One Maid's Mischief

“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.”