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 seat 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.