Volume Two—Chapter Three.
In the Middle of the Night.
All Mrs Bolter’s dislike to Helen vanished now that there was trouble on the way; and dressing hastily, she ran across the little bamboo landing to knock at her brother’s door, but without receiving any answer, and knocking again sharply, she ran back to her own room to continue dressing.
She threw open the window to admit a few breaths of fresher air, and in the silence of the night she could hear the receding steps of their late visitors. Then turning sharply she found Dr Bolter yawning fearfully.
“Don’t be so unfeeling, Henry!” she cried; “who knows what may have happened?”
“Unfeeling be hanged!” he said, tetchily. “I only yawned.”
“And very rudely, Henry. You did not place your hand before your mouth.”
“A yawn, Mrs Bolter,” he said didactically, “is the natural effort made for ridding the system—”
“Of the effects of too much smoking and drinking,” said Mrs Doctor, quickly. “There, do make haste and dress, and then call Arthur again. He does not seem to be moving. How soundly he sleeps. He did not hear us when we came home or he would have spoken.”
“Oh, dear!” yawned the doctor. “I was just in my beauty sleep, and this calling me up is the heigh—hey—ho—ha—hum! Oh! dear me! I beg your pardon, my dear.”
“Are you nearly ready, Henry?” said the lady, who would not notice the last most portentous yawn.
“Where the—”
“Henry!”
“I mean where are my studs? Oh! all right.”
“Go and see if Arthur is awake, and tell him to get up directly.”
The doctor went slowly and sleepily out of the door, fumbling with his studs the while; and without pausing to knock, walked straight into his brother-in-law’s room.
“Here, Arthur, old man, rouse up!” he cried. “We’re going on to—hullo! Here, Mary, he hasn’t been to bed!” he shouted.
“Not been to bed!” cried the little lady. “Why, Arthur, you foolish—”
“He isn’t here, my dear,” said the doctor.
“But—but he was here when we came back, was he not?” said Mrs Bolter.
“I don’t know; I only knocked at his door. I was too sleepy to speak, my dear.”
“Oh! Henry,” exclaimed Mrs Bolter, excitedly, “something must have happened, or dear Arthur would not have stopped away like this.”
“I—I hope not,” said the doctor. “There, be calm, my dear; we know nothing yet.”
“Yes—yes, I will be calm,” said the little lady, fighting hard to master her excitement; “but, Henry, if we have brought my poor brother over here to be the victim of some terrible accident, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Oh, stuff—stuff!” cried the doctor, as they looked round the room to find that the bed had not been touched. “Don’t jump at conclusions. What did Harley say?”
“That Arthur was seen last with Helen Perowne—in the garden, I suppose.”
“What? Our Arthur was seen with her last? She missing—he missing—why, by jingo, Mary, that handsome puss has run away with him!”
The doctor burst into a hearty, chuckling laugh.
“Is this a time for jesting, Henry?” said Mrs Bolter, angrily.
“Not at all, my dear,” replied the doctor, “only it looks as if Arthur had made up his mind to do something startling.”
“Arthur—something startling! What do you mean?”
“That he seems to have bolted with Helen Perowne!”
“Henry!”
“Well, my dear, they were seen together last, and they are now missing. What is one to say?”
“If you cannot say words of greater wisdom than that, Henry, pray be silent.”
“All right, my dear—come along.”
But if the doctor was disposed to be silent, so was not his lady, who began to find out cause after cause for her brother’s absence.
“Someone is ill, I’m sure, Henry, and Arthur has been summoned to the bedside.”
“Nonsense! If anyone were ill,” said the doctor, testily, “I should be sent for; and there is no one ill now, though we shall have half a dozen poorly to-morrow after that supper of Perowne’s.”
“Then some terrible accident has happened,” said Mrs Bolter. “Arthur would never have stopped away like this without some special reason.”
“Well, we shall see,” said the doctor.
“Henry,” said the lady, suddenly; and she came to a full stop.
“Yes, my dear.”
“Do you think it likely that Helen Perowne—poor foolish girl—would do such a thing?”
“What, as to run off with Arthur?” chuckled the little doctor.
“For shame, Henry! I say do you think she is likely to have walked down to the river-side because it is cool and slipped in? There is not the slightest protection.”
“No, my dear, I do not think anything of the sort,” replied the doctor, angrily. “She is a deal more likely to be courting some coxcomb or another in a shady walk, and they have forgotten all about the time.”
“Absurd!” exclaimed Mrs Bolter. “Absurd, eh? Why, that’s what she is always thinking about. How many fellows has she been flirting with since we knew her?”
“I am waiting for you, Dr Bolter,” said the lady, austerely, “and I must say that I think your words are very unfeeling indeed.”
“I’ll bleed her if she has fainted!” said the doctor, grimly. “I should like to bleed that girl, old-fashioned as the notion is! If I don’t, I’ll give her such a dosing as she shan’t forget in a hurry—calling a fellow up like this!”
They hurried out into the star-lit night, with everything seeming hushed and strange. The trees whispered low from time to time; then came a sullen splash from the river, as if some huge creature had just plunged in. Once or twice came a peculiar, weird-sounding cry from the jungle—one which made Mrs Doctor forget her annoyance with her husband and creep close to his side. Just then they heard hurried footsteps. “Did you bring your pistols with you, dear?” whispered Mrs Bolter.
“No,” he said, sharply; “I’ve got a rhubarb draught, a bottle of chlorodyne, the sal-volatile, and a lancet. That will be enough. Think I meant to shoot the girl?”
“Don’t be absurd, dear! Take care, there is someone coming.”
“Another call for me!” grumbled the doctor, sleepily. “That’s the effect of giving parties in a hot climate. Hullo!”
“Yes, doctor,” said a familiar voice.
“Oh! it’s you two. Well have you found her all right?”
“We’ve been to Stuart’s,” said the Resident, sharply.
“Well, what news?”
“They have not seen or heard of either of them,” replied the Resident.
“Do you know that my—”
“Oh, hush!” whispered Mrs Doctor, excitedly, “you had better not—”
“Why, they must know it, my dear,” he whispered back. “It is of no use to hide anything.”
“I did not understand you, doctor,” said the Resident.
“I say that my brother-in-law, Rosebury, has not been home.”
“The chaplain!” cried Mr Harley, and he stopped short upon the path.
“Hasn’t been home,” continued the doctor. “They’ve all gone in somewhere. Who else is away?”
“Hilton and Chumbley.”
“Oh, it’s all right. They’re somewhere; but it’s very foolish of them to frighten some people and rouse others up like this,” said the doctor.
“I hope we shall find a pleasant solution of what is at present a mystery,” said the Resident. “Mrs Bolter, it is very kind of you to come,” he added, warmly.
“Yes; I thank you too,” said Perowne, in a dreamy, absent way. “It is very strange; but where is Miss Stuart?”
“Stuart said she was asleep,” said the Resident.
“Oh, to be sure. Yes; I remember,” said Mr Perowne.
“We took her safely home,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly.
They had not far to go to the gates of the merchant’s grounds, but it seemed to all to be a long and dreary walk past the various dark houses of the European and native merchants, not one of which gave any token of the life within.
The gates were open, and they walked over the gritting gravel to where the door stood, like the windows of the bungalow, still open, and a lamp or two were yet burning in the grounds, one of which paper lanterns, as they approached, caught fire, and blazed up for a moment and then hung, a few shreds of tinder, from a verdant arch.
It was a mere trifle, but it seemed like a presage of some trouble to the house, seen as it was by those who approached, three of the party being in that unreal, uncomfortable state suffered by all who are roused from their sleep to hear that there is “something wrong.”
The servants looked soared as they entered, and announced that they had been looking, as they expressed it, “everywhere” without success.
Lanterns were lit and a thorough exploration of the grounds followed, the only result being that a glove was found—plainly enough one that had been dropped by someone walking near the river.
That was all, and the night passed with the searchers awaking everyone they knew in turn, but to obtain not the slightest information; and daybreak found the father looking older and greyer by ten years as he stood in his office facing the Resident, the doctor, and Mrs Bolter, and asking what they should do next.
“We must have a thorough daylight search,” said Mr Harley. “Then the boatmen must all be examined. It hardly appears probable, but Hilton and Chumbley may have proposed a water trip. It seems to us now, cool and thoughtful, a mad proposal, but still it is possible.”
“Yes, and Helen would not go without my brother to take care of her,” said Mrs Bolter, triumphantly, for she had been longing for some explanation of her brother’s absence, and this was the first that offered.
“Oh, no, Mary,” said the doctor, crushing her hopes as he shook his head.
“No, Mrs Bolter,” said the Resident, slowly; and he seemed to be speaking and thinking deeply the while. “I am sure Miss Perowne could not be guilty of so imprudent an act.”
“No,” said her father, speaking now more boldly and without reserve. “You are right, Harley. Helen loves admiration, but she would not have compromised herself in such a way, neither would Mr Rosebury have given such an act his countenance.”
The Resident raised his head as if to speak, and then remained silent.
“What are you thinking, Harley,” said the doctor.
“Yes, pray speak out,” cried Mrs Bolter. “I am sure we are all only too anxious to find some comfort.”
“I was thinking of what could have happened to them, for depend upon it they are all together.”
“Yes,” said Mr Perowne; “but you were thinking more than that.”
“I must think,” said the Resident. “I cannot say anything definite now.”
“Then I know what it is,” cried Mrs Bolter.
“Will you kindly speak out, madam?” said the old merchant, harshly.
“I should be sorry to accuse falsely,” said Mrs Bolter, excitedly; “but I was warned of this, and I can’t help thinking that someone else is at the bottom of this night’s work.”
“And who’s that?” said the doctor, quickly.
Mrs Bolter was silent.
“Rajah Murad, you mean,” said the doctor, quickly; “and he has been waiting his time.”
“And now strikes at us like a serpent in the dark!” cried Mr Perowne, angrily. “It is the Malay character all over. Heaven help me! My poor girl!”