The visitor wore a long, blue cloth coat, belted with leather, a huge
white turban and a venerable white beard. His air and expression of
benevolent dignity recalled to Verona the pictures of the prophet
Abraham.
"Why, it is Abdul Buk!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Abdul, what a man you
are! I believe," laying her hand over the gold in front of her, "you
smell money."
"Nay!" and he salaamed as he spoke; "I have come hither on a little
business; I know nought of smell, but the sight of money is ever good."
He grinned broadly at his own pleasantry and displayed several yellow
stumps.
"Behold my new grandchild, Abdul," cried Mrs. Lopez, indicating Verona
with flattering complacency; "is she not well grown?"
Once more he salaamed, and the girl slightly bent her head in
acknowledgment of the salute.
"He manages your mother's little property," continued the old woman,
"and has doubled her income. Oh, he is very clever!"
"I hope he will double this gold," said Mrs. Chandos, piling it up into
neat rows. "See, Abdul, three hundred English sovereigns; it belongs to
my daughter; it is her fortune," and as she spoke she filled both hands
with the coin and held them towards him with a playful air. "Don't you
wish it was all yours?"
"Money, in a woman's hands, won't last; a child, left in the hands of a
man, won't live," quoted Mrs. Lopez with impressive solemnity.
"But Abdul will invest it for Verona, and get her good interest--won't
you, Abdul?" said Mrs. Chandos; "say one hundred and fifty rupees a
year." As she spoke she turned towards him, and their eyes met in one
long, fixed look.
"Oh, yess; certainly," he answered, "I can promise thatt. Oh, yess."
"Then you will invest in sugar?"
"Oh, yess."
"Had you better take it now, or another time?"
"No time like the present," he replied; "delays are dangerous. See,"
to Mrs. Lopez, "I have the English proverbs at my fingers' ends. My
carriage is here, and I will take the money. In this big house it is
not safe."
"That is true," acquiesced Nani. Meanwhile Mrs. Chandos, who seemed to
be feverishly excited, gathered up the sovereigns with hot, tremulous
fingers, and returned them into the green silk bag, which she handed to
Abdul with a nod of mysterious significance.
"Of course, he will give a receipt," said Mrs. Lopez in a sharp
business-like voice; "better take receipt."
"Oh, yess; I will go into the office and write it, and Mrs. Chandos
will lend me one stamp," and he tramped out with ponderous creaking
footfall. Whilst Abdul was absent the crocodile travelling case
attracted Mrs. Lopez' curiosity, and she requested an immediate
introduction to its further contents. One by one these were gradually
presented, a tiny gold watch and jewelled chain, a case of valuable
rings. As each was exhibited Mrs. Lopez and her daughter joined in a
harmonious duet of "Oh, mys!" But a turquoise and diamond necklace,
and a splendid emerald pendant, set in brilliants, reduced them to
a condition of gasping silence. Subsequent silver-mounted brushes,
mirrors and bottles and even a gold shoe-horn appeared in comparison
but very small deer. Had that gambling old card-table, imported in
the early days of John Company, ever exhibited as much money's worth?
The ayah had crept in stealthily; so had Pussy. Were they drawn by
some inexplicable instinct, or by the mere, careless chance of pure
coincidence? Abdul, too, had returned, paper in hand, and stood silent
in the background, admiring, and possibly appraising, the jewels.
What a scene for an artist! The hot, squalid room, the dark faces,
the staring, greedy eyes; in the midst the little old table loaded
with jewels, and the pale, indifferent English girl to whom they all
belonged.
"What think you of these, Abdul?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, pointing with
a tremulous finger.
"That," advancing two steps, with creaking boots, "the wife of the
Viceroy hath no better."
"And their value?" she asked, sharply.
"Nay, I am ignorant. I deal in sugar cane and gram, not precious
stones. It were wise to put them in some place of safety, and here is
the receipt for the money," he continued, holding out a sheet of paper
on which was inscribed: "Manora, September fifth. Received, to place at
good, safe interest, as I may find occasion, the sum of three hundred
sovereigns, English money, from Miss Verona Chandos, the interest to be
paid every six months into her hands by me, ABDUL HAMID BUK."
"There! that is all right and stamped," he said, "and now I will take
the gold and depart. I would advise the Missy Sahib to be mindful of
her jewels."
"Thank God the money will be out of the house!" said Mrs. Lopez,
piously; "this, as is well known, is an awful district for robbery and
murder."
"Only among natives," corrected Mrs. Chandos, with a fearless toss of
her head.
"It has a very bad name," argued her mother, "that you know, and that
is why Salwey is in charge of the police; truly the last man was an old
woman."
"And this one is a young devil!" cried her daughter with startling
vehemence.
"Come to the office once more, Abdul. I want a word with you about my
rents," said Mrs. Chandos.
"Certainly," he replied, and, money in hand, and having executed a
general salaam, the benignant patriarch tramped out of the room in the
wake of his employer. Pussy assisted her sister to collect and put away
the jewellery, uttering, as she did so, many flattering adjectives.
"Now you must go to bed, children," announced their grandmother;
"it is after nine o'clock. The travelling girl is dead tired," and
at last Verona escaped to her own quarters, kind Pussy carrying the
dressing-bag, and affectionately anxious to help her to undress, and,
above all, to brush her hair. Her good offices were set aside with the
greatest difficulty. Being naturally a little dense, it never dawned
upon Bellamina Chandos that her sister did not require assistance, or
would prefer her own company.
At last her simple mind accepted the novel idea, and her entreaties
ceased.
"Dom," she whispered, as she embraced her, "is not quite sure; but _I_
know--that I shall love you."
With one vigorous hug she vanished, and Verona was left alone.
* * * * *
As soon as she had closed and carefully bolted the door on Pussy's
pretty entreating face, Verona turned down the smoky lamp and sat for a
considerable time in the dark, alone with her own thoughts. Presently
these thoughts became so terrible--so unbearably painful, like some
intense physical agony, that she rose, unfastened the window and
wandered into the verandah and down a path by the bank of the river.
The river was wide and swift, being swollen by the recent rains; on the
further side it was bordered by a high jungle of reeds and rushes, and
beyond it, as seen through a filmy veil of gauze, lay the spreading
moonlit plain which seemed to stretch away into the infinite, which
was also India! Behind rose the bungalow, large and straggling: on the
left towered the factory; to the right lay the office, with the light
still burning in the window. Verona noticed these details as she paced
the pathway, flitting to and fro like some distracted spirit on the
banks of the Styx; and was she not a creature suddenly transported
to an unknown world? She was no longer Verona Chandos, who had fared
delicately all her life, who had a carefully cultivated taste in
music and literature, definite ideas respecting bindings and coloured
prints, who collected book plates, was discriminating in her choice
of associates, dainty in her tastes, a much-desired partner for golf,
bridge or cotillon, a girl who had found her world a pleasant place
to live in, and had tried to share with others some of the sunshine
which had fallen to her lot. And she was not a bad girl--though she
might have been better; was inclined to be quick-tempered and a little
supercilious, but she had endeavoured to be sincere, to be kind to the
sick and poor, and to champion dumb animals. Well, that Verona was
dead; she had passed away for ever, with all her little vanities and
tempers and love of pretty clothes and interesting pursuits.
And here was the other, the real original Verona, a poor half-caste,
whose life and thoughts must be confined to the limits of her parents'
purse and wishes, who must keep in step with her two sisters and look
for nothing beyond the horizon of her home. And what had she in common
with her relations? Nothing beyond the mere fact of her existence and
name. Apparently their aim in life was to climb into station society;
and her aim in life?--what was her dearest wish at the present moment?
Her dearest wish--she scarcely dared whisper it even to her inner
soul. Verona was making acquaintance with the truth, the hideous,
hard-hearted truth, and her thoughts were so disordered that she did
not realise what time of night it was, or even that it was night! But
at last her tired body refused to co-operate with her restless mind,
and completely exhausted, she was compelled to drag herself to her
bed--where sleep immediately claimed her.
Though dreams visited the worn-out traveller, her slumbers were almost
as profound as if she had really passed away. Once she awoke in the
still night; the moon streamed full into the room; there was a faint
sound of flowing water. Where was she? Her drowsy brain failed to
recall the great events of yesterday.
Suddenly a strange, weird sound pierced the silence, the wild, horrible
howl of a pack of hunting jackals as they swept across the plain beyond
the river, and for a frantic moment the wretched girl believed herself
to be listening, in some dim region, to the agonised wailing of lost
souls.
But no; it was only a hideous nightmare! She turned on her side with a
sigh of relief, and again relapsed into slumber.
In the morning when Verona opened her eyes, it was to gaze vacantly
about her. She was at a loss to remember how she came to be lying
in this great bare room. Where was she? Was she in Spain, or some
out-of-the-way French town? She strove to summon her scattered
thoughts, and all too soon they came trooping back and assured her that
she was at last at home--yes, in her real home, among her own people!
She was sensible of a feeling of repulsion and absolute despair, and
yet another self--which must have been her original baby self--cried
shame on her for her hard heart and unnatural, wicked pride. Why should
she be proud? She was nothing more nor less than a well-educated
half-caste, who had been foolishly removed from her proper sphere,
her own particular class. Her father--oh! why had he married a woman
of such a race? Now, she understood his constrained manner, his
ashamed silence and his downcast air, why he seemed to shun his former
associates and to withdraw from society like some social outlaw. And
she, who had never had one hint of her own origin, had acquired the
ideas, refinements and prejudices of a high-bred English girl. What was
to become of her?
She sat up in bed, holding her hands to her throbbing head, and
endeavoured to individualise her relations. Her father--the broken-down
gentleman, lethargic and dumb; her mother--she shrank from the subject
as a flame; her sisters--uneducated, emotional, shrill; given to cheap
scents and greasy sweetmeats; her grandmother--but one degree above the
ayah; and her own good looks complacently attributed to an ancestress,
a Temple girl who danced before the gods!
It all sounded like an Opéra Bouffe, a transformation scene of wild,
topsy-turvy comedy, instead of which it was the sharp, agonising truth;
no burlesque, but a heart-breaking tragedy--the tragedy of her life.
How was she to endure this existence? What could she do? Where could
she go? Where hide herself? For the first time in her existence, a
longing for death surprised her.
There was a loud rattling and calling at the door, which she
opened, to discover (as she half expected), Pussy, in a tattered
pink dressing-jacket and bare feet, bringing her her morning Chotah
Hazri. Here was an end to silence and self-communion; she must rouse
herself, summon her self-command and confront her fate. Meanwhile a
cup of fragrant Indian tea, some slices of curious grey bazaar bread
and peculiarly white butter seemed delicious fare to a girl, who had
scarcely tasted food for four-and-twenty hours.
The long hours of the morning were devoted by Verona to unpacking her
boxes and distributing gifts, such as books, fans, little ornaments and
knick-knacks; her sisters and Nicky were enchanted with their presents;
her mother only, accepted her share with a doubtful and ungracious air,
nor did she attempt to disguise her opinion that she regarded such
outlay as a sinful waste of money.
In the afternoon, when tiffin was over, it was the custom of the entire
family to repair to their several lairs in order to enjoy a long
siesta; and Verona, thus released, now set about unpacking her own
personal effects; but Pussy, for once, dispensed with her nap and clung
to her sister with an offer of her society and assistance; it was
impossible for her to comprehend that any one could endure to be alone.
She artlessly believed that Verona was as anxious for her company
as she was to accord it. Her co-operation being politely declined,
instead of taking her departure--as hoped for--Pussy merely kicked off
her shoes and flung herself at full length on the bed, where she lay
in an attitude of voluptuous ease, lazily contemplating her sister's
exertions.
"My, my, my! how neat you are!" she exclaimed in admiration, as she
watched her busy relative emptying boxes and putting away linen, "and
how quick; the ayah would have taken hours! What heaps of stockings,
petticoats, and books--none of us read, except father and Dom--you see,
we've not had much schooling. Nicky is as ignorant as a coolie boy;
only for that, he would get into the works. I am just as bad. Dominga
is our clever one; she writes a good hand, and she sings splendidly."
"Oh, does she?" said Verona; "where was she taught?"
"She learnt at the school; we were both at school in Nani Tal. They say
her voice is extraordinary, you can hear it half a koss away. She plays
tennis and badminton better than any girl in Manora. Mother is so proud
of her! Mother is clever too, especially at writing and figures; she
loves accounts. Yes, mother loves two things, Dominga and money! Father
loves silence and smoking. Nani loves coffee and news."
"And Pussy?" looking up with a smile.
"Loves you, Verona."
"Thank you, dear."
"And also someone, oh, so much! but I cannot tell you _yet_; it is a
secret," and Pussy turned her face away and hid her blushes in the
pillow. However, her blushes and emotion were of transitory duration,
for in a few seconds her sprightly voice was saying:
"Of course, _you_ have a thousand lovers, Verona?"
"I? Certainly not!"
"Oh, but--it cannot be true; why there is Dominga, not a quarter so
pretty, and she has had dozens. Even Lizzie Trotter has a young man in
the commissariat."
"And I have not, even what you call one young man, in anything."
"You are so pretty, you will get millions of offers; mother wishes us
all to marry. Even when Blanche went, and it was such a poor match, she
was glad. She expects Dominga to marry an officer. Ah, Rona, you are
not even listening," she protested in a little piteous wail, "and I
thought you might like to hear all about it."
"Of course I am listening," replied her sister, from the interior of an
open box over which she was stooping; "you were saying something about
Dominga and an officer."
"Yes, and we hardly know one. Father was in the army himself, the 51st
Hussars, and yet he will never call on the mess, although friends of
his have been in the station. Father is so odd--nothing will make him
go near a regiment, not even mother, and she can generally get him
to do whatever she chooses; he has given in to her about everything,
except about _you_."
"What about me?" asked her sister, quickly raising her head; "but no,
don't tell me--it is better not."
"Oh, mother will tell you herself; it is no secret! She has told
everyone in Manora that she did not want you to come out. It was
another girl to marry, she said, and no money! She declared you
could get a nice situation at home; and you were a stranger, a black
stranger, and would ruin us with your bad example and silly English
notions. Even Nani said you were like the Dhoby's donkey, for you
neither belonged to the house, or the river! You know how she talks in
proverbs?"
"Yes," assented Verona in a faint voice.
"But father swore you should come, and he wrote himself--he who never
writes. Do you know, when mother got your letter she screamed for three
whole hours! She always does that when she is awfully angry. Oh, she
is not angry now she has seen you; no, no, no, she is proud! I heard
her this morning talking over the wall to Mrs. Trotter, and boasting of
your air and figure. But still I think Dominga will always be first."
"And why not? My mother has had her with her since she was born, and I
am, as you know, a stranger."
"You won't be long so," declared Pussy; "you will soon be at home, I
can see. Just look how you've put away your things and arranged this
room. Now, I must tell you something about the people all round before
they come to call--so you will know. First of all there are Mr. and
Mrs. Lepell in the big bungalow; he is the manager of the factory, and
draws two thousand rupees a month; he is nice and friendly, but we
never get to know _her_ any better. Oh, she is not exactly proud, but
she keeps us off. Her father was a big swell, and she has a fortune.
She is not at all young; mother says she must be five-and-forty, but
she dresses beautifully, and gives such fine parties; they entertain
the whole station like a king and queen. Yess, she is quite the Burra
Mem Sahib, and only asks us to her small affairs, when we meet just the
other factory people. Mother hates her--oh, goody me!--like poison, but
is always awfully pleasant to her, and sends her her best mango jelly
and chutney, because she hopes she may take up Dominga. She did ask Dom
once to sing, and if Mrs. Lepell would chaperon Dom into society, her
fortune would be made. Oh, my, yess!"
"I see," assented her listener, "and it is with this hope that mother
sends her mango jam?"
"Of course. Then there are the Trotters," resumed Pussy, with an air
of complacent narration; "he was only a sergeant in some regiment, and
he is the engineer here; they say he is very clever--just a common,
rough man, with such a pushing family. There is Mrs. Trotter and Amelia
and Georgina, Louisa and Tom. Tom is in the works. He and Dominga used
to be pals; but she threw him over long ago. The Trotters are always
looking down on us, because we have never been home, and they were
born in England; but they are coolie people, and our father is an
officer and a gentleman. Sometimes we are awfully friendly with the
Trotters, and in and out ten times a day; sometimes we don't speak for
months. Last time we quarrelled was about a bottle of anchovy sauce
which they never returned.
"Then there are the Watkins, a newly-married couple, out from
Manchester. He is secretary; she is awfully prim, and afraid to know
any one, and dresses for dinner when they are quite _alone_, and talks
of her father keeping two gardeners. There are the Cavalhos; they are
just half-castes; oh, so dark, and yet not bad. I like them; they
are awfully good natured. When anyone is in trouble they all run to
Mistress Cavalho. Also, there are the Olivers--gone home on leave--very
nice people and not stiff, though they are gentry folk. There are some
young men clerks--Raymond, and Smith and Mackenzie. We all meet at the
tennis three times a week and play together, whether we are friends or
not. Then there is Salwey----" She paused.
"Who is he?" inquired Verona, feigning an interest which she was far
from feeling.
"The police officer, a nephew of Mrs. Lepell's; he lives in
cantonments. He is so strict and severe. Oh, mother does hate him--I
believe she is afraid of him!"
"How can he possibly affect mother?" inquired Verona, as she sorted out
some gloves.
"Of course, not at all, but he gives you the horrid notion that he can
read your thoughts, and knows every single little thing about you.
Whenever he looks at me, I can't help wriggling like an insect on a
pin, and mother declares that he has the evil eye!"
"The evil eye!" repeated Verona; "you don't really believe in such
nonsense?"
"Well, perhaps not. Salwey's eyes are bluey-grey, like steel. He is not
bad looking, and once--now I'll tell you a secret----"
"No, don't! Please!" protested Verona, throwing up her hands.
"Oh, but I must; I do like talking secrets," pursued Pussy with
breathless volubility, "I think Dominga used to be crazy about him, and
sent him notes by Nicky."
"What!"
"Yes; but I don't believe he ever gave them. Salwey and Nicky are
great friends. He lives near the river and has a boat, and comes up
to the Lepells that way when he is in the station. He gave Nicky a
pup, and books and advice, and taught him to row. We have a boat, too.
Nicky's awfully fond of Salwey, he just worships him; but he can't bear
Dominga, and I don't believe he ever gave the letters. You must know
that in this house there are two factions: it is Dom and mother against
Nick and me. Oh! oh! oh!" suddenly sitting erect, "you are getting out
your dresses! how lovelee!" as Verona unfolded and displayed a white
crêpe de chine, a green foulard and an exquisite white and silver ball
dress.
Pussy clapped her hands excitedly, and screaming, "Oh, I must call the
others," leapt off the bed and ran shoeless out of the room.
Verona was a girl who wore her clothes well in every respect; not
only had she the knack of investing them with her own grace and
individuality, but they still seemed dainty and fresh long after they
had passed their first bloom. There were no tea or coffee stains on
the front breadth (that every-day misfortune), frayed seams or ragged
edges in the gowns she was taking from her boxes or ranging round the
room for the promised exhibition. Here were tailor costumes, evening
dresses, muslins, laces and many dainty frocks which had been worn at
Homburg, Aix and Cannes, and some had cost what is figuratively termed
"a small fortune."
The apartment now resembled the atelier of some fashionable milliner,
the stock was so choice and extensive. In a surprisingly short time
the "others" had assembled. These included Mrs. Chandos, her hair in
curling pins, spotted dressing-jacket and short striped petticoat--she
had very neat feet; Dominga, in ragged _déshabille_; the ayah,
attracted from her hookah; last, not least, Granny Lopez, clad in
a loose garment that was really an old tussore silk dust-cloak, a
scanty petticoat and a pair of discarded tennis shoes, carrying under
her arm a reluctant black cat--all come to behold and gloat over the
great show. Nani was accommodated with a chair, and Verona, by special
request, held up and exhibited separately the most elegant items of her
wardrobe.
What little screams of admiration greeted the sight of some garments;
what a chorus of "Oh, mys!" attended the display of others. By the
end of half an hour every possible epithet of admiration had been
exhausted, and Verona was exhausted too.
"Well, in all my life, I never did see such beautiful clothes,"
confessed Mrs. Chandos.
Which statement was no doubt true.
"They must have cost hundreds of pounds."
This was also a fact.
"Oh, my! Oh, my! what advantages you have had, Verona, child, compared
with these poor girls," she continued as she flitted about the room
in a condition of extraordinary excitement; "you must share your fine
feathers with them now. If Dominga here were set off in that blue and
white, she would look every bit as well as you; all she wants is to be
dressed up in good clothes--eh, Nani?"
"That is so," agreed the elder with her wheezy laugh, "for who can row
without water?"
"Now I shall divide some of these things," declared Mrs. Chandos, as
she hovered about; "Verona could not wear half of them."
Verona, who had made up her mind never again to mix in society, and
had originally brought out this large outfit with the intention of
sharing it with her sisters, would nevertheless have preferred to have
bestowed her garments to her own liking, and not to stand by passively
while her mother distributed her wardrobe. The choicest articles were
shamelessly selected for Dominga--for instance, a magnificent white
satin gown, a pale blue crêpe de chine, an elaborate lace costume, a
mauve and silver tea gown. Then Pussy was endowed with various frocks
and hats (Verona helping in the selection), and the possession of a
certain pink feather boa had made her completely happy. Verona also
chose a pretty chiffon cape, which she spread over her grandmother's
ample shoulders. It was a very orgie of millinery, among which Mrs.
Chandos hovered, picking out a toque here, a sash there. At last, when
the supply had become somewhat low, she said:
"Well, that will do for the girls; I will take these blouses and the
pink satin for myself; it will alter, and I will wear it for the
Volunteer Ball. Eh, Nani, what do you say?"
"I say that if you wear such a frock you'll be more celebrated than the
devil!"
"Ah, bah!" cried her daughter. "You funny old woman. Is that all you
have to say?"
"No," she responded, and turning to Verona with a nod of her head at
the different piles of her property which had been distributed, "they
all like you very much now, Verona, child--'he who holds the ladle has
everybody his friend.' But let me tell you one thing more--your mother
has a pocket like the crop of a duck--you can never fill it!"
"And you are a curiosity and should be put in a museum," retorted her
daughter in great good humour. "Come, come, it is now half-past four
o'clock; Blanche and Montagu will be here soon; let us clear away and
dress," and swooping down upon a heap of her spoils, Mrs. Chandos
hurried out of the room, followed by Dominga, Pussy and the ayah, each
bowed down and nearly hidden by their loads of new finery.
But Mrs. Lopez was slower to move; having extricated herself from her
chair with considerable difficulty, she stood for a moment gazing at
Verona, and said, in an impressive voice:
"You have given me a nice present; you are a very generous girl and do
not despise your old crannie grandmother, so I will tell you one good
proverb to cheer you! Now listen."
"I am listening, Nani."
"'Our past is ourselves, what we are, and will be,'" quoted Mrs.
Lopez, and she continued to look fixedly at Verona with a significant
expression in her little dark eyes. "Do not trouble, child--you will
never be of _us_," then hitching the black cat under her arm, she
waddled away to her own quarters.