For a time no one spoke in the doctor’s cottage; but old Stuart took a very large and a very loud pinch of snuff, which seemed as if he had been loading his nose with powder, for it went off directly after with a report-like sneeze that made the jalousies rattle.

“Is – is this – these words – are they true?” said Mrs Bolter, at last, with unnatural calmness.

“Yes, yes, my dear, quite true!” cried Mrs Barlow, excitedly.

“Did – did you hear anything of this, Mr Stuart?” said Mrs Bolter, in a low, constrained voice.

“Well, I did hear – am I to tell you?”

“Yes – everything,” replied Mrs Bolter, now perfectly cool and calm.

“I heard that the doctor had been found up the river somewhere with a black lady in his boat; but I didn’t hear it was the Inche Maida.”

“But my heart told me it was,” muttered poor little Mrs Bolter, whose good resolutions were all swept away by her agonising feeling of jealousy. Then aloud, with a fierce look of anger, but speaking in quite a hoarse whisper, “Go!” she said, pointing to the door. “You wicked woman, go! You have taken delight in coming to tell me this!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs Barlow, bursting into tears; “it was from friendship – from the sisterly love I have for you! It was for your brother’s sake!”

“If – if ever my brother returns, he shall never speak to you – bad, weak, wicked woman that you are! Leave my house!”

“But, Mrs Bolter – dear Mrs Bolter – ”

“Leave my house!” continued the little woman in the same low, excited whisper; and she seemed to advance so menacingly upon the merchant’s widow, that she backed to the door in alarm, and regularly fled.

“Dear Mrs Bolter – ” began Grey.

“Don’t speak to me, my dear,” said the little lady. “I’m not at all angry. I’m perfectly calm. There, you see how quiet I am. Not the least bit in a passion.”

Certainly she was speaking in a low, passionless voice, but there was a peculiar whiteness in the generally rather florid face.

“But the news may not be true,” pleaded Grey; “and even if it is, what then? Oh, Mrs Bolter, pray think!”

“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, “I have thought, and I’m quite calm. I shall suffer it, though, no more. I shall wait till my dear brother is found, and then I shall go straight back to England. I shall go by the first boat. I will pack up my things at once, and get ready. You see I am quite calm. Mr Stuart, you have always been very kind to me.”

“Well, I don’t know, not verra,” said the old Scot; “but ye’ve been verra good to Grey here.”

“I’m going to ask a favour of you, Mr Stuart.”

“Annything I can do for ye, Mrs Bolter, I will.”

“Then will you give me shelter with Grey here for a few weeks?”

“Or a few months or years if ye like,” said the old man, taking a liberal pinch of snuff; “but ye needn’t fash yourself. You won’t leave Harry Bolter.”

“Not leave him?” said the little lady, with forced calmness.

“Not you, for I don’t believe there’s aught wrong. It’s a bit patient he’s found up the river, and if it isn’t, it’s somebody else; and even if it wasn’t, ye’d just give him a bit o’ your mind, and then you’d forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” said Mrs Bolter; “I was always suspicious of these expeditions.”

“Always,” assented old Stuart. “He has told me so a score of times.”

“Then more shame for him!” cried Mrs Bolter; “How dare he! No, Mr Stuart, I am not angry, and I shall not say a word; but I shall wait till my poor brother is found, and then go back to England.”

She sat down very quietly, and sat gazing through the window; while old Stuart went on taking snuff in a very liberal manner, glancing from time to time at the irate little lady, to whom Grey kept whispering and striving to bring her to reason.

This went on for a good hour, till Grey was in despair; when suddenly Mrs Bolter sprang to her feet, red now with excitement, as she pointed through the window.

“Am I to bear this?” she said, in the same whisper. “Look, Grey! Look, Mr Stuart! You see! He is coming home, and he is bringing this woman with him!”

Grey started, for there indeed was the doctor, leading a closely-veiled Malay lady, apparently walking slowly and leaning heavily upon his arm.

Old Stuart took another pinch of snuff, and made a good deal of noise over it, as a cynical smile began to dawn upon his face; and he watched little Mrs Bolter, who drew herself up and stood with one hand resting upon the back of a chair.

“What can I say to her?” murmured Grey to herself. Then softly to Mrs Bolter:

“Pray listen to him: it is only some mistake.”

“Yes, my dear, I will listen,” said Mrs Bolter, calmly; and then she drew a long catching breath, and her eyes half-closed.

Just then the doctor threw open the door, and carefully led in his companion.

“Ah, Grey, you here!” he cried. “Back again. Mary, my love! I’ve brought you a surprise.”

He dropped his companion’s hand, and she stood there veiled and swaying slightly, while he made as if to embrace his wife.

“Hallo!” he exclaimed, as she shrank away.

“Don’t – don’t touch me,” she cried, in a low, angry voice, “never again, Bolter; I could not bear it!”

“Why, what the – Oh, I see! Of course! Ha, ha, ha!”

Mrs Bolter stared at him fiercely, then at his companion, as in a curious, hasty way, she tore away her veil with trembling hands, revealing the swarthy skin and blackened and filed teeth, seen between her parted lips; her hair dark as that of the Inche Maida, and fastened up roughly in the Malay style. She was trying to speak, for her bosom was heaving, her hands working; and at last she darted an agonising glance at Grey Stuart, who was trembling in wonderment and fear.

The next moment the stranger had thrown herself at Mrs Bolter’s feet, and was clinging to her dress, as she cried hysterically:

“Mrs Bolter – Grey – have pity on me! You do not know?”

“Helen!” cried Grey; and she filing her arms round her schoolfellow, as Mrs Bolter uttered that most commonplace of common expressions —

“Oh! my goodness, gracious me!”

“Yes, Helen Perowne it is, my dears,” said the little doctor, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “I think I found Solomon’s Ophir this time, eh?”

“Henry! – Henry!” panted Mrs Bolter; “what does this mean?”

“Mean? That you haven’t given me a kiss, my dear! Never mind the company. That’s better,” he cried, as he took the kiss – audibly.

“But you don’t explain, Henry.”

“Explain, my dear,” said the doctor, softly, as he pointed to where Helen lay with her face buried in Grey Stuart’s breast. “Nothing to explain; only that I was up one of the rivers and found the lost one here before the expedition came. But didn’t I say so, Stuart, old fellow? It was Murad, after all.”

A low moan from Helen made Mrs Bolter dart towards her.

“Oh! my child, my child! and to come back to us like this!” cried Mrs Bolter, helping Grey to place Helen upon the couch, the tears running down her cheeks the while; and all dislike to the station beauty seeming to have passed away as she took the swarthy head to her bosom, and knelt there, rocking herself softly to and fro.

“Can we do anything to help, doctor?” said old Stuart, in a whisper.

“No: let ’em all have a good cry together. Nature’s safety valve, old fellow,” said the doctor, coolly.

“Then I propose that we just go and leave ’em. What do you say to a pipe in the surgery?”

“And a cool draught of my own dispensing, eh?” said the doctor, with his eyes twinkling. “One moment, and we will.”

“But where’s Perowne?”

“Upset! Lying down on board the naga, and too ill to come. I brought her on to the women as soon as I could.”

He trotted across to his wife. “That’s right, little woman!” he said, squeezing Mrs Bolter’s arm. “You’ll be a better doctor now than I. She’s very weak and low and – ” He whispered something in her ear.

Poor little Mrs Bolter turned up her face towards him with a look full of such horror, misery and contrition that he was startled; but setting it down to anxiety on Helen’s behalf he whispered to her that all would soon be well.

“Take her up to the spare room, dear,” he said, in a whisper. “You must not think of sending her home. You’ll do your best, eh?”

“Oh! yes, Henry,” she said, as she looked at him again so piteously that he forgot Grey’s presence, and bent down and kissed her.

“That’s my own little woman, I knew you would,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll want me; but if you do, I’m in the surgery. Well, little Grey, what do you want – news?”

Grey’s lips said “yes” without a sound.

“Well, everybody’s all right except a few scratches, and I’m choked with thirst.”

Five minutes after he was compounding draughts for himself and the old merchant from a large stone bottle and aqua distil., as the druggists call it; while soon after, over what he called a quiet pipe, he told his adventures to his friend.

It was just about the time when, as Helen’s swarthy head lay upon the cool white pillow in the bungalow spare room, Mrs Bolter poured some cool clear water into a basin, and then dropped in it a goodly portion of aromatic vinegar, which with a sponge she softly applied to Helen’s fevered brow.

Grey held the basin and a white towel, while Mrs Bolter applied the sponge once – twice – thrice – and the weary, half-fainting girl uttered a low moan.

Again Mrs Bolter applied the cool soft sponge to the aching temples, and then, as there was no result but another restful sigh, interrupted this time by a sob, she applied the sponge again after a careful wringing out, still with no effect but to bring forth a sigh.

This time poor Mrs Bolter, who had learned nothing from her lord, took the towel, for she could not resist the temptation, and softly drew it across Helen’s brow, as the poor girl lay there with closed eyes.

The towel was raised from the swarthy forehead, and Mrs Bolter looked at it, to see that it was white as it was before.

This time she exchanged a look of horror with Grey, down whose cheeks the tears flowed fast, as she leant forward and kissed Helen’s lips.

“No, no, don’t touch me,” she moaned, but Grey held her more tightly.

The sobs came fast now as two dark arms were flung round Grey’s white neck, and Mrs Bolter’s eyes grew wet as well, as she drew a long breath, and then sat down by the bedside, saying, softly:

“Oh! my poor girl! – my poor girl!”

Helen heard it as she felt Grey’s kisses on her lips; and as she realised that there was no longer cause for dread as to the reception she would receive, her tears and sobs increased for a time, but gradually to subside, till at last she lay there sleeping peacefully – the first sleep of full repose that she had slept since the eventful night of the fête.

It was not to last, though, for when, an hour later the doctor came softly up, and laid a finger upon one throbbing wrist, his brow contracted, and he shook his head.

“Is there danger, doctor?” whispered Grey, softly, startled as she was by his manner.

“I fear so,” he whispered; “she has gone through terrible trials; fever is developing fast, and in her condition I tremble for what may be the end.”

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!”