One Maid's Mischief

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 fête.

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.”