THE APPROACHING DREAD
The cold weather was waning in the month of March, women and children
were flocking to cooler climes than Lower Burma—chiefly to May Myo,
north-east of Mandalay. Once a stockaded village, it was now a
fair-sized and attractive station, with a garrison, a club, many
comfortable bungalows, an overflowing abundance of flowers and fruit,
and in its neighbourhood beautiful moss-green rides. When the hot
weather had begun to make itself felt, and the brain-fever bird to make
himself heard, Mrs. Krauss had insisted on dispatching her niece to
this resort, chaperoned by Mrs. Gregory; but as far as she herself was
concerned nothing would induce her to leave home.
“I love my own veranda and my own dear bed,” she declared; “I shall
have lots of electric fans and ice, all the new books, and Lily will
look after me; but you, Sophy, being a new-comer and not acclimatised,
must positively depart.”
Sophy exerted her utmost eloquence to induce her aunt to follow the
fashion and spend, at least, two months in the hills, and her efforts
were warmly supported by Mr. Krauss, but his wife made no reply—she
merely beamed and shook her head. Eloquence and persuasion were wasted.
He and Sophy might just as well have appealed to the alabaster Buddha
in the drawing-room. Flora Krauss never argued—possibly this was one
phase of her indolent nature. She merely assumed an immovable, negative
attitude and met every suggestion with a smile and a shake of the head.
Sophy had no desire to leave Rangoon; she protested that she had only
been out seven months and really required no change; but her appeal was
silenced by the voice of authority.
“My dear child,” said her aunt, “you’ve no idea what you would be like
in three months’ time. I am hardened and acclimatised, but your nice
complexion would soon take leave, never to return. You would be covered
with hideous spots and you would probably get fever. Mrs. Gregory is
most anxious for your company and _I_ am equally anxious for your
departure. You will have a very good time up at May Myo and go you
must!”
Sophy had no alternative and was compelled to obey orders.
“I shall miss you most dreadfully, my dear,” said her aunt; “it is so
nice to have you flitting about the house, not to speak of your
vivacious company and delicious music. Your music is really wonderful;
it seems to exorcise an evil spirit that gives me no peace.”
“Oh, Aunt Flora,” expostulated the girl, “how can you say such things?
Surely you don’t believe in evil spirits?”
“But, my dear child, how can I help it when I live in a country where
millions of people worship and fear them?”
“Those are only ignorant natives; you would not allow their
superstitions to affect you.”
“Well, at any rate, your playing uplifts and soothes me; I can’t
imagine how you inherited this gift; your mother was not particularly
musical, nor was I. I recollect my misery as a girl in struggling
through ‘The Harmonious Blacksmith,’ and I never remember hearing that
we had any musical genius in the family. Of course, the natives here
would find an easy answer and say that you had been a great musician in
another incarnation.”
On hearing this solemn explanation Sophy burst into peals of laughter,
at which rejoinder Mrs. Krauss looked both shocked and hurt and, after
an awkward silence, the subject dropped.
And so, in spite of Sophy’s efforts to remain in Rangoon, she was
figuratively driven into the arms of Mrs. Gregory. The Maitlands and
the Pomeroys had also invited her to May Myo, but Mrs. Gregory overbore
all competition and insisted that she must have Sophy as a companion to
share her bungalow and accompany her songs, and departed in triumph,
carrying the girl with her.
Mrs. Krauss attended her niece to the railway station, loaded her with
books and fruit and saw her off with urgent and affectionate
injunctions and many kisses. During the last few months Mrs. Krauss
appeared to have become a transformed person; she went about
continually in her smart new car, was seen at dances, little dinners
and the theatre, and had recovered a faint shadow of her former good
looks and something of her old animation.
Herr Krauss naturally attributed this change to her niece, and showed
his gratitude to Sophy in various abrupt ways, suffering her to mix
with the English society without sneers or interference. Sophy did not
now see so much of the German community; she was aware that Mrs. Muller
and others no longer approved of her, and Frau Wurm had said openly,
“that although the girl had done her best to learn how to keep a house,
her heart had never been in the business and she was not
_schwärmerisch_ to German people or German ways!”
Whilst Sophy Leigh had been enjoying herself at May Myo, among the
green hills and soft airs of Upper Burma, Shafto, in the oppressive
sultry heat, had had some pleasant and unpleasant experiences.
The pleasant experience was that his salary had been raised. Now he
could afford to buy another horse and keep a _tum-tum_; with a heavier
purse he was able to send home some well-chosen and handsome presents—a
China crêpe shawl for Mrs. Malone, ivory carvings to the Tebbs, an
Indian _chuddah_ to his aunt and a heavy gold bangle for each of the
girls. Unfortunately one gift to “Monte Carlo” had a dire and
unexpected result—it brought him a deluge of letters from Cossie, who
was rapturous over his promotion and “his beautiful, exquisite,
_darling_ gift,” which she wore on her arm day and night!
“I felt sure you had _not_ forgotten me,” was her ominous opening; “you
could not; there is a secret telepathy between us, and I am _always_
thinking of you, dear old boy.”
Several mails later there arrived a letter from Sandy, the contents of
which almost made his cousin’s hair stand on end. After one or two
preliminary sentences, Shafto’s eyes fell upon these lines:
“By this you will have heard that our Cossie will be afloat; she has
been very restless and unsettled for a long time—almost ever since you
left; nothing seems to please her. First she took up nursing and soon
dropped that; then she took up typing and soon dropped that. At last
she has got the wish of her life, which is to go abroad. She has
answered an advertisement and secured a top-hole situation, as lady
nurse in Rangoon. She starts in ten days in the ship that took you
out—the _Blankshire_, and is so busy and excited that she is nearly off
her nut.”
The same post delivered a thick letter from Cossie, which her
ungrateful and distracted relative tore up unread. Already, in his
mind’s eye, Shafto could see Cossie permanently established in Rangoon,
informing everyone that she was his cousin, bombarding him with
_chits_, worrying him for visits, treats and attentions. Heaven be
praised! neither of his horses carried a lady, it was as much as he
could do to ride them himself. He could not possibly leave Rangoon and
so effect his escape; he was nailed down to his work, not like his
lucky chums, whose business duties occasionally carried them up the
country. His job was confined to Rangoon itself, for eight hours a day.
The prospect filled him with despair; life would become intolerable. A
vivid imagination painted the picture of Cossie, helpless and
plaintive, appealing for information and advice, coming to him to patch
up disputes between her and her employer, to take her on the lakes, to
the gymkhana, or the theatre on her days out. And what would Sophy
Leigh think when she saw him accompanied by Mrs. So-and-So’s European
nurse? Putting her absurd partiality for him on one side, Cossie in her
normal condition was a good-natured, amiable creature, and, of course,
when she arrived in Burma he, as her only relative in the country,
would be bound to look after her and show her attention; probably all
the world would believe that they were engaged! Unchivalrous as was the
idea, he had a hateful conviction that it would not be Cossie’s fault
if they did not arrive at that conclusion.
With this sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and the object of
his apprehension being daily brought nearer and yet nearer, Shafto was
and looked abjectly miserable. FitzGerald rallied him boisterously on
his glum appearance, and on being “off his feed.”
“What on earth ails you?”
To his well-intended queries he invariably received the one brief
unsatisfactory answer: “Nothing.”
Roscoe, too, endeavoured to puzzle out the mystery. It was not the lack
of money—Shafto was prompt in his payments; _his_ door was never
haunted by bill-collectors, nor had he got into hot water in his
office; both his horses were sound. What could it be?
In due course the _Blankshire_ was signalled and arrived, and the usual
mob of people swarmed aboard to meet their friends. Among these,
carrying a heavy heart, was Shafto; after all, he realised that he must
do the right thing and go to receive his cousin; but, amazing to
relate, there was no Miss Larcher among the passengers! On inquiry he
was presented to an excited lady, who had brought her all the way from
Tilbury, filling the situation of lady nurse. Miss Larcher had not
completed the voyage, but had landed at Colombo! On hearing of his
relationship to her late employé, Mrs. Jones, a hot-tempered matron,
fell figuratively tooth and nail upon defenceless Shafto. In a series
of breathless sentences she assured him that “his cousin, Miss Larcher,
was no better than an adventuress, and had behaved in the most
dishonest and scandalous manner.”
After a moment—to recover her breath—she went on in gasps:
“I took her on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance, and at our
interview she appeared quite all right and most anxious to please; but
once on board ship, with her passage paid, I soon discovered that she
was not anxious to please _me_, but any and every unmarried man she
could come across! Such a shameless and outrageous flirt I _never_ saw.
As to her duties, she was absolutely _useless_; I don’t believe she had
ever washed or dressed a child in her life before she came to me; she
did nothing but dress herself and sit about the deck with men, leaving
me to do her work. When I spoke to her she simply laughed in my face;
the children couldn’t endure her and screamed whenever she came near
them. So I was obliged to do nursemaid whilst she danced and amused
herself—and all at my expense. She made no secret of the fact that she
was on the look out for a husband; and she has gained her end—for she
is married.”
“Married!” repeated Shafto. The news was too good to be true.
“Well, at least they landed at Colombo with that intention,” announced
the lady sourly; “she and a coffee planter, a widower, with a touch of
black blood. They were going up country to his estate, and she declared
that she was about to have the time of her life—but I doubt it.”
This piece of news was an unspeakable relief to Shafto. The hypocrite
listened to the long list of his cousin’s enormities with a downcast
and apologetic air, whilst all the time he could have shouted for joy.
When at last he was permitted an opportunity of speaking, he assured
the angry matron that he much deplored Miss Larcher’s shortcomings. His
sympathy even took a practical form, for he generously offered to
refund Mrs. Jones half of Miss Larcher’s passage money; this the lady
vouchsafed to receive and subsequently always spoke of young Shafto as
“a remarkably nice, gentlemanly fellow.” Little did she suspect that
the cheque so punctually lodged at her banker’s was in the form of a
heartfelt thank-offering—the price of a young man’s peace!