Many months had elapsed since Malcolm Haig bartered his heart in
exchange for a photograph; he was once more resigned to the monotonous
round of regimental duty in an Indian cantonment, had purchased a
promising pony, who ran at small meetings under the mysterious initial
of "V. C."--a "V. C." who was gradually absorbing the interest once
given to her namesake, and, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, the
memory of a certain dazzling princess had become a little dim!
Madame de Godez and Verona were in England. They had no occasion now
to dread the Dover Custom House, for Dog Darling was defunct. His
death had been a genuine grief to his mistress, who looked as if she
too would soon cross the frontier of an unknown land. The old lady was
changed, a life of uninterrupted self-indulgence had begun to tell at
last. There were deep lines in her face, and pouches under her eyes,
her breath was scanty and her spirits were low.
She had come to London in order to consult a specialist, and to confer
with her man of business, and for some weeks had been established in
the best suite of a well-known private hotel off Piccadilly.
It was a foggy night in March, the lamps across the way were barely
discernible, the traffic had almost ceased. In a stately drawing-room,
Madame, hunched up in a low chair, was cowering over the fire. As
she sat staring into the coals with a far-away, vacant expression,
she looked very old, and dark, and sick--despite a splendid satin
tea-gown, and the pearl-powder on her face. Verona, her pride and
boast, was now transformed from a mere beauty on exhibition to an
affectionate and efficient nurse--Madame's unwearied comforter
and companion. She had been reading aloud since dinner time, in a
clear steady voice, detailed descriptions of fashionable doings and
particulars of a great wedding: such news as the soul of her listener
loved, until Madame, who had been inattentive for a long time, suddenly
exclaimed in a fretful tone:
"There, there, Verona, child, that will do! Turn off the lights, they
hurt my eyes, and come and sit by the fire and talk to me."
"Yes, auntie," she answered, promptly putting aside the paper and
lowering the lights, "and now"--taking one of the old woman's hands in
hers and stroking it softly--"tell me, what shall we talk about?"
"I've been thinking of the Prince," was the unexpected answer. "How
I wish you had married him! He was a nice fellow, and if he had no
money--what matter for thatt!"
"I could not have married him, dear."
"Why nott?"
"Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark.
Why he was like a black-a-moor!"
"Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with
unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is
a great sin to be so particular--some of the Saints are ink-black in
their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"
"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help
it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing
class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our
hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp."
"I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day."
"Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry _now_, but I really can't help myself.
I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking
the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too
much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you
doing?"
"I was giving him instructions about my will--he was drawing it up."
"But I thought you had made it ages ago."
"Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her
hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so
unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has
been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel
ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will,
and so I will burn it! I have burned three"--there was a distinct note
of exultation in the confession--"now I am mailing," here she heaved a
deep sigh, "another."
"I'm sure you are not fit to do law business at present; do wait a
little."
"No, I can not; that Middlemass has been scolding me to-day, and says I
ought to settle my affairs, for if I--" she hesitated, and went on--"I
were to die, every pice I possess goes to my husband's relations. And
then what would become of you, my dearie?"
"Do not let us talk of such things, auntie. At present I have you, and
you are much better."
"I tell him a rich girl has always friends!" mused Madame, as if
talking to herself. "You have numbers of friends, Verona, but most of
them are abroad. So are your admirers. I am sorry now I've stayed out
of England these five years. One is soon forgotten, and loses touch
with people. At this time of year, too, our acquaintances are in the
country, or on the Riviera. When I feel arl-right, I shall take a big
house in town, and give dances, and bridge parties, and entertain--and
_then_ my old set will soon remember me."
There was a silence, during which the two women sat staring at the
fire. At last the girl spoke, with the abruptness of one who has made
up her mind to broach a strange topic.
"Auntie! I wish you would tell me something about myself. Do, dear
auntie! I am two-and-twenty years of age, and I know nothing of what
is called, my forbears. If anyone were to say to me, 'Who are you?' I
should be obliged to reply, 'I don't know!'"
"If you say, 'I am the adopted daughter and heiress of Fernanda de
Godez,' you will find they are perfectly satisfied," rejoined her
companion, in a sharp emphatic key.
"But _I_ am not.--Oh, do forgive me, dearest, I feel sure that no kith
or kin could have done more for me than you, and I am a truly fortunate
girl; for it is not money only that you have given me, but love. It
does seem so extraordinary, that I have no belongings, and that all I
know of my past is that when I was a tiny child, and a year old, you
adopted me and brought me home from India."
"That is true," granted her listener.
"I must have been over a year old, for I can dimly recall the steamer,
and the black faces of the Lascars."
"Ho, ho! there you go! black faces! You were nearly two when you
landed."
"They must have died within a short time of one another," resumed
Verona, in a low voice.
"What do you mean, child? Who are you talking about?"
"My father and mother."
"Yes, yes, yes, I have allowed everyone to suppose you were an orphan,"
continued Madame, staring straight before her in dreamy fashion, "but I
have never said so."
"Not an orphan!" repeated the girl, sitting erect, and turning quickly
to her companion. "Oh, darling auntie, do tell me--it will make no
difference to you--is my mother alive?"
Her voice shook for an imperceptible moment, and her eyes glowed with
expectancy.
"Now, what nonsense this is!" cried Madame de Godez peevishly. "What
would you give to know?"
Verona suddenly averted her eager face, and made no answer.
The ensuing silence was so unusually prolonged that at last the
old lady jerked her head round, and glanced interrogatively at her
companion. To her amazement and dismay she saw two great tears stealing
down the girl's face.
Verona's tears were more than she could endure. Verona, who rarely
wept, even as a child; Verona, who had scarcely grieved for the dog.
"Come, come, come, lovey, don't! I cannot bear it. No! since you are so
foolish, then I will tell you."
The girl turned to her instantly, her eyes were wet, her lips were
parted.
"Your father and mother are both alive--in India--and well, for all I
know--there now!"
For a moment her listener remained silent and motionless; she seemed
stunned; twice she endeavoured to articulate, but failed. At last she
said:
"My father and mother! Oh, thank God! Auntie, isn't it wonderful?"
"No-ah! there is nothing wonderful at all," retorted Madame de Godez,
"I knew the family. They were hard up, they had debts, and children,
and as I was leaving India a widow, alone, I offered to take you to be
my own daughter, and never to see them again."
"And they agreed?" exclaimed the girl, and her words were faint and
tremulous.
"Why, of course. It was a fine bargain for them, and you. Oh, you were
a pretty child! Just like a little angel on a Christmas card. Now,
Verona, I would never have spoken of this, and let you think what you
pleased, only--you have worried it out of me!"
"Are my people related to you?" she faltered.
"Never mind."
"Have I any brothers and sisters?"
"It does not matter, for you will never see them," replied the old
lady, who was obviously disturbed and displeased. "You will never go to
India, make yourself easy about thatt."
"Oh, dear auntie," said the girl suddenly, sinking on her knees, and
putting both her arms round her friend's dumpy figure, "you know very
well that it is not like you to talk in this way. You know that you can
make me very happy. You load me with diamonds and pearls, far more than
I want; give me a few precious words--they are of more value to me than
jewels. Do tell me something about my father, and above all"--with a
sudden impulsive movement--"my mother. Do, darling, please." And the
petitioner drew the old woman into a yet closer embrace, and imprinted
warm kisses on her ugly, lipless mouth.
"Well, then," gasped Madame, a little breathlessly, "you are such
a coax! I suppose I must! Your father is a gentleman, of old, old
family--he looks like a duke. He was in the Army long ago, but he was
hard up, and so he had to leave. He has now a civil post."
"And my mother?" Verona's lips dwelt lingeringly on the word; there was
a strange expression in her eye.
"Oh, no, no! She is not much! She is not a friend of mine. No, no, I
do not like her; but she was once a beauty. Now, Verona," suddenly
releasing herself, "that is enough. No, but too much. Be satisfied. I
am your father and mother, and sisters and brothers. They are Indian
people, with Indian notions, and they do not want you. You are not one
of them--and never can be one of them."
"No," agreed her hearer, half under her breath. "Gains involve
losses"--the saying flashed into her mind with cruel opportuneness, and
Verona realised with a pang that she had gained a life of luxurious
ease, in exchange for her own people and her father's house.
"Oh, no, no, they do not want you," reiterated Madame, "'the flower
returns not to the branch,' as Baptista Lopez would say: she and I
were at school together. My! what a girl for proverbs!"
"Do they ever write?" ventured Verona.
"There, now, you see what I have put in your head!" cried Madame
angrily. "I am sorry I told you one single word; it is all useless,
foolish talk. I am tired. Ring for Pauline, and I will go to my bed."
As she spoke she rose from her chair with Verona's assistance, then
grasped her arm, and tottered painfully out of the room.
* * * * *
Madame's adopted daughter had led a wandering life, until she was eight
years old, and was supremely ignorant of what the word "home" implied.
Madame had surely some gipsy blood in her veins (and was not averse to
the idea). She drifted about the Continent from one fashionable hotel
to another, with a retinue of servants, tons of luggage, a parrot, a
poodle, and a child.
This was all very well for the parrot and the poodle, but for the child
it was another affair. Her education was of a peculiar description,
and undoubtedly resembled a meal, where the sweets are served before
the joints. "La petite Verona" danced delightfully, acted with
extraordinary intelligence, and sang piquant little songs in her shrill
childish voice--such were her accomplishments. She was dainty, and
pretty, and graceful; in short, she was Madame de Godez's doll--and
idol. But, low be it whispered, she could hardly read simple words,
a pen and needle were strangers to her tiny hands; geography and
arithmetic were but hideous names, and yet the child could declaim a
tragedy, play the mandoline, and converse fluently in three languages.
It seemed a sheer miracle that this petted little creature should
have remained unspoiled, but her sense of truth and honour appeared
to be inborn and innate, and she had none of the greedy, selfish,
elfish ways of solitary and applauded children. In short, her little
heart was in its right place, her feelings were deep and sincere.
She was attached to her _bonne_, her auntie, and the parrot; to one
of the waiters at the "Hotel Bristol," and to Martin, the _concierge_
at "the Ambassadors" in Rome. But she and Polo, the poodle, had
never really fraternised, being performers, public favourites, and
necessarily--rivals.
The child was by no means perfect. Her temper was hot, and it must
be frankly admitted that her manner to those she considered her
inferiors was occasionally haughty and disdainful; her pride was stern
and unbending, for, although she had no petty conceit, she took the
personality of Miss Verona Chandos with a gravity that was ludicrous.
A sudden and complete change in the child's life may be attributed to
one cause, and the name of that cause was, "scarlatina." She caught the
complaint, and had it badly, thereby occasioned a serious commotion, as
well as much inconvenience, in a certain smart hotel, and subsequent
heavy expense to her auntie. A soft-voiced, dove-eyed matron pointed
out to this lady that a girl of Verona's age had still a whole gamut
of diseases to run through--measles, mumps, whooping cough--this would
necessarily lead to continual annoyance, quarantine, and enforced
seclusion.
"But _what_ am I to do?" demanded Madame in her staccato key.
"Send her to England without delay. It is fully time she was properly
educated, and mixed with other children."
"Oh, but she is so clever!"
"True, in a way, but she cannot read or write. Surely, dear friend, you
do not wish Verona to grow up an ignoramus and a laughing-stock?"
"No, no, no," ejaculated Madame, "but I could not send her to school. I
hated school myself."
Lady Wallsend stared; it seemed such a singular and grotesque idea that
Madame de Godez should ever have been at school.
"And I happen to know a most charming family in England--extremely
kind, refined, and well connected. They are looking for a companion, to
educate with their little girl Madge."
"Oh, do you think that would answer?"
"Yes, quite admirably. The Melvilles are my own cousins--not wealthy.
They would, of course, expect handsome terms, and for these, the child
would have every care, the best of teachers, a delightful country home,
and a playmate of her own age."
Madame, who was still smarting from exorbitant charges, and penetrated
with the dread of measles and chicken-pox, lent a ready ear to Lady
Wallsend's not wholly disinterested suggestion; preliminaries were
arranged, and Verona Chandos, a Frenchified, dressy, self-possessed
little personage, was duly received at Halstead Manor. Here she lived
as one of the family for nine happy years, sharing all the joys and
sorrows, games and lessons, of her friend Madge; and being an orphan,
was from the first adopted into the motherly heart of Mrs. Melville.
Madame de Godez did not lose sight of her _protégée_. During the
London season she travelled to England, and carried off Verona for a
sensational holiday; but when the girl was seventeen, and gave promise
of remarkable beauty, her adopted mother promptly claimed her, loudly
announcing that "life was no longer possible without her adored child."
Here was the first serious trouble in Verona's life. She felt almost
heartbroken as she and Madge went round, arm in arm, paying farewell
visits in the village, the stable yard--not forgetting the seagull,
and the tortoise in the garden. Their tears flowed fast as they
separated their respective treasures in the old schoolroom, but Madame
de Godez laughed at their sorrows, and believed that she had stifled
every regret when she presented each of the mourners with a fine pearl
necklace.
In spite of Madame's mock sympathy and real pearls, Verona found it a
painful wrench to bid good-bye to her beloved country home, with all
its happy associations, and to go forth into the blare and glare of the
great world, and the fierce white light which beats upon a beauty, and
an heiress.
* * * * *
When Verona had assisted Pauline to put her mistress to bed--a lengthy
and intricate process--when she had put everything in the way of salts,
lozenges, and refreshment, within the patient's reach, lit a night-lamp
and turned off the electric light, she returned to the drawing-room and
sat down before the fire. Here she remained in one thoughtful attitude
for a long time. As she leant her cheek on her hand, the firelight on
the wall made a clear-cut silhouette of her graceful, motionless figure.
As the girl sat thus, she was staring, not at the coals, but into the
dim past, yearning to recall some face, urging her torpid memory to
send her even one sign. But, strive as she would, all that emerged from
the veil which concealed those far-away days was a little painted toy!
A wooden figure with a yellow turban, and a scarlet body covered with
gold spots. She remembered it perfectly, her anguish when it had fallen
overboard, and how she had wept. It was marvellous that such a paltry
item should remain fixed in a child's brain, and that yet she could not
recall the face of her parents. No, as far as they were concerned, her
memory was a hopeless blank.
Her heart was full to bursting, her thoughts were moving and strange.
At last she sprang up and began to pace the room, with subdued silken
rustlings and a quick light tread.
Once she stood still and, stretching her arms to the irresponsive
London fog, whispered in tones of the most exquisite tenderness, "Oh,
mother, mother, mother!"