One Maid's Mischief

“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?