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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What man would say this to her now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Master!”

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

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

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

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

“I knew it – ” moaned the Resident.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You going there?” he said.

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

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

“I? No; it was not likely. Pray disabuse your mind, Harley, of all such thoughts as that! There is nothing between Miss Perowne and me.”

“Not now that she is in misery and distress!” retorted the Resident, and his voice sounded almost savage in its reproach.

Hilton flushed angrily.

“Your reproaches are unjust,” he said. “You know that Miss Perowne never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too well. We ought to be good friends.”

“And we are,” said the Resident. “Forgive me for what I have said!”

He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.

“I’m an outsider!” said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. “I’m going to set up for my friend’s friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen Perowne after all.”

“Silence, man!” cried the Resident, harshly. “I have been sent for by Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!”

“Dying!” cried Hilton.

“Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?”

“I am,” said Hilton; “for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste.”

The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton’s words even then caused him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor’s door.

Dr Bolter himself met them, looking very grave, and the faint hope that had been struggling in Neil Harley’s breast died out.

The doctor saw the question in each of his visitors’ eyes, and answered, hastily:

“No; I don’t think there is immediate danger, but – She expressed a wish to see you, Harley.”

That but, and the way in which he finished his sentence, spoke volumes. An invalid in a dangerous state expressing a wish to see some one in particular! It was like the cold chill of death itself seeming near.

“You may go in, Harley,” said the doctor. “My wife and Miss Stuart are there.”

The Resident hesitated for a moment. Then drawing a long breath, he walked through the drawing-room, and into Helen’s bedroom, seeing nothing but the thin swarthy face upon the white pillow, about which was tossed her abundant hair.

Mrs Bolter rose as he entered, and taking Grey Stuart’s hand, they softly moved towards the door, and left the room without a word.

For a few moments Neil Harley stood there, gazing down at the wasted face before him, his very soul looking out, as it were, from his eyes, in the intensity of his misery and despair; while Helen gazed up at him now with a saddened and resigned expression of countenance, the vanity all passed away and the dread that he should see her, disfigured as she was, a something of the past.

“I sent for you to ask you to forgive me,” she said, in a low, faint voice; but he did not speak.

“I know now how weak – how vain I was – how cruel to you; but – you know – my folly, you will forgive?”

He was down upon his knees by her bedside now, and the words seemed to be literally torn from his heart as he groaned:

“Helen! – Helen! my poor girl! has it come to this?”

“Yes!” she said, softly, “it seems like rest! I am happier now; but I thought – I should like to see you again – to say Good-bye!”

“No, no, no!” he cried, passionately. “You shall not leave me, Helen! My love – my darling – you shall not die!” She smiled faintly.

“I knew you loved me differently from the rest!” she said, softly, as he clasped her thin hand and held it to his lips; “that is why I sent. You said I should send for you – some day.”

“To ask me to take you for my wife,” he panted; “and, Helen, the time has come!”

“Yes,” she said, softly, “but it was the Helen of the past; not this wreck – this – this – Oh, Heaven!” she moaned, passionately, “did I sin so vilely that you should punish me like this?”

“Hush! hush!” he whispered, passing his arm beneath her light, too fragile form, and raising her till her head rested upon his breast. “That is all past now, and it is not the Helen of the past I love, but she who has sent for me at last. Helen, darling, speak to me again!”

“Speak?” she said, faintly; “what should I say, but ask you to forgive me, and say good-bye?”

“Good-bye?” he cried, frantically. “What, now that I have, as it were, begun to live?”

“One kind, forgiving word,” she said, faintly. “One? A thousand!” he panted; “my own – my love! Leave me? No, you shall not go! Is my love for you so weak and poor that I should let you go – that I should turn from you in this hour of trial? Helen!” he cried; “I tell you it is not the Helen of the past I love, but you – you, my own! Tell me that you have turned to me – truly turned to me at last, and live to bless me with your love!”

Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes closed, and as he clasped her more firmly to his breast a faint shuddering sigh seemed to fan his cheek.

“You shall not die,” he whispered, as he raised her thin arm and laid it tenderly round his neck, while his heart throbbed heavily against hers; “I am strong, and my strength shall give you strength, my breath should be yours, Helen, love, were it my last. Take it, darling, and breathe and live, my own – my wife – my all!”

As he whispered frantically these words he seemed endued with the idea that she would draw life from his strong manliness, and breathe it in his breath, as he bent down lower and laid his lips upon hers.

Then the shuddering sigh came again, and feeble as she was before, he felt her relax and sink away; her arm fell from where it rested on his shoulder, and in an agony of dread he stamped upon the floor.

There was a hurried rush of feet, the door was flung open, and the doctor entered the room.

“Quick!” he cried. “Lay her down, man! – That’s well.”

“Is – is she dead?” groaned the Resident; and in an agony of remorse and despair he sank back in the chair by the bedside, as he saw the doctor take one hand in his and lay his other upon his patient’s throat.

“No,” said Dr Bolter, shortly. “Fainting. Go away.”

“But, Bolter – ” protested the Resident.

“Be off, man, I tell you!” cried the little doctor, angrily, showing how thoroughly he was autocrat of the sick room. “Go, and send in my wife, and Miss Stuart. Or no: my wife will do.”

The Resident bent down once over the thin, dark face, and then stole softly out of the room, to find Mrs Bolter waiting; and nodding quickly, she went in and closed the door.

“What news?” asked Hilton, eagerly, as he rose from a chair near the window.

“I don’t know – I dare not say,” replied Harley, sinking hopelessly into a chair; and for a time no one spoke.

It was the doctor who broke the silence by coming back from the sick room, and this time sending a thrill of hope into the breast of all as he began to rub his hands in an apparently satisfied manner, and gazed from one to the other.

“Is – is she better, doctor?”

“Don’t know! won’t prognosticate!” he said, sharply. “I’ll say that she’s no worse. Prostrated by mental emotion, but other symptoms at a standstill. If she lives – well, if she lives – ”

“Yes, yes, doctor!” cried the Resident, imploringly.

“Well, if she lives, I think it will be from some sudden turn in her mental state, for I have done all I know, and of course a man – even a medical man – can do no more.”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Six.
More Mating

Slow work – terribly slow work; but at the end of three days – during which at any moment it had seemed as if the light of life would become extinct – Helen Perowne still lived, and in place of Grey Stuart or Mrs Bolter, Neil Harley was mostly by her side.

She suffered still from wild attacks of delirium, and in her wanderings, if the firm, strong hand of the Resident was not there to hold her, she grew plaintive and fretful, and a look of horror appeared upon her wasted face; but no sooner did she feel Neil Harley’s firm clasp and hear his whispered words, than she uttered a sigh of content, and dropped always into a placid sleep.

To his surprise and delight, these words seemed to pacify her; a long-drawn sigh came from her breast, and she fell into a restful slumber.

During the rest of the critical time of her illness a few whispered words always had the desired effect, and from that hour Helen began rapidly to mend.

“Yes, she is improving fast now,” said the doctor, as he sat beside her bed talking, as if he believed his patient to be asleep. “I shan’t take any of the credit, Harley. I should have lost her, I am sure, for it was not in physic to do more than I had done. There, I am going down now to my specimens, to have a look at them, and talk to my wife, for I have hardly seen her of late.”

He rose and left the room, and the Resident took his place, seeing that the great dark eyes were fixed upon him, full of a strange, pathetic light, that the warm evening glow seemed to give an almost supernatural effect.

“You are awake, then?” he said, softly.

“Yes; I heard all that he said, and it is true.”

“Thank heaven!” said the Resident, fervently, as he took one of the thin brown hands from the white coverlet and held it in both of his.

“I believe it was your tender words that gave me hope,” said Helen, softly. “Now it is time to take them back.”

“Take them back?” he exclaimed, wonderingly.

“Yes; take them back. Do you think I could be so weak and cruel as to let you be burdened for life with such a degraded thing as I?” she cried; and she burst into so violent a fit of sobbing that the Resident grew alarmed; but he must have possessed wonderful soothing power, for when Mrs Bolter came in a short time after, it was to find Helen Perowne’s weary head resting upon Neil Harley’s arm, and there was a restful, peaceful look in her eyes that the little lady had never seen there before.

Helen did not move, and the Resident seemed as if it was quite a matter of course for him to remain there, so little Mrs Bolter went softly forward and bent down to kiss her invalid as she called her, when she was prisoned by two trembling weak arms, and for a few minutes nothing was heard but Helen’s sobs.

When Mrs Bolter went down soon afterwards to sit with the doctor, she said, softly:

“I never thought I could like that girl, Henry, and now I believe I almost love her.”

“That’s because she has changed her colour,” said the doctor, with a hearty chuckle.

“Oh! that reminds me,” cried Mrs Bolter; “I wanted to ask you about that.”

“About what?” said the doctor, looking up.

“About the black stain. Will she always be like that?”

“Pooh, nonsense! my dear. It is only a stain, which has thoroughly permeated, if I may so term it, the outer skin. Soon wear off, my dear – soon wear off.”

“But her teeth, Henry?”

“Come right in time, my dear, with plenty of tooth-powder; all but the filing.”

“But that is a terrible disfigurement.”

“Oh, that will go off in time. The teeth are always growing and being worn down at the edges; but what does it matter? she is ten times as nice a girl as she was before.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, thoughtfully; “and now, Henry, if I could only have my mind set at rest about Arthur, I believe I should be a happy woman.”

“Then we’ll soon set your mind at rest about him,” said the doctor. “I never felt that I could leave you till Helen was safe from a relapse.”

“Leave me, Henry!” cried the little lady.

“Only for a time, till I have found Arthur.”

“Then you do think he will be found?”

“I am sure of it. Why, who would hurt him, the best and most inoffensive of men?”

“Surely no one,” said Mrs Bolter, with a sigh.

“Of course not. I’ve tried to get something out of Murad, but my messengers have failed; but all the same, I feel sure he knows all about it, and burked Arthur for a reason of his own.”

“But what reason could he have?” cried Mrs Bolter.

“Well, I’ll tell you my theory, my dear, and it is this: he meant to silence all Helen’s scruples by marrying her according to our rites.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do; and that is why he secured Arthur. If it was not so, it was because he was in the way. Anyhow, we can get nothing from the rascal, so I mean to go up the river again. I have my plans working.”

“But, Henry!”

“Only to try and find him; for Harley’s and Hilton’s men have made a miserable failure of it all.”

Mrs Bolter sighed, but she made no opposition; and then further conversation was ended by the arrival of Grey Stuart with Hilton, both looking so satisfied and happy that Mrs Bolter exclaimed: “Why, whatever now!” The doctor chuckled, and cried: “Oh! that’s it, is it! Oh! Grey! I thought you meant to be a female old bachelor all your life!”

“I have persuaded her that it is folly,” said Hilton. “But I always thought it was to be Chumbley!” cried the doctor. “Here, I say, this is a horrible take-in.”

“I thought the same, doctor,” said Hilton, smiling; “and have been making myself very miserable about what is a misconception, though Grey here owns to thinking Chum the best and truest of men.”

“And I’m sure he is!” cried Mrs Doctor, enthusiastically.

“Here, I say!” cried the doctor, banging his hand down on the table, “this won’t do! Am I to sit and hear a man praised to my very face?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly; “if it is Chumbley; and if Grey had chosen with my eyes, she would have taken him instead.”

“But she did not choose with your eyes, my dear,” said the doctor, smiling; “and she was wise?”

“And why so?” cried Mrs Bolter, tartly.

“Because she saw what a bad one you were at making a choice, my dear. Look at me for a husband, Miss Stuart; this was the best she could do.”

“Oh, Henry! for shame!” cried Mrs Doctor. “There! I’ll say no more, only that I hardly forgive you, Hilton; and I tell you frankly that you have won a far better wife than you deserve!”

“Then I’m sure we shall be the best of friends over it, Mrs Bolter!” said Hilton, merrily, “for I have been repeating that sentiment almost word for word.”

“There, there, there – the young people know best,” said the doctor. “I congratulate you both; and I must be off now to see Perowne. But here is somebody coming. Mrs Barlow, I believe.”

“Henry, pray say I’m out!” cried Mrs Bolter, starting up. “I really cannot meet that woman to-day!” and she made for the door.

“It’s all right. Don’t go, my dear; it’s only Stuart,” said the doctor, chuckling.

“And you said it was that horrible Mrs Barlow on purpose to frighten me! It’s a very great shame – it is indeed!”

“Ye’re right, Mrs Bolter,” said the little dry Scotch merchant, appearing in the doorway; “it is a great shame! After all my care and devotion, and the money I have spent in her education, here’s this foolish girl takes a fancy to a red coat, and says she shan’t be happy without she marries it!”

“Pray, pray, papa! No, dear father, don’t talk like that!” said Grey, crossing to him, as he took a chair, and resting her hand upon his shoulder.

“Oh, but it’s enough to make any man speak!” he cried. “I suppose it’s natural though, Mrs Bolter?”

“Of course it is, Mr Stuart; and if Captain Hilton undertakes to make her a good husband, why you must be very thankful.”

“Humph! I suppose so; but mind this; you can’t be wed till the chaplain’s found! Ha! ha! ha! I say, doctor, that will stir up Hilton here!”

“We are making earnest efforts to find him without that,” said Hilton, warmly.

“Oh, are you?” said the old merchant. “Well, look here, just a few business words in the presence of witnesses before I go up to Perowne, for I promised to go and smoke a pipe with the poor fellow, who’s as sick in body as he is in pocket and mind.”

“I’m going there, and we’ll trot over together,” said the doctor.

“Verra good,” said old Stuart. “So now look here, Master Hilton, commonly called Captain Hilton, you came to me to-day saying that you had my child’s consent to ask me to give her to you for a wife.”

“Yes, sir, and I repeat it.”

“Well, I sort of consented, didn’t I?”

“You did, sir.”

“Good; but once more – you know I’m a verra poor man?”

“I know you are not a rich one, sir.”

“That’s right, Hilton. And you ken,” he continued, getting excited and a little more Scottish of accent – “ye ken that when puir Perowne failed, he owed me nearly sax hundred pounds?”

“I did hear so, sir.”

“Well, I meant to give little Grey here that for a wedding-portion, and now it’s all gone.”

“I’m glad of it, sir,” cried Hilton, warmly, “for I am only a poor fellow with my pay and a couple of hundred a year besides; but in a very few years’ time I shall be in the receipt of another two hundred and fifty a year, so that we shall not hurt.”

Grey crossed to him, and put her arm through his, as she nodded and smiled in his face.

“Ye’re a pair o’ feckless babies!” cried old Stuart. “So ye mean to say ye’ll be content to begin life on nothing but what ye’ve got, Hilton?”

“To be sure, sir! Why not?”

“To be sure! Why not?” said Mrs Bolter. “I don’t approve of people marrying for money, Mr Stuart; and I’m glad they act in so honest a spirit! Do you know, Mr Hilton, I began my life out here hating Helen Perowne, and thoroughly disliking you; and now, do you know, she has made me love her; and as for you, I never liked you half so well before, and I wish you both every joy, and as happy a life as I live myself when Henry stays at home, and does not glory in teasing me in every way he can!”

“Thank you, Mrs Bolter!” cried Hilton, warmly. “I don’t wonder, though, that you should dislike me, for I did not show you a very pleasant side of my character.”

“Well,” said old Stuart, rising, “you and I may as well be off, doctor. Poor Perowne will be glad to hear you chat a bit about Helen; and as for you two young and foolish people, why – ha! ha! ha! you had better make friends with the doctor. He has always been petting my little girl; now’s the time for him to do something a little more solid.”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs Doctor, warmly, “Grey shall not go to the altar without a little dowry of her own – eh, Henry?”

“To be sure, my dear!” said the doctor – “to be sure!”

“Nay, nay, nay!” cried old Stuart, showing his teeth; “hang your little dowries! I want something handsome down!”

“Oh, father!” cried Grey, turning scarlet with shame.

“You hold your tongue, child! I want the doctor to do something handsome for you out of his findings at Ophir – Solomon’s gold, Bolter. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Laugh away!” cried the doctor; “but I shall astonish you yet!”

“Gad, Bolter, ye will when ye mak’ anything out o’ that!” cried the little merchant. “Don’t let him run after shadows any more, Mrs Bolter. Well, Hilton, my boy, I won’t play with you,” he said, holding out his hand, as he spoke now, with Grey held tightly to his side, and the tears in his pale blue eyes. “I’m a pawkie, queer old Scot, but I believe my heart’s in the right place.”

“I’m sure – ” began Hilton.

“Let me speak, my lad!” cried the old man. “I always said to myself that I should like the lad who wooed my little lassie here to love her for herself alone, and I believe you do. Hold your tongue a bit my lad! I’ve always been a careful, plodding fellow, and such a screw, that people always looked upon me as poor; but I’m not, Hilton: and thank Heaven, I can laugh at such a loss as that I have had! Heaven bless you, my lad! You’ve won a sweet, true woman for your wife; and let me tell you that you’ve won a rich one. My lassie’s marriage portion is twenty thousand pounds on the day she becomes your wife, and she’ll have more than double that when the doctor kills me some day, as I am sure he will.”

“Mr Stuart!” cried Hilton.

“Hold your tongue, lad – not a word! Good-night, Mrs Bolter. Doctor, old friend, if you don’t take me up to Perowne’s, and prescribe pipes and a glass o’ whuskee, I shall sit down and cry like a child.”

He was already at the door, and the doctor followed him out, leaving Hilton, as he afterwards told his old companion, not knowing whether he was awake or in a dream.

But he was awake decidedly, as Mrs Bolter could have told, for dream-kisses never sound so loud as those which he printed on the lips of his future wife.

“Oh, it’s all right!” said Chumbley; “and I wish you joy! I knew the little lassie loved you months ago!”