ENLIGHTENMENT
Miss Fuschia Bliss was still in Rangoon and, as she modestly expressed
it, “crawling round, on approval.” She had brought letters of
introduction to the Lieutenant-Governor, the Pomeroys, and the
Gregorys. Sir Horace and Lady Winter had no young people, so she
presently passed on to the Pomeroys, who in their turn reluctantly
yielded their guest to Mrs. Gregory.
Hosts and hostesses were only too glad to secure the company of Miss
Bliss, a girl who had seen so many strange countries, and noticed so
much with her sharp eyes, that her inferences and original remarks were
equally novel and interesting. Fuchsia’s society was invigorating, and
the American could easily have put in twelve months in Burma if so
disposed. But one obstacle—and one only—interposed, and detained her
from joining her friends in Cairo. (This is in the strictest
confidence.) She was awaiting the moment when that great, big stupid
Irishman would speak!
Although Fuchsia looked no more than two- or three-and-twenty,
eight-and-twenty summers had passed over her ash-coloured head. She had
received an excellent education, had travelled far, and was as
experienced and worldly-wise as any matron of fifty. Indeed, in natural
wit and the art of putting two and two together, she was considerably
ahead of most of her sex.
Mrs. Gregory enjoyed having young people with her, but her mornings
were engaged. She had a hand in the principal benevolent societies in
the place; was treasurer of this, or secretary of that, apart from her
house-keeping and large correspondence, so that she was rarely at
liberty before tiffin; therefore Fuchsia had all the forenoon to
herself, and spent the time visiting her girl friends or shopping in
the bazaar. The heiress had hired a motor, a little two-seater that she
could drive, and with respect to locomotion was entirely independent of
her hostess. No one in Fuchsia’s circle received so many visits as
Sophy Leigh; she was fond of Sophy, and frequently turned up at
“Heidelberg” to tiffin or to tea, although she did not care about the
set of people that she met there—stout German ladies with somewhat
aggressive manners, or second-rate women from the fringe of Society.
Everyone of these was, in the eyes of the little American democrat, an
“Outsider.” Fuchsia was fastidious, an aristocrat to her finger-tips,
and it was no drawback to Pat FitzGerald that his maternal uncle was an
earl.
“How could Sophy tolerate these stupid people,” Fuchsia asked herself,
“with their sharp, probing questions and heavy jokes? Why did Mrs.
Krauss invite them?”
And here she came to yet another question: What was the matter with
Mrs. Krauss? There was something strange and mysterious about her
ailment; her attacks were so fitful; now she appeared brilliant and
vivacious, with gleams of her former great beauty, the gracious and
agreeable hostess; again, her condition was that of sheer indifference
and semi-torpor. And who was the officious and familiar ayah, her
attendant and shadow, an obtrusive creature with bold black eyes and a
resolute mouth? Why did she speak so authoritatively to her mistress?
Why did she wear such handsome jewellery and expensive silk saris,
heavily fringed with gold, and strut about with such an air of
importance?
Lily appeared to have enormous influence with Mrs. Krauss—she knew
something! She held some secret. This was the conclusion at which
Fuchsia the shrewd arrived, after she had paid a good many visits to
“Heidelberg.”
Fuchsia, with her long chin resting on her hand, set her active brain
and cool judgment to work. She recalled a certain scene one evening
when she had driven over in her car to take Sophy to the theatre, and
was sitting in the veranda half hidden by a screen, awaiting her
friend, whilst Mrs. Krauss, lying prone upon the sofa, fanned herself
with a languid hand. Presently, from a doorway, Lily noiselessly
drifted in. She was amazingly light-footed for her bulk.
“Now, it is nine o’clock,” she said, addressing her mistress, “and you
have got to go to bed.” Her voice was sharp and authoritative. The
reply came in a low murmur of expostulation.
“I’m going to the Pagoda to-night,” continued Lily, “but you will be
all right. As soon as you are undressed you shall have your _dose_.”
On hearing this promise Mrs. Krauss furled her fan, rose from the sofa
with astonishing alacrity, and followed her ayah as commanded.
Now the question that puzzled Fuchsia was, what was the nature of the
dose? It must have been something agreeable, or Mrs. Krauss would not
have bounded off the sofa and hurried away—and who would rush for a
dose of quinine or even the fashionable petrol? Undoubtedly the dose
was a drug—some enervating and insidious drug. This would amply account
for the lady’s lethargy and languor. The crafty Fuchsia threw out
several feelers to her hostess on the subject of “Heidelberg”—she
wondered whether anyone shared her suspicions. Certainly Mrs. Gregory
did not, but sincerely lamented her neighbour’s miserable health, and
deplored her obstinacy in remaining season after season in Rangoon.
“It’s rather a dull house for poor Sophy,” suggested her friend; “when
her aunt has one of her bad attacks she sees no visitors for days. Mr.
Krauss is absent from morning till night—not that I consider his
absence any loss, for I dislike him more than words can express.”
“Well, I can’t say that I am one of his admirers,” admitted Mrs.
Gregory; “but I agree with you that Sophy has some long and lonely
hours; she can come over here whenever she pleases, and she cannot come
too often, for she is a dear girl, and I would be glad to have her
altogether. You know she and I were house-mates up at May Myo, and when
you live with another person in a small bungalow that is your
opportunity to get down to the bed-rock of character.”
It was about a week after the elephants had been transported across the
river, and Sophy and Fuchsia were sitting in the latter’s bedroom at
the “Barn.” Sophy was altering a hat for her companion; she was
remarkably clever in this line, and a surprising quantity of her
friends’ millinery had passed through her fingers.
“Mr. Shafto had a narrow squeak this day week,” remarked Fuchsia, who
was lounging in a chair, doing nothing. “Did you hear someone say that
he was _pushed_ in?”
“Oh, no! By accident—or on purpose?”
“Whichever you please; the result was the same.” Then, after a
considerable pause, she added significantly:
“Perhaps he knows too much.”
“Too much of what?” asked Sophy, looking up.
“Oh, there are many secrets in Rangoon,” said Fuchsia, nodding her
head; “I have grasped that, although I have only been here two months,
and you a whole year. Have you never noticed anything? Have you no
suspicions about people?”
“No—not of anything that matters. I suspect that the eldest Miss Wiggin
rouges and darkens her eyebrows, that Lady Puffle wears a wig, and that
the Grahams are thoroughly sick of their paying guest. But you are ten
times cleverer than I am, Fuchsia, and, according to Mr. Gregory,
singularly intelligent and acute.”
“Acute—rubbish!” Fuchsia dismissed the idea with a gesture of her tiny
hand. “I’m not thinking of wigs, or paint, or such piffle. Say, have
you never heard of the cocaine business?”
“Oh, yes; Mr. Shafto is tremendously keen on the subject.”
“Pat FitzGerald is mad about it, too, and is having a great big try to
rope in the boss smugglers. He has told me the most terrible tales.
Once the drug—it’s cocaine and morphia mixed—gets a fast hold of a man,
or woman, he or she is doomed!”
“Oh, Fuchsia, surely not so bad as that!”
“It’s true; the poor thieve to get a few annas to spend in the dens;
the rich and educated buy it by stealth, and absorb it at home in
secret.”
“What are the symptoms?” inquired Sophy. “Have you ever seen anyone who
took those drugs?”
“Well, I could not say,” she answered evasively; “but I am aware that
the symptoms are unaccountable drowsiness and lethargy, followed by a
deathlike sleep, and, they say, the most _heavenly_ dreams. Later, the
dreamer wakes up, haggard, feverish, and miserable; the skin has a
dried, shrunken look. And you can always tell a drug-taker by the eyes;
the pupil is either as small as a pin’s point or else enormously
enlarged.”
Fuchsia glanced sharply at Sophy, who was carefully manipulating a
large bow.
Was she recalling a domestic picture? Did any suspicion sink into her
simple mind? If such was the case the girl gave no sign.
“These drug-maniacs’ lives are a real burden,” continued Fuchsia; “they
become indolent and slovenly; all they want in the whole world is more,
and more, and more—cocaine. The effect on some is to clear and
stimulate the brain and, for a short time, they seem superhuman; but
soon this marvellous illumination that has flared up dies down like a
fire of straw, and leaves them nothing but the cold ashes.”
“Fuchsia,” said her companion, suddenly raising her head and gazing at
her steadily, “I believe you are thinking of someone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Tell me who it is.”
But Fuchsia merely looked down on the ground and maintained an unusual
silence.
“Do you know anyone that the cap fits?” persisted Sophy. Then, with a
quick movement, she put the hat aside and, confronting her companion,
said, “Surely—surely, you don’t mean _Aunt Flora_?”
Fuchsia’s reply was a slow, deliberate nod.
“Oh, Fuchsia, this is too dreadful—how can you? Tell me—why you have
such a hideous suspicion?”
“All right then, I will,” and Fuchsia sat bolt upright. “I’m older than
you are, and have knocked about the world a bit, and I can’t help
seeing things that are thrust under my nose and drawing an inference. I
must tell you that my grandfather was a notable lawyer, and who knows
but that a scrap of his mantle may not have descended upon me! Now to
answer your question right away—you will admit that pretty often your
aunt is dressed like a last year’s scarecrow; that she is drowsy,
stupefied, and generally inaccessible. At another time she is real
smart and vivacious, and puts other women in the shade. Then suddenly
she disappears, shuts herself up along with Lily ayah, and not a soul
may approach her—no, not even you. Undoubtedly Lily provides the drug
and is handsomely paid. I ask you to look at her jewels and her diamond
nose-ring. Your aunt refuses to see a doctor, for a doctor would
diagnose her case the instant he set eyes on her; she also refuses to
quit Rangoon, and why? Because she would be torn away from what is
killing her inch by inch—and that is cocaine!”
By the time Fuchsia had ended this speech Sophy’s face was colourless,
and, as she unconsciously stroked a piece of ribbon between her
fingers, many facts in support of Fuchsia’s verdict flocked into her
brain and forced themselves upon her comprehension. She had a
conviction that what her friend had just told her was neither more nor
less than a dreadful truth. An instant of clear vision had come; scales
had fallen from her eyes; she recalled those strange excursions to Ah
Shee’s stifling den, the purchase of ivories so soon thrown aside;
undoubtedly this collection of netsukes was a blind—her aunt’s real
object was to procure _drugs_!
“I’m afraid this is an awful blow to you, Sophy,” resumed Fuchsia, “and
you will think I had no business to crowd in; but it is best that you
should have your eyes opened before it is too late. What do you think
yourself, dear?”
There was an agonising pause. Self-deception was no longer possible.
With an effort she replied:
“I am afraid what you have told me is terribly true; it was stupid of
me not to have guessed at something of the sort. I see things clearly
now that you have put them before my eyes. Many puzzles are
explained—the reason Aunt Flora keeps herself isolated; the reason why
she has no really intimate friends; the reason why she is so untidy in
her dress at times and talks so strangely. I suppose Mr. Krauss knows?”
“No!” replied Fuchsia with emphasis, “I have watched him carefully, and
I don’t believe he has the faintest suspicion, any more than you had
yourself. Your aunt’s ayah, and possibly the cook, are
fellow-conspirators, and no doubt the cause of ‘the Missis’s’ long
strange illness is common talk in the compound.”
“What can be done to cure it? Oh, Fuchsia, _do_ advise me!”
“If I were to offer you one piece of advice you would not take it.”
“Well, at least allow me to hear it.”
“It is to clear out of the house altogether and return home.”
“I shall certainly not take that advice; I was invited to Rangoon to be
a companion to Aunt Flora, and the moment that I find she has something
frightful to fight against is surely not the time for me to run away
and leave her in the lurch. No, I shall stay here and do what I can.”
“Ah, if you only could; but, my dear girl, I’m afraid it is too late. I
have been questioning Pat FitzGerald—of course without letting him know
that I had any ‘case’ in my mind’s eye. From what I have gathered, Mrs.
Krauss has been taking this drug for a long time—and is past all help.”
“Then do you mean, Fuchsia, that I am to sit by, utterly helpless,
whilst my aunt slowly puts herself to death?”
“Of course you might try various things. You could make it your
business to find out and destroy the hypodermic syringe—or perhaps your
aunt takes it in pellets. I should interview the ayah and inform her
that you know the nature of her mistress’s complaint; threaten that you
will tell Mr. Krauss and have her discharged. I expect she gets
enormous wages and has feathered her nest handsomely. If you could
inveigle your aunt into taking a voyage to Australia, that might be of
use. But these are just suggestions; in any way that I can help or back
you up I will. All the same, I must return to my first statement, which
is, that no matter how you strive, and hope and fear, your effort will
come too _late_.”