One Maid's Mischief

The Fire Burns Again

Days of anxiety and watching, with no news of the expedition which had started directly after Grey Stuart’s father had crossed over to the island. The English community at Sindang were extremely uneasy, for it struck them that the Malays were keeping aloof, and that their servants looked ill-conditioned and sulky.

A strange silence seemed to reign in the place, with an almost utter absence of trade. No boats came down with flowers and fruit, and no cheerful intercourse was carried on as heretofore. Nothing had been seen of the Inche Maida, and Murad was quite an absentee; while not a word had been brought down the river relating to the doings of the expedition.

In accordance with the Resident’s secretly-issued orders, every European left stood in readiness to flee to the Residency island, where the little garrison, under the care of a subaltern, kept strict watch and ward, and held themselves prepared to go to the aid of the merchants and their families, should there be need.

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.

“I can’t help it, my dear,” said Mrs Bolter, turning to Grey, after some hours’ silence, “I can’t help thinking that something serious is wrong. Oh! how shocking it would be to be deprived of our protectors!”

“But Dr Bolter has been away for longer at a time than this, has he not?” said Grey, as she sat there, wondering whether the officers of the expedition were safe – above all, Captain Hilton.

“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, with a sigh; “he has been away longer before now; but no news of my brother – no news of him – it is very hard to bear.”

“No, no, no,” whispered Grey, passing a soft arm round her neck; “try and be patient – try and think hopefully of everything. We must be patient at a time like this.”

“But you cannot feel as I do, my dear,” cried Mrs Bolter. “You have friends away, but not one whom you dwell upon as I do.”

Grey’s eyes wore a very piteous aspect, but she said nothing, only did battle with a sigh, which conquered and fought its way from her labouring breast.

“But I am trying, Grey, my darling,” said the little woman, drying her eyes; “you know how patient I have been, and how I have taken your advice. Not one allusion have I made to the Inche Maida since you talked to me as you did. Now, have I not been patient?”

“You have indeed,” said Grey, smiling at her sadly.

“And I’m going to take your advice thoroughly, for I’m beginning to think that the little girl I began by patronising has grown wiser than I. There, you see, I have dried my eyes, and – Bless my heart, here is Mr Stuart, and he will see that I have been crying.”

She jumped up and ran out of the room as the little merchant came to the door, and entered without ceremony.

“Well, Grey, my bairnie,” he said, as she kissed him affectionately, while, as soon as he had drawn back, he took out his broad kerchief to dab his brow, and seemed to wipe the kiss carefully away.

“You have news, father?” cried Grey, eagerly. “Pray speak!”

“Well, don’t hurry me, child,” he replied. “I’ve just come from the landing-stage – and I’ve seen that Malay fellow, Syed – and he says the expedition is coming back.”

“Coming back, father? Oh! why did you not speak before?”

“Syed has just come down with the stream. The water’s low and they’ve got aground a few miles up, but they expected to be afloat soon.”

“But is anyone hurt, father? Have they found Helen? Pray – pray speak!”

“Only a few of the men a bit hurt, it seems. Officers all right,” said the old man, speaking very coolly, and consequently in excellent English.

“But Helen? Have they found Helen?”

“It seems not, from what the fellow knew,” said the merchant, coolly. “Where’s Mrs Bolter?” he said, in a low voice.

Grey’s heart seemed to stand still. “Oh! father!” she sighed, “is he hurt?”

“No; he’s aboard,” replied the merchant. “But where is she?”

“She left the room as you came in; but why do you not speak out?”

“I was thinking o’ Mrs Bolter, my dear. Isn’t she a bit – you know – jealous, lassie?”

“Don’t ask me such questions, father,” cried Grey, in a low voice. “What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking she’ll be a bit put out if it is as I hear.”

“Why, father?” cried Grey, as her mind filled with strange imaginations. “But tell me quickly,” she whispered, “is Mr Chumbley safe?”

“Yes, yes,” said old Stuart; “he’s safe enough, lassie.”

“And – and – ”

“The Resident? Yes; he’s well.”

“But father, you – you have not told me about Captain Hilton.”

“Hilton? Oh, ay, he’s all well! Hang it if here isn’t that Barlow woman! I left her at the landing-place pumping Syed.”

As he finished speaking, Mrs Barlow, panting, hot, and excited, half ran into the room.

“No news – no news of poor Mr Rosebury!” she cried; “but oh, my dear Mrs Bolter – my dear Mrs Bolter!”

“What is it – what is it?” cried that lady, opening the door, and entering the room, trembling visibly. “You’ve brought me some terrible news! I know you have! Speak to me – speak directly!”

“Yes, yes, my dear: but try and bear it with fortitude.”

“Yes, I will,” she panted. “My brother – is dead!”