One Maid's Mischief

Had the Inche Maida sworn to rescue him, and was she coming down the river like a new Boadicea, with a hundred water war-chariots to sweep the British invader from the land?

Was Helen Perowne dying, and had Mr Perowne died in the night?

These are specimens of the questions that were asked, for the little community was in a perfect ferment. The loveliness of the weather, the brilliant days and delicious nights passed unnoticed, for everyone was intent on danger alone.

It was, then, a matter of intense relief to hear, time after time, that the manufactured dangers were merely the fictions of some of the most timid; and though the rumour was again and again repeated that the Inche Maida was coming, she did not come, but remained quiescent at her home, truth to say, though, with boats manned and armed, not for attack, but ready to take her and her chief people to a place of safety, should the English visit her with inimical intent. She had sinned against them, and could not know how chivalrously Chumbley had kept the matter secret and prevailed upon his friend.

Meanwhile, in the midst of these anxieties, when rumour ran riot through the place, and the more nervous shivered and started at every sound, and took no step without feeling that a kris was ready to strike, Helen – the main cause of all the station troubles – lay happily unconscious of what was passing.

For Doctor Bolter was right; the excitement had borne its seeds, and after her system had bravely battled with disease for a time, fighting it back during all the most trying of her adventures – no sooner was she in safety at the station, than it claimed its own, and she lay now at the doctor’s cottage sick unto death.

Never had sufferer more devoted attention than that which Helen received from her old schoolfellow and Mrs Bolter; while the doctor himself was in almost constant attendance, watching each change, and denying himself rest in his efforts to save the life that seemed to be trembling in the balance.

“This is a pleasant place to have brought you to, Mary,” he said, more than once. “It was a shame! but I never could foresee such troubles as this; and after all, I am not so very sorry.”

“Not sorry?” she replied.

“Well, of course, my dear, I am awfully sorry about the way in which Arthur is missing; but as to myself, one does get very selfish in middle-age.”

“Selfish? Is this a time to talk of being selfish?” said the little lady, reproachfully.

“Well, perhaps not,” the doctor replied; “but really I’m glad I’ve got you here, Mary, for I don’t know what I should have done without you. You’re a perfect treasure.”

Mrs Doctor looked pacified, and worked harder than ever.

“Here, I generally bring you bad news,” said old, Stuart, coming in one day to see his nurse, as he called Grey, who had become a permanent dweller at the cottage, “but I’ve got some good for you this time.”

“What is it?” said the doctor. “Have they found Rosebury?”

“No; but you need not be so nervous any more, for here is a gun-boat coming up the river.”

Boom!

“There it is announcing itself,” said old Stuart, with a chuckle. “That’s the sort of thing to keep the natives in awe, a great gun like that.”

The coming of the powerful war-steamer with reinforcements, and a tender in the shape of a swift despatch-boat, did act as a repressing power, and silenced for good any latent ideas of rising against the English; and in obedience to the despatch received by the Resident, Murad and a couple of his officers were at once placed on board under a strong guard; and, within an hour of the arrival of the steamer and the despatch-boat, he was on his way to Singapore to take his trial.

There was no attempt at resistance, the prisoners meeting their fate in a stolid, indifferent way, while after a short consultation at the Residency, the crew of the Sultan’s boat were brought out from the fort and questioned.

To a man they denied all knowledge of the whereabouts of the chaplain; and when offered their liberty on condition of his being found, they calmly accepted their position, and expressed their readiness to go back to prison.

Harley was the president of the little court; and at last he addressed them, and offered them their liberty on another condition.

“Murad will never return here,” he said, “and you are clear of all allegiance to him. I am empowered to offer you your freedom if you will all swear henceforth to serve the English Government.”

They all brightened up at once, and expressed themselves ready to obey.

“Then you are free,” said the Resident; “you can return to your homes.”

The men stared. They could not believe in such clemency; but no sooner had they realised the fact, than their stolid, sulky look was exchanged for one of extravagant joy, and their delight after having resigned themselves to death knew no bounds.

“Now,” exclaimed the Resident, “tell me at once – where is the chaplain?”

Only one man spoke:

“We do not know, my lord.”

“Is – is he dead?”

“Why should he be dead, my lord?” said the man. “Why should Murad kill him? No; he had reasons, and we know that he had him taken away with the lady – that is all.”

“But where did he imprison him?”

“Allah and our lord the Sultan only know,” said the man, impressively. “Murad was wise. When he made plans it was in his own mind, and he told them to none but the slaves who were to do his bidding. Let us free, and we may perhaps find the Christian priest. If we do, we will bring him back.”

There was nothing more to be done, and the station was relieved of the presence of a danger that seemed imminent so long as Murad was there.

The time glided on, and still there was no news of the chaplain. The Inche Maida’s home had been visited again and again, but she either did not know or would confess nothing, preserving a studied dignity, and seeming to be neither friend nor enemy now; while, this being the case, the chaplain’s absence began to be accepted as a necessity, and there were days when Mrs Barlow was the only one who mourned his loss.

“It’s mind – mind – mind,” said the doctor, as he came out of Helen’s room, over and over again; and the questioner he addressed was Neil Harley. “It’s mind, sir, mind; and until that is at rest, I see no chance of her recovery. Medicine? Bah! it’s throwing good drugs away.”

The constant attention went on, and as almost hourly the Resident or one of the officers came to inquire, there seemed to be times when Doctor Bolter did not know whether Helen or her father would be the first to pass away. He was constantly going to and fro; and after many days of suffering, when Sindang had pretty well sunk into its normal state of quietude, and Helen’s fever began to subside, it left her so weak that the doctor threw up his hands almost in despair.

“It lies with you two now, more than with me,” he said to Grey and Mrs Bolter; and with tears in their eyes, they were compelled to own their helplessness as well.

It was on one of the hottest and most breathless days of the tropic summer, that, with her eyes red, and weary with long watching, Grey Stuart sat in her old school-companion’s chamber, thinking of the changes that had taken place since that morning when Helen and she were summoned to the Miss Twettenhams’ room regarding the levity displayed, as the ladies called it, towards Helen’s first admirer.

Fair Helen then – now she looked more like a native woman than ever, with her piteous great eyes gazing wildly at her friend, as if asking her for help.

But that she had wept till the fount of her tears seemed dry, Grey could have thrown herself sobbing at Helen’s side; now she could only take her wasted hand and try to whisper some few comforting words.

“Has Mr Rosebury been found?” she exclaimed, suddenly; and on being answered in the negative, as she had been fifty times before, she wrung her hands and sobbed wildly.

“My fault – my cruel fault!” she cried, in a weak, high-pitched voice; “you will all curse me when I am dead.”

“My child – my dear child,” sobbed Mrs Bolter; and then, unable to contain herself, she hurried from the room, and Grey strove to calm the excited girl. She had tended her constantly, telling herself that it was a duty; but the task had been a bitter one, for ever, in the hours of Helen’s delirium, she had listened to her wild words as she spoke constantly of him and his love, reproaching him for not coming to save her from Murad, and neglecting her when she was praying for him to come.

Grey felt a pang at every word; and as Helen spoke in this way, she recalled the tender scenes she had witnessed, and the young officer’s infatuation with her beauty.

And now on this particular day her trial seemed to be harder than ever, for suddenly Helen turned her weary head towards her, and clasping her hands with spasmodic energy, she whispered:

“Grey, I have been cruel and hard to you, I know. I stood between you and your love – but you forgive me now?”

“Oh, yes, yes, that is all past and gone!” cried Grey, excitedly.

“Yes, yes, that is all past and gone, and now you will do this for me. I think I am going – I cannot live long like this – tell him, then, quickly – tell him I must see him – tell him that he must come.”

Grey’s heart sank within her, and she rose slowly from her seat, and loosed the two thin hands she had held. It was like signing her own death-warrant to send this message, for if Captain Hilton did not know of her wanderings, and this, Helen’s last wish, he – who was, perhaps, forgetting more and more his love – would hardly dwell upon it again. To do this was to revive it, for she told herself that Hilton would be too generous not to respond.