There was a sudden commotion in the front part of the
bungalow--barking, running and calling. Dominga, in a breathless
condition, burst in upon Verona, and gasped out:
"Oh, my goodness, here is Blanche! and none of us are dressed! Do go
into the drawing-room, you are ready. Go, go, go!"
Thus exhorted, Verona hastened into that apartment, barely in time to
see a gharry, drawn by two wretched ponies, rattle underneath the porch.
The first person she descried was a stout ayah, who descended
backwards, carrying an infant over her shoulder; an alert,
sharp-looking creature, in a gay hood, with eyes like two jet beads,
and a dusky skin.
The next to appear was, no doubt, Blanche herself; a little, dark, wiry
woman, closely resembling her mother, wearing a smart pink cotton, a
picture hat and a profusion of bead chains. She sprang up the steps,
suddenly stopped short, stared helplessly at Verona, and exclaimed:
"Hul--lo! I suppose this is the third Miss Chandos?" Then she giggled
immoderately, and proceeded to kiss her, adding:
"I am Blanche. Blanche Montagu Jones, you know, and here," turning and
dragging forward her husband, "is your brother, Montagu."
Montagu was a lank, narrow-chested Eurasian, showily dressed in a blue
and white striped suit; he wore a red satin tie, a gilt chain and
several rings. He had well-cut features, a simple, amiable expression,
and a pair of pale grey eyes, which seemed peculiarly out of place when
contrasted with his dark face, and ink-black hair.
"Come, you may kiss her; I give you leave," declared his sprightly
wife, pushing him forward with both hands.
But however willing he might have been to accept this permission,
there was an expression on the face of the third Miss Chandos which
constrained him, and he merely sniggered and offered a limp hand.
"What! not kiss Monty, your own brother?" cried Blanche, in a tone
of affronted amazement, "then all I can say is--I'm sorry for your
_taste_!"
Meanwhile Monty consoled himself by saluting his mother-in-law--with
whom he appeared to be on terms of unnatural affection.
"And here," resumed Blanche, now waving forward her offspring, "is your
dear little nephew, Chandos Montagu Jones; he is ten weeks old to-day.
Kiss your new auntie, sweetie king."
From this embrace there was of course no escape; for the ayah promptly
handed the child to Verona with an air of gratified relief. If Verona
had been informed that it was the woman's own infant, she would have
accepted the announcement without demur, the little thing was so dark;
its olive face was bright and cheery, and she dandled it, kissed it,
and carried it about with a secret presentiment that she would like it
better than either of its parents!
"Well, now there is so much I want to know," began Blanche, as she
threw herself into a chair; "when did she come?" nodding at Verona,
"for we all went to the train and could not see her anywhere. We took
the De Castros, and the Jenkins, and Mr. Bott, and those two young
fellows from the cantonment office. Oh, my! they were all dying to get
the first sight of Verona, and she was not there. She must have come by
the four o'clock, and we went to the half-past two."
"Dios!" suddenly interrupting herself with a loud shriek, for here
entered, with mincing and self-conscious gait, Dominga and Pussy,
attired in two of Verona's most elegant casino costumes. The former
in pale green (her particular colour), veiled with white lace, and
garnished with black velvet; the latter, in a superb hand-painted
muslin. They wore hats and ruffles to correspond, and an air of
overwhelming complacency.
"Why, why, what is this, what is this?" screamed Blanche, backing
towards the verandah with uplifted hands and an expression of awe and
bewilderment.
Without delay it was volubly explained to her by three voices, all
gabbling together, that these were the garments of Verona, who had
more smart clothes than the room could hold. Then Dominga and Pussy
sat down, each on a separate sofa, spread out their skirts, fanned
themselves languidly, and proceeded to imagine that they were fine
ladies. Gradually Blanche's gaze of awed admiration faded into a scowl
of envy.
Montagu stared and sniggered, and twirled his moustache, whilst Verona
stood in the background, holding the little dark child, who apparently
liked her, and clung to her neck like a very crab.
"Oh, but you shall have your share, too!" said Dominga, in a soothing
tone, as she recognised the storm cone--for Blanche had inherited her
mother's temper.
"There is a lovely toque for you, and such a dress piece of white
alpaca, and you shall have one of my parasols. There now!"
"Parasol, cha--a--h" (native expression of scorn)--"you put me off like
that! Why shouldn't I have a smart dress? How sly and greedy you all
are, keeping the grand things to yourselves--just like pigs. One thing
you forget," as she straightened herself and glared from Dominga to
Pussy, then back from Pussy to Dominga, "I am the eldest!"
"Oh, yes, but that does not count now," was the bold retort, "you are
not one of us; you are married. Oh, my!" with a change of key. "Here is
Mrs. Lepell, what shall we do?"
During this interesting altercation a slim little lady, with a clever
piquant face, had walked on to the verandah totally unnoticed.
She wore a simple linen gown and a large garden hat, and her hair,
which was turned off her delicate careworn face, was touched with grey.
"How do you do, Mrs. Chandos?" she said, coming forward, then gave a
perceptible start as her eye fell on the two Paris models.
"I've just walked across to call on your daughter, the new arrival,"
and she nodded to the rest of the company.
"Oh, thank you," stammered Mrs. Chandos, "you are so kind, there
she is," and she beckoned to Verona, who stood in the background,
still holding the child; this its grandmother snatched from her with
irritable haste, and said as she thrust it into the ayah's arms:
"Verona, here is Mrs. Lepell, she has been so kind as to ask for you."
If Mrs. Lepell had been amazed by the brilliant toilettes of the Misses
Chandos, she was more astonished now, when a girl of her own class
came slowly forward: a beautiful dark-eyed creature, with an air of
unaffected distinction.
At first she could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses. Here,
indeed, was a dove in the crow's nest.
"So you only arrived yesterday?" she managed to articulate at last.
"Yes, last evening."
"Shall we sit over here?" said Mrs. Lepell, indicating a settee a
little apart. Her visit was to the stranger, whose acquaintance she was
now really anxious to make. She particularly disliked Mrs. Chandos,
and if there was one young woman who was more obnoxious to her than
Dominga, it was Blanche Montagu Jones. The family accepted the hint
with obvious reluctance, and stood aloof in a group, whispering,
giggling and wrangling.
"I believe you have never been in India since you were a small child,"
continued Mrs. Lepell, addressing her companion.
"No, I do not remember it; I have lived in Europe for twenty years."
"Ah, I wonder what you will think of us all!"
Verona raised her eyes to her visitor, then dropped them hastily, but
not before Mrs. Lepell had caught their look of unspoken despair.
"I am quite an old Anglo-Indian," she continued briskly. "I loathed
the country at first, now I am much attached to it; the cold weather
will be here in another few weeks. You will enjoy that, it is our gay
season."
Here it seemed to Mrs. Lepell that her companion gave a slight
involuntary shudder.
"I am sure you will wonder at the way these mad girls are giggling,"
said Mrs. Chandos, with a would-be jaunty air, as she approached and
indicated Dominga and Pussy. "They are awfully smart, and have been
trying on their sister's kind presents."
"Why, mother," interposed Blanche (who had no fear of Mrs. Lepell, her
husband not being in the factory), "Pussy tells me that besides the
beautiful presents she brought out, you divided all Verona's best gowns
between her and Dominga!"
On such occasions as the present Mrs. Chandos hated her eldest
daughter, who had a sharp and utterly fearless tongue.
"Oh, you do not understand," she began excitedly.
"I see I've come in for a dress-rehearsal," observed Mrs. Lepell,
hoping to smooth matters.
"Borrowed plumes! secondhand clothes. Ch-a-ah!" sneered Blanche, in
a shrill, discordant key. She breathed so hard that all her beads
jingled, and her husband retreated precipitately into the verandah.
Was Blanche going to have a row with her mother?
Oh, she was so fond of rows! Rows commencing with shrill vituperation,
screaming abuse, and concluding (in cases of defeat) in hysterics and
collapse.
"I think you must have come out with the Trevors," continued Mrs.
Lepell, as she turned to Verona, "I see they were in the _Egypt_."
"Yes, and I met them before; we were at the same hotel in Cannes for
three months."
"Then you know the Riviera?"
"Yes, we generally spent the winter there--or in Florence."
"You seem to have travelled a good deal."
"We lived on the Continent ever since I grew up. This time last year we
were at Homburg."
"I wonder if you met my cousins, Sir Ellis and Lady Byng? They go there
every season."
"Oh, yes, I used to go motoring with them, and played golf with their
daughter Eva; she is such a nice girl. We were great friends."
For the moment Verona had forgotten herself and her surroundings.
She was no longer a Eurasian, patronised by the wife of her father's
employer, but one English woman talking to another on an agreeable
equality.
"I'm sure you had happy times at Homburg," said Mrs. Lepell, "and of
course you went to the Opera at Frankfort?"
"Yes, constantly; we used to rush over on a motor car."
"And here you come down to bullock carts! Well, if we're not
progressive, we're at least picturesque. I hope you brought out a few
of the last new books, as well as the last new fashions?"
"Yes, I've a fairly good supply, and all this month's magazines."
"Then I shall certainly come and borrow from you; I am a ravenous
reader, and find it difficult to keep myself going in books. At present
I am starving and reduced to back numbers."
"I shall be delighted to supply you."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Lepell, rising, "you have no idea how
rapacious I can be. I hope you will come and see me as soon as you are
settled. I am always at home, from three to five."
This was the warmest invitation the stiff-necked little lady had ever
accorded to a Chandos; she had never told Dominga she was "at home from
three to five." But, then, she neither admired nor pitied Dominga, who
was not an interesting acquaintance, merely an emotional, empty-headed
half-caste, with a fierce craving for pleasure, and a powerful soprano
voice.
This new arrival was a totally different person, well-educated,
refined, reserved. Alas, poor child! fresh from congenial English
society and many agreeable friends, to be cast into the midst of this
squalid Eurasian family. What a fate!