AN EMPTY OFFER
The night that Shafto subsequently spent was wakeful and seemed
endless; he tossed about on his hard bed and thumped the irresponsive
pillow, paced his room from end to end, drank all the water in the
carafe—and even encroached on the ewer; he felt as if his vitality had
been sapped, that he had no energy with which to face his new position,
nothing to which he could look forward, no gleam of hope and, as it
turned out, no appetite for breakfast. Seated at table, he proved
infectiously depressing and gloomily silent. On the way to the
Underground, Sandy Larcher, who happened to be in exuberant spirits,
noticed his cousin’s grave face and chaffed him about Cossie. (Sandy, a
coarse-grained creature, knew no reserves, did not profess to be a
gentleman, and had never heard of the word “tact.”)
“And so you couldn’t sleep for thinking of her, eh? Ate no breakfast,
only a bit of toast, and half a kipper; quite in a bad way, poor old
chap.”
“Come now, Sandy, none of that!” angrily protested the victim. “You are
a sensible fellow, though you do play the ass; and must know as well as
I do myself that you are talking through your hat. I swear on my word
of honour, I have never made love to Cossie, I’d as soon think of
making love to the parrot next door, and I have not the remotest idea
of marrying her. Imagine marrying on a hundred and fifty pounds a
year!”
“Oh well, I couldn’t face it myself, old man,” generously conceded his
companion, “but the mater and the girls are dead nuts on the idea; they
are awfully fond of you, and say you are so mortal clever, so well-bred
and such top-hole style, that you are bound to rise in the world; and
Cossie is getting rather long in the tooth. Of course, I know as well
as if you told me, how she rushes a chap, and writes silly notes,
manicures his nails, and gives him flowers and cigarettes. She overdid
it with Freddy Soames and got the knock; and now he is formally
engaged, I expect she is mad keen to show that two can play at that
game!”
“I’m not for it, and that’s certain,” declared the other, with an
emphasis that was almost violent. “I like Cossie right enough as a
cousin, but I’m not a scrap in love. Why, we’ve not one single taste in
common—bar tennis and walnut pickles! I hate saying all this to you,
old man—it seems monstrously caddish, and really——”
“Oh, don’t apologise,” interrupted Sandy; “I know Cossie and her little
ways—you are not the first by a long way that she’s tried it on with.”
“Couldn’t you drop her some sort of gentle hint? Do, like a good chap
and say a word to my aunt? I’d stay away from ‘Monte Carlo,’ only that
I’m drawn to play in this confounded tournament.”
“No good! They wouldn’t listen to _me_; you must do the business
yourself, Douglas, old man. Come on, hurry up, or we’ll miss our
train!” and Sandy began to run.
Shafto had not long been perched on his office stool and invested in
his office coat and paper cuffs, when he received a message that Mr.
Martin—the head of the firm—wished to see him in his private room.
“This is the limit!” he said to himself, as he followed the messenger
into a cool, luxurious apartment. “Now I’m going to get a slating—over
that French correspondence—and it was Fraser’s job. Well, if that’s the
case, I’ll enlist; I’m sick of this life!”
He found Mr. Martin temporarily idle, seated in front of his large
writing-table, scanning the _Financial News_. He raised his eyes as
Douglas entered, and said:
“Hullo, that you, Shafto? I have something to say to you. How would you
like a little promotion?”
“Very much indeed, sir,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation due to
amazement.
“You’ve been over four years with us as correspondence clerk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe you know Mr. Tremenheere?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. He has called here to see me about you. What would you think
of going abroad for a change—say, to Burma?”
“Burma—yes, sir, all right,” assented Shafto, with a glowing face.
Something within him had always craved for the East.
“It’s like this,” continued the other, leaning back and placing his
fingers together, tent fashion. “Our house in Rangoon wants a smart,
healthy, young fellow, quick at figures, and able to manage bills of
lading. You would soon pick up that; it will be chiefly an out-of-door
job on the wharves.”
“I’d like that.”
“The pay offered is four hundred rupees a month, and house rent; not
much, I admit, considering the fall of the rupee and Rangoon prices;
but we have been compelled to modify expenses, our profits are run so
fine, thanks to an active German mercantile element. Well, what do you
think, Shafto?”
Shafto thought Mr. Martin a species of genie, who was offering him a
magic carpet that would transport him into the great, hurrying, active
world; into the land of sunshine he had longed to see; he would have
jumped at the proposal if the salary had been half, and he replied:
“I shall be glad to accept.”
“Then that’s all right! I was afraid you might have some ties in this
country. Of course, in time you are bound to get a rise, and I believe
there are boarding-houses in Rangoon where they make you fairly
comfortable.”
“When do you wish me to start?”
“As soon as you can get under way,” was the unexpected reply. “One of
the Bibby Line sails on Saturday week, and that brings me to another
matter. You have to pay for your own passage and outfit. The passage
money is six hundred rupees; the outfit, good English boots, cool
clothes, a solar topee, and a revolver—and a medicine-chest might come
in handy. No doubt some of your relations will help, or give you a
loan. You see, you are getting a big rise and a capital opening in a
new line.”
“That is true, sir,” replied Douglas, whose face had considerably
lengthened, “but I’m afraid I cannot manage the ready money—near a
hundred pounds. Is my salary paid in advance?”
“No, that is out of the question in a province where cholera carries a
man off in a couple of hours. I am sorry about the passage; at one time
we did pay, but now we have to pinch and consider our expenses. No
doubt you would like to talk over the matter with your people?”
“Well, yes, I should, thank you,” he answered, staring fixedly at the
floor.
“Then let me have your decision before mail day. I may tell you,
Shafto, that, irrespective of Mr. Tremenheere’s interest, you have
given us entire satisfaction, and for this chance, and it _is_ a
chance, you have only yourself to thank. You can take a couple of days’
leave and let me hear from you definitely on Friday morning.”
It was only eleven o’clock, an oppressively warm July day, and Douglas
walked up to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, took a seat in the cool shade of the
finest trees in the largest square in London, and there endeavoured to
think out some plan.
“I say, what a chance!” he muttered to himself. “What a stroke of luck!
A new start in life, offering change and freedom.” Yet he must lose
it—and all for a paltry hundred pounds. Paltry—no; to him it
represented a huge and unattainable fortune; there wasn’t a soul from
whom he could borrow; not from the Tebbs, nor the Tremenheeres, and his
associates at “Malahide” were, with one detestable exception, as poor
as himself. After long meditation, entirely barren of inspiration, he
went down to the Strand and lunched at Slater’s, and then took the Tube
to Bayswater Public Library, where he got hold of some books on
Burma—Burma, the land of the Pagoda and Golden Umbrella. Somehow the
very name fired his imagination and thrilled his blood.
After sitting in the library, greedily devouring information, he
strolled back to Lincoln Square, in time for dinner, and all that
evening he kept his great news to himself. It would have seemed natural
for an only son to carry such important tidings to his mother; but Mrs.
Shafto was the last woman to welcome his confidences. She was entirely
without the maternal instinct and, armed with a certain fierce reserve,
held her son inflexibly at arm’s length. A stranger would scarcely have
discovered the relationship—unless they happened to note that the pair
walked to church together on Sunday, and that she pecked his cheek of a
night before retiring. As a matter of course, she made use of Douglas
and, insisting on maternal claims, thrust on him disagreeable
interviews, sent him messages, borrowed his money—when short of
change—and allowed him to pay her taxis. Honestly, she did not care for
the boy. He was too detached and self-contained; he had such odd ideas
and resembled his father in many respects—especially in
appearance—though Douglas’s expression was keener and more animated, he
had the same well-cut features, fine head, and expressive dark grey
eyes.
Yes, he recalled too forcibly a dead man whom she had neglected,
detested and deceived. And as for Douglas, for years he had been
sensible of the smart of a baffled instinct, a hunger for a mother’s
love and affection, which had never been his—and never would be his.
In the drawing-room, after dinner, the boarders were amusing themselves
as usual and making a good deal of noise, yet somehow the circle
presented an air of rather spurious gaiety. Mrs. Shafto, in a smart
black-and-gold evening frock, was smoking a cigarette and playing
auction-bridge with Mr. Levison and the two Japanese; the Misses Smith
and various casual boarders were engrossed at coon-can. Another group
was assembled about the piano. Douglas Shafto sat aloof in the window
seat absorbed in the book on Burma and acquiring information; for even
if he were never to see the country, it was as well to learn something
about it. Rangoon, the capital (that fact he already knew), once a mere
collection of monasteries around the Great Pagoda, was now assumed to
be the Liverpool of the East, the resting-place of Buddha’s relics, and
an important industrial centre. As his reading was disturbed by the
boisterous chorus at the piano, and the shrieks of laughter from the
coon-can set, he tucked the volume under his arm and slipped out of the
room as noiselessly as possible. He could rest at peace up in his “cock
loft” and endeavour to puzzle out some means of reaching the land of
the Golden Umbrella—even if he worked his passage as a cabin steward.
In passing the door of Mrs. Malone’s den, some strange, unaccountable
impulse constrained him to knock. Yes; he suddenly made up his mind
that he would confide in _her_—and why not? She was always so
understanding, sympathetic and wise.
In reply to a shrill “Come in,” he entered and found the old lady
sitting by the open window with a black cat on her lap. The room was
small and homelike; there were some shabby rugs, a few fine prints, a
case of miniatures, and, in a cabinet, a variety of odd “bits” which
Mrs. Malone had picked up from time to time.
“So it’s you, Douglas,” she exclaimed; “come over and sit down. I’m
always glad to see you; you know you have the private entrée!” and she
laughed. “What have you been doing with yourself to-day?”
As he muttered something indefinite, she added, “What’s your book?”
holding out her hand. “Burma, I declare! One does not hear much of that
part of the world; it’s always connected in my mind with rice and rain.
Douglas,” suddenly raising her eyes, “I believe you have something on
your mind. What is it? Come now—speak out—is it a love affair, or
money? You know I’m _safe_.”
Thus invited, in a few halting sentences, he told her of his friend’s
good offices, the offer, his supreme delight—and subsequent despair.
“A hundred pounds—yes, well, it’s a tidy sum,” she admitted, “and you
will want all that. I think Gregory and Co. might pay your passage, as
the salary is not large.”
“No,” agreed Shafto, “but I’ll be only too glad to earn it. It’s this
blessed ready money that stumps me.”
He began to pace about the room with his hands in his pockets, then
suddenly broke out:
“Mrs. Malone, I’d give one of my eyes to go; to be up and doing, and
get out into the world—especially to the East. Isn’t it hard lines—one
moment to be offered a splendid chance, and the next to have it
snatched away.”
“I suppose you couldn’t borrow?” she suggested, looking at him over her
spectacles.
“No, who would lend _me_ money? I have no security and no wealthy
friends.”
“Well, I am not a wealthy friend, Douglas, but I will lend you a
hundred pounds—I’ve saved a good bit—and I can.”
“No, no, Mrs. Malone,” he interrupted. “I couldn’t accept it. I know
how hardly your money has been earned; I know all your hateful worries;
your bothers with servants and coal; your trampings into ‘the Grove,’
and up and down these confounded stairs.”
“But, Douglas, you can pay me back by degrees.”
“No; you’d run a poor chance of seeing your hundred pounds again. Mr.
Martin informed me the firm never paid in advance, as cholera carried
off people in a few hours—cheerful, wasn’t it? And if I were carried
off, where would _you_ be?”
“Here, my boy, and in the deepest grief.”
“Well, thanking you all the same, I will not touch a penny of your
money; but I know you are long-headed and may think of some scheme for
me. I’ve got nothing to sell of any value; I parted with my father’s
watch—and it’s still at the pawnbroker’s; worse luck!” (His pitilessly
selfish mother had borrowed ten pounds and forgotten the debt, and he
had been compelled to apply to his “Uncle.”) Shafto found his salary a
very tight fight; eleven pounds a month seemed to melt away in board,
clothes, washing and those innumerable little expenses that crop up in
London.
“Anyhow, you have till Friday, you proud, obstinate boy, and before
that, I may be able to thrash out something. I have noticed that you
don’t look yourself the last few weeks, not my dear lively Douglas,
tearing up and down stairs, whistling like a blackbird. Tell me the
reason,” and she laid a well-shaped wrinkled hand upon his arm.
Then, walking up and down the room, he frankly unfolded his
troubles—the approaching marriage of his mother (this was no news),
and, in an agitated and incoherent manner, his desperate predicament
with regard to Cossie Larcher.
“The poor boy,” said his listener to herself. “That man-hunting,
determined little cat has got her claws into him. I have seen the
vulgar, made-up minx, without education, fortune, or modesty, trying to
carry off her gentleman cousin! But she shan’t have him. No! by hook or
by crook, he must be got out of the country, as sure as my name is
Joyce Malone!”