not help feeling amused at the old man’s dry ways. The reproofs, too, came at a time when the younger was very much open to conviction, for his experiences of the last few days had all been towards showing him that Helen Perowne was trifling with him, and if she were now, he felt that she had been from the first.
Still, it was very painful to have to be taken to task like this upon so tender a subject; and after sitting awhile with the old man, he suddenly jumped up, relit his cigar, which he had allowed to go out, and nodding shortly, he strolled out of the pagoda into the grounds.
“Coming to his senses,” said old Stuart, in a thoughtful way. “Hah! I should go rather cross it my lassie were to carry on like Perowne’s Helen. Why, she drives nearly all the young fellows wild. The young hussy! she ought to be shut up in a convent till she comes to her senses. I’d have none of it at home with me.”
Volume Two—Chapter Nine.A Supplement to a Strange Evening.It was very beautiful in the gardens, and in spite of the number of people present, the place was so large that Hilton had no difficulty in finding a shady path in whose gloom he could walk up and down, finding the silence and darkness congenial in his present state of mind.Every here and there there were lanterns, and flashes of light came from the illuminated lawn in company with the strains of music; but for the greater part the light was that from the great soft stars in the begemmed arch overhead, and the music that of the swift river rippling against the bank.What should he do? he asked himself. Would he not be acting a wiser and a more manly part if he at once gave up his pursuit of Helen, and treated her with the contempt she deserved?For she did deserve contempt. He felt this, and he knew the state of the warm affection he had had for her. He knew she had flirted a little before, but he looked upon that as mere maiden trifling before she had been ready to bestow upon him all the riches of her fresh young love. He was ready to condone anything that had taken place before; but when, after some long experience, he found that he was only being made the plaything of the hour, and that she was ready to throw him over in favour of the newest comer, his heart rebelled.The fact was that Hilton was coming back to his normal senses very fast, and the idol that he had been worshipping and accrediting with all the perfections under the sun, was beginning to assume a very matter-of-fact, worldly aspect in his eyes.The chaplain, officer after officer on board ship, Chumbley, Mr Harley, himself—they had all been favoured lovers in turn, and then thrown over after a certain amount of trifling.“I cannot think how I could have been so foolish!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “and yet she is very beautiful—most beautiful; and when she gives a fellow one of those tender, beseeching looks, he need be made of iron to resist her.”He walked up and down a little longer, finished his cigar, lit another, and went on, evidently feeling in better spirits.“I shall get over it in a few days,” he said, with a half laugh, “unless I turn disappointed swain, and go and jump into the river. The crocodiles would soon make short work of me. By jove! how beautiful those fire-flies are!” he exclaimed.Then he sighed, and went backward mentally.“They put one in mind of Helen’s beautiful eyes,” he muttered. Beautiful Helen! Bah! Stuff! I’ll be fooled by no woman living!“‘Shall I, wasting in despair.Die because a woman’s fair?Shall I palemy cheeks with careBecause another’s rosy are?’”He sang softly, enjoying more and more the delicious coolness of the breeze off the river.“I’m nearly cured,” he said, bitterly.“‘I know a maiden fair to see,Take care!She can both false and friendly be,Beware! beware!Trust her not,She is fooling thee!’”He sang again in a low voice.“My case exactly. Oh! my dear madam. I’m afraid you will come to grief one of these days, for it is not every fellow who will give you up as I do, and hide his wound under a smiling face.“And do I give her up?” he said, softly; and there was a tender, dreamy look in his eyes as he spoke.“Bah! what a madman I am!” he cried, with a mocking laugh; “she throws me over as she has thrown over others. What an idiot I was not to see all this sooner!“The old story—the old story,” he muttered. “Man’s vanity and woman’s pride. I was conceited enough to think that, though she might trifle with others, I was her one special choice. There was no such other man upon the earth as I, Captain Hilton, the Apollo among his fellows. Serve me right!” he cried passionately, “for a weak fool, and I deserve it all, if only to be a lesson to bring me to my senses?”Growing excited with his thoughts, he strolled down another path, leading to the lower lawn which sloped to the river.“I wonder who is with her now!” he muttered, as he gazed with lowering brow at the smooth, star-spangled stream.“What does it matter! I’ll get a lesson innonchalancefrom old Chum! I’ve been fooled like the rest. I might have known that I should be, but I was conceited enough to think that I had thoroughly won her heart.”He told himself that it was all over now, and smoked away viciously, sending forth great puffs of vapour, still thinking of his position.“What the dickens did that woman, the Inche Maida, mean!” he said, suddenly, as he strolled now close beside the river in complete forgetfulness of all the dangers with which it was invested by his friends. “Why, if I were a conceited fellow—well, so I am, horribly,” he said, bitterly—“I should have fancied that she was making love to me. It is too ridiculous!” he exclaimed, stopping short, and seeing nothing but introspectively, hearing nothing but the echoes of his own thoughts. “This place is growing hateful to me. I shall get leave or exchange. I feel as if I could not stay here any longer, and—Hah! Help! What! Good Heav—”The rest of Hilton’s words did not reach the soft midnight air, for, deep in thought, he had not seen the shadow even of the coming danger which had fallen in an instant, and his mad struggles were proving all in vain.
It was very beautiful in the gardens, and in spite of the number of people present, the place was so large that Hilton had no difficulty in finding a shady path in whose gloom he could walk up and down, finding the silence and darkness congenial in his present state of mind.
Every here and there there were lanterns, and flashes of light came from the illuminated lawn in company with the strains of music; but for the greater part the light was that from the great soft stars in the begemmed arch overhead, and the music that of the swift river rippling against the bank.
What should he do? he asked himself. Would he not be acting a wiser and a more manly part if he at once gave up his pursuit of Helen, and treated her with the contempt she deserved?
For she did deserve contempt. He felt this, and he knew the state of the warm affection he had had for her. He knew she had flirted a little before, but he looked upon that as mere maiden trifling before she had been ready to bestow upon him all the riches of her fresh young love. He was ready to condone anything that had taken place before; but when, after some long experience, he found that he was only being made the plaything of the hour, and that she was ready to throw him over in favour of the newest comer, his heart rebelled.
The fact was that Hilton was coming back to his normal senses very fast, and the idol that he had been worshipping and accrediting with all the perfections under the sun, was beginning to assume a very matter-of-fact, worldly aspect in his eyes.
The chaplain, officer after officer on board ship, Chumbley, Mr Harley, himself—they had all been favoured lovers in turn, and then thrown over after a certain amount of trifling.
“I cannot think how I could have been so foolish!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “and yet she is very beautiful—most beautiful; and when she gives a fellow one of those tender, beseeching looks, he need be made of iron to resist her.”
He walked up and down a little longer, finished his cigar, lit another, and went on, evidently feeling in better spirits.
“I shall get over it in a few days,” he said, with a half laugh, “unless I turn disappointed swain, and go and jump into the river. The crocodiles would soon make short work of me. By jove! how beautiful those fire-flies are!” he exclaimed.
Then he sighed, and went backward mentally.
“They put one in mind of Helen’s beautiful eyes,” he muttered. Beautiful Helen! Bah! Stuff! I’ll be fooled by no woman living!
“‘Shall I, wasting in despair.Die because a woman’s fair?Shall I palemy cheeks with careBecause another’s rosy are?’”
“‘Shall I, wasting in despair.Die because a woman’s fair?Shall I palemy cheeks with careBecause another’s rosy are?’”
He sang softly, enjoying more and more the delicious coolness of the breeze off the river.
“I’m nearly cured,” he said, bitterly.
“‘I know a maiden fair to see,Take care!She can both false and friendly be,Beware! beware!Trust her not,She is fooling thee!’”
“‘I know a maiden fair to see,Take care!She can both false and friendly be,Beware! beware!Trust her not,She is fooling thee!’”
He sang again in a low voice.
“My case exactly. Oh! my dear madam. I’m afraid you will come to grief one of these days, for it is not every fellow who will give you up as I do, and hide his wound under a smiling face.
“And do I give her up?” he said, softly; and there was a tender, dreamy look in his eyes as he spoke.
“Bah! what a madman I am!” he cried, with a mocking laugh; “she throws me over as she has thrown over others. What an idiot I was not to see all this sooner!
“The old story—the old story,” he muttered. “Man’s vanity and woman’s pride. I was conceited enough to think that, though she might trifle with others, I was her one special choice. There was no such other man upon the earth as I, Captain Hilton, the Apollo among his fellows. Serve me right!” he cried passionately, “for a weak fool, and I deserve it all, if only to be a lesson to bring me to my senses?”
Growing excited with his thoughts, he strolled down another path, leading to the lower lawn which sloped to the river.
“I wonder who is with her now!” he muttered, as he gazed with lowering brow at the smooth, star-spangled stream.
“What does it matter! I’ll get a lesson innonchalancefrom old Chum! I’ve been fooled like the rest. I might have known that I should be, but I was conceited enough to think that I had thoroughly won her heart.”
He told himself that it was all over now, and smoked away viciously, sending forth great puffs of vapour, still thinking of his position.
“What the dickens did that woman, the Inche Maida, mean!” he said, suddenly, as he strolled now close beside the river in complete forgetfulness of all the dangers with which it was invested by his friends. “Why, if I were a conceited fellow—well, so I am, horribly,” he said, bitterly—“I should have fancied that she was making love to me. It is too ridiculous!” he exclaimed, stopping short, and seeing nothing but introspectively, hearing nothing but the echoes of his own thoughts. “This place is growing hateful to me. I shall get leave or exchange. I feel as if I could not stay here any longer, and—Hah! Help! What! Good Heav—”
The rest of Hilton’s words did not reach the soft midnight air, for, deep in thought, he had not seen the shadow even of the coming danger which had fallen in an instant, and his mad struggles were proving all in vain.
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.Plus.As Hilton cried for help his voice sounded stifled and dull, while he vainly tried to cast off a great woollen cloth that had been deftly thrown over his head. It took hardly an instant before it was wound tightly round him. Then a rope was twisted so rapidly round arms and legs, that he was turned, as it were, into a complete mummy; and when his assailants threw him upon the grass he was so helpless that they literally rolled him over and over down the slope of closely shaven herbage into a large row-boat, into whose bottom he fell without pain, and almost without a sound.“I thought it was the crocodiles,” he said to himself, as his heart beat painfully; and then he began to writhe in spirit at his want of caution, for he felt sure that this, the capture of an officer, was one of the first steps towards an attack upon the Residency island.Just then he heard a voice, and what seemed to be a whispered order in Malay; and the boat might have been seen to glide away like a shadow over the starry water, breaking it up into spangles as it went on and on towards the middle of the stream without so much as a sound.Then a pang shot through the young officer’s heart, to tell him that he was not, in spite of his word, quite cured, for his first thought now was: “What will become of Helen!” A few minutes later Chumbley strolled up to the pagoda, where old Stuart was comfortably enjoying his glass.“Well, old fellow,” he drawled: “not melted away yet.”“No; nor you neither,” retorted the old merchant. “Want some whuskie?”“No; I want a cigar,” said Chumbley; and he helped himself from the box. “Seen anything of Hilton?” he asked, as he lit the roll of tobacco.“Yes! here a bit ago, and then went off to smoke in the cool air. Leave my little girl all right?”“Yes; she was sitting talking to the Princess and the Rajah in front of the house. What a lovely night!”“Humph, yes. Pretty well; but you should see the night, laddie, over one o’ the Scottish lochs, wi’ the ootline o’ a mountain stannin oot i’ front o’ the northern sky. Ay, but that’s a sight.”“Yes, s’pose so,” said Chumbley; “but as we can’t have the night over the Scottish loch, isn’t it as well to make the best of this?”“Humph! yes,” said the old man; “but I’m getting tired of sitting here. I want to go back home. How much longer is this tomfoolery going to last?”“Can’t say, sir. Why don’t you go on to the lawn and have a chat?”“Pah! Do I look like a man who could do that sort of thing?”“Can’t say you do,” replied Chumbley, cheerfully. “Well, I’m going to look for Hilton!” and, stepping out of the pagoda, he went across the lawn, with his hands deep down in his pockets.“Now, let’s see,” he said to himself, as he strolled lazily on, “where would that chap be likely to have stuck himself up for a quiet smoke?“Seems to have had a tiff with beauty to-night. P’r’aps she has pitched him as she has other people before, present company not excepted. All the more likely for him to have gone off for a quiet smoke—Now where would he go?”There was a pause here, as if for someone else to answer, but as no one did—“Down by the river,” he said—“safe.” Chumbley thrust his hands lower down into his pockets, and as if led by fate, he followed slowly almost the very track taken by Hilton so short a time before.Finding that portion of the extensive grounds quite solitary, Chumbley began to hum what was meant for an air, in a peculiar voice more remarkable for noise than tune—due, no doubt, to his having his cigar in his lips, at which he gravely sucked away as if keeping time to the melody he emitted with the smoke.“Grass too damp to lie down,” he said to himself, “else it would be rather jolly, and I’m precious tired. Not safe though. Old Bolter would vow there was rheumatism and fever in every blade. Why the dickens don’t they put garden seats down here?”He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of his friend.“Precious dark!” he said. “Now where has old Hilton hidden himself? Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder what old Bolter would say?”For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a figure lying apparently asleep.Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping figure.“Here—hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don’t lie there!”There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch the figure.“’Tisn’t Hilton!” he said to himself. “One of the servants, perhaps, keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong side.”“Hallo! you sir!” he cried aloud. “’Tisn’t safe to lie there; do you hear?” and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over. “Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?”“Help me up,” came in reply, spoken in good English.Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower, he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while.Then, in an instant, the feeble clasp became one of iron; and before Chumbley could more than realise that he was being held, a second figure bounded from behind a bush on to his back, dexterously throwing a sort of bag over his head and drawing it tight about his neck.The young officer was taken by surprise; but he was not so easy a prey as Hilton. As a rule, Chumbley resembled the elephant in his slow, ponderous movement. Now, there was something almost leonine in his activity, the latent almost herculean strength he possessed being brought into play.Uttering a smothered roar, he tried to shake off his assailants as they clung to his back and neck, pinioning his arms, and holding on so closely, that in the dark the figures of the three men seemed like one huge monstrous creature writhing savagely upon the grass.Four more dark figures had suddenly appeared upon the scene, looking weird and strange in the starlight; and while the distant sound of voices, with an occasional burst of laughter, came to where the struggle was going on, all here was so quiet—save for the oppressed breathing—that no attention was drawn towards them from the visitor-dotted lawn.The fresh-comers leaped at Chumbley like dogs at their hunted quarry; but so fierce was the resistance that one of them was dashed to the earth, the others shaken off, and the young man followed up the display of his tremendous strength by making a blindfold effort to ran.The probabilities are that, as he had instinctively taken the direction leading to the house, he would have got so far that his assailants would not have cared to follow, had not one of them thrust out a foot as Chumbley was passing, and tripped him up, when he fell with a heavy thud to the ground.Before he could make a fresh effort to rise, half a dozen Malays were upon him; and while some sat and knelt upon, others bound him hand and foot.Then they paused to listen whether the struggle had been overheard; but finding it had excited no attention either at the house or the Residency island, they leisurely rolled their prisoner over and over down the grassy slope into a waiting boat close up to the bank. A few vessels of water were dipped, and quickly poured over the grass where the struggle had taken place, and then once more the star-spangled surface of the river was broken up as a shadowy boat softly glided out to the middle of the river, and then seemed to die away.But the incidents of the night were not yet at an end, Fate seemed to lend her aid to bring them to one peculiar bent.For, hot and weary of the insipid attentions of her new conquest, and fagged out with her task of entertaining so many guests, Helen Perowne began to think of how she should escape, wishing the while that everyone would go, and far from satisfied with her last encounter with Hilton.She looked round the lit-up space for someone on whom to inflict herself, but Hilton was not there; she could see neither Chumbley nor the Resident, only several of the younger men, merchants and civil officers—no one at all worth talking to save the chaplain, who had been watching her wistfully all the evening, and who now stood with one hand resting upon a chair, looking as if he would have given his life for one kind word from her lips.“Poor Arthur!” she said, in a half amused, half troubled way, “I wish he would not be so weak?”She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house.Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant approached, and saluted her respectfully.“The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to speak to him?”“How tiresome!” she exclaimed petulantly. “Where is my father?”“By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke,” replied the man, softly. “He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once.”This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood.“He might have come to me,” said Helen, impatiently. “I am so hot and tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path.”The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain seized the opportunity to join her.“It is getting cold and damp, Miss Perowne,” he said, softly. “Will you let me put this over your shoulders?”“What!” she said; “have you been carrying that ever since I gave it to you hours ago?”The chaplain bowed, and held the light, filmy shawl, that he had felt it a joy to bear, ready to throw over her shoulders.“No,” she cried, petulantly, “I am too hot as it is. There,” she cried, relenting, as she saw his fallen countenance, and for want of another victim, “you may come with me and carry the shawl till I want to put it on.”The chaplain’s heart gave a bound, and, too pleased to speak, he followed Helen closely, as the man led her towards the bottom of the lawn, where, as they drew nearer, a dark figure could be dimly seen slowly pacing up and down.“How angry dear Mary would be if she knew,” thought the Reverend Arthur; “but I cannot help it. I suppose I am very weak, and it is my fate?”“What is wrong now?” thought Helen, whose conscience was quick to take alarm. “Is he going to speak to me about Hilton? No; he would not have—he could not have been so cowardly as to speak to my father about our quarrel.”They were very near now, and Helen could see that her father had one hand up to his face, resting the elbow in his other hand.“It cannot be about Murad. That must be over,” mused Helen. Then aloud, “Is anything the matter, papa? Are you unwell?”At that moment she realised the fact that the figure in evening dress was not her father, the chaplain noticing her start, and trying to go forward to her aid; but, as he took a step, a hand was clapped over his lips, an arm tightly embraced him, and as he dimly saw a white handkerchief tied across Helen’s face, he was lifted from the ground and borne away, too much surprised to do more than struggle weakly at such a disadvantage that even a strong man would have been as helpless as a child.Helen made an effort to shriek for aid, but a black cloud seemed suddenly to envelop her in the shape of a great cloth, wrapping her round and round. Then she felt herself lifted from her feet, and half-stifled, half-fainting with the horror of her situation, she was just conscious of being carried for a few minutes, and then of being placed in a boat; while in the midst of her horror and excitement there seemed to come up before her the faces of her three old mistresses at the calm, quiet school, then that of Grey Stuart looking reproachfully, and then all faded away into one complete void.
As Hilton cried for help his voice sounded stifled and dull, while he vainly tried to cast off a great woollen cloth that had been deftly thrown over his head. It took hardly an instant before it was wound tightly round him. Then a rope was twisted so rapidly round arms and legs, that he was turned, as it were, into a complete mummy; and when his assailants threw him upon the grass he was so helpless that they literally rolled him over and over down the slope of closely shaven herbage into a large row-boat, into whose bottom he fell without pain, and almost without a sound.
“I thought it was the crocodiles,” he said to himself, as his heart beat painfully; and then he began to writhe in spirit at his want of caution, for he felt sure that this, the capture of an officer, was one of the first steps towards an attack upon the Residency island.
Just then he heard a voice, and what seemed to be a whispered order in Malay; and the boat might have been seen to glide away like a shadow over the starry water, breaking it up into spangles as it went on and on towards the middle of the stream without so much as a sound.
Then a pang shot through the young officer’s heart, to tell him that he was not, in spite of his word, quite cured, for his first thought now was: “What will become of Helen!” A few minutes later Chumbley strolled up to the pagoda, where old Stuart was comfortably enjoying his glass.
“Well, old fellow,” he drawled: “not melted away yet.”
“No; nor you neither,” retorted the old merchant. “Want some whuskie?”
“No; I want a cigar,” said Chumbley; and he helped himself from the box. “Seen anything of Hilton?” he asked, as he lit the roll of tobacco.
“Yes! here a bit ago, and then went off to smoke in the cool air. Leave my little girl all right?”
“Yes; she was sitting talking to the Princess and the Rajah in front of the house. What a lovely night!”
“Humph, yes. Pretty well; but you should see the night, laddie, over one o’ the Scottish lochs, wi’ the ootline o’ a mountain stannin oot i’ front o’ the northern sky. Ay, but that’s a sight.”
“Yes, s’pose so,” said Chumbley; “but as we can’t have the night over the Scottish loch, isn’t it as well to make the best of this?”
“Humph! yes,” said the old man; “but I’m getting tired of sitting here. I want to go back home. How much longer is this tomfoolery going to last?”
“Can’t say, sir. Why don’t you go on to the lawn and have a chat?”
“Pah! Do I look like a man who could do that sort of thing?”
“Can’t say you do,” replied Chumbley, cheerfully. “Well, I’m going to look for Hilton!” and, stepping out of the pagoda, he went across the lawn, with his hands deep down in his pockets.
“Now, let’s see,” he said to himself, as he strolled lazily on, “where would that chap be likely to have stuck himself up for a quiet smoke?
“Seems to have had a tiff with beauty to-night. P’r’aps she has pitched him as she has other people before, present company not excepted. All the more likely for him to have gone off for a quiet smoke—Now where would he go?”
There was a pause here, as if for someone else to answer, but as no one did—
“Down by the river,” he said—“safe.” Chumbley thrust his hands lower down into his pockets, and as if led by fate, he followed slowly almost the very track taken by Hilton so short a time before.
Finding that portion of the extensive grounds quite solitary, Chumbley began to hum what was meant for an air, in a peculiar voice more remarkable for noise than tune—due, no doubt, to his having his cigar in his lips, at which he gravely sucked away as if keeping time to the melody he emitted with the smoke.
“Grass too damp to lie down,” he said to himself, “else it would be rather jolly, and I’m precious tired. Not safe though. Old Bolter would vow there was rheumatism and fever in every blade. Why the dickens don’t they put garden seats down here?”
He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of his friend.
“Precious dark!” he said. “Now where has old Hilton hidden himself? Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder what old Bolter would say?”
For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a figure lying apparently asleep.
Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping figure.
“Here—hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don’t lie there!”
There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch the figure.
“’Tisn’t Hilton!” he said to himself. “One of the servants, perhaps, keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong side.”
“Hallo! you sir!” he cried aloud. “’Tisn’t safe to lie there; do you hear?” and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over. “Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?”
“Help me up,” came in reply, spoken in good English.
Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower, he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while.
Then, in an instant, the feeble clasp became one of iron; and before Chumbley could more than realise that he was being held, a second figure bounded from behind a bush on to his back, dexterously throwing a sort of bag over his head and drawing it tight about his neck.
The young officer was taken by surprise; but he was not so easy a prey as Hilton. As a rule, Chumbley resembled the elephant in his slow, ponderous movement. Now, there was something almost leonine in his activity, the latent almost herculean strength he possessed being brought into play.
Uttering a smothered roar, he tried to shake off his assailants as they clung to his back and neck, pinioning his arms, and holding on so closely, that in the dark the figures of the three men seemed like one huge monstrous creature writhing savagely upon the grass.
Four more dark figures had suddenly appeared upon the scene, looking weird and strange in the starlight; and while the distant sound of voices, with an occasional burst of laughter, came to where the struggle was going on, all here was so quiet—save for the oppressed breathing—that no attention was drawn towards them from the visitor-dotted lawn.
The fresh-comers leaped at Chumbley like dogs at their hunted quarry; but so fierce was the resistance that one of them was dashed to the earth, the others shaken off, and the young man followed up the display of his tremendous strength by making a blindfold effort to ran.
The probabilities are that, as he had instinctively taken the direction leading to the house, he would have got so far that his assailants would not have cared to follow, had not one of them thrust out a foot as Chumbley was passing, and tripped him up, when he fell with a heavy thud to the ground.
Before he could make a fresh effort to rise, half a dozen Malays were upon him; and while some sat and knelt upon, others bound him hand and foot.
Then they paused to listen whether the struggle had been overheard; but finding it had excited no attention either at the house or the Residency island, they leisurely rolled their prisoner over and over down the grassy slope into a waiting boat close up to the bank. A few vessels of water were dipped, and quickly poured over the grass where the struggle had taken place, and then once more the star-spangled surface of the river was broken up as a shadowy boat softly glided out to the middle of the river, and then seemed to die away.
But the incidents of the night were not yet at an end, Fate seemed to lend her aid to bring them to one peculiar bent.
For, hot and weary of the insipid attentions of her new conquest, and fagged out with her task of entertaining so many guests, Helen Perowne began to think of how she should escape, wishing the while that everyone would go, and far from satisfied with her last encounter with Hilton.
She looked round the lit-up space for someone on whom to inflict herself, but Hilton was not there; she could see neither Chumbley nor the Resident, only several of the younger men, merchants and civil officers—no one at all worth talking to save the chaplain, who had been watching her wistfully all the evening, and who now stood with one hand resting upon a chair, looking as if he would have given his life for one kind word from her lips.
“Poor Arthur!” she said, in a half amused, half troubled way, “I wish he would not be so weak?”
She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house.
Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant approached, and saluted her respectfully.
“The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to speak to him?”
“How tiresome!” she exclaimed petulantly. “Where is my father?”
“By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke,” replied the man, softly. “He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once.”
This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood.
“He might have come to me,” said Helen, impatiently. “I am so hot and tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path.”
The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain seized the opportunity to join her.
“It is getting cold and damp, Miss Perowne,” he said, softly. “Will you let me put this over your shoulders?”
“What!” she said; “have you been carrying that ever since I gave it to you hours ago?”
The chaplain bowed, and held the light, filmy shawl, that he had felt it a joy to bear, ready to throw over her shoulders.
“No,” she cried, petulantly, “I am too hot as it is. There,” she cried, relenting, as she saw his fallen countenance, and for want of another victim, “you may come with me and carry the shawl till I want to put it on.”
The chaplain’s heart gave a bound, and, too pleased to speak, he followed Helen closely, as the man led her towards the bottom of the lawn, where, as they drew nearer, a dark figure could be dimly seen slowly pacing up and down.
“How angry dear Mary would be if she knew,” thought the Reverend Arthur; “but I cannot help it. I suppose I am very weak, and it is my fate?”
“What is wrong now?” thought Helen, whose conscience was quick to take alarm. “Is he going to speak to me about Hilton? No; he would not have—he could not have been so cowardly as to speak to my father about our quarrel.”
They were very near now, and Helen could see that her father had one hand up to his face, resting the elbow in his other hand.
“It cannot be about Murad. That must be over,” mused Helen. Then aloud, “Is anything the matter, papa? Are you unwell?”
At that moment she realised the fact that the figure in evening dress was not her father, the chaplain noticing her start, and trying to go forward to her aid; but, as he took a step, a hand was clapped over his lips, an arm tightly embraced him, and as he dimly saw a white handkerchief tied across Helen’s face, he was lifted from the ground and borne away, too much surprised to do more than struggle weakly at such a disadvantage that even a strong man would have been as helpless as a child.
Helen made an effort to shriek for aid, but a black cloud seemed suddenly to envelop her in the shape of a great cloth, wrapping her round and round. Then she felt herself lifted from her feet, and half-stifled, half-fainting with the horror of her situation, she was just conscious of being carried for a few minutes, and then of being placed in a boat; while in the midst of her horror and excitement there seemed to come up before her the faces of her three old mistresses at the calm, quiet school, then that of Grey Stuart looking reproachfully, and then all faded away into one complete void.
Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.A Floating Captivity.What seemed to be an endless ride by water, during which the captives felt over and over again as if they would be suffocated by the folds of the cloths in which they were enveloped.Several times had the two first prisoners made such desperate efforts to free themselves that the boats in which they were rocked dangerously, that in which Chumbley had been thrown shipping a little water more than once; but finding by degrees that it was only a waste of strength, and contenting themselves with the idea that though an Englishman may never know when he is beaten, they had done everything possible to vindicate their character, they lay quite still, dripping with perspiration and gasping for air.An hour must have gone by when, in each boat, as the prisoner lay perfectly quiescent, it seemed to strike the captors almost simultaneously that if something were not done suffocation might ensue. Under these circumstances efforts were made to give them a little of that bounteous provision of air that was waiting to revive their exhausted frames.Chumbley was lying upon his face in the bottom of the boat, the exhaustion having produced a semi-delirious sensation, in which he fancied that he was in evening dress, of a very thick texture, dancing in a crowded ballroom, and so giddy that he was in a constant state of alarm lest he should hurl his partner, the Malay princess, headlong upon the floor.This sensation kept coming and going with saner thoughts of having done his best, and its being useless to struggle, in the midst of one of which intervals he awoke to the fact that his hands were being held tightly behind him, and back to back. Then someone, with a deftness of habit that told of long custom, tied his thumbs together, and then his little fingers.Next he felt a stout cord passed round his ankles and another about his legs just above the knees, after which the thick cloth was drawn from his head, and he gasped and panted as he filled his lungs again and again with the pure night air, which cleared his brain and sent the crowded ballroom, the thick costume, and the giddiness of the waltz far back into the unreal region from which they came.For a moment he revelled in the sight of the brilliant star-lit heavens, and then, almost before he knew it, a cloth was bound tightly round his eyes.“A seizure by banditti,” muttered Chumbley, “quite in the romantic style, and I shall be held to ransom, when, seeing that I have nothing but my pay—and that is hardly enough for my expenses—I may say, in the words of the monkey who held out his tail to the chained-up dog, ‘Don’t you wish you may get it!’ Oh, I say, though, I’m as sore as if I’d been thrashed. Whatever game is this?”“If you will promise to be silent,” said a deep voice at his ear in the Malayan tongue, “we will not thrust a cloth into your mouth.”“I wish they’d pour a glass of Bass into it instead,” thought Chumbley. “I say, you sir,” he replied, in as good Malayan as he could command, “what does this mean?”“Wait and see.”“Are you going to kris me?”“No.”“Well, that’s a comfort,” muttered Chumbley. “I might have known it by their taking so much trouble, though five minutes ago it would have been a charity to put me out of my misery.”“Will you be silent if I leave your mouth free?” was asked again.“I don’t see that it’s of much use to halloo,” said Chumbley, sullenly, “but look here, old chap, what does this mean? Tell me, and I’ll be as quiet as a lamb.”“Wait and see,” was the reply.Chumbley was silent for a few minutes, drawing in long breaths of air. Then, addressing his captors, who seemed to him to be steadily rowing on:“I say,” he exclaimed, “can I have this rag off my eyes?”“No.”Another pause, during which the prisoner listened to the pleasant ripple of the water against the boat.“I say,” from Chumbley.“Yes.”“I can’t fight now or else I would.”There was a low laugh, which seemed to come from a dozen throats, and the same deep voice replied:“My lord is a giant in strength, but we have him fast.”“Then set me up, so that I can sit comfortably, or I shan’t be worth a Chinese dragon dollar if you want me for sale.”There was another low laugh, as if the Malay captors were amused; and then, in obedience to a whispered order, the prisoner was lifted and placed in a more comfortable position, but not without some effort and grunting on the part of the men who essayed to move him, the boat rocking about ominously the while.“That’s better,” said the prisoner. “Hah, I can get on now! Here I say, old chap, whoever you are, put your hand in my breast.”“Does my lord wish me to promise that we will not slay him?” said the deep-voiced Malay.“Bosh! No!” cried Chumbley. “In my breast-pocket. That’s right. Now take out the cigar-case. Not the pocket-book. The cigar-case. That’s it! Now open it and take out a cigar. Put it in my mouth. Have one?”“My lord’s servant does not smoke when he has work to do,” replied the Malay.“All right, then, I have none,” said Chumbley, coolly. “Put the end in my mouth, and give me a light. There’s a match-box in my vest.”There was a low laugh once more in the fore-part of the boat; but the prisoner was too intent upon feeling the hand thrust into his breast, his cigar-case opened and snapped again, the case returned, the roll of tobacco placed in his lips, and then the light struck and held convenient for him to draw.“Hah!” he said to himself, “it’s wonderful what comfort there is in a cigar at a time like this! How I do pity the poor little women who are not allowed to smoke!”He said a few words to the Malays, but they were very quiet and reticent; and feeling that it was of no further use to talk to them in their own tongue, which was a trouble to him, he began to think in English, which, if not of much comfort, was at all events an occupation for the time being.“This is a rum set-out,” he thought, as he settled himself as comfortably as he could, and smoked away. “An hour or so ago I was at an English evening-party, held for coolness upon a lawn. Now I am here in a boat; but where the dickens here is I don’t know.“But what does it mean? I’m not of the slightest use to anybody; and they are not doing it for revenge, because I haven’t made any enemies. Let me see, though—have I?”He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes. “No—no, I can’t think of anybody except Miss Helen, for rejecting her tender glances. Let’s see, what did Byron or some other chap say about there being no what-you-may-call-it so dangerous as a woman scorned? Can’t recollect quotations—never could. But that’s all nonsense. Helen Perowne wouldn’t want to have me carried off like this.“That’s it,” he said, half aloud this time, and after a thoughtful pause. “It’s ransom, that’s what it is. The noodles think because I am an English officer, and flash about in scarlet and gold, that I must be very rich. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”Chumbley indulged himself with a long and rumbling chuckle.“They’ll be preciously disappointed on finding out I’ve none, and if they expect to get it out of the British Government they’ll find that the payment will be made in rifle balls, unless some very urgent appeals are made in Parliament respecting the risk, when the question will arise, what will the noble, the British Government, as represented by its Secretary for the time being, think that my great carcass is worth.”Chumbley had sat there for a considerable time smoking and listening, for he had suddenly awakened to the fact that there was another boat hard by, with whose occupants his captors conversed in a low voice.Then suddenly he heard a familiar voice speaking fiercely in the Malayan tongue.Chumbley hesitated for a moment to make sure, and then shouted:“Why, Hilton, old man, are you there?”“Chumbley! Here! Help!” cried Hilton. “Help, man, help!”“Bring it here, then,” said Chumbley, coolly.“I cannot. I’m a prisoner: seized by Malay scoundrels.”“Same here, old man,” said Chumbley, puffing away at his cigar, the incandescent part of which was getting dangerously near his nose. “Pleasant finish to the Perownefête, isn’t it?”Here there was a fierce adjuration from the Malays in the other boat, which Hilton obeyed to the extent of speaking in a lower tone.“What is to be done?” he said, “I’d come and help you, but I’m bound hand and foot.”“So am I, old man,” replied Chumbley, coolly. “Tighter than you are, I’ll swear.”“But what is to be done?” said Hilton again.“Goodness knows. Nothing, I should say. Have a cigar?”“Chumbley!” cried Hilton, passionately, “is this a time for joking, when at any moment our lives may be taken! Be sensible if you can.”“I thought that was being sensible or philosophical if you like it better, old man. I don’t see that it’s of any use to fret so long as they don’t kill us. It will be a change from pipe-clay and parade; and judging from what I saw between you and someone else in a certain quarter to-day, I should have thought that you would have been glad of a holiday.”“Holiday, with a kris at our throats,” cried Hilton, passionately.“Bah! they won’t kill us!” said Chumbley.“I tell you that is what the scoundrels mean!” replied Hilton. “Not that it matters much,” he added gloomily.“Oh, doesn’t it!” said Chumbley, “but it does, a good deal. I don’t know that we should make much fuss—soldiers can’t; but I know of plenty of people who would cry their eyes out about me.”“If the English rajahs,” said a voice, that seemed to the two young men in their bandaged condition to come out of the darkness, and to speak haltingly, as if the utterer were not quite sure of the language in which he spoke—“If the English rajahs will be patient, and not try to escape, no harm shall be done to them.”“There,” said Chumbley, “do you hear that, old man! Better have a cigar.”“Rubbish!” cried Hilton, angrily.“Not a bit of it, old man,” said Chumbley; “they are some of old Perowne’s best, and I have just finished one, and am going to have another. Here! hi! my lord the Malay chief, Maharajah, Muntri, Tumongong, or whatever you are, stop the boat, and give my friend a cigar. Load us both and fire us old chap, and then we can go off comfortably.”There was no cessation in the rowing; but as Chumbley sat back there he felt his request attended to, the smoked-out cigar being taken from his lips and thrown into the water, where it fell with a loud hiss, the case taken from his breast, opened, and then it seemed that the boats were drawn together, and a cigar was passed to Hilton.“Got it, old man?” said Chumbley, sucking at his own, and biting off the end.“Yes,” said Hilton gruffly, as if he were resenting the attentions of his captors.Then came the sharp sound of a striking match; and though Chumbley tried hard, he found that his eyes were too well bandaged for him to catch even a gleam of the light, so he contented himself with drawing at his cigar, after which there was the loud hiss of the match thrown into the water, and the boats were once more urged onward at a goodly speed.A little conversation was kept up; but over their cigars the two prisoners seemed to grow thoughtful, and at last there was a pause, which Chumbley broke at last with the question:“I say, old chap, don’t you think this means ransom?”There was no reply, and the deep-voiced Malay said, in his own tongue:“The other boat is far behind.”It must have been towards morning that a few words were uttered in Chumbley’s boat; there seemed to him, as he immediately became on thequi vive, to be a quickening of the rower’s strokes, the rustling of bushes, some twigs of one of which brushed his arm, and then they ascended, as far as he could judge, a narrow stream for a short distance, for the oars kept striking bushes or reeds on either side; and now the boat that held Hilton had evidently come up close behind.“They mean to hide us away well, at all events,” thought Chumbley. “Now I wonder whether we have come up the stream or down.”He had hardly given life to that query, when a gentle check, as if the bows of the boat had run into mud, told that the shore was reached.A few rapid orders succeeded, and it seemed to Chumbley that now they were about to land he would have his cramped legs unbound; but no. The next minute he was seized by four men, lifted out, and laid upon the soft, mossy ground.“You there, Hilton?” he said, as he lay upon his side as helpless as a newly-landed fish.“Yes, I am here,” was the reply.“The English rajahs can talk as they like,” said the deep-voiced Malay. “No one can hear them now.”“Humph! Thanks for the great concession,” growled Chumbley; and he was about to take advantage of the permission, when he felt himself again lifted, and laid this time in a kind of hammock that seemed to be slung upon poles, and then for a couple of hours at least, he and Hilton, who was in a similar conveyance behind, were borne along some narrow pathway of the jungle, the leaves, and strands, and thin verdant canes brushing against them constantly, and sweeping their faces at times when they were halted for the bearers to be changed.“Well,” said Chumbley, chuckling softly, “I hope they are enjoying themselves with their job over me. They’ll declare that they have had the honour of carrying a very great man.”A final halt at last, when fresh voices were heard. The hammocks were set down upon what seemed to be a framework; then they were lifted, tilted very much at one end, as if a flight of steps were being ascended, and at last the prisoners felt themselves to be landed upon what felt like a bamboo floor.Next they were lifted out, carried a few steps, and laid upon soft matting; there was thepad, pad—pad, padof shoeless feet over the floor, and all was perfectly still.
What seemed to be an endless ride by water, during which the captives felt over and over again as if they would be suffocated by the folds of the cloths in which they were enveloped.
Several times had the two first prisoners made such desperate efforts to free themselves that the boats in which they were rocked dangerously, that in which Chumbley had been thrown shipping a little water more than once; but finding by degrees that it was only a waste of strength, and contenting themselves with the idea that though an Englishman may never know when he is beaten, they had done everything possible to vindicate their character, they lay quite still, dripping with perspiration and gasping for air.
An hour must have gone by when, in each boat, as the prisoner lay perfectly quiescent, it seemed to strike the captors almost simultaneously that if something were not done suffocation might ensue. Under these circumstances efforts were made to give them a little of that bounteous provision of air that was waiting to revive their exhausted frames.
Chumbley was lying upon his face in the bottom of the boat, the exhaustion having produced a semi-delirious sensation, in which he fancied that he was in evening dress, of a very thick texture, dancing in a crowded ballroom, and so giddy that he was in a constant state of alarm lest he should hurl his partner, the Malay princess, headlong upon the floor.
This sensation kept coming and going with saner thoughts of having done his best, and its being useless to struggle, in the midst of one of which intervals he awoke to the fact that his hands were being held tightly behind him, and back to back. Then someone, with a deftness of habit that told of long custom, tied his thumbs together, and then his little fingers.
Next he felt a stout cord passed round his ankles and another about his legs just above the knees, after which the thick cloth was drawn from his head, and he gasped and panted as he filled his lungs again and again with the pure night air, which cleared his brain and sent the crowded ballroom, the thick costume, and the giddiness of the waltz far back into the unreal region from which they came.
For a moment he revelled in the sight of the brilliant star-lit heavens, and then, almost before he knew it, a cloth was bound tightly round his eyes.
“A seizure by banditti,” muttered Chumbley, “quite in the romantic style, and I shall be held to ransom, when, seeing that I have nothing but my pay—and that is hardly enough for my expenses—I may say, in the words of the monkey who held out his tail to the chained-up dog, ‘Don’t you wish you may get it!’ Oh, I say, though, I’m as sore as if I’d been thrashed. Whatever game is this?”
“If you will promise to be silent,” said a deep voice at his ear in the Malayan tongue, “we will not thrust a cloth into your mouth.”
“I wish they’d pour a glass of Bass into it instead,” thought Chumbley. “I say, you sir,” he replied, in as good Malayan as he could command, “what does this mean?”
“Wait and see.”
“Are you going to kris me?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a comfort,” muttered Chumbley. “I might have known it by their taking so much trouble, though five minutes ago it would have been a charity to put me out of my misery.”
“Will you be silent if I leave your mouth free?” was asked again.
“I don’t see that it’s of much use to halloo,” said Chumbley, sullenly, “but look here, old chap, what does this mean? Tell me, and I’ll be as quiet as a lamb.”
“Wait and see,” was the reply.
Chumbley was silent for a few minutes, drawing in long breaths of air. Then, addressing his captors, who seemed to him to be steadily rowing on:
“I say,” he exclaimed, “can I have this rag off my eyes?”
“No.”
Another pause, during which the prisoner listened to the pleasant ripple of the water against the boat.
“I say,” from Chumbley.
“Yes.”
“I can’t fight now or else I would.”
There was a low laugh, which seemed to come from a dozen throats, and the same deep voice replied:
“My lord is a giant in strength, but we have him fast.”
“Then set me up, so that I can sit comfortably, or I shan’t be worth a Chinese dragon dollar if you want me for sale.”
There was another low laugh, as if the Malay captors were amused; and then, in obedience to a whispered order, the prisoner was lifted and placed in a more comfortable position, but not without some effort and grunting on the part of the men who essayed to move him, the boat rocking about ominously the while.
“That’s better,” said the prisoner. “Hah, I can get on now! Here I say, old chap, whoever you are, put your hand in my breast.”
“Does my lord wish me to promise that we will not slay him?” said the deep-voiced Malay.
“Bosh! No!” cried Chumbley. “In my breast-pocket. That’s right. Now take out the cigar-case. Not the pocket-book. The cigar-case. That’s it! Now open it and take out a cigar. Put it in my mouth. Have one?”
“My lord’s servant does not smoke when he has work to do,” replied the Malay.
“All right, then, I have none,” said Chumbley, coolly. “Put the end in my mouth, and give me a light. There’s a match-box in my vest.”
There was a low laugh once more in the fore-part of the boat; but the prisoner was too intent upon feeling the hand thrust into his breast, his cigar-case opened and snapped again, the case returned, the roll of tobacco placed in his lips, and then the light struck and held convenient for him to draw.
“Hah!” he said to himself, “it’s wonderful what comfort there is in a cigar at a time like this! How I do pity the poor little women who are not allowed to smoke!”
He said a few words to the Malays, but they were very quiet and reticent; and feeling that it was of no further use to talk to them in their own tongue, which was a trouble to him, he began to think in English, which, if not of much comfort, was at all events an occupation for the time being.
“This is a rum set-out,” he thought, as he settled himself as comfortably as he could, and smoked away. “An hour or so ago I was at an English evening-party, held for coolness upon a lawn. Now I am here in a boat; but where the dickens here is I don’t know.
“But what does it mean? I’m not of the slightest use to anybody; and they are not doing it for revenge, because I haven’t made any enemies. Let me see, though—have I?”
He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes. “No—no, I can’t think of anybody except Miss Helen, for rejecting her tender glances. Let’s see, what did Byron or some other chap say about there being no what-you-may-call-it so dangerous as a woman scorned? Can’t recollect quotations—never could. But that’s all nonsense. Helen Perowne wouldn’t want to have me carried off like this.
“That’s it,” he said, half aloud this time, and after a thoughtful pause. “It’s ransom, that’s what it is. The noodles think because I am an English officer, and flash about in scarlet and gold, that I must be very rich. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Chumbley indulged himself with a long and rumbling chuckle.
“They’ll be preciously disappointed on finding out I’ve none, and if they expect to get it out of the British Government they’ll find that the payment will be made in rifle balls, unless some very urgent appeals are made in Parliament respecting the risk, when the question will arise, what will the noble, the British Government, as represented by its Secretary for the time being, think that my great carcass is worth.”
Chumbley had sat there for a considerable time smoking and listening, for he had suddenly awakened to the fact that there was another boat hard by, with whose occupants his captors conversed in a low voice.
Then suddenly he heard a familiar voice speaking fiercely in the Malayan tongue.
Chumbley hesitated for a moment to make sure, and then shouted:
“Why, Hilton, old man, are you there?”
“Chumbley! Here! Help!” cried Hilton. “Help, man, help!”
“Bring it here, then,” said Chumbley, coolly.
“I cannot. I’m a prisoner: seized by Malay scoundrels.”
“Same here, old man,” said Chumbley, puffing away at his cigar, the incandescent part of which was getting dangerously near his nose. “Pleasant finish to the Perownefête, isn’t it?”
Here there was a fierce adjuration from the Malays in the other boat, which Hilton obeyed to the extent of speaking in a lower tone.
“What is to be done?” he said, “I’d come and help you, but I’m bound hand and foot.”
“So am I, old man,” replied Chumbley, coolly. “Tighter than you are, I’ll swear.”
“But what is to be done?” said Hilton again.
“Goodness knows. Nothing, I should say. Have a cigar?”
“Chumbley!” cried Hilton, passionately, “is this a time for joking, when at any moment our lives may be taken! Be sensible if you can.”
“I thought that was being sensible or philosophical if you like it better, old man. I don’t see that it’s of any use to fret so long as they don’t kill us. It will be a change from pipe-clay and parade; and judging from what I saw between you and someone else in a certain quarter to-day, I should have thought that you would have been glad of a holiday.”
“Holiday, with a kris at our throats,” cried Hilton, passionately.
“Bah! they won’t kill us!” said Chumbley.
“I tell you that is what the scoundrels mean!” replied Hilton. “Not that it matters much,” he added gloomily.
“Oh, doesn’t it!” said Chumbley, “but it does, a good deal. I don’t know that we should make much fuss—soldiers can’t; but I know of plenty of people who would cry their eyes out about me.”
“If the English rajahs,” said a voice, that seemed to the two young men in their bandaged condition to come out of the darkness, and to speak haltingly, as if the utterer were not quite sure of the language in which he spoke—“If the English rajahs will be patient, and not try to escape, no harm shall be done to them.”
“There,” said Chumbley, “do you hear that, old man! Better have a cigar.”
“Rubbish!” cried Hilton, angrily.
“Not a bit of it, old man,” said Chumbley; “they are some of old Perowne’s best, and I have just finished one, and am going to have another. Here! hi! my lord the Malay chief, Maharajah, Muntri, Tumongong, or whatever you are, stop the boat, and give my friend a cigar. Load us both and fire us old chap, and then we can go off comfortably.”
There was no cessation in the rowing; but as Chumbley sat back there he felt his request attended to, the smoked-out cigar being taken from his lips and thrown into the water, where it fell with a loud hiss, the case taken from his breast, opened, and then it seemed that the boats were drawn together, and a cigar was passed to Hilton.
“Got it, old man?” said Chumbley, sucking at his own, and biting off the end.
“Yes,” said Hilton gruffly, as if he were resenting the attentions of his captors.
Then came the sharp sound of a striking match; and though Chumbley tried hard, he found that his eyes were too well bandaged for him to catch even a gleam of the light, so he contented himself with drawing at his cigar, after which there was the loud hiss of the match thrown into the water, and the boats were once more urged onward at a goodly speed.
A little conversation was kept up; but over their cigars the two prisoners seemed to grow thoughtful, and at last there was a pause, which Chumbley broke at last with the question:
“I say, old chap, don’t you think this means ransom?”
There was no reply, and the deep-voiced Malay said, in his own tongue:
“The other boat is far behind.”
It must have been towards morning that a few words were uttered in Chumbley’s boat; there seemed to him, as he immediately became on thequi vive, to be a quickening of the rower’s strokes, the rustling of bushes, some twigs of one of which brushed his arm, and then they ascended, as far as he could judge, a narrow stream for a short distance, for the oars kept striking bushes or reeds on either side; and now the boat that held Hilton had evidently come up close behind.
“They mean to hide us away well, at all events,” thought Chumbley. “Now I wonder whether we have come up the stream or down.”
He had hardly given life to that query, when a gentle check, as if the bows of the boat had run into mud, told that the shore was reached.
A few rapid orders succeeded, and it seemed to Chumbley that now they were about to land he would have his cramped legs unbound; but no. The next minute he was seized by four men, lifted out, and laid upon the soft, mossy ground.
“You there, Hilton?” he said, as he lay upon his side as helpless as a newly-landed fish.
“Yes, I am here,” was the reply.
“The English rajahs can talk as they like,” said the deep-voiced Malay. “No one can hear them now.”
“Humph! Thanks for the great concession,” growled Chumbley; and he was about to take advantage of the permission, when he felt himself again lifted, and laid this time in a kind of hammock that seemed to be slung upon poles, and then for a couple of hours at least, he and Hilton, who was in a similar conveyance behind, were borne along some narrow pathway of the jungle, the leaves, and strands, and thin verdant canes brushing against them constantly, and sweeping their faces at times when they were halted for the bearers to be changed.
“Well,” said Chumbley, chuckling softly, “I hope they are enjoying themselves with their job over me. They’ll declare that they have had the honour of carrying a very great man.”
A final halt at last, when fresh voices were heard. The hammocks were set down upon what seemed to be a framework; then they were lifted, tilted very much at one end, as if a flight of steps were being ascended, and at last the prisoners felt themselves to be landed upon what felt like a bamboo floor.
Next they were lifted out, carried a few steps, and laid upon soft matting; there was thepad, pad—pad, padof shoeless feet over the floor, and all was perfectly still.