"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-a-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 Reske 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 scat 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 protegee 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 car. 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 etre. 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 employes. 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 employe 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!"