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 is such a delightful companion that I have not been able to bear her out of my sight.”
“But, dear Mrs. Krauss, we cannot allow you to appropriate Miss Leigh altogether. I hope you will spare her to me now and then. Perhaps Miss Leigh could come with me to the Gymkhana dance next week?”
“I should like it very much indeed,” said Sophy, glancing interrogatively at her aunt.
“Well, if I cannot take her myself, I shall be glad if you will chaperon Sophy. She has not had any amusement yet and one is young but once! And now we must go; no thank you, we won’t wait for tea. I intend to rush the child round the lakes—she has not seen them—and then do some shopping in the bazaar.”
After the departure of her visitors, Mrs. Gregory stood in the veranda and watched them as they sped away together—the dark faded beauty, the pretty, fresh girl—and said to herself:
“I wonder!”