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 glass 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.”
“Then will you send this paper by a messenger down to the station?”
“Paper?” said the girl, wonderingly.
“Yes, paper. I have written for help; send it by a messenger. Here are my rings and watch to pay him for going. Take them, and if you have any womanly feeling, help me now.”
“I cannot; I dare not,” whispered the woman; but Helen forced paper and trinkets into her hand, just as the second attendant was heard coming, when her companion burst out into one of the minor songs of the country, and busied herself with her task.
Helen’s heart gave one great throb of hope, and raising her eyes to those of her attendant, she read there that her message would be sent.
The second woman brought in a bunch of what seemed to be a kind of waxy yellow jasmine of an extremely powerful odour. These she proceeded to twine in and amongst Helen’s magnificent dark hair; and when the prisoner shudderingly attempted to resist, feeling as she did that she was being decked out for, as it were, a sacrifice, the flower-bearer stormed at her angrily in the Malay tongue, and seemed to threaten her with some severe punishment if she persisted in tearing them out.
“It would be childish to keep on opposing them,” thought Helen, whose spirits were lighter now that she had found some means, as she hoped, of communicating with the station; and she resigned herself to her attendant’s clever hands.
As she sat back, listening languidly to the whistling, chattering noise of the parroquets that swarmed in the jungle, she felt a pang shoot through her, for very faintly heard there was a sound familiar to her ear—a sound that she had frequently listened to at her open window at the station. It was the plashing of oars coming from a distance, and she felt that at last the Rajah was approaching the place, to see his prisoner.
Helen’s teeth gritted together as she set them hard, calling upon herself for all her fortitude and strength of mind for what she knew must be a terrible ordeal.
The scene at home on that morning when Murad had come to propose for her hand came back most vividly, and for the moment she trembled as she realised the evil she had done.
She recovered herself though somewhat, and striving hard to be prepared for what was to come, sat listening and wondering whether Murad really was close at hand.
She had not long to wait in indecision, and she knew that her hearing had not played her false, for the two girls had heard the same sound, and running to the window, stood listening as the plash of oars now came nearer and nearer.
Then the sounds ceased, and there was to Helen a painful silence. The heat grew oppressive, and the leaves hung motionless in the glowing air. For the moment it seemed like one of the oppressive July days in her old school; but the fancy was gone directly after, and the horrors of her position came back so strongly that she could hardly refrain from running wildly about the room and crying for help.
Just then the two girls left the window, and crossed to where Helen was seated, darting at her, as it seemed in her then excited condition, furious and angrily envious looks before turning now to the doorway, passing through, and letting the great curtain fall behind.
As Helen waited her heart began to beat violently, for there was no mistaking the import of the sounds she heard. So far they had been women’s voices, now unmistakably they were men’s; and growing more and more agitated, and ready to start at every sound, she sat waiting for the interview that she knew must come.
To her surprise the day glided on till the afternoon was well advanced, and still, beyond the occasional sound of male voices, there was nothing to distinguish between this day and any other, save that once, when left alone together, the Malay girl whispered to her:
“I have sent a messenger with your paper, but he may never take it where you wish.”
Before Helen could declare her thankfulness the girl was gone, giving place to the other, who looked at her morosely, and then stood leaning by the door till a loud voice called her, and she answered, going out quickly, while Helen sat trembling and pressing her hand upon her palpitating heart.
Could it be true? and if true, were there not attendants waiting to guard the entrance, for unmistakably it seemed that the Malay girl had hurried to obey the call and left the door open.
Helen rose, and walked with tottering step to the door, to find that not only was it open, but that there was no one in the room beyond—a room whose door opened straight upon a kind of bamboo veranda, with a flight of steps down to the ground; while beyond that was a clearing, and then the jungle.
She paused for a minute listening. There was not a sound but the loud whistling and chattering of the birds in the trees. The place might have been deserted, everything was so still; and it did not occur to her that this was a time when many of the people would be asleep till the heat of the day was past.
It was enough for her that the way to freedom was there; and hesitating no longer, she passed out into the farther room, reached the door unseen, and was in the act of descending the flight of steps, when one of the Malay women of the place saw and ran at her, catching her by the dress and arm, and holding her so tenaciously, that Helen, in her anguish at being thus checked, uttered a cry for help, escaped her retainer, and then leaped down and ran.
The Malay woman was joined by another now; and in her excitement and ignorance of which way to go, she was driven into a corner, but only to make a brave dash for liberty as the girls caught and held her again.
In her excitement Helen cried again and again for help, forgetful of the fact that she was more likely to summon enemies than friends.
The cries of a woman had little effect there, for beyond bringing out a couple more of the Malay women, Helen’s appeals for help seemed to create no excitement; and she was beginning to feel that her efforts would prove in vain, when she saw a figure come from amongst the trees, and stretching out her hands towards it, she made one last effort to reach what she had looked upon as safety.
For there could be no mistaking that figure. It was the chaplain. At the moment it seemed to her that Arthur Rosebury had been sent there expressly to save her from her terrible position; and half-fainting, panting, and thoroughly exhausted, she tottered on, tripped, and fell.
The effort to escape was vain, for a couple of Malay women seized Helen’s arms and dragged her off, followed by the chaplain, but not for many yards. Before he had gone far he too was seized, and hurried back in the way by which he had come. It was vain to struggle, and he had to resign himself, but it was with feelings mingled with indignation and disgust.
The Malay lady was evidently of superior station by her dress; and that she was ill-used there could be no doubt. His English blood glowed at the thought, and clergyman though he was, and man of peace, he still felt enough spirit to be ready to have undertaken her defence.
He cooled down, though, as he was hurried back through the jungle—cooled in temper, but heated in body; while the faintness and hunger soon increased to such an extent that his adventure with the Malay lady was forgotten.
But not by Helen Perowne, who, once more shut up in her room, rejoiced to think that, though surrounded by enemies, there was one friend near—a true friend whom she could trust—one who would be ready to do anything for her sake, badly as she had behaved to him.
“He cannot be far away,” she said, half aloud, and with the hysterical sobs in her throat. “He is near, and there must be friends with him. He saw me, and he will not lose a minute without bringing help; and then—”
And then she stopped as if paralysed, for the thought came upon her with a flash that, though the Reverend Arthur Rosebury had seen her, he had only gazed upon a tall, swarthy Malay woman, in whom he could not possibly have recognised Helen Perowne.