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Volume Two – Chapter One.
Strange Behaviour

In a tropical climate, where the days are too often one long punishment of heat and weariness, people believe in the dim early mornings and in the comparative coolness of the dark star-spangled nights. The day seems there a time for shelter, rest, and often for siestas of a protracted kind. Hence it follows that an evening-party is often drawn out long into the night, and guests who are comfortably seated upon a cool, dimly-lit lawn feel in no hurry to leave the open air for the mosquito-haunted heat of a sleeping-chamber.

But all pleasant things come to an end, and guests began to leave Mr Perowne’s. The absence of the two young officers passed unnoticed, and several friends took their departure after a glance round, not seeing Helen, and concluding that she was engaged.

Mrs Doctor Bolter had been, to use her own expression, “on pins and needles” for quite two hours, trying to get the doctor home; but to every fresh appeal he had something to say by way of excuse. This one had to be seen – that one had said he wished to have a few words with him – it was impossible to go at present.

“Helen Perowne will think it rude of you, my dear,” he said, reproachfully. “Go and have a chat with her again.”

Mrs Bolter tightened her lips, and made up her mind, as she subsided, to talk to the doctor next day; but at last she was driven to extremity, and captured her husband after a long hunt – in every minute of which she had made more and more sure that he was flirting with some lady in one or other of the shady walks. She found him at last under a tree, seated upon one bamboo chair with his legs on another, in company with Grey Stuart’s father, who was in a precisely similar attitude. A bamboo table was between them, upon which was a homely looking bottle and a great glass jug of cold water to help them in the mixings that took place occasionally as they sat and smoked.

“Oh, here you are, Dr Bolter,” said the lady, with some asperity.

“Yes, my dear, here I am,” he replied: “arn’t you nearly ready to go?”

Mrs Doctor Bolter gasped, for the effrontery of this remark was staggering after she had been spending the last two hours in trying to get him away.

“Ready to go!” she exclaimed, angrily. “I think it is disgracefully late; and I can’t think how Mr Stuart can sit there so patiently, knowing all the while, as he does, that his child ought to be taken home.”

Mr Stuart chuckled.

“Bolter, old fellow,” he said, “you’d better go. That’s just how my wife used to talk to me.”

“Mr Stuart, I’m surprised at you,” said Mrs Doctor, in her most impressive manner.

“Yes, it was very rude,” he said drily. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking Grey home with you? I don’t think I shall come just yet.”

“Certainly, I will take the dear child home,” replied Mrs Bolter. “I don’t think it is proper for her to be here so late.”

“Humph! Who’s she with?” said the old merchant.

“The Princess,” was the reply.

“Oh, she’s all right then. Good-night, Bolter, if you must go. Won’t you have just one wee drappie mair?”

The doctor shook his head with Spartan fortitude, and buttoned up his coat, but only to unbutton it directly.

“Good-night, Stuart; we’ll take your little lass home.”

“Thankye; do,” was the reply, and the dry old Scot sat back in his chair chuckling, as he saw the doctor marched off.

“Seen Helen about, Stuart?” said Mr Perowne, coming up five minutes later.

“No; not for an hour.”

“If you see her, tell her I’m up by the drawing-room window. People keep going, and she’s not here.”

“All right.”

“By the way, when can I see you to-morrow?” said Mr Perowne, eagerly. “I want to chat over that matter with you.”

“I shall be in my office all day if you like to call.”

“Yes; to be sure – of course. I’ll call in,” said the merchant, hastily, as if the business was unpleasant to him; and he went away muttering.

“Hah!” grunted the old merchant, “pride must have a fall, they say; and when pride does fall, it always bumps itself pretty hard upon the stones.”

The remarks made by Mrs Bolter to her husband, as they left the old Scotch merchant, were of rather a forcible nature; but there was this excuse for her: that she was very hot and extremely tired after the long evening in the enervating climate; and this had no doubt acidified her temper. But no matter what she said, the amiable little doctor took it all in good part.

He was a naturalist and student of the human frame, and it was quite natural, he told himself, that his wife should be cross now that she was weary.

“Babies are always fretful when they are tired,” he said to himself; “and a woman is only a grownup baby. Poor little soul! she will be all right in the morning.”

“Why are we going in this direction, Dr Bolter?” said the little lady. “This is not the nearest way to the gate.”

“Must go and say good-night to Perowne and Madam Helen,” he replied.

“They would not miss us,” said Mrs Doctor, tartly. “I daresay we should only be interrupting some pleasant flirtation.”

“Oh – oh – oh! I say,” said the doctor, jocularly. “For shame, my dear, for shame! I’ll tell Perowne what you say about his flirtations.”

“Don’t be foolish, Bolter,” said his wife, sharply. “You know what I mean.”

“What, about Perowne flirting with the ladies?” he said, with a smothered chuckle.

“About Helen Perowne,” she said, shortly. “Well, here we are upon the lawn, and of course there’s no host here and no hostess.”

“But there’s little Grey,” said the doctor. “By jingo, I’d about forgotten her.”

“No wonder, sir, when you have been drinking with her father to such an extent.”

“Fine thing in this climate, my dear,” said the doctor. “Where’s Arthur?”

“Tired of all this frivolity, I suppose, and gone home like a sensible man. He does not drink whiskey.”

“Oh, dear,” said the doctor, “I’ll never take another drop if you talk to me like this, but poison myself with liquor-ammoniae instead.”

“Liquor what, sir?”

“Ammonias, my dear, sal-volatile as you call it when you require a stimulus. Well, Grey, my child, we are to take you home.”

“So soon, Dr Bolter?” said the Inche Maida, by whose side Grey was seated.

“I think it quite late enough, Princess,” said Mrs Bolter, austerely. “Have you seen my brother?”

“Yes, I saw him following Miss Perowne down the walk,” said the Princess, quietly enjoying Mrs Bolter’s start. “I suppose it is pleasanter and cooler in the dark parts of the garden.”

“My brother is fond of meditation,” said Mrs Bolter, quietly; and she looked very fixedly in the Princess’s eyes.

“Yes, I suppose so; and night is so pleasant a time for thought,” retorted the Princess. “You must come with your brother and the doctor, and stay with me, Mrs Bolter.”

“Thank you, madam,” replied the little lady. “Never, if I know it,” she said to herself.

“I suppose it is late to English views?” said the Princess, smiling. “Good-bye, then, dear Miss Stuart. I will try and persuade papa to bring you to stay with me in my savage home. You really would come if he consented?”

“Indeed I should like it,” said Grey, quickly, as she looked frankly in the Princess’s handsome face, the latter kissing her affectionately at parting.

“Now we must say good-night to Perowne and our hostess,” said the doctor, merrily. “Come along, my dear, and we’ll soon be home. But I say, where are these people?”

Neither Helen nor Mr Perowne was visible; and the replies they received to inquiries were of the most contradictory character.

“There, do let us go, Dr Bolter,” exclaimed the lady, with great asperity now. “No one will miss us; but if the Perownes do, we can apologise to-morrow or next day, when we see them.”

“But I should have liked to say good-night,” said the doctor. “Let’s have one more look. I daresay Helen is down here.”

“I daresay Captain Hilton knows where she is,” said Mrs Doctor, sharply, and Grey gave quite a start.

“But I can’t find Hilton, and I haven’t seen Chumbley lately.”

“Perhaps they have been sensible enough to go home to bed,” said Mrs Doctor, after she had been dragged up and down several walks.

“Almost seems as if everybody had gone home to bed,” said the doctor, rubbing his ear in a vexed manner. “Surely Perowne and Helen would not have gone to bed before the guests had left.”

“Well, I’m going to take Grey Stuart home, Doctor,” said the lady, decisively. “You can do as you like, but if the hostess cannot condescend to give up her own pleasure for her guests’, I don’t see why we should study her.”

“Ah, here’s Perowne,” cried the doctor. “Good-night, old fellow. Thank you for a pleasant evening. We are just off. Where is Madam Helen?”

“Don’t know; but don’t wait for her,” said Mr Perowne; and after a friendly leave-taking the party of three moved towards the gates, Mrs Doctor heaving a satisfied sigh as they went along.

They had to cross the lawn again, where a goodly group of guests yet remained; and as they passed, the Inche Maida smiled and kissed her hand to Grey, while the Rajah rose to see them to the gates.

“Not gone yet, Rajah?” said the doctor. “I say, how are you going to get home?”

“My boat is waiting. We like the night for a journey, and my rowers will soon take me back.”

“And the Inche Maida, will she go back home to-night?”

“No; I think she is to stay here. Shall I go and ask her?”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Mrs Doctor, “he does not want to know. Good-night, Rajah.”

“Good-night – good-night.”

They parted at the gate, and the Rajah returned to the lawn, staying with the remaining guests till they departed; he and the Inche Maida being about the last to leave – the latter being handed by Mr Perowne into her boat, for the Rajah was wrong – the Princess had not been invited to stay, and her strong crew of boatmen were very soon sending the long light naga swiftly up stream, the smoothly-flowing water breaking up into myriads of liquid stars, as it seemed to rush glittering along on either side while they progressed between the two black walls of foliage that ran up from the surface high in air, one mass of leafage, from which the lowermost branches kissed the stream.

Volume Two – Chapter Two.
Missing

The hum of a mosquito was about the only sound to be heard in the Residency house, as, clad in silken pyjamas, Mr Harley lay sleeping easily upon his light bamboo bedstead, dimly seen through the thin gauzy curtains by the light of a well-subdued lamp.

The bedroom was furnished in the lightest and coolest way, with matting floor and sides, while jalousie shutters admitted the cool night air.

The Resident had been smoking, partly in obedience to a bad bachelor habit, partly to keep at bay that Macbeth of insects that haunts all eastern rooms, and tries so diligently to murder the sleep of the inoffensive and just.

The faint pungent odour of a good cigar still pervaded the room, and the extinct end was yet between Neil Harley’s white teeth, as he lay there dreaming about Helen Perowne, seeing her admired and followed by all the single men at the station, while he was the only one who made no sign.

He sighed in his sleep, and then uttered a low moan, as if in spite of his placid face and show of indifference he suffered deeply on Helen’s account; but a calm smile, well resembling indifference, rested upon his features, and seemed to say that, come what might, he was patiently waiting his time.

Then came a change, for the calmness seemed to be swept away by a gust of passion, and the strong man’s hands clenched, his brow grew rugged, and as if suffering from some acute agony, the white teeth of the sleeper closed tightly with a sharp click, and a portion of the bitten-through cigar rolled from his lips on to the floor.

Then all was very still. The heat seemed to grow more intense, and the faint ripple of the river, as it glided by the island, could be distinctly heard. Now and then from the distant jungle some wild, uneasy cry rose upon the still air, riding as it were across the river like a warning to tell the slumbering Europeans that the savagery of the primeval forest lay close beside their civilisation; while the wakeful might have pondered on the fact that their safety rested solely upon the British prestige, and that a spark might ignite a train that would result in a terrible conflagration sufficient to sweep them all away.

Some such thoughts crossed the sleeping brain of Neil Harley that night, and his sleep grew more and more troubled as he thought how love-blinded he had been, and the risks they had run from Helen’s treatment of the young Rajah.

The trouble had passed away now, but such another affair might result in ruin to them all; and yet he had allowed her to go on and trifle, looking on with assumed indifference, though his heart was stung the while.

Neil Harley’s sleep again grew restful and calm; for in a pleasant dream he fancied that Helen, more beautiful than ever, had bidden him to her side, telling him that all her weak and wilful coquetry was but to try him. That she had loved him from the first, for he was the only man who had really touched her heart; and that, though she had fought against the restraint he had placed upon her, and told herself that she hated him and the way in which he had mocked at her trifling, she was his – his alone – that she resigned herself to his keeping – his keeping – that of the only man who could ever sway her heart.

The night grew hotter still, and the faint breath that was wafted between the open laths that covered the window seemed to have passed from the mouth of some furnace. A harsh roar came from the jungle, and then a loud plash or two echoed over the surface of the stream, as some great reptile plunged in from the muddy bank.

Then all was very still once more for a time, till suddenly the faint plash-plash of oars was heard, seeming now to be coming nearer, now to be fading away, drowned by the shrill insect hum. Again it sounded nearer, and all doubt of its proceeding from a boat bound for the Residency island was ended by the loud challenge of the sentry at the landing-place.

Then came voices in reply, and once more the hum of the mosquitoes was all that could be heard: now low and deep, now shrill and angry.

The faint lapping of the river and the plash of oars had died away, and the silence and heat were painful enough to draw a low sigh from the sleeper, just as the bedroom door was softly opened, and a dark figure glided in, crept over the matting floor without making a sound, and bent over the bed.

For the moment it seemed as though he was there upon some errand of ill; and one who watched would have been ready to raise an alarm, the insecurity of the station life being sufficient to warrant such a supposition; but the idea of the dark figure being bent on an evil errand was at once destroyed, for after waiting for a moment, he cried, softly:

“Master – master!”

The Resident started lip with the sudden awakening of a man accustomed to suspect peril at every turn, and his hand darted beneath his pillow even as he raised himself, to be withdrawn grasping the butt of a loaded revolver.

“Ah, you Ling,” he said, with a sigh of relief, as he lowered his hand. “What is it? Someone ill?”

“Mr Perowne has come across in his boat, sir.”

“Mr Perowne? at this time! what does he want?”

“To see you, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll be there directly.” The Chinese servant glided away as silently as he had come, and the Resident hastily dashed some water in his face to clear away the sleepy feeling.

“I hope nothing serious!” he muttered. “Has Helen been taken ill?”

A pang shot through him at the thought, and the reckless behaviour of the night, that had stung him again and again during the course of the evening, was forgiven.

“Poor child!” he muttered. “I believe she loves me, and bird-like, is fluttering and timorously striving to escape from the string that holds her.” He glanced at his watch as it hung upon a stand. “Two o’clock. I have not been in bed above an hour. What can be wrong?”

The next minute he was in the dining-room, where he found Mr Perowne agitatedly walking up and down; but as soon as the Resident entered he advanced and caught him fiercely by the arm. “Harley, do you know anything of this?” he cried.

“Of this? Of what?”

“Helen! Where is she?”

“Helen? In bed and asleep I hope. What do you mean?”

“I missed her somewhere about eleven. I have not seen her since.”

The Resident looked curiously at Mr Perowne, whose flushed face and excited manner seemed to suggest that he had been playing the host too freely during the evening, and to his own deterioration in balance.

“Tired, and gone to bed. A bit peevish with weariness,” suggested the Resident, who drove back a curious sense of uneasiness that troubled him.

“No,” said Mr Perowne, hoarsely; “she has not gone to bed, and the house and the gardens have been searched again and again. Do you know anything of this?”

“I? Absurd! I left in good time. I bade her good-night when she was talking to the chaplain; he was trying to persuade her to let him cover her shoulders with the shawl he carried.”

The Resident ceased speaking to dwell for a moment upon the luminous look he had seen Helen bestow upon the chaplain – a look meant, he told himself, to annoy him, while he knew that it would give poor Rosebury food for sweet reflection during weeks to come.

“It is very strange,” said Mr Perowne excitedly; and his haggard gaze was directed about the place, as if he half expected to find that Helen was there. “Where did you see her last, do you say?”

“Talking to Rosebury, and before then she was with Hilton. I fancy they were having words. Well, perhaps I ought hardly to say that; but Hilton was certainly remonstrating angrily.”

“When was that?”

“Half-past ten or eleven; I cannot say for certain.”

“Let us go and see Hilton,” said Mr Perowne; “but stay. Am I to believe you, Harley?”

“As you please, Mr Perowne,” said the Resident, with dignity. “Why should you doubt my word?”

“I do not doubt it!” cried Mr Perowne, catching his hand. “Pity me, Harley. I seem cold and strange; but I love that girl, and she is gone.”

He gasped painfully as he spoke, but smiled sadly directly after as the Resident warmly grasped his hand.

“One minute,” said the Resident; and hastily adding something to his clothing, he joined his visitor again, and the two sallied forth into the still, hot night, to make their way to the little fort, which was stronghold and barracks in one.

Here they were challenged by another sentry, for, peaceful times as they were, the military arrangements were always kept upon the sternest war footing.

“We want to see Captain Hilton,” said Mr Harley, in his quick, commanding way.

“Captain’s ashore, sir. He went to Mr Perowne’s party.”

“Yes, yes,” said that gentleman; “we know: but he has come back.”

“No, sir; not while I’ve been on guard – three hours, sir.”

“Call the sergeant,” said Mr Harley, sharply.

He needed no calling, for, hearing voices, he had come out to see who came so late.

“Where is Captain Hilton?”

“I thought he was stopping to sleep at Mr Perowne’s, sir,” said the sergeant, saluting. “Hasn’t been back. Beg pardon, sir; didn’t see it was Mr Perowne.”

“But he left my house hours ago,” said that gentleman.

“Gone to stay at Dr Bolter’s, perhaps, sir,” suggested the sergeant.

“Are you sure he did not return while your back was turned?” said Mr Harley.

“Quite sure, sir. Still, he might, sir; it’s no use to be too sure. Like to go to his quarters, sir?”

“Yes, we’ll go in,” said the Resident, quickly; and following the sergeant, after exchanging glances, the two gentlemen entered Hilton’s room.

The bed had not been pressed, and everything was in order, just as the regimental servant had placed it after his master had dressed to attend the evening fête.

“Mr Chumbley hasn’t come back neither,” said the sergeant.

“Not come back!” said the Resident, wondering. “This is strange. I don’t know, though. They have gone to smoke a cigar with someone, and then decided to stay all night.”

Mr Perowne shook his head, and the Resident felt that his explanation was not good, and both were silent as they walked back towards the entrance of the fort.

“What does this mean?” said Mr Perowne, at last.

“Can’t say yet,” replied the Resident, sharply. “Sergeant, have a look round, and make sure that Captain Hilton and Mr Chumbley have not come back.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll look round,” said the sergeant; “but they couldn’t have landed without the sentries knowing.”

“Go and see,” said the Resident, sternly; and the sergeant saluted and walked away.

“They must be staying somewhere,” said the Resident, who suffered from the desire to keep back the question that so agitated his breast. “Depend upon it, they have gone to the doctor’s to smoke a cigar.”

He felt as he spoke that this was impossible; for he was sure that the hours kept at the doctor’s were too regular for such a relapse.

“And my daughter?” said Mr Perowne, in a cold, stern voice.

“I’ll have the men out to search if it is necessary,” said the Resident, eagerly; “but before we proceed to such an extreme measure, had we not better make more inquiries? Yours is a large house and grounds. She may be back by now.”

Neil Harley felt a strange choking sensation as he spoke, and he knew that his words were weak; but he clung to the hope that there was some mistake, and that Helen was by now safely at home.

“She may,” said Mr Perowne, bitterly. “But it seems to me that there is some trick here. I gave you the credit of it at first.”

“Am I a man so wanting in respect for Helen that I should insult her and you?”

“I – I can’t help it, Harley!” groaned the father. “There seems to be no end to my troubles!”

The Resident looked at him sharply, for that evening he had seemed all life and gaiety.

“Yes, you may look!” groaned the unhappy man; “but everything goes wrong with me. There is, I am sure, some planned affair here; and I believe that Hilton is at the bottom of it.”

“Do not be so ready to condemn, Perowne,” said the Resident, quickly. “I feel sure that Hilton would be guilty of no rash, foolish escapade like this. It is absurd! Good heavens, man! do you think that Helen would degrade herself by eloping? I will not believe it!”

“I wish I could feel you were right,” groaned the unhappy father.

“Why Chumbley is away too. It is like saying that he is implicated.”

“He is Hilton’s chosen companion,” said Mr Perowne, sadly.

“Tut, man; we shall have to look farther afield than that.”

“Then why are they not here to speak for themselves?” cried Mr Perowne, in a querulous, excited way. “Hilton has been constantly hanging about my place a great deal more than Helen liked, and she showed it to-night by completely turning her back upon him.”

“But surely you do not think that Hilton – ” began the Resident.

“I do not think anything,” said Mr Perowne, angrily. “But here is the fact before us: my daughter is missing, and Captain Hilton has not returned to his quarters.”

“Neither has Chumbley,” said the Resident, uneasily.

“Neither has Chumbley,” assented Mr Perowne.

“A man who, beneath his languid indifference, is the soul of honour,” said the Resident; and he led the way to the boat by which Mr Perowne had come across.

The men were lying in the bottom asleep; but they roused up directly as the two gentlemen entered and were rowed to the landing-stage at the foot of Mr Perowne’s garden, where the swift stream was lapping the stones placed to keep it from washing the lawn away.

As they were rowed across Neil Harley found himself looking thoughtfully down into the water time after time, and a curious shuddering sensation came upon him, one which he strove hard to cast off.

He could not, he would not believe it possible, he told himself; but in spite of his efforts, and the mastery he generally had over self, the thought would come.

They found the servants ready with the answer that nothing had been seen of their young mistress, though they had continued searching ever since their master had gone away.

“Shall we look round ourselves?” said Mr Perowne.

“No, if you say the house has been searched.”

“I have been in every room myself.”

“Then let us go on to the doctor’s. We may find Hilton and Chumbley there, and they perhaps can throw some light upon the matter.”

Mr Perowne bowed, and they hurried off to the doctor’s pretty bungalow, a short distance away.

“They are not here, unless they are stopping to sleep.”

“How do you know?”

“There is no light.”

All the same the Resident tapped sharply at the door, and his summons was followed by a thump on the floor, as if someone had leaped out of bed.

The next moment a window was thrown open, and the doctor’s voice was heard.

“Now then: who’s ill?”

“Don’t be alarmed, doctor,” said the Resident.

“Oh, it’s you, Harley. Had too much supper?”

“No, no. Tell me quickly. Did Hilton and Chumbley come home with you?”

“No; they went away ever so long before.”

“Did you see them go?”

“No. Can’t say I did.”

“They have not been back to their quarters.”

“Stopped to have a cigar somewhere.”

“Perhaps so; but tell me, when did you see Hilton last?”

“I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do. He went down towards the river, with a cigar in his mouth.”

“When did you see my daughter?” said Mr Perowne.

“Oh! are you there, Perowne? Well, I don’t know. Not for an hour before we came away.”

“An hour and a half,” said Mrs Bolter’s voice. “We didn’t see her when we came away.”

“Did she go away with anyone, Mrs Bolter?” exclaimed Perowne, eagerly.

“No; I saw her walk towards the house by herself. I’ll get up and dress directly. Perhaps I can do some good. The poor girl has been overcome by the heat, Bolter, and fainted away somewhere in the grounds. We’ll both dress and come on directly, Mr Perowne. Have the shrubberies searched again. Henry, go and rouse up Arthur; he may be useful.”

“Yes, call him,” said the Resident; “he was seen with her last, and may know where she went.”