Grey Stuart’s exclamatory question was drawn from her as she, like the Resident, watched the way in which the Princess continued to receive her guests.

Grey, in obedience to the Inche Maida’s request, and remained with the Resident close by, where they had an excellent view of what was taking place, and as, rather flattered by her reception, Grey looked on, a pang shot through her breast, as she saw that almost the next couple to advance were Captain Hilton and Helen Perowne, the former looking flushed and happy as he walked proudly forward with his handsome companion upon his arm; the latter with her red lip slightly curled and her eyelashes half shading her large eyes, as she seemed to be superciliously, and with a contemptuous air, smiling at the people she looked upon as far beneath her and hardly worthy of her consideration.

As the Princess saw them approach – the most goodly couple of the company – her eyes seemed to dart a furious flash at Hilton, and then to become fixed and hard as her features, as she encountered the supercilious gaze of Helen Perowne.

For a brief space she paused, as if too angry to continue her task. The pause was but momentary: for, apparently making an effort over herself, she received Helen Perowne with a grave, almost majestic courtesy, taking a bouquet from an attendant and handing it to her with a slight inclination of the head; while Helen Perowne made her the deportment curtsey that she had been taught at the Miss Twettenhams’, throwing into it the dignity of a queen.

“Enemies!” said the Resident to himself. “Strange how women read each other’s thoughts!” The Princess darted a quick, reproachful glance at Hilton, and then the couple passed to the other side of the hostess as others advanced, and the Resident made his comment upon the Princess, while Grey Stuart exclaimed, in an eager whisper: “Oh! Mr Harley, what does all this mean?”

“Another diplomatic complication apparently, my dear child,” he said. “Why, you and I ought to be very happy and contented to feel that we are not of an inflammable nature and are heart-whole.”

“But, Mr Harley,” said Grey Stuart, colouring slightly, “I do not understand it.”

“And you will not give me time to explain,” he said laughingly. “Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that just as we have comfortably got over the little piece of incendiarism done upon the Rajah Murad’s heart by the lightning of Helen Perowne’s eyes, the Inche Maida has singed her tawny wings in the light of the handsome brown optics of Master Hilton.”

“Oh! but, Mr Harley,” said the girl, hoarsely, “you don’t think that – ”

“She has taken a fancy to him?” said the Resident, quickly. “Indeed, my dear, but I do.”

“I – I did not mean that,” faltered Grey. “I meant, do you think – he had trifled with the Princess?”

“No, certainly not,” said the Resident, sternly, and his voice was very cold and grave as he spoke; “but I do see one thing, and that is, that it is an utter mistake to have a pack of handsome young officers and good-looking girls about the station. It makes my duties twice as hard,” he continued firmly, “for we have no secret instructions, no Colonial Office despatches that deal with the unions of the sexes; and if this sort of thing is going on, I shall have to ask the Government to send me out an assistant-resident well schooled in affairs of the heart.”

He smiled grimly now, and there was a faint reflection of his smile in Grey Stuart’s face as she looked up at him rather piteously, as if to see whether he was in earnest or in jest.

Further private remark was stopped by the Princess greeting her last guests, and then turning to lead the way towards what was literally her palm-tree palace in the jungle.

“You will stay with me, will you not?” she said, laying her hand affectionately upon Grey Stuart’s arm; and she smiled down at the fair Scottish girl, who looked up at her in a half-doubting fashion; but dreading to show her feelings she took the offered hand, and the Princess led the way, the Rajah following with Mrs Bolter, and the others bringing up the rear. They passed through quite an arcade cut in the wood, whose rich growth of wondrous canes and creepers was rapidly encroaching upon the narrow space, and sending out long waving strands as if in greeting to others upon the opposite side.

At interval were openings where the green twilight was brightened by patches of sunshine; and here amidst the rich green mosses sprang up patches of many-tinted pitcher plants, while on the trunks of the huge forest trees clustered orchids of wondrous shape and hue. Bight and left was the jungle, dense and utterly impenetrable, except by cutting a way through; and as they passed along this shady tunnel, the greens of some of the lower shrubs seemed to be of a velvety blackness that had a charming effect.

At last a patch of bright sunshine could be seen, showing the end of the woodland arcade, and beyond this, framed, as it were, the Inche Maida’s home, with its high-pitched gabled roofs, chequered walls, woven windows, and palm-tree thatch, stood out bright and clear.

As they drew nearer they found that the house was placed on the farther side of a large lake that was literally ablaze with the crimson and golden blossoms of a kind of lotus, while its shores were fringed with an arrowy, gorgeously-spotted calladium, the surface of whose leaves seemed burnished and silvered in the sun.

“I say, doctor,” said Chumbley, suddenly, “it doesn’t seem such a very bad place for a picnic; and if they do mean mischief I hope it will not be till after we have had a good feed.”

“Hungry?” said the doctor.

“Atrociously! I could eat the Inche Maida herself.”

“She looked to me as if she could eat you,” said the doctor. “I say, though, Chumbley, that was all nonsense of yours; the Rajah’s as square as a cube. Not half a bad fellow; says he’s coming to consult me about some of his symptoms, and is going to get me to put him right. Precious stupid of you to put such an idea in a fellow’s head.”

“Pitch it out, then,” said the lieutenant, coolly.

“I’ve done it, my boy. I say, Chumbley, I’m like you, precious hungry, too. Look out for the sambals, my boy, and the curry. You’ll get them all in delicious trim, I’ll be bound. They say the Inche Maida keeps a capital cook, and I think it was a splendid idea to bring us here. The dinner will be ten times better than in a boat or on the shore. I say, my dear boy, what a tip-top place! Why, if I were a bachelor, I wouldn’t mind marrying the Inche Maida myself, and succeeding to all her estates.”

“It really is a charming place,” said Chumbley, thoughtfully. “A man might make himself very jolly here. There’s plenty of fishing, and shooting, and – ”

“He could learn to chew betel, and smoke opium, and settle down into an Eastern dreamer.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Chumbley, quietly. “He might make himself a sort of example to the people, and do a deal of good.”

“Yes,” said the doctor drily, “or let them do him a lot of harm. Hallo! where are the ladies going?”

“Oh, up to the rooms, I suppose,” said Chumbley. “I expect the Princess does things in style. I wouldn’t bet a sovereign that she has not got a regular dining-room and drawing-room with a Broadwood piano.”

“I don’t care a dump what she has got so long as she has a good cellar and a good kitchen,” replied the doctor, “for I’m ravenous.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Rajah, coming forward, “the Princess begs me to act as host. Will you come indoors until the dinner is ready to be served?”

“There, doctor,” whispered Chumbley, “I told you so;” and they followed the smiling Rajah into the drawing-room of the Inche Maida’s house – a large roomy apartment, kept cool by mat-covered windows, and whose polished bamboo floor would have delighted a modern aesthete.

The place was a strange compound of Malay and European customs, showy articles of French furniture being mixed up with the mats and hangings made by the natives; but everywhere there were traces of the Princess possessing an ample income to enable her to indulge in any little whims or fancies in the way of decorative art.

But the group of gentlemen had hardly had time to look round before the Inche Maida appeared with her lady guests, and not being accustomed to the etiquette of modern society, led the way to a lofty room, in the middle of which, upon English table linen, was spread such a repast as would have satisfied the most exacting; and about this the party took their seats upon the soft mats in the best way they could, for there was neither chair nor table.

Still it was a picnic party, so everyone was, or professed to be, satisfied.

The Princess made a place beside her for Grey Stuart, and Captain Hilton had paused with Helen Perowne right at the other end of the room. For a moment or two, with rather lowering looks, the hostess seemed disposed to acquiesce in this, but a sudden flush animated her face, and she sent one of her slaves to request that the couple would come up higher, making room for Hilton by her side on the right – Helen being again on Hilton’s right.

For a few minutes the repast was eaten in silence, but the doctor, who was in excellent spirits, started the conversation, and the next moment there was a regular buzz mingled with laughter; for the Princess threw off all appearance of annoyance, and with the Rajah, devoted herself eagerly to the comforts of her guests.

It was a novel and piquant affair; the pale, dim light of the palm-thatched room, with its waving cocoa-trees seen through the open windows; the comparative coolness after the walk through the jungle, and above all the quaint mingling of culture and half-savage life made the visitors delighted with the scene.

Then, too, the repast was unexceptionable. The very poorest Malays are clever cooks, and have excellent ideas upon the best ways of preparing a chicken; while the slaves of the Princess had placed such delicious curries and other Eastern dishes before the hungry visitors, that one and all fell to without giving further thought as to the strange kitchen in which everything had been prepared.

Delicious sweets and confections, cool acid drinks, evidently prepared from fresh fruits, with an abundance of palm and European wines were there; and the fruits alone would have been a sufficient attraction for the guests.

Durians, those strange productions of the fruit-world, that on being opened reveal to the eater so many chestnut-like seeds lying in a cream-like pulp – the said pulp tasting of sweet almonds, well-made custard, sherry, cheese, old shoes, sugar and garlic formed into one delicious whole.

Mangosteens, with their glorious nectarine aroma, and plantains or bananas of the choicest flavoured kinds; these, mingled with other fruits luscious and sweet to a degree, but whose names were unknown to the guests, formed a dessert beyond compare.

Chumbley, seeing that a good deal of the Resident’s attention was taken up elsewhere, divided his time between talking to Grey Stuart and watching the Malay Princess, upon whose countenance not a shade of her former annoyance remained.

Every now and then, as her eyes wandered about, she caught Chumbley’s glance as he watched her, and she always met it with a frank, open smile, and begged his acceptance of fruit or wine.

At the same time, she was constant in her attentions to Hilton and Helen Perowne, selecting choice fruits for them with her own hands, and pressing them to eat.

“Well, Miss Stuart, is not this a novelty?” said Chumbley at last. “What do you think of it all?”

Grey Stuart, who had been making a brave effort to appear bright and free from care, replied that it was all very delightful and strange.

“It seems so different from anything I have ever seen before!” she said, with animation.

“Beats a lawn party and tennis in the old country hollow!” said Chumbley. “What a capital hostess the Princess is!”

“She seems to take so much kindly interest in – in – ” said Grey.

“In you, you mean,” said the great fellow, smiling.

“Oh, no,” said Grey, naïvely, “I think it was in you.”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Chumbley, thoughtfully; “she has been very attentive and kind certainly, but then she has been far more so to Hilton and Miss Perowne. Why I saw her peel an orange for old Hilton with her own fair – I mean dark – fingers.”

“I suppose it is the Malayan way of showing courtesy to a guest,” said Grey, in an absent tone of voice, as her eyes were wandering from Captain Hilton to Helen Perowne and back; and then, in spite of herself, she sighed gently, a fact that did not pass unnoticed by Chumbley, who made of it a mental note.

Meanwhile, the half-savage banquet went on with fresh surprises from time to time for the guests, who were astonished at the extent to which the Malay Princess had adopted the best of our English customs.

Perhaps the most critical of all was Mrs Bolter, who did not scruple about making whispered remarks to her brother about the various delicacies spread around.

“If Henry does not come soon, Arthur,” she whispered, “I shall send you to fetch him. By the way, those sweets are very nicely made. Taste them.”

“Thank you, dear Mary, no,” he said, quietly, as he turned an untasted fruit round and round in his long, thin fingers.

“Arthur, how can you be so absurd?” whispered his sister. “The people will be noticing you directly.”

“What have I done, my dear Mary?” he replied, looking quite aghast.

“Nothing but stare at Helen Perowne,” she said, in a low angry voice. “Surely you don’t want her to flirt with you!”

“Hush, Mary!” he said gravely. “Your words give me pain.”

“And your glances at that proud, handsome, heartless creature give me pain, Arthur,” she replied, in the same tone. “I cannot bear it.”

The Reverend Arthur sighed, let his eyes rest upon his fruit, raised them again, and found himself in time to arrest an arrow-like glance from Helen’s eyes sent the whole length of the table, and he closed his own and shuddered as if the look had given him a pang.

“I cannot get Henry to look at me,” whispered Mrs Bolter after a time. “He seems quite guilty about something, and ashamed to meet my eye. Arthur, I am sure he is drinking more wine than is good for his health.”

“Oh, no, my dear Mary,” replied her brother. “Surely Henry Bolter knows how to take care of his constitution.”

“I don’t know that,” said the little lady, with asperity, “and he keeps talking to the Princess more than I like.”

She telegraphed to the little doctor with her eyes, but in vain; he evaded summons after summons, and Mrs Bolter began to grow wroth.

Suddenly she saw him give a bit of a start, and he seemed to be watching the slaves, who were carrying round trays of little china cups full of some native wine.

Chumbley saw it too, and for a moment he felt excited, but directly after he laughed it off.

“The doctor thinks that the Borgia dose is going round,” he said to himself, but half aloud, and Grey caught a portion of his words and turned pale.

“Borgia?” she faltered, turning to him. “Do you mean poison?”

“Did you hear my words?” he said, quickly. “Oh, it was only nonsense.”

“But you think there is poison in those little cups, Mr Chumbley? Quick! stop him!” she gasped, with an agonised look. “Mr Hilton is going to drink. Too late! too late!”

“Hush, Miss Stuart, be calm,” whispered Chumbley; “you will draw attention to yourself. I tell you it is all nonsense: a foolish fancy. Here is a tray,” he continued, as a slave came up. “Now see, I will drink one of these cupfuls to convince you.”

“And I will drink too!” she cried, excitedly; and Chumbley stared to see so much fire in one whom he had looked upon as being tame and quiet to a degree.

“No; don’t you drink,” he said, in a low voice.

“Then you do believe there is danger?” she said, excitedly.

“I do and I do not,” he replied, in the same low tone. “There,” he said, tossing off the contents of the cup, which was filled with a delicious liqueur, “I don’t think so now; but I would not drink if I were you.”

As the words left his lips, Grey Stuart raised the little cup to her mouth, slowly drained it, and set it down.

Chumbley’s brow contracted, but he could not help admiring the girl’s firmness.

“Do you like my wine?” said a voice then, and the lieutenant started on finding that the Princess had been narrowly watching them.

“Yes, it is delicious,” he said, smiling.

“I drink to you, as you English do,” she said, taking a cup from the same tray as that which had borne those of Chumbley and Grey Stuart. “I drink to your health – you two,” she said again, and she seemed to drain the cup. “Do you not think it good?” she said, in a low voice, and with a singularly impressive smile. “Surely you do not think I would give poison to my friends.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Eight.
After the Feast

The Inche Maida turned her head just then in reply to some remark made by Captain Hilton, and Chumbley took advantage thereof to whisper to his companion:

“The Princess must have understood what we said. How provoking that I should have uttered such a foolish remark! Why, I quite frightened you!”

“I was a little alarmed,” faltered Grey, who seemed agitated. “It sounded so very dreadful, Mr Chumbley,” she added, after a pause. “You have always been so kind and gentlemanly to me, may I ask a favour?”

“To be sure,” he replied.

She paused again, and he saw that she was growing more agitated, and that she could hardly speak.

“I want you to promise me – ”

Here she stopped again, and looked piteously in his face, her lips refusing to frame the words she wished to say.

“You wish me to promise never to take notice of the secret you betrayed just now, Miss Stuart?”

She nodded quickly, and her eyes sought his in a pleading way that set him thinking of what her feelings must be for Hilton.

“Give me the credit of being a gentleman, Miss Stuart,” he said, at last, quietly.

“I do – I do!” she said, eagerly. “Indeed I do, Mr Chumbley!”

“I am an old friend of Captain Hilton. We knew one another when we were quite lads, and I exchanged into this regiment so that we might be together. He’s a very good fellow, is Hilton, although he has grown so hot-headed and liable to make mistakes. I like him for many reasons, and I can’t tell you how glad I am to have learned what I have to-day.”

“Pray say no more, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, with a troubled look.

“But I shall say more, even at the risk of being considered rude,” continued Chumbley. “He is making a great mistake, just as a great many more men have made the same blunder.”

Grey tried to speak, but the words would not come.

“He’ll wake up some day,” continued Chumbley. “At present his eyes are dazzled.”

“Mr Chumbley!” said Grey, in a low, earnest, appealing tone.

She only uttered the young officer’s name, but the way in which it was spoken sufficed, and he bowed his head in answer, and for the next few minutes neither spoke.

“Miss Stuart, you may trust me,” he said, at last.

“I do, Mr Chumbley,” she replied, and a conscious feeling of pride and satisfaction thrilled the young soldier, as he looked in the frank grey eyes.

The conversation went buzzing on all around, nobody seeming to notice him; and Chumbley began to commune with himself as he gazed straight before him now.

“She’s taken with Hilton,” he said. “There’s no mistake about it. Now, why didn’t the little maid take a fancy to me? She’s very nice – very nice indeed; and I think she would be as earnest and truthful as a woman could be. Isn’t my luck, though – no, not my luck.

“By Jove, what an idiot that Hilton is,” he continued, as he glanced at the young officer, who did not seem to be aware of the fact that anyone was present but Helen, whose every look and gesture were watched with rapt attention; while from time to time she seemed to rouse herself from her languid indifferent way, and repay him with a smile.

It was rather a curious scene, and as she recovered from the agitation consequent upon her little encounter with Chumbley, Grey Stuart read a good deal of what was going on around.

It seemed to her that Helen Perowne, whom she had promised their old instructresses to befriend and aid, was the principal object of attraction to all. She felt no jealousy on this account, only a curious sense of trouble. Her affection for Helen was as great as ever, but always there seemed to be a gathering cloud of trouble right ahead, and in an undefined way this seemed to gather and threaten them both.

Sometimes her eyes fell upon little Mrs Bolter, who appeared far from enjoying the day, but to be ready at any moment to go in quest of the doctor, who kept leaving his seat to chat with someone at another part.

There was always a smile for Grey though, whenever Mrs Bolter caught her eye, and the exchange of glances seemed to comfort the little lady for the time.

The next minute Grey would see that the Rajah was looking in Helen’s direction, and she trembled at the idea of further trouble arising; but the Malay’s thoughts were hidden beneath a set smile, which did duty on all occasions now, and was bestowed upon Helen, upon the Princess, Mrs Bolter, even upon the watcher in turn.

Then, as she saw how impressive were Captain Hilton’s attentions, Grey sighed softly, and in remembrance of what had been said at Mayleyfield, she told herself that perhaps the best thing that could happen to Helen would be for her to become the young officer’s wife.

Just then Chumbley turned to her, and as if their conversation had had no pause —

“Let me add this,” he continued, “Hilton is one of the best fellows that ever breathed, only he has gone a little wild over this affair.”

“Pray say no more, Mr Chumbley,” pleaded Grey.

“Why not?” said the other, quietly. “I thought we were to be friends, Miss Stuart. Do you know I’m going to risk your displeasure by saying a word on my friend’s behalf?”

Grey tried to speak – to recover her usual calm self-possession, but her words would not come.

“This is all nonsense, you know,” continued Chumbley, “and I don’t know that I blame Hilton much. It’s only natural, you know, and the poor fellow’s only like everyone else. They all get caught by the beauty just the same as I was. You’re not a man, you know, so you can’t understand it. Now, for instance, take me. I’m a great big fellow – a sort of a small giant in my way – strong as a horse. I could take that Rajah up by his neck and one leg, and pitch him out of window; but when Helen Perowne came here, and gave me one of her looks, I was done, and she led me about just as she pleased. Ah! there’s a very comic side to it all.”

“But you soon broke your silken string, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, trying to speak in his own bantering tone.

“Not really,” he said confidentially. “The fact is, she broke it. I couldn’t have got away if I had not seen that she was only playing with me. It was she who broke it by beginning to lead others on. I say, Miss Stuart, what awful old women your schoolmistresses must have been!”

“Awful old women?” exclaimed Grey. “Yes, to bring up Miss Perowne as such – a man-killer.”

“Oh! Mr Chumbley,” cried Grey, “the Miss Twettenhams were the sweetest, most amiable of ladies, and Helen Perowne made them really very anxious – ”

She checked herself suddenly, as if annoyed at having spoken against her friend, at whom she glanced now, to see that she seemed to be really the queen of the feast.

“Yes,” said Chumbley, drily, “you’re right. They must have been nice old ladies; but about Hilton,” he continued. “You see it’s like this; a fellow gets caught before he knows where he is, and then he thinks he has arrived at the happiest time of his life; then, a few days later, he sees some other fellow coming to the happiest point of his life; and then, after a flush or two of fever, the first fellow begins to feel much better. I say, Miss Stuart, I was awfully in love with Helen Perowne.”

“Yes, I think you were,” she replied, with a sad little smile.

“Awfully,” he said again. “It was all over with me. I fell in love in five minutes, and I thought her quite a goddess; while now – ”

“Yes,” said Grey, smiling; and her face looked very bright and ingenuous. “While now?”

“Well now – I don’t,” he said, slowly. “Master Hilton won’t by-and-by. I say, Miss Grey,” he whispered, laughing merrily, “do you feel as if you were going to die?”

“To die?” she said, opening her eyes very widely in her surprise; and as they met those of Chumbley he could not help thinking what sweet, earnest eyes they were.

“Just like those of that girl tying the handkerchief round the fellow’s arm in Millais’ picture of The Huguenot,” he said to himself. “Hah! he’ll be a lucky fellow who wins her for his own!”

“Yes,” he said aloud, after a pause, during which he had looked so earnestly at her that she had cast down her eyes and blushed; “yes, of the poisoned cup. No; out here in this land of romance, and living as we are amongst sultans, and princes, and slaves, just as if the Arabian nights had been brought into private life – I ought to say poisoned chalice or envenomed goblet, but I won’t; I’ll say cup, with a dose in it. I say, Miss Stuart,” he drawled, “it was too bad of you to be so suspicious.”

“Are you two lovers?” said a deep, rich voice, close by them; and they both turned suddenly, to see that the Princess was watching them with a peculiar smile upon her lip.

“Why do you ask that?” said Chumbley, laughing.

“Because you look like it,” said the Princess. “I am glad: I like you both. You are a very wise man,” she added, tapping Chumbley on the shoulder with her fan.

“As you are wrong about the engagement, my dear Princess,” said Chumbley, laughing, “so it is natural that you should be wrong about my wisdom, for Miss Stuart and I are only the best of friends.”

The Princess looked at him very sharply, and then turned her eyes upon Grey Stuart, who, though her colour was slightly heightened, felt amused at their host’s frank, bold questioning, and met the Princess’s eyes with so ingenuous a look that the latter’s suspicions were half disarmed.

“Well,” said the Inche Maida, smiling, “what do you say?”

“That Mr Chumbley is my very good friend; that is all.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the Princess, smiling. “I don’t see why you two should not be more than friends; and sometimes I feel half glad, sometimes half sorry. What strange people you English are!”

She took Grey’s hand and held it, patting it affectionately as she spoke.

“Why are we so strange?” said Grey, smiling.

“Because it is your nature; you seem so cold and hard to touch, while a spark will set us on fire. I thought when I went to your head chief, Mr Harley, and told him and his officers of my troubles – how I, a weak woman, was oppressed by cruel neighbours – that it would have been enough to make him send fighting men to drive my enemies away. But no; it is talk, talk, talk. You are cold and distant, and you love your friends!”

“But when we make friends we are very faithful and sincere,” said Grey, earnestly.

“Some of you, my child – some of you,” said the Princess, nodding her head, and looking intently at the fair, sweet face before her. “Some of you can be very true and sincere as you call it; some of you I would not trust. And you think,” with a quick look of her dark eyes, “that you could not trust some of us. Well, perhaps you are right; but we shall see – we shall see.”