One Maid's Mischief

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

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

She shook her head, but altered her mind directly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no, I won’t believe it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said Chumbley, coolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilton made a sign as if to negative her words.

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

Hilton smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” she cried. “It was my will.”

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

“No!” she said, fiercely.

“Yes; for your own sake.”

“No,” she cried, “leave me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry – I was angry – forgive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And ugly enough,” growled Chumbley.

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

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good-night.”

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

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

“Sleep, Chumbley?” said Hilton.

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

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

Volume Three – Chapter Two.

A Search for Gold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Malay smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Three – Chapter Three.

A Time of Trial

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