Their meeting, too, was wonderfully warm; and while the Resident saw how broad-chested and sunbrowned the Major had become, Hilton had been noting how fair Helen’s skin remained, in spite of her long stay in a tropic land; but when she smiled, there was still a faint trace left of disfigurement at the lower part of her teeth.
As for the Resident, he looked the beau idéal of a middle-aged English gentleman, and brighter and happier than Hilton had ever seen him before; while as to the old sore, it was quite healed up; and the meeting between Hilton and Helen was just that of old friends; nothing more.
“And now about Chumbley?” said Hilton, as they sat after dinner sipping their claret in the veranda, watching the fire-flies, and listening to the plashing of boat or reptile in the placid, rapid-flowing, starlit stream.
There had been inquiries before, but the time had been so taken up, that Chumbley’s career had been pretty well left out till now; when, as the two gentlemen sat smoking, an open door showed them the drawing-room with its shaded lamp, and the faces of the two graceful women—their wives—as they sat and chatted of old school troubles, and the other incidents of their career.
“About old Chum?” said the Resident; “oh, I often see him. He should have been here if I had known you were so close at hand. You know he came back six months after the company was changed, went straight up to the Inche Maida’s place, brought her back, and they went down to Singapore, got married, and returned directly.”
“And has he repented?” said Hilton.
“Go and see him, and judge for yourself.”
The result was, that one fine morning Hilton had himself rowed up to the Inche Maida’s home, at Campong Selah, where, on landing, he found that he was received with the most profound respect, and conducted to the palm-tree house, which was now surrounded by a most carefully-cultivated garden.
On entering the place, he found himself in what might have been a country gentleman’s home, the hall being full of sporting trophies, arms, and the paraphernalia of an occupant of sporting tastes.
“What. Hilton! never!” cried a bluff voice, and Chumbley, in a semi-sporting and native costume—wearing puggree, shooting jacket, sarong, and kris—and looking brown as a native, seized him by the hands, and nearly shook his arms out of their sockets. “Why, I am glad to see you, old man!”