One Maid's Mischief

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Find – Not Gold

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

“Liked what?”

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

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

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

“Don’t be an idiot!”

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

“You don’t think so.”

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

“Was that meant for a pun on burlesque?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Henry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thy servant does not understand,” said Yusuf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor told him he had no soul for science.

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

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

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

“Yes, master; and now we must walk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is Helen Perowne?” he asked.

“Safe at home,” replied the doctor.

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

“What someone else?” said the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No: it is impossible to go now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Nine.

Amok!

Singapore on a sunny day, looking bright, attractive, even wonderful to stranger eyes. Ships of all nations in the harbour, with sailors from Europe, from America, from the ports about the Red Sea, from India, China, and Japan.

A wonderful polyglot assembly rubbing shoulders in the street: Jack in his white duck frock, straw, and loose trousers, staring at John Chinaman, with his blue cotton garments, pith-soled shoes, and pigtail reaching almost to the ground. Swarthy Dyaks, Papuans, Bugis, and Malays pure and Malays mongrel from the many islands of the Eastern seas, every opalescent-eyed, swarthy savage wearing his kris. British soldiers mingled with the native police in their puggrees; and busy English merchants, and many Scotch, hurried with the varied races on their way to and from their places of business.

Above all, the Chinese seemed to muster strongly – those busy, patient, plodding people, who are ready to squeeze themselves into any vacant hole, round or square, and to make themselves fit therein. Barbers, carriers, purveyors of fruit, washers of clothes, shampooers, tailors, cooks, waiters, domestic servants, always ready, patient and willing, childlike and bland – John Chinaman swarms in Singapore, and can be found there as the meanest workman or artisan, up to the wealthiest merchant or banker, like the late Mr Whampoa, whose gardens were one of the lions of the place.