One Maid's Mischief Part 79

In his eyes the botanist was a simple maniac, and so long as he made no vigorous effort to escape, it did not seem to matter if he went a little way into the jungle to collect his plants.

Stepping back quietly a few yards, the man held up his hands in a peculiar way, and a couple of dark figures armed with spears, glided from the house to his side, the little party crouching down amongst the dense growth, and holding a consultation for a few minutes, the result of which was that the two last arrivals glided back a short distance, while the princ.i.p.al guard slowly followed the chaplain some twenty or thirty yards behind, and always unseen by him he watched. The foliage was so dense that there was never the slightest difficulty in this, and hence it was that as the Reverend Arthur, forgetful now of everything but his favourite pursuit, went slowly on into the more easily penetrated parts of the jungle, his guards were always close at hand, forming as it were the links of a chain between his prison and himself.

At intervals he would perhaps stop and think of Helen, wondering where she was, and whether he ought not to make some strenuous effort to find her; but as often as not, in the midst of these thoughts, he would catch sight of some fresh flower or woodland moss, objects that he had wors.h.i.+pped long before Helen Perowne had disturbed the tranquillity of his peaceful life, and then he would eagerly stoop down to pick it, most likely ending by kneeling in some wet place, while he fixed a powerful lens in his eye, examined the plant carefully, and stopped to think.

Then most likely he would pick some huge leaf to lay upon the ground, and with that as tray to hold the various portions of his specimen, he would take out a penknife, and proceed to dissect the plant, examining its various parts with the greatest care before making the most rigid notes, and then consigning his treasure to the basket he had brought with him.

This went on day after day, till he got into the habit of going off directly after his morning meal, and penetrating some distance along some narrow jungle path, generally losing himself completely at last, and pausing to stare about him, hungry, faint, and bewildered.

It was always the same; after staring about him for a few minutes, wondering what he should do, and feeling oppressed by the vastness and silence of the jungle, he would catch sight of a tall dark figure, standing some little distance off, leaning upon a spear, and go to it for help.

The quiet helplessness of the prisoner seemed to win his guards over to him; and as day after day glided slowly by, and he showed not the slightest disposition to make an attempt at escape, he was allowed more lat.i.tude by the Malays and travelled farther and farther from the place that had been made his prison.

It was only natural under the circ.u.mstances, that, with the cord that metaphorically held him so much relaxed, it would grow weaker and weaker, and so it proved. In fact, had the chaplain been as other men were, he would have had but little difficulty in making his escape. But after thinking deeply of the possibilities of getting away, the Reverend Arthur concluded that not only was it next to impossible, but that, situated as he was, it was his duty to stay where he was, especially as he believed himself to be near Helen, who was also a captive, and whom, sooner or later, he would be called upon to help and protect. He had, too, a half-formed, nebulous idea that it would be better to leave matters to fate, for in his helpless state he could do nothing; and then one day he began to think that his wanderings about the jungle might prove beneficial in giving him a knowledge of the country, and on the day in question this idea had come upon him strongly.

He actually reproached himself for being so supine, and went off uninterrupted for some distance, growing more and more animated as he went, and telling himself that he felt sure Helen Perowne was somewhere near, and that he must strive to find her.

The result was that he walked laboriously on for miles, till he was hot, weary, and exhausted; and then seating himself upon the trunk of a huge palm, which being situated in a more open place than usual, had been blown down by some furious gale, he began to wipe the drenching perspiration from his face, sighed deeply, and then saw cl.u.s.tering close by his feet a magnificent group of orchids of a species that was quite new.

The Reverend Arthur Rosebury had gone on well into middle life without so much as dreaming of love, and then he had seen Helen Perowne, and his love for her had not prospered. Still it had burned on steadily and brightly month after month, and only wanting a little fostering care upon the lady's part to make it burst forth into a brilliant flame; but somehow his old pursuits retained an enormous power over his spirit, and although upon this particular day he had come out determined to make some effort--what he hardly knew, but still to make some effort--he was turned at once from his project by the flowers at his feet; and that day Helen's face troubled him no more.

Heat, hunger, and weariness were all forgotten, and he did not even look round to see if either of his guards was there, though all the same the princ.i.p.al of them had for the last hour been following him with lowering looks. Quite out of patience, and hot and exhausted in his turn, he was about to close up, take the chaplain by the arm, and lead him back, when he saw him seat himself, and soon after stoop down and begin to pick the plants, digging some of them up completely by the roots, and spreading them before him for a long investigation.

The Malay smiled with satisfaction, and the lowering, angry look left his face. He, too, found a resting-place, took out his eternal betel-box, and prepared his piece of nut, chewing away contentedly, like some ruminating animal, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the Reverend Arthur as he busied himself with his plants, cutting, laying open, and making notes. As in the distance the Malay saw the chaplain's pencil going, he slowly sank back into a more comfortable position; then his eyes began to open and shut, and open and shut, and then forget to open, so that by the time the prisoner had begun to gather up his specimens, a happy smile of content upon his lip, the guard was lying right back, hidden amongst the dense growth, sleeping heavily, and half-covered by different kinds of insects which were investigating the nature of the strange being that had taken possession of their domain.

The time pa.s.sed, and then the chaplain rose refreshed by his long rest, looked round to see which way he had come, and after satisfying himself that he was quite right, went off in a direction that, for taking him back to whence he came, was quite wrong.

It did not trouble him though in the least, for his mind was intent upon the plants he pa.s.sed; and so accustomed was he to giving up his thoughts entirely to such pursuits as this, that he was quite lost to everything else, and he went slowly on, finding himself in a more open portion of the jungle, and surrounded on all sides by new plants.

It was a perfect paradise to him, and he did not feel the want of an Eve, but culled the specimens here and there, careless of the fact that there was no path where he was, no trace of human beings having been there before, but there were choice specimens in abundance, and that was enough for him.

Once only did his thoughts go back to his friends, and that was when with much difficulty he had forced his way through some dense thorns with unfortunate results to his clothes.

"I am afraid that Mary would be rather angry," he muttered, "if she saw me now. Poor Mary! how happy she seems with the doctor; but she is just a little too strict sometimes."

Thinking about his sister, he went on in the most abstracted manner, the thoughts of his sister bringing up Helen Perowne, and he went on talking to himself half aloud, while a flock of parroquets in the trees above his head kept travelling on with him, flitting from branch to branch, climbing by foot and beak, hanging by one leg, heads up and heads down, and always seeming to watch him, and be mocking and gibing at him like a set of green and scarlet feathered implings who made derisive gestures, while they were astounded at the sight of an English clergyman journeying through that savage place.

"I'm afraid dear Mary would not like it," he said, simply, "even if finally Helen were to give me her consent. And yet dear Mary would never be able to resist so much beauty as Helen possesses. I wonder where she is now?"

He sighed deeply, and then paused to consider the beauty of a lovely acacia with its graceful pinnate leaves. Then came a hard struggle through a dense cane-break which left him hot and panting.

"It's much pleasanter travelling through the English woods," he said.

"The heat here is very trying, and I'm getting faint and hungry. I'm afraid I've lost my way."

He looked about for some little time, but saw nothing till he had dragged his weary legs on for about another half-mile, when the appearance of the ground told him that people had not long since pa.s.sed that way.

"Then I shall find a village," he said, "and the people will give or sell me something, and--Bless me, how strange!"

He stopped short and listened, but all was still but the chattering and whistling of the birds.

"It must have been one of the parrots," he said, "but it sounded remarkably like a woman's voice. It is an unaccountable thing to me how it is that nature should have given the parrot family so remarkable a power of imitating the human voice. Now, as I walked along there I could have been sure that a woman had called to me aloud for help. It sounded very peculiar in this wild jungle, echoing and strange, and it seemed to startle me."

There was a regular chorus of whistling and chattering just now, and the chaplain started, for there came directly after a loud whirring of wings; the air seemed full of flashes of green, and blue, and scarlet, and then the stillness was almost painful.

"How easily one may be deceived!" he said, quietly. "One notices such things more when one is tired and hungry; and it is very dull work to be alone out here. I wish Bolter could be my companion and--there it was again."

The chaplain stopped short and listened, for a wild cry certainly rang out now; and, willing as he was to attribute the strange noise to a bird, it seemed impossible that it could have proceeded from one of them.

"If it is a cry," the chaplain said, hastily, "I must be very near to a village, and someone is in trouble."

The idea of help being needed roused him so that he hurried on, and kept thrusting back the hanging and running canes which impeded his way, till at the end of a few minutes he came suddenly upon an open s.p.a.ce surrounded by trees, with evidently a broad track, leading away towards what, from the difference in the growth of the foliage, must be a stream.

Away to the right he could see the gable-end of what was apparently a large palm-thatched house, and over it there was a group of magnificent cocoa-palms, such as at another time would have secured his attention; but now different feelings were awakened, for from out of a low clump of trees he suddenly saw a Malay woman come running, her gay silken sarong and scarf fluttering in the breeze.

She saw him evidently, and made signs to him, which, instead of attracting him to her side, made him shrink away.

"It is some quarrel among themselves," he muttered, for he recalled the advice he had heard given him as to his behaviour to the people, and the danger of interfering with their home lives.

As he thought this, he stopped, and was about to turn away, when a fresh cry smote his ear, and the woman ran a few paces towards him, tottered as she caught her foot in a trailing cane, and fell heavily to the ground.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.

More long weary days of stifling heat, without a breath of air to relieve the oppression, and more hot suffocating nights, during which, half wild with terror and despair, Helen, like some newly-captured bird, had beaten the bars of her prison in vain.

She had appealed to the Malay girl, but only for her to turn away and seem at last weary and troubled by the importunity she had received.

Then she had appealed to the second girl, who was of a morose jealous aspect, and who evidently detested her. But all appeal here was vain, for the girl evidently did not understand her words, and turned sullenly away. It was so, too, with the rest of the women, who came to the door and just entered the room in obedience to some call.

But Helen might as well have appealed to the trees that stood tall and columnar just outside the prison window. Those who did not understand her words looked at her with a heavy scowl; while those who could comprehend laughed, or made her keep away from them, for they disliked her coming, and their eyes plainly told the hatred that there was in their hearts. Beside which, they knew the punishment that would fall to their lot should they go in opposition to their lord's orders, and the danger was too great to tempt the most willing of them to run any risks.

The girl who had been most gentle to her, and who had not scrupled to talk freely about her own affairs, now seemed to keep aloof; and feeling more and more her helplessness, Helen awoke to the fact that if she were to escape from her present durance it must be by her own effort.

In this spirit she tried to restrain herself, and waited patiently for some opportunity for communicating with her friends; though when this opportunity would come she was obliged to confess was doubtful in the extreme.

Naturally enough her thoughts turned to writing, and feeling the folly of applying in a place like her prison for pens and paper, she set herself to contrive some means upon which she could describe her position, finding it at last in the form of a book, one of whose fly-leaves she covered with a pitiful appeal to any Englishman who would read it, and imploring help. This she kept by her, ready to send should opportunity occur, and still the dreary days glided by.

There was one redeeming point, though, in her captivity, and that was the fact that so far she had not been troubled by a visit from Murad; but at last one morning, when the fresh beauty of the scene outside her window and the elasticity of the brisk air made her feel more cheerful than of old, she awoke to the fact that there was a little stir about the place; the women calling to each other and seeming busier than was their wont. The two girls who acted as Helen's gaolers ran to the gla.s.s as soon as they entered, and with all the coquetry of some London belle in her first season, placed wreaths of white flowers in their braids, twisted their sarongs into more graceful folds, and then turned their attention to Helen.

She refused to allow them to approach her at first, but her resistance was useless, and finding that without violence there were no means of overcoming their tolerably good-humoured pertinacity, she submitted, wearily telling them to do what they pleased, when one, the most friendly, insisted upon taking down her magnificent hair.

"Only to make it more beautiful," she said.

At this moment the other woman left the room.

"Will you help me to escape?" said Helen, quickly, as soon as they were alone.

"No; I dare not. Murad would have me killed."