As Verona waited alone in this dim, unfamiliar room, her heart throbbed
quickly; more than once she caught her breath with an involuntary gasp,
for she realized that she was on the threshold of the most momentous
event of her life; within the next few seconds she would be face to
face with her mother.
Picture the situation! For twenty years this girl had lived with
strangers, moving among friendly family circles, but belonging to
none; secretly envious of home and blood ties. Although she bestowed
her affections generously, an enormous reserve fund was stored up in
her heart, ready to be lavished on someone near and dear, and someone
near and dear was coming now. As she gazed with eyes grown deep with
longing towards the curtained doors, her feelings were indescribable;
in spite of the close, airless atmosphere, she was icy cold, and her
clammy hands trembled in her lap.
Half unconsciously she contemplated her surroundings, the imposing
grand piano, blackwood carved furniture, upholstered in red damask,
marble-topped tables, Indian rugs, and three high doors, corresponding
with the French windows. The room resembled a salon in some foreign
hotel; no flowers, photographs or books were to be seen, much less a
cat or dog, a rumpled newspaper, or scrap of work; but there was a
curious unfamiliar odour, a mysterious combination of musk and coffee.
To judge by their bungalow and the smart victoria, her parents were
in easy circumstances--the standard of wealth in the East presumably
differed from that in the West; poverty in England meant luxury in
Manora. It was true that her father's clothes were shabby, but she was
aware that some elderly men despised their personal appearance; and had
not her father administered a shock? A sharp unexpected disappointment?
Angrily she drove away the fact, but like an irritating insect, it
returned with determined persistence.
He was undoubtedly a gentleman, his features were finely cut, his voice
and manner unimpeachable, but there was a hidden tragedy in those weary
eyes and timid deprecating air. What was the experience which had
crushed all the light out of his face? and why did he look as if he
abode day and night with the giant Despair? Was his haggard expression
merely the result of ill-health, or, in consequence, of the doom of
exile? Then her thoughts sprang back to that central figure--her
mother. Oh, when would she come? What was detaining her?
Presently Verona became aware of a stealthy hustling and scuffling
outside one of the curtained doors; her relations were evidently in her
immediate vicinity. There was a sound of half-suppressed squeaks, of
giggling and tittering, then a voice, in a well-known accent, cried:
"Oh, goody me! Pussy, Pussy, come along!"
Instantly the reply in breathless jerks, like a double knock, "No! no!
no! you go!--you go!"
And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated--was briskly whisked
aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she
could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with
a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed
that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide
scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned
that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati--or
even Madame de Godez!
"Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced
and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are!
You must stoop for me to kiss you."
Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might
be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute.
"My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall
girls are the fashion--so the papers say!"
As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and
fixed intently on the door, she cried:
"Whatt are you doing, child? Why are you staring so?"
"I am expecting my mother; is she coming soon?" she faltered, in a low
tone.
"Soon," repeated the little dark woman, with a scream of hysterical
laughter, "why, she is here, child! Don't you know that _I_ am your
mother? Whatt a funny girl! My! whatt a joke!"
"_You_," stammered Verona, in a faint voice; the room was whirling
round, as she hastily put out her hand to support herself by the table.
"Why, of course, and who else?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, in a sharp
challenging key. "You are astonished because I am so small; I am
astonished because you are so big, so we are quits. No?"
Verona could not speak; she felt as if a rock had fallen upon her heart
and was seized by a choking sensation that threatened to strangle her.
It was the crucial moment of her life. A thunderbolt had shattered her
personality; her very identity seemed dissolved, who was she? What was
she? Vainly she struggled to realize that she was the daughter of this
half-caste woman! Yes, she, with all her delicate fastidiousness, her
uncontrollable antipathy to black blood--her invincible pride of race.
Poor old Madame was indeed prophetic, when she had talked of
"punishment." What a sentence! It was worse than death.
Fortunately the light was dim, the sudden Indian twilight had invaded
the room, for Verona's face was fixed and frozen in an ecstasy of
horror.
"You don't seem to have much to say for yourself," began Mrs. Chandos,
in a querulous, complaining tone, but before she had completed the
sentence her husband entered, closely followed by two young women, and
a slouching youth in a gaudy red blazer.
"Ah, you and your mother have met," he observed in an unnatural muffled
voice. "So you have seen her?"
"Who could see anyone in this light?" cried his wife. "Here is the
lamp," as a bearded servant entered, carrying a large argand, which he
placed on the table.
"Now I'm going to have a good look at Verona," announced Mrs. Chandos,
as she seized the girl's wrist in a fierce claw-like clutch--her tiny
hand resembled the paw of a marmoset--and led her nearer to the light.
The scrutiny proved to be critical, it was more--it was cruel; the
hard, eager eyes that stared into hers, were keen as sword points, and
the unhappy girl realized that no love lay within that searching gaze.
Releasing her daughter with a little contemptuous push, Mrs. Chandos
turned to her husband, and said, "She's like no one I've ever seen; I
suppose _you_ think Verona takes after your family," and she laughed,
as if this idea embodied an excellent joke.
"Yes, I believe she does," admitted Mr. Chandos, as he glanced at the
white, set face with a look of anxious deprecation.
"Well, now we must introduce Verona to her sisters and brother,"
pursued his wife; "this is Dominga," as she led forward a tall, slim
girl of twenty, with a bleached complexion and masses of splendid red
hair; her eyes were long and narrow, her nose delicately cut, her lips
were full; as she pressed them on Verona's cheek they were dry and
burning like two coals.
"And here is Pussy; her real name is Bellamina." Pussy, who was shy,
approached wriggling and giggling. She was dark and plump, but had a
sweet good-tempered face, and her eyes were magnificent. She looked up
timidly at her pale English sister, and in another second Pussy had
flung her arms around her neck and given her her first really cordial
embrace.
"Oh, my goodness, Verona!" she gasped, "you are a beautee, just like a
picture. I shall love you, I know."
"And here is Nicky," continued Mrs. Chandos, dragging up a reluctant
youth, with his long lank wrists bare of cuff, his wiry hair on end,
his sunken eyes twinkling and mischievous. Nicky grinned from ear to
ear, but made no attempt to salute his relative.
"So now you have seen them all except Blanche, and she will come
to-morrow," said Mrs. Chandos. "Oh, my! how funny it is, to have one
great big, new daughter, just like a stranger, is it not, Verona?"
"Yes," she acquiesced, mechanically, scarcely aware that she had
spoken. Was this scene really happening, or was it not some hideous
dream?
"If old Fernanda had not been so weecked we should never have seen
you at all. No?" Mrs. Chandos concluded most of her sentences with a
staccato-like note of negation.
"Which would have been our misfortune," supplemented Mr. Chandos, with
unexpected force. "We are all glad to claim Verona."
As he spoke his eyes rested on this mute newcomer with a look of
melancholy pride. Here was the only one among his children who was
a true Chandos in bearing and breeding; the little fledgling who,
twenty years previously, had, despite his remonstrances, been thrust
out of the nest. What a difference her companionship would have made
to him!--an ever present reminder of his home and youth. Would she be
a comfort to him now? or would she hate and despise him (he cringed
mentally at the thought) for having given her such a mother?
"And now you have seen us all, what do you think of us?" demanded Mrs.
Chandos.
Verona was still too stunned to speak; her sole reply was a sickly
smile.
"You know all about Blanche."
"And she doesn't count now she's married," protested Dominga; "she made
such a bad match; he is only in the telegraph at one hundred and twenty
rupees a month. Oh, she was a mad girl!"
"Come, I wonder what you think of us," reiterated her mother, who
seemed determined to extract some reply to her question. "My! how white
you look! You are tired; better have some tea, it is arl ready."
"No, thank you," faltered Verona, "I had some at the station."
"Whatt," wheeling sharply on her husband, "thatt was just waste, and
must have cost one rupee; but you always have these grand lord ways
when you are alone, and you forget your big family and small pay. No?"
Verona listened, mentally benumbed; her eyes seemed too large for her
face; she looked white and worn, and years older than the girl who so
eagerly alighted at Rajahpore an hour previously; but of all the gazing
group, the wretched girl's father alone comprehended her sensations;
his heart ached for her cruel disillusion. He had intended to drop a
word, a little, little hint on their way home--but cowardice had laid
her finger on his lips!
"I am sure your sister is tired," he said, glancing hurriedly at Pussy
as he spoke; he dared not meet Verona's eyes, tragic with misery and
pain. "Take her away, like a good girl, and show her her room." Oh,
thrice, thrice blessed escape! Pussy, the ever impulsive, instantly
flung her arm round Verona's waist, while Dominga held aside the
purdah, and the three sisters passed forth.
"Of course, it is all strange to you at first," began Dominga, leading
the way with a swaggering gait and the heavy trail of some sickly
perfume, "but you will soon seem like one of the family, you will see,
and just as if you had lived here arl-ways."
What a prospect!