"Ah, Grey, my child," said little Mrs Bolter, with a loud burst of
sobbing, as soon as they were alone, "if ever you marry, don't marry a
medical man! I try so hard--Heaven knows how hard--not to let such
thoughts come into my mind; but I've altered terribly, my dear, since I
was married. The doctor has made me love him very much; and it's being
so fond of him that has caused this dreadful jealous feeling to spring
up; and it finds vent in my being snappish to him, and complaining about
all sorts of trifles that are of no consequence at all!"
"But you ought not to let such thoughts come into your mind," said Grey,
reproachfully.
"I know I ought not, my dear," said the unhappy little body, clinging to
her young friend's hand; "but they will come. It's just as if I were
being tempted by mocking spirits, which keep on pretending to open my
eyes when the doctor is out."
"Open your eyes, dear Mrs Bolter?" said Grey, who found relief for her
own sore heart in trying to soothe another's.
"Yes, my dear. I'm confessing quite openly to you now, my dear; but I
know that you will never betray me. They seem to open my eyes to all
sorts of things, and make me see the doctor, when he is called in to
ladies, taking their bands and feeling their pulses; and oh, my dear, it
is very dreadful to sit at home and think that your husband is holding
some handsome woman's hand and wrist, and feeling the beatings of her
pulses, and perhaps all the time forgetting that he has a poor, anxious
little wife at home thinking he is so long away!"
"When that same husband loves you very dearly, and is most likely
longing to be back by your side," said Grey, reproachfully.
"If one could only feel that," said Mrs Bolter, "instead of being in
such torture and misery, and wishing a hundred times a day that I had
never listened to the doctor, and given up our quiet little home!"
"When you have come out to make his life so happy?" said Grey, smiling.
"I try to, my dear; but I can't help thinking sometimes," said the poor
little woman, pathetically, "that his heart is more devoted to Solomon's
gold--"
"Oh, Mrs Bolter!"
"And apes."
"My dear Mrs Bolter!"
"And peacocks," sobbed the little woman, "than it is to me. Ah, my
dear, when you marry--"
"I shall never marry, Mrs Bolter," said Grey, with a sad ring in her
voice.
"Oh, you don't know, my child. I used to say so, and think that I was
as firm as a rock, and as hard as iron; but, oh, these men--these men--
when once you listen to their dreadful, insinuating talk, they seem to
get the better of your proper judgment, and end by completely turning
you round their finger."
Grey smiled in her face and kissed her.
"There, there!" cried Mrs Bolter, changing her tone, "I am afraid I
have lowered myself terribly in your eyes this morning, my dear. I'm
growing into a very, very strange creature, and dreadfully weak! Those
torturing thoughts keep suggesting to my foolish heart that the doctor
has gone up the river on purpose to see the Inche Maida!"
"Oh, no; he cannot!" said Grey, smiling.
"Well, perhaps not, my dear; but whether or no, if he was to come back
now, and confess that he had done so, I feel perfectly certain that,
after scolding him well, I should forgive him. I've grown to be a very
different body to the one you knew when you used to come to us from the
Miss Twettenhams'."
"Now, look here, dear Mrs Bolter," said Grey, who, in her friend's
trouble, seemed to have changed places with her, and become the elder of
the two, "I believe Dr Bolter to be a really good, true man, to whom I
should go in trouble and speak to as if he were my father, sure that he
would be kind and wise, and help and protect me, whether my trouble were
mental or bodily."
"My dear," cried Mrs Bolter, gazing at her with admiration, "you talk
like a little Solomon! Ah!" she cried impatiently, "I wish there had
never been a Solomon at all!"
"Why?" said Grey, wonderingly.
"Because then Harry would never have been always dreaming about gold,
and Tarshish and Ophir, and all that stuff!"
"My dear Mrs Bolter," continued Grey, affectionately, "I feel that I am
perfectly right about Doctor Bolter, and I hope you will not be hurt
when I tell you that I think you are very hard and unjust to him!"
"Hurt, my darling!" sobbed the little woman, "no, indeed I am very
grateful, my dear, and I wish you would scold me well. It would do me
good!"
"I am sure, then, without scolding you," said Grey, smiling, "that the
doctor is one of the best of men!"
"He is--he is, indeed, my dear!" cried Mrs Bolter; "and I'm sure I'd
forgive him anything!"
"And you have nothing to forgive," said Grey. "I am sure of it; and I
hope and pray that you will not be so unjust!"
"Do you think I am unjust, my dear?" said the little lady.
"Unintentionally, yes," replied Grey; "and it is such, a pity that there
should be clouds in such a happy home!"
"You--you are--a dear little angel of goodness, Grey!" sobbed Mrs
Bolter; "and you seem to come like sunshine into my poor, weak, foolish
heart; and I'll never be suspicious or unkind to him again! He's only
studying a little up the river of course; and I'm--as you've shown me--a
weak, foolish, cruel--"
"Affectionate, loving wife," interrupted Grey, who felt herself crushed
the next moment in little Mrs Bolter's arms.
"Bless you, my dear!" she cried. "I'll--"
"Hush!" whispered Grey. "Here is my father!" The little lady hastily
wiped her eyes as she glanced through the veranda, and saw the bent,
thin, dried-up figure of the old merchant coming through the burning
sunshine past the window, and then he stopped and tapped at the door.
"May I come in?" he said. "I'm not a patient."
"Yes, yes, come in!" cried Mrs Bolter, cheerfully.
"How do--how do?" he cried, on entering. "Weel, Grey bairnie, how is it
with ye?"
He kissed her in his dry fashion, smiling slightly as he smoothed his
child's fair hair, and bending down to kiss her.
"I'm verra hot, and verra dry and parched up like, so I thought I'd
joost step in and ask for a glass of watter, and joost a soospeeshun of
the doctor's bad whuskee to kill the insects."
"Which I'm sure you shall have, Mr Stuart," cried little Mrs Bolter,
eagerly.
"Weel, Grey, my bairnie, ye look red in your een and pale, when you
ought to be verra happy to think things are all so pleasant and smooth
for you."
"Indeed, I try to be very happy and contented, father," she said, with a
slight catching of the breath.
"Try," he cried, "try? Why, it ought to want no trying; you ought to be
as happy as the day is long."
"For shame, Mr Stuart," cried Mrs Bolter, handing him the large cool
tumbler of water with the whiskey already in. "Would you have her show
no sympathy for people who are all in trouble? It's a weary, miserable
world, and I wonder you can look as happy as you do."
"Hoot--toot, Madam! weary miserable world! Here are you with the best
of husbands. You ought to be ready to jump for joy."
"But I'm not," said the little woman, passionately. "But I'm not so
miserable as I was."
"That's a comfort," said the little merchant, drily; and he took a sip
from his tumbler--a goodly sip--as if he intended to finish all that was
there. "Hech! madam, ye didna forget the whuskee."
"Is it too strong, Mr Stuart? Let me put in a little more water."
"Mair watter! nay; ye'd spoil a verra decent drink for a hot day."
"I'm glad you like it."
"Hah! ye ought to be verra happy indeed, wumman, for the doctor's a good
man, and a trusty fren'. Hah! that's good whuskee," he added, with a
sigh of satisfaction after a deep draught. "Life would be but a sore
lookout in these parts wi'-out joost a soop o' whuskee to take the taste
o' the crocodiles out o' the watter."
"It is very hot out of doors, is it not, father?" said Grey, who was
wondering what he meant to say.
"Ay, it's hot enough," he replied. "An' so ye're not verra happy, Mrs
Bolter? Ay, but ye ought to be, and so ought my child Grey here, wi'
every comfort in life except extravagances, which I don't hold with at
all. She lives well, and dresses quietly, as a young lady should, and
her father has not set up a grand house to flash and show in, and then
have to give it up, and go and live in one that's wee."
"I don't quite understand you," said Mrs Bolter, colouring slightly,
and looking indignant. "But if you are hinting at the doctor being
extravagant, I cannot sit here without resenting it, for a more careful
man never lived."
"Ay, but he is a sad dog, the doctor," said old Stuart, with a twinkle
full of malice in his eye.
"How dare you say such a thing to me--his wife!" cried Mrs Bolter,
indignantly.
"Hoot! wumman; dinna be fashed!" exclaimed old Stuart, who seemed
delighted to have roused a spirit of opposition in his friend's wife.
"But I'll say this o' him," he continued, gradually growing more
Scottish of accent; "he does keep gude whuskee. Ay, I was na' speaking
o' him when I talked aboot lairge and sma' houses, but o' poor Perowne.
Ay, but it's a bad job."
"What, about poor Helen?" said Mrs Bolter. "Ay, and his affairs. I
suppose ye ken a'?"
"His affairs?" exclaimed Mrs Doctor. "What do you mean?"
"Oh! I thought a' Sindang knew he'd failed. Sax hundred pounds o' my
money goes with the rest. But there, puir mon, he's in trouble enough
wi' the loss o' his daughter, and I'll never say a word about it more."
"Is Mr Perowne in fresh trouble then, father?" said Grey, eagerly.
"Weel, my lassie there's naught fresh about it, for he must have
expected it for a year or two. He's been going down-hill a lang time,
and noo he's recht at the bottom."
"Has he failed, father?"
"Joost ruined and bankrupt, my lassie, and Helen won't have a penny to
call her own--a proud, stuck-up--"
"Hush, father! I cannot bear it," cried Grey, with spirit. "Helen
Perowne is my friend and schoolfellow, and surely she is in trouble
enough to ask our sympathy and not our blame!"
"Why, how now, lassie!" cried the old man angrily. "Ay, but ye're quite
right," he said, checking himself. "We ought to pity them, and not jump
upon 'em when they're down. Ye're quite recht, Grey, my bairnie--quite
recht."
"Oh, Mr Stuart, how shocking; and just when he is so ill and cast down!
Grey, my child, I must go and see if I can be of help to him. Will you
stay with your father?"
"Ay, she'll stay, and you may too, Mrs Bolter, for Perowne has gone
across to the Residency, and before now they're awa' up the river to try
and find his poor lassie. Ye're quite recht, Grey, my child; and if
they find her and bring her back, stop wi' her and comfort her, and do
the best ye can. I'm sorry for them, for we're none o' us pairfect.
But this is verra gude whuskee, Mrs Bolter. When do ye expect the
Doctor home?"
"I don't know, Mr Stuart," she said, sadly. "Soon, I hope; but when he
does come back he'll have to go after the expedition. It's very sad to
be a doctor's wife."
"To be wife to some doctors," said old Stuart, laughing; "but not to our
Bolter. Eh, but ye're a lucky wumman to get him. If ye hadn't taken
him, I believe I should have made him marry my lassie here. There, I
must be for going though, for my hands are full. I'm trying to save a
few hundreds for poor Perowne out of the wreck."
"When shall I see you again, father?" said Grey, clinging to him
affectionately.
"Oh, heaps o' times, my bairnie, when ye don't expect it. I'm always
looking out after ye, but I know ye're all recht wi' Mrs Bolter here,
so do all ye can."
He nodded and smiled as he went out of the room, but looked in again
directly.
"Ye needna be uneasy you two," he said, "for I'm having a watch kept
over ye both, though ye don't ken it; so go on joost as usual. If I
hear of the doctor coming, Mrs Bolter, I'll let ye know."
They heard his steps in the veranda, and directly after saw his bent,
thin figure out in the scorching sun, with no further protection than a
bit of muslin round his old straw hat, and looking as if he were not
worth fifty pounds in the world, and the last man to be the father of
the graceful little maiden sitting holding Mrs Bolter's hand.