One Maid's Mischief

“Dangerous – no! Look at that tree laden with blossoms to the water’s edge.”

“Yes, I see it. Very pretty. Can you see a tiger’s nose poking through?”

“No, no, man; but look at the magnificent butterflies – four of them. Why, they must be nine inches across the wings. Where’s Rosebury?”

“Oh! come, doctor: you are better,” exclaimed Chumbley, smiling. “That’s right; don’t think any more about my scare.”

“This trip is completely spoiled,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly. “No shooting – no collecting! Oh! for goodness’ sake, look at that bird, Chumbley!”

“What, that little humpbacked chap on the dry twig?”

“Yes.”

“Hah! he looks as if he has got the pip.”

“My dear fellow, that’s one of the lovely cinnamon-backed trogons. Look at his crimson breast and pencilled wings.”

“Yes, very pretty,” said Chumbley; “but I often think, doctor, that I’d give something to see half a dozen sooty London sparrows in a genuine old English fog.”

“Nonsense, man. There, too – look!” he cried, pointing, as like a streak of white light a great bird flew across the river. “That’s a white eagle. I never have such chances as this when I’m out collecting.”

“S’pose not,” said Chumbley, drily. “It’s always the case when a fellow has no gun. Precious good job for the birds.”

“Oh! this is maddening!” cried the doctor. “Look – look at that, Chumbley,” and he pointed to the dead branch of a tree, upon which a bird sat motionless, with the sun’s rays seeming to flash from its feathers.

“Yes, that is rather a pretty chap,” said Chumbley. “Plays lawn tennis evidently. Look at his tail.”

“Yes, that is one of the lovely racket-tailed kingfishers, Chumbley. Ah! I wish, my dear boy, you had a little more taste for natural history. That is a very, very rare specimen, and I’d give almost anything to possess it.”

“Aren’t those long feathers in his way when he dives after fish?” said Chumbley.

“There it is, you see,” cried the doctor. “You unobservant men display your ignorance the moment you open your lips. These Malay kingfishers do not dive after fish, but chase the beetles and butterflies.”

“Poor beetles! and poor butterflies!” said Chumbley, with his eyes half closed. “I say, doctor, this is very delightful and dreamy. I begin to wish I was a rajah somewhere up the river here, with plenty of slaves and a boat, and no harassing drills, and tight uniform, and no one to bully me – not even a wife. I say, old fellow, if I am missing some day, don’t let them look for me, because I shall have taken to the jungle. I’m sick of civilisation and all its shams.”

“Hallo! you two,” cried a voice. “Come, I say, this isn’t fair. Here they are, Hilton.”

It was the Resident who spoke, and Captain Hilton also appeared the next moment, the four gentlemen so completely filling up the space that the steersman hardly had room to work his oar.

“It’s all right,” said Chumbley, coolly. “The doctor was giving me a lesson in natural history.”

“With the help of a cigar,” said Hilton. “Shall we join them, Harley?”

“Yes – no. We had better get back. The Rajah might think himself slighted if we stayed away.”

“Yes, you’re right,” exclaimed Chumbley; and getting up slowly, they all made their way back to the covered-in portion of the boat, where the beauties of the river were being discussed, and where Hilton found a seat beside Helen Perowne.

“How nice little Stuart looks in her white dress!” thought Chumbley to himself. “A fellow might do worse than marry her. Humph! Is Mr Rajah Murad going to try it on there, as he has been disappointed in Helen Perowne? No; it is only civility. ’Pon my word the fellow is quite the natural gentleman, and can’t have such ideas in his head as those for which I gave him credit.”

Chumbley chatted first with one and then with another; while in his soft, quiet way, looking handsome and full of desire to please his guests, the Rajah threw off his Eastern lethargy of manner, and seemed to be constantly on the watch for some fresh way of adding to the pleasures of the trip.

Not that it wanted additions, for to sit there in the shade, listening to the plash of oars and the musical ripple of the clear water against the sides of the boat, while the ever-changing panorama of green trees waving, rich bright blossoms, with now and then a glimpse of purple mountain and pale blue hazy hill, was sufficiently interesting to gratify the most exacting mind.

Now and then they passed a native village or campong, with its bamboo houses raised on platforms, the gable-ended roofs thatched with palm-leaves, and the walls frequently ingeniously woven in checkered patterns with strips of cane. The boats attached to posts or palm-tree trunks told of the aquatic lives of the people, this being a roadless country, and the rivers forming the highway from village to village or town to town.

The easy motion of the boat, the musical ripple of the water, the rhythmical sweep of the oars, and the ever-changing scenery in that pure atmosphere, redolent with the almost cloying scent of the flowers, seemed to produce its effect on all, and the conversation soon gave place to a dreamy silence, in which the beauty of the river was watched with half-closed eyes, till after some hours’ rowing against stream, a loud drumming and beating of gongs was heard, making the doctor and Chumbley exchange glances, and the former whispered to the lieutenant:

“Does that mean mischief?”

“Don’t know: can’t say,” was the reply. “It may mean welcome. All we can do is to keep quiet and our eyes open, then we shall see.”

“Very philosophical, but precious unsatisfactory,” muttered the doctor, as the boats went on towards where a cluster of houses showed their pointed roofs amidst the cocoa-palm, and here a couple of flags were flying, one yellow, the other the familiar union-jack; while under the trees could be seen a party of gaily-dressed women, among whom, by the aid of a lorgnette, Hilton could make out the tall, commanding figure of the Malay Princess.

“Looks more like peace than war,” thought Chumbley, as the boats neared the landing-place – a roughly-constructed platform of bamboo, alongside of which the steersman cleverly laid the first naga, the second boat being steered beside the first and there made fast. The Inche Maida, with her female attendants, then came slowly up between two lines of her slaves to welcome with floral offerings the party of guests.

“Oh, it’s all nonsense, Chumbley,” whispered the doctor to the lieutenant.

“Yes. I think it is,” was the reply, “unless,” he added, with a laugh, “they come one of the Borgia tricks and poison the cups. I mean to drink with the Princess so as to be safe.”

“I don’t mean to think any more about it,” said the doctor.

As there was a good deal of ceremony observed by the Princess in coming to meet them, something in the form of a procession was made, the Rajah with great courtesy and good taste offering his arm to the oldest lady of the party – Mrs Doctor Bolter; and the pleasant little lady flushed slightly as she was led up to the Princess, who took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, bidding her welcome and thanking her for coming; and then taking a magnificent bouquet of sweet-scented flowers from one of her attendants, she presented it to her guest.

Chumbley was one of the next to approach with the lady of a merchant settled at the station; and the Princess’s eyes flashed as the bright look of welcome to the great manly young fellow changed into one of anger.

It was but a flash though, and the next moment she was smiling as if in contempt of her suspicions, for the lady Chumbley escorted was sallow and grey, and the greeting to her was made as warm and affectionate as that to the doctor’s lady.

Then the Princess held out her plump, brown, well-shaped hand to Chumbley.

“I am glad to see you,” she said, with a smile, and her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon his goodly proportions. “Take that,” she added, as she removed a great yellow jasmine sprig from her rich black hair; and Chumbley bowed, and placed it in his buttonhole.

They passed on, and other guests approached to be presented to the Princess in this sylvan drawing-room, held in the pale green light of the shade beneath the palms and lacing ferns, through which an arrowy rain of silver threads of sunlight seemed to be ever falling, flashing and scintillating the while.

The Resident was greeted with the most friendly warmth; and Grey, who held his arm, was folded in quite a warm embrace. The choicest bouquet of sweetly-scented flowers being placed in her hands, the fair English girl flushed with pleasure as her tawny hostess said, softly:

“Don’t go away, Miss Stuart. You will stay and sit near me.”

“You seem to have thoroughly won the Inche Maida’s heart, Miss Stuart,” said the Resident, looking smilingly into his companion’s face.

“I like her very much,” replied Grey. “She seems to be very natural and feminine. I hope she means it all.”

“Yes; it would be unpleasant to find out that it was all glaze,” said the Resident, thoughtfully. “But do you know,” he continued, speaking very slowly, and watching the continuation of the reception the while, “I think she is a very jolly, good-hearted sort of woman, and – I – should – think – she – is – very genuine. Yes,” he added, after a pause and speaking now quickly, “I am sure now that she has no more dissimulation in her than a fly. What do you say?”

“Oh, Mr Harley, what does that mean?”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Forest Banquet