SENTENCE OF DEATH
When Sophy Leigh returned from May Myo she had half expected her aunt
to meet her at the station, and was much concerned to discover, when
she arrived home, that Mrs. Krauss had suffered a serious collapse, had
not been out of the house for weeks, but was confined to her own
apartments, nursed and attended by the ever-faithful Lily. Her
condition seemed as serious as when Sophy had arrived from England, ten
months previously, she found the patient propped up among her pillows,
weak, apathetic, and terribly wasted. She looked dreadfully ill and her
whole appearance was unkempt and strange.
“Oh, my dear Aunt Flora,” said Sophy kneeling beside her and taking her
limp hand, “why did you not let me know? _Why_ did you not wire for me?
I would have come back at once.”
“No, no, no!” murmured Mrs. Krauss as she rolled her head slowly from
side to side and closed her drowsy, dark eyes.
“But yes, yes, yes! and when you wrote to me you never said one word
about being ill—though I might have suspected it. Your writing was so
feeble—so shockingly shaky. How long has my aunt been like this?” she
asked, appealing to Lily.
“About three—four weeks,” replied the pouter pigeon, with calm
unconcern; “ever since Mr. Krauss went to Singapore.”
“Most of her friends have been away and my aunt has had no one to look
after her, except you? Did the German ladies come to see her?”
“They did—yes, three, four times; asking plenty questions. Mem-sahib
would not receive them, she liking only be left alone.”
To-day Mrs. Krauss appeared almost unconscious of Sophy’s presence and
to be sunken in a sort of stupor.
As soon as Herr Krauss arrived home Sophy accosted him and deplored her
aunt’s condition.
“If you had only sent me a line I would have been here the next day.”
“Oh yes, of course,” he acquiesced brusquely. “She wanted you to have a
good time. I have been away, too. Now that you are here I expect she
will pick up, same as before.”
“But do you not think that Aunt Flora should see a doctor? The pain is
so agonising that she seems quite stupid and dazed!”
“A doctor—no,” he replied; “she would not allow him inside the
compound; her complaint comes and goes after the manner of its kind;
just now it has been troublesome and this damp climate is bad for
neuralgia. Your aunt refuses to leave home, and so there it is! Lily
knows the remedies; she has been with us for years, and I have every
confidence in her nursing.”
After this Sophy realised that there was nothing more to be said or
done, but patiently to await her aunt’s recovery.
It was now the cool weather and, by degrees, Mrs. Krauss was able to
leave her bed and repose in a long chair in the veranda. As her husband
predicted, Sophy’s company was a wonderful help towards her
convalescence. She liked to hear all the news from May Myo about the
people, their clothes, their doings and their gaieties. She even roused
herself to play patience and picquet, to read, to enjoy Sophy’s music,
but she showed no inclination to emerge into society, or receive
friends.
“You must go about and amuse yourself, Sophy; I do not feel up to
motoring round, as I did last winter, but I won’t keep you cooped up
here with me—then we should have, not one invalid, but two. You must
enjoy your young days, mix with other young people, dance and ride,
bring me the gossip and tell me all your love affairs, honour bright!
Mrs. Gregory has promised to chaperon you until I am better.”
“No, indeed, Aunt Flora, I’d much rather stay with you,” she protested.
“I could not enjoy myself half so much if you are not with me. Don’t
you remember how nice it was last year, talking over everything
together after dances and the theatre? I will play to you and read
aloud, and if I ride in the morning, that will be as much outing as I
shall require.”
But in spite of Sophy’s anxious protestations, once more her aunt
consigned her to the charge of Mrs. Gregory, who, delighted in the
responsibility, escorted her to dances and tennis parties, rode with
her, and proved, in spite of the disparity in their years, a dear and
congenial friend.
When at home Sophy would sit with her relative in her darkened room,
which always seemed to hold a peculiar and distinctive atmosphere,
resembling that of a chemist’s shop. She brought her all the news that
she thought would interest or amuse her, read the letters from home,
tempted her to drive out, and read her new novels; but in these days
Aunt Flora seemed to take but a languid interest in life, and her
recovery was strangely tardy and fitful. On some days she was better,
on others worse. Occasionally she would crawl out to the motor, or
appear at dinner, but she looked dreadfully ill, her face so yellow and
wrinkled, her whole appearance unkempt and peculiar. She was also
abstracted and odd in her manner, at times even a little incoherent;
and her eyes had a glazed, fixed expression. Sometimes as Sophy sat in
the darkened room her mind was burdened with vague anxieties; she
recalled the looks and questions of Frau Wurm; could it be altogether
neuralgia that brought her aunt to such a pass? And if not, what? A
casual eye might suppose that the invalid was under the influence of
drink, but this was not the case. Mrs. Krauss was exceedingly
temperate—her favourite stimulant was strong black coffee.
The rains were over and Rangoon was unusually full, and the committee
of the Pegu Club decided to give a dance. This dance was to be the
cheeriest of the season, the secretary had exerted himself to the
utmost, and the great ballroom looked particularly well, all colour and
glow, with splashes of bright shades, a profusion of palms and flowers,
and a reckless prodigality of electric light. Practically everyone was
present, even Herr Krauss, who, on this supreme occasion, had
volunteered to chaperon his niece. The band was playing the newest
waltzes and a varied assortment of Rangoon residents swung over the
polished floor—men well known and otherwise, stout girls of German
ancestry, daughters of judges, and soldiers, princesses of the Burmese
dynasty, and dark-eyed maidens of Anglo-India.
Shafto had only succeeded in securing two dances with Sophy
Leigh—besides the privilege of conducting her to supper. They were
resting in the veranda, after a long, exhausting waltz, watching the
crowd pour out of the ballroom; among others they noticed, approaching
them, Mr. FitzGerald and his partner, Miss Fuchsia Bliss, a little
frail American, who had dropped out of a touring party from the
Philippines, and since then, as she expressed it, “had been staying
around in Rangoon,” first at the Lieutenant-Governor’s, next at the
Pomeroys’, now, with a slight descent in the scale of precedence, with
the Gregorys. She had struck up a demonstrative but sincere friendship
with Sophy Leigh and stood in the forefront of her admirers.
Fuchsia Bliss was an orphan, absolutely independent in every sense of
the word, who looked considerably younger than her real age, and
appeared so small and so fragile that, like thistledown, she might
almost be blown away. Nevertheless, she was anything but light, in
either head or purse. Fuchsia was not pretty; indeed, to be honest, was
barely good-looking. Her complexion was colourless, her thick hair a
dull, ashen shade, her eyes, though remarkably lively, were much too
small, her chin, on the other hand, was much too long. Beautifully
marked brows, white teeth, and a fairy figure, were her assets; and, as
she herself said, “she had plenty of snap!” Miss Bliss was uncommonly
shrewd and vivacious. Her friends (these were many) were somewhat
afraid of Fuchsia’s plain speaking (her thoughts were too close to her
tongue); she professed to be enormously interested in Burma and found
it such a quaint old country, declared that the pagodas were “too sweet
for words,” and the Burmese women “just the dearest, daintiest, best
tricked out, little talking dolls!”
(A cynical critic might have compared Miss Fuchsia herself to a
“talking doll.”)
“America,” she announced, “was a brand-new nation, bubbling over with
energy and vim, whilst this drowsy old Eastern land was most
deliciously restful and ancient—it made a nice change.”
Down at the bottom of a good-sized heart Miss Fuchsia was aware that it
was not altogether an admiration for the East which detained her
lingering in Burma. For the first time in her life the pale-faced
heiress was seriously interested in one of the other sex. This
fortunate man happened to be Patrick FitzGerald, of the Burmese Police;
a fellow without a penny beyond his pay, but well set up,
self-possessed, and handsome; a capital partner, a congenial spirit,
and a complete contrast to herself.
The couple now approached Shafto and his companion, FitzGerald, rather
warm, mopping his good-looking face, Miss Bliss, tripping airily beside
him, in an exquisite green toilet, still—as always—talking.
“Only think—he has got to go!” she announced with a dramatic gesture,
halting in front of Sophy as she spoke. “Isn’t it too—too awfully
provoking? He has been sent for, right now in the middle of the
ball—engaged to me for two more waltzes, supper and an extra, and here
am I, side-tracked!”
“A true bill—I am off,” said FitzGerald, with a significant glance at
Shafto; “I leave Miss Bliss and my reputation in your hands.”
“Miss Bliss can take good care of herself,” she announced, sitting
down.
“No doubt of that,” assented Shafto; “all the same, Miss Leigh and I
will attend Miss Bliss to supper.”
“No, no,” she protested, “I have planned to take in Mr. Gregory.”
“That is if you can get hold of him,” argued her late partner; “he is
playing bridge.”
“Oh well, anyway, _I_ shan’t go begging!” said Fuchsia, leaning back on
the lounge and crossing her tiny, exquisitely shod feet.
“But whoever dreamt of that?” exclaimed Shafto. “And here by great good
luck comes Gregory. I say, he looks as if his last partner had gone No
Trumps on a Yarborough!”
Almost before he had joined them the police officer disappeared, and
the party adjourned to the supper-room, where they found places at the
same round table as Mrs. Pomeroy and Herr Bernhard. Herr Krauss, a
ponderous free lance, who was completely detached, joined the circle
uninvited, and pushed his huge person into an empty chair, next to Miss
Bliss. The soup, hot quails, and champagne were above criticism. Miss
Bliss, as usual, did most of the talking and entertained the company.
“What a difference there is between our dancing and the native
performance,” she remarked. “Our tangos and turkey-trotting are just an
amusement, ending in a feast, whilst their diversion is mostly prayers,
intoning, gongs, and bells, burning candles and telling beads. The
Burmese seem to be always thinking of their souls; Oriental nations
beat us at religion.”
“Religion, such as it is!” rejoined Bernhard with a sneer. “After all,
what does it amount to with them but the fear of evil spirits and the
propitiation of _nats_ and demons? Crowds go to the Pagoda and offer
flowers, prayers and candles, yet all the time their faith is not in
Buddha, but in devils. They cover up their pillars and offer sacrifices
to the _nats_, build them nice little houses, make them flattering
speeches, and look for a return in the shape of a piece of luck!
Buddhism is merely a philosophy—not a religion,” he concluded
sententiously.
“Well, there is one item in their faith which I admire,” said Shafto;
“they have no fear of death—they firmly believe that we shall pass into
another existence, and how we fare in the next world depends on our
good or evil deeds in this.”
“Surely that is an ordinary point of view,” said Fuchsia, “and talking
of evil deeds, such as big and little lies—murder—robbery—fraud, does
anyone think there is _real_ harm in smuggling? No one would call that
an evil deed, although it is punishable by law. I must confess that it
appeals to me enormously; it’s like a game, a sort of hide and seek. If
I only had an opening, I feel confident that it is _in_ me to become a
most accomplished professional! There is no injury to anyone, and it
must be so exciting, and if you bring it off, oh, what a triumph! I did
envy a woman I came across with from France. She landed a
twenty-thousand pearl necklace in a hair-pad.”
“You needn’t go far for smuggling—there’s plenty of it in this
country,” said Mrs. Pomeroy, in her slow, decided manner. “My husband
says it is on the increase, and is a most serious question—a matter of
vital concern.”
“Increase!” echoed Krauss. “No, no, my dear lady, that is nonsense;
don’t you believe it. Smuggling isn’t worth while in Burma—it couldn’t
pay.”
“Oh, but it does exist and it pays hand over fist,” argued Shafto. “Why
only last week a piano-case full of opium was taken off a Chinese
steamer.”
“Opium smuggling!” broke in Fuchsia eagerly. “We know all about that in
the States. Opium smuggling is frightfully bad in ’Frisco. There are
deadly dens in parts of the town, where they say they make away with
people.”
“And here people make away with themselves,” supplemented Shafto, whose
thoughts flew to a recent suicide.
“Did any of you ever happen to read a story by Frank Norris about a
girl who was lost?” And Fuchsia planted her sharp elbows on the table
and cast an interrogative glance round her audience. “No, I expect not;
but it’s perfectly true. Then listen,” she proceeded with an air of
genial narration. “A pretty girl and her fiancé—both from New York—were
poking round the sights in ’Frisco and, leaving the rest of their
party, pushed on into the worst Chinese quarter, without a guide. It
had such a bad name that even the police gave it a wide berth. Well, in
they went, these two innocents; it looked quite all right, just the
same as other places they had visited, and they found a real dandy
tea-house and ordered tea. Whilst they waited a most superior Chinaman
appeared and invited the young man to come and inspect a wonderful
piece of silk. He said it would not take him a moment to look at, while
the young lady was resting; so the young man accepted the invitation,
examined the beautiful piece of silk, made an offer for yards and
yards, and hurried back, only to find that the girl had disappeared.
Her gloves and sunshade were there all right, but she was never seen
again, although her people offered an enormous reward, and more or less
raised Cain!”
“Oh, that’s just a bit of sensational fiction,” growled Herr Krauss,
“and I dare say brought the author a couple of hundred dollars. They
pay high rates for that sort of rubbish in the States.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it couldn’t be pretty well matched here,”
was Shafto’s bold declaration. “Not in the way of kidnapping
inquisitive young ladies, but there are dens and spiders’ webs in
Rangoon where people are drawn in like flies—and die like flies.”
Krauss threw back his head, gave a loud harsh laugh, and tossed off a
tumbler of champagne.
“Young Shafto,” he exclaimed, “you _are_ a funny fellow!”
“I do believe there is something in what Mr. Shafto says,” said Fuchsia
in her thin nasal voice. “I was told this as a mighty secret—but of
course it’s safe here,” throwing a complacent glance round the table,
“and I’d just like you all to know that the reason Mr. FitzGerald was
sent for in such a hurry is that the police have been given the
straight tip, and expect to make a real fine haul of smugglers and
opium—this very night!”
Herr Krauss glanced quickly at his neighbour, his eyes flickering.
“Mr. FitzGerald,” she continued, “said that if he could only get hold
of one or two big men who are behind the cocaine and opium trade he’d
be doing a service to the world; he is most frightfully keen on
catching them.”
“Not easy to catch what doesn’t exist,” declared Herr Krauss in his
guttural voice.
“But smuggling does exist—surely you know that, and smuggling on an
enormous scale,” pronounced Mrs. Pomeroy authoritatively; “there are
awful dens off the China bazaar.”
“Yes, the place is honeycombed with them,” supplemented Shafto.
“Pray, how do you know?” demanded Krauss with asperity.
“Well, since you ask me—I’ve been in one or two.”
“Getting copy for a book, eh? Local colour—and local atmosphere.”
“The atmosphere was pretty foul,” rejoined Shafto; “I don’t attempt to
write.”
“Not even fiction?”
There was a bitter sneer in Krauss’s question.
“No, not even fiction,” echoed Shafto stolidly.
“Now, I’ll tell you all something that sounds like fiction or a dime
novel,” volunteered the irrepressible Fuchsia. Then, without a pause,
she continued: “Mr. FitzGerald got a note from a broken-down European
loafer; a gentleman who had lost every single thing in the wide
world—self-respect, money, friends and wits—through drugs and nothing
else; he could not keep away from them unless he was chained up, but he
wanted to save others from his own wretched fate.”
“That was very splendid of the loafer!” remarked Mr. Krauss, and
leaning back in his chair he beckoned to a waiter and said: “Boy,
champagne!” When the champagne was brought, he said: “Let us all drink
the health of this noble loafer, who cannot help himself but helps
others. Here’s to the benevolent informer! Let us hope he will meet
with his reward—even in this life,” and he raised a brimming glass.
“I’m afraid there’s not much chance of that, poor chap,” murmured
Shafto, “for if he is a man I know, he is down and under—his case is
hopeless.”
Mrs. Pomeroy, who had been slowly drawing on her gloves, now pushed
back her chair and rose and, with sudden unanimity, the company broke
up and dispersed.
Little did Fuchsia suppose, as she chattered unguardedly and gave away
a confidence, that, in doing so, she had signed what was neither more
nor less than a sentence of death.