The morning after this unusual conversation Verona awoke with the
sensation that something extraordinary had happened; awoke to a vague
sense of disaster--a loss of something out of her life, a loss of
birthright and inheritance; and in spite of an imperious voice which
clamoured in her ear of auntie's affection and indulgence, she was
aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction and disquiet. Instead of rising
as usual when her maid brought in her bath and tea, she lay for a
long, long time, staring vacantly at the wallpaper and entertaining
a succession of unfamiliar thoughts. She was endeavouring to become
acquainted with the personal meaning of the strange words father,
mother, brother, sister, and home.
* * * * *
There was a sudden improvement in the weather, a capricious change
which flooded the city with sunshine; bright blue skies stared down
upon the leafless parks and hinted at approaching Spring.
Madame de Godez, who was painfully sensitive to climate and constantly
referred to herself as "a true child of the sun," now declared that she
felt much better--almost well; and instead of cowering over the coals,
with her head enveloped in a shawl, her feet encased in fur slippers,
she roused up, made a toilet, ordered a carriage, and drove about to
milliners, house agents and restaurants. "The child of the sun" was
no longer a shivering, ailing old woman, but the bustling and jaunty
Madame de Godez of former days. The transformation was astounding; she
angrily refused to follow the doctor's orders, flouted the idea of
a _régime_, and her appetite for the pleasures of the table and the
pleasures of society was, if anything, keener than ever.
The convalescent, in spite of eloquent expostulations, returned to her
favourite menu of spiced meats, rich _entrées_, champagne, and caviare,
and boastfully assured her adopted daughter that "she was the best
judge of her own health. London doctors were quacks and alarmists, and
all she required was a complete change; a couple of weeks at Brighton
would transform her into another woman." Madame was self-willed and
strong. For twenty-three years no one had ventured to oppose her, and
for some little time her own prescription--to eat and drink and make
merry--seemed unexpectedly efficacious.
One afternoon, after enjoying a hearty lunch on prawn curry (with hot
condiments), roast hare, plum cake, and bottled stout, she sat down to
write to a house agent, and when in the act of signing her name, was
seized with an apoplectic fit, and before a doctor could be summoned,
became insensible, never recovered consciousness, and died that night.
Thus Madame de Godez had experienced a change, and one that she little
anticipated--the great change of all.
There was the usual amount of startled confusion succeeding a sudden
death. Verona was shocked and grief-stricken; all Madame's little
peculiarities were forgotten, her good qualities remembered, as she
gazed through her tears on the still, dark face, contrasting so sharply
with the sheets and pillows, and clothed in all the dignity of death.
Mr. Middlemass, a wooden-faced family lawyer, was soon on the spot,
and undertook all correspondence and funeral arrangements. Verona's
good friend, Mrs. Melville, hurried up to town at once, in order to be
with her, and she proved a comfort and tower of strength. Soon after
her arrival Mrs. Melville had a long conversation with Mr. Middlemass,
who said to her with alarming gravity: "I am sorry to inform you that
Madame de Godez has not signed her will."
"Oh!" exclaimed the lady, rather blankly. "Has she not?"
"No. I have urged her repeatedly to settle her affairs, in common
justice to Miss Chandos. She intended her to succeed to almost all she
possessed. I have drawn up her instructions. This is the fourth will I
have executed; the former three she destroyed. I had it prepared and
ready for her signature, but she postponed the appointment, day after
day, and now"--throwing out his hands--"she is gone----"
"Then it will make a great difference to Miss Chandos?"
"The greatest in the world. If the will had been duly signed--just
two words written--Miss Chandos would come in for fifteen thousand a
year--she would be an heiress. Now she is, I may say, penniless. It's
one of the worst cases of procrastination I've ever known."
"And what becomes of all the money?" asked Mrs. Melville.
"It goes to the next-of-kin--the Gowdys. They can claim everything,
under Mr. Gowdy's will, which states that, if his wife died intestate,
his fortune was to go to his brother and his children, the heirs at
law."
"And who are they?" she inquired, after a pause.
"Scotch farmer folk. I understand they have deeply resented the fact
that the whole of their uncle's estate was left to his widow. James
Gowdy was an indigo planter in the big days, and spent forty years in
India. Madame disliked the name of Gowdy and transformed it into De
Godez; it pleased her, and did no one any harm. Of course her business
papers are signed in her real name."
"This is terrible news for my poor young friend," exclaimed Mrs.
Melville. "Then she has no claim, and was no relation to her mother by
adoption?"
"No more than I was."
"And is left penniless?"
"Yes, as far as Madame's money is concerned. Of course, the Gowdys may
do something. I shall bring the matter strongly to their notice, and
urge them to be liberal. I have wired, and written, and requested them
to come down immediately, and I have postponed the funeral until their
arrival."
"Well, I must go and break all this bad news to my poor child," said
Mrs. Melville. "You know she is almost like one of my own; it is
dreadful to think of her being left alone in the world."
"Oh, there you are misinformed. She is not an orphan, as has been
generally supposed. Her father and mother are alive out in India.
Madame adopted her, and cut her off from her family; she allowed
no correspondence, as she was exceedingly jealous of the girl's
affections. Now, no doubt, Miss Chandos will return to her family."
"With all the ideas, refinements, tastes and habits of a girl who has
been brought up in England on an income of thousands. How cruel!"
"Yes, but from what I know of Miss Chandos, her tastes appear to be
simple, and her ideas are not extravagant. I think she will adapt
herself to circumstances. She seems a sensible girl."
"All you say is perfectly true, Mr. Middlemass. She lived with us for
nine years. Her own people are not rich, I gather?"
"No, very far from it."
"And is she to have nothing? Nothing whatever?"
"Her personal effects, clothes and jewellery--that is all that she can
claim, by the letter of the law."
"How inhuman the law is! I really think Madame has behaved in the most
shameful, selfish way. What a cruel old woman!"
"Only a superstitious old woman," amended Mr. Middlemass, "who believed
that a will was a reminder to the Angel of Death. She would be more
heart-broken than anyone, at the present state of affairs, and she
could not bear the name of the Gowdys. You may be satisfied that I
will do my utmost to secure some provision for Miss Chandos." And with
this friendly assurance Mr. Middlemass took his grey suède gloves, his
glossy hat, and his departure.