One Maid's Mischief

A spear splashed into the water by the doctor’s head, but the boughs prevented the thrower from taking a good aim; and almost directly after the swimmer was hauled on board, and the Rajah’s naga was seen to be trying to steal out some fifty yards ahead.

A call to surrender was answered by a shout of defiance, and the Malays began to manfully ply their oars; but a volley from the soldiers’ pieces seemed to quell their ardour and to cause confusion, in the midst of which the English boat dashed alongside, and Hilton, Chumbley, the Resident, and a score of the soldiers poured over the side, driving the spear-armed crew below, the Rajah going down from a cut over the forehead from the Resident’s sword.

The naga was mastered; and the doctor, hunting out where Helen had been placed, she was soon afterwards sobbing in her father’s arms.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Three.

The Return to Sindang

For a time no one spoke in the doctor’s cottage; but old Stuart took a very large and a very loud pinch of snuff, which seemed as if he had been loading his nose with powder, for it went off directly after with a report-like sneeze that made the jalousies rattle.

“Is – is this – these words – are they true?” said Mrs Bolter, at last, with unnatural calmness.

“Yes, yes, my dear, quite true!” cried Mrs Barlow, excitedly.

“Did – did you hear anything of this, Mr Stuart?” said Mrs Bolter, in a low, constrained voice.

“Well, I did hear – am I to tell you?”

“Yes – everything,” replied Mrs Bolter, now perfectly cool and calm.

“I heard that the doctor had been found up the river somewhere with a black lady in his boat; but I didn’t hear it was the Inche Maida.”

“But my heart told me it was,” muttered poor little Mrs Bolter, whose good resolutions were all swept away by her agonising feeling of jealousy. Then aloud, with a fierce look of anger, but speaking in quite a hoarse whisper, “Go!” she said, pointing to the door. “You wicked woman, go! You have taken delight in coming to tell me this!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs Barlow, bursting into tears; “it was from friendship – from the sisterly love I have for you! It was for your brother’s sake!”

“If – if ever my brother returns, he shall never speak to you – bad, weak, wicked woman that you are! Leave my house!”

“But, Mrs Bolter – dear Mrs Bolter – ”

“Leave my house!” continued the little woman in the same low, excited whisper; and she seemed to advance so menacingly upon the merchant’s widow, that she backed to the door in alarm, and regularly fled.

“Dear Mrs Bolter – ” began Grey.

“Don’t speak to me, my dear,” said the little lady. “I’m not at all angry. I’m perfectly calm. There, you see how quiet I am. Not the least bit in a passion.”

Certainly she was speaking in a low, passionless voice, but there was a peculiar whiteness in the generally rather florid face.

“But the news may not be true,” pleaded Grey; “and even if it is, what then? Oh, Mrs Bolter, pray think!”

“Yes, my dear,” said the little lady, “I have thought, and I’m quite calm. I shall suffer it, though, no more. I shall wait till my dear brother is found, and then I shall go straight back to England. I shall go by the first boat. I will pack up my things at once, and get ready. You see I am quite calm. Mr Stuart, you have always been very kind to me.”

“Well, I don’t know, not verra,” said the old Scot; “but ye’ve been verra good to Grey here.”

“I’m going to ask a favour of you, Mr Stuart.”

“Annything I can do for ye, Mrs Bolter, I will.”

“Then will you give me shelter with Grey here for a few weeks?”

“Or a few months or years if ye like,” said the old man, taking a liberal pinch of snuff; “but ye needn’t fash yourself. You won’t leave Harry Bolter.”

“Not leave him?” said the little lady, with forced calmness.

“Not you, for I don’t believe there’s aught wrong. It’s a bit patient he’s found up the river, and if it isn’t, it’s somebody else; and even if it wasn’t, ye’d just give him a bit o’ your mind, and then you’d forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” said Mrs Bolter; “I was always suspicious of these expeditions.”

“Always,” assented old Stuart. “He has told me so a score of times.”

“Then more shame for him!” cried Mrs Bolter; “How dare he! No, Mr Stuart, I am not angry, and I shall not say a word; but I shall wait till my poor brother is found, and then go back to England.”

She sat down very quietly, and sat gazing through the window; while old Stuart went on taking snuff in a very liberal manner, glancing from time to time at the irate little lady, to whom Grey kept whispering and striving to bring her to reason.

This went on for a good hour, till Grey was in despair; when suddenly Mrs Bolter sprang to her feet, red now with excitement, as she pointed through the window.

“Am I to bear this?” she said, in the same whisper. “Look, Grey! Look, Mr Stuart! You see! He is coming home, and he is bringing this woman with him!”

Grey started, for there indeed was the doctor, leading a closely-veiled Malay lady, apparently walking slowly and leaning heavily upon his arm.

Old Stuart took another pinch of snuff, and made a good deal of noise over it, as a cynical smile began to dawn upon his face; and he watched little Mrs Bolter, who drew herself up and stood with one hand resting upon the back of a chair.

“What can I say to her?” murmured Grey to herself. Then softly to Mrs Bolter:

“Pray listen to him: it is only some mistake.”

“Yes, my dear, I will listen,” said Mrs Bolter, calmly; and then she drew a long catching breath, and her eyes half-closed.

Just then the doctor threw open the door, and carefully led in his companion.

“Ah, Grey, you here!” he cried. “Back again. Mary, my love! I’ve brought you a surprise.”

He dropped his companion’s hand, and she stood there veiled and swaying slightly, while he made as if to embrace his wife.

“Hallo!” he exclaimed, as she shrank away.

“Don’t – don’t touch me,” she cried, in a low, angry voice, “never again, Bolter; I could not bear it!”

“Why, what the – Oh, I see! Of course! Ha, ha, ha!”

Mrs Bolter stared at him fiercely, then at his companion, as in a curious, hasty way, she tore away her veil with trembling hands, revealing the swarthy skin and blackened and filed teeth, seen between her parted lips; her hair dark as that of the Inche Maida, and fastened up roughly in the Malay style. She was trying to speak, for her bosom was heaving, her hands working; and at last she darted an agonising glance at Grey Stuart, who was trembling in wonderment and fear.

The next moment the stranger had thrown herself at Mrs Bolter’s feet, and was clinging to her dress, as she cried hysterically:

“Mrs Bolter – Grey – have pity on me! You do not know?”

“Helen!” cried Grey; and she filing her arms round her schoolfellow, as Mrs Bolter uttered that most commonplace of common expressions —