MR. AND MRS. ABEL SALTER
Shafto had been six weeks in Rangoon and, thanks to his chums, was
beginning to feel completely at home—as is sometimes the case with
adaptable young people in a strange and fascinating country.
His neighbours, the Salters, who were hospitable and friendly, had lent
him a hand to find his bearings. Occasionally, of an evening, he and
Roscoe would stroll over there after dinner, and sit in the deep
veranda discussing many matters with the master of the house. Roscoe
and Salter were more nearly of an age, and mutually interested in
subjects that to Shafto seemed deadly dull and obscure. He liked to
hear about sport, the country, and the Burmese; to all such topics he
was an eager and ready listener, but when philosophy and sociology were
on the tapis he would join Mrs. Salter indoors, to discuss the paddy
crop, inspect her great rice bins, and argue over prices and sales; or
he would listen to blood-curdling tales about _nats_, or house spirits,
related by his hostess in animated, broken English, and with
appropriate gesticulations. Mee Lay had a high opinion of the young
man, and this was shared by her daughter, for “Shaft,” as she called
him, helped her to fly her kite, mended broken toys and brought her
chocolates such as her soul loved.
During one of their prowling expeditions Roscoe had imparted the
life-history of Salter to his chum. Salter’s forbears were Yorkshire
folk—thrifty, self-respecting, stiff-backed Nonconformists. His father
and grandfather belonged to what is called “the old school,” when
parents ruled their families with an iron rod, and the meek,
down-trodden children accepted punishment without question. Salter’s
grandmother had dismissed grown-up sons from table and kept a
rebellious daughter for weeks incarcerated in her room. Salter’s father
had inherited her stern, Spartan spirit; he gave his heir a first-class
education in the neighbourhood of London and, when he was twenty,
recalled him to Bradford, there to take his place in the works and live
at home. But Salter, junior, having tasted the delights of liberty,
found home life unspeakably irksome; the laws against drink, dancing,
smoking and the theatre were Draconic. He hated the long chapel service
on Sunday, the endless hymns and emotional exhortations; the day
concluding with family worship, which lasted three-quarters of an hour.
The young fellow dreaded the Sabbath and rebelled against his gloomy,
comfortable, middle-class home, where he had no individuality, no
rights—and no latch-key! At last he broke loose—the flesh and blood of
twenty-two years old revolted. At twelve o’clock one night he found
himself locked out and, as the first bold peal of the bell elicited no
reply, he never again applied for admittance, but with four pounds in
his pockets and a good saleable watch, launched his little skiff upon
the great, wide world.
Behold him now comfortably established in a foreign land, occupying a
responsible position in a well-known firm, the husband of a clever,
thrifty woman, who was actively engaged in building up his fortune.
After an interval of some years, the Salters at home discovered that
their prodigal had undoubtedly killed and thriven on his own fatted
calf. The usual little bird had informed them that “Abel was much
thought of and prosperous; had a grand home in Rangoon, dozens of
servants, and was married.” Friendly letters were dispatched—for
“Nothing succeeds like success”—and a brisk correspondence ensued.
Information and photographs were promptly exchanged, and the family
received a nicely-finished presentment of Rosetta in her smartest and
shortest frock. They were much impressed by the grandchild born to them
in Burma, and she was immediately installed in a handsome silver frame,
introduced to all their neighbours and to most of their chapel friends.
But what would have been the sensation of these worthy people if they
had received a portrait of Mee Lay in full festival costume—flowers in
hair and white cheroot in hand!
On the subject of Mrs. Abel Salter there was but scanty information;
her old maid sisters-in-law were given to understand that she sent them
her best good-wishes—she also forwarded silks and jars of Burmese
condiments, but her husband declared that she was very lazy about
letter-writing and constitutionally shy. Her maiden name, they were
told, had been Mary Lee, and this information had sufficed.
Besides having the entrée to the Salters’ domestic circle, Shafto had
been elected a member of the Gymkhana Club, where he made various new
acquaintances—and these increased in number as his prowess in tennis
and cricket became evident; then, with the advice—and, indeed, almost
under the compulsion—of FitzGerald, he purchased a smart stud-bred
mare, certainly no longer in her first youth, but sound, clever and
full of “go.” She was not called upon to shine on a race-course, but
carried her master admirably in Station paper-chases on Thursday
afternoons.
By the MacNab this investment was looked upon with a dubious and
unfavourable eye, although he was aware that the price of “Moonshine”
had come out of a small nest-egg which her owner had brought from home.
He pointed out the enormous price of gram, or English oats, and he
earnestly entreated Shafto “not to be led into follies by other people”
(meaning FitzGerald), “but to keep his head and go slow.”
During this month of November Shafto had frequently come across his
fellow-passengers in the _Blankshire_; even Lady Puffle had
acknowledged his existence with a bow; not once had he beheld the
desire of his eyes—Miss Leigh. She appeared to have vanished as
completely as a summer mist and, it was whispered, had been swallowed
up and submerged by the German colony.
Mrs. Krauss had vouchsafed no notice of his visit and card; her niece
was never to be seen either at the Gymkhana, or on the lakes—the
principal meeting-places for young and old. More than once he imagined
that he had caught sight of her in the cathedral at evening service,
but she looked so different in smart Sunday clothes—a feathered hat and
gauzy gown—that he might have been mistaken, and he heard from MacNab
(the gossip of the chummery) that Krauss had brought forward a
remarkably pretty niece, who had recently played in a concert at the
German Club, and made a sensational success.
When Shafto rode in the mornings, he eyed expectantly every passing or
approaching habit, but Sophy Leigh was never among the early
cavalcade—for the excellent reason that she had no horse.
Mrs. Gregory, in spite of multifarious occupations as the firm’s
vice-reine, had by no means forgotten pretty Miss Leigh, nor her
cousin’s emphatic instructions; the girl had failed to accompany her to
the Gymkhana dance—“her aunt was ill; she had been unable to leave
her”—a stereotyped excuse to every invitation. The truth was that Mrs.
Krauss, after two or three social efforts, culminating in a large
dinner-party to her German neighbours, had collapsed with one of her
worst attacks, and between nursing her relative and housekeeping for
Herr Krauss (who was shamelessly greedy and exacting), Sophy had not a
moment to spare, and the Madras boy turned away all callers—including
Miss Leigh’s friends—with his mechanical parrot cry, “Missis can’t
see!”