The news received by Mr Harley had no following. Sultan Murad had undoubtedly gathered his people together, but as events proved, it was not to make a descent upon the station.

But all the same, the conduct of the young Malay prince augmented the scare amongst the Europeans. Grey Stuart grew pale, and thought with feelings of horror of what might be the consequences of her schoolfellow’s folly. Helen, too, was in no slight degree alarmed, and the effect of the incident was to sober her somewhat for the time; but as the days glided on and nothing happened, the dread faded away like one of the opalescent mists that hung above the silver river at early morn.

“It is all nonsense,” said Mr Perowne; “the prestige of the English is too great for this petty rajah to dare to attempt any savage revenge.”

“Hah, you think so, do you?” said old Stuart, in his most Scottish tones. “I never knew a tiger hesitate to bite or a serpent to sting because the pairson near him was an Englishman. Ye’ll hae to tak’ care o’ yon lassie o’ yours, Perowne, or she’ll get us into sad meeschief.”

“If Mr Stuart would kindly direct his attention to the instruction of his own daughter, papa, I am sure he would find his hands full,” said Helen, in a haughty, half-contemptuous tone, as she crossed the soft carpet unheard.

“Oh, ye’re there are ye, lassie?” said the old Scot. “Weel, I’ll tell ye that my Grey kens how to behave, and don’t go throwing herself at the head of every gentleman she meets; and for your own sake, lassie, I wish your poor mither was alive.”

Helen raised her eyes and looked at him for some moments with an angry, disdainful stare of resentment.

“Eh, ye’ve got bonnie een, lassie, verra bonnie een; but I’d a deal rather see my Grey’s little wax tapers burning softly than those dark brimstone matches of yours ready to set every puir laddie’s heart ablaze.”

“Is this your friend, papa?” cried Helen; and she swept from the room.

“Yes, lassie,” said the old Scot, wiping his eyes after laughing at his own conceit. “Yes, I’m ye’r father’s best friend, lassie; am I not, Perowne?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the merchant; “but you should not talk to her like that, Stuart.”

“And why not?” said the old man. “Are we to let her go on setting fire to trains all over the place, and trying to get us blown in the air?”

“Nonsense, nonsense! These fellows have sense enough to know what they may do and what they may not.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve plenty of sense,” agreed the old Scotch merchant.

“And they won’t forget in a hurry how we punished the other rajahs for their treacherous rising against the British power.”

“Yes, yes, I know all about that,” said the old man; “but Murad will not forget this insult to his pride, and I insist, Perowne, upon your keeping a tighter rein over that lassie.”

Mr Perowne seemed disposed to resist, but he ended by promising that he would; and after a certain number of discussions in various houses, the cessation of all further proceedings, and a certain amount of worry consequent upon the apprehended danger, the old state of affairs began once more to prevail.

The last to hold out was Mrs Doctor Bolter, who exercised a great deal of watchfulness over her husband and brother, sending one after the other at the most incongruous times.

So peace was once more settling down over Sindang, which rapidly began to resume its dreamy state, the only busy thing about the place being the river, which rapidly flowed onward towards the sea.

The three ladies had grown somewhat accustomed to the sleepy life that nature compelled them to live in a land where, saving at early morn and at evening, any employment was only to be carried out by an extreme effort of will that very few there cared to exercise.

A delicious, drowsy, lotus-eating life it seemed; and as Helen Perowne and Grey Stuart sat beneath the shade of one of the delicious flower-bearing trees inhaling the cloying scents, and watching the eternal sparkle of the beautiful river, they could not help comparing it with their existence at the Miss Twettenhams’ school.

Tropic flowers, luscious fruits were there in profusion. Every day seemed to bring those of richer and rarer kinds. The garden was lush with a profusion of choice plants such as could only be produced in the hottest houses at home; and Grey was fain to confess that in spite of the heat it was a lovely land.

Just as everyone had concluded, there had not been the slightest cause for alarm, so they said.

Still the alarm had been excusable, living as they were, a mere handful of strangers, amongst a people well known for their volcanic nature and quickness at taking offence, this latter being acknowledged by the Rajah himself, who completed the calm by coming in semi-state to the Residency island to ask Mr Harley to make intercession for him with the Perownes.

“I am wiser now,” he said, with a smile, “and I want to make amends.”

This was said so frankly that, however suspicious he may have felt at heart, the Resident at once accepted the task of intercessor.

“I try so hard to be English in my ways,” said the young man, “but it takes a long time to forget one’s old customs. As I used to be, I had everything I asked for directly; I had only to say that I wanted this, or that I would have that, and I had it at once. But it is so different with you English. You always seem to be denying yourselves things you wish for, and think it great and good.”

“Well, we do think it a virtue,” said the Resident, smiling.

“I was very angry when Mr Perowne spoke to me as he did, and all my English education went away like a flash of a firefly in the night, and I was a savage once more; but when I got back and thought, then I saw that I had been mad, and I was grieved, for the English are my friends.”

“Ah, well,” said Mr Harley, “that is all over now. I undertake to put matters right with Mr Perowne; but to be frank with you, Rajah – ”

“Yes, that is right, be frank. That is what I like in an Englishman, he is frank and open. A Malay lets his secret thoughts be known – never.”

“I say, my friend,” exclaimed the Resident, laughing, “I hope that is not the case here.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed Murad. “Do I not tell you I am English, and that I try to be like you.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Mr Harley. “Well, then, look here, I do not undertake to make you such friends as you wish to be with Miss Perowne.”

“You know all then?” said the Rajah, quickly.

“Her father told me.”

“Yes; you are his friend and counsellor; he would tell you of course. No; I do not expect that. I was mad and foolish just then. I know, of course, that you whites would not ally yourselves with us. We are a dreaming nation, and I had dreamed of her love and being happy with her amongst my people, making our alliance greater with you, but it was a dream. I am awake now, and it is past.”

“I don’t trust you, Master Murad,” said the Resident to himself; “but it is the best policy to seem to believe, and to try and make you friends with us again, so I will undertake your commission.”

“Look here,” he said aloud, “suppose you come across with me to Mr Perowne’s house?”

“Oh, no,” said the young Malay, shrinking back, “I should see her.”

“Very well; and if you do, what then? Come: you say you want to be English. Behave, then, now like an Englishman, taking your disappointment bravely, and let the lady see that you bear it with the calmness and consideration of a man.”

“I will come,” said the Rajah, eagerly; and he accompanied the Resident across the branch of the river to Mr Perowne’s handsome house, where the little explanation took place, and all parted the best of friends.

The Rajah was evidently extremely eager to make amends for the burst of temper he had displayed, and presents of fruit, flowers, and the other productions of the country were constantly arriving by his servants. In some instances, so as to check any excuse that there might be for refusing or looking upon the presents as being pressed upon the English residents, the gifts were accompanied by requests for some little European luxury or for the loan of some article; so that if the Rajah had it in his mind to allay suspicion, he was pretty successful, and matters went on as they were before. Dr Bolter went upon a three days’ expedition, which, on account of the difficulties of the country, extended to six days, and he was forgiven.

The Resident sent a despatch to the Governor respecting the Inche Maida’s case, and the Governor sent back a despatch to say that he had referred the matter to the Colonial Office; and the end of the piece of red tape was handed to the Malay Princess, who replied that she was willing to wait patiently for redress.

Then there was a pause, and life at the little station seemed to flow on as calmly as the river; but like the river, with its terrible reptiles lurking beneath the treacherously-smooth surface, so were there dangers beneath the calmly-flowing life of the British residents at the station, though they, prone as they were to take alarm, knew nothing, suspected nothing of what was in store.

A month had passed since the little explosion of the Malay volcano, as Chumbley called it. There had been dinners and evening meetings, and the Rajah had been invited to several; then Mr Harley invited nearly everyone to a picnic down the river in his dragon-boat – a party that was pronounced delightful.

This inspired the Rajah to imitate the Resident’s little party, and he sought out Chumbley and proposed to get up one on a more extensive scale, and take the party up the beautiful river as far as the rapids.

“I don’t mind helping you,” said Chumbley, “but it will be an awful lot of trouble, and precious hot.”

He finished, however, by saying he would help, and being once roused, threw himself heart and soul into the matter, especially as the Rajah came the next morning to say that he had had a visit from the Inche Maida, who, on being told of the projected party, had proposed that the boats should pass up the river as far as her home, where she would have a Malay banquet prepared.

This was agreed to, and the arrangements went on, it being considered advisable to do all that was possible to conciliate the native chiefs; and on the appointed day the Rajah’s two largest dragon-boats, with the rowers all in yellow satin jackets – the royal colour – were at the landing-place of the station, and the Residency island.

The embarkation was soon effected, and the merry party were being rapidly pulled along the light reaches of the winding river, whose clear waters flashed in the bright sunshine, while the verdure-covered banks were rich with a profusion of the gayest blossoms, some of which emitted a delicious scent, plainly observable upon the boats.

Helen Perowne looked handsomer than ever in a dress of the palest yellow silk, half hidden by artistic drapings of lace.

Captain Hilton was always at her side; while Chumbley, when he did rouse himself, tried to be a little attentive to Grey Stuart, who was in company with Mrs Bolter.

The latter lady was a good deal exercised in mind, consequent upon the Reverend Arthur insisting upon bringing his collecting-box, and the doctor his gun; and also because, when the latter was not chatting with the ladies of the party, he was constantly finding out that such and such a woody point would be a splendid place for being set ashore, as the forest abounded with birds and insects rich in nature’s brightest dyes.

The Rajah was the perfection of gallantry and politeness, treating Helen Perowne with a grave courtesy whenever he approached her; and all was going on in a most satisfactory style, when Chumbley, who had made his way to the back of the palm-leaf awning that sheltered the party in the boat from the torrid sun, waited his opportunity, and then beckoned to the doctor.

The latter stopped until Mrs Bolter’s eyes were in another direction, and then stole behind the awning to where Chumbley was seating himself, with his back against the side of the boat, the steersman looking at his great proportions with admiration the while.

“What is it, Chumbley?” said the doctor. “Not poorly, eh?”

“Never better in my life, doctor! Come and have a cigar.”

The doctor glanced forward, but they were completely hidden from sight; and with a sigh of satisfaction, he took a cigar from Chumbley’s case, lit it, and choosing a comfortable place, seated himself. Then like the lieutenant, he half closed his eyes, and enjoyed the delicious motion of the rippling water with the glorious panorama of foliage they passed.

“I say, steersman, have a cigar?” said Chumbley, to the tall, swarthy Malay, in his picturesque yellow satin dress.

The man did not understand his words, but he quite comprehended the act; and he showed his betel-stained teeth as he took the proffered cigar, and lit it from the one the lieutenant placed in his hands.

Then they went on and on, up glorious reach after reach of the river, startling reptiles on the banks, and bright-hued birds from the trees that overhung the stream.

“I say, doctor,” said Chumbley at last, in his lazy drawl, “what are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking that it can’t be long before my wife comes and finds me out.”

There was a pause, during which Chumbley laughed to himself.

“What are you thinking about, Chumbley?” said the doctor, suddenly.

Chumbley looked up suddenly at the steersman.

“Do you understand any English at all, old fellow?” he said; and the man shook his head.

“I was thinking, doctor,” said Chumbley, in a low voice, “what a go it would be if the Rajah has got us all in this boat here, and is taking us up the river never to come back any more.”

“What, on account of that upset a month ago?”

“Yes.”

“Murder!” ejaculated the doctor.

“Yes,” said Chumbley, “for us men; but I think I should be more sorry for the other sex.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Six.
Up the River

Doctor Bolter nearly let fall the cigar he was smoking, for his jaw suddenly dropped; but by a clever snatch of the hand he caught it, and replaced it in his lips, as he glanced at the showily-dressed steersman to see if he had noticed the display of agitation.

“I say, Chumbley, don’t be a stupid,” he said, in a low voice, as he brushed some of the cigar-ash from his white linen tunic.

“Certainly not,” replied the lieutenant, coolly. “I only said what I thought.”

“But you don’t think such a thing as that possible, do you?”

“Don’t know. Can’t say. It’s rather awkward out here, though, to be in a place where you can’t call in the police if you want them.”

“Dear me! Bless my soul!” ejaculated the doctor, taking his cigar in his hand, and looking at the burning end. “But, oh, no! it’s all nonsense. He wouldn’t dare to do such a thing.”

“No,” drawled Chumbley; “I don’t suppose he would.”

“Then why the dickens did you put forth such an idea?” cried the doctor, angrily. “Bah! that’s the worst cigar I ever smoked.”

He threw it over the side, and it gave an angry hiss as it fell into the water.

“Try another, doctor,” said Chumbley, offering his case. “It’s of no use to make yourself miserable about it if it is as I say.”

“But the ladies!” cried the doctor. “My poor little wife,” he added, softly.

“Well, they would be no better off if we make ourselves wretched,” said Chumbley, coolly.

“Bight away from all help! Not so much as a bottle of quinine at hand!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” said Chumbley. “Here, light a fresh cigar, man, and don’t look like that amiable person who pulled Priam’s curtains in the dead of the night. Come, doctor, I thought you fellows were always calm.”

“So we are,” cried the doctor, feeling his own pulse. “Ninety-four! That’s pretty good for this climate. Yes, I’ll take another cigar. But I say, Chumbley, this is very awkward.”

“Would be very awkward, you mean.”

“Yes, of course. And we are all unarmed.”

“Well, not quite all,” said Chumbley. “Being a sort of man-at-arms – a kind of wasp amongst the human insects – I always carry my sting.”

“What! have you anything with you?”

“Pistol and a few cartridges,” replied Chumbley, coolly.

“And I should have had my gun. You know my little double-barrelled Adams, don’t you?”

“Yes; the one with the dent in the stock.”

“That’s the one, my lad! Well, I should have had that with me if it had not been for Mrs Bolter. I wanted to bring it, so as to collect a little, and she said it was folly, so I had to put it away. Have the others any arms?”

“Two apiece,” said Chumbley. “Fleshy.”

“And you can joke at a time like this?” exclaimed the doctor excitedly, while the swarthy steersman looked down at him wonderingly.

“Well, where’s the use of doing anything else about what was only a passing fancy on my part. Come, doctor, smoke your cigar in peace. Perhaps, after all, Murad means to be as amiable as host can be, and we shall all get back to the station, having found no worse enemies than the sun and the champagne.”

“Champagne? Nonsense, man. We shall have to drink palm wine.”

“Perhaps so; but I’ll make an affidavit, as the lawyers call it, that there are half a dozen cases on board with the brand Pfüngst, Épernay upon them, and – ”

“Look – look!” exclaimed the doctor, laying his hand upon his companion’s arm.

“What – what at?” said Chumbley, coolly. “I don’t see anything dangerous.”

“Dangerous – no! Look at that tree laden with blossoms to the water’s edge.”

“Yes, I see it. Very pretty. Can you see a tiger’s nose poking through?”

“No, no, man; but look at the magnificent butterflies – four of them. Why, they must be nine inches across the wings. Where’s Rosebury?”

“Oh! come, doctor: you are better,” exclaimed Chumbley, smiling. “That’s right; don’t think any more about my scare.”

“This trip is completely spoiled,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly. “No shooting – no collecting! Oh! for goodness’ sake, look at that bird, Chumbley!”

“What, that little humpbacked chap on the dry twig?”

“Yes.”

“Hah! he looks as if he has got the pip.”

“My dear fellow, that’s one of the lovely cinnamon-backed trogons. Look at his crimson breast and pencilled wings.”

“Yes, very pretty,” said Chumbley; “but I often think, doctor, that I’d give something to see half a dozen sooty London sparrows in a genuine old English fog.”

“Nonsense, man. There, too – look!” he cried, pointing, as like a streak of white light a great bird flew across the river. “That’s a white eagle. I never have such chances as this when I’m out collecting.”

“S’pose not,” said Chumbley, drily. “It’s always the case when a fellow has no gun. Precious good job for the birds.”

“Oh! this is maddening!” cried the doctor. “Look – look at that, Chumbley,” and he pointed to the dead branch of a tree, upon which a bird sat motionless, with the sun’s rays seeming to flash from its feathers.

“Yes, that is rather a pretty chap,” said Chumbley. “Plays lawn tennis evidently. Look at his tail.”

“Yes, that is one of the lovely racket-tailed kingfishers, Chumbley. Ah! I wish, my dear boy, you had a little more taste for natural history. That is a very, very rare specimen, and I’d give almost anything to possess it.”

“Aren’t those long feathers in his way when he dives after fish?” said Chumbley.

“There it is, you see,” cried the doctor. “You unobservant men display your ignorance the moment you open your lips. These Malay kingfishers do not dive after fish, but chase the beetles and butterflies.”

“Poor beetles! and poor butterflies!” said Chumbley, with his eyes half closed. “I say, doctor, this is very delightful and dreamy. I begin to wish I was a rajah somewhere up the river here, with plenty of slaves and a boat, and no harassing drills, and tight uniform, and no one to bully me – not even a wife. I say, old fellow, if I am missing some day, don’t let them look for me, because I shall have taken to the jungle. I’m sick of civilisation and all its shams.”

“Hallo! you two,” cried a voice. “Come, I say, this isn’t fair. Here they are, Hilton.”

It was the Resident who spoke, and Captain Hilton also appeared the next moment, the four gentlemen so completely filling up the space that the steersman hardly had room to work his oar.

“It’s all right,” said Chumbley, coolly. “The doctor was giving me a lesson in natural history.”

“With the help of a cigar,” said Hilton. “Shall we join them, Harley?”

“Yes – no. We had better get back. The Rajah might think himself slighted if we stayed away.”

“Yes, you’re right,” exclaimed Chumbley; and getting up slowly, they all made their way back to the covered-in portion of the boat, where the beauties of the river were being discussed, and where Hilton found a seat beside Helen Perowne.

“How nice little Stuart looks in her white dress!” thought Chumbley to himself. “A fellow might do worse than marry her. Humph! Is Mr Rajah Murad going to try it on there, as he has been disappointed in Helen Perowne? No; it is only civility. ’Pon my word the fellow is quite the natural gentleman, and can’t have such ideas in his head as those for which I gave him credit.”

Chumbley chatted first with one and then with another; while in his soft, quiet way, looking handsome and full of desire to please his guests, the Rajah threw off his Eastern lethargy of manner, and seemed to be constantly on the watch for some fresh way of adding to the pleasures of the trip.

Not that it wanted additions, for to sit there in the shade, listening to the plash of oars and the musical ripple of the clear water against the sides of the boat, while the ever-changing panorama of green trees waving, rich bright blossoms, with now and then a glimpse of purple mountain and pale blue hazy hill, was sufficiently interesting to gratify the most exacting mind.

Now and then they passed a native village or campong, with its bamboo houses raised on platforms, the gable-ended roofs thatched with palm-leaves, and the walls frequently ingeniously woven in checkered patterns with strips of cane. The boats attached to posts or palm-tree trunks told of the aquatic lives of the people, this being a roadless country, and the rivers forming the highway from village to village or town to town.

The easy motion of the boat, the musical ripple of the water, the rhythmical sweep of the oars, and the ever-changing scenery in that pure atmosphere, redolent with the almost cloying scent of the flowers, seemed to produce its effect on all, and the conversation soon gave place to a dreamy silence, in which the beauty of the river was watched with half-closed eyes, till after some hours’ rowing against stream, a loud drumming and beating of gongs was heard, making the doctor and Chumbley exchange glances, and the former whispered to the lieutenant:

“Does that mean mischief?”

“Don’t know: can’t say,” was the reply. “It may mean welcome. All we can do is to keep quiet and our eyes open, then we shall see.”

“Very philosophical, but precious unsatisfactory,” muttered the doctor, as the boats went on towards where a cluster of houses showed their pointed roofs amidst the cocoa-palm, and here a couple of flags were flying, one yellow, the other the familiar union-jack; while under the trees could be seen a party of gaily-dressed women, among whom, by the aid of a lorgnette, Hilton could make out the tall, commanding figure of the Malay Princess.

“Looks more like peace than war,” thought Chumbley, as the boats neared the landing-place – a roughly-constructed platform of bamboo, alongside of which the steersman cleverly laid the first naga, the second boat being steered beside the first and there made fast. The Inche Maida, with her female attendants, then came slowly up between two lines of her slaves to welcome with floral offerings the party of guests.

“Oh, it’s all nonsense, Chumbley,” whispered the doctor to the lieutenant.

“Yes. I think it is,” was the reply, “unless,” he added, with a laugh, “they come one of the Borgia tricks and poison the cups. I mean to drink with the Princess so as to be safe.”

“I don’t mean to think any more about it,” said the doctor.

As there was a good deal of ceremony observed by the Princess in coming to meet them, something in the form of a procession was made, the Rajah with great courtesy and good taste offering his arm to the oldest lady of the party – Mrs Doctor Bolter; and the pleasant little lady flushed slightly as she was led up to the Princess, who took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, bidding her welcome and thanking her for coming; and then taking a magnificent bouquet of sweet-scented flowers from one of her attendants, she presented it to her guest.

Chumbley was one of the next to approach with the lady of a merchant settled at the station; and the Princess’s eyes flashed as the bright look of welcome to the great manly young fellow changed into one of anger.

It was but a flash though, and the next moment she was smiling as if in contempt of her suspicions, for the lady Chumbley escorted was sallow and grey, and the greeting to her was made as warm and affectionate as that to the doctor’s lady.

Then the Princess held out her plump, brown, well-shaped hand to Chumbley.

“I am glad to see you,” she said, with a smile, and her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon his goodly proportions. “Take that,” she added, as she removed a great yellow jasmine sprig from her rich black hair; and Chumbley bowed, and placed it in his buttonhole.

They passed on, and other guests approached to be presented to the Princess in this sylvan drawing-room, held in the pale green light of the shade beneath the palms and lacing ferns, through which an arrowy rain of silver threads of sunlight seemed to be ever falling, flashing and scintillating the while.

The Resident was greeted with the most friendly warmth; and Grey, who held his arm, was folded in quite a warm embrace. The choicest bouquet of sweetly-scented flowers being placed in her hands, the fair English girl flushed with pleasure as her tawny hostess said, softly:

“Don’t go away, Miss Stuart. You will stay and sit near me.”

“You seem to have thoroughly won the Inche Maida’s heart, Miss Stuart,” said the Resident, looking smilingly into his companion’s face.

“I like her very much,” replied Grey. “She seems to be very natural and feminine. I hope she means it all.”

“Yes; it would be unpleasant to find out that it was all glaze,” said the Resident, thoughtfully. “But do you know,” he continued, speaking very slowly, and watching the continuation of the reception the while, “I think she is a very jolly, good-hearted sort of woman, and – I – should – think – she – is – very genuine. Yes,” he added, after a pause and speaking now quickly, “I am sure now that she has no more dissimulation in her than a fly. What do you say?”

“Oh, Mr Harley, what does that mean?”