"Chumbley," said Bertie Hilton, "your behaviour towards that woman was
sickening--almost disgusting! How you could be even civil to her is
more than I can understand!"
"Oh, I'm always civil to a woman," drawled Chumbley. "See how affable I
always was to Helen Perowne, who--"
"Will you have the goodness to leave Miss Perowne's name out of the
conversation?" said Hilton, with asperity.
"Certainly, if you wish it, and substitute little Stuart's name. See
how civil I always was to her."
"A merit certainly," said Hilton, contemptuously. "Who could help being
civil to so amiable and good a little body!"
"Here, hang it, Bertie, old man!" cried Chumbley, in mock alarm, "don't
monopolise all the nice women. It was Helen Perowne the other day. Now
you seem dead on little Stuart!"
"Confound Helen Perowne!" muttered Hilton, bitterly.
"Just as you like; and confound the Inche Maida too--I shan't! Sort of
sympathetic pity for woman--weaker vessels, you know."
"Weaker vessel?" laughed Hilton, scornfully; "what, our captor?"
"Well, she isn't a bad sort of woman," replied Chumbley.
"Not a bad sort of woman? Why, she's a modern Jezebel--a Cleopatra--a
Semiramis!"
"Think so?" said Chumbley, quietly.
"Think so? Of course! I'm getting terribly tired of this captivity! I
must get away somehow. How many days have we been here?"
"Week," said Chumbley, laconically.
"A week of weeks it seems to me," said Hilton. "Horrible woman!"
"Well, I don't know," said Chumbley, "she seems to possess very great
taste."
"Taste? The savage!"
"Well, great taste in taking a fancy to you. I think you ought to be
very proud."
"Proud? I sicken with disgust! Pah! Don't let's talk about her, but
try and make some plan to escape."
"Well, yes, I suppose we must do that; but 'pon my word, old fellow, I
don't see how. I wish old Bolter were here."
"I wish Mrs Bolter were here to tackle this dreadful woman!" laughed
Hilton. "We men can't manage her; but that clever, sharp little body
would bring her to her senses. What do you want Bolter for?"
"Oh, he'd mix up a dose for the guards, and give it to them in their
tea, or whatever they drink; then they'd go to sleep, and we could
calmly walk back to the fort."
"I wonder what Harley thinks of our absence?"
"Thinks we're dead, probably, and reposing happily each of us in a
crocodile sarcophagus. Well, Bertie, old man, what's to be done? The
Inche Maida has quite cut us it seems, and we're all alone, I suppose.
Come, what's to be done to get us out of this plight? You're quite
right, old fellow; it is most absurd!"
"Absurd? It is disgraceful! I feel as if we were not men, but a couple
of silly girls!"
"With beards," said Chumbley.
"And now give me your advice."
"Well, that's soon done," replied Chumbley. "I've quite made up my mind
what advice I shall give."
"Well, what?"
"Do you mean what shall we do?"
"Yes; of course."
"Nothing."
Hilton uttered an ejaculation that was far from pious, and began to fume
and fret, till Chumbley rose in his slow, cumbrous fashion, placed a
cigar in his friend's hand, and bade him smoke it.
"Look here, old fellow," he said, quietly, "if we are to escape, it can
only be when a chance offers itself; and if you will bring your profound
wisdom to bear upon the matter, you will see that all we can do is to
wait for that chance."
"And until that chance comes we must put up with this wretched woman's
insults!"
"Yes, if you like to call them so; and I'd do it, old fellow, without
getting into a bad temper and calling names, seeing--"
"Seeing what?"
"That she tries to make up for her rather unladylike conduct by being
very civil; while her cooking is good, the dinners excellent, and the
breakfasts, the wines well chosen, and the cigars--there, did you ever
smoke a better than that?"
"Oh, pish! Everyone can't take things as quietly as you do, Chumb."
"Poor fellows, no," said the latter, with a satisfied air. "It's the
only quality I possess of which I am really proud. You see it makes me
perfectly well suited for this climate, for no troubles or worries ever
put me in a perspiration. I wish, though, we had a chess-board and
men."
"Chess-board! men!" retorted Hilton, laughing, in a half-amused,
half-vexed tone; "who in the world could ever think of playing chess!
Really, Chumbley, I believe you are quite happy and contented."
"Well, not so bad, dear boy--not so bad now the novelty and the
unpleasantly of the affair have worn off. You see, a fellow has only so
long to live. Well, isn't it a pity to spoil any of that time by making
yourself miserable if you can help it? Take my advice and behave as
young Jacob Faithful suggested, `Take it coolly;' and as the sailor in
another story I once read said, `if you can't take it coolly, soldier,
take it as coolly as you can.'"
Hilton bit the end of his cigar and then bit his lips; lay back thinking
of Helen and then of Grey Stuart, the latter obtaining the larger
portion of his thoughts.
As for Chumbley, he lay back on his divan and smoked, and thought it was
very tiresome to be detained there, but granted that it was better than
being detained in hospital from wounds or sickness; and as time wore on,
Hilton, removed from the cares and anxieties of being one of Helen's
lovers, settled down more and more into an imitation of his friend's
coolness, his common-sense teaching him that Chumbley was right, and
that his best chance of escaping was by waiting for his opportunity--
whenever that opportunity should come.
They had not seen anything of the Princess for some days, for she had
evidently left them to cool down; but they had been admirably treated,
and had grown a little less impatient of their prison, when one day a
Malay servant entered their room, and with the most profound respect
announced that the Inche Maida awaited the English chiefs in another
room.
"Well, that's not such bad treatment of prisoners, if it don't mean a
polite summons to execution. You first, old fellow; I'm only here as
your confidential man."
As he spoke, Chumbley rose slowly, left his hookah, and prepared to
follow the servant; while Hilton frowned, declared that it was all very
ridiculous, but smoothing his countenance, he followed the Malay, and
was ushered by him into a similar room to that which they had left, to
find dinner laid out in a by no means untempting style, the Malay
fashion being largely supplemented by additions that the Princess had
not been slow to copy from her English friends.
The Inche Maida was elegantly dressed, as Chumbley said, like her table,
for her costume was as much European as Malayan, her long sweeping robe,
and the delicate lace cap that rested upon her magnificent black hair,
having a decidedly Parisian look, while her scarf was the simple sarong
of her country, glowing with bright colours.
She smiled as they entered, but her demeanour was full of dignity, as
she offered Hilton her hand, that he might lead her to the table.
Hilton drew himself up and was evidently about to refuse. The next
moment he relented, and took a step forward, but he was too late to pay
his hostess the compliment she asked, for she had turned to Chumbley,
who held out his arm and led her to the head of the table, retiring
afterwards to the foot, and facing her, while Hilton took the place upon
the Princess's right.
Perfectly unaware of Helen Perowne's position, the two prisoners, under
the genial influences of a good dinner and unexceptionable wine, while
granting that their situation was perfectly absurd, were ready to
acknowledge that after all it would be nonsense to do otherwise than
accept it, make the best of it, and refuse to be angry about a foolish
woman's freak.
"I won't be disagreeable any more," thought Hilton, "but take things as
they come, and be off at the first opportunity."
"'Pon my word," thought Chumbley, "this is better than that hot room at
the fort. One always seems to be swallowing hot sunshine like melted
butter with everything there one eats."
The result was that Hilton forgot all about Helen Perowne for the time,
and found himself comparing Grey Stuart with the Inche Maida as the two
opposite poles of womanly beauty--the acme of the dark, and the acme of
the fair. But his thoughts were to a great extent turned from the
ladies to the dinner, and following Chumbley's example, he ate heartily,
drank pretty liberally of the wine--to drown care, he said--and by the
time that the dessert was commenced he had concluded that life would
after all be bearable without the society of Helen Perowne, who was, he
told himself, a contemptible coquette.
He recanted from that declaration soon afterwards, the terms being, he
thought, too hard; and then he fell into a state of wonderment at his
contented frame of mind.
"I shall begin to think soon that the wound is after all not very deep."
"Your friend seems to be getting resigned to his lot," said the
Princess, in a low voice to Chumbley, as, after dinner, they sat by the
open window with a little table covered with fruit by their side, Hilton
having kept his place.
"Yes, I suppose so," said Chumbley, thoughtfully; and then, to turn the
conversation into another channel, "How do you manage to get such good
claret here?"
"Oh," she said, laughing, "I am able to get most things here to help out
the wants of our country. It is easy to have such things from
Singapore. You like it?"
"It is delicious."
"I am glad," she said, with a satisfied smile. "I reserve it for my
best friends."
"Then why give it to us, your prisoners--and enemies?" said Chumbley,
sharply.
"I was trying to show you that you were my friends, and not my enemies,"
said the Princess, quietly.
"But you treat us like prisoners, Princess."
"Only for your good. You shall both be free and lords of the place
whenever you will."
"But, my dear madam," said Hilton, from his place by the larger table,
"this is the nineteenth century--Chumbley, a little more claret? You
seize us as a baron might have seized people three or four hundred years
ago, and yet you treat us as an English lady would her guests."
"It is what I have tried to do--this treatment," she said, simply. Then
with spirit, "What is it to me what people did a long while back? I
hope, Mr Chumbley, you are satisfied."
"With my dinner?" said the latter. "Yes, perfectly, for my part. It
only wants a cup of coffee."
"Not poisoned?" said the Princess, with a laughing, malicious look at
her guest, as she thus recalled to him his suspicions at the _fete_.
As she spoke she clapped her hands, and coffee was brought in little
silver cups upon a silver tray.
"Hilton, old man," said Chumbley, as he took and liberally sugared a cup
of coffee, smiling at the Inche Maida as he spoke.
"Well?" said his companion in misfortune.
"I have quite made up my mind, as I before hinted, not to knock the
feathers off my noble breast against the bars of my cage."
The Princess looked puzzled.
"Pshaw!" ejaculated Hilton; "don't be absurd."
"Why not? If to be patient in our present awkward position is being
absurd. Won't you take coffee, Princess?"
She shook her head, but altered her mind directly.
"Yes," she said; and she took the cup Chumbley offered with a smile,
while as he provided himself with a second, he nodded and said to
himself:
"That's very ladylike; so that we should not feel suspicious, I
presume."
"Ask her how long she means to keep on with this theatrical folly," said
Hilton, in a low voice to his friend--in French.
"What does he say?" cried the Princess, quickly. "He asks if you are
still in earnest about keeping us prisoners," said Chumbley. "If you
are serious."
"Earnest? Serious?" she replied, with her eyes flashing. "Should I
have taken such a step as this, and risked offending your people, if I
were not serious? Suppose I let you go--what then?"
"If Hilton has his own way," said Chumbley, laughing, "there will be an
expedition to come and burn your place about your ears for abducting two
of her Majesty's subjects."
"No, no--no, no!" cried the Inche Maida, with a negative motion of her
hand. "You would not be so cowardly as to come and attack a weak woman;
that is for the Malays to do. You English are too brave and strong. I
am not afraid."
"Well, I don't know," said Chumbley; "we might, you know."
"Oh, no, I won't believe it."
"Well, perhaps not," said Chumbley, drily; "but history has a few ugly
little records of English doings here and there. Do you know, madam,
that you have given us an excellent excuse to pay you a peculiar visit?"
"What! to come and attack and destroy my home--to kill my people?" cried
the Princess, excitedly. "You could not--you dare not. But I am safe.
I shall not let you go; and as to my other enemies, in a short time you
will both be reconciled to your lot, and you will say, `Let me stop and
defend you.'"
"Hope told a flattering tale," muttered Chumbley, as he saw the Princess
watching Hilton as she spoke; but his distant mien and contemptuous
looks so annoyed her that she turned from him angrily and addressed
herself to his friend, as if for him to speak.
"Well," said the latter, coolly, "I am an Englishman, and I like fair
play, so I shall speak out. Look here; you know, Princess, it won't
do."
"What do I know that will not do?" she said, in a puzzled way.
"Why, this foolish kidnapping business of yours; and I frankly tell you
that, much as we shall regret leaving such charming quarters, if you
only leave the birds' cage door open for a moment we shall pop out and
fly away."
"I do not quite know what you mean about your birds in cages and your
kidnapping," said the Princess, haughtily; "but I suppose you mean that
you will go."
"Exactly," said Chumbley, coolly.
"Then," said the Princess, "I should have thought, for the favours I
offer you--the great position and brilliant prospects--you would be
grateful now you have had time to reflect, instead of treating me with
disdain."
"Well," replied Chumbley, in his dry way, "that's the nature of the
English animal."
"Talk sensibly," said Hilton, in French; "why do you go on in that
flippant way--why do you keep on arguing with her?"
"Because you will not," retorted Chumbley, in the same language; "so
hold your tongue. You see, Princess," he continued, "you don't
understand the British nature, and this is how it is. If we fellows
could not get those positions you offer, we might make a struggle for
them; but as you offer them, and tell us we must have them, you set all
our bristles erect, and we vow we will not have them at any price. No:
my dear madam, you have gone the wrong way to work, and it will not do."
The Inche Maida recoiled, as if the obstacles she was encountering stung
her to the quick. She had evidently been under the impression that her
patience and the treatment to which she had subjected her prisoners
would have had a different effect, whereas they were as disdainful and
obstinate as ever.
"You will think better of this," she cried, impatiently.
Hilton made a sign as if to negative her words.
"Then if you reject kindness I shall try harshness," she cried, her dark
eyes flashing as she spoke. "I am Princess here, and my slaves obey me.
I will have you starved into submission."
Hilton smiled.
"Tell her she doesn't know what an Englishman is, Chumbley," he said,
scornfully; "or no--be silent. Do not insult her, but treat her words
with contempt."
"He need not tell me," said the Inche Maida, starting up and looking
furious, as her eyes literally glittered in her rage. "I know, sir,
what some Englishmen are--cold, proud, and haughty; men who think
themselves almost gods in their conceit; while all who are not
pale-faced like themselves they treat as dogs. Go to your prison, sir,
and you shall learn that, proud and contemptuous as you are, there are
others who can be as proud and cold."
Chumbley was about to speak, but she waved him back.
"I brought you to my place that I might make you lord, master, and
defender of my people. You thrust my favours from you. Let it be so.
You shall not enjoy them. Stay as my prisoner till I please to free
you, and then go back to your people, and beg, and fawn, and ask Helen
Perowne to give you one of the smiles and sweet looks that she shares
among so many."
"I cannot bear this!" muttered Hilton, turning purple with rage.
"Hold your tongue! Don't be an idiot," growled Chumbley. "It is only a
woman speaking."
"Idiot!" exclaimed the Inche Maida, who just, caught the word. "She
will not have you when you do go back, for by this time she is someone's
wife."
"I do not believe you!" cried Hilton, angrily.
"You may," she replied, with an angry gesture. "Now listen; I can be
generous, but I can be hard as well, and I shall keep you my prisoner.
I have brought you here, and I have done with you; I reject you, I would
not listen to you now if you went upon your knees to me. I could not
bear it, for I should know then it was only false. I say I shall keep
you here for my own safety now; but though I have cast you off, I would
not have your blood upon my hands. Remember, my people are charged to
watch you, and they are Malays--faithful to the death. They would have
been faithful to you, my lord, but you have refused. Now listen. My
orders will be obeyed, as they were when I said I wish those two English
chiefs brought here unhurt. Mind this, then; any attempt at escape will
end in your falling by either kris or spear. Now go."
She stood there looking very handsome and disdainful, pointing to the
door, and the two officers had no alternative but to get up and walk
towards the entry. Here, however, Chumbley paused, and turned back to
where his imperious captor was standing with flashing eyes.
"We are too old friends to quarrel," he said, good-humouredly. "Of
course we shall try to escape, and we should do so if you had twice as
many people to guard us. You have done a very foolish thing."
"No!" she cried. "It was my will."
"All the same a very foolish thing in bringing us here. Now, take my
advice, as a friend; send us back at once."
"No!" she said, fiercely.
"Yes; for your own sake."
"No," she cried, "leave me."
"I promise you," he continued, "that I will do all I can to hush the
matter up. You will be reasonable. I should not like to see so brave
and good a woman come to grief."
"Go! Leave me!" she cried, fiercely. "I will not listen. I am a Malay
Princess, and he has insulted and wronged me."
"Well: there," said Chumbley. "I'm going. Good-night."
He held out his broad white hand, but the Inche Maida raised hers and
struck at it angrily, her palm descending in Chumbley's with a loud pat.
The young officer only smiled, bent his head, and turned to join Hilton
in the other room.
As he reached the door, however, he heard a step, a hand was laid upon
his arm, and a hoarse voice whispered:
"I am sorry--I was angry--forgive."
Hilton had strode to the end of his prison, and thrown himself in a
dissatisfied frame of mind upon the mats; the door had swung to, and
there was a heavy curtain between, so that he did not hear what was
said, nor see the hearty pressure of the hand that succeeded before
Chumbley left the dining-room and joined his friend; while the Malay
princess stood alone, with her hands clasped and her bosom heaving.
"I have been an idiot, and mad," she muttered to herself. "He is right;
I have done wrong, but I cannot go back now; I should lose all. I do
not know these Englishmen. I thought he would have been proud and glad,
and now he looks down upon me, and I feel so low--so crushed--that I
could kill myself with rage. Ah! why do I not know more of their ways?
I am but a poor, weak savage still, and I show my temper like a child."
She walked wearily to the window, and stood with her broad forehead
leaning against the bars, and for quite an hour neither of her women
dared to approach her.
"Well, old fellow, feel any better for your dinner?" said Chumbley,
heartily, as he strode up to the divan.
"Dinner? No. Hang the woman; how dare she insult us like that?" chafed
Hilton. "As if there were anything between Helen Perowne now and me."
"It was rather warm upon you, certainly," said Chumbley; "but she was
wild, and you were not above a few bitter repartees."
"Bitter? Why, you are taking the Jezebel's part!"
"Come, come, come, don't call ugly names," said Chumbley, sturdily.
"No name is too bad for such a woman!" cried Hilton.
"Drop it, I say," cried Chumbley. "We've eaten her dinner and drunk her
wine. Don't let's abuse her now."
"Why hang it, Chum, have you fallen in love with the black goddess?"
cried Hilton. "There, go and beg pardon, then; woo her, and wed her.
Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, mockingly, without seeing the hot angry spots
in his companion's cheeks. "I resign in your favour. The life would
just suit you. Come: here's a chance for you to prove a good friend to
me, most miserable fellow under the sun. Go and tell her you will be my
hostage. You are big enough."
"And ugly enough," growled Chumbley.
"You'll soon get sunburned out here in the jungle. Hail, Rajah
Chumbley! Thy servant bends the knee."
"You be blowed!" said the young officer, speaking like a schoolboy; and
the tone of his voice showed so much vexation that Hilton checked his
banter. "I'm going to have one pipe," said Chumbley, "and then I shall
have a nap."
"Stop a minute," said Hilton. "What did she mean about Helen being
another's wife?" he continued, biting at his moustache--"not that I
care."
"Goodness knows, unless Murad has carried her off at the same time."
"_What_!"
"I say unless Murad has been playing the same game."
"Don't talk like that," panted Hilton. "I don't care a _sou_ for the
girl now; I wouldn't marry her to save my life; I couldn't after her
base treatment. But Chum, old fellow, that idea of yours is like a
lance thrust through me, for I did love her, and to come to that--Oh,
Heaven help her! I could not bear that."
"Oh, tush! tush!" said Chumbley, sitting up once more. "Don't take any
notice. An angry woman will say anything. It was only a fancy of mine.
It can't be true."
"Chum," said Hilton, in a low whisper, and his voice sounded very
strange in the gathering darkness, "I beg your pardon for what I said.
I was bitter and angry."
"All right, old fellow. It's all gone."
"Then listen. Can we get away to-night?"
"No. Why?"
"I feel as if I couldn't stop here after what you said. I tell you I
hate Helen Perowne now devoutly, but I'd go through fire and water to
save her from that black scoundrel. Why did you think such a thing?"
"I don't know; it came into my head. It appeared possible. We were
spirited off, and it seemed so easy for Murad to carry her off in the
same way. I suppose what the Princess said set me thinking."
"If she is in his power," began Hilton--"Oh, it is not possible! She
led him on so, too. That foolish love of admiration!"
"That's the right term, Bertie. She never cared for you any more than
she did for me."
"No," said Hilton, bitterly, "I believe you are right; but I was such a
vain, conceited idiot, I thought myself far above you all. Chumbley, do
you believe what you said?"
Chumbley looked across the little space between them towards his friend;
but it was quite dark now, and the voices seemed to come out of a black
void.
"No, old fellow, no," he replied. "It was a passing fancy.
Good-night."
"Good-night."
Then there was silence in the room, though neither of the men slept;
Hilton lying in a state of feverish excitement, and Chumbley thinking
over his words.
"What made me say that, I wonder?" he muttered. "Suppose it should be
true, and that all this while the ruffian has been playing dark. By
Jove! it is very likely; much more likely than for a couple of fellows
to be carried off. Poor girl! No, it is impossible. I will not
believe it. Let's think of something else. Now then, how are we to get
away from here?"
"Sleep, Chumbley?" said Hilton.
"If I answer and say _no_" thought Chumbley, "he will lie talking for
hours. I'll hold my tongue."
"Fast asleep," muttered Hilton to himself; "that fellow has no more soul
than an ox," and turning his head on the cushion that formed his pillow,
he lay there in the feverish hot night, thinking of Helen Perowne, while
the distant roar of some prowling tiger kept reaching his ear; and it
was not until the thought of Grey Stuart's soft eyes, looking truthfully
at his, came like something soft and gentle to cool his heated
imagination, that he finally dropped asleep, forgetting his troubles for
the time.