Sultan Murad, who, from the aspect of affairs in Mr Perowne's
drawing-room, seemed to be the last captive to the bow of Helen's lips
and the arrows of her eyes, was one of the rajahs of the Malay
peninsula, living upon friendly terms with the English, paying
allegiance to the government, and accepting the friendly services of a
Political Resident, in the shape of Mr Harley, whose duties were to
advise him in his rule, to help him in any plans for civilising and
opening out his country; and in exchange for his alliance and friendly
offices with neighbouring chiefs, who viewed the coming of the English
with jealous eyes, the rajah was promised the help of the English arms
in time of need. As an earnest of this promise, a couple of companies
of an English foot regiment were permanently stationed upon a little
island in the river, just opposite to Sindang, the principal native town
of Jullah, over which territory Sultan Murad reigned.
But the Prince only adopted such of the English customs as suited his
tastes. He had no objection, though a follower of Mahomet, to the wines
that were introduced, showing a great preference for champagne. Our
dress he took to at once, making a point of always appearing in
indigo-blue silk stockings and patent-leather shoes. The widest-fronted
shirts were spread over his broad breast, and the tail-coat found so
much favour that he had to exercise a good deal of self-denial to keep
himself from appearing all day long in full evening-dress.
But he had good advisers to help his natural shrewdness, and finding
that his adoption of our costume found favour with his English allies,
he adhered to it rigorously, as far as his position as sultan or rajah
would allow. For there was and is one part of the native dress that no
Malay will set aside, and that is the sarong, a tartan scarf sewn
together at the ends and worn in folds around the body, so as to form a
kilt.
This article of dress, always a check or plaid of some showy-coloured
pattern, is worn by every Malay, in silk or cotton, according to his
station, and in the sash-like folds he always carries his kris, a
dangerous-looking dagger, that falsely bears the reputation of being
smeared along its wavy blade with poison.
A silken kilt and a dagger are rather _outre_ objects for an English
drawing-room, and looked barbaric and strange as worn by the young
rajah, whose evening-dress was otherwise in faultless English style,
being in fact the production of a certain tailor, of Savile Row, an
artist who had been largely patronised by Murad for shooting and morning
gear, and also for his especial pride, a couple of gorgeous uniforms,
something between that of a hussar and a field-marshal bound to a
review.
The bad name given to a dog dies hard, and in spite of steam and
electricity, the idea still lingers in our midst that the Malay is as
evil as his kris, and that he is a brutal savage, accustomed to put
forth from his campong in a long row-boat, or prahu, to make a piratical
attack upon some becalmed vessel. After this it is supposed to be his
custom to put the crew to death, plunder the ship, and set it on fire as
a finish to his task.
Such deeds have been done, for there are roughs amongst the Malays, even
as there are in civilised England. In bygone days, too, such acts were
doubtless as common as among our border chieftains; but, as a rule, the
Malays are an educated body of eastern people, professing the Mahommedan
religion, with an excellent code of laws, punctilious in etiquette, and
though exceedingly simple in their habits, far from wanting in
refinement.
Sultan Murad was unmistakably a prince, handsome in person, and
naturally of a grave and dignified mien, while since his alliance with
the English he had become so thoroughly imbued with our habits and the
ordinary ways of a gentleman as to make him a visitor well worthy of
Helen's attention for the time.
There was something delightful to her vanity in the eastern term
"sultan," a title associated in her mind with barbaric splendour,
showers of diamonds and pearls, cloth of gold, elephants with silver
howdahs, attended by troops of slaves bearing peacock fans, chowries,
and palm-leaf punkahs. She saw herself in imagination mounted upon some
monstrous beast, with a veil of gossamer texture covering her face; a
troop of beautiful slaves in attendance, and guards with flashing
weapons jealously watching on every side the approach of those who would
dare to sun themselves in her beauty.
Her thoughts were so pleasant, that in place of the languid air of
repose in her dark, shaded eyes, they would flash out as she listened
with a gratified smile to Murad's eastern compliments and the soft
deference in his voice.
He was a real sultan, who, when with the English, adopted their customs;
while with his people no doubt he would assume his barbaric splendour;
and to Helen, fresh as it were from school, and, revelling in the joys
of her new-born power, there was something delicious in finding that she
had a real eastern potentate among her slaves.
The Rajah had been talking to her in his soft, pleasant English for some
time before the gentlemen left the dining-room. Now Neil Harley
separated himself from the rest, sauntered across, nodded to the Rajah,
who drew back, and made a flash dart from the young Malay's eyes as he
saw the Resident seat himself in a careless, quite-at-home fashion
beside the young hostess.
"Well, Mad'moiselle Helen," he whispered in a half-contemptuous tone,
"how many more conquests this week?"
"I do not understand you, Mr Harley," she said, coldly; but he noticed
that she could hardly manage to contain the annoyance she felt at his
cavalier manner.
"Don't you?" he said, smiling and half closing his eyes. "As you
please, most chilling and proud of beauties. What lucky men those are
who find themselves allowed to bask in the sunshine of your smiles!
There, that is the proper, youthful way of expressing it poetically, is
it not?"
"If you wish to insult me, pray say so, Mr Harley, and I will at once
leave the room," said Helen, in a low voice, as if wishful that the
Rajah should not hear her words, but making the Malay's countenance
lower as he saw the familiar way in which she was addressed.
"Insult you? All the saints and good people past and to come forbid!
It is you who, after making me your slave, turn from me, the elderly
beau, to listen to the voice of our dusky charmer. I don't mind. I am
going to chat and listen to little Grey Stuart. I shall be patient,
because I know that some day you will return to me cloyed with
conquests, and say, `Neil Harley, I am yours!'"
"I do not understand you," she cried, quickly.
"Let me be explicit then," he said, mockingly. "Some day the fair Helen
will come to me and say, with her pretty hands joined together, `Neil
Harley, I am tired of slaying men. I have been very wicked, and cruel,
and coquettish. I have wounded our chaplain; I have slain red-coated
officers; I have trampled a Malayan sultan beneath my feet; but I know
that you have loved me through it all. Forgive me and take me; I am
humble now--I am yours!'"
"Mr Harley!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "How dare you speak to me
like this in my father's house."
As she spoke her eyes seemed to flash with anger, and he ought to have
quailed before her; but he met her gaze with a calm, mastering look, and
said slowly:
"Yes, you are very beautiful, and I do not wonder at your triumph in
your power; but it is not love, Helen, and some day you will, as I tell
you, be weary of all this adulation, and think of what I have said. I
am in no hurry; and of course all this will be when you have had your
reign as the most beautiful coquette in the East."
"Mr Harley, if you were not my father's old friend--"
"Exactly, my dear child; old friend, who has your father's wishes for my
success with his daughter--old friend, who has known you by report since
a child. I have been waiting for you, my dear, and you see I behave
with all the familiarity accorded to a man of middle age."
"Mr Harley, your words are insufferable!" said Helen, still in a low
voice.
"You think so now, my dear child. But there: I have done. Don't look
so cross and indignant, or our friend the Rajah will be using his kris
upon me as I go home. I can see his hand playing with it now, although
he has it enveloped in the folds of his silken sarong in token of
peace."
"I beg you will go," said Helen, contemptuously; "you are keeping the
Rajah away."
"Which would be a pity," said the Resident, smiling. "He is a very
handsome fellow, our friend Murad."
"I have hardly heeded his looks," said Helen, weakly; and then she
flushed crimson as she saw Mr Harley's mocking smile.
"Doosid strange, those fellows can't come into a gentleman's
drawing-room without their skewers," said Chumbley, coming up and
overhearing the last words. "I say, Miss Perowne, you ought to have
stayed and heard the doctor give us a lecture on Ophir and Solomon's
ships. Capital, wasn't it, Hilton?"
"Really I hardly heard it," replied the young officer, approaching Helen
with a smile; and the Resident met the lady's eye, and gave her a
mocking look, as he rose and made place for the new-comer, who was
welcomed warmly. "I was thinking about our hostess, and wondering how
long it would be before we were to be emancipated from old customs and
allowed to enter the drawing-room."
"Yes, it is strange how we English cling to our customs, and bring them
out even to such places as this," said the lady, letting her eyes rest
softly upon those of the young officer, and there allowing them to stop;
but giving a quick glance the next moment at the Rajah, who, with a
fixed smile upon his face, was sending lowering looks from one to the
other of those who seemed to have ousted him and monopolised the lady's
attention.
"I never felt our customs so tedious as they were to-night," said
Captain Hilton, earnestly; and bending down, he began to talk in a
subdued voice, while the gentlemen proceeded to discuss mercantile
matters, the probability of the neighbouring Malay princess--the Inche
Maida--taking to herself a lord; the latest move made by the governor;
and other matters more or less interesting to the younger men.
At last Chumbley, seeing that Harley was chatting with Grey Stuart,
crossed over to the doctor's little lady, who had rather a troubled,
uneasy look in her pleasant face as she watched her brother, the
chaplain, hanging about as if to catch a word let drop by Helen now and
then.