One Maid's Mischief

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Four.

Neil Harley’s Prophecy

The circumstances were so grave, that directly after the return of the Resident’s boat with the prisoners and the captured naga, special communication was sent to the seat of the Straits Government, and pending a reply to the despatch, the Residency island was placed thoroughly in a state of defence.

The Europeans in Sindang held themselves in perfect readiness to flee to the island for safety at a moment’s notice; and every man went armed, and every lady went about as a walking magazine of cartridges, ready for the use of husband or friend.

They were troublous times, full of anxieties, without taking into consideration the cares of the sick in body and mind.

The prisoners were secured in the little fort on the island, where Murad preserved a sulky dignity, remaining perfectly silent; and whenever an attempt was made to question him about the chaplain, he either closed his eyes, stared scornfully at his questioners, or turned his back.

Rigid watch and ward was kept, the men’s pouches were filled with ball-cartridges, and every one fully expected an attack from the people of Sindang, to rescue their Sultan, and avenge the insult of his being placed in captivity.

Among other preparations, the doctor set Mrs Bolter to work to scrape linen for lint in case of the demand exceeding the official supply; but somehow the days glided on, and there was no need for it, not a shot being fired, not a kris or spear used. The people ashore looked gloomy and taciturn, but offered no violence.

On the contrary, they seemed disposed to make advances to the daring, conquering people, who had not scrupled to seize their chief and keep him confined – they, a mere handful of people amongst thousands.

The fact was, they were completely cowed, knowing, as they did, how easily help could be procured, and how formidable that help would be.

But the English at the station could not realise this. They only knew that they were dwelling upon a volcano which might at any time burst forth and involve them in destruction; the military portion feeling certain that sooner or later an attempt would be made to rescue the Rajah.

The days glided by, and the topics of conversation remained the same – another week had passed and there had been no attack.

How was Miss Perowne – had anyone seen her?

Was she never to be “Fair Helen” again?

Was it true that the Rajah had made a daring attempt to escape?

Had the Inche Maida sworn to rescue him, and was she coming down the river like a new Boadicea, with a hundred water war-chariots to sweep the British invader from the land?

Was Helen Perowne dying, and had Mr Perowne died in the night?

These are specimens of the questions that were asked, for the little community was in a perfect ferment. The loveliness of the weather, the brilliant days and delicious nights passed unnoticed, for everyone was intent on danger alone.

It was, then, a matter of intense relief to hear, time after time, that the manufactured dangers were merely the fictions of some of the most timid; and though the rumour was again and again repeated that the Inche Maida was coming, she did not come, but remained quiescent at her home, truth to say, though, with boats manned and armed, not for attack, but ready to take her and her chief people to a place of safety, should the English visit her with inimical intent. She had sinned against them, and could not know how chivalrously Chumbley had kept the matter secret and prevailed upon his friend.

Meanwhile, in the midst of these anxieties, when rumour ran riot through the place, and the more nervous shivered and started at every sound, and took no step without feeling that a kris was ready to strike, Helen – the main cause of all the station troubles – lay happily unconscious of what was passing.

For Doctor Bolter was right; the excitement had borne its seeds, and after her system had bravely battled with disease for a time, fighting it back during all the most trying of her adventures – no sooner was she in safety at the station, than it claimed its own, and she lay now at the doctor’s cottage sick unto death.

Never had sufferer more devoted attention than that which Helen received from her old schoolfellow and Mrs Bolter; while the doctor himself was in almost constant attendance, watching each change, and denying himself rest in his efforts to save the life that seemed to be trembling in the balance.

“This is a pleasant place to have brought you to, Mary,” he said, more than once. “It was a shame! but I never could foresee such troubles as this; and after all, I am not so very sorry.”

“Not sorry?” she replied.

“Well, of course, my dear, I am awfully sorry about the way in which Arthur is missing; but as to myself, one does get very selfish in middle-age.”

“Selfish? Is this a time to talk of being selfish?” said the little lady, reproachfully.

“Well, perhaps not,” the doctor replied; “but really I’m glad I’ve got you here, Mary, for I don’t know what I should have done without you. You’re a perfect treasure.”

Mrs Doctor looked pacified, and worked harder than ever.

“Here, I generally bring you bad news,” said old, Stuart, coming in one day to see his nurse, as he called Grey, who had become a permanent dweller at the cottage, “but I’ve got some good for you this time.”

“What is it?” said the doctor. “Have they found Rosebury?”

“No; but you need not be so nervous any more, for here is a gun-boat coming up the river.”

Boom!

“There it is announcing itself,” said old Stuart, with a chuckle. “That’s the sort of thing to keep the natives in awe, a great gun like that.”

The coming of the powerful war-steamer with reinforcements, and a tender in the shape of a swift despatch-boat, did act as a repressing power, and silenced for good any latent ideas of rising against the English; and in obedience to the despatch received by the Resident, Murad and a couple of his officers were at once placed on board under a strong guard; and, within an hour of the arrival of the steamer and the despatch-boat, he was on his way to Singapore to take his trial.

There was no attempt at resistance, the prisoners meeting their fate in a stolid, indifferent way, while after a short consultation at the Residency, the crew of the Sultan’s boat were brought out from the fort and questioned.

To a man they denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of the chaplain; and when offered their liberty on condition of his being found, they calmly accepted their position, and expressed their readiness to go back to prison.

Harley was the president of the little court; and at last he addressed them, and offered them their liberty on another condition.

“Murad will never return here,” he said, “and you are clear of all allegiance to him. I am empowered to offer you your freedom if you will all swear henceforth to serve the English Government.”

They all brightened up at once, and expressed themselves ready to obey.

“Then you are free,” said the Resident; “you can return to your homes.”

The men stared. They could not believe in such clemency; but no sooner had they realised the fact, than their stolid, sulky look was exchanged for one of extravagant joy, and their delight after having resigned themselves to death knew no bounds.

“Now,” exclaimed the Resident, “tell me at once – where is the chaplain?”

Only one man spoke:

“We do not know, my lord.”

“Is – is he dead?”

“Why should he be dead, my lord?” said the man. “Why should Murad kill him? No; he had reasons, and we know that he had him taken away with the lady – that is all.”

“But where did he imprison him?”

“Allah and our lord the Sultan only know,” said the man, impressively. “Murad was wise. When he made plans it was in his own mind, and he told them to none but the slaves who were to do his bidding. Let us free, and we may perhaps find the Christian priest. If we do, we will bring him back.”

There was nothing more to be done, and the station was relieved of the presence of a danger that seemed imminent so long as Murad was there.

The time glided on, and still there was no news of the chaplain. The Inche Maida’s home had been visited again and again, but she either did not know or would confess nothing, preserving a studied dignity, and seeming to be neither friend nor enemy now; while, this being the case, the chaplain’s absence began to be accepted as a necessity, and there were days when Mrs Barlow was the only one who mourned his loss.

“It’s mind – mind – mind,” said the doctor, as he came out of Helen’s room, over and over again; and the questioner he addressed was Neil Harley. “It’s mind, sir, mind; and until that is at rest, I see no chance of her recovery. Medicine? Bah! it’s throwing good drugs away.”

The constant attention went on, and as almost hourly the Resident or one of the officers came to inquire, there seemed to be times when Doctor Bolter did not know whether Helen or her father would be the first to pass away. He was constantly going to and fro; and after many days of suffering, when Sindang had pretty well sunk into its normal state of quietude, and Helen’s fever began to subside, it left her so weak that the doctor threw up his hands almost in despair.

“It lies with you two now, more than with me,” he said to Grey and Mrs Bolter; and with tears in their eyes, they were compelled to own their helplessness as well.

It was on one of the hottest and most breathless days of the tropic summer, that, with her eyes red, and weary with long watching, Grey Stuart sat in her old school-companion’s chamber, thinking of the changes that had taken place since that morning when Helen and she were summoned to the Miss Twettenhams’ room regarding the levity displayed, as the ladies called it, towards Helen’s first admirer.

Fair Helen then – now she looked more like a native woman than ever, with her piteous great eyes gazing wildly at her friend, as if asking her for help.

But that she had wept till the fount of her tears seemed dry, Grey could have thrown herself sobbing at Helen’s side; now she could only take her wasted hand and try to whisper some few comforting words.

“Has Mr Rosebury been found?” she exclaimed, suddenly; and on being answered in the negative, as she had been fifty times before, she wrung her hands and sobbed wildly.

“My fault – my cruel fault!” she cried, in a weak, high-pitched voice; “you will all curse me when I am dead.”

“My child – my dear child,” sobbed Mrs Bolter; and then, unable to contain herself, she hurried from the room, and Grey strove to calm the excited girl. She had tended her constantly, telling herself that it was a duty; but the task had been a bitter one, for ever, in the hours of Helen’s delirium, she had listened to her wild words as she spoke constantly of him and his love, reproaching him for not coming to save her from Murad, and neglecting her when she was praying for him to come.

Grey felt a pang at every word; and as Helen spoke in this way, she recalled the tender scenes she had witnessed, and the young officer’s infatuation with her beauty.

And now on this particular day her trial seemed to be harder than ever, for suddenly Helen turned her weary head towards her, and clasping her hands with spasmodic energy, she whispered:

“Grey, I have been cruel and hard to you, I know. I stood between you and your love – but you forgive me now?”

“Oh, yes, yes, that is all past and gone!” cried Grey, excitedly.

“Yes, yes, that is all past and gone, and now you will do this for me. I think I am going – I cannot live long like this – tell him, then, quickly – tell him I must see him – tell him that he must come.”

Grey’s heart sank within her, and she rose slowly from her seat, and loosed the two thin hands she had held. It was like signing her own death-warrant to send this message, for if Captain Hilton did not know of her wanderings, and this, Helen’s last wish, he – who was, perhaps, forgetting more and more his love – would hardly dwell upon it again. To do this was to revive it, for she told herself that Hilton would be too generous not to respond.

But Grey Stuart was a heroine – one of those women ready at any sacrifice of self to do a duty; and she turned to go just as Mrs Bolter entered the room.

“What is it – what does she want?” whispered the little lady eagerly.

“Helen wishes to see – ” began Grey, in a choking voice.

“Yes, yes, I must – I will see him, to humble myself before I die!” moaned Helen.

“Will you – send at once,” panted Grey, with her hand pressed upon her side, for she could hardly speak the words – “send for Captain Hilton to come?”

She forced the words from her lips, and then sank back in her chair with a blank feeling of misery upon her, to gather force to enable her to flee from a house where she told herself that she could no longer stay.

It was but momentary this sensation, and then she uttered a sob, and the tears began silently to flow, for she heard Helen say, in a quick, harsh, peevish voice:

“No, no, you mistake me! I want Mr Harley quick, or – too late!”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Five.

The Summons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What man would say this to her now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Master!”

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

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

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

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

“I knew it – ” moaned the Resident.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You going there?” he said.

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

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