Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.
Dr Bolter Takes a Holiday.
That question of the possibility of Helen Perowne coming back interfered a good deal with Doctor Bolter’s project—one which he had been longing to put in force for months and months—a project which his journey to England and his marriage had set aside, though it was never forgotten.
“Suppose Helen comes back?” he asked himself often.
“Well, I ought to be here,” he said; “but if she were to return in my absence she couldn’t help being pleased, for I might have discovered the gold mines. But ought I to tell Mary where I am going?”
“No,” he said, decidedly; “she would object. She might agree to my going upon a collecting expedition; but she would say as she said before, that the Ophir question was a myth.”
Somehow the more Dr Bolter tried to make up his mind to go, the more undecided he grew. He wanted to make an expedition into the interior very badly, but the hidden influence of that very decided little woman his wife was there still, making him feel guilty and like a child who tries to conceal some fault; and somehow, the more he tried to shake off the sensation, the worse he felt.—“There, it’s no use,” he cried at last, angrily. “No sooner does a man marry than farewell to independence. They say a man and his wife become one flesh, and really I think it’s a fact, for the man is completely absorbed and it’s all wife. The man becomes nobody at all.”
The doctor went into his own room, half museum, half surgery, and in a listless, pettish way he began to pull out drawer after drawer of specimens, some of which required examination badly, for the ants were beginning an attack, and this necessitated the introduction of a pungent acid which these busy little insects did not like.
“I might find gold in abundance,” said the doctor, as he busied himself over his specimens. “I might make such discoveries as would cause my name to be famous for ever, and here am I tied as it were by one unfortunate step to my wife’s apron. Hah! I was a great idiot to sacrifice my liberty.
“Not I,” he added, sharply. “Not I. She is a bit of a tyrant with me, and she’s as jealous as Othello, but she is an uncommonly nice little woman, and bless her, she thinks I’m about the cleverest fellow under the sun.
“Well, there’s not much to grumble at there,” he said, decidedly, as he smiled and settled his chin in his collar. “I don’t see that I need mind her being a bit jealous of me. It shows how fond she is, and she must be very proud of me if she thinks like that.”
This idea gave the little doctor so much satisfaction that for the moment he determined to go up to Perowne’s and ask his wife for leave of absence for a few days.
“N-no! It wouldn’t do,” he muttered, shaking his head dolefully. “She would not let me go. I shall have to make a bold dash for it if I do mean to have a run, and face the consequences afterwards.
“Look here, you know,” he cried gazing round at his specimens; “it’s about pitiful, that’s what it is, and I might just as well give up collecting altogether. Such an invitation from the Inche Maida as I had, to make her place my home, and start from there upon my investigations, only that stupid jealous idea on the part of my wife stopped it! Bah! It is intolerable.”
He thrust in a drawer in a most vicious manner; but Doctor Bolter’s annoyance with his wife came and went like an April shower. On re-opening the drawer he proceeded to arrange the specimens that his petulant fit had disturbed.
“I shall have to give it up,” he said, sadly. “So I may as well make the best of it, and—Hooray!”
Doctor Bolter slapped one of his legs vigorously, as if he were killing a fly, and a sunshiny look of pleasure spread all over his face.
“To be sure! The very idea! I’ll carry it out too—just a little—so as to be quite square with her; and who knows but what I might pick up some news of them after all. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“Let me see,” he continued, thoughtfully, “how shall I manage it? What shall I do? I know. I’ll run right up the river—ten miles or so beyond the Inche Maida’s—and then strike into one of the supplementary streams, and make straight for the mountains.
“That will be capital!” he cried, rubbing his hands. “Who knows but what I may hit upon some one or other of the old gold-workings; find ancient implements—proofs perhaps that Solomon’s ships sailed up this very river. The idea is grand, sir, and I’ll be off at once!”
The idea was so “grand, sir,” that in that hot climate it put the little doctor in a profuse perspiration, and he walked up and down the room, handkerchief in hand, dabbing his face and head.
“Yes,” he cried eagerly, “I may find out something about Helen Perowne and our other friends. I’ve got a good excuse for going now, and go I will!”
He stood thinking for a few minutes; and then, adjusting his puggree so as to give plenty of shelter to the back of his head, he walked down to the river-side, and one of the Malay boatmen paddled him in his sampan across to the Residency island, where he stepped out and walked up to Mr Harley’s official room, to find that gentleman looking older and more careworn than was his wont.
“Well, doctor, what news?” he said, anxiously. “Anything wrong?”
“No; nothing fresh.”
“No fever or cholera to add to one’s trouble, eh?”
“Nothing at all,” was the reply. “No, sir, I can present you with a clean bill of health.”
“Then why have you come? Not for nothing, doctor,” said the Resident sharply.
“Here, I say,” cried the little doctor, “don’t be so horribly inhospitable when a man comes to see you?”
“Inhospitable? Nonsense! You have not come across here to find hospitality. Now, doctor, speak out. What is it? Do you know anything?”
“Plainly, no. But the fact is,” said the visitor, clearing his throat, “I am not busy now; Mrs Bolter is a good deal away from home, so I thought this would be a favourable opportunity for taking a boat and a man or two, and going up the river to explore a few of the side streams so as to try and find Helen Perowne.”
“Rubbish!” said the Resident, sharply.
“Eh?” ejaculated the doctor, who was taken aback by the Resident’s quick, unceremonious way of speaking.
“I said Rubbish, Bolter, and I now say Humbug, man! Do you think I do not know better than that?”
“My dear Harley!” exclaimed the little doctor, indignantly.
“Look here, Bolter, you want an excuse for one of your gold hunts—your Ophir explorations. Why don’t you go, then, without all this childish excuse? You are your own master.”
The doctor was so taken aback by his friend’s onslaught that he shook his head vigorously.
“Well, suppose we say Now that Mrs Bolter is away?” said the Resident, smiling.
“Hadn’t we better drop that line of argument?” said the doctor, uneasily. “Really, Harley, you know, it’s too bad—’pon my honour it is. It isn’t gentlemanly!”
“My dear Bolter,” began the Resident.
“There are private matters!” cried the doctor, fuming, “upon which no man ought to touch, and my domestic relations are of that kind!”
“I should not have spoken,” said the Resident, “only you—a man who can do as he likes about going out collecting—came to me with such a weak piece of sham by way of excuse for your actions, Doctor, I blush for you!”
“Well, come, I will be honest with you; I am going out collecting and exploring.”
“Of course you are. I knew.”
“Stop a moment,” exclaimed the doctor, “let me finish. I should not go, only the idea occurred to me that I might perhaps get upon the track of that poor girl! If I do, I shall follow it to the end.”
The Resident said something in a hasty, indistinct tone, and the doctor stared at him, quite startled by his manner.
“Why, Harley!” he exclaimed, “one would think that you were hard touched in that direction!”
“Touched!” cried the Resident, recovering his equanimity, and putting on his official mask. “Why man, of what stuff do you suppose I am made? Am I not answerable to Government as well as to my own conscience for the welfare of all who are here; and do you suppose that I can bear this terrible visitation, even after this length of time, with equanimity?”
“No, no, of course not—of course not,” cried the doctor, hastily.
“Well, there, go, and good speed to you. I sincerely hope that you may discover something. Would you like Sergeant Harris with you?”
“No, no, certainly not! I believe in going quietly and almost alone. Look here, Harley, you would trust me entirely if you were unwell. Now suppose you do the same over this matter.”
The Resident nodded.
“Now, to tap this subject once again—repetition though it may seem—tell me, after due thought, what is your opinion now? Do you still suspect Murad?”
“I cannot say,” replied the Resident. “I did suspect him, but he has been so earnest in his offers of help, and his men have joined so thoroughly with ours in searching the river and scouring the jungle-paths, that there are times when I cannot believe him guilty.”
“Have you heard any more from your fresh allies?”
“Nothing,” replied the Resident. “They confess themselves at fault; while Murad has been here this morning to tell me that he was put upon a new scent yesterday, but that it turned out to be a false one. This man puzzles me, clever as I thought myself, for I have not found out yet whether or no he has been throwing dust in my eyes. Probably I never shall.”
“I am afraid he is deep,” said the doctor, thoughtfully.
“Very deep or very shallow,” said the Resident. “Some day, perhaps, we shall know. You are going up the river, then? When do you start?”
“As soon as I have had a little chat upon the subject with you know. I will not be very long away, Harley, and you will take care of my people like the rest—I mean have an eye on home.”
“Go, and good luck go with you,” said the Resident warmly. “Trust me, Bolter, I will do my best.”
“You don’t think, then, I ought to stay?”
“No; we have done all we can. Who knows but what you may hit upon some clue in your wanderings.”
“Ah! who knows!” said the doctor. “More wonderful things have happened, eh?”
“Chance sometimes solves problems that hard work has not mastered, Bolter,” said the Resident, smiling. “There, good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” said the doctor, shaking hands heartily; and leaving Neil Harley’s room, he began to wipe his face.
“I’m afraid I’ve been acting like a terrible humbug,” he muttered, “for I have not the remotest hope of finding Helen Perowne. I wish I were not such a moral coward over such things as this. Poor old Harley! he’s terribly cut up about matters, and I must seem strangely unfeeling. What a girl that was!
“Tut—tut—tut!” he exclaimed. “Why do I speak of her as gone? What a girl she is! Well, so far so good. Harley makes no objection to my going away. Now let us see what the general will say.”
Doctor Bolter felt that he had his most terrible task to perform in getting leave of his wife, and he returned home with a peculiar sensation of dread.
“It is very strange,” he said; “but I am getting nervous I think. I never feel it at any other time but when I am going to make some proposal to Mrs Bolter.”
To his great discomposure he found the lady within. This might have been looked upon as an advantage but he was not, he said, quite prepared; and he sat listening to her accounts of Mr Perowne’s state, and Grey Stuart’s kindly help. She suddenly turned upon him:
“Henry,” she exclaimed, “You were not thinking, of what I said.”
“I—I beg your pardon, my dear,” he replied. “Of what were you thinking, then?” The doctor hesitated a moment, and then he felt that the time had come for speaking.
“I was thinking, my dear, that no better opportunity is likely to offer for one of my expeditions.”
Mrs Bolter looked at him rather wistfully for a few moments, and then said, with a sigh: “Perhaps not, Henry. You had better go.”
“Do you mean it, Mary?” he said, eagerly. “If you think the station can be left in safety, perhaps you had better go,” she said, quietly. “I will have Grey Stuart to stay with me. I will not stand in your way, Henry, if you wish to leave.”
“It almost seems too bad,” he said, “but I should really like to go for a day or two, Mary. Harley says he can spare me, and no better chance is likely to come than now.”
“Then by all means go,” said Mrs Doctor, “only pray take care, and remember, Henry,” she whispered affectionately, “I am alone now.”
Vowing that those last words would make him come home far more quickly than he had intended, the doctor prepared the few necessaries he always took upon such occasions, and was about to start, when there was a fresh impediment in the person of Mrs Barlow, who came in, looking the picture of woe, and ready to shake hands effusively, and to kiss Mrs Bolter against her will.
“Going out, doctor?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, for some days.”
“But you will come to my house first? there is an injured man there. He came and begged me to fetch you to him, for he could not come himself.”
“A Malay?”
“Yes; a native. And he begged so hard that I was compelled to come.”
“Just as I was going out, too,” muttered the doctor, pettishly; but he never refused a call to duty, and hurrying out, he left the widow with his wife, while he went down to the well-appointed little house sleeping in the sunshine close to the river.
As he drew near he saw, at a little distance, a scuffle going on amongst a party of Malays, one of whom seemed for a moment to be struggling against five or six others; but no outcry was made, and deeming it to be some rough play upon the part of the fishermen, he paid little heed to what followed, merely noting that the men hustled their companion into a boat and paddled away.
The next minute he was at Mrs Barlow’s house, where a swarthy-looking Malay presented himself and told his symptoms, which were of so simple a character that the doctor was able to prescribe, and then hurry back to send the medicine required.
This last was received by the sick man from the doctor’s messenger; and no sooner was he gone than it was observable that the invalid rose from the mat upon which he had lain. He laughingly stole off to the river-side, where he entered a sampan, and paddled away after his companions, one of whom had left him to personate the only messenger who had been able to reach the station, though only then to fail in eluding the keenness of those who watched every house, and who kept their eyes upon the doctor, when half an hour later, totally regardless of the heat of the sun, he embarked in a boat and was paddled up the river by a couple of men, the companions of former excursions, old friends, whom he knew he could trust.
There were several boats lying lazily upon the water, with sleepy-looking Malays in each, and as the doctor’s swift little vessel pushed off, eyes that had looked sleepy before opened widely and watched his departure.
“Shall we follow?” said one man, in a low voice.
“No; he goes to shoot birds. Let him be.”
The sun poured down his rays like silver flames through the leaves of the cocoa-palms; and while the doctor’s boat grew smaller and smaller till it turned a bend in the stream, the occupants of the sampans lying so idly about the landing-stage exchanged glances from time to time, but seemed asleep whenever the owner of a white face drew near.