Mr. and Mrs. Montagu Jones remained to dine with their relations, and
Nani Lopez joined the party, invested in the rich satin purple gown
which she had purchased for Blanche's wedding; or, more correctly
speaking, she wore the flowing skirt, but had substituted for the
bodice an easy white jacket, and had coloured her face white to
correspond. Verona surveyed her venerable relations with reproachful
eyes. _How_ could people, who were naturally dark, imagine it possible
to change their skin by merely covering it with layers of pearl powder?
"Granny always comes in when we have Blanche," explained Dominga, in a
whisper, "because she hears the news. All the same she and Blanche were
never good friends. She calls Blanche a silly little bazaar cat."
Mr. Chandos, who seemed to spend his entire day in the factory,
appeared shortly before dinner and received with surprise the little
gifts offered by his English daughter.
"Books," he muttered, "now I wonder how you guessed at what I liked
best? Books, and a tobacco pouch. My two resources are reading and
smoking."
"Oh, yess, he is arl-right when he has his pipe and his books,"
remarked Nani Lopez in her soft fat voice. "He thinks he gets away from
his cares; but it is not so. Go to the wilderness, you cannot escape
fleas."
During dinner conversation was loud and animated. Blanche and Dominga,
who were seated opposite to one another, leant their elbows on the
table, and screamed across the board in their thin ear-piercing
trebles. Dominga volubly related the particulars of a recent social
outrage on the part of Mrs. Watkin, whilst Blanche, whose feelings were
chiefly on the surface, gave a highly coloured description of the death
of a kid and the illness of a bosom friend.
"I went to see Lucia Mendoza this morning. She looked so, so sick.
Well, I declare I was so struck, I fell down on her bed and I cried,
and I cried. If anything should happen to thatt girl, I shall _die_; I
know I shall."
"What nonsense you talk, child!" protested her grandmother. "Such
foolish grief might have frightened the poor creature to death."
"And," broke in Nicky, "though you and Lucia Mendoza are such grand
friends now, it is not a month since you came out here very mad, and
talking of going to law, because she had called you bad names."
"If Lucia were to take curdled milk and coriander seed she would soon
get arl-right," resumed Mrs. Lopez, "but she should begin it on a
Wednesday, it is a lucky day. Mind you tell her," and she looked over
at Blanche, and nodded her head impressively.
"Isn't Nani a funny old woman?" said Blanche, suddenly addressing
herself to Verona. "Did you ever see anyone like her in England?"
"Now, you don't talk like thatt, Mistress Blanche Jones," interposed
the old lady good-humouredly. "Anyhow, I know more of drugs, and cures,
and charms, than any old woman she has ever seen. Do you tell us some
news!"
Thus invited, Blanche readily poured out all the latest intelligence
respecting the forthcoming theatricals, and the race meeting which was
to be held after Christmas. A long altercation ensued respecting the
prices of tickets, in which Monty, Pussy and Mrs. Chandos took part.
Even Granny Lopez threw in a word or two, but Verona and her father
remained silent; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and as far
as the family were concerned, his body might have accompanied them;
evidently they were accustomed to his attitude of remoteness. Verona
looked at his hollow, expressionless eyes, and wondered what manner of
man he might be? His stolid, inert silence had an almost paralysing
effect, but she struggled bravely against the sensation, and ventured
several remarks on the climate, the wonderful beauty of the surrounding
trees and shrubs, the war in South Africa; but to all these efforts
the sole response was a brief, monosyllabic reply. She felt repulsed,
painfully disappointed, and shrank into herself and silence.
Meanwhile Blanche was retailing to her delighted grandmother the most
recent and reliable "cook-house" gossip. She learnt that Mrs. Cotton
had had five ayahs in a week, her temper was so furious, and she had
got an awfully bad name in the bazaar. The Coopers of the railway had
always bragged of their cook, and now he had run away with a lot of
money, four fat ducks, and the new water filter.
Then there was a rumour of the other half of the regiment coming from
Bhetapore. The colonel's lady and the major's lady did not speak, they
had quarrelled about a dirzee. There were going to be theatricals in
Rajahpore in race week, a big ball in Lucknow for charity; anyone could
go who paid ten rupees.
"But for my part," added Blanche, "now I am married, I don't care for
dancing. Give me my evenings at home!"
"Oh, wait till the dances begin in the cold weather," rejoined Mrs.
Lopez, "and all the other women go. Oh! I know you! 'The cat is a
Dervish--till the milk comes'!"
Blanche merely shrugged her skinny shoulders and giggled, then leaning
half across the table, said:
"Mother, is it true that the Trotters are always asking that young
Smith out, and making a fuss with him and having him to dinner? Do you
think Mrs. Trotter wants to marry him to Lizzie?"
"Mrs. Trotter told me yesterday," announced Nani Lopez, resolved not to
be thrust out of the conversation, "that it is all foolish talk, and
there is nothing in it; but I do not believe her. There is two hundred
rupees a month, and free quarters in it; we can all see her plan and
the meaning of her good dinners. It is a mountain behind a straw!"
"You will notice your grandmother has a proverb for every occasion,"
said Mr. Chandos, at last turning to Verona and addressing her. If
they were the silent members of the party, they were also to all
appearances--the sole Europeans present.
Mrs. Lopez, Mrs. Chandos, Blanche, Pussy, Monty, and Nicky were dark.
Even Dominga, for all her white skin, had a peculiar foreign look;
there was something alien in the cast of her features, and the shrill
tone of her voice.
Monty made little conversation, but an excellent meal; indeed, most
of the family ate heartily of mulligatawny, stewed beef and stuffed
bunjals, concluding with a quantity of mysterious-looking sweetmeats.
"You must come in and stay with us, and we will show you off," said
Blanche, accosting Verona. "I will take you to church, and to the club;
you will cut out all the officers' wives. My, how they will stare! Oh,
goody me!"
"But you cannot have Verona!" protested Dominga, "you have never been
able to have Pussy, or me; you know you have no room."
"Oh I can make room if I _want_ to," rejoined Blanche, meeting her
sister's gaze with a bold stare.
"Truly you are paid a fine compliment by Mistress Blanche," put in her
irrepressible Nani. "She does not care for guests. She likes, as the
proverb says, 'Talk in my house--a dinner--in yours.'"
"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people,"
resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We
will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go
into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing."
As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her
own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up
a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of
bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown,
and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna.
She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat
uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with
her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong,
and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange
metallic ring--a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who
poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang,
her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the
family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and
Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together
in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them.
"Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos
turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye.
"It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her
fortune if it were trained."
"Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises
often an hour a day. I suppose"--with a little sniff--"your voice has
been what you call 'trained'?"
"Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from
Dominga's."
"But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing
the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the
piano"--pulling her sister by the arm--"Verona will take your place."
"Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her
in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always
said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing."
"I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she
approached the piano, "but they want to hear me."
"Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied
Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she
began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music.
A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart,
and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos"
was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie."
Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she
sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."
Verona had an exquisitely sweet, haunting voice; every note was clear
and full, and told. When she had removed her hands from the piano,
instead of applause, there ensued strange silence. Monty and his
father-in-law were standing inside the door and the face of the latter
was working with some irrepressible emotion.
"Whatt a nice little song," exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Why," with a
sudden start, "here are the Cavalhos," as she descried two figures
mounting the steps. "Oh, my goodness, whatt a bother."
"May we come in?" inquired a high, chirrupy treble, and without
waiting for a reply, an elderly woman, wearing a white dress and a
black apron, walked forward, followed by her husband, a very stout,
clean-shaven man with a round bullet head. They were both decidedly
dark, but had kind, good-tempered faces, and indeed, in Mistress
Cavalho's sweet dark eyes there lingered traces of a once renowned
beauty.
"We heard Dominga singing," she announced, "so we knew you must have
the lamp lit in the drawing-room, and we came over in a friendly way
to see"--here she glanced incredulously at Verona--"is this your
daughter?" She pronounced it "da-ter."
"Yes."
"Oh, how do you do, Miss. I hope you will like Manora."
"Thank you."
"And here is Pedro, my husband, come to pay his respects."
Pedro gave his stout body a little jerk--doubtless intended for a bow.
"Now, pray do not let us stop the music," accepting a seat on the sofa
beside Mrs. Chandos.
"Oh, my! Dominga, you do sing better and better; that last song, it
nearly killed me. We waited outside to listen; it sounded like an angel
who was shut up in some prison house and breaking her heart; I tell
you it squeezed my throat, and Pedro--oh, he gave one great sob." Here
Pedro, with a deprecatory grin, suddenly backed into the verandah and
the company of his host.
"Oh, I never heard such singing," resumed his wife, with her eyes fixed
on Dominga, "my, my, whatt a gift! What pleasure to others." A moment's
pause, then, with a sudden laugh, Nicky burst out:
"It was Verona," pointing with a rude forefinger, "Verona, who gave
your throat a squeeze, and made old Daddy sob."
Once more there was a silence, this time of a truly painful
description. Dominga's face was livid; her mother's mouth was set, and
there was an angry sparkle in her eye.
Then Verona, with extraordinary courage and presence of mind, threw
herself into the gulf and said:
"It was the pretty air which affected you, Mrs. Cavalho; my voice is
very poor in comparison to my sister's."
"Oh, thatt is true," assented her mother with feverish energy, "thatt
is quite true. It is no voice at all--and Dominga you can hear for a
mile."
Poor Mrs. Cavalho was sincerely grateful for the explanation, being
secretly afraid of Dominga, whose expression had fully justified her
alarm; and as a proof of her gratitude to Verona, moved a little closer
to her mother, and laying a hand on hers, softly whispered:
"Oh, my dear friend, whatt a lucky woman you are with your five
children around you--and we, that have not one--and this new da-ter,
like a queen, the most beautiful of all!"
But Mrs. Chandos gave her chin a contemptuous tilt, shook off the kind,
little hand, and remarked in a querulous tone:
"Oh, yes, she is all very well now; but when she has had a couple of
hot weathers, she will not be so wonderful, you will see."
But to this melancholy prophecy good Mrs. Cavalho absolutely refused
to assent. Dominga, who had succeeded to the piano stool, now favoured
the company with two penetrating songs; then a servant appeared with a
tray on which was rum (factory rum), water, sweet syrup (home-made) and
biscuits--a signal that the entertainment was waning.
The community at Manora were early risers, and the guests now began to
disperse.
"Do look at grandmamma!" said Blanche as she rose, "she is sound
asleep; she does not care for music, only snake-charmers, and
tom-toms, and those whining bazaar tunes. Ayah and baby are already
in the gharry, and we must be going. Remember I expect you all to tea
to-morrow, especially Verona," and after a series of shrill good-byes,
parting injunctions, and smacking kisses, the Jones family were once
more packed into their hired conveyance, and rattled back to Rajahpore.
"Aré, so they are gone," said Mrs. Lopez, sitting erect, and indulging
herself with a prodigious yawn; "that Monty is a stupid owl, and
Blanche is still so gay and grand. Well! Well! Well! You know the
saying, 'The cow does not find her own horns heavy.' Now I'm going away
to my bed."
* * * * *
In half-an-hour the whole family had retired, and a profound peace fell
upon the bungalow. Verona opened the glass door of her room and stole
out, and once more began to pace the path by the river bank.
It was a perfect moonlight night, and oh, what a delightful change from
the noise and chatter of the day! The scene was beautiful, all the
landscape being outlined in silver; the everyday yellow plain across
the water had now a far-away, fairy-like effect. The silence was almost
death-like; the hideous cry of the hunting jackal, the scream of a
night hawk, disturbed the night--elsewhere, and the only sound to be
heard was the occasional flop of a belated fish. To Verona there was
something extraordinarily soothing and grateful in her surroundings,
although her head throbbed and ached, and she held her hands to her
forehead as she paced up and down. All at once she was aware of
something--a faint distant sound--what was it? The regular dip of oars
coming nearer and nearer; in two or three minutes a white boat rowed
by one man shot into sight. As it approached, she perceived that the
oarsman, whose curly head was bare, was a sahib, for the moon shone a
full dazzling light on his good-looking, determined face. When the boat
was almost opposite he leant for a moment on his oars and called over
to her:
"Hullo! Miss Dominga, are you not afraid of the malaria at this time of
night?" As Verona made no reply he rowed a stroke nearer, stared hard
at her, and then exclaimed with apologetic haste:
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I mistook you for Miss Chandos!" and without
another word rowed swiftly away. Verona watched his long, sweeping
strokes till he turned a bend in the river, and so was lost to sight.
No doubt this was Dominga's lover; he had a pleasant voice, a fine
face, and a stalwart pair of arms.
Dominga was unaccountably fortunate.