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The Road to Mandalay: A Tale of Burma

by B. M. Croker · English · Gutenberg #18239 · 483,073 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Road to Mandalay: A Tale of Burma

Author: B. M. Croker


        
Release date: April 23, 2006 [eBook #18239]
                Most recently updated: December 17, 2022

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO MANDALAY: A TALE OF BURMA ***




The Road to Mandalay

A Tale of Burma

by B. M. Croker




Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne
First published October 1917.
Reprinted December 1917, March and May 1918
Popular Edition 1919.




TO
LT.-COLONEL A. E. CONGDON
LATE ROYAL MUNSTER FUSILIERS
FROM HIS OLD FRIEND
THE AUTHOR




CONTENTS

 CHAPTER 1. BLINDS DOWN
 CHAPTER 2. WHAT HANNAH SAID
 CHAPTER 3. THE CLOSED HOUSE
 CHAPTER 4. KICKS AND HALFPENCE
 CHAPTER 5. CLOUDS
 CHAPTER 6. AN EMPTY OFFER
 CHAPTER 7. “THE MONSTER”
 CHAPTER 8. BOUND FOR BURMA
 CHAPTER 9. THE “BLANKSHIRE”
 CHAPTER 10. THE LAND OF PROMISE
 CHAPTER 11. A BURMESE HOSTESS
 CHAPTER 12. EAST AND WEST
 CHAPTER 13. “KEEP AN EYE UPON HER”
 CHAPTER 14. THE MANTLE OF FERNANDA
 CHAPTER 15. THE CHUMMERY
 CHAPTER 16. MR. AND MRS. ABELSALTER
 CHAPTER 17. AT THE PLAY
 CHAPTER 18. THE CHINESE SHOP
 CHAPTER 19. CHAFF
 CHAPTER 20. THE PONGYE
 CHAPTER 21. THE COCAINE DEN
 CHAPTER 22. THE APPROACHING DREAD
 CHAPTER 23. MYSTERY AND SUSPICION
 CHAPTER 24. SENTENCE OF DEATH
 CHAPTER 25. THE LATE RICHARD ROSCOE
 CHAPTER 26. FITZGERALD IMPARTS INFORMATION
 CHAPTER 27. A ROPE TRICK
 CHAPTER 28. MA CHIT
 CHAPTER 29. MUNG BAW
 CHAPTER 30. ENLIGHTENMENT
 CHAPTER 31. SEEING IS BELIEVING
 CHAPTER 32. ON DUTY
 CHAPTER 33. SOPHY
 CHAPTER 34. ALL IS OVER
 CHAPTER 35. MUNG BAW LIES LOW
 CHAPTER 36. THE BOMBSHELL
 CHAPTER 37. THE TUG OF WAR
 CHAPTER 38. SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN




THE ROAD TO MANDALAY




CHAPTER I
BLINDS DOWN


“What do you think, Mitty? All the blinds are down at ‘Littlecote,’”
announced Miss Jane Tebbs, bursting open the drawing-room door and
disturbing her sister in a surreptitious game of patience. In
well-ordered households the mistress is understood to have various
domestic tasks claiming her attention in the morning. Cards should
never appear until after sunset.

“Blinds down?” echoed Miss Tebbs, hastily moving a newspaper in the
hope of concealing her ill-doing. “Why are you in such a taking, Jane?
I suppose the family are away.”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed her relative, sinking into a chair and dragging
off her gloves. “Did you ever know them all away together? Of course,
Mrs. Shafto goes gadding, and Douglas is at Sandhurst, but ‘he’ seldom
stirs. It is my opinion that something has happened. The Shaftos have
lived at ‘Littlecote’ for ten years, and I have never seen the blinds
down before to-day.”

“Oh, you are so fussy and ready to imagine things!” grumbled Mitty, who
meanwhile had collected and pocketed the cards with surpassing
dexterity. “I don’t forget the time when the curate had a smart lady in
his lodgings, and you nearly went out of your mind: rampaging up and
down the village, and telling everyone that the bishop must be
informed; and after all your outcry she turned out to be the young
man’s mother!”

“That’s true. I confess I was misled; but she made herself up to look
like a girl of twenty. You can’t deny that she powdered her nose and
wore white shoes. But this is different. Drawn blinds are a sign of
trouble, and there is trouble at ‘Littlecote,’ as sure as my name is
Jane.”

“Then, in that case, why don’t you go up to the house and inquire?”—The
query suggested a challenge.

“_Mitty_! You know perfectly well that I have never been inside the
door since Mrs. Shafto was so rude to me about the book club, when I
wrote and protested against the ‘loose’ novels she put upon her list.
Why, you saw her letter yourself!”

Here a pause ensued, during which Miss Jane blew into every separate
finger of her gloves and folded them up with the neatest exactitude.
Presently she murmured with a meditative air:

“I was thinking of asking Eliza to run over.”

“Oh, you may ask!” rejoined her sister, with a sniff of scorn, “but
Eliza won’t stir. There’s a beefsteak pudding for dinner. And that
reminds me that this is the egg woman’s day, and I must see if she has
called. I shall want three dozen.”

And without another word the elder Miss Tebbs bustled out of the room
and abandoned her relative to solitude and speculation.

Matilda and Jane Tebbs were the elderly orphans of a late vicar, and
still considered the parish and community of Tadpool their special
charge. Miss Jane was organist and Sunday school superintendent; Miss
Tebbs held mothers’ meetings and controlled the maternity basket and
funds. Subsequent to their retirement from the vicarage the sisters had
known straitened circumstances; in fact, had experienced the sharp nip
of real poverty; but, no matter how painful their necessities, they
contrived to keep up appearances and never withdrew from society, nor
suffered their little circle to forget that their grandfather had been
an archdeacon. In spite of anxious times and scanty funds, they clung
with loyal tenacity to certain family relics, in the shape of old
silver, china and prints, many of which were highly marketable.

In those evil days it was whispered that “the Tebbs had only one best
dress between them”—a certain rich black silk. As Miss Jane was at
least six inches taller than dumpy Miss Mitty, difficulties of length
were cunningly surmounted by an adjustable flounce. Needless to add
that on festive occasions, such as high teas, little dinners, and card
parties, the sisters never appeared together, the one “out of turn”
invariably excusing herself with toothache or a heavy cold. Although
they argued and bickered in private, and had opposing tastes in the
matter of boiling eggs and drawing tea, the Tebbs were a deeply
attached pair and presented an unbroken front to the outer world.

After several years of brave struggle, during which the wolf of want
prowled hungrily round Highfield Cottage, a substantial and unexpected
fortune, fell to the Tebbs, restored them to comfortable
independence—and to the notice of such far-sighted parents as happened
to be in quest of useful and benevolent godmothers. The sisters made
but little change in their style of living; they now owned handsome
furs, a separate wardrobe, and not a few rich silks; they still
continued to occupy the cottage, and retained in their service a
certain tyrannical treasure, widely known and feared as “the Tebbs’s
Eliza.” Although an admirable and trustworthy servant, Eliza ruled the
household, permitted no late hours, no breakfasts in bed, no
unnecessary fires, no unnecessary guests. Her mistresses were obliged
to do a considerable amount of household work; for instance, they made
their beds and Miss Tebbs dusted the china; she also had the charge of
the linen and store-room; whilst Miss Jane was responsible for the
silver, the lamps, and, on Eliza’s day out, “the door.”

When the door was answered by Eliza in person, her manner was so fierce
and intimidating that nervous callers complained that the Tebbs’ maid
looked as if she was ready to fly at, and bite them! Ill-natured
tongues declared that the tyrant was tolerated merely because she was a
channel for the most far-reaching, fresh and sensational gossip. But
let us hope that this was a malignant libel!

Highfield Cottage was old, two-storied and solid; elsewhere than
Tadpool it might have ventured to pose as a villa residence, but
Tadpool, a fine, sixteenth century, self-respecting and historical
village, tolerated no villas. If such abodes ventured to arise, they
sprouted timidly in the fields beyond its boundaries. Moreover, the age
and history of Highfield Cottage were too widely known for any change
of name. The cottage was connected with the high road by a prim little
garden and a red-tiled footpath; eight long narrow windows commanded a
satisfactory outlook—including Littlecote Hall—a square white mansion
withdrawn in dignified retirement behind elms and beeches, in age the
contemporary of its humbler _vis-à-vis_.

Here resided Edward Shafto, late Fellow of St. John’s, Oxford, his wife
Lucilla, and his son Douglas. Ten years previously the family had
descended on Tadpool as from the skies—or as a heavy stone cast into
some quiet mill pond. No one in the neighbourhood could discover
anything about them—although Jane Tebbs’s exertions in the matter were
admittedly prodigious and unwearied. The house agent proved
disappointingly vague, and could only inform her that a gentleman who
happened to hear of the place had come down from London, inspected the
house, liked its lofty, spacious rooms with their old mahogany doors
(it recalled his home), was much taken with the gardens—and promptly
signed the lease! Certainly it was an audacious step to invade a
strange neighbourhood without a social sponsor or reference. However,
the community breathed more freely when they beheld the new tenant of
“Littlecote,” a middle-aged, distinguished-looking individual; and Miss
Jane discovered, or pretended to discover, that he was one of the
Shaftos of Shafton Court.

Mrs. Shafto (who looked surprisingly young to be the mother of a tall
lad of ten) had a pretty figure, quantities of lightish red hair, an
animated manner, and a pair of hard blue eyes. She was fashionably
turned out, and her hat of a remarkable shape was discussed in the
village for weeks.

The arrival of furniture vans, horses, carriages and a number of
servants, afforded unqualified interest to the Misses Tebbs; and
moreover advertised the fact that the new-comers were well-to-do; and
after allowing a reasonable time for the strangers to settle down, the
neighbours called.

By and by these calls were returned by Mrs. Shafto in a smart victoria
and a still smarter costume; her husband was merely represented by a
neatly printed card, which bore the name of “Mr. Edward Shafto,
Athenaeum Club.” Mr. Edward Shafto was rarely to be met beyond his
grounds and garden, unless driving through the village to Bricklands
railway station, en route for London. He did not sit on the Bench, nor
was he a churchwarden, the usual grounds of meeting. When encountered
he was invariably agreeable and had charming easy manners, but not much
to say for himself, and his acquaintance, like the farmers and the
claret, got “no forrarder.” Gradually the painful truth was accepted
that Shafto did not care to know people. He never dined out, he did not
shoot or hunt, but it was mysteriously whispered that “he wrote.” What,
no one precisely knew, but one fact was common property: he was fond of
horticulture and the once famous gardens of “Littlecote” had been
delightfully restored.

If Tadpool was held at arm’s length by Edward Shafto, the community had
no difficulty in making acquaintance with his consort, a pretty
vivacious lady who accepted all invitations, and herself gave tennis
parties, bridge parties, luncheons and teas. For some time the
neighbourhood was disposed to like her, although perhaps she was not
quite “off the top shelf,” a little too demonstrative, loud and
unreserved; then by degrees Mrs. Shafto fell into disfavour; quiet folk
were afraid of her, she enjoyed repeating ill-natured remarks, was
capricious in her likes and dislikes, made a good deal of mischief, and
separated chief friends.

The lady was not disposed to be reticent respecting her family affairs;
there was something satisfactory in this! People learned that her
husband was really a Shafto of Shafton, and also that his elder
brother, who actually reigned in the family place, was “a brute.” She
volubly explained that they had deserted the Border and moved south,
partly because “the pater” wished to be within easy reach of London,
his Club and musty old libraries, and also because it was more
convenient for Douglas, who was at Winchester.

Then gradually it came to pass that the village bored the new-comer;
bored her to death. She became restless and quarrelsome, had a coolness
with the vicarage regarding a pew, with Mrs. Tremenheere at the Park
about a housemaid, and actually cut Mrs. General Finch “dead” in the
village post office, owing to a mislaid visiting-card. At the end of
three years Lucilla Shafto had embroiled herself with almost everyone
in her immediate vicinity, and found her true level and most congenial
companions in the busy bustling town of Bricklands, a rapidly growing
and prosperous mushroom place, situated thirty miles south of London,
and within two miles of our ancient and respectable hamlet. Here she
belonged to several clubs, bridge, tennis and croquet; enjoyed being a
Triton among minnows; entertained a third-rate set at “Littlecote,” and
joined gay little theatre parties to London to “do a play,” and return
home by the last train.

Housekeeping sat but lightly on Mrs. Shafto’s graceful shoulders, for
the Shaftos also possessed a family treasure named Hannah, an elderly
woman, who had been in service with “the family” and now managed the
house, and looked after the comforts and buttons of her master and his
boy.

Mr. and Mrs. Shafto went their separate ways, and were rarely to be
seen in one another’s company. The lady assured her friends that her
husband’s health was indifferent, and that he did not care for society;
for her part she liked amusement, excitement, life; whilst he preferred
to read, write, overlook his garden, and occasionally run up to London.
She did not trouble herself much about her son—a handsome active boy,
resembling his father in looks. Between these there undoubtedly existed
a deep affection. During the holidays they were frequently to be met
walking or riding together, and Shafto _pére_ would so far emerge from
his retirement as to be a proud spectator at cricket matches in
Tremenheere Park and elsewhere. Douglas and two of the Tremenheere boys
were schoolmates, and he was in continual request at their home.
Unfortunately these visits were displeasing to Mrs. Shafto, as was also
his intimacy with the young people at the vicarage; and poor Douglas
had an awkward part to play. He could not avoid or drop his friends;
yet, on the other hand, there were painful difficulties with his
mother, who declared that he was a mean fellow to run after people who
had _insulted_ her, and one day, when in a towering passion, she had
been overheard to scream “that he was a thorn in her side, and a true
Shafto!”

But all this time Miss Jane Tebbs remains stationed at the drawing-room
window, watching the road with unwinking vigilance. For a long while
she beheld no object of special interest, but at last, after seeing the
grocer’s cart, a travelling tinker, two cows and a boy go by, her
patience was handsomely rewarded. To her delight, she descried Mrs.
Billing, the doctor’s wife, emerge from “Littlecote” and, hammering on
the window to attract notice, she flew down to open the hall door.

Mrs. Billing, a stout, middle-aged lady, looked unusually hot and
flustered as she waddled through the little green gate and entered the
cottage.

“Why, my dear, you seem quite upset!” cried Jane, as she welcomed the
visitor, “come into the dining-room, and have a glass of milk.”

But Mrs. Billing dismissing the proffered refreshment with a dramatic
wave of her hand, subsided upon the only chair in the narrow hall and
gasped out:

“I have just come from ‘Littlecote.’ Mr. Shafto is gone—he died last
night!”




CHAPTER II
WHAT HANNAH SAID


On hearing this announcement, Jane Tebbs gave a little lurch and leant
against the wall in speechless horror; and yet in her heart she had
been more than half expecting—we will not say hoping for—some tragedy.
Then she made a rush to the store-room, where Miss Mitty, invested in a
large blue apron, was methodically marking eggs.

“Sister, sister, come out!” she cried. “Mrs. Billing is here; she says
Mr. Shafto is dead; I told you that something had happened!”

“Dead!” repeated Mitty, staring blankly at her relative. Then she cast
aside her apron and hurried into the hall. “Let us all go into the
dining-room,” she continued, leading the way. “What a shocking thing,
Mrs. Billing!”—turning to her visitor. “Do tell us the particulars. I
can hardly believe it! Why, I saw Mr. Shafto in Bricklands on Tuesday,
and he looked as well as he ever did in his life.”

“That was the day he heard the news,” announced Mrs. Billing, selecting
an arm-chair and casting off her feather boa.

“Bad news?” suggested Miss Jane.

“Very bad indeed—could not be worse. He heard he’d lost every penny he
possessed in the wide world.”

“Great patience!” ejaculated Miss Tebbs; “you don’t say so; but how?”

“Well, you know he was always comfortably off; indeed, one might say
rich.”

“That’s true! They keep five maids indoors, and a charwoman three times
a week, two men and a boy in the garden, and two men in the stables,”
glibly enumerated Miss Jane. “All that is not done on small means, and
I happen to know that Mr. Shafto himself paid everything monthly—which
is more than we can say for his wife; even her bridge losses”; here she
halted on the brink of scandal.

After hesitating for a second, Mrs. Billing continued:

“Well, it appears, from what my husband can gather, that Mr. Shafto
trusted all his money and investments to a man who had managed his
affairs for years, and in whom he had the most absolute confidence; he
just drew his income regularly, lived his quiet life, and never
troubled his head about business. It seems that for a considerable time
this agent had been speculating with his clients’ capital, and paying
them the interest to the day. He staved off the reckoning by every
possible device, and when he could no longer hide his wickedness, when
liabilities poured in, and proceedings were instituted, he shot
himself! Not much comfort in that for the families he has beggared. I
believe he had a splendid establishment at Hampstead; greenhouses,
pictures, motor-cars, and entertained like a prince. He squandered the
handsome fortune that was left to Mr. Shafto, and all that Mr. Shafto
could be sure of, about a hundred and fifty pounds a year, belongs to
Douglas.”

“Oh, my dear, never mind the money, but do tell us about poor Mr.
Shafto,” urged Jane. “What was the cause of his death? Suicide? This
morning I thought I heard a shot!”

“No, no, no—heart failure,” hastily interposed Mrs. Billing. “He was
always troubled with a rickety heart, and on several occasions my
husband attended him for rather dangerous fainting attacks; no doubt
that was partly the reason why he lived so quietly, just taken up with
his books, his garden, and, when he was at home, his boy. It appears
that when Mr. Shafto heard of the smash, he went straight up to London,
interviewed a lawyer, and learnt the worst. He returned in the
afternoon, very tired and excited, broke the news to his wife, and had
a serious fainting attack. My husband was sent for, but he found Mr.
Shafto sinking. He died at midnight. He himself had wired for Douglas,
who arrived just in time for the end. Poor boy! He feels it terribly.”

“Yes,” assented Miss Mitty, “Douglas and his father were such friends.
The loss of money will make a sad difference to him. There will be no
going into the Army now, no more hunting and cricket; he will have to
take a clerkship. Did you see him?”

“Yes. He and my Freddy are great pals, so I know him pretty well. I
declare he gave me a shock, he looked utterly heart-broken; and he
said: ‘It is so sudden, so frightfully sudden—about the pater; the
money may come back somehow or other, but he is gone for ever; I’ll
never see him again. If he had only known me—or spoken to me!’ And then
he just laid his head upon his arms and sobbed like a girl.”

“And Mrs. Shafto, how does _she_ bear this double loss?” inquired Miss
Jane magisterially.

“She had one fit of screaming hysterics after another. If you ask _me_,
I believe it’s the money that touches her most keenly; my husband
begged me to go up this morning, and see if I could do anything. She
has no intimate friends here, and I have sent to Mrs. Boomer and Mrs.
Jake; they will be over from Bricklands immediately. The doctor has
given a certificate, and has undertaken to see about the funeral, and
sent the notice to the _Times_ and _Morning Post_. From what old Hannah
told me, it seems that Mr. Shafto and his family were not on terms; I
believe the quarrel had something to do”—she paused and glanced from
one to the other of her eager listeners—“with Mrs. Shafto, and I am not
surprised. They did not approve of the marriage—it was a mistake.”

“I’m afraid it was,” agreed Miss Mitty briskly; “they never appeared a
well-matched couple; he, so reserved and aristocratic, and she such a
gabbling, fluffy, restless creature—crazy about bridge and dress. I
wonder who she was?”

“I can tell you that!” was Mrs. Billing’s unexpected reply. “Mr. Shafto
was a Fellow of his College at Oxford, wealthy and distinguished—he had
taken no end of honours. He was hooked—there is no other word for it—by
the niece of a local book-seller! He was an important customer, and the
girl always contrived to be there, when he came in and out, and was so
sympathetic, and bright and lively, as well as being uncommonly pretty,
that the poor man lost his head and, with very little pressure from the
uncle, married her. It was all scrambled up in a hurry, before his
friends could turn round, or interfere. Of course he had to resign his
fellowship and his beautiful rooms overlooking the garden, and he took
his bride abroad. His relations dropped him and he dropped his Oxford
friends; then he went and settled in the north. He must have lived
there for years; his next move was here.”

“And have you always known this?” demanded Miss Mitty, her countenance
expressing injury and jealousy. Fancy Mrs. Billing knowing this story
all that time and keeping it to herself; how sly!

“Oh, only lately,” replied the visitor in an apologetic key; “an old
aunt of mine lives in Oxford, and I met her in town last Easter.
Somehow the name of Shafto cropped up, and I heard the whole tale. I
told my husband and he said I’d better hold my tongue, and so I have,
until now, when it’s of no consequence who knows—as of course
‘Littlecote’ must be given up, and the Shaftos will go away.”

“Well, we have often wondered who she was? and how Shafto—who looked
like a duke—came to marry her,” said Miss Tebbs; “such an odd, flighty,
uncertain sort of creature, always for strangers, instead of her home.
That poor boy never saw much of his mother; I believe he was hustled
off to a preparatory school when he was about seven, and when he
happened to be here for his holidays it was his father who took him
about. I am very sorry for Douglas, a handsome, cheery, nice fellow,”
she continued, “always with a pleasant word, even for an old woman like
me. The rectory lads and the Tremenheeres just love him!”

“Luckily there are no girls at the rectory,” remarked Miss Mitty.

“Douglas is but nineteen, and really only a boy,” protested Mrs.
Billing.

“Well, this affair will make a man of him, or I’m greatly mistaken.”

“More likely it will make him a slave,” argued Jane; “he is bound to
support his mother, and a hundred and fifty pounds a year won’t go far
with her! And now I dare say she will have her wish and be able to live
in London. I suppose there will be an auction at ‘Littlecote’?”

“Yes, of course,” assented Mrs. Billing, “and that is sure to bring in
a handsome sum—unless there are liabilities and debts. I’ve always
admired that Crown Derby tea service—dark blue and gold.”

“I know,” rejoined Miss Tebbs, “a beautiful long set, and there’s a
nice little old Sheffield tea urn that we could do with! I expect the
kitchen things will go pretty cheap; we want a new preserving pan.”

“Talking of the kitchen, reminds me of food,” remarked the visitor
rising. “My husband will be back clamouring for his lunch and I must
run,” and in spite of her size, Mrs. Billing was out of the house in
less than no time, pursued by a volley of questions to the very gate.


During that afternoon there was an unusual amount of visiting and
talking; the recent event had stirred the village to its depths, but
beyond the facts disclosed by Mrs. Billing everything was surmise and
regret; the personality of the late Edward Shafto, though slightly
known, was much respected. “He was a gentleman”—the statement implied a
left-handed compliment to his wife—“and his purse was ever open to the
poor; it was said that he was a secret benefactor to various aged
people, and to the local charities.”

As the Misses Tebbs sat at supper the following night—a frugal meal of
cocoa and bread and butter—Eliza tramped in, still wearing her hat; it
had been her afternoon out. She seemed to be a little breathless, and
was undoubtedly charged with some weighty intelligence.

“Well, Eliza, what is it?” eagerly inquired Miss Tebbs.

“I just thought I’d step over to ‘Littlecote’ this evening, and see
Hannah.” Oh, priceless handmaiden!

“Yes—and what did she tell you?”

Eliza placed her hands on her hips—invariable preliminary to an
important announcement. “She took me to see the corpse; he looked
beautiful, just like a marble statue; and there in front of the dead,
what do you think Hannah told me? That Mrs. Shafto had _killed_ him!”
She paused to contemplate the effect of this statement. “Yes, his heart
was always weak, he couldn’t stand no shocks, and when he come back
wore out from London, and told her as how he was ruined, the screams of
that woman was enough to bring the house down! Hannah ran in and there
was he, lying back in a chair, and she standing over him with a face
all worked up, and her hands clenched, shouting at him that it was all
through his lunacy and laziness they were beggared—and she wished he
was _dead_. I couldn’t tell you all the awful things she said, but he
fainted right away and never come to again. Now, what do you say to
that?” and she surveyed her audience judicially.

The sisters remained dumb; for once, speech had failed them.

“As for caring,” continued Eliza, “Mrs. Shafto doesn’t feel no more
than this table,” rapping it with her bony knuckles; “all she minds is
about _the money_—and already they say she has been routing among his
papers, searching for his bank book. Oh! she is an awful woman, her
heart is just a stone. As for poor Master Douglas, now there’s real
grief! He hasn’t tasted a bite or sup, and he looks crushed. Everyone
in the place will be sorry for him and for his father; but as far as
Mrs. Shafto is concerned, when she’s paid off the money she owes—the
sooner the place can get shut of her the better!”




CHAPTER III
THE CLOSED HOUSE


The break-up of the home at Littlecote Hall was a speedy and complete
affair; Miss Jane Tebbs, being practically on the spot, volunteered
invaluable assistance. Always energetic and anxious to be “up and
doing,” and with a sadly restricted field for her activities, here was
a grand opportunity absolutely within her reach. The second Miss Tebbs
had an immense acquaintance and correspondence, a fairly, good business
head and, to her late enemy Mrs. Shafto, she ultimately proved a
veritable tower of strength. The recent sad catastrophe had melted
Jane’s heart, and she promptly appeared in “Littlecote” drawing-room,
waving a large olive branch—which her former adversary most thankfully
accepted. In such a crisis as the present there was no more helpless,
hopeless creature than Lucilla Shafto—a woman who was always ready to
transfer her burdens to others. Strange to say, she somewhat distrusted
her intimates in Bricklands; it seemed to her that their questions and
sympathy were chiefly founded on vulgar curiosity and greedy
self-interest. “How was she left? What had become of all the money?
What was the boy going to do? Where would she settle? Would she not be
glad to get rid of some of her smart summer clothes, now that she would
be in weeds for at least two years? _What_ about her sables?”

Jane Tebbs was totally different; an honest and single-hearted woman,
she wrote business letters, interviewed the local agent, arranged for
the auction and,—O wonderful and miraculous achievement!—was even
instrumental in getting rid of the lease.

It was not surprising in all these circumstances that Mrs. Shafto
should cling as a limpet to Jane Tebbs, whom she had so often
apostrophised as a “meddling, mischievous, malignant old cat,” but
Lucilla Shafto was suffering from a violent mental shock. The sudden
descent, as it were in one day, from comfortable affluence to a very
narrow income, had temporarily stunned her, and she had a secret
conviction that if she were to leave her affairs in the capable hands
of her nearest neighbour, all would be well. She therefore remained
secluded in her own spacious bedroom, whilst busy Jane undertook her
affairs; helped with the auction list, interviewed the tradespeople,
and, accompanied by the boy, went up to London to confer with Mr.
Shafto’s lawyers.

Douglas was subdued; he seemed a different creature, so silent and
pale, but keenly anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel. He had
withdrawn from Sandhurst and, in conversations with the Tremenheeres,
informed them that his idea of going into the Army was knocked on the
head, and that he now intended to look out for some job in the City.

It must not be supposed that Jane Tebbs, the indefatigable, was the
only neighbour who had come forward with offers of assistance to the
widow; the Tremenheeres, the vicarage, and many other acquaintances had
been sincere in their sympathy and goodwill, but somehow or other Mrs.
Shafto would have none of them! She refused to see the vicar or his
wife, and lay in bed most of the day bewailing her fate, scribbling
answers to letters of condolence, and occasionally dipping into a
novel. “Read she must,” she declared, “as it diverted her mind from the
too dreadful present. A good novel was the best of anodynes.”

The auction at “Littlecote” proved an important local event, and threw
the annual Church bazaar woefully into the shade. It lasted three
summer days and enabled a substantial sum to be placed to the credit of
Edward Shafto’s widow. Unfortunately Edward Shafto’s widow had
considerable private debts and, when these were settled, five hundred
pounds was all that remained for investment.

As is proverbial with respect to auctions, good and even valuable lots
went in some cases for the traditional old song; it is on record that
Mrs. Shafto’s smart victoria was sold to a jobmaster for six pounds,
Mrs. Billing secured a wonderful bargain in the Crown Derby tea
service, and the Sheffield tea urn fell to Miss Tebbs for ten shillings
and sixpence! On the other hand, rubbish was at a premium. The kitchen
utensils were dispersed at an alarmingly high figure, and a Turkey
carpet, aged twenty years, fetched more than its original cost.

The sale was over. Needless to say, it had afforded enormous interest
to the inmates of Highfield Cottage. Miss Jane could almost tell the
price and history of each individual lot.

In a short time the great placards of advertisement were torn off the
gate piers at “Littlecote,” the house was closed, and once more the
blinds were down.




CHAPTER IV
KICKS AND HALFPENCE


More than four years had elapsed since Mrs. Shafto and her son had
driven away from “Littlecote” behind a pair of smart bay steppers. (The
widow was determined to keep up what she was pleased to call “her
position” to the last.) Immediately succeeding this dignified exit came
a woeful change in their circumstances. Mrs. Shafto was obliged to make
the best of boarding-house and ’bus, and Douglas, thanks to the
exertions of his friends the Tremenheeres, found a situation in a
mercantile house in the City. There was no time for him to pick and
choose. It was imperative that he should begin to earn without delay,
and not, as his parent frankly remarked, “look to a poor widow for
support.” This condition of abject poverty was, she declared, “entirely
due to his father’s criminal carelessness respecting his affairs. She
had what would barely keep her alive”—170 pounds per annum—“and that
was all.” As for Douglas, he must work.

Although they were not congenial companions Douglas faithfully
accompanied his mother in her varied wanderings, supported her in
action with enraged landladies, helped her out of a libel case, covered
her reverses and retreats, and lived by command under the same roof.

For the last eighteen months the pair had been established at a
well-managed private hotel in Lincoln Square, Bayswater, W. “Malahide”
was a flourishing concern; two substantial houses had been thrown into
one; the rooms were spacious, clean, and adequately furnished; the food
was plain but abundant. The double drawing-room contained a fine piano,
one or two sofas, and card tables; also a sufficiency of sound and
reliable chairs; but not an ornament, save two clocks—not one paper
fan, nor bunch of coloured grasses, nor a single antimacassar, not even
a shell! Such amazing restraint gave the apartments an empty but
dignified appearance.

Among its various advantages, “Malahide” was within a few minutes’ walk
of “the Grove,” and “Underground,” a situation which appealed to men in
business and to women whose chief occupation was shopping.

Mrs. Shafto appreciated her present quarters for several excellent
reasons. Here she had no giggling young rivals and was, even at
forty-five, the best-looking and best-dressed of all the lady boarders.
Moreover, she had found a friend and admirer in her neighbour at
meals—a certain Mr. Manasseh Levison, a widower, with a stout figure, a
somewhat fleshy nose, and a pair of fine piercing black eyes. He was
the proprietor of a fashionable and flourishing antiquities and
furniture business in a well-known thoroughfare, and was considered one
of the best judges of old silver and china in the trade.

It exasperated Shafto to listen to his mother’s “table talk,” and he
made a point of sitting as far as possible from her vicinity. She liked
to impress Levison and other with highly-coloured reminiscences of her
grand acquaintances; even the Tremenheeres—with whom she had quarrelled
so bitterly—were dragged in and shown off as intimates. More than once
Shafto had felt his face burn, as exaggerations and glorifications were
unfolded in his parent’s far-carrying and assertive treble.

Besides Mr. Manasseh Levison, were the two Misses Smith—twins—genteel,
middle-aged spinsters, who, until the arrival of the sprightly and
attractive widow, had alternately cherished high hopes of the wealthy
Jew. Their chief energies were devoted to the task of blowing one
another’s trumpets, thereby drawing attention to particular virtues and
modestly hidden accomplishments. For example, the elder would say:

“Darling Ella is so clever at cooking, as good as any French chef, her
sauces and savouries are too wonderful.”

They were!

And Ella, in repayment, assured her listeners that Jessie had a perfect
genius for gardening and housekeeping; and yet it was whispered that
this effusively fond couple, when alone, quarrelled and wrangled as
cruelly as the notorious Kilkenny cats.

Among other patrons at “Malahide” were two quiet, polite little
Japanese gentlemen, Mr. Den and Mr. Yabe; Madame Galli, a shrivelled
old woman in a cheap wig, with sharp rat’s eyes that nothing escaped,
the soul of good nature, rich, miserly and incredibly mischievous.
There were several boarders who were in business in the City, and Mr.
Hutton, a careworn man of fifty, who spent his days working in the
British Museum. Next to him at table sat Douglas Shafto, now a well
set-up, self-possessed young fellow, who still retained something of
the cheery voice and manner of the Public School boy. Thanks to his
steadiness and fair knowledge of French and German, he was drawing a
salary of a hundred and fifty per annum.

His neighbour on the left happened to be his own cousin, Sandy Larcher,
older by three years, and in the same office, but receiving a lower
“screw,” Sandy was of the “knut” tribe, a confident authority on dress,
noisy, slangy, and familiar; much given to cigarettes and music-halls,
a slacker at work, but remarkably active at play and, on the whole,
rather a good sort.

Sandy’s mother, Mrs. Larcher, the widow of a cab proprietor, was Mrs.
Shafto’s only sister, and in the days of that sister’s glory had never
obtruded herself; but now that poor Lucilla had come down in the world,
she had advanced with open arms, and at “Monte Carlo,” the abode of the
Larcher family, Mrs. Shafto occasionally spent a week end. The
“go-as-you-please” atmosphere, late hours, breakfast in bed, and casual
meals, recalled old, and not unhappy times. Mrs. Larcher, who had never
been a beauty, was now a fat woman past fifty, lazy, good-natured, and
absolutely governed by her children. Besides Sandy, the dandy, she had
two daughters, Delia and Cossie.

Delia was on the stage (musical comedy), petite, piquant, and very
lively; a true grasshopper, living only for the summer; a loud,
reckless but respectable young woman, who, having but thirty shillings
a week salary and to find her own “tights,” was ever ready to accept
motor drives, dinners, or a smart hat, or frock, from any of her
“boys.” Cossie, the stay-at-home, was round-faced and plump; a tireless
talker and tennis player. She managed the house, held the slender
purse, accepted her sister’s cast-offs, and always had a “case” on with
somebody. Cossie was exceedingly anxious (being the eldest of the
family) to secure a home of her own, and made this alarmingly obvious.

To “Monte Carlo” Douglas, the highly presentable cousin, was frequently
commanded by both mother and aunt. At first he had hated this duty, but
nevertheless went, in order to please and silence his parent, whose
hand plied the goad and who otherwise “nagged” at him in public and in
private. In private she pointed out that the Larcher family were his
own blood relations, “so different from his father’s side of the house,
which, since his death, had ignored both her and him, and never even
sent a wreath to the funeral!” By slow and painful degrees Douglas
became accustomed to “Monte Carlo”; at first the manners and customs of
his cousins had a rasping effect, and it was more than a year before he
really fell into line, and visited his kindred without pressure. The
girls were not bad-looking—in a flamboyant style—and effusively
good-natured; they took his chaff and criticism without offence, and
accepted with giggles his hints with respect to manners and appearance.
When Douglas happened to be expected, they did not stroll about
slip-shod in dressing-gowns, with their hair hanging loose, or bombard
one another with corks and crusts.

For his part, he brought them books and chocolates, watered the garden,
mowed the tennis ground, mended the bells, and made himself generally
useful. At first this flashy, muddling, free-and-easy household had
disgusted him; and his cool assured manner and critical air irritated
his relatives; whilst his attitude of superior comment had proved a
vexatious restraint. But week by week Douglas came to see that it was
to this particular class he now belonged. These were his nearest
relatives, and he told himself that he must endeavour to accommodate
himself to circumstances—and them; otherwise he was a snob, a beastly
snob!

His first Christmas holidays had been spent at “Tremenheere,” where he
had received a heart-warming welcome. Other school friends had also
claimed him, but his time was now mortgaged to the office, and by
degrees correspondence and intimacy languished—or, rather, changed. His
contemporaries had gone forth into the wide world; the Army, the
Diplomatic Service, and India, had summoned them, their paths in life
lay far apart from that of a mere correspondence clerk, and only the
old birds remained in the nests. Those who were in England wrote and
made arrangements for meetings in town, but Shafto found ready and real
excuses and generally withdrew from his former circle. He liked his
friends—nothing could offer him so much pleasure as their company—but
he realised that in time they would arrive at the parting of the ways,
and it was for him to make the first step in that direction; in such
homes as “Monte Carlo” he must in future find society and
entertainment.


“Monte Carlo” (sixpence return, third class, from town, and eight
minutes’ walk from the station) was a grotesque, little red-faced
abode, situated among a tangle of villas and roads. It stood detached
in a garden, with—O! theme of pride—a full-sized tennis court. There
were also several flower beds, and six unhappy gooseberry bushes, but
_the_ feature was the lawn; here also were seats and a small striped
awning. The grounds of “Monte Carlo” were only divided from its
immediate neighbours by a thin wooden partition—there was no such thing
as privacy or seclusion. Conversation was audible, and the boisterous
jokes of “Chatsworth” and “Travancore” were thoroughly enjoyed at
“Monte Carlo.” In the same way “Monte Carlo” overheard various
interesting items of news, some sharp quarrels and, once or twice,
unpleasant personal truths! On the last occasion, the remark was so
unfriendly (it dealt with Cossie’s methods) that when “Chatsworth,”
ignorant of offence, sent the same evening an emissary to borrow three
pints of stout, the reply was a harsh refusal!

Within doors space was naturally more contracted, but the click of the
opposite gate, the sound of the next door dinner-bell and gramophone
remained, as it were, common property! The tiny hall was choked with
umbrellas, wraps, tennis shoes, and tattered sixpenny books; the
drawing-room, with its pink casement curtains, gaudy cretonne covers,
huge signed photographs, jars of dusty artificial flowers, packs of
dingy cards, and scraps of millinery, looked “lived in”—but tawdry and
untidy. The big Chesterfield sofa—a wonderful bargain—had broken
springs (perhaps it was not such a wonderful bargain?) and many hills
and hollows. In the roomiest of these last the mistress of the house
was more or less a fixture, and the whole apartment, like a _passée_
beauty, was to be seen at its best by candle-light.

The dining-room was chiefly notable for the heavy atmosphere of
tobacco, and multitudes of empty black bottles under the sideboard. The
kitchen, both in sound and smell, absolutely refused to be ignored.
Such was “Monte Carlo!”

The inmates of “Malahide” have received honourable mention, but nothing
has been said of Mrs. Malone, the proprietress, who kept the
establishment running, as it were, on well-oiled wheels. Joyce Malone
was an Irishwoman who had met with cruel reverses. Well born, well
educated, and an almost penniless widow, she thankfully accepted the
post of housekeeper in a nobleman’s family, and there remained until
her savings, and a timely legacy, enabled her to set up for herself.
From the first she had met with success. Her terms were moderate;
butter, eggs and poultry came from her native land; there was no
skimping of coals, or hot water; and clients—who became
permanent—flocked to “Malahide.” In appearance Mrs. Malone was a tall
old woman, with a stoop, who shuffled a little as she walked, and
always wore a black gown, a gold Indian chain, and a white lace cap
with ribbon bows. She kept severely aloof from her guests and had her
own little lair on the second landing. It was, she said, “her business
to see to domestic matters, and not to gossip or play bridge.”
Nevertheless, she had her favourites: Mr. Hutton and young Shafto.
(Envy and malice declared that Mrs. Malone had _no_ favourites among
her own sex.) She was drawn to the boy by his air of good breeding and
admirable manners; also she noticed with secret indignation how
shamefully his mother neglected and snubbed him. She took far more
notice of Jimmy Black, or Sandy Larcher, than of her own son. No doubt
she disliked to be so unmistakably dated by his tall, well-grown youth,
and her hostess mentally agreed with a gossip who declared that “Mrs.
Shafto didn’t care a pin for her boy—rather the other way, and if she
had kept her figure, she could never keep her word, or a secret—and was
a hard, selfish, grasping woman.”

Although Shafto and his mother lived under the same roof, she,
figuratively, sat with folded hands as far as he was concerned; it was
kindly Mrs. Malone who looked after his little comforts, saw that his
socks were mended, and made him a hot drink when he had a heavy cold.
Also, as a special honour, she invited him to her “den,” gave him a cup
of coffee, or a glass of port, and talked to him of her Irish home and
her young days. Once upon a time she had been a capital horsewoman, and
it was strange to hear this old lady and the bright-eyed youth
comparing notable runs.

One day in the Strand at luncheon hour, Shafto came face to face with
his old friend Geoffrey Tremenheere, looking bronzed, splendidly fit,
and independent as a prince.

“Hallo, Douglas!” he exclaimed. “Well, if this isn’t a piece of luck!
How are you, old man?”

“All right—and you?”

“I arrived from India yesterday and go up to Scotland to-night—the
family are all on the moors. I’ve just been looking for a pair of guns.
Come and give your opinion, and then we will lunch. I’m stopping at the
Grand.”

“I’d like to awfully, I need not tell you, Geoff, but I’ve got to be
back at 1.15 sharp—it’s mail day.”

“Oh, hang mail day! Come along and lunch—and let us have a good old
_bukh_!”

“I don’t know what that means—but I’ll be glad of lunch, and more glad
of a bit of a jaw!”

“Now, tell me all about yourself, Douglas,” said his schoolfellow, as
they sat _vis-à-vis_ in the marble hall. “You don’t look particularly
chirpy. Still in the office?”

“Yes—I expect to live and die there.”

“Poor old boy—and doing work you hate!”

“Oh, I’m getting used to it now. I shall manage to hang on.”

“And Mrs. Shafto—how is she?”

“As usual—going strong. We live in the same boarding-house.”

“’Umph! Well, let me tell you this—you are in the black books at home.
I hear you refuse all invitations and make monstrous excuses.”

“You know I’d love to go down to ‘Tremenheere,’ but how can I? My time
is not my own, and I only got a week’s holiday in August and three days
at Christmas. There’s nothing to tell about my career—let’s hear
yours?”

Thus invited, Geoffrey, a gay young officer in a crack regiment, broke
into short and vivid descriptions of Indian quarters, polo matches, and
capital black-buck shooting in the Central Provinces, and gave a full
and detailed history of his one tiger.

Shafto, an eager and enthusiastic listener, exclaimed:

“I say, how splendid! Do you know, Geoff, I’d give ten years of this
life to have a good chance of seeing the world—especially the East?”

“Who knows—you might yet!”

“Pigs might fly! Still I must not grumble. I’m delighted you have had
such a glorious time; when one’s friends are enjoying themselves, it’s
next best to doing the same oneself. What leave have you got?”

“Only three months and every hour is priceless. This time to-morrow I
shall be blazing away at a grouse drive.”

From grouse they fell to talking of shooting, of old scenes, of
rabbiting and ferreting, of cricket matches, schoolfellows and scrapes.

Suddenly Douglas sprang to his feet and pointed to the clock.

“Half-past one, I must run! Good-bye and good luck, old boy,” wringing
his friend’s hand, “I shan’t forget this lunch in a hurry,” and he was
gone. This little break and talk of old times and warm friends gave
Shafto something pleasant to think of for many days; it was like a
gleam of sunshine in his grey and joyless life.

Richard Hutton, hack writer and “ghost,” sat next to him at table twice
a day, and proved a sympathetic neighbour. Hutton was a clever,
cultured, and—when he pleased—a wholly delightful companion.
Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together,
visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a
dash into the country, or up the river.

“You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto,” he remarked one
evening; “how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can
find in the Caledonian Market? It’s an out-of-the-way place, where once
a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up a
really staggering bargain.”

“What’s that?” inquired Shafto.

“Well, I’m told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two
shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid
silver—a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess that
I’ve never found any spoil, but I only root among the books. Once, I
thought I’d got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be a fake.”

“All right,” agreed Shafto, “I’d like to try my luck; I’ll go with you
and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I’ve nothing special on—only
tennis in the afternoon.”

“And the market is at its best in the morning—we’ll start at ten.”

Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare
enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian
Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still
pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans—mostly
drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own
particular pitch. In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty
volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of
theological works a great host. Farther on the explorers came to a vast
collection of old iron. It was as if numbers of travelling tinkers had
here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers, stair-rods, tin-cans,
officers’ swords—yes, at least a dozen—frying pans and saucepans. Old
clothes were needless to say, a prominent feature. Here you might suit
yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a red flannel petticoat, a
soiled evening gown on graceful lines, or a widow’s bonnet. Here also
were black costumes (dripping beads), broken feathers, and hopeless
hats. Old furniture had several stands and was an important department.
Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs (Chippendale or otherwise),
chairs in horsehair or upholstered in wool-work, and framed family
portraits solicited notice. Should anyone marvel as to what becomes of
the rubbish and relics belonging to houses whose contents have been
scattered, after several generations—trifles that survived wrecked
fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred reasons, people had clung to
till the last, let them repair to the “Market”—the relics are there,
lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a pitiful spectacle, handled,
despised, and cast aside—the precious hoarded treasures of a bygone
age.

Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals,
snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter. Here is a Prayer
Book with massive silver clasps, inscribed, “Dearest Mary, on our
wedding day, June 4th, 1847, from Gilbert.” There, in a red morocco
case, is a miniature of a handsome naval officer. At the back, under
glass, are two locks of hair, joined by a true lover’s knot in seed
pearls. Some ruthless hand will pick out those pearls and throw the
hair away.

For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his
pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion
eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume. Shafto
noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among
the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson with a
greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart
ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup
tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto’s idle glance fell upon a frightful
Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in
height.

“I say, did you ever see such a horror?” he asked, pointing it out to
his companion; “a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs.
Malone would love. I’ll try if I can get hold of it. What’s the price
of the China demon?” he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a
bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.

“Five shillin’,” she replied promptly.

“Five shillings!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking.”

“No time for jokes here,” she retorted, “it’s a good piece” (picking up
the figure), “and come out of a grand house. If it were in Bond Street,
they’d ask you five pounds. I showed it to a man, who said it was good,
although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but I’ve no
time to be raking up things—my trade is a quick sale—and cash.”

“I’ll give you half a crown,” said the customer.

“Two half-crowns, and it’s yours, and a bargain; you won’t know the old
fellow when he’s had a wash!”

“What do you say, Hutton?” inquired Douglas, turning to his friend.

“Well, I think you might risk five shillings; you don’t see such
ugliness every day, and I should not wonder if it was a good piece.
I’ve never come across one like it.”

“All right then, I’ll take the horror.”

And in another moment the bargain was effected. Douglas tendered two
half-crowns, which the old woman carefully examined and pocketed, then
she wrapped up the figure in a piece of crumpled newspaper, and
presently he and his friend departed, each bearing his booty.

“There is little to find now,” said Hutton, as they passed through the
gates; “the Market has become one of the weekly fashionable gatherings
of the town, and is dredged by dealers from all over England, who look
on it as a sort of lucky-bag—but the bag is nearly empty.”

Mrs. Malone was enchanted with the monster—she had a secret weakness
for cheap little gifts—that is to say, from her own particular friends.
More than once Douglas had brought her some trifling tribute, but his
mother had felt deeply affronted by such uncalled for generosity to a
stranger; and when he ventured to exhibit the Chinese atrocity, she
exclaimed with great bitterness:

“Oh, for Mrs. Malone, Of course! It’s rather strange that you never
think of bringing me a present.”

“But, mother, you wouldn’t care for this sort of thing,” he protested,
“and it was awfully cheap.”

“Cheap and nasty!” she retorted. “If you had offered me such hideous
rubbish, I’d have sent it straight to the dustbin!”




CHAPTER V
CLOUDS


It was an abnormally hot summer; all London lay at the mercy of a
fierce and fiery sun; grass in the parks was brown, plants drooped in
window boxes, and there was not even a little breeze to stir the soft
dust under foot, nor one hopeful cloud in the blue vault overhead. But
in the sky of Douglas Shafto’s existence dark and threatening clouds
were gathering; the largest of these was a haunting fear that his
mother intended to marry her admirer, Manasseh Levison—the prosperous
dealer in furniture and antiquities, a wealthy man, who owned, besides
his business, a fine mansion at Tooting; this he had closed after the
death of Mrs. Levison, when he had repaired to “Malahide” for society
and distraction—bidden there by his lively old friend, Mrs. Moses
Galli. The shrivelled little miserly widow was his confidante, and, for
the illumination of Mrs. Shafto, she had drawn glowing pictures of
Khartoum House, and outlined an imposing sketch of the luxuries
awaiting its future mistress. It was noticed as a significant fact that
when Mrs. Shafto and Madame Galli went to Eastbourne for a week (at
Mrs. Shafto’s expense), they had been joined at the Grand Hotel by
Manasseh Levison, who treated them to a special banquet, enlivened by
the finest brands of champagne—and had subsequently motored them back
to town.

The idea that Levison should usurp his father’s place overwhelmed
Douglas with horror and shame; the prospect was intolerable; so were
other matters; for instance, his monotonous office life, the want of
variety and fresh air. For exercise, he belonged to a neighbouring
gymnasium, but this was not sufficient for a country-bred, energetic
young man, in his twenty-fourth year. As for the variety of amusements
that satisfied and delighted his brother clerks, they left him cold. He
was sensible of a tormenting thirst for a far-away different life—and
its chances, sick of this existence, of continually going round and
round, like a squirrel in a cage. A change of surroundings and scene,
or a spice of adventure, was what he longed for—as eagerly and as
hopelessly as some fallen wayfarer in a desert land. His mother’s
flinty attitude and hostile nagging had frozen a naturally affectionate
disposition, and Shafto passed several years of his youth without one
single ray of woman’s love, until generous Mrs. Malone had come forward
and installed him in her heart. His usual routine was breakfast at
eight, office at nine, lunch twelve-thirty, freedom at six, dinner at
seven-thirty. On Saturday afternoons he was expected at “Monte
Carlo”—to join the family at tennis and high tea—and here, over the
little red villa, brooded yet another cloud! Cossie, the gushing and
good-natured, had been given what her brother brutally termed “the
chuck” by her young man; he had taken on another girl, and his
repentance and return were hopeless.

Shafto listened to Cossie’s hysterical lamentations and outpourings
with what patience he could assume; until by degrees the dreadful truth
began to dawn on him, that _he_ was selected to replace the faithless
Lothario! Of late Cossie’s manner had become jealously possessive, She
seemed to hold him by a nipping tenacious clutch, and pattered out to
meet him at the gate, sat next to him at table, and was invariably his
partner at tennis. Once, arriving unseen, he had overheard her
declaiming to another girl:

“No, no, no, I won’t have it; Douglas is my boy—and my joy! Douglas
belongs to _me_!”

“There will be two opinions about that,” he muttered to himself, as he
flung down his hat and entered the tawdry little drawing-room; but, in
spite of his stern resolutions, he found himself borne along by a
strong and irresistible current of family goodwill. Sandy gave him
cigars, Delia declared over and over again that he was a “darling,” his
aunt became extra-motherly, and Cossie endowed him with button-holes,
pairs of ill-knit shapeless socks, and sent him many notes. She seemed
to appropriate him as a matter of course, and once when they parted at
the gate, had held up her face to be kissed—but this undesired favour
he affected not to see. He noted, too, that when Cossie accompanied him
to the same little gate, Delia and Sandy lingered behind with alarming
significance. He began to hate Cossie and to revolt against the
slap-dash untidy _ménage_, Delia and her train of rowdy boys, the
shouting, the practical jokes, and the slang. Then suddenly the Levison
cloud burst! One night, when he was flying upstairs to his sky parlour,
his mother waylaid him on the landing and, with an imperative gesture,
beckoned him into her room.

“Shut the door, Douglas!” she commanded in her usual frigid manner, “I
have something to tell you. Come over here and sit down.”

“Yes, mother, all right,” but nevertheless he remained standing; “what
is it?”

She cleared her throat and replied in her sharp metallic voice, “Mr.
Levison and I have at last made up our minds to be married; you see, we
have no one to consider but ourselves.” This announcement was followed
by a blank and paralysed silence.

“He is absolutely devoted to me,” resumed Mrs. Shafto, “and is a
wealthy man and, as you know, _I_ was never accustomed to poverty. The
wedding will take place in six weeks. Well, why do you stand glowering
there?” she demanded impatiently. “What have you got to say?”

“I have got to say,” replied Douglas, then his voice broke a little,
“that I don’t see how you can do it, or put that fat Jew tradesman into
my father’s place!”

“Your father!” she screamed passionately, and a scar on her chin showed
white against a suffused complexion; “don’t talk to me of your father.
Before we were married, he often came to my uncle’s shop, and talked to
me about books—I got up Haydn’s Dictionary of Dates, bits of Browning,
and Lamb’s Essays, and Omar Khayyam. I had to study them in my own room
at night, so as to make him think I was well educated and shared his
tastes; but I did not; no,” she cried, with a stamp of her foot, “I
_hated_ his tastes! Aristotle and Plato, yes, and Shakespeare—dull to
the last degree, but I liked him: he was so handsome, so thoughtful,
such a gentleman. And I believed that as he was madly in love I could
easily twist him round to my way of thinking—but I was mistaken!” She
paused, momentarily out of breath, then resumed: “He soon found me out
and was sick of me in three weeks. He disliked dances, theatres, and
smart society, and buried me alive in the country. We had nothing in
common; he was just a bookworm, with a sarcastic tongue, who left me a
beggar! Now I am free, I am going to be a rich woman, marry a man who
understands me—and lead a new life.”

“I see you are easily satisfied,” remarked her son.

“I am; and although Mr. Levison is a Jew tradesman, as you have
remarked in your nasty sneering way, he has been generous enough to
offer you an opening as his assistant. He will take you into the shop
and pay you two hundred a year.”

“No, thank you,” replied Douglas stiffly; “I know nothing about old
furniture.”

“Only old family, I suppose! Well, you might do worse; and when you
marry Cossie, as is probable, I will make you a small allowance.”

(Shafto had relinquished his income of a hundred and fifty a year, and
made it over to his mother legally, immediately he had come of age.)

“I haven’t the smallest idea of marrying Cossie, or anyone else,” he
answered, with white-faced decision.

“Well, she, and indeed they _all_, expect it.”

“I’ve never given them any reason to do so.”

“Yes, you have,” she contradicted sharply; “you go there, sit by her,
and take her into the garden.”

“There is nothing in that,” he rejoined, too chivalrous to add that it
was his cousin who sat by, escorted him, and clung to him like the
traditional limpet.

“She is five years older than you, I know, but very sweet-tempered, and
not a bad manager—she runs ‘Monte Carlo’!”

“Cossie is absolutely nothing to me beyond a cousin; nor have I ever
given her reason to think otherwise—or ever shall.”

“Oh, you are wonderfully bold and courageous here with _me_; I should
like to hear you telling them this at ‘Monte Carlo’! I know my sister
has set her heart on the match; she has been talking to me about the
trousseau, and intends to give you table linen, and a silver
tea-pot—she has two.”

“Even the silver tea-pot would not bribe me!” declared Douglas with an
angry laugh.

“Well, I can assure you that it’s an understood thing,” persisted his
parent, with spiteful emphasis.

“How can it be understood, when I have never asked the girl to marry me
and never shall? Cossie is straight enough and can tell you that
herself.”

“Oh, she has told me lots of things!” said her aunt mysteriously.
“Well, to turn to another subject, am I to inform Mr. Levison that you
refuse his offer of two hundred a year? You may come to us for
week-ends if you like; he is doing up the house at Tooting and giving
me a fine car.”

“No, thank you, I prefer to remain where I am; and now if you’ve told
me everything you wished to say, I think I’ll go to bed,” and with a
brief “Good night” he departed.

But he did not go to bed when he found himself in his bare fourth-floor
room, but sat on the side of his lumpy mattress, and smoked cigarettes
for a couple of hours. He must squash this Cossie question at all
costs; even if it led to a disagreeable interview with his relations
and made a complete breach between them. In one sense this breach would
mean freedom and relief, and yet he was rather fond of his dowdy old
Aunt Emma, and he also liked that slangy slacker Sandy; he could not
bear to give anyone pain, or to appear shabby or ungrateful. Of course
he ought to have taken a firm stand weeks ago, and repelled advances
that had stolen upon him so insidiously. He saw this now; yet how can
you refuse to accept a flower from a girl, or be such a brute as to
leave her notes and telephones unanswered, or rise and desert her when
she nestles down beside you on the sofa? He felt as if he was on the
edge of a precipice; and must make a desperate, a life or death
struggle; be firm and show no weakness. To be weak would establish him
with a wife, house-linen, and the tea-pot, in some dingy little flat
near his office, where, plodding monotonous round like a horse in a
mill, he would probably end his days. Always too anxious to please and
to be liked, he had enjoyed lounging about at “Monte Carlo” and
chaffing his cousin, but the price now demanded was exorbitant. He
recalled Cossie, stout and smiling, with rather pretty eyes and a
ceaseless flow of chatter. She had ugly hands and thick red lips, her
hair was coarse, but abundant, and she frequently borrowed her sister’s
rouge. Cossie was immensely good-natured and affectionate, and he would
be sorry to hurt her feelings, poor little thing.

Then as to his mother and her marriage to Levison, he hated to think of
it. He could not endure his future stepfather; between them there
existed a bottomless chasm of dislike and distrust. Levison considered
Shafto a conceited young cub, “but a clever cub”; and Shafto looked on
Levison as a purse-proud tradesman, ever bragging of his “finds,” his
sales, and his titled customers.

Douglas had never felt so abjectly miserable since the time of his
father’s death; his depression was such that he wished he was dead too;
but fate was in a kindly mood and, although he was unconscious of the
fact, the clouds were lifting.




CHAPTER VI
AN EMPTY OFFER


The night that Shafto subsequently spent was wakeful and seemed
endless; he tossed about on his hard bed and thumped the irresponsive
pillow, paced his room from end to end, drank all the water in the
carafe—and even encroached on the ewer; he felt as if his vitality had
been sapped, that he had no energy with which to face his new position,
nothing to which he could look forward, no gleam of hope and, as it
turned out, no appetite for breakfast. Seated at table, he proved
infectiously depressing and gloomily silent. On the way to the
Underground, Sandy Larcher, who happened to be in exuberant spirits,
noticed his cousin’s grave face and chaffed him about Cossie. (Sandy, a
coarse-grained creature, knew no reserves, did not profess to be a
gentleman, and had never heard of the word “tact.”)

“And so you couldn’t sleep for thinking of her, eh? Ate no breakfast,
only a bit of toast, and half a kipper; quite in a bad way, poor old
chap.”

“Come now, Sandy, none of that!” angrily protested the victim. “You are
a sensible fellow, though you do play the ass; and must know as well as
I do myself that you are talking through your hat. I swear on my word
of honour, I have never made love to Cossie, I’d as soon think of
making love to the parrot next door, and I have not the remotest idea
of marrying her. Imagine marrying on a hundred and fifty pounds a
year!”

“Oh well, I couldn’t face it myself, old man,” generously conceded his
companion, “but the mater and the girls are dead nuts on the idea; they
are awfully fond of you, and say you are so mortal clever, so well-bred
and such top-hole style, that you are bound to rise in the world; and
Cossie is getting rather long in the tooth. Of course, I know as well
as if you told me, how she rushes a chap, and writes silly notes,
manicures his nails, and gives him flowers and cigarettes. She overdid
it with Freddy Soames and got the knock; and now he is formally
engaged, I expect she is mad keen to show that two can play at that
game!”

“I’m not for it, and that’s certain,” declared the other, with an
emphasis that was almost violent. “I like Cossie right enough as a
cousin, but I’m not a scrap in love. Why, we’ve not one single taste in
common—bar tennis and walnut pickles! I hate saying all this to you,
old man—it seems monstrously caddish, and really——”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” interrupted Sandy; “I know Cossie and her little
ways—you are not the first by a long way that she’s tried it on with.”

“Couldn’t you drop her some sort of gentle hint? Do, like a good chap
and say a word to my aunt? I’d stay away from ‘Monte Carlo,’ only that
I’m drawn to play in this confounded tournament.”

“No good! They wouldn’t listen to _me_; you must do the business
yourself, Douglas, old man. Come on, hurry up, or we’ll miss our
train!” and Sandy began to run.

Shafto had not long been perched on his office stool and invested in
his office coat and paper cuffs, when he received a message that Mr.
Martin—the head of the firm—wished to see him in his private room.

“This is the limit!” he said to himself, as he followed the messenger
into a cool, luxurious apartment. “Now I’m going to get a slating—over
that French correspondence—and it was Fraser’s job. Well, if that’s the
case, I’ll enlist; I’m sick of this life!”

He found Mr. Martin temporarily idle, seated in front of his large
writing-table, scanning the _Financial News_. He raised his eyes as
Douglas entered, and said:

“Hullo, that you, Shafto? I have something to say to you. How would you
like a little promotion?”

“Very much indeed, sir,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation due to
amazement.

“You’ve been over four years with us as correspondence clerk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe you know Mr. Tremenheere?”

“Yes.”

“So do I. He has called here to see me about you. What would you think
of going abroad for a change—say, to Burma?”

“Burma—yes, sir, all right,” assented Shafto, with a glowing face.
Something within him had always craved for the East.

“It’s like this,” continued the other, leaning back and placing his
fingers together, tent fashion. “Our house in Rangoon wants a smart,
healthy, young fellow, quick at figures, and able to manage bills of
lading. You would soon pick up that; it will be chiefly an out-of-door
job on the wharves.”

“I’d like that.”

“The pay offered is four hundred rupees a month, and house rent; not
much, I admit, considering the fall of the rupee and Rangoon prices;
but we have been compelled to modify expenses, our profits are run so
fine, thanks to an active German mercantile element. Well, what do you
think, Shafto?”

Shafto thought Mr. Martin a species of genie, who was offering him a
magic carpet that would transport him into the great, hurrying, active
world; into the land of sunshine he had longed to see; he would have
jumped at the proposal if the salary had been half, and he replied:

“I shall be glad to accept.”

“Then that’s all right! I was afraid you might have some ties in this
country. Of course, in time you are bound to get a rise, and I believe
there are boarding-houses in Rangoon where they make you fairly
comfortable.”

“When do you wish me to start?”

“As soon as you can get under way,” was the unexpected reply. “One of
the Bibby Line sails on Saturday week, and that brings me to another
matter. You have to pay for your own passage and outfit. The passage
money is six hundred rupees; the outfit, good English boots, cool
clothes, a solar topee, and a revolver—and a medicine-chest might come
in handy. No doubt some of your relations will help, or give you a
loan. You see, you are getting a big rise and a capital opening in a
new line.”

“That is true, sir,” replied Douglas, whose face had considerably
lengthened, “but I’m afraid I cannot manage the ready money—near a
hundred pounds. Is my salary paid in advance?”

“No, that is out of the question in a province where cholera carries a
man off in a couple of hours. I am sorry about the passage; at one time
we did pay, but now we have to pinch and consider our expenses. No
doubt you would like to talk over the matter with your people?”

“Well, yes, I should, thank you,” he answered, staring fixedly at the
floor.

“Then let me have your decision before mail day. I may tell you,
Shafto, that, irrespective of Mr. Tremenheere’s interest, you have
given us entire satisfaction, and for this chance, and it _is_ a
chance, you have only yourself to thank. You can take a couple of days’
leave and let me hear from you definitely on Friday morning.”

It was only eleven o’clock, an oppressively warm July day, and Douglas
walked up to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, took a seat in the cool shade of the
finest trees in the largest square in London, and there endeavoured to
think out some plan.

“I say, what a chance!” he muttered to himself. “What a stroke of luck!
A new start in life, offering change and freedom.” Yet he must lose
it—and all for a paltry hundred pounds. Paltry—no; to him it
represented a huge and unattainable fortune; there wasn’t a soul from
whom he could borrow; not from the Tebbs, nor the Tremenheeres, and his
associates at “Malahide” were, with one detestable exception, as poor
as himself. After long meditation, entirely barren of inspiration, he
went down to the Strand and lunched at Slater’s, and then took the Tube
to Bayswater Public Library, where he got hold of some books on
Burma—Burma, the land of the Pagoda and Golden Umbrella. Somehow the
very name fired his imagination and thrilled his blood.

After sitting in the library, greedily devouring information, he
strolled back to Lincoln Square, in time for dinner, and all that
evening he kept his great news to himself. It would have seemed natural
for an only son to carry such important tidings to his mother; but Mrs.
Shafto was the last woman to welcome his confidences. She was entirely
without the maternal instinct and, armed with a certain fierce reserve,
held her son inflexibly at arm’s length. A stranger would scarcely have
discovered the relationship—unless they happened to note that the pair
walked to church together on Sunday, and that she pecked his cheek of a
night before retiring. As a matter of course, she made use of Douglas
and, insisting on maternal claims, thrust on him disagreeable
interviews, sent him messages, borrowed his money—when short of
change—and allowed him to pay her taxis. Honestly, she did not care for
the boy. He was too detached and self-contained; he had such odd ideas
and resembled his father in many respects—especially in
appearance—though Douglas’s expression was keener and more animated, he
had the same well-cut features, fine head, and expressive dark grey
eyes.

Yes, he recalled too forcibly a dead man whom she had neglected,
detested and deceived. And as for Douglas, for years he had been
sensible of the smart of a baffled instinct, a hunger for a mother’s
love and affection, which had never been his—and never would be his.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, the boarders were amusing themselves
as usual and making a good deal of noise, yet somehow the circle
presented an air of rather spurious gaiety. Mrs. Shafto, in a smart
black-and-gold evening frock, was smoking a cigarette and playing
auction-bridge with Mr. Levison and the two Japanese; the Misses Smith
and various casual boarders were engrossed at coon-can. Another group
was assembled about the piano. Douglas Shafto sat aloof in the window
seat absorbed in the book on Burma and acquiring information; for even
if he were never to see the country, it was as well to learn something
about it. Rangoon, the capital (that fact he already knew), once a mere
collection of monasteries around the Great Pagoda, was now assumed to
be the Liverpool of the East, the resting-place of Buddha’s relics, and
an important industrial centre. As his reading was disturbed by the
boisterous chorus at the piano, and the shrieks of laughter from the
coon-can set, he tucked the volume under his arm and slipped out of the
room as noiselessly as possible. He could rest at peace up in his “cock
loft” and endeavour to puzzle out some means of reaching the land of
the Golden Umbrella—even if he worked his passage as a cabin steward.
In passing the door of Mrs. Malone’s den, some strange, unaccountable
impulse constrained him to knock. Yes; he suddenly made up his mind
that he would confide in _her_—and why not? She was always so
understanding, sympathetic and wise.

In reply to a shrill “Come in,” he entered and found the old lady
sitting by the open window with a black cat on her lap. The room was
small and homelike; there were some shabby rugs, a few fine prints, a
case of miniatures, and, in a cabinet, a variety of odd “bits” which
Mrs. Malone had picked up from time to time.

“So it’s you, Douglas,” she exclaimed; “come over and sit down. I’m
always glad to see you; you know you have the private entrée!” and she
laughed. “What have you been doing with yourself to-day?”

As he muttered something indefinite, she added, “What’s your book?”
holding out her hand. “Burma, I declare! One does not hear much of that
part of the world; it’s always connected in my mind with rice and rain.
Douglas,” suddenly raising her eyes, “I believe you have something on
your mind. What is it? Come now—speak out—is it a love affair, or
money? You know I’m _safe_.”

Thus invited, in a few halting sentences, he told her of his friend’s
good offices, the offer, his supreme delight—and subsequent despair.

“A hundred pounds—yes, well, it’s a tidy sum,” she admitted, “and you
will want all that. I think Gregory and Co. might pay your passage, as
the salary is not large.”

“No,” agreed Shafto, “but I’ll be only too glad to earn it. It’s this
blessed ready money that stumps me.”

He began to pace about the room with his hands in his pockets, then
suddenly broke out:

“Mrs. Malone, I’d give one of my eyes to go; to be up and doing, and
get out into the world—especially to the East. Isn’t it hard lines—one
moment to be offered a splendid chance, and the next to have it
snatched away.”

“I suppose you couldn’t borrow?” she suggested, looking at him over her
spectacles.

“No, who would lend _me_ money? I have no security and no wealthy
friends.”

“Well, I am not a wealthy friend, Douglas, but I will lend you a
hundred pounds—I’ve saved a good bit—and I can.”

“No, no, Mrs. Malone,” he interrupted. “I couldn’t accept it. I know
how hardly your money has been earned; I know all your hateful worries;
your bothers with servants and coal; your trampings into ‘the Grove,’
and up and down these confounded stairs.”

“But, Douglas, you can pay me back by degrees.”

“No; you’d run a poor chance of seeing your hundred pounds again. Mr.
Martin informed me the firm never paid in advance, as cholera carried
off people in a few hours—cheerful, wasn’t it? And if I were carried
off, where would _you_ be?”

“Here, my boy, and in the deepest grief.”

“Well, thanking you all the same, I will not touch a penny of your
money; but I know you are long-headed and may think of some scheme for
me. I’ve got nothing to sell of any value; I parted with my father’s
watch—and it’s still at the pawnbroker’s; worse luck!” (His pitilessly
selfish mother had borrowed ten pounds and forgotten the debt, and he
had been compelled to apply to his “Uncle.”) Shafto found his salary a
very tight fight; eleven pounds a month seemed to melt away in board,
clothes, washing and those innumerable little expenses that crop up in
London.

“Anyhow, you have till Friday, you proud, obstinate boy, and before
that, I may be able to thrash out something. I have noticed that you
don’t look yourself the last few weeks, not my dear lively Douglas,
tearing up and down stairs, whistling like a blackbird. Tell me the
reason,” and she laid a well-shaped wrinkled hand upon his arm.

Then, walking up and down the room, he frankly unfolded his
troubles—the approaching marriage of his mother (this was no news),
and, in an agitated and incoherent manner, his desperate predicament
with regard to Cossie Larcher.

“The poor boy,” said his listener to herself. “That man-hunting,
determined little cat has got her claws into him. I have seen the
vulgar, made-up minx, without education, fortune, or modesty, trying to
carry off her gentleman cousin! But she shan’t have him. No! by hook or
by crook, he must be got out of the country, as sure as my name is
Joyce Malone!”




CHAPTER VII
“THE MONSTER”


For a considerable time Mrs. Malone sat, stroking her long nose with
her long forefinger and thinking profoundly; there fell, in
consequence, an unusual silence. At last this was broken by the old
lady, who exclaimed with an air of triumph:

“Douglas, my boy, I do believe I have got hold of a bright idea!”

“That’s nothing new,” he rejoined with a smile.

“Come now, none of your blarney! You know the queer little monster you
brought me some time ago. You see him there grinning at us out of the
cabinet? Well, a friend of mine noticed him yesterday—she is a bit of a
connoisseur, and she said that, if genuine, that diabolical object had
considerable value! To-morrow, I will take it round to a shop in ‘the
Grove,’ and get an opinion; let us hear what the expert says, and if
the object is good and marketable, I’ll sell him—and you shall have the
money. Now,” raising a hand authoritatively, “I warn you not to say
‘No’ to me again, for if you do, I’ll just take the poker and smash the
deformity into a thousand atoms!”

“Oh, well, I suppose that puts the lid on,” said Douglas, “but I ask
you, if anything in the whole world can be meaner than to give a
present and to take it back? However, I’ll consent to commit that
outrage to save the monster. I don’t believe he is worth a sovereign!”

“Stop! I hear them moving in the drawing-room, so, my dear boy, fly up
to your roost at once. You know how it vexes your mother to see you
spending your time with me. Good night, my dear child,” and rising, she
laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

The very next evening, shortly before dinner, Mrs. Malone sent for her
favourite boarder.

“I’ve grand news for you!” she announced. “I’ve had the ugly figure
valued and a man has offered me a hundred and ten pounds.”

“A hundred and ten pounds!” repeated Shafto. “Come, this is one of your
good old Irish jokes!”

Alas! it must be here recorded that warm-hearted Mrs. Malone was not
joking—but lying. She had never been to any expert. The hundred and ten
pounds were to come out of her own lean pocket; this had been her
“bright idea,” when she contemplated the monster in the cabinet. She
was sincerely fond of Shafto; during the time he had been under her
roof she had never known him to do a mean or ungentlemanly action; he
was considerate, unselfish, and generous—poor as he was; also he opened
doors, handed chairs, treated age with deference, and in short
conducted himself like the people among whom she had lived most of her
life.

Richard Hutton was of the same type, so were the two Japanese; but
Levison, her most valuable guest, Larcher, and other young boarders
had, in her opinion, no manners at all. They smoked where and how they
pleased (barring the drawing-room), left cigarette stumps all over the
house, kicked off their boots in the hall, were late for meals, loud in
talk, arguments and complaints, and supremely indifferent to the
comfort of their companions.


In some extraordinary and inexplicable manner the story of the monster
had leaked out—at any rate, it was in the air. Perhaps the monster
himself had blazoned forth the fact of his own value, or Michael, the
handy man, had caught a whisper from Maggie (Mrs. Malone’s right hand)?
However it was, Mrs. Malone was not a little startled when Mr. Levison,
in his loud resonant voice, shouted at her down the dinner table:

“So I hear you’ve come in for a wonderful find, ma’am—a Chinese figure
valued at a handsome sum! Do you know I’m something of a judge of such
stuff—old porcelain is rather in my line—and I’d like to have a look at
the prize after dinner, if you don’t object, and if the bargain is not
clinched perhaps I might go one better.”

Mrs. Malone coloured like a young girl—or was it the blush of guilt?
Would her sin find her out? No; no matter what the dealer said, she
determined to stick to her story; she would not allow him to see the
figure. She knew Manasseh Levison to be a persistent, over-bearing sort
of man; nevertheless, she was resolved to defeat him. If the worst came
to the worst, she would go to bed, and either take the figure with her,
or hide it up the chimney. But alas for her plans! Manasseh, scenting a
good thing, immediately after his cigar was finished, boldly followed
the old lady into forbidden ground—her sitting-room—and did not even
knock, but just turned the handle of the door and walked in. He
discovered his hostess and young Shafto, evidently holding a weighty
conference—with the figure on the table between them.

“Mr. Levison,” she exclaimed, “are you aware that this is my private
apartment, and that such an intrusion is unwelcome?”

Levison, not the least abashed, had snatched up the figure and
critically examined it, glass in eye. For an appreciable time he stood
silent and transfixed, obviously gloating over the article in his
grasp—yes, gloating, with the absorbed expression of a devotee! At last
he spoke, raising his voice almost to a shout:

“And are _you_ aware, madam; that this—this piece in my hand, is a most
glorious specimen of old ‘Kang He’? An altar vessel, too; a most
perfect, complete, and unique specimen of Chinese enamelled porcelain,
dating from the Kang dynasty? By George!” handling it and turning it
about with tender loving care, “what an astonishing find! I’ve never
come across such a piece, and I’ve seen a good few in my time. How did
you get hold of it?”

“Mr. Shafto gave it to me,” replied Mrs. Malone, in her stiffest
manner.

“And I picked it off a stall in the Caledonian Market,” supplemented
Shafto.

“What luck; what incredible luck!” exclaimed the dealer, nodding his
big head; “well, Mrs. Malone, will you please inform your other
customer that I will pay you three hundred pounds down for this
piece—that rather snuffs him out, eh? I’ll give you a cheque in the
morning,” and carrying the monster as reverently as if it were some
holy relic, Manasseh Levison, expert and connoisseur, marched out of
the room in triumph.




CHAPTER VIII
BOUND FOR BURMA


It was some minutes before Mrs. Malone recovered her breath and
composure, the invasion and purchase had been so startlingly abrupt. At
last she found her tongue and her wits, and after a lengthy and
animated discussion, it was ultimately decided that she and Douglas
would each take a hundred pounds (privately she determined to invest
her share for his benefit) and hand the remaining hundred to the old
woman in the black bonnet at her stand in the Caledonian Market.

The journey to Rangoon was now likely to be accomplished, thanks to the
Chinese Monster. When Douglas picked it off the cobble stones, from
among coarse common crockery, how little he dreamed what a factor this
figure would prove in his future—it had been the means of shaping his
destiny!

On Friday morning he sent in a formal acceptance of Mr. Martin’s offer
and, having obtained leave, hurried away to the Caledonian Market, in
search of the old rag and bottle female. It was half-past twelve
o’clock when he arrived, he was late, and her pitch was empty. Had she
departed already? On inquiry he was informed that old Mother Doake had
departed for good—was, in fact, dead!

“Yes, she were run over by a motor-trolley ten days ago,” announced the
woman in the next stall; “she was terribly old and blind and a real
wicked miser. There was no one belonging to her. Her clothes were just
lined with bank-notes, and there was a whole lot of papers and bonds in
her mattress, and a lovely silver tea-set up the chimney. She grudged
herself a penn-’orth o’ milk, or a drop o’ brandy, and she worth
thousands o’ pounds! Being no heirs, the Crown takes the lot! Thank
you, sir,” accepting a tip, “I suppose I could not tempt you with a
splendid fur-lined overcoat? Cost a hundred—but you can have it for
six. It belonged to a lord—I got it off his man. Well, maybe it’s a bit
warmish, but it’s dirt cheap and would come in next winter.”

Since Mother Doake was now defunct, her share divided gave Douglas
another fifty pounds, and he felt quite a wealthy man. The first use he
made of the monster’s money was to take his father’s watch and chain
out of pawn; the next, to secure his passage in the Bibby Line to
Rangoon. Then he spent a long morning at the Stores and bought a new
outfit, saddle and bridle, steamer trunks, and a steamer chair.

The purchase of the “Kang He” piece and its price were naturally not
withheld from Mrs. Shafto. She pounced upon Douglas in the hall and
drove him before her into the empty dining-room.

“Well, I’ve heard all about your wonderful luck!” she began excitedly,
“and how Mr. Levison has actually paid you three hundred pounds for
that frightful figure.”

“Yes, so he did; it’s a true bill.”

“And now, my dear boy; you will be able to help me with my trousseau,”
said this daughter of a horse-leech, “I must really get good frocks.
Mr. L. is so sharp, and notices everything, and can tell the price of a
gown to a sixpence; he has wonderful taste, and is very particular. You
must let me have fifty or sixty to begin with—it’s not much out of
three hundred pounds. What a windfall!”

“Oh, but I have already divided it with Mrs. Malone,” replied Douglas;
“she insisted upon my taking half—you see, the figure was hers.”

“Divided it with Mrs. Malone!” screamed his mother. “What a mean,
grasping, greedy old hag! I shall speak to her about it and make her
disgorge. She has no right to your money; whilst I am your mother!”

“I do beg you won’t interfere. Mrs. Malone is the most generous woman I
know.”

“Generous!” echoed Mrs. Shafto. “The greatest old skinflint in
London—she charges me sixpence a day for having my breakfast in bed,
and——”

“Well, you will soon be out of it,” interrupted her son impetuously,
“and so shall I! And I am glad to have an opportunity now of telling
you that I have got promotion in the office and am going to Burma.”

“Oh! are you? Burma—Burma! Why, that’s abroad—some place near India—or
is it the West Indies?”

“You are thinking of Bermuda. Burma is east of India. I have to pay for
my passage and outfit, and this unexpected windfall is a wonderful bit
of luck. If I hadn’t got it, I never could have accepted the post, or
made a new start.”

“And when do you leave?”

“In a week.”

“So soon,” she exclaimed cheerfully; “I wonder what Cossie will say?”

“It is not of the slightest consequence what Cossie says; she has
nothing to do with my plans.”

“Cossie won’t think so, and when she hears you have been promoted and
are off to Burma, she will stick to you like a burr.”

“But, my dear mother, what is the use of her sticking to me?” protested
Douglas. “I haven’t the faintest intention of being engaged to Cossie.
If she imagines that I am in love with her, she is making the greatest
mistake in her life.”

“Cossie is a foolish girl,” admitted her aunt, “and has made heaps of
mistakes; but if she sees her way to bettering herself, she can be as
determined as anyone. Of course you will have to run down and say
‘good-bye.’”

“Yes, I shall go to-morrow.”

“I must say I don’t envy you the visit!” declared his mother with a
malicious smile.

“No, I daresay it will be disagreeable—but Aunt Emma will see me
through. In Cossie’s case it is not a matter of deep attachment; she
only wants to play me off against that fellow Soames. Ah, here is
Michael jingling his tray outside; he wants to lay the cloth and we had
better clear.”

In some respects the dreaded farewell at “Monte Carlo” was even more
trying than Douglas had anticipated. His relatives had learned and
digested his news; to them, it seemed an uplifting of the entire
connection. After pushing congratulations and some high-flown talk
respecting the delights of his future career and “position,” the girls,
as if by mutual agreement, rose and left him alone with their mother.

Thus abandoned to a _tete-à-tete_, after a lengthy silence, Mrs.
Larcher, sitting among the collapsible spring’s, began to speak in a
shaky voice.

“Ahem! We have _all_ seen, Douglas, how devotedly attached you are to
Cossie, and the marked attentions you have paid her. Of course, on such
a small salary you were too honourable to say anything definite. Ahem!
But now that you are in a better position, with splendid prospects, I
have no objection to an engagement, and as soon as you are comfortably
settled in Rangoon, Cossie will join you.”

Douglas instantly lifted himself out of his chair and confronted the
unfortunate catspaw; standing erect before her, he said:

“My dear Aunt Emma, kindly understand once for all that I am not in
love with Cossie. I have never made love to her, or ever shall. I like
her as a cousin—but no more. Even if I were madly in love, I could not
marry; my screw will barely keep myself.”

“Oh, but you’ll get on!” interposed his aunt eagerly. “They all do out
there, and you who are so well educated and gentlemanly will soon be
drawing high pay, and keeping dozens of black servants, and a motor—and
you know poor Cossie is _so_ fond of you.”

“I am truly sorry to hear you say so; I cannot imagine _why_ she should
be fond of me; or why, quite lately, she has got this preposterous idea
into her head. Naturally it is a delicate subject to discuss with you,
Aunt Emma; but I declare on my honour that I have never thought of
Cossie but just as a jolly sort of girl and a cousin.”

“But you have given her presents, my darling boy; yes, and written to
her,” urged the poor lady, clinging to the last straw.

“I have given her chocolates, and a couple of pairs of gloves, and
answered her notes; and if Cossie imagines that every man who gives her
chocolates, and answers notes about tea and tennis, is seriously in
love with her, she must be incredibly foolish. Cossie knows in her
heart that I have never cast her a thought, except as a relation; and,
as a matter of fact, of the two girls I like Delia the best! I don’t
want to say unpleasant things when I’m on the point of going
away—probably for years. I hoped to have spent a jolly long day among
you, but from what you have just told me I really could not face it,
and I must ask you to say good-bye to my cousins for me. I will write
to you, Aunt Emma, as soon as I get out to Rangoon. You have always
been very kind, and made me feel at home here; you may be sure I won’t
forget it.” And he stooped down suddenly and gave her a hearty kiss.
Then before the poor stout lady could struggle out of the cavity which
her weight had made in the Chesterfield Douglas had departed. She heard
the close of the hall door, immediately followed by the click of the
garden gate. Yes, he was _gone_! And Cossie, who all the time had been
listening on the top of the stairs, instantly descended like a wolf on
the fold. She would have run out bareheaded after Douglas, but that her
more prudent sister actually restrained her by violent physical force;
and then, what a scene she made! Oh, what recriminations and angry
speeches and reproaches she showered upon her unhappy parent!

“You told me to sound him about an engagement, and I did. Oh, but it
was a hateful job, and here’s my thanks!” whimpered Mrs. Larcher. “He
looked awfully white and stern, and said he only likes you as a cousin,
and that he had no intention of anything—and I believe him. It was only
in the last two months, since Freddy Soames broke it off, that you’ve
gone out of your way to hang on to Douglas. I’m sure I wish there had
been something in it—he’s a dear good boy, and I could love him like a
son,” and the poor lady sobbed aloud.

“You bungled the whole thing, of course!” cried her ungrateful
offspring, “I might have known you would put your foot in it; you’ve
let him slip through your fingers and just ruined my last chance. Oh,
if I’d only talked to him myself, I’d have been on my way to Burma in
six months!”

Then Cossie broke down, buried her head in a musty cushion, and wept
sore.

However, after a little time, the broken-hearted damsel recovered; her
feelings were elastic, and she allowed herself to be revived with a
stiff whisky and soda and a De Reské cigarette. On the following day
she had so far recovered as to be able to make a careful toilet and
walk out, to call upon her two most intimate pals, in order to inform
them—in the very strictest confidence—that she was engaged to her
cousin, Douglas Shafto, who had just got a splendid appointment in
Burma and would come home in two years! Then she added impressively, “I
don’t want this given out—mother would be _furious_; but the first time
you come across him I don’t mind if you whisper the news to Freddy
Soames.”

Cossie sent her cousin a heart-broken letter of farewell, full of
underlined words and vague expressions of despair—a portion of which
she had copied from a dramatic love scene in a novel. She implored him
to write to her, and remained “his devoted till death, Cossie.”

Shafto thrust his devoted-till-death Cossie’s letter into the
waste-paper basket, with a gesture of excommunication, and barred the
doors of his memory upon her round fat face.

Preparations for departure proceeded satisfactorily. He received a
number of good wishes and not a few gifts. The Tremenheeres sent him an
express rifle, the Tebbs a dispatch box, Mrs. Malone gave him a silver
cigarette case and a warm rug, Mrs. Galli gave him her blessing, and
his mother gave him advice.

On the appointed day a band of friends travelled down to Tilbury to
take leave of Douglas Shafto. These included Mrs. Malone, Mr. Hutton,
the two Japanese gentlemen, and several of his fellow clerks.—Mrs.
Shafto had excused herself, declaring that “her feelings would not
endure the strain of a public leave-taking.”—Shortly before the
_Blankshire_ (Bibby Line) sailed, Sandy—alas! accompanied by
Cossie—hurried down the gangway (for Cossie was allied to the stamp of
the British soldier, who never knows when he is beaten and entirely
refuses to accept defeat!). She wore her best hat—a conspicuous affair
with enormous green wings—a somewhat murky white fur, and carried a
presentation bunch of wilted flowers. The new arrival, chattering like
a magpie, took immediate possession of her cousin, snatched her away
from poor Mrs. Malone, who was looking very old and sad, and insisted
on inspecting his cabin and as much as was possible of the ship. When
the bell rang and the moment of parting arrived, she burst into wild
unrestrained sobs, and clung, in the best melodramatic style, to her
unresisting kinsman, who was compelled to accept her kisses and tears.
In fact, as her brother rudely stated, “she made a shameless show of
herself, slobbering over Douglas before all the passengers, and he was
sorry for the poor chap, who was covered with blushes; and not for her
at all—as anyone could see with half an eye!”

However, Cossie returned home by the Underground, fortified with the
conviction that the party who had witnessed her farewell were bound to
realise that Douglas Shafto was her affianced lover.

The last signal Shafto received, ere the group of friends had dissolved
into a blur, was a frantic waving of Cossie’s damp handkerchief, and he
turned his face towards the bows of the _Blankshire_, now heading down
the river, with the happy exaltation of freedom and a grateful sense of
escape.




CHAPTER IX
THE “BLANKSHIRE”


The _Blankshire_ was a full and well-known ship. Not a few of the
passengers had made several trips in her and some, as they met in
saloon and corridors, exchanged loud hearty greetings and hailed one
another as old friends. These were chiefly planters and officials from
Ceylon, Southern India and Burma, who herded in parties both at meals
and on deck.

It was not to be expected that Shafto would see one familiar face, and
he felt completely “out of it,” as he took a seat at a draughty table
between two elderly people, whose interest was entirely concentrated
upon their meals and the weather.

The second day proved rough and wet and the smoking-room was crowded.
Here Shafto made an acquaintance with a well-set-up, weather-beaten
young man, his neighbour. Finding they had similar tastes with regard
to cigars and boots, they proceeded to cement an acquaintance. Hoskins
was the name of Shafto’s companion, and after half an hour’s lively
talk, he exclaimed:

“I say, look here, we must dig you out of ‘the Potter’s Field,’ and
bring you to our table.”

“What do you mean by ‘the Potter’s Field’?”

“Why, to bury strangers in! We bury dull folk and such-like in the
table near the door; but I’ll speak to the head steward and get you
moved.”

And before the next meal Shafto’s transition was an accomplished fact,
and he found himself one of a merry and congenial circle. In his novel
and detached position he realised a sense of independence; he was
breathing a new existence, an exhilarating atmosphere, and enjoying
every hour of the day.

At table and in the smoke-room he picked up a certain amount of useful
information respecting Burma, listened to many a “Don’t” with polite
attention, and was offered the address of a fairly good chummery in
Rangoon. As he could play bridge without letting down his partners, was
active at deck sports, and invariably cheery and obliging, he soon
gained that effervescent prize, “board-ship popularity.”

Here was a different fellow from Douglas Shafto of “Malahide.” He
seemed to have cast off a load of care; the cramped, monotonous life,
his mother’s hard indifference, the octopus-like Cossie, all had
slipped from his shoulders and were figuratively buried in the heaving,
dark blue sea. What delicious hours of tranquil ease were enjoyed in a
steamer chair; hours when he looked on the past five years as a distant
and fading dream!

As he paced the deck with a companion he learnt many strange things.
Odd bits of half-told stories, confidences respecting some girl, or
some ambition—and now and then a warning.

“You are so new and green to the East,” said Hoskins, his first friend,
a police officer returning from short leave. “You had better keep your
eyes skinned! Rangoon is not like India, but a roaring busy seaport,
where every soul is on the make. You will find various elements there,
besides British and Burmese. Tribes from Upper Burma, Tibetans,
Hindoos, Malays, Chinese and, above all, Germans. They do an enormous
trade, and have many substantial firms and houses, and put through as
much business as, or more than, we do ourselves. No job is too small,
no order too insignificant for their prompt attention. They have agents
all over the country, who pull strings in wolfram and the ruby mines,
and have a finger in every mortal thing. I’ll say this for them,
they’re most awfully keen and industrious, and stick at nothing to earn
the nimble rupee, underselling when they can, and grabbing contracts
and trade secrets. Some of these days they will mine us out of Burma!”

“So I see they needn’t go to you for a character,” remarked Shafto.

“Oh, they are not all tarred with the same brush! I have some good pals
in the German Club—fellows that are as straight as a die. Is this your
first journey out of England?”

“Yes, bar winter sports in Switzerland, when I was a kid.”

“Well, you will see a small bit of the world this trip; as soon as we
collect the passengers at Marseilles, and once the awnings and the moon
are up, things will begin to hum!”

“How do you mean hum?”

“We shall have sports, dances, concerts—this has always been a gay
ship, and the purser is a rare hustler. We are due at Marseilles
to-morrow morning, and we take in a cargo of the lazy luxurious folk
who abhor ‘the Bay,’ and have travelled overland. I’d have done the
same, only I’m frightfully hard up; three months at home, having a
‘good time,’ comes pretty expensive!”

“I hope you will be a fixture in Rangoon?”

“I’m afraid not; I’m going straight up to Mandalay, but I shall be down
later, and meanwhile I’ll do my best to settle you in that chummery.
I’ll send a line to FitzGerald of my service; he lives there; a
rattling Irishman, with lots of brains in his handsome head, and a good
sort; there’s also Roscoe, a clever oddity, and MacNab of the Irrawaddy
Flotilla—a wonderful golfer. Most of the fellows in business in Rangoon
are Scotch. Murray was in the same chummery; there were four chums till
May.”

“And Number Four has gone home?”

“He has—to his long home, worse luck; he broke his neck fooling over a
log jump.”

On this fresh October morning the _Blankshire_ lay moored at her usual
berth in Marseilles harbour, and the overland passengers were streaming
aboard in great numbers.

Hoskins and Shafto, leaning over the bulwarks, watched the long
procession of travellers, followed by porters, bearing their light
baggage.

“There are a good few, you see,” remarked Hoskins; “this is a popular
ship and date. We won’t have an empty berth—anyway as far as the Canal.
Most of this crowd,” waving a hand, “these with maids and valets, are
bound for Egypt; there will be a big contingent for Colombo and
Southern India. I’m a bit curious to see our own little lot.—Ah! here
comes one of them!”

He indicated a stout imposing person, who was majestically ascending
the gangway.

“That’s Lady Puffle, the consort of one of our big wigs; very official
and dignified, keeps old Fluffy in grand order. The next, the tall
handsome woman, is Mrs. Pomeroy, wife of the Judicial Commissioner, a
real lady, and—hullo! she has brought out a daughter! Not, as far as I
can see, up to her mother’s sample; too much nose and too much bone.
And next, we have Mrs. Flint, of Flint and Co., a big house. She gives
the best dinners in Rangoon. The little fair lady with the small dog is
Mrs. Maitland, wife of the General Commanding in Burma, and the one
with her must be her sister, or sister-in-law. Here comes the great
Otto Bernhard, junior partner in the house of Bernhard Brothers; as you
see, a fine, handsome man, with the most All Highest moustache; and
also owns a heavenly tenor voice—but I would not trust him farther than
I could throw him!”

“And that would not be far,” said Shafto; “he weighs every ounce of
fourteen stone.”

“Yes, a big man in every way, trades on his voice and his good looks,
as well as in teak and paddy—an unscrupulous devil where women are
concerned; the lady he is escorting is Mrs. Lacy; you would not think
to look at her, so slim, gracious and smiling, that she is a noted
man-eater.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps the expression is a bit too strong. She has a subtle way
of attracting mankind. It amuses her and, in the long run, does no
harm. Wait till you see how they will collect about her on board—like
flies round a pot of honey.”

“Shall you be one of the flies?”

“Possibly. I enjoy being fascinated and I like honey! She is very
amusing and dances like a moonbeam. Those are two coffee planters,
wonderful pals and bridge players, and here comes a strange lady,
probably a tourist—rich too.”

Shafto looked and saw a handsome grey-haired woman, with a round
smiling face, wearing a long sable coat and an air of complacent
prosperity.

“Why, for a wonder I know her!” he declared. “It’s Mrs. Milward. Her
sister was our neighbour at home; I’ve met her often.”

“Who is she?”

“A widow—very rich, I believe. I think her daughter is married to a man
in India—or Burma.”

“Is this the daughter following up the gangway?”

“No; I’ve never seen her before.”

“I say, what a pretty girl—and a ripping figure! Once seen, never
forgotten, eh? When you have claimed the chaperon you must present me
to the young lady—especially as you are out of the running yourself.”

“Out of the running—what do you mean?”

“Merely that I happened to witness that tender parting at Tilbury—the
little girl in the green hat, who was crying her eyes out!”

“She was my cousin,” protested Shafto; “nothing more.”

“Oh, come!” rejoined Hoskins, with a knowing sidelong glance.

“Upon my honour! nothing whatever to me but that.”

“Well, I suppose I’m bound to take your word for it, but it looked
uncommonly touching—so like the real thing, and yet merely a case of
strong family affection!”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Well, let us descend and make ourselves presentable for lunch; nothing
like first impressions.”

After lunch, when the new-comers had found their places and scattered
about, watching the shores of France recede, Shafto approached Mrs.
Milward and bowed himself before her.

“Why, Douglas!” she exclaimed, “this _is_ a surprise, a delightful
surprise. What on earth are _you_ doing here?”

“Making a voyage to Rangoon.”

“Rangoon! So am I. An amazing coincidence. Now come and sit down at
once and tell me all about yourself.”

“I think you have heard all there is to know.”

“Yes; that you had become so distant and reserved and so like an oyster
in its shell, and there was no getting you to ‘Tremenheere.’”

“But I was not my own master—I was in an office.”

“My dear boy, where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“There is no way of taking leave—unless you wish to get the key of the
street,” he retorted with a laugh.

“And what takes you to Rangoon?”

“A post in a big mercantile house. I’ve to thank Mr. Tremenheere: I owe
it to his interest—it’s a splendid chance for me.”

“Well, I’m sure you deserve it, my dear boy, if ever anyone did. You
don’t ask why I am on the high seas. I am en route, to Mandalay—Ella is
there. After I’ve paid her a visit, I’m going on to India, to stay with
your old friend Geoffrey. He and you are about the same age, are you
not?”

“Yes; where is he now?”

“He is in the White Hussars at Lucknow—he was at Sandhurst with you,
wasn’t he?”

Shafto nodded, and the lady continued:

“I’m bringing out a girl, such a darling!—She’s down unpacking in our
cabin; a dear child. Her mother is an old friend of mine; her father
was rector of our parish. I drop her in Rangoon.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Her name is Sophy Leigh, and she is going out to stay with an aunt,
who is something of an invalid. Her husband is in business, a
German—said to be rolling in money.”

“That sounds all right.”

“And Sophy can’t speak a word of German, though French like a native,
and she plays the piano delightfully. Her father died some years ago,
and Mrs. Leigh and the girls live in town—Chelsea; not rich, but have
enough to go on with and are a very happy trio. One day a letter came
from the German uncle asking for a niece—and if possible a musical
niece—so Sophy was sent; anyway, her sister is engaged to be married
and was not available. My friend, Mrs. Leigh, was very sorry to lose
her girl—even for a year or so, but it seemed such a chance for Sophy
to see the world, and make friends with her rich and childless
relatives.”

“I expect she will have a good time in Burma?”

“Bound to, for she is one of those fortunate people who make their own
happiness. Here she comes!”

As she concluded, a tall, slim girl, with a face of morning freshness,
wearing a rose silk sports coat and fluttering white skirt, approached,
and Shafto instantly realised that such a personality was likely to
have a good time anywhere! Miss Leigh’s dark eyes were lovely, and she
had a radiant smile; she smiled on Shafto when he was presented by her
chaperon:

“Sophy, this is a most particular friend of mine; I’ve known him since
he was in blouses—a boy with sticky fingers, who refused to be kissed.
Mr. Shafto—Miss Leigh.”

Mrs. Milward was a handsome, impulsive, kind-hearted woman of forty
five; her arched, dark eye-brows and a wonderful natural complexion
gave her a fictitious air of youth—slightly discounted by a comfortable
and matronly figure. Some declared that her round face, short nose, and
large eyes produced a resemblance to a well-to-do pussy cat, but this
was the voice of envy. She had a clever maid, dressed well, and with
the exception of the loss of her husband, had never known a care; there
was scarcely a line or wrinkle on her charming soft face. Now, with her
girl happily married, and her boy in the Army, she felt a free woman,
and was anxious to try her wings—and her liberty! Though popular with
rich and poor, she was by no means a perfect character; extraordinarily
indiscreet and rash in her confidences—there was no secret cupboard in
her composition—she threw open all her mental stores and also those of
her intimates. Aware of this failing, she would deplore it and say:

“Don’t tell me any important secrets, my dear—for I can never keep
them, in spite of my good resolutions. They will jump out and play
about among my latest news and good stories.”

That night in their cabin, as she and her charge talked and discussed
their fellow passengers, the life history of Douglas was her principal
topic. With considerable detail, she related his happy prospects and
the shattering of these; told of his cultured father and odious,
underbred mother, whom she particularly detested; spoke of his
withdrawal from old friends, lest he might seem to sponge, and how,
instead of being in the Army serving his country like her own boy,
enjoying his youth and a comfortable allowance, he was stuck in a
gloomy City office, drawing a miserable salary, and enduring the whims
and temper of an empty-headed, selfish parent.

“She married again the other day,” added Mrs. Milward, “a rich Jew.
I’ve not a word to say against the Jews—a marvellously clever race; in
fact, I think a little Jew blood gives brains; and as to riches, of
course there’s no harm in _them_; but this Manasseh Levison is so
common and fat, and seems to reek of furniture polish and money. I’ve
seen him at ‘the Mulberry’ at tea, gobbling cakes like a glutton and
making such a noise. Oh, what a contrast to Mr. Shafto, so aristocratic
and so courteous—a man whom it seemed almost a privilege to know!”

And in this strain, Mrs. Milward, reclining in her berth, chattered on,
whilst her companion brushed her heavy, dark hair, and imbibed a strong
feeling of interest and pity for the good-looking hero of her
chaperon’s impressive sketch.

Quite unintentionally this voluble lady had enlisted the mutual
sympathy of these young people; she had laid, so to speak, a match;
whether a mutual liking would ignite it or not was uncertain—but the
prospect was favourable.




CHAPTER X
THE LAND OF PROMISE


As the voyage progressed various groups thawed and amalgamated, even
“the Potter’s Field” experiencing a temporary resurrection.
Theatricals, bridge tournaments and concerts brought the passengers
into touch with one another, the sole member who held herself augustly
aloof being Lady Puffle. She remained secluded in her cabin, or
occupied an isolated position on deck, appearing at dinner with a brave
show of appetite, diamonds and airs, paralysing her neighbours with a
petrifying stare. Occasionally she accorded a bow or “Good morning” to
her sole and necessary acquaintance, the ship’s doctor, whom she
informed that in her position she was debarred from mixing with the
crowd—as later, in Rangoon, these people might presume on the
acquaintance.

One of the special events of the voyage was the two days’ sports, and
here Shafto distinguished himself by winning a severe obstacle race; he
was a nimble, muscular youth, who, thanks to school games and the
gymnasium, climbed, ran, and leapt with inspirited agility, and when at
last he touched the winning tape, breathless but exultant, there was a
spontaneous outburst of clapping and cheers.

Prize-giving was the occasion of his triumph. This was his five
minutes, when he advanced to receive from Lady Puffle a clock, set of
studs and a thermos flask—all carefully laid in at Malta by the
provident “Amusements Committee.” Shafto bore his honours modestly, and
was glared on by Bernhard who, drawn up beside her ladyship like an
Imperial Guardsman, presented an alarmingly militant and stern
appearance.

Between him and this particular “Englander” no love was wasted. Once,
when they had collided on the companion ladder, Shafto’s agility alone
had saved him from a heavy fall, and the obstructor had neither looked
back nor offered apology. Probably he concluded that charming Miss
Leigh, who accompanied his songs with such delicate sympathy, accorded
too much of her society to this young man; and, after all, what was he?
A London clerk, going out to begin at the bottom of the ladder, as one
of Gregory’s assistants. Naturally he disliked Gregory’s, a rival and
substantial house, which, like his own, dealt largely in paddy—and this
casual, outspoken, clear-eyed youngster was just the type of person
specially abhorred by the Prussian Junker. Now that the music-room had
two such efficient performers as Bernhard and Miss Leigh, Shafto and
others abandoned the bridge tables and enjoyed a rare treat. Miss Leigh
presided at the piano and appeared to have complete command of the
instrument; she could read anything at sight, no matter how it bristled
with sharps and accidentals; her repertoire ranged from Beethoven,
Bach, Grieg, Chopin, to the latest ragtime, and her playing had a crisp
ringing touch that was delightful.

Hoskins, who was endowed with a good baritone, sang quaint Burmese
songs with gratifying effect. There was something weird and yet musical
in the solemn and majestic “Toung Soboo Byne,” or “Yama Kyo,” from a
native opera, and the Royal boat song as sung by the King’s boatmen
when rowing His Majesty on State occasions.

Mrs. Maitland’s contribution was a beautifully trained light soprano,
but the Caruso of the company was Herr Otto Bernhard; amazing that a
man of his sensual nature and proclivities should be gifted with a
voice fit to swell heaven’s choir. He sang Wagner, Gounod, Schubert
with absolute impartiality, as well as numbers of melting German
_lieder_ and touching English ballads. He brought smarting tears to the
eyes of comfortable matrons, and swept their thoughts back to poignant
moments of long ago—to youth and first love, to moonlight nights,
entrancing meetings and heart-rending farewells! As for the younger and
less emotional generation, even they were moved out of their everyday
composure and hung upon the singer’s words with breathless
appreciation.

There was a number of young people on board the _Blankshire_, and since
the good old days of Tadpool Shafto had never enjoyed himself so
thoroughly. It was the first time since he had arrived at man’s estate
that he had been associated with girls of his own class. There were no
fewer than thirty on board—of these, eleven were brides elect—but the
prettiest of all, and to him the most attractive, was Miss Leigh. He
looked for her the first thing when he stepped on deck in the mornings,
and in the evenings watched her departure with wistful regret.
Meanwhile, between morning and evening he contrived to see as much of
the young lady as possible—though when out of sight she was never
absent from his mind.

“Was he about to fall in love?” He was conscious of a vague wonder and
sense of alarm. A hopeless attachment would be a fatal misfortune to a
fellow beginning a new life; a life that required the whole of his mind
and the best of his energies; but, like the moth and the candle, he
still continued to hover round Miss Leigh—and Miss Leigh was not averse
to his society. Together they talked and argued, played quoits and
danced. A stern, inward voice assured Shafto that, luckily for him,
there was a fixed date for the terminating of his enchantment—the day
when the _Blankshire_ entered the Irrawaddy river and was moored to her
berth. Then Miss Leigh would go her way to be the joy and the light of
wealthy relatives—he, to begin his new work at the very bottom of the
ladder.

Another voice also made itself heard, which said: “One is young but
once! Make the most of these shining hours; sufficient unto the day is
the evil thereof.”

When in a placid temper, the Red Sea is favourable for dances and
theatricals and, much against his will, Shafto was dragged into “the
Neptune” company by Hoskins, a resolute, determined individual, who
filled the thankless office of stage manager. Shafto was cast for the
part of an old gentleman, the role being softened and alleviated by the
fact that he was to undertake to play uncle to Miss Leigh. Although
Bernhard had no part in the piece itself, being an authority, he
superintended its production, and on several occasions addressed Miss
Leigh’s temporary “uncle” in a manner that increased Shafto’s natural
aversion to what Hoskins termed “The great blond brute!” The play
proved to be a success and there was little or no jealousy or friction.
Amazing to record, Miss Pomeroy and Miss Leigh—the two principal
ladies—still remained the very best of friends. During rehearsals
Shafto and his “niece” exchanged a good deal of dialogue that was not
in the piece—thanks partly to Mrs. Milward’s introductions and
revelations, and partly to a mutual attraction, they now knew one
another rather well. They sat with their chaperon and listened to her
incessant flow of talk with appreciative sympathy, played deck quoits,
walked and danced together, and were for looks and accomplishments the
most prominent couple on the _Blankshire_.

“Tell me, dear lady,” said Mrs. Maitland, sinking into a deck-chair
beside Sophy’s chaperon, “do you intend anything to come of _that_?”
and she nodded at a pair who, with heads fairly near, were leaning over
the side, engrossed in watching the divers at Aden.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rather a case, is it not? First love and an early marriage!”

“If you mean Sophy and young Shafto, why, they haven’t a bad sixpence
between them!”

“No?” and Mrs. Maitland looked gravely interrogative.

“Well, perhaps I’ve been incautious—indiscreet—now that I look back.”
(Yes, and with a sense of guilt she recalled her talks to both; her
praise and her explanations.) “But the fact is that though they have
never met till now, I’ve known them both as children, and I could not
well avoid bringing them together, but I don’t think there’s any harm
done; they are as simple and open as the day. There’s no flirting—they
are just enjoying the new surroundings and these golden hours—but I’ll
be more careful and put a stop to their after-dinner promenades. I’ll
take your hint.”

“I hope it won’t be a case of locking the stable-door when the steed
has been stolen.”

“No; but whoever steals Sophy will get a prize—and she does thoroughly
enjoy every hour of the day. She is so pretty and transparent and
sweet; she makes me think of a lovely flower, floating serenely on a
summer river. I expect she will be a great success in Rangoon.”

As there was no immediate answer on the part of Mrs. Maitland, she
added quickly:

“Don’t you think so?”

“Well, yes—I hope so; but, you see, Miss Leigh is going to live in
rather an odd home.”

“Odd?”

“Oh, it’s absolutely respectable—but—out of the world—our world. Mr.
Krauss is a German and said to be rich; he does not belong to a firm or
house, but is on his own. Of course, he is a member of the Gymkhana and
all that; but he keeps to the German set and lives among them over in
Kokine; then his English wife, once a celebrated beauty, is a
semi-invalid. As he never—they say—does anything without some
well-considered reason, and is always on the make, I hope to goodness
he has not decoyed this charming girl to Rangoon merely to be her
aunt’s nurse—and his housekeeper.”

“I should hope not, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Milward. “My cousin Mary
Gregory must have an eye on my young friend—I’ll see to that. I shall
be stopping with Mary for a few days before going up the river; but I
think Sophy will be all right. After all, Mrs. Krauss is her own aunt.”

If Shafto and Sophy had become friendly over games, discussions and
little special teas with Mrs. Milward, Bernhard cemented his
acquaintance by means of their mutual love of music; but it seemed to
the girl that, after he had heard her destination, Herr Bernhard’s
manner had undergone a subtle change. The protégée of a wealthy
woman—who wore wonderful rings and priceless pearls and carried herself
as a high-born dame—was another person from the mere transitory
companion who, once at Rangoon, would be handed over to Karl Krauss,
her uncle—incredible! Uncle by marriage—yes, but still an inmate of his
home.

“And so I hear you are niece to Herr Krauss,” he began abruptly, as he
lounged against the bulwarks; “I know him well.”

“And my aunt?”

“Yes, I’ve met her two or three times; she must have been splendidly
handsome once; now she looks broken up—it’s the climate. No woman
should remain in Lower Burma for eight years without a change.”

“I did not know the climate was so bad; I’m afraid I know very little
about Burma; it seems so far away—much farther off than India.”

“Yes, and a far more beautiful country—a land flowing with rivers and
riches, and full of charming people, who live for the day, like so many
butterflies, and do no work.”

“Then who does work?”

“The Madrassi, the Sikh, the Chinese, and, above all, the European.
Rangoon has an enormous trade; I wonder what you will think of it?”

“I feel sure that I shall like it; I have always longed to see the
East.”

“Ah, that is a common wish—the _sun_ rises in the East! We Germans like
the East—the East likes us. _We_ own Burma!”

After a moment’s pause, which gave his companion time to digest this
surprising statement, he went on, “Have you ever seen Herr Krauss?”

“No! when my aunt came home he always went to Germany—to Frankfort, I
think.”

“So his acquaintance has yet to be made; it is what you call a pleasure
in store. I wonder what you will think of the unknown uncle; perhaps
some day you will tell me?” Then he gave an odd laugh and walked away,
still laughing.

Bernhard’s place was speedily filled by another man. Most people
considered Miss Leigh the beauty of the ship, but this novel and
agreeable prominence had not spoiled her and she was always ready to
oblige—to accompany a song, amuse the children, pick up and rectify a
piece of knitting, promenade the deck, play quoits, or dance.

The various other girls on board, with whom she was popular, had
assured her of the joys awaiting her and them in Rangoon. Dances,
picknics, concerts, paper-chases—in short, no end of gaiety—all to be
enjoyed in that yet unknown and romantic country, “the Land of the
Golden Umbrella.” Often the girls sat in one another’s cabins,
discussed and described frocks and beautiful toilettes, at present
unseen and packed away in the baggage-room. Also they talked over their
fellow-passengers—not forgetting the young men—and when Shafto’s name
was mentioned, an occasional sly glance or hint would be thrown at
Sophy, of which she endeavoured to appear serenely unconscious.


Early one morning the passengers awoke to find themselves at anchor in
Colombo harbour, and the soft warm air brought them a delicious whiff
of the celebrated cinnamon gardens. Many were landing for Southern
India and a quantity of cargo had to be discharged. As this was bound
to be a lengthy process, the remnant who were bound for Rangoon had
nearly a whole day ashore. Mrs. Milward and maid, and her young friends
Miss Leigh and Mr. Shafto, Herr Bernhard, the Pomeroys, Mrs. Lacy and
several of her satellites, breakfasted at the Galle Face Hotel, and
subsequently made trips in rickshaws, shopped in the bazaar, and had
afternoon tea at Mount Lavinia.

It was, as everyone agreed, a most delightful break. On that same
evening, as they steamed out into the moonlit Bay of Bengal, Sophy and
Shafto paced the half-deserted deck, gazing on the Southern Cross, and
the former suddenly said:

“That was our last stopping-place. When I leave the _Blankshire_, where
I have been so much at home, I shall feel rather astray.”

“So you would like a home on the rolling deep?” suggested her
companion.

“No, indeed; shall I _ever_ forget that day we had off Crete? But I
have never been long away from mother; I am going to a new country, a
new life, and almost new relations—it all seems so strange and vague.”

“But your aunt cannot be a stranger,” suggested Shafto. “You know her,
don’t you?”

“Oh, yes; but I have not seen her for eight years. The last time she
was over, she stayed with us for a few weeks. I remember her as
handsome and beautifully dressed, with wonderful toilet arrangements in
ivory and silver, and bottles of heavy Indian scent. She was very kind
and had such soft caressing manners, and gave us lots of chocolate and
nice presents. I recollect a beautiful emerald ring she wore—but I
cannot recall the colour of her eyes.”

“Oh, well, that oversight will soon be repaired!”

“Aunt Flora was fond of gaiety and theatres; we lived in Chelsea, and
as our small house could hardly hold her big boxes and we had no
telephone, she went to the Carlton, where she was more in the middle of
things, and could entertain her friends from India and Burma—but she
came to see us two or three times a week.”

“And where was her lord and master?”

“In Germany; I have never seen him.”

“How did your aunt come across him?”

“In Hong Kong, of all places! She was married at eighteen to a young
officer; they ran away, and I believe grandpa never forgave her. He was
a General, a strict old martinet, and she was his favourite daughter.
After they had been married a couple of years, Aunt Flora’s husband was
killed in an accident and she was left rather badly off. People out
there were very kind to her. She had been hurt in the accident and was
laid up for months. Then this rich German asked her to marry him, and
as she was reluctant to return home and face grandpa, she said ‘Yes.’
But perhaps it was love match number two.”

“Yes, perhaps it was.”

“That all happened twenty years ago, and since then Aunt Flora has made
her home in the East—China, the Straits Settlements and Burma. You see,
her friends and her interests are mostly out there. She and mother
always write to one another; we do her commissions in London, and she
sends us Burmese silks and umbrellas and curry stuff; but we were
immensely surprised when, without any little hints or preparations,
Uncle Karl wrote and invited me to pay them a long visit—and so here I
am! I do hope I shan’t be a fish out of water. I’ve never been
accustomed to living with wealthy people, and, I’m told that Uncle Karl
is immensely rich.”

“You need not consider that a drawback. It is better than being
immensely poor—for instance, like myself.”

“You don’t look poor.”

She smiled as she glanced at his well-cut suit and admirable brown
shoes.

“I’m not exactly a whining beggar, selling boot laces and matches, but
I am uncommonly glad to have got this job, which brings me in about
four hundred a year. In London I was a clerk at less than half, and
here is my chance to see the world—and I’m bound to make the most of
it.”

“Mrs. Milward said you were to have gone into the Army.”

“Yes, but if you can’t get what you like, you must like what you can
get,” was the philosophic rejoinder.

“I suppose your people were very sorry to part with you. My poor mother
cried for nearly three days; my sister, I know, will miss me
dreadfully. This is not sheer vanity, as you might suppose, but we have
always done things together—and there is only a year between us.”

“Well, my mother did not cry much, and I have no sisters to mourn for
me.”

“No sisters,” she echoed, as if the fact struck hot as unusual.

“No, nor brothers either—only cousins.”

“Sometimes they do just as well; are they pretty?”

“No,” he answered rather curtly, as Cossie’s round complacent face rose
before his mental eye.

After a short pause he changed the topic and asked:

“Do you ride, Miss Leigh?”

“Yes, but not since we’ve come to London; I love riding. In the
country, in father’s lifetime, I rode a cob—he went in the cart, too;
he was such a dear, but very tricky; once or twice he ran away with me;
I didn’t tell father, because I knew I’d never again be allowed to ride
alone, and I do enjoy riding by myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, for if I can rise to the price of a gee, I was
hoping you would allow me to join you occasionally.”

“I should be delighted, but——” and she hesitated.

“Oh, yes,” he added quickly, “I know what you are going to say: ‘How
about a chaperon?’”

“Perhaps they don’t keep chaperons in Rangoon?”

“Oh, yes, my dear, they do,” declared Mrs. Maitland, who, as she joined
them, had overheard the last remark, “and extra fierce specimens, I can
assure you! Miss Leigh, they want me to sing Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria,’ so
will you be an angel and come and play my accompaniment?”

As Miss Leigh was always ready to be “an angel” at a moment’s notice,
she offered no resistance when Mrs. Maitland took her by the arm and
led her away to the music-room.

Shafto and Miss Leigh were usually among the first to appear on deck,
both being early risers; she, in order to leave a clear field for Mrs.
Milward’s prolonged toilet, and the elaborate operations of her clever
maid. The pretty grey hair had to be taken out of pins, brushed,
back-combed and deftly arranged, as the frame to its owner’s beaming
and youthful face. Lacing, buttoning and hooking also absorbed
considerable time.

As for Shafto, he was no lie-a-bed. Even in those dark, raw winter days
at Lincoln Square, when breakfast was served by electric light, he was
always punctual, and one of the first to descend and retrieve his boots
through the smoky atmosphere of the lower regions. What a contrast were
those murky hours to these glorious mornings in the tropics—the green
translucent sea, the soft golden light, the salt, stimulating air, all
shimmering and melting together! The day really dawned for Shafto when
a certain Panama hat, crowning a beautiful head, emerged from the
companion ladder, and the smile in a pair of bright dark eyes greeted
him like a ray of sunshine. One morning, as the couple paced the deck
before breakfast, accompanied by Mr. Hoskins, an excited fellow
traveller accosted the trio.

“I say,” he began, “have you heard? They have just signalled land
ahead!”

“Oh, where?” cried Sophy eagerly.

“Do you see over the starboard bow, that faint dark streak upon the sky
line?”

She nodded.

“Well then,” he announced impressively, “that is Burma!”

Shafto snatched up a pair of glasses and gazed at the long line of
coast and, as he gazed, he felt as if he stood upon Pisgah and a whole
new world lay open before him. He was figuratively surveying the
Promised Land!




CHAPTER XI
A BURMESE HOSTESS


Early in the same afternoon the _Blankshire_ picked up her pilot at
Elephant Point and entered the famous Irrawaddy. Long before her
destination was in sight, twenty miles from the sea, the glorious Shwe
Dagon, a shining golden object, towered into view, flashing in the
sunlight against a background of impenetrable woods.

Rangoon, on a river navigable for nine hundred miles, is a large and
important seaport and, as the wealth of one of the richest countries
filters through its ports, naturally the approach is thronged with
shipping. Our incoming liner met or overtook cargo steamers, tank
ships, battered tramps and heavily laden wind-jammers in the tow of
straining tugs, not to mention steam-launches, barges and swarms of the
local _sampan_, or small boat.

At the wharf where, amidst deafening yells and hoarse shoutings, the
_Blankshire_ crept to her berth, crowds of different races—brown,
black, yellow and white—awaited the English mail. Passengers were
eagerly claimed by their friends and hurried away to motors and
carriages; all was excitement and bustle. Alas! ’board-ship friendships
soon evaporate, and presently Shafto found himself standing on the
aft-deck with his gun-case and cabin luggage, deserted and
forgotten—no, for here came Hoskins, the police officer, hot and
breathless.

“I say, look here, old chap!” he panted, “I’m just off to catch my
train to Tonghoo, but I’ve had a word with FitzGerald; it will be all
right about the chummery; they can take you in on Monday. I see Salter
on board, one of the head assistants in Gregory’s; I expect he has come
to meet you. Well, I must run; so long!”

This good-natured fellow passenger was immediately succeeded by a cabin
steward. “Been looking for you everywhere, sir,” he said; “there’s a
gentleman come aboard asking for you.” As he concluded, a spare,
middle-aged man wearing a large topee and a dust-coloured suit
approached and said:

“Mr. Shafto, I believe?” and offered a welcoming hand.

“Yes,” assented the new arrival.

“I’m Salter from Gregory’s. Manders, the head assistant, asked me to
meet you. I’ll be glad to help you get your things ashore and take you
to the Strand Hotel, where I have booked you a room.”

“That is most awfully good of you,” replied Shafto. “On Monday I
believe I am to get quarters in a chummery.”

“Ah, so you are settled, I see. Now, if you will show me your baggage,
I have a couple of coolies here with a cart and a taxi for ourselves.”

Mr. Salter proved to be remarkably prompt in his measures, and in less
than ten minutes Shafto found himself following his flat narrow back
down the steep gangway and setting his foot for the first time on the
soil of Burma. He halted for a moment to look about. Here was a
landmark in his life, a new sphere lay before him; the street was
humming and alive with people, and he stared at the jostling, motley
crowd of British, Burmese, Chinese, mostly a gaily-clad ever-changing
multitude. Among them were shaven priests in yellow robes. Shans in
flapping hats; right in front of him stood a stalwart Burman, wearing a
white jacket, a pink silk handkerchief, twisted jauntily around his
bullet head, and a yellow Lungi, girded to the knee, displayed a
three-tailed cat tattooed on the back of each substantial calf.

And what a curious, soft and penetrating atmosphere; moist and loaded
with unfamiliar, aromatic odours!

However, Mr. Salter, a man of action, had no time to spare for
contemplation, and briskly hustled the stranger into a waiting taxi—for
the old days of the rattling, shattered _gharry_ are numbered.

“I suppose this is all new to you?” said Shafto’s acquaintance as they
struggled up the crowded Strand, lined with imposing offices and vast
_godowns_, or warehouses.

“You may say so,” he replied, eagerly gazing at the dense passing
throng—animated women with flower-decked hair, square-shouldered,
sauntering men, carrying flat umbrellas and smoking huge cheroots,
Khaki-clad Tommies and yellow-faced John Chinamen.

“Oh, there’s lots to see in Burma,” continued Salter, “an extraordinary
mixture of people and races, and a most beautiful country; such
splendid rivers and forests—but here, in Rangoon, everyone has but one
idea.”

In answer to Shafto’s glance of interrogation he said:

“We are a commercial community, and our sole aim and object is to work,
to get rich, and go home.”

“But that doesn’t apply to the native?”

“No, the Burman does not work; he is merely a spectator. The industry
of others amuses him; his chief object is to enjoy life. Well, here is
the hotel; let us go in and have a look at your quarters.”

After the baggage had been disposed of and Shafto’s room inspected and
criticised, his companion still lingered talking. To Salter, the
proverbially eccentric, this new-comer appeared to be an intelligent
young fellow whom he would like and take to. There was no superior
“just out from London to the back of God-speed” air about him. On the
contrary, he appeared to be genuinely interested in his surroundings
and insatiable for information. It struck him, too, that the forlorn
stranger would put in a mighty dull and solitary evening and, stirred
by a benevolent impulse, he said:

“Suppose you come back and dine at my diggings? I may be able to give
you a few hints as I am an old hand.”

“I should be delighted,” assented Shafto, “if it won’t be putting you
out?”

“Oh no, not a bit; Mrs. Salter is accustomed to my bringing home a
stray guest.”

“Had I not better dress?”

“Certainly not; come along with me now, just as you are.”

Thus the matter being arranged, the pair once more entered the taxi,
and were presently steering through the traffic of various
thoroughfares and teeming bazaars. All at once, with an unexpected
lurch, the car turned into a wide, well-shaded enclosure and halted
before a low, heavily-roofed house, supported on stout wooden legs—an
old-time residence.

“Do you go up,” urged Shako’s host, “whilst I pay the taxi—you can
settle with me later.” Here spoke the canny Yorkshire tyke.

Shafto, as requested, climbed the stairs leading up to a wide veranda,
on which opened a sitting-room, lined with teak wood and lighted by
long glass doors. Here he was confronted by a little Burmese woman with
a beaming face. She wore a short white jacket, an extraordinarily tight
satin petticoat, or, _tamain_ of wonderful butterfly colours, enormous
gold ear-rings, and a flower stuck coquettishly behind her left ear. At
first he supposed her to be a picturesque attendant, but when she
extended a tiny hand loaded with rings and murmured “Pleased to see
you!” he realised that he was addressed by the mistress of the house.

“This is my wife,” announced Salter as he entered. “Mee Lay, here’s Mr.
Shafto, one of our new assistants, just out from England; I hope you
can give him a good dinner?”

“Oh yes, it will be all right,” and once more she beamed upon her
guest, “I will go and see about it now.”

And in spite of her tight skirt, Mee Lay glided out of the room with an
air of surpassing grace.

“I dare say you are surprised to see that Mrs. Salter is of _this
country_,” said her husband, as he sank into a chair; “but it is by no
means an uncommon match here. Burmese women are very good-humoured and
capable; they make capital wives, and there is no denying the
fascination of the Burmese girl—always so piquant and smiling and
dainty. They have also a wonderful capacity for business and
money-making, and a real hunger for land; some of the best plots in and
about Rangoon have been picked up by these shrewd little creatures. The
men-folk, on the other hand, are incurably lazy. They loaf, gamble and
amuse themselves and leave their women-kind to trade, or to weave silks
and manufacture cheroots; numbers of them are in business. Mee Lay, my
wife, owns and runs a good-sized rice mill; and if you were to look
into the back compound you would see it entirely surrounded by her
matted paddy-bins, biding a rise in the market.”

A yet further surprise awaited Shafto, in the shape of a little sallow
girl, with clouds of crimped golden hair, beautifully dressed in
European style, in a white embroidered frock and wide silk sash.

Rosetta had inherited the high cheek-bones and short nose of her
mother’s race, the blue eyes and firm jaw of her Yorkshire parent. On
the whole, she was an attractive child.

Miss Rosetta Salter received the strange gentleman with overpowering
condescension, and spoke English in a thin, squeaky voice. In a
flatteringly short time she had descended from her high horse, and
accepted Shafto as a friend, revealed her age (eight years) and told
him all about her French doll and her new brown boots—also from Paris.

The dinner, which was announced directly after the return of Mrs.
Salter, proved to be excellent, well cooked and a novelty. For the
first time Shafto tasted real curry, also mango fool. The appointments
were exclusively European, with the exception of a massive silver bowl,
filled with purple orchids, which adorned the centre of the table. Two
snowy-clad Madras servants waited with silent dexterity and
conversation never flagged. Salter discoursed of chummeries and the
_Blankshire_ passengers, and Mrs. Salter thoughtfully prepared the new
arrival for the alarming insects of Lower Burma, whilst Rosetta, for
her part, kept up an accompaniment on a high chirruping note.

During a momentary pause Shafto was startled by an odd sound—an
imperious, unnatural voice that called, “Tucktoo! Tucktoo! Tucktoo!”

“What is it—or _who_ is it?” he inquired anxiously.

“Oh, it’s only a large lizard that lives under the eaves,” explained
Salter, “one of our specialities. In the rains, when he is in good
voice, he is deafening.”

“He brings good and bad luck,” added Mrs. Salter. “Oh, yes, that is
so,” and she flipped the air with her two first fingers, a favourite
gesture among Burmese women.

“How do you mean luck?” Shafto asked.

“If he gives seven ‘Tucktoos’ without stopping, that is luck—great big
luck—but if he goes on, he brings trouble.”

“Only if he stops at an odd number,” corrected the child.

“I see you know all about it,” remarked the guest.

“Oh, yes, our Tucktoo never goes beyond seven—I think he is old—and
mother says the _nats_ are kind to us.”

“The cats are kind to you!” ejaculated Shafto. “But why not?”

“No, no,” hastily broke in Salter, “nats are spirits, good spirits or
bad, who live in the trees; you will hear enough about them before you
are a month in Burma. Their worship is the national faith.”

“But I thought Buddhism——” began Shafto, and hesitated.

“Oh, yes, ostensibly and ostentatiously, but wait and see.”

“I am a Catholic,” announced the child abruptly.

She was excessively self-conscious and anxious to show off before
Shafto.

“Are you really?” he said with an incredulous smile.

“Oh, yes, I attend the convent school; I am learning French and
dancing, I go to mass; mother goes to the pagoda festivals—mother is a
heathen.”

“Rosetta! Mind what you are saying,” sharply interposed Salter; “your
mother’s no more a heathen than yourself.”

“Rosetta is a nasty little girl,” said Mrs. Salter, rising, “she
forgets herself before company, and must go away to be——”

A succession of shrieks interrupted the verdict.

“Oh, do forgive her, please!” implored Shafto; “I ask it as a favour, a
special favour.”

Meanwhile Rosetta clung to her mother apostrophising her in an unknown
tongue, then with piercing screams, entirely regardless of her
beautiful clean frock, she flung herself flat upon the floor.

If Shafto had been inclined to meditation, he might have reflected on
the future of the offspring of two such divergent countries as the West
Riding of Yorkshire and Pegu. At one moment the prim, well-mannered
English girl; the next, an impulsive, emotional daughter of the Far
East. When she grew to woman’s estate, which of the races would
predominate?

Meanwhile, as Rosetta lay prone and kicking upon the _dhurri_, her
father murmured apologetically:

“When the lassie is a bit over-fired and excited, she doesn’t know what
she is saying.”

Mee Lay raised her struggling offspring, was about to bear her away and
give her “Tap Tap,” when again Shafto interposed:

“Oh, I say, do forgive her this time, please, Mrs. Salter. This is my
first day in Rangoon—and I ask it as a particular favour.”

Mee Lay, an adoring parent, was by no means reluctant to grant his
petition, and when the tearful culprit was released and set down, she
turned to Shafto and said in her piping treble:

“Thank you, nice gentleman, but she would not have hurt me much. It was
not I who said mother was a heathen savage, but Ethel Lucas, and I
slapped her, so I did—and Sister gave me a bad mark. I, too, go to the
pagoda festivals and like them awfully much. There are bells and beads,
and flowers and priests, the same as in the convent.”

“Now that peace has been declared, Rosetta, here is a chocolate,” said
her father, “and you can go to bed. Shafto, we will adjourn into the
veranda to smoke, watch the rising moon, and listen to the hum of the
bazaar—a new sound for your ears!”

In a few minutes both were extended in comfortable, long cane chairs,
no doubt experiencing an agreeable sense of _bien être_. The outlook,
with its heavy foliage, was restful to the eye, and the air was charged
with a spicy warmth.

Presently Salter began: “On Monday you are due at the office to report
yourself. You need not be scared at the Head, although he has a stiff,
discouraging sort of manner, and they say that, like the east wind, he
finds out all your weak points in the twinkling of an eye! He is just
and impartial, and no man is more respected in the whole of Burma than
George Gregory. I suppose you know that Gregory’s is one of the
oldest-established houses here?”

Shafto nodded; he had learned this fact on board ship.

“We do a great trade and employ a number of young fellows, mostly from
public schools and universities. One or two other firms do not engage
gentlemen—for reasons that, perhaps, you may guess. Out of business
hours our house keeps a sharp eye on their employés. A young chap can
get into any amount of mischief in Rangoon—Rangoon is full of
temptations.”

“Oh, is it?” muttered Shafto indifferently—what could its temptations
offer in comparison to London?

“Anyhow it seems a huge, stirring sort of place,” he added, as he
watched motors, bicycles, and _gharries_ whirring past the entrance.

“Stirring! Why you may say so—it’s humming like a hive day and night.
There are so many taps to turn in this wealthy country—timber, rice,
wolfram, jade, tin, oil, rubies. A man with a little capital, if he
does not lose his head, can make a fortune in ten years, especially in
paddy. Our particular trade is teak and paddy—that’s rice, you know. I
expect your work will be on the wharf and pretty heavy at first.”

“Well, anyway, it’s an open-air job.”

“Yes, you have the pull now; this is our cold season—October to March;
but the hot weather is no joke; as for the rains, you might as well
live in a steam laundry; we get a hundred inches here in Lower Burma.”

“A hundred inches!” echoed Shafto, “you are not serious?”

“Yes; it pours down as if the sea were overhead, and goes on steadily
for days. Frogs flop round and round your room, and you can almost hear
the trees growing. In the rains the forests are a wonderful sight, such
dense masses of foliage and flowers. Can you imagine great trees
entirely covered with exquisite blooms, and garlands of pink and lilac
creepers interlacing the jungle?”

“How gorgeous! Perhaps I may see all this some day,” said Shafto,
“after I have explored Rangoon itself.”

“Well, I hope you may,” assented his companion, “and now I want to ask
you a strange question.”

“All right—ask away!”

“You have only been a few hours on shore, and I am curious to know if
you have received any impression of the place and people—you know,
first impressions go a long way!”

“Yes. Although I have only just rattled through the streets and along
the Strand, the impression I gathered is that the Burmese appear to be
an amazingly happy crew, with no thought for the morrow; they were all
laughing and chattering as if life was a splendid joke and they enjoyed
it thoroughly. The _joie de vivre_ simply hits me in the eye!”

“I can explain all that,” said Salter, putting down his cheroot and
sitting forward in his long chair. “The Burman has no fear of death,
but proclaims an intense consciousness that it is a mere passing over
to another existence—one of a chain of many future lives—and I think I
may say that this belief is universal. They also declare that a man’s
present life is absolutely controlled by the influence of past good or
bad deeds, and that in the next world they may possibly be better off
than they are in this. Although a Burman gives alms, worships at the
pagoda on appointed days, and repeats the doxology he has learnt at
school, he governs his life by the _nats_—spirits of the air, the
forests, streams, and home, who must be propitiated.”

“I never heard of these _nats_ until now,” said Shafto.

“No; but, as I have said before, you will hear a good deal about them
here, especially if you mix with the Burmans.”

“I certainly hope I shall see something of the people of the country.”

“You will find them interesting; a full-blooded, pleasure-loving race;
they’ve curious, original ideas, drawn from their ancient and sacred
books, and an amazingly generous notion of time. For instance, they
talk glibly of worlds a hundred thousand years old, and believe that
this very planet has been destroyed no fewer than sixty-five
times—chiefly by fire, on ten occasions by water, and once by wind!
According to them, as in the New Testament, ‘a thousand years are but
as yesterday.’ And yet they do not acknowledge the existence of a
Supreme Being—the highest glory is annihilation.”

At this moment a light little figure flitted up the stairs, leaving an
impression of slender elegance and satin skirt.

“Ah, there goes Ma Chit, my wife’s cousin!” explained Salter.

“And I must be taking my departure,” said Shafto rising. “What you have
been telling me is extraordinarily interesting, and I would gladly sit
on for hours, but it is ten o’clock.”

“Yes, and we workers are early birds. I hope you will come and see us
again. I have been twenty years in the country and I can tell you many
a curious tale. To-morrow will be Sunday and, if you like, I will call
round and take you to do a bit of sightseeing—the Pagoda and the
lakes.”

“I should enjoy it of all things; perhaps you will have tiffin with me
at the hotel?”

“No, you must come to us; twelve o’clock sharp, and afterwards we’ll
make a start.”

“Then I’ll just go in and say good-bye to Mrs. Salter.”

When they entered the sitting-room, where lamps had been lighted, they
found the lady of the house in an ecstasy of admiration, gesticulating
with her tiny brown hands, as she gloated over a length of rose and
silver brocade. Standing beside her was the proud owner of this
magnificence; a slim, graceful girl, wearing heavy gold ornaments and
flowers in her hair, and, in spite of an extravagant use of pearl
powder, undeniably pretty. Her slanting eyes were long-lashed and
expressive, and her little mocking mouth wore a bewitching smile.

“Look at my _tamain_, Papa Salter!” she cried; “a piece of the best
satin, just enough for a skirt—one yard and a half; Herr Bernhard
brought it to me from England.”

“Splendid indeed, Ma Chit,” he replied; “you will cut them all out at
the big festival and the _Pwes_. Mee Lay, Mr. Shafto wishes to say
‘good night’!”

Mee Lay took a somewhat preoccupied leave of her guest, her eyes and
attention being riveted upon the gorgeous material in her hand; but Ma
Chit accorded the young man a gay salutation and a splendid view of her
beautiful white teeth.

Salter accompanied his guest to the entrance gate, giving him careful
directions as to the whereabouts of his hotel. It was an exquisite
starlight night; the roar of the bazaar, the clang of the trams, and
the whistling of launches were in the distance; the compound itself was
so still that the sudden thud of a fallen jack-fruit made quite a
startling sound. As the men exchanged last words, their attention was
arrested by a charming tableau in the lighted sitting-room; two figures
were outlined in strong relief against the dark teak walls, both
absorbed in conversation. Ma Chit presented a particularly attractive
picture, with her rose-crowned head, graceful posture, and waving
hands; even as they gazed, her rippling laugh drifted seductively
towards them.

“In this country, great is the tyranny of Temptation, and _there_ is
one of the temptations,” gravely announced Salter; “Rangoon is full of
these fascinating _chits_, who have no morals, but are witty,
good-tempered and gay. Ma Chit—the name means ‘my love’—is said to be
irresistible and the prettiest girl in the province; she is Bernhard’s
housekeeper.”

“His housekeeper!” repeated Shafto; “why, he told me he lived at the
German Club!”

“That may be; but he has a fine house in Kokine. It is not an uncommon
situation—that sort of temporary marriage. Ma Chit looks after his
interests, rules his household, and makes him comfortable; her people
acquiesce. All marriages are easily arranged and easily dissolved among
the Burmans. A young man may offer sweets, serenade a girl a few times;
if he is acceptable, there’s a family dinner, with much chewing of
betel nut, and that constitutes the ceremony!”

“What a happy-go-lucky country!” exclaimed Shafto.

“Happy, yes! Lucky, I’m not sure! Well now, don’t lose your way; first
turn to the right, second to the left, and there is the Strand. Good
night!”




CHAPTER XII
EAST AND WEST


The first and principal sight in Rangoon is the great Shwe Dagon
Pagoda, and on Sunday afternoon Shafto and his new acquaintance passed
between the golden lions at its base, and slowly ascended flight after
flight of steep brick steps, lined with flower-decked shrines and
blocked by dense masses of worshippers, who were swarming up and down.

The temple stands in imposing majesty on a wide platform and dominates
the town—in fact, apart from the trade and business element, the Pagoda
_is_ Rangoon. The splendid edifice is entirely encased in plates of
solid gold, and the “Ti,” which rises from the inverted begging-bowl,
is studded with priceless precious stones—emeralds, rubies, sapphires
and diamonds—which flash and glitter in the sun. These have been
presented by pious pilgrims from all parts of the province and beyond;
for, with the exception of the Caaba at Mecca, no earthly shrine
attracts such multitudes, or receives such generous largesse.

Shafto and his companion having toiled up the steps, worn hollow by
millions of feet, halted on the plateau, which was half-covered with
little stalls, whose keepers were selling flowers, candles, flags,
dolls, and images of Buddha—made in Birmingham. Here were hundreds, nay
thousands of joyous gaily-clad worshippers moving to and fro, a truly
brilliant pageant of passing life. It was difficult to say which were
the more strikingly dressed: the men in brilliant turbans and silk
waist cloths, or the women in satin skirts of endless pattern, their
chignons wreathed with flowers, wearing a profusion of gold ornaments,
and attended by many children.

“Ah, I see you are struck with the spectacle!” said Salter. “Isn’t it
an orgy of colour—rose, orange, purple, scarlet? There is nothing more
picturesque than a Burmese crowd.”

“Yes, a great show!” rejoined Shafto; “in gala costume. I can now
understand why the national emblem is a peacock.”

As they made their way through the throng there was a clanging of
melodious gongs and sounds of loud continuous chanting, whilst overhead
the far-away sea breeze stirred the bells on the Ti to a silvery
tinkle, tinkle.

To Shafto this scene was amazing and impressive; the wonderful golden
Pagoda with its crown of jewels, the vast multitudes in many-hued
garments, the flowers, fluttering flags, coloured lights, all as it
were attuned to the accompaniment of merry voices, sonorous Gregorian
chanting, and deep-toned gongs.

And what a labyrinth of shrines! Hours might be spent examining their
rich carvings. At one of the principal of these shrines a service was
proceeding; to Shafto, it recalled the celebration of mass in a Roman
Catholic chapel, for here were shaven priests intoning prayers on the
steps of a decorated altar; here also were incense, lights, and a
multitude of devout people, kneeling, rosary in hand, chanting the
responses.

Among the worshippers Shafto recognised Mee Lay and her cousin Ma Chit,
attired in what, no doubt, were their festival toilets. Mee Lay’s white
jacket was fastened by diamond buttons, and large diamonds sparkled in
her little brown ears; as for Ma Chit, she was adorned with the
national gold necklace, or _dalizan_. In her sleek, black hair were
artfully arranged sprigs of scarlet hibiscus, and between her tiny
hands, glittering with rings, and uplifted palm to palm, she held a
beautiful flower, which, when her devotions were accomplished, she laid
upon the shrine with an undulating movement of adoration and grace.

“You see my wife follows her own religion,” remarked Salter, “and I
make no objection. I was brought up as a Baptist, in the very strictest
sense of the word. Rosetta, as you already know, is a Roman Catholic;
sometimes Mee Lay brings her here; the service and the spectacle are
attractive enough, though never so to me. My Nonconformist blood leaves
me cold to this sort of display. Mee Lay is a good, religious woman;
when you come to think of it, the East is far more devout than the
West. She insists that our faith is a mere feeble copy of Buddhism,
which had six hundreds years the start of Christianity. There is no
doubt that the Buddhists preach most of the moral truths that are to be
found in the Gospels, and Buddha was a Deliverer, who taught the
necessity of a pure life, of self-denial and unworldliness. He exhorted
his disciples to practise every virtue. But here is the difference
between Buddhism and Christianity: Buddha brings a man by a thorny path
to the brink of a huge, black chasm, and drops him into annihilation.”

“It seems unsatisfying,” said Shafto. “Yet, by all accounts, Buddhism
is a wonderful religion. I heard a fellow on board ship discussing its
code and the extraordinary way in which it has fastened on mankind, and
spread. He declared that every fourth human being who came into the
world was a Buddhist!”

“So they say,” replied Salter with a careless shrug. “I doubt if the
assertion would hold water. At the same time Buddha has an enormous
number of followers in China, Tibet, India, and Ceylon; they, too, have
traditions of a Holy Mother and Child, of a fast in the wilderness, and
here, even now, crucifixion is the form of capital punishment.”

“And what do you think about Buddhism in Burma?” inquired Shafto.

“Buddhism will hold its ground, in spite of many converts among the
Karens. The Burmans are a sunny, happy people, as you see, who hope for
a good time here, and a good time in the worlds to come. They held the
same expectations and creed, and wore the same clothes, two thousand
years ago; time does not appear to touch them; they are as gay and
irresponsible as so many butterflies. You know Kipling’s lines to
Rangoon?”

Before Shafto could reply, Salter quoted in a sonorous monotone:


‘Hail, Mother! Do they call me rich in trade?
    Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone,
And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid,
    Laugh ’neath my Shwe Dagon.’


“From the ‘Song of the Cities.’ Rather appropriate to the occasion,
eh?”

“Yes, fits it to a T,” assented Shafto, as his eye wandered over the
vast assemblage on the plateau, talking, joking, laughing, smoking,
absolutely content with the day, without a thought for the morrow.

The atmosphere felt heavy with the scent of incense, flowers, and
cheroots; little bells still tinkled gaily and the air was full of
silver music.

“Now I should like to show you the reverse of this scene,” said Salter;
“it won’t take you long,” and he led his companion away to a solitary,
deserted place at the rear of the Pagoda.

“Here,” he said, indicating some dilapidated moss-grown stones, “are a
number of totally-forgotten English graves. There was desperate
fighting all round this very plateau when we first came to this
country, some seventy odd years ago; these dead, forgotten pioneer
fellows struck a stout blow for the British flag. British and German
trade, thanks to them, have flourished like a green bay tree; ships and
railways carry all before them, and the days of the caravan are
numbered. Well, now we shall move on to the Royal lakes and Dalhousie
Park, and see all we can, for, after to-day, you won’t have much spare
time for doing the tourist—you will be a cog in the machine.”

The scene presented by the Royal lakes proved an uncompromising
contrast to that at the Pagoda; save for the Eastern background of
palms and bamboos the gathering might have been in London. Here were
motor-cars, smart carriages, pretty women wearing the latest fashions,
men in flannels and tweeds; there was but little colour in their
clothes—or their complexions—no brilliant orange or flaming scarlet, no
bells, gongs, buoyant vitality, or merry laughter; the community were
languidly discussing the mail news, the latest bridge tournament, and
the approaching race meeting. By the lakes you encountered Europe—more
particularly Great Britain. At the Shwe Dagon you found yourself in
touch with an older world and face to face with the silken East!




CHAPTER XIII
“KEEP AN EYE UPON HER”


Gregory’s proved to be a vast and imposing concern, occupying a
prominent situation on the Strand and evidently doing an immense trade.
All this the new assistant readily gathered as Salter steered him in
the direction of the manager’s sanctum.

Here he found the head of the firm, a tall individual, with grizzled
hair covering a fine square head, a hard, clean-shaven face, and a
pince-nez—which pince-nez he invariably removed when about to make a
disagreeable remark. He received the new employé with an air of cool
detachment, and shook hands in a manner that implied, “You must not
expect this sort of thing every day.” Being taller than Shafto, he
appeared to tower over him as he questioned him respecting the firm in
London—which was but a small and insignificant offshoot of the great
house in Rangoon; then he made a few perfunctory remarks on the subject
of the voyage out, and said:

“I understand from Salter that you have found quarters in a chummery; I
hope your house-mates will prove congenial——” he paused and added as a
sort of afterthought, “Mrs. Gregory is usually at home on Thursdays
from three to six.”

“Thank you,” murmured Shafto.

The principal then struck a handbell, which summoned an elderly man to
his presence.

“Lowcroft,” he said, “this is Mr. Shafto, who will take over Mr. Shaw’s
share of the landing business; you had better show him round and give
him instructions. By the way,” turning to Shafto, “I suppose you don’t
know a word of Burmese or Hindustani?”

The new arrival announced his complete ignorance of either language.

“Then you must see about getting a munshi at once.”

And with a nod the new assistant found himself dismissed.

On the very first Thursday after his arrival in Rangoon, Shafto
presented himself at the “Barn,” a residence purchased many years
previously for the use of the then reigning Gregory.

The house was large but unostentatious; the well-matured beautiful
grounds and gardens were notable even in Rangoon. A recent
acquaintance, who escorted Shafto, presented him to Mrs. Gregory, a
smart, sandy-haired little lady of five or six and thirty, with an
animated, expressive face, intelligent grey eyes, and slightly
prominent white teeth. She was exquisitely dressed in some soft pale
blue material, and wore a row of large and lustrous pearls. Among the
crowd of guests the newcomer discovered, to his great relief, several
of his fellow-assistants, and not a few passengers from the
_Blankshire_, including Mrs. Milward, who hailed him with a radiant
countenance and plump, uplifted hands.

“My dear Douglas! How I’ve been longing to see you! I’m off to Mandalay
to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And I’m very sorry to go—there’s such lots to do and see in this
surprising place, but Ella has nailed me down to a date. Have you seen
anything of Sophy—I mean,” correcting herself, “Miss Leigh?”

“No, I’ve been tremendously busy fitting on my new harness and have had
no time for calling.”

“And yet you are _here_!” she protested, with arched brows.

“Oh yes, but this is official; Gregory as good as ordered me to wait
upon his consort.”

“Hush, hush, Douglas! She is a great friend of mine—my own cousin, and
a dear. Of course, I know that George looks as if he had swallowed the
fire-irons, but that really means nothing; he is obliged to keep all
you naughty boys in order!”

“You think I’m a naughty boy?”

“Oh well, I didn’t mean that, my young Sir Galahad! Now come away with
me and I’ll show you the wonderful ferns and the orchid house. I must
have a good, comfortable, private talk.”

As soon as the pair found themselves alone in the fernery she turned to
face him, and said, with unusual animation:

“Now I want to tell you about Sophy—I’m miserable when I think of her.”

“Miserable—but why?”

“When you’ve been to call at ‘Heidelberg’—I may tell you it’s miles and
miles away—you’ll see for yourself; it’s my opinion that she has been
decoyed out to this country under false pretences.”

“Oh, but surely Mrs. Krauss is her own aunt?”

“She is, and more or less an invalid, utterly broken down by years of
Burma. Mrs. Krauss is apathetic, dull, and boneless, and looks as if
you could fold her up and put her in a bag. Herr Krauss is a fat,
loud-talking, trampling German—_not_ a gentleman, but a man with a keen
eye to business. His wife’s half-caste maid who waited upon her,
managed the house, and was with her for years, has married and gone to
Australia, and poor Sophy has been imported to replace the treasure;
that is, to nurse her aunt, run the house, and play the old bounder’s
accompaniments, for he, like Nero, is musical. He is also a friend of
that odious Bernhard’s. Bernhard is a well-born Prussian—I’ll say that
for him—the other is of the waiter class, who has made his money in
China and Burma.”

“Oh, come, I say, this is rather bad! What’s to be done?”

“I only wish I knew. The Krauss abode is large and gloomy—it looks like
a house in a bad temper, and stands in the heart of the German
community; the servants seemed a low-class lot, the rooms were dark and
untidy, and smelt of mould and medicine, but Sophy was just as bright
and cheerful as usual; apparently delighted with everything—loyal, of
course, to her own blood. Now, I know that you and Sophy are friends,
and I want you to keep an eye upon her,” concluded this injudicious
matron.

“I’m afraid my eye will not be of much use,” protested Shafto, “I am
most frightfully sorry for what you tell me, but Miss Leigh has lots of
pals. There are the Pomeroys, Maitlands and——”

“Yes, that’s true,” interrupted Mrs. Milward impatiently, “but she has
no way of getting about. Krauss takes the car and is away in it all
day. I gather that he has the strict German idea about a girl’s being
brought up to cook, to sew, to slave, to find _all_ her interests in
her home! In fact, he told me so plainly; he also added that he had
paid for Sophy’s passage and implied that he intended to have the worth
of his money—his pound of flesh!”

“Brute!” ejaculated Shafto.

“Agreed! I have enlisted one friend for the poor child. Polly
Gregory—she is so clever, clear-headed and decided, and will be a rock
of strength—she is sure to like Sophy, eh?”

“Oh yes, that will be all right!”

“I put in a good word for you too, Master Douglas.”

“That was kind,” and he swept off his straw hat.

“I wonder if that’s meant sarcastic? Perhaps you think good wine needs
no bush? Yes, and I’ve told Polly I knew you as a boy—and how, instead
of quill-driving, you hoped to wear a sword.”

“Hope told a flattering tale,” he answered with a laugh. “Don’t forget
that the pen is the mightier of the two.”

“No,” she dissented; “I back the sword, though it’s rarely drawn now,
thank goodness. Well, I’ve said my say and given you my impressions and
instructions; we must go back and join the _Burra Mems_. I shall write
to you from Mandalay and see you later, when I pass through to
Calcutta. Now you had better go and try to get a set of tennis,” and,
with a wave of adieu, Mrs. Milward strolled away across the grass, an
attractive personality with her fresh complexion, soft round face, dark
pencilled brows, and bewitching mauve toilet—which toilet was
subsequently tabooed by her daughter as “too young”!

“George,” said Mrs. Gregory to her husband, “that new importation is a
nice boy; Milly Milward has known him since he was in blouses; he has
had rather hard luck; his father was swindled out of a comfortable
fortune, and he has to turn to and earn his bread.”

“What we all do!” growled George.

“Yes, but some ways are so much more agreeable than others. His
profession was to have been along the path of glory.”

“What is that?”

“Why, the Army, of course.”

“And now his profession is checking inventories and cargoes. As he is
new to the business, he will have his hands fairly full for the next
few months; so, my dear Polly, don’t turn his head just _yet_.”

“As if I ever turned anybody’s head.”

“I cannot answer for others, but you certainly turned mine.”

“Ah, but that was twelve years ago; I’m afraid my fascinations have
faded since then. Joking apart, George, Milly has left me two
legacies—two protégés to befriend. Shafto is one—I am to invite him to
tea, and talk to him with wisdom, and win his complete and entire
confidence.”

“Oh! and the other?”

“The other is Miss Leigh, whom she chaperoned from home. She is living
with an aunt, who is married to a German named Krauss.”

“Yes, I know; a poisonous chap!”

“So she seems to think, and that this girl, who by all accounts is very
pretty and charming, and a marvellous pianist, has been lured out to
act as maid and housekeeper, and save the pocket of Herr Krauss. Now,
as I have two legacies, I want to know if you will take one of them off
my hands?”

“As if my hands were not full!”

“Yes, officially, only; now I offer you your choice. Which will you
have? Shafto or the girl?”

“You need scarcely ask; I’ll take the girl, of course, and leave you
Shafto.”

“Oh, you are an old silly!” she exclaimed, ruffling up his grizzled
hair; “I wonder which of us will have the better bargain.”

With regard to the subject of Mrs. Gregory’s conversation, Douglas set
to work with the proverbial enthusiasm of a new broom and soon
became—as Salter had predicted—a cog in the whirling wheels of a
machine. But Thursday being the Station holiday, he hired a taxi and
had himself driven out to Kokine, in order to call on Mrs. Krauss and
Miss Leigh; unfortunately his journey proved to be a waste of time and
money. The leisurely servant who emerged from the entrance of
“Heidelberg,” salver in hand, accepted his visiting-card with a salaam,
and then announced with stolid unconcern:

“Missis can’t see.”




CHAPTER XIV
THE MANTLE OF FERNANDA


During the long and weary wait whilst the _Blankshire_ was being made
fast, Sophy Leigh and her girl friends had collected in a group taking
leave of one another and making plans for future meetings.

“I must say I envy you,” said Lena Morgan, the elder of the two plain,
pleasant sisters, whose father was “something in timber.” “You will be
the darling of enormously rich relatives, have several motors, and
horses galore.”

“I’m not so sure,” she gaily rejoined. “‘Galore’ is such a big word,
but from what my aunt has told us, I believe I shall have what is
called ‘a good time,’ and I hope everyone of us will share it. I expect
Aunt Flora will be here to meet me,” she added with happy certainty.

“Why, of course she will,” assented Eva Pomeroy; “she does not have a
niece out every mail. I dare say she has already bought you a nice
saddle horse. You will be riding every morning, and we can meet and
arrange all sorts of jolly picnics and expeditions. I shall come round
and look you up as soon as I’ve unpacked and settled.”

At this moment a heavy bang announced the letting down of the gangway,
over which a crowd instantly poured and scattered about the decks.

Among the first to appear aft was an immense individual, wearing a
loose tussore suit, a huge pith topee, and a black and yellow
cummerbund. His face, with its great jowl, wide lipless mouth, short
chin, and a pair of goggle eyes, was distinctly of the frog type.

“Which of you is Miss Leigh?” he demanded in a loud voice, as he
approached the group of girls.

Sophy stood forward and before she could evade the outrage, this ugly
fat man had put his hands on her shoulders and given her a smacking
kiss on each cheek.

Even in this exciting moment of imminent departure, the circle paused
for a moment and stared aghast—such an appalling person to claim and
kiss Sophy Leigh! What a frightful shock for the unfortunate
girl—whilst the sensations of several young men on the verge of the
group are better imagined than described!

Herr Krauss, for his part, had received a surprise of a far more
agreeable nature, being entirely unprepared to welcome such a pretty,
fashionable young lady, in the character of his wife’s niece. Flora had
invariably spoken of her relatives as “ugly, dowdy little things”; but
then, she had only known them at the awkward age and, being herself
remarkably handsome, was super-critical with regard to beauty.

“Now come along and show me your luggage,” urged Herr Krauss, releasing
his new acquaintance, “and I will see about it. The hand gepäck can go
in the car.”

With a sense of dazed bewilderment, Sophy took a hasty leave of her
friends and prepared to follow her leader. As she kept close behind
him, whilst he forced his way through the crowd, she noticed his short,
thick neck, and powerful, aggressive shoulders—she also noticed that he
allowed her to carry all her parcels herself.

When at last they reached the car, he stepped in with surprising
agility and said as he seated himself:

“Now come along, put your things, umbrellas, wraps and parcels here. My
man,” nodding towards a native, “will look after the heavy baggage.
Better stick your dressing-bag in front, as there is not much room. I
take up two shares—ha! ha!”

This remark was painfully true. His burly form occupied most of the
back seat, and Sophy with difficulty squeezed herself in beside him. As
they glided slowly away, through the dense throng, she looked about
her—her curiosity as raw and eager as that of Shafto.

“What a wonderful, busy place!” she exclaimed. “I see you have
telephones and trams in all directions.”

“Oh, trams!” Krauss echoed contemptuously. “We have _everything_ in
Rangoon; great shops and offices, public buildings, a cathedral, a
mosque, theatres, clubs, sawmills, rice mills, banks—oh yes, it’s a
fine place, and so rich,” and he smacked his lips as he added, “Burma
is the land of opportunity.”

“How is my aunt?” inquired Sophy.

“Only middling—she will be glad to see you, and I expect you will do
her good. We live a long way out—in Kokine, where Germans herd
together, and I take this chance of a talk. I am a busy
man—particularly of late; and time with me means _money_, so I’ll tell
you what I have to say in as few words as possible.”

Sophy nodded her head in agreeable assent.

“Some years ago my wife met with a bad accident—a fall, out
paper-chasing. It did not seem much at the time, though she lost her
nerve; but it came against her later. During the last two or three
years her health has broken down; she suffers from chronic neuralgia in
head and spine, and for days she lies like a dead woman.”

“Oh, poor Aunt Flora, how very sad!”

“Yes, you may say so. Well, for the last ten years she has had an
invaluable maid—Fernanda, a Portuguese half-caste, a treasure, who
waited on and nursed her, and took entire charge of the housekeeping.
Fernanda understood my tastes to a T—the curries and stews and blood
sausages that I am fond of, and was a rare hand at coffee. Then came a
blow! Fernanda made up her silly mind to marry a Scotch engineer and go
to Australia. I was at my wits’ end the day she gave notice; I said to
myself: ‘Ach Gott! what can we do? No maids in Rangoon, and meine liebe
Flora so helpless!’ Then a splendid thought came into my mind—her
nieces! Flora is fond of her family and has often talked of your
mother, and of you, so I wrote off at once, and—here you are!”

Sophy was about to speak, but he laid a heavy, restraining hand upon
her arm and continued:

“There are just one or two little things I wish to say. Your aunt has a
clever ayah who knows what to do, and when she has her attacks I leave
her alone—by her own wish. Also, she doesn’t like to have her health
noticed—though everyone knows that she’s more or less an invalid. I
believe, if her mind were diverted and occupied she would be better.”

“I’m a pretty good nurse,” began Sophy; “I’ve a Red Cross certificate
and I like nursing——”

“Oh, that is of no use,” he interrupted impatiently. “You must nurse
her _mind_; amuse her with cards, reading, games, music—that is your
job. Well, then there is the housekeeping; you will have to take the
place of Fernanda. She looked after the servants, the mending, the
stores, and the cooking—you shall step into _her_ shoes. Of course, it
will be an immense responsibility for a young girl.”

As he spoke he turned his head and looked at his _vis-à-vis_ with a
glance which seemed to imply that he was endowing her with an empire.

“Of course, I am aware that you English are slatternly, ignorant, and
extravagant managers,” he continued pleasantly, “but my excellent
friend and neighbour, Frau Wurm, has promised to take you in hand.”

“But I’m afraid I could not undertake all this,” protested Sophy. “I
know very little of housekeeping in a large establishment. I can knit
and sew, make coffee and savouries, arrange flowers—and that’s about
all.”

“Gott! Gott! Can you not make confitures and cakes and salads?
Confiture I must have with every meal—a nice saucer of cherries or
raspberries or greengages, so good with meat. Well, well, never mind,
you shall soon learn. Frau Wurm will teach you much. We no longer see
company—just two or three men to dine and smoke; your aunt has dropped
her English circle. The English community changes, and many of her old
friends have gone away or died—and a good job, too! We live in the
German quarter and are surrounded by compatriots. You speak German, of
course?”

“No—only French; German is so difficult.”

“Tch! tch! tch! How lazy you English are! We all speak English. As for
me, my mother was English—you could not tell that I was not born an
Englishman?”

Apart from his appearance and guttural r’s, this claim was justified.

“I suppose you made lots of friends on board ship?”

“Yes, a good many.”

“Girls, I suppose—idle girls, who will come buzzing round to coax you
to play with them. That is all they are good for; but you will have
your work, as I have pointed out. If you are industrious, I shall lend
you a horse that was your aunt’s—he is not up to my weight—and I will
take you to our fine club when I can spare an afternoon. At present, I
am immensely occupied, engaged in collecting wolfram. Do you know what
wolfram is?”

“No, I have never heard of it,” humbly admitted Sophy.

“Well, it is ore used for hardening steel—extremely scarce and
valuable; it comes from Tavoy, but business connected with it takes me
up and down the river, and even as far as Calcutta and Singapore. Now,
with you to look after the house and your aunt, I shall feel so free
and easy in my mind. Ah, here we are; this is ‘Heidelberg,’” he said,
as the car swung in between two tall gate piers.

“Heidelberg” was a good-sized residence, with spacious surroundings;
palms, bamboos and crotona abounded, and a wonderful collection of
gigantic cannas—red, yellow and orange—gave colour to the compound. A
crowd of lazy retainers, who were hanging about, gaped in silence upon
the new arrival.

“Now, I’ll take you to your aunt at once,” said Krauss, descending
heavily from the car, but making no effort to assist his niece. Then he
led the way upstairs, striding along the veranda with a heavy, despotic
tread, and through a large, dim drawing-room, where Sophy caught an
impression of much carved furniture, the figure of a large alabaster
Buddha gleaming through the shadows, and a stifling atmosphere of dust
and sandalwood. Pushing aside a tinkling bamboo screen, they entered
another apartment, which was yet gloomier and more obscure, and here on
a wide sofa, propped, among large, silk cushions, lay a sick and wasted
woman, who turned on Sophy a sallow face and a pair of drowsy, dark
eyes.

“Here is your new treasure, mein schatz,” announced her husband! “I
brought her straight up.”

“Oh, dear child,” she murmured, “this is one of my—my dreadful days; so
sorry—so sorry—so sorry,” and she slowly closed her eyes upon her
pretty niece.

Sophy stooped and lifted her hand (which was limp and clammy) to her
lips, and said to herself, as she did so, that poor Aunt Flora was
woefully changed. She recalled her as a beautiful vision, beautifully
dressed, and so gay. Now her face was yellow and withered, and she
looked positively old and gaunt.

All at once a buxom ayah advanced—-a stout, straight-backed Madrassi,
with her black hair in a chignon, a ring in her nose, jewelled rings in
her ears, wearing a handsome blue-and-gold saree, coquettishly draped
round her ample form, the usual short silk bodice, or _choli_, and
numerous heavy bangles. She salaamed to Sophy with both hands, and
Sophy, who had never before beheld such an apparition, gazed in
admiring silence; the ayah’s carriage, her gait and sheeny
protuberance, recalled to mind a prosperous pouter pigeon.

“My missis plenty sick to-day,” said Lily, “never seeing people—that no
good; to-morrow, she may be arl right, but _now_ she must sleep, and I
will take the new missy to her room.”

Sophy’s room, which was large and, rather bare, overlooked the stables,
cook-house and servants’ quarters, and here she was introduced to her
own attendant Motee, a timid creature in white, who seemed to rise, as
it were, out of the floor.

“Motee is the best lady’s ayah in Rangoon,” explained Lily with an
offhand air, “she understands Miss Sahibs, she will pack and unpack,
dress hair—and hold her tongue.”

After giving Motee some directions, unpacking her favourite hats and
changing her dress, Sophy went forth in order to explore her new home.
The whole establishment had a squalid, neglected appearance and sadly
lacked the eye of the mistress. The compound or garden, with its masses
of gorgeous tropical trees and plants, was overgrown and jungly,
poultry wandered about at their own sweet will, and even invaded the
veranda—yet apparently there was no lack of staff. On the contrary,
from her bedroom window she had observed groups of men talking and
smoking, presumably servants, as several wore silver badges on their
turbans, and soiled white linen coats, and among these were some jovial
Burmans and one or two wide-trousered Chinamen.

No doubt Fernanda, the treasure, had kept the house in working order,
and now that she had abdicated, her sceptre lay in the dust—in every
sense of the word. Was it her, Sophy’s, duty to raise it? She noticed
quantities of litter and cobwebs in the drawing-room, but there were no
flowers or knick-knacks; the silver teapot that appeared with tea at
five o’clock was nearly black. It was not a luxurious meal, a weak
Chinese mixture, and a plate of fossilised biscuits.

The morning after her arrival Sophy was awakened by a soft tremulous
touch on her hand; she opened her eyes and beheld her aunt stooping
over her. She was clad in a shabby, splendidly embroidered red kimono,
and appeared to have made a temporary recovery.

Mrs. Krauss offered her niece a warmly affectionate welcome and many
caresses, and then, sitting on the side of the bed, asked eager
questions respecting her mother and sister, their mutual relations, and
all the family news; but made no allusion to the state of her own
health, or to the dirty and neglected condition of her establishment.

“So Karl met you himself,” she said, “although he is so busy; that was
nice. He has a kind heart and I do hope you will like one another.”

“Yes, I hope we shall,” assented Sophy, but her conscience protested
that this hope was vain—already she disliked him.

“He looks to you to step into Fernanda’s shoes; but of course I won’t
have that. Fernanda had enormous wages. Oh, dear child, I can’t tell
you how I miss her,” and tears stood in her dark eyes. “Karl has such
odd, old-fashioned German ideas—you must not mind him—though he is
getting more German every day. He says a woman is just a hausfrau, who
must sew and cook and do whatever a man orders. She is to have no mind
of her own—and very little amusement.”

“Then, Aunt Flora, one thing is certain—I shall never marry a German.”

“I dare say it strikes you as strange that I should have done so; but
Karl has always been devoted to me. I suppose your mother has told you
that, when I was eighteen, I ran away to marry Charlie Bellamy, whose
regiment was under orders for Hong Kong; we were fearfully poor and
fearfully happy; then in a dog-cart accident, Charlie was killed and I
was taken up for dead. But I recovered, as you see. The Hong Kong
people were angels to me—one’s own country folks always _are_, when you
are in trouble abroad. I was laid up for months. When I was better,
Karl came forward and implored me to marry him; I was almost penniless
and loathed the idea of going home, so that was how it happened. Karl
was wealthy in those days, but afterwards he lost his money—our
fortunes go up and down like a see-saw. I am afraid he is too fond of
speculating and taking huge risks; he likes to be a man or a mouse.
Just now he is not a mouse, but very, very rich. Well, my dear, I’ll
leave you to have a bath and dress; we shall meet at breakfast; it is
many a day since I appeared there. Do you know I feel as if you’d done
me good already!” and with a clinging embrace she departed.

As hours and days wore on, Mrs. Krauss became more and more charmed
with her companion; it did not take her long to discover her unselfish
character, amazing adaptability to these strange surrounding’s and,
above all, her gift of music. The invalid would lie prone on her sofa
with a handkerchief over her face—rather suggesting the idea of a
laid-out corpse—motionless and spell-bound, and when she spoke it was
merely to murmur:

“Please go on, please go on, Sophy darling; your music is wonderful;
you are my David and I am gloomy Saul. Oh, my dearest child, your
exquisite gift has given me new thoughts, and opened the door of many
delicious and half-forgotten memories!”

Besides soothing her aunt with dreamy and enthralling melodies, Sophy
remembered her “job,” and endeavoured to interest her in patience, in
puzzles and the latest stitch; but Frau Krauss had no taste for cards
or puzzles. She was, however, profoundly interested in Sophy’s pretty
frocks, examined them, priced them, and tried them on; otherwise she
preferred to lounge among her cushions and talk, whilst her niece, who
busied herself mending table linen, proved an invaluable listener.

“You are a treasure, my sweet child,” she remarked; “I have so often
longed for a companion of my own class and nation. All my neighbours
are German; here in Kokine is a German colony; they all dine and have
music, and gossip together, and I am rather out of it. Of course, I
speak German, but not very fluently. There are two or three uncommonly
smart women who speak English as well as you do, and their children
have English names; but all the same, they hate us in their secret
hearts and often give me a nasty scratch; so I needn’t tell you that I
don’t open my heart to _them_. The English live in another
direction—down the Halpin Road, or out by the Royal lakes, and I have
really grown too lazy and careless to go among them. Besides, what is
the good? My friends return to England, new people come, but as for
poor me—I stay on for ever.”

“And, of course, you would like to go home, Aunt Flora, would you not?”

“For some things, yes! But how can I leave Karl? Also, I feel that this
country has got such a hold upon me—oh, such a hold!” And she closed
her eyes and sighed profoundly.

Three whole weeks had elapsed since Sophy arrived, and during that time
she had not been outside the compound. Herr Krauss had departed up
country and taken the car with him; in the meanwhile Sophy had
contrived to carry out some improvements, and induced her aunt to
dismiss and replace several worthless servants. There had been a grand
cleaning, dusting, and polishing; the drawing-room was rearranged, the
compound cleared and tidied, flowers decorated the sitting-rooms—and
the hens had been interned.

All this Sophy had not contrived to manage without assistance and
advice; several German ladies had been to call, to inspect, to offer
instruction, and to criticise. There was Mrs. Muller, a remarkably
pretty, smart young woman (wife of the head of an important firm, who
spoke English perfectly, played bridge and the violin). She and Sophy
had an interesting musical talk, and arranged about duets and
practisings; it was she who helped with regard to weeding out the
staff, finding substitutes, and engaging a _dirzee_ to mend and make.
Augusta Muller was a born administrator, and the head of the
neighbouring community. Another visitor was Frau Wendel, a dowdy
middle-aged woman, who wore a hideous check cotton gown (much too
short), green spectacles, and velvet boots; she stared hard at Sophy
and asked her many personal questions. There was also the Baroness—a
little lady with small patrician features, faded light hair and a brisk
manner; and last, but by no means least, Frau Wurm, who daily arrived
to fulfil a promise to Herr Krauss, and every morning, for one solid
hour, imparted to Sophy instruction in the management of native
servants, the reckoning of bazaar accounts, the coinage—rupees and
pice—and the proper way to keep house linen and stores. She also gave
her lessons in cooking on the oil stove in the veranda—not invalid
delicacies, but dishes that were favourites with the master of the
house, including confitures and Russian salad.

Frau Wurm was a competent teacher—practical and brisk. She drew up a
list of menus, of shops to be dealt at, and hours for different tasks.
As she worked she talked incessantly in excellent guttural English; her
talk consisted of a series of personal and impertinent questions—her
curiosity was of the mean and hungry class, and to every reply,
satisfactory or otherwise, she invariably ejaculated, “Ach so!”

Among other matters she desired to know Sophy’s age—the age of her
mother—and sister; if their washing was given out; who had paid for her
passage and outfit; where her mother lived, the rent of her house, and
number of servants.

“So she keeps _three_ servants!” she exclaimed. “Ach! but I thought she
was poor!”

“No, not poor,” replied Sophy. “Mother has a pretty good income.”

“Ach so! and that is the reason, I suppose, that you cannot cook or
make your own frocks, or do anything useful. Are you engaged to be
married?”

“No,” replied Sophy with a laugh, “not yet.”

“Ach so! I do not think your uncle will permit you to marry any of
those silly young English officers, who play games all day and are
ashamed to wear uniform. Have you any relations in the Army?”

“Yes, I have two cousins; one in the Flying Corps and one in a
submarine.”

“Ach so! That is _most_ interesting. Some day you will tell me all
about them, will you not? I like to hear about submarines.”

“Very well,” said Sophy, who was busy mixing a pudding according to an
elaborate German recipe.

“Yes, you are getting on,” admitted Frau Wurm patronisingly. “You will
be a good little housekeeper before I have finished with you. Tell
me—how is your aunt to-day?” she asked abruptly.

“She seems better, much better.”

“Yes, much better—better since yon came; you rouse her, though she
doesn’t get up now till eleven o’clock. She suffers from such a strange
complaint—very mysterious,” she added with a significant sniff.

“I don’t think there is anything mysterious about neuralgia.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” rejoined Frau Wurm, lowering her voice; “we often
talk it over and wonder. Long ago she was as others; now she is
different, and seems but half awake—always so jaded and feeble and
vague. There was only one who understood the case—that was Fernanda,
and she has gone away, ach so!”

Sophy found her present life unexpectedly strenuous. The mornings were
devoted to incessant house-keeping, writing lists, and making pickles
and German condiments; in the afternoons her aunt absorbed her time.
She did not seem to come to life till then.

“I know I am selfish,” she confessed, as she looked through a number of
invitations and cards which had been left for Sophy. “I do so want to
keep you to myself; I don’t wish to share you with the Maitlands and
Morgans and Pomeroys; you have brought me a new lease of life. Of late
I have felt like a half-dead creature, without even the energy to open
a book, much less to get up and dress. I have the Burma head, and take
_no_ interest in anything.”

“Then do please take an interest in me, Aunt Flora,” said Sophy
coaxingly, putting her arm about her and smiling into her haggard eyes.

“Very well, my dear; yes, I will—and at once. I shall take you out and
amuse you. No time like the present! To-day I shall telephone for a
motor, get Lily to look out my smartest clothes, and you and I will
make a round of calls. You know it is the duty of a new arrival to wait
on the residents?”

Sophy nodded.

“We will go in the afternoon, when they are all out, and so get through
a number. There are no end of sets here: the Government House, the
civilian, military, the legal, and above all the mercantile—they really
_count_, these merchant princes, being numerous, wealthy, and so
generous and charitable, and can snap their fingers at precedence. Then
there is the German set, to which I should belong—but I don’t. I tell
Karl that my father was an English General and I am English—a real
Englander. We differ in so many ways from these German women—in what we
eat, like, and believe, and how we make our beds, do our hair, and even
how we knit!”

Dressed for making a round of visits, Mrs. Krauss presented a different
appearance from that loglike invalid her niece had first beheld. She
was a picturesque, graceful woman, with a pair of heartrending dark
eyes, while a little touch of colour on her faded cheeks illuminated a
face that still exhibited the remains of a remarkable beauty. Mrs.
Krauss, in a hired and luxurious motor, made a rapid round of calls
among the principal mem-sahibs—who, as predicted, were not at home—and
wrote her own and Sophy’s name in Government House book.

The last house they visited was “The Barn.” Mrs. Gregory received them
and gave Mrs. Krauss and her niece a genial welcome. She and Mrs.
Krauss had known one another for years, but had never been really
intimate or close friends. Mrs. Gregory was energetic, modern and
vivacious; the other, a somewhat lethargic beauty, was not interested
in the burning questions of the day, and had long ceased to take part
in local gaieties; but her niece, as Milly said, was charming, and Mrs.
Gregory felt immediately inspired by a liking for this pretty,
graceful, unaffected girl. Sophy, for her part, was delighted with this
large, English-looking drawing-room, with chintz-covered furniture,
quantities of flowers, books, an open grand piano, and a pile of music.
The hostess, too, Mrs. Milward’s cousin, attracted her and made her
feel at home.

“And what do you think of Rangoon?” inquired Mrs. Gregory.

“Oh, do not ask her,” interposed Mrs. Krauss with a dramatic gesture,
“she has been with me for more than a fortnight, and this is the first
time she has been beyond Kokine. It is all my fault; she has had such a
lot of housekeeping to see to and take over, and she i

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