Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.
At Fault Again.
“They’ll find out the value of that woman now,” said Dr Bolter to himself; “and if I haven’t done wisely in marrying her, I’m a Dutchman! Why, it’s the very thing! Here am I, Henry Bolter, a duly qualified medical man, physician and surgeon in one, ready to afford bodily relief; and here is Mary Bolter, my wife—fine sound about that,” he said, smiling with satisfaction—“my wife—my little wife—no, my wife is best; it sounds more dignified—my wife, ready to afford mental relief wherever it is needed; and here she is.”
For just then the quick, pattering step of the little lady was heard, and, reticule on arm, she came in bustling, hot, and red-faced.
“Well, my little woman, how are you getting on?” he said cheerily, as he placed his arm round the buxom little waist, and led her to an easy-chair, proceeding afterwards, with all a youth’s tenderness, to take off her broad hat and light scarf, which he carefully laid down for fear of being called to account.
“Oh, don’t ask me, Henry,” she sighed. “My heart is nearly broken with trouble, and I am doing no good at all.”
“Ahem!” ejaculated the doctor, taking her hand and feeling the pulse.
“Don’t be foolish, Henry, dear,” she exclaimed.
“Foolish? No, my dear, certainly not. Hum! Hah! Much fever and exhaustion. Recipe vin Xeres, cochleare magnum. Brisk osculation after the medicine.”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs Bolter.
“You are suffering from weariness and exhaustion, my dear,” said the little doctor; “and I have prescribed for you a drop of sherry, and something to take after it.”
“Not sugar, Henry? and really I would rather not have the wine.”
“Doctor’s orders, my dear. There,” he said, pouring the sherry into a tumbler, and filling it up with cold water, “I have made it as refreshing as I could.”
Mrs Bolter drank off the draught, and made a wry face, holding out her hand.
“Where is the stuff for me to take afterwards?”
“There, my dear,” said the doctor, kissing her very tenderly.
“For shame, Henry!” she cried, blushing like a girl. “Suppose anyone had seen you?”
“Well, it would have been like his or her impudence to look; and if it had been talked about afterwards, really, Mary, my dear, I have grown to be such a hardened sinner over that sort of thing that I shouldn’t care a bit.”
“Really, Henry,” said the little lady, “anyone would think you were a boy, instead of being a middle-aged man.”
“I feel quite a boy,” he said, merrily. “At least, I should if we were not in such trouble.”
“And we are, Henry, indeed,” said the little lady, sadly. “I’m afraid I’m neglecting you terribly, my dear; but I am obliged to try and help that poor man, who is completely prostrate; and if it was not for the help Grey Stuart gives me, I’m sure I should break down. Have you any news?”
“Not a scrap, my dear. Have you?”
“None whatever. But now really, Henry, what do you think of the matter?”
“’Pon my word, my dear, I don’t know what to think.”
“Don’t say you believe they have had a boat accident, dear. I cannot bear to think it possible.”
“No, my dear, I don’t, and I cannot believe it,” he replied. “Here is the case: For there to have been a boat accident, Helen, Arthur, Hilton, and Chumbley must have taken a boat, and they must have all gone in together.”
“Or Hilton may have been trying to carry Helen away, and Chumbley and Arthur, who is as brave as a lion in such matters, may have been trying to stop them, or pursued them in a second boat.”
“And a struggle ensued, and the boats upset, eh?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Bolter, with a shudder. “Oh, why did you bring us out here, Henry, for such horrors to happen?”
“I did not know that these horrors had happened, my dear,” said the doctor, drily. “Let’s see first if the boat theory holds water. I don’t believe it does.”
“Then you think Murad is at the bottom of it?” she said, sharply.
“I’m for and against,” he replied. “Let’s wait and see. I don’t believe, however, that they are dead.”
“Oh, no—oh, no!” said Mrs Bolter, shuddering. “I cannot believe that. I’m afraid it’s all due, in some way, to Helen’s folly.”
“Yes, my dear,” said the doctor, “and it has quite upset my intended journey in search of the true Ophir.”
“And that’s your folly. Oh, Henry, how much happier I should be if you would give up that weakness of yours.”
“Sorry I can’t, Mary. It’s an old weakness that increases with age. Don’t be angry with me, my dear.”
“I am not angry, Henry; only you do worry me when you will keep talking about Solomon’s ships coming here for gold.”
“If they’d come here for gold, and you had been living at the time, they would have carried you off, for you are richer than refined—”
“Now, Henry, I will not sit here and listen to such outrageous flattery of a very ordinary little woman,” said the lady, looking angry, but feeling pleased. “You must be a very weak man to have taken a fancy to me.”
“Let me be weak then, my dear,” said the little doctor.
“Hush!” exclaimed the lady. “Here is Grey Stuart at the gate;” and they listened to the click of the Chinese-made bamboo latch, and directly after, looking thin and pale, Helen’s schoolfellow was admitted.
She did not speak, but looked at Mrs Bolter in a weary, dejected manner, that made the little lady take her in her arms, kiss her tenderly, and then place her beside her upon the couch.
“Never despair, my dear,” she said, cheerily. “There’s always room for hope.”
“That is what I have been trying to think for days past,” sighed Grey; “but the trouble only seems to grow darker.”
“Don’t say that, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs Bolter. “For my part, I will not believe the story of the boat accident; and I have always this consolation—that wherever that foolish girl may be, she has my brother by her side.”
Mrs Bolter felt her cheeks burn a little as she said this; for in her heart of hearts she had not the faith in her brother’s prudence and ability to protect a lady that she professed.
She glanced at the doctor, and her face became a little hotter, for he too was watching her, and she felt that he was reading her thoughts.
“I will try and be as hopeful as you are, dear Mrs Bolter; but it is very hard!”
“Bless the child! I did not think she felt so warm an affection for Helen Perowne,” thought Mrs Bolter; “but it shows how good a heart she has.”
Then aloud:
“Oh, how tiresome! Here is that dreadful Mrs Barlow coming!”
“Say I’m out, my dear,” whispered the doctor, hurriedly. “I’ll slip round through the surgery.”
“I cannot say you are out, Henry,” said the little lady, reprovingly; “but I will say that you are particularly engaged.”
“Yes, my dear—an operation,” whispered the doctor.
“I shall say nothing of the kind, Harry!” exclaimed Mrs Bolter, sternly.
“But she will want to see me, and describe her symptoms.”
“Then she cannot see you,” replied the little lady, with dignity. “I will take care of that.”
Dr Bolter stepped out by one door, and he had hardly closed it after him, when Mrs Barlow entered by the other.
“Ah, my dear Mrs Bolter,” she sobbed, kissing her in spite of a strong objection evinced by the little lady. “Ah, my dear Miss Stuart, these are terrible times.”
She paused, as if expecting one of those she addressed to speak; but save for acknowledging her salutation, they remained silent. “Have you heard the last news?”
“No,” replied Mrs Bolter, quickly. “Quick! what is it?”
“A couple of boatmen have come in just now with some more relics of our missing party.”
“What relics?” cried Mrs Bolter, as Grey turned deadly pale.
“They have found some scraps of clothing, I believe, and a hat,” said the lady.
“Where? Where are they?” cried Dr Bolter, coming in hurriedly, for he had been waiting by the door in the not very creditable position of an eavesdropper.
“Oh, doctor, how you startled me! I wanted to see you?” exclaimed Mrs Barlow. “I fear I am going to have a bad attack of illness!”
Dr Bolter was saved from a bad attack of Mrs Barlow’s symptoms, described to him at full length, by the opportune arrival of Harley.
“Here, Bolter, I want you,” he said, hastily; and making his excuses for having to leave, the doctor hurried out and joined Mr Harley in the garden.
“You have had something brought in,” said the doctor, hastily. “Where is it?”
“Down by the landing-stage. Perowne has got up from his bed to come and see, and Stuart, Murad, and others are down there inspecting them.”
The doctor accompanied the Resident to the landing-stage, where, in the midst of a little group, lay some wet and torn rags and a sodden hat, muddied and out of shape; while, squatting hard by the foul garments, were a couple of Malay fishermen, who had found the scraps and other articles amongst the mangrove-roots miles away.
Dr Bolter threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeves to go down on one knee by the muddy bank, while with contracted eyes and puckered brow the young Rajah looked on.
“What do you make of them, doctor?” said the Resident, hoarsely.
“Lady’s silk dress that has not been taken off, but dragged from its hooks, and ripped and torn away. It seems to have been rolled over and over in the tide till it became fastened on to some snag.”
A shudder ran through the little party, and the doctor continued his examination.
“Hat,” he said, turning it over. “Dreadfully battered and soaked; but it is Chumbley’s, I think.”
“What is that?” said Mr Harley, in a low voice.
“Coat,” said the doctor. “Gentleman’s; and this is a small white tie.”
“Here is a handkerchief,” said old Stuart, picking up what looked to be a mere wisp.
This the doctor took and rinsed in the clear river, starting back on the instant, and only just in time for, attracted by the motion of the white handkerchief in the water, a small crocodile of some six feet long partially threw itself out of the stream; but falling short of its prey, the reptile shuffled back and was gone.
No one spoke; but the presence of these creatures in such abundance, combined with their daring, whispered plainly enough to the party assembled what must be the fate of one who was thrown out into the stream.
The doctor took a step or two back, and then, as coolly as if nothing had occurred, he shook out the folds of the handkerchief—one of a very delicate texture and edged with lace, while in one corner were the two letters, “H.P.,” embroidered by a woman’s hand.
There was a deep groan here, and as the gentlemen turned, it was to see that Murad was resting his face upon a bamboo fence, his hands to his brow, and, turned from them as he was, the lookers-on could see that his breast was heaving, and that the young man was suffering great agony of mind.
“Collect all these together,” said the doctor in a whisper; and one of the soldiers proceeded to obey his orders, when the young Malay leaped upon him fiercely, and tore the handkerchief from his grasp, thrust it into his bosom, and strode away.
The Resident did not move, but stood gazing after the Sultan, his brows contracted, and a peculiar look of dislike gathering in his eyes; but he did not speak, and without a word the various relics were gathered into a basket and carried across to the Residency island, where Dr Bolter announced that he would make a further and more searching examination.
Then the party separated, save that the doctor and Neil Harley had a long conversation together, in which the latter related how thoroughly the river banks had now been searched by the boats enlisted to carry the soldiers, who were most energetically aided by the people belonging to Rajah Murad and the Inche Maida, both of whom continued to almost live at the station, only going away for a few hours at a time to see to their own affairs, journeys from which they came back, with the rowers of the small boats they used looking terribly distressed.
“You can trust me, Harley,” said the doctor. “I will not chatter, even to my wife, though she is to be trusted, too. How do you feel about the matter now?”
“Feel!” said Neil Harley, quietly. “I feel that little Miss Stuart was right in what she said to me.”
“And what was that?”
“That this is a contest between the wits of the Eastern and the European; that we are being deceived; and that Sultan Murad is playing a part.”
“What, after the miserable relics we have just seen?”
“After the miserable relics we have just seen. He has slaves who would die in his service, and who would consider it a merit to deceive the heathen English.”
“Then he is playing his part marvellously well,” said the doctor.
“Magnificently; and if Miss Stuart is right, as I believe she is, for the simple reason that her ideas accord with mine, he is a born actor. That show of grief, and that seizure of the pocket-handkerchief were admirably done.”
“If you believe all this, then,” said the doctor, “why not boldly charge him with the crime!”
“To create a little war, with no better reason than my suspicions? A charge made in face of the most earnest work—while he is striving might and main to serve us.”
“Apparently,” said the doctor.
“Yes, apparently. But you see my position. Here are our two friendly natives both offended, but professing forgiveness, and working for us. I cannot charge them on bare suspicion. I must have some proof.”
“Then why not search land as well as river?”
“How?” said the Resident. “Be reasonable, Bolter. You know as well as I do that the rivers and streams are almost the only roads here. To penetrate elsewhere is to cut your way through the dense jungle. Say I determine to offend the Prince and Princess, and take soldiers, saying I mean to search their little towns, what good would that do?”
“None, certainly,” said the doctor. “They would not leave their prisoners there if they are prisoners.”
“You doubt, then?”
“I doubt, and I don’t doubt. I am not a diplomat, Harley. This is out of my line. If you have a pain, and give me your symptoms, I’ll tell you what causes that pain. I can cut you anywhere without injuring an important artery, nerve, or vein; and I can extract bullets, cure fevers, mend broken bones. I can also classify most of the natural history objects of our district; but over a job like this we have in hand I am at sea. Try Mrs Bolter or Grey Stuart—they will counsel you better than I. Tell me, though, are you going to do anything?”
“Yes. In confidence, I do not trust either Murad or the Inche Maida. This may all be some deeply-laid plot of both to obtain revenge; perhaps to begin ousting us from this place, where we are looked upon with jealousy.”
“Yes, very likely; but what are you going to do?”
“Meet Eastern cunning with Eastern cunning. I am about to employ some people from lower down the river who are now seeking alliance with us, seeing how well it pays.”
“What, as spies?”
“Yes,” said the Resident, quietly. “I do not believe in the present theory of the disappearance, so I shall try these people. If Murad is playing us false, why then—”
“Well, why don’t you finish?”
“I fear,” said the Resident, fiercely, “that I shall go farther than to exact stern justice for this act; for when a man’s feelings are touched as mine are now—”
He did not finish, but turned sharply away, as if all this was more than he could bear.
That night the doctor whispered to his wife to keep her counsel, and not to fret about those who were lost, for Neil Harley was deeply moved; and if something startling did not come out of it before many days were past, he, Dr Bolter, was no man.