But day after day glided by, and still no doctor—no news.
“Poor Mr Perowne!” said Mrs Bolter one afternoon, as she sat talking to Grey Stuart, and discussing the terrible state of his affairs, of which the merchant made no secret; “it will be a sad downfall for them; but there, there, merchants fall and rise again very quickly, and let’s hope all will come right in the end—Wasn’t that the doctor’s step, my dear?”
“No,” said Grey, quietly, as she tried to look free from uneasiness.
“I wish we could get some news, my dear,” sighed Mrs Bolter.
“All in good time,” said Grey, looking happier than she felt. “We shall hear soon.”
“I—I hope so, my dear,” sighed Mrs Bolter; “but it is very sad to be a wife, waiting as I wait.”
“But with patience now,” said Grey, smiling. “You are happy now in your mind?”
“Ye-s! Oh! yes I am now, my dear; and I will never let such thoughts gain an entrance again.”
“I know you will not,” said Grey, leaning towards her to lay her hand upon the little lady’s arm, in token of gentle sympathy, for the tears were in Mrs Bolter’s eyes, and she showed in pallor how deeply she was feeling the absence of husband and brother.
That day the little station appeared as it were asleep in the hot sunshine, and the silence was oppressive in the extreme. One of the Malays, who seemed to take an interest in Mrs Bolter, consequent upon his having been cured by the doctor of a very dangerous complaint, had been started up the river in his boat, to see if he could learn any news of the party, and this messenger was anxiously expected back.