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!