Yes, he recalled too forcibly a dead man whom she had neglected, detested and deceived. And as for Douglas, for years he had been sensible of the smart of a baffled instinct, a hunger for a mother’s love and affection, which had never been his—and never would be his.
In the drawing-room, after dinner, the boarders were amusing themselves as usual and making a good deal of noise, yet somehow the circle presented an air of rather spurious gaiety. Mrs. Shafto, in a smart black-and-gold evening frock, was smoking a cigarette and playing auction-bridge with Mr. Levison and the two Japanese; the Misses Smith and various casual boarders were engrossed at coon-can. Another group was assembled about the piano. Douglas Shafto sat aloof in the window seat absorbed in the book on Burma and acquiring information; for even if he were never to see the country, it was as well to learn something about it. Rangoon, the capital (that fact he already knew), once a mere collection of monasteries around the Great Pagoda, was now assumed to be the Liverpool of the East, the resting-place of Buddha’s relics, and an important industrial centre. As his reading was disturbed by the boisterous chorus at the piano, and the shrieks of laughter from the coon-can set, he tucked the volume under his arm and slipped out of the room as noiselessly as possible. He could rest at peace up in his “cock loft” and endeavour to puzzle out some means of reaching the land of the Golden Umbrella—even if he worked his passage as a cabin steward. In passing the door of Mrs. Malone’s den, some strange, unaccountable impulse constrained him to knock. Yes; he suddenly made up his mind that he would confide in her—and why not? She was always so understanding, sympathetic and wise.
In reply to a shrill “Come in,” he entered and found the old lady sitting by the open window with a black cat on her lap. The room was small and homelike; there were some shabby rugs, a few fine prints, a case of miniatures, and, in a cabinet, a variety of odd “bits” which Mrs. Malone had picked up from time to time.
“So it’s you, Douglas,” she exclaimed; “come over and sit down. I’m always glad to see you; you know you have the private entrée!” and she laughed. “What have you been doing with yourself to-day?”
As he muttered something indefinite, she added, “What’s your book?” holding out her hand. “Burma, I declare! One does not hear much of that part of the world; it’s always connected in my mind with rice and rain. Douglas,” suddenly raising her eyes, “I believe you have something on your mind. What is it? Come now—speak out—is it a love affair, or money? You know I’m safe.”
Thus invited, in a few halting sentences, he told her of his friend’s good offices, the offer, his supreme delight—and subsequent despair.
“A hundred pounds—yes, well, it’s a tidy sum,” she admitted, “and you will want all that. I think Gregory and Co. might pay your passage, as the salary is not large.”
“No,” agreed Shafto, “but I’ll be only too glad to earn it. It’s this blessed ready money that stumps me.”
He began to pace about the room with his hands in his pockets, then suddenly broke out:
“Mrs. Malone, I’d give one of my eyes to go; to be up and doing, and get out into the world—especially to the East. Isn’t it hard lines—one moment to be offered a splendid chance, and the next to have it snatched away.”