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.