In these busy days of rail and steam, supplemented by their quick young
brother electricity, time seems to go so fast that before the parties to
this story had thoroughly realised the fact, another month had slipped
by, another week had been added to that month, the Channel had been
crossed, then France by train, and at Marseilles the travellers had
stepped on board one of the steamers of the French company, the
_Messageries Maritimes_, bound for Alexandria, Aden, Colombo, Penang,
and then, on her onward voyage to Singapore and Hong Kong, to drop a
certain group of her passengers at the mouth of the Darak river, up
which they would be conveyed by Government steamer to Sindang, the
settlement where Mr Harley, her Britannic Majesty's Resident at the
barbaric court of the petty Malay Rajah-Sultan Murad had the guidance of
affairs.
It was one of those delicious, calm evenings of the South, with the
purple waters of the tideless Mediterranean being rapidly turned into
orange and gold. Away on the left could be seen, faintly pencilled
against the sky, the distant outlines of the mountains that shelter the
Riviera from the northern winds. To the right all was gold, and purple,
and orange sea; and the group seated about the deck enjoying the
comparative coolness of the evening knew that long before daybreak the
next morning they would be out of sight of land.
There were a large number of passengers; for the most part English
officials and their families returning from leave of absence to the
various stations in the far East; and as they were grouped about the
spacious quarter-deck of the sumptuously-fitted steamer rapidly
ploughing its way through the sun-dyed waters, the scene was as bright
and animated as painter could depict.
Gentlemen were lounging, smoking, or making attempts to catch the fish
that played about the vessel's sides without the slightest success;
ladies were seated here and there, or promenading the deck, while other
groups were conversing in low tones as they drank in the soft, sensuous
air, and wondered how people could be satisfied to exist in dull and
foggy, sunless England, when nature offered such climes as this.
"In another half-hour, Miss Perowne, I think I shall be able to show you
a gorgeous sunset, if you will stay on deck."
The speaker was a tall, fair man by rights, but long residence in the
East had burned his skin almost to the complexion of that of a Red
Indian. He was apparently about forty, with high forehead, clear-cut
aquiline features, and the quick, firm, searching look of one accustomed
to command and master men.
He took off his puggree-covered straw hat as he spoke, to let the cool
breeze play through his hair, which was crisp and short, but growing so
thin and sparse upon the top that partings were already made by time,
and he would have been looked upon by every West-end hair-dresser as a
suitable object to be supplied with nostrums and capillary regenerators
galore.
"Are the sunsets here very fine?" said Helen, languidly, as she lay back
in a cane chair listlessly gazing through her half-closed eyes at the
glittering water that foamed astern, ever widening away from the
churning of the huge propeller of the ship.
"Very grand some of them, but nothing to those we shall show you in the
water-charged atmosphere close to the equator. Ah, Miss Stuart, come
here and stop to see the sunset. You grieve me, my child," he added,
smiling, and showing his white teeth.
"Grieve you, Mr Harley, why?" said Grey, smiling.
"Because I feel as if I were partner in the crime of taking you out to
Sindang to turn that fair complexion of yours brown."
"Grey Stuart is very careless about such things," said Helen, with
languid pettishness. "How insufferably hot it is!"
"Well," said Mr Harley, laughing, "you are almost queen here already,
Miss Perowne; everyone seems to constitute himself your slave. Shall we
arm ourselves with punkahs, and waft sweet southern gales to your fair
cheeks?"
"Here! Hi, Harley!" cried the brisk voice of Dr Bolter from the
forward part of the vessel.
"'Tis the voice of the male turtle-dove," said Mr Harley, laughing.
"He is separated from his mate. Have I your permission to go, fair
queen?"
Helen's eyes opened widely for a moment, and she darted an angry look at
the speaker before turning away with an imperious gesture, when, with a
meaning smile upon his lip, Neil Harley, Her Britannic Majesty's
Political Resident at Sindang, walked forward.
"That man irritates me," said Helen, in a low, angry voice. "I began by
disliking him; I declare I hate him now!"
"Is it not because you both try to say sharp-edged words to each other,
Helen?" said Grey Stuart, seating herself by her schoolfellow's side,
and beginning to work. "Mr Harley is always very kind and nice to me."
"Pah! He treats you like a child!" said Helen, contemptuously.
"Well," said Grey, smiling in her companion's face, "I suppose I am a
child to him. Here comes Mr Rosebury."
"I wish Mr Rosebury were back in England," said Helen, petulantly. "He
wearies me with his constant talk about the beauties of nature. I wish
this dreadful voyage were over!"
"And we have hardly begun it, Helen," said Grey, quietly; but noticing
that her companion's face was flushed, she said, anxiously, "Are you
unwell, dear?"
"Unwell? No."
There was something strange in Helen's behaviour, but she had the skill
to conceal it, as the newly-appointed chaplain of Sindang came slowly up
and began to talk to Helen in his dry, measured way, trying to draw her
attention to the beauty of the evening, but without avail, for she
seemed _distraite_, and her answers were sometimes far from pertinent to
the subject in question.
Just then Mrs Doctor Bolter came bustling up, looking bright, eager,
and full of animation.
She darted an uneasy look at her brother, and another at Helen, which
was returned by one full of indifference, almost defiance, as if
resenting the little lady's way, and Mrs Bolter turned to Grey Stuart.
"Where is my husband, my dear?" she said. "I declare this ship is so
big that people are all getting lost! Oh! here he comes! Now there--
just as if there were no sailors to do it--he must be carrying pails of
water!"
For the little doctor came panting along with a bucket of water in each
hand, the Resident walking by his side till the two vessels were plumped
down in front of Helen's chair.
"Now, my dear Harry, what are you doing?" began the little lady, in
tones of remonstrance.
"All right, my dear. Two pails full of freshly-dipped sea water. Now,
ladies and gentlemen, if you will close round, I will show you some of
the marvels of creation."
As quite a little crowd began to collect, many being ladies, at whom the
little doctor's wife--only a few days back elderly Miss Rosebury--
directed very sharp, searching glances, especially when they spoke to
her husband, Helen rose with a look of annoyance from her chair and
began to walk forward.
She was hesitating about going farther alone, when a low voice by her
ear said, softly:
"Thank you, Miss Perowne. Suppose you take my arm? We will walk
forward into the bows."
"Mr Harley!" said the lady, drawing back, with her eyes full of
indignation.
"I think I was to show you the beauty of the sunset," he said. "We can
see it so much better from the bows, and," he added, meaningly, "I shall
have so much better an opportunity to say that which I wish to say."
"What you wish to say, Mr Harley?"
"Yes," he replied, taking her hand, drawing it quickly through his arm,
and leading her down the steps.
"I wish to return, Mr Harley," she said, imperiously.
"You shall return, my dear young lady, when I have said that which I
wish to say."
"What can you wish to say to me?" she said, haughtily.
"That which your eyes have been asking me if I could say, ever since we
met a fortnight ago, Helen, and that which I have determined to say
while there is time."
Helen Perowne shrank away, but there was a power of will in her
companion that seemed to subdue her, and in spite of herself she was led
to the forward part of the vessel, just as the sun had dipped below the
horizon; the heavens were lit up like the sea with a gorgeous blaze of
orange, purple, green, and gold; and little Mrs Doctor Bolter
exclaimed:
"That wicked, coquettish girl away again! Grey Stuart, my dear, where
has your schoolfellow gone?"