The trip lasted for three weeks and the party returned to Rangoon delighted with their tour, and bringing with them quantities of snapshots, not a few small trophies and mementoes—which included the great Shan hat, purchased by the Professor—and amusing anecdotes of their varied adventures.
“I feel as if I’d had a bird’s-eye view of the real country,” said Sophy to her friend. “Those great calm seas of green rice, bounded by dark woods, with a white pagoda peeping through here and there; the fierce strong rivers flowing through overhanging forests, and the deep red sunsets, turning old ruins into flames, and then the golden days and silver nights, and all the nice friendly simple people. Douglas and I feel quite sad at the idea of saying good-bye to Burma.”
“Well, my dear, the matter lies in your own hands,” said Mrs. Gregory briskly, “and after you are married, you can return to Rangoon; there is a fine big empty house in Halpin Road; we might go over and inspect it some morning.”
The assassination of the heir to the Crown of Austria and his Duchess had caused a profound sensation in Europe; ripples of this far-reaching tragedy had spread to the East; the Rangoon bazaar, like every other bazaar, was full of thrilling whispers, and various prudent traders were figuratively drawing in their horns and preparing for big trouble across the “Kala Pani.”
It was the first week in August and on Wednesday; there had been a break-neck and exciting paper-chase, with the finish at Government House. Here a profusion of refreshments was displayed and all the world, more or less, was present; the men drinking pegs, the ladies iced coffee, gossiping, discussing the recent performance and various local matters. All at once a Government peon ran quickly through the crowd, a telegraph peon, then a motor arrived with two men (officials) who had not taken part in the paper-chase. Sir Horace Winter, the Lieutenant-Governor, and his military secretary disappeared abruptly indoors, and there was a sudden pause in the continuous chatter.
More than one of the guests experienced a curious thrill, as if there was something electric in the air; then from nowhere in particular the word “War” was whispered. “Great Britain has declared war on Germany.” This seemed incredible; people stared at one another aghast, and boldly declared that “it was just a bazaar shave and a mistake,” for out in the Far, Far East there had been no preliminary muttering of the storm which was about to burst and drown half the world in tears.
Nevertheless, the news was horribly true. “War” had come; war, after so many years of European peace and prosperity; and newly aroused, startled countries found themselves face to face with the malignity of the unknown.
Presently the Lieutenant-Governor reappeared and verified the whisper. Wires were already active; the 29th Punjaub Infantry had been ordered from Mandalay; guests pressed round, eagerly snatching at scraps of information; Germans and British glanced curiously at one another, and presently the gathering dissolved—to talk, to write, and to cable.
For several days nothing remarkable occurred, save that the outgoing mail carried a number of British who had booked their passages at the last moment. Officers on leave were recalled, a few big business houses were closed and, in the District, many German mills and a large influx of stalwart young employés, who had been working in them and could not speak a word of English, suddenly flocked in, prepared to embark for Europe, to fight for the Fatherland.