The Road to Mandalay
A Tale of Burma
by B. M. Croker
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne
First published October 1917.
Reprinted December 1917, March and May 1918
Popular Edition 1919.
TO
LT.-COLONEL A. E. CONGDON
LATE ROYAL MUNSTER FUSILIERS
FROM HIS OLD FRIEND
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1. BLINDS DOWN
CHAPTER 2. WHAT HANNAH SAID
CHAPTER 3. THE CLOSED HOUSE
CHAPTER 4. KICKS AND HALFPENCE
CHAPTER 5. CLOUDS
CHAPTER 6. AN EMPTY OFFER
CHAPTER 7. “THE MONSTER”
CHAPTER 8. BOUND FOR BURMA
CHAPTER 9. THE “BLANKSHIRE”
CHAPTER 10. THE LAND OF PROMISE
CHAPTER 11. A BURMESE HOSTESS
CHAPTER 12. EAST AND WEST
CHAPTER 13. “KEEP AN EYE UPON HER”
CHAPTER 14. THE MANTLE OF FERNANDA
CHAPTER 15. THE CHUMMERY
CHAPTER 16. MR. AND MRS. ABELSALTER
CHAPTER 17. AT THE PLAY
CHAPTER 18. THE CHINESE SHOP
CHAPTER 19. CHAFF
CHAPTER 20. THE PONGYE
CHAPTER 21. THE COCAINE DEN
CHAPTER 22. THE APPROACHING DREAD
CHAPTER 23. MYSTERY AND SUSPICION
CHAPTER 24. SENTENCE OF DEATH
CHAPTER 25. THE LATE RICHARD ROSCOE
CHAPTER 26. FITZGERALD IMPARTS INFORMATION
CHAPTER 27. A ROPE TRICK
CHAPTER 28. MA CHIT
CHAPTER 29. MUNG BAW
CHAPTER 30. ENLIGHTENMENT
CHAPTER 31. SEEING IS BELIEVING
CHAPTER 32. ON DUTY
CHAPTER 33. SOPHY
CHAPTER 34. ALL IS OVER
CHAPTER 35. MUNG BAW LIES LOW
CHAPTER 36. THE BOMBSHELL
CHAPTER 37. THE TUG OF WAR
CHAPTER 38. SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN
THE ROAD TO MANDALAY
CHAPTER I
BLINDS DOWN
“What do you think, Mitty? All the blinds are down at ‘Littlecote,’”
announced Miss Jane Tebbs, bursting open the drawing-room door and
disturbing her sister in a surreptitious game of patience. In
well-ordered households the mistress is understood to have various
domestic tasks claiming her attention in the morning. Cards should
never appear until after sunset.
“Blinds down?” echoed Miss Tebbs, hastily moving a newspaper in the
hope of concealing her ill-doing. “Why are you in such a taking, Jane?
I suppose the family are away.”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed her relative, sinking into a chair and dragging
off her gloves. “Did you ever know them all away together? Of course,
Mrs. Shafto goes gadding, and Douglas is at Sandhurst, but ‘he’ seldom
stirs. It is my opinion that something has happened. The Shaftos have
lived at ‘Littlecote’ for ten years, and I have never seen the blinds
down before to-day.”
“Oh, you are so fussy and ready to imagine things!” grumbled Mitty, who
meanwhile had collected and pocketed the cards with surpassing
dexterity. “I don’t forget the time when the curate had a smart lady in
his lodgings, and you nearly went out of your mind: rampaging up and
down the village, and telling everyone that the bishop must be
informed; and after all your outcry she turned out to be the young
man’s mother!”
“That’s true. I confess I was misled; but she made herself up to look
like a girl of twenty. You can’t deny that she powdered her nose and
wore white shoes. But this is different. Drawn blinds are a sign of
trouble, and there is trouble at ‘Littlecote,’ as sure as my name is
Jane.”
“Then, in that case, why don’t you go up to the house and inquire?”—The
query suggested a challenge.
“_Mitty_! You know perfectly well that I have never been inside the
door since Mrs. Shafto was so rude to me about the book club, when I
wrote and protested against the ‘loose’ novels she put upon her list.
Why, you saw her letter yourself!”
Here a pause ensued, during which Miss Jane blew into every separate
finger of her gloves and folded them up with the neatest exactitude.
Presently she murmured with a meditative air:
“I was thinking of asking Eliza to run over.”
“Oh, you may ask!” rejoined her sister, with a sniff of scorn, “but
Eliza won’t stir. There’s a beefsteak pudding for dinner. And that
reminds me that this is the egg woman’s day, and I must see if she has
called. I shall want three dozen.”
And without another word the elder Miss Tebbs bustled out of the room
and abandoned her relative to solitude and speculation.
Matilda and Jane Tebbs were the elderly orphans of a late vicar, and
still considered the parish and community of Tadpool their special
charge. Miss Jane was organist and Sunday school superintendent; Miss
Tebbs held mothers’ meetings and controlled the maternity basket and
funds. Subsequent to their retirement from the vicarage the sisters had
known straitened circumstances; in fact, had experienced the sharp nip
of real poverty; but, no matter how painful their necessities, they
contrived to keep up appearances and never withdrew from society, nor
suffered their little circle to forget that their grandfather had been
an archdeacon. In spite of anxious times and scanty funds, they clung
with loyal tenacity to certain family relics, in the shape of old
silver, china and prints, many of which were highly marketable.
In those evil days it was whispered that “the Tebbs had only one best
dress between them”—a certain rich black silk. As Miss Jane was at
least six inches taller than dumpy Miss Mitty, difficulties of length
were cunningly surmounted by an adjustable flounce. Needless to add
that on festive occasions, such as high teas, little dinners, and card
parties, the sisters never appeared together, the one “out of turn”
invariably excusing herself with toothache or a heavy cold. Although
they argued and bickered in private, and had opposing tastes in the
matter of boiling eggs and drawing tea, the Tebbs were a deeply
attached pair and presented an unbroken front to the outer world.
After several years of brave struggle, during which the wolf of want
prowled hungrily round Highfield Cottage, a substantial and unexpected
fortune, fell to the Tebbs, restored them to comfortable
independence—and to the notice of such far-sighted parents as happened
to be in quest of useful and benevolent godmothers. The sisters made
but little change in their style of living; they now owned handsome
furs, a separate wardrobe, and not a few rich silks; they still
continued to occupy the cottage, and retained in their service a
certain tyrannical treasure, widely known and feared as “the Tebbs’s
Eliza.” Although an admirable and trustworthy servant, Eliza ruled the
household, permitted no late hours, no breakfasts in bed, no
unnecessary fires, no unnecessary guests. Her mistresses were obliged
to do a considerable amount of household work; for instance, they made
their beds and Miss Tebbs dusted the china; she also had the charge of
the linen and store-room; whilst Miss Jane was responsible for the
silver, the lamps, and, on Eliza’s day out, “the door.”
When the door was answered by Eliza in person, her manner was so fierce
and intimidating that nervous callers complained that the Tebbs’ maid
looked as if she was ready to fly at, and bite them! Ill-natured
tongues declared that the tyrant was tolerated merely because she was a
channel for the most far-reaching, fresh and sensational gossip. But
let us hope that this was a malignant libel!
Highfield Cottage was old, two-storied and solid; elsewhere than
Tadpool it might have ventured to pose as a villa residence, but
Tadpool, a fine, sixteenth century, self-respecting and historical
village, tolerated no villas. If such abodes ventured to arise, they
sprouted timidly in the fields beyond its boundaries. Moreover, the age
and history of Highfield Cottage were too widely known for any change
of name. The cottage was connected with the high road by a prim little
garden and a red-tiled footpath; eight long narrow windows commanded a
satisfactory outlook—including Littlecote Hall—a square white mansion
withdrawn in dignified retirement behind elms and beeches, in age the
contemporary of its humbler _vis-à-vis_.
Here resided Edward Shafto, late Fellow of St. John’s, Oxford, his wife
Lucilla, and his son Douglas. Ten years previously the family had
descended on Tadpool as from the skies—or as a heavy stone cast into
some quiet mill pond. No one in the neighbourhood could discover
anything about them—although Jane Tebbs’s exertions in the matter were
admittedly prodigious and unwearied. The house agent proved
disappointingly vague, and could only inform her that a gentleman who
happened to hear of the place had come down from London, inspected the
house, liked its lofty, spacious rooms with their old mahogany doors
(it recalled his home), was much taken with the gardens—and promptly
signed the lease! Certainly it was an audacious step to invade a
strange neighbourhood without a social sponsor or reference. However,
the community breathed more freely when they beheld the new tenant of
“Littlecote,” a middle-aged, distinguished-looking individual; and Miss
Jane discovered, or pretended to discover, that he was one of the
Shaftos of Shafton Court.
Mrs. Shafto (who looked surprisingly young to be the mother of a tall
lad of ten) had a pretty figure, quantities of lightish red hair, an
animated manner, and a pair of hard blue eyes. She was fashionably
turned out, and her hat of a remarkable shape was discussed in the
village for weeks.
The arrival of furniture vans, horses, carriages and a number of
servants, afforded unqualified interest to the Misses Tebbs; and
moreover advertised the fact that the new-comers were well-to-do; and
after allowing a reasonable time for the strangers to settle down, the
neighbours called.
By and by these calls were returned by Mrs. Shafto in a smart victoria
and a still smarter costume; her husband was merely represented by a
neatly printed card, which bore the name of “Mr. Edward Shafto,
Athenaeum Club.” Mr. Edward Shafto was rarely to be met beyond his
grounds and garden, unless driving through the village to Bricklands
railway station, en route for London. He did not sit on the Bench, nor
was he a churchwarden, the usual grounds of meeting. When encountered
he was invariably agreeable and had charming easy manners, but not much
to say for himself, and his acquaintance, like the farmers and the
claret, got “no forrarder.” Gradually the painful truth was accepted
that Shafto did not care to know people. He never dined out, he did not
shoot or hunt, but it was mysteriously whispered that “he wrote.” What,
no one precisely knew, but one fact was common property: he was fond of
horticulture and the once famous gardens of “Littlecote” had been
delightfully restored.
If Tadpool was held at arm’s length by Edward Shafto, the community had
no difficulty in making acquaintance with his consort, a pretty
vivacious lady who accepted all invitations, and herself gave tennis
parties, bridge parties, luncheons and teas. For some time the
neighbourhood was disposed to like her, although perhaps she was not
quite “off the top shelf,” a little too demonstrative, loud and
unreserved; then by degrees Mrs. Shafto fell into disfavour; quiet folk
were afraid of her, she enjoyed repeating ill-natured remarks, was
capricious in her likes and dislikes, made a good deal of mischief, and
separated chief friends.
The lady was not disposed to be reticent respecting her family affairs;
there was something satisfactory in this! People learned that her
husband was really a Shafto of Shafton, and also that his elder
brother, who actually reigned in the family place, was “a brute.” She
volubly explained that they had deserted the Border and moved south,
partly because “the pater” wished to be within easy reach of London,
his Club and musty old libraries, and also because it was more
convenient for Douglas, who was at Winchester.
Then gradually it came to pass that the village bored the new-comer;
bored her to death. She became restless and quarrelsome, had a coolness
with the vicarage regarding a pew, with Mrs. Tremenheere at the Park
about a housemaid, and actually cut Mrs. General Finch “dead” in the
village post office, owing to a mislaid visiting-card. At the end of
three years Lucilla Shafto had embroiled herself with almost everyone
in her immediate vicinity, and found her true level and most congenial
companions in the busy bustling town of Bricklands, a rapidly growing
and prosperous mushroom place, situated thirty miles south of London,
and within two miles of our ancient and respectable hamlet. Here she
belonged to several clubs, bridge, tennis and croquet; enjoyed being a
Triton among minnows; entertained a third-rate set at “Littlecote,” and
joined gay little theatre parties to London to “do a play,” and return
home by the last train.
Housekeeping sat but lightly on Mrs. Shafto’s graceful shoulders, for
the Shaftos also possessed a family treasure named Hannah, an elderly
woman, who had been in service with “the family” and now managed the
house, and looked after the comforts and buttons of her master and his
boy.
Mr. and Mrs. Shafto went their separate ways, and were rarely to be
seen in one another’s company. The lady assured her friends that her
husband’s health was indifferent, and that he did not care for society;
for her part she liked amusement, excitement, life; whilst he preferred
to read, write, overlook his garden, and occasionally run up to London.
She did not trouble herself much about her son—a handsome active boy,
resembling his father in looks. Between these there undoubtedly existed
a deep affection. During the holidays they were frequently to be met
walking or riding together, and Shafto _pére_ would so far emerge from
his retirement as to be a proud spectator at cricket matches in
Tremenheere Park and elsewhere. Douglas and two of the Tremenheere boys
were schoolmates, and he was in continual request at their home.
Unfortunately these visits were displeasing to Mrs. Shafto, as was also
his intimacy with the young people at the vicarage; and poor Douglas
had an awkward part to play. He could not avoid or drop his friends;
yet, on the other hand, there were painful difficulties with his
mother, who declared that he was a mean fellow to run after people who
had _insulted_ her, and one day, when in a towering passion, she had
been overheard to scream “that he was a thorn in her side, and a true
Shafto!”
But all this time Miss Jane Tebbs remains stationed at the drawing-room
window, watching the road with unwinking vigilance. For a long while
she beheld no object of special interest, but at last, after seeing the
grocer’s cart, a travelling tinker, two cows and a boy go by, her
patience was handsomely rewarded. To her delight, she descried Mrs.
Billing, the doctor’s wife, emerge from “Littlecote” and, hammering on
the window to attract notice, she flew down to open the hall door.
Mrs. Billing, a stout, middle-aged lady, looked unusually hot and
flustered as she waddled through the little green gate and entered the
cottage.
“Why, my dear, you seem quite upset!” cried Jane, as she welcomed the
visitor, “come into the dining-room, and have a glass of milk.”
But Mrs. Billing dismissing the proffered refreshment with a dramatic
wave of her hand, subsided upon the only chair in the narrow hall and
gasped out:
“I have just come from ‘Littlecote.’ Mr. Shafto is gone—he died last
night!”