The Road to Mandalay Part 26

"Perhaps so--but not for some time."

"Too much work, eh? Gregory is doing a big trade just now."

"Pretty well," rejoined Shafto, who was secretly surprised that Krauss should accost and talk to him in this way. Hitherto their acquaintance had been slight and, when he had been to tea at "Heidelberg," the master of the house was invariably absent.

"How is Mrs. Krauss? I hope she is better."

"No, she has been pretty bad the last few weeks--her niece is coming home in a day or two and that will cheer her up." As he concluded he gave Shafto a nod and a curious look and then, with a sort of elephantine waddle, lounged away.

So far Shafto had never spoken of his _kubber_; even with the evidence of his own eyes he shrank from suspecting anyone connected with Sophy Leigh; but links were joined in spite of his reluctance to face facts.

How could Krauss have known that he had gone tiger shooting? Surely the affairs of an insignificant fellow like himself never crossed the mental horizon of such a big and busy person as Karl Krauss? There was no doubt that the animal he had seen near Elephant Point bore a suspicious resemblance to Krauss's weight-carrying grey pony! What was "Dacoit" doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon? He could make a pretty good guess. Krauss had motored down, sent the animal on ahead, and ridden through the gra.s.s and jungle in order to superintend the landing.

Could this be a fact? Or was the whole thing a mere coincidence? Was he obsessed by FitzGerald and suspecting an honest man, who might have been shooting in the swamps--why not?

CHAPTER XXIV

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 pa.s.s? 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 a.s.sortment 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 a.s.sets; 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 paG.o.das 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 s.e.x. 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," a.s.sented 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 PaG.o.da 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 pa.s.s into another existence, and how we fare in the next world depends on our good or evil deeds in this."