Her clothes and personal possessions--such as music, books (and [last,
but not least] jewels)--were all that the deposed heiress carried
away, when she left London with Mrs. Melville. The entire wardrobe of
the late Madame de Godez was confiscated by her sister-in-law, who
subsequently made a brave display in various gorgeous garments; whilst
Maggie, in a red "creation," by Worth, was a sight for men, and gods!
Oh, the purchaser of these superb confections, little, little dreamt
who was to flaunt in her plumes, and to stand in her shoes!
Miss Chandos experienced the first effects of her change of
circumstances when she travelled down to Halstead second class, looked
after the luggage and secured seats, whilst her friend took the tickets
and paid the cabman.
Her reception at the Manor was warm; from the old coachman's "Welcome
back, miss," to the parrot's screech, "Verona, kiss me!" She once more
occupied her own bedroom, in which nothing had been changed since
she quitted it, five years previously, in order to follow her adopted
mother into fashionable life. Here were the same old samplers, the
paintings of Venice and Vesuvius, the dimity curtains in the windows,
the hideous china dogs on the mantelpiece, the well-known writing table
and cosy armchair. There was the same familiar bright outlook on the
garden--and the unfamiliar quiet of the country. It was like returning
into harbour after an extensive cruise, in order to refit for yet
another voyage. She was about to refit and make a fresh departure; to
begin life with her own people; to visit long-desired India!
The years with Madame de Godez had flashed by in a succession of
splendid scenes, and kaleidoscopic views of strange countries, and
strange faces. Now it all seemed singularly unreal. And when Verona
sat in the bow window of the drawing-room, and watched the brown
pony grazing on the lawn--saw the spaniel chasing his mortal enemy,
the kitchen cat, out of the garden, whilst the jackdaw flapped
applause--it seemed as if she had only been absent a few weeks. Those
glittering scenes at Monte Carlo, and Aix, and Paris, were all so many
dreams--merely dreams! Her old friends and neighbours, the folk in
the village, were delighted to welcome her back among them, the only
change she felt was the absence of Madge--who six months previously had
married an officer and departed to Malta. Verona was thankful that in
her day of prosperity she had had it in her power to delight Madge with
diamonds. Auntie had been generous, and had bestowed on the bride a set
of superb sables.
Now she could no longer indulge in what had been one of her chief
pleasures--buying gifts. There was her own jewel case; she unlocked
it and exhibited the contents to Mrs. Melville. It contained various
proofs of madame's wealth, and eye for effect. A long chain of pearls,
a variety of rings and bangles, brooches, a watch set in brilliants,
and several ornaments, including a magnificent diamond bow for the hair
or corsage.
"Well, no, if you take my advice, you will not sell them," counselled
Mrs. Melville. "They are worth a great deal of money, and if you must
part with them, I believe you could get a better price in India; some
native nobleman might purchase the pearls. Of course, dear, if you like
to dispose of them here, and invest the money, do; but I expect you
will only get half of what they are really worth. You say the pearls
cost nine hundred?"
"Yes, and auntie was always begging me to have diamonds, and rubies,
and emeralds, but I always said 'No.' Even as it was I had far too much
jewellery. This diamond and emerald pendant is exquisite--is it not?"
and she held it up to her throat.
"It is; and I wish, since this represents your entire fortune, you had
accepted madame's offer; for after all you have not such a wonderful
supply!"
"More than ample--to wear, or to sell--and I will take your advice and
keep them. I--I should like"--here she lowered her voice and coloured a
little--"my mother to have the diamonds."
And with this generous wish she closed the jewel case.
Verona had written to her mother immediately after the death of Madame
de Godez. Mr. Middlemass informed her of her address (and he had also
despatched a few lines on his own behalf).
Her letter said:
"MY DEAR MOTHER,
"I cannot tell you with what intense happiness I write these
three words; for until a month ago I believed I was an orphan. My
kind adopted mother is dead. She died most suddenly of apoplexy,
and, meaning nothing but love and kindness to me, left her will
unsigned, and all she possessed has passed to her husband's
next-of-kin--a family of Scotch farmers. These people dislike me
because they consider that for many years I have enjoyed their
uncle's money. They have taken possession of everything, but intend
to defray my passage out to India, and give me three hundred
pounds. I have no ties in this country, and am longing to go to
my own people. Amidst much trouble and worry, and a great change
of circumstances, I have one indescribable joy, the prospect of
soon seeing my father, and _you_. Madame de Godez had, until a
month ago, kept me entirely in the dark respecting my birth and
parentage. I was her child, and no more information would she
divulge; but not long ago I contrived to break down her reserve,
and she informed me with great reluctance, that you and my father
were alive, and that I had brothers and sisters. More than this
she would not disclose, and never spoke of the subject but once. I
gather that my father is not wealthy, but you will find that I can
adapt myself to circumstances, and I hope to be a useful addition
to the family. I have had an excellent education; I have a strong
constitution and can work hard. I have always wondered why I felt
so drawn towards the East, but _now_ I understand at last. I am
staying with Mrs. Melville at Halstead Manor, where I once lived
for nine years, it was here I was educated and brought up. I would
start off at once, so anxious am I to see you, but Mrs. Melville
advises me to wait for a reply to this letter, and also until
the monsoon has broken. She suggests my leaving England in July.
Dearest mother, I am counting the very days till we meet. You will
spare a little love for me, will you not? I am always picturing you
to myself, and I have made up my mind that you are like someone I
know, and who I have always _wished_ were my mother.
"Ever your most loving and happy daughter,
"VERONA CHANDOS."
It would take (so she had calculated) about five weeks to receive an
answer to this letter, and during these five weeks Verona renewed her
friendship with people and animals: became a delightful deputy daughter
to Mr. and Mrs. Melville, busied herself in making preparations for
her passage, and buying suitable gifts for her unknown relations. It
was near the end of June, when a letter, with an Indian stamp, in an
unknown, somewhat shaky writing, lay beside Verona's plate at breakfast
time. She opened it tremulously. It was written on cheap thin paper,
and at the top was stamped:
"MANORA SUGAR FACTORY,
"NEAR RAJAHPORE.
"DEAR VERONA,
"I am writing in reply to your letter, to assure you that we shall
be glad to see you, although we have not much to offer, except
a welcome. I fear, after what you have been accustomed to, that
you will find our mode of life an uncomfortable change, but you
are young and full of hope and courage, and everything will be a
novelty.
"I am sorry Madame de Godez is dead, and that she had made no
provision for you. At the same time, we shall all be pleased to
welcome you into what is your real home, and will look for your
name in the passenger list of the steamer leaving London the second
week in August. Write again, and tell us your plans.
"I am, your affectionate father.
"PAUL CHANDOS.
"P.S.--Your mother sends her love."
This epistle was a little disappointing to Verona, the echo to her
appeal seemed so faint, but after all it was a letter from her
_father_. They were all ready to welcome her, and if not so eager
to see her, as she was to see them, she remembered that they were
accustomed to family intercourse--they were many living together--she
alone out in the darkness, looked towards their hearth as the beacon
of her happiness. Verona reflected for a short time, and then decided
to show her father's letter to Mrs. Melville, who for her part found
it both kind and sensible, and said so, greatly to Verona's relief,
and that same day she wrote and engaged her passage by a steamer which
sailed in three weeks' time.
As she went singing about the garden, culling roses, and accompanied by
the dogs, Mr. Melville--a good grave man, with a spade-shaped beard,
and a taste for archæology--said to his wife--
"Lucy, I wish we could keep that child with us."
"So do I. She has always been one of ourselves, almost ever since she
came here, a little decked-out, Frenchified doll, speaking broken
English. But her heart is set upon her own people."
"Yes, and she knows nothing about them, nor, for that matter, do _we_."
"We know that her father is a man of good family--one of the Chandos of
Charne."
"And the black sheep for all you can tell," interrupted Mr. Melville.
"Come, don't make the worst of it, Joe!"
"Yes, it's bad enough as it is. This girl, brought up with a taste for
everything money can buy, and left without any provision. I call it a
most shameful, abominable business. Verona will never understand shifts
and scraping. She will have to put up with a vile climate, and to adapt
herself to a new life. Now Madge is away, and Robert is at sea, I think
she might remain on as our adopted daughter. She does the flowers for
you, and mends my gloves, and cuts my papers, and plays picquet, and
sends back my books to the London library--we shall not be able to
spare her."
"My dear Joe, I'm afraid we must, sorely as we want her, and much as I
believe she loves us. Her heart, as I've already assured you, is with
her own people. If we kept her with us, she would be continually pining
to fly away, like a robin in a cage."
"I sincerely hope her expectations may be realised, but I think it is a
risky experiment, attaching oneself to a hitherto unknown family."
"She will be an acquisition anywhere, so lively and so sweet tempered,
and entirely unconscious of herself. Her great social success never
made the smallest difference to us; she wrote to me as regularly as
Madge. I believe she had no end of offers of marriage--including one
from a prince!"
"Oh, well, I cannot exactly credit _that_. And anyway, I can assure
you, she will never have a chance of becoming a princess in India.
Joking apart, I'm really anxious about the child. Do you have a good
talk to her, Lucy, and try once more, if she will not accept the bird
in the hand, and remain with us, for the birds in the bush may be of
doubtful plumage."
"I will see what I can do," assented Mrs. Melville, "but in return for
your half proverb, I will give you a whole one."
"What may it be?"
"Far off hills are green."
Joselyn Melville made no attempt to argue the question further, but
merely resumed the _Guardian_ with a grunt.
In three weeks' time Mr. and Mrs. Melville accompanied their charge
to Tilbury, and when they saw the _Arabia_ leave her moorings, waved
good-bye to Verona with as much emotion as if she had been their own
child.