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 protégée 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!