As Verona bowled along the road beside Dominga, she felt brave enough
to cope with this unprecedented occasion. When she thought of her
father's miserable eyes, and agonised appeal, she was prepared to face
a dozen Mrs. Barwells, but by and by, her courage subsided; the cold
fit came on, her heart beat fast, her lips trembled involuntarily. She
was aware that for the first time in her life she was about to take an
unwarrantable liberty. They had all too soon reached their journey's
end; dashed up a gravelled avenue, and come to a full stop under the
porch of Major Barwell's bungalow. Presently they were ushered into the
presence of the lady of the house, who was lolling in an armchair,
reading a paper. She rose with alacrity to greet her visitor, but
when she caught sight of "Red Chandos" behind her pretty pale sister,
her agreeable smile instantly changed to an expression of angry
astonishment.
"I have ventured to bring Dominga," said Verona, rather faintly.
"So it seems," rejoined Mrs. Barwell, with an almost imperceptible
inclination of the head.
"A most unexpected honour"--the words were "unexpected honour," but
tone was "unpardonable impertinence."
Mrs. Barwell raised her voice and called, "Qui Hye." A servant came
running in.
"If any other ladies call--say I am not at home."
Verona thoroughly understood. Mrs. Barwell did not wish her friends
to find Dominga Chandos sitting in her drawing-room, and she made up
her mind that as soon as possible the lady should be relieved of her
society--nothing would induce her to remain to tea.
"Oh, stop a moment," said Mrs. Barwell. "Now that I think of it, the
private theatrical people are coming in--never mind, never mind." With
a wave of her hand she dismissed the bearer.
Then she sat down and motioned the sisters to two chairs, and
addressing her conversation exclusively to Verona, began:
"I was so surprised to see you the other day; I had no idea you were in
the neighbourhood. What an awful change you must find it in every way!"
Verona mentally assented to this remark, but merely replied:
"I like India. I have always wished to see it."
"That is fortunate, is it not, my dear? as your home happens to be
out here. What a contrast to Halstead! Do you often hear from the
Melvilles?"
"Not very often--I am a bad correspondent."
These letters were Verona's constant difficulty, she could not
tell the truth--also, she could not tell falsehoods. She loved Mrs.
Melville even more than ever, but she dared not acquaint her with her
unfortunate condition. There is loyalty to one's kindred--be they
who they may--rich or poor, black or white. Her letters home were
consequently constrained; after the first mention of her relatives she
rarely named them. Mrs. Melville could read between the lines. The
child was disillusioned and depressed.
"What funny people they were," resumed Mrs. Barwell.
Verona's friends had never struck her as particularly humorous.
Possibly Mrs. Barwell thought them "funny," because they had never
cultivated her acquaintance in former days, when she was Miss Snoad.
"By-the-way, what a wretched match Margery made!"
"Oh, no!" protested her friend, "she is extremely happy."
"But he had scarcely a penny besides his pay, and that girl had the
advantage of the very best county society. What _is_ the good of county
society, and being exclusive, if you can't do better than that? Of
course, she was no beauty; indeed, for my part, I always thought her
very plain."
During the conversation Dominga sat aloof, totally unabashed by her
icy reception, and stared round the room exhaustively. It resembled
its mistress--it was cheap and showy, not dark and gloomy, with heavy
hangings and solid furniture, like the drawing-room at Manora, but
light and gay. The walls were coloured bright green, and covered with
large fans and small mirrors; quantities of wickerwork chairs were
dressed in gaudy flounced cretonne.
Over the floor were scattered numbers of deer-skins, mounted on red
flannel. Whilst her sister and Mrs. Barwell talked of home, Dominga
presently rose from her seat, strolled around examining the photographs
and ornaments, as calmly and critically as if they were so many lots
at auction. Meanwhile Mrs. Barwell followed her movements with angry
eyes. Just at this moment two ladies were ushered in, Mrs. Palgrave
and Miss Richards, the Colonel's wife and sister. Mrs. Palgrave was
tall and slight; her face was rather plain, but animated, and she had a
charming smile. Her sister was a handsome, bright-looking girl of about
five-and-twenty. They were both remarkably well dressed, and appeared
to be in the highest spirits. Mrs. Barwell received them effusively,
but did not attempt to present the other ladies. Her slight civility to
Verona had now become congealed.
"So you have just come from the rehearsal?" she began, making room for
Mrs. Palgrave beside her.
"Yes, we are quite worn out with our exertions, at least, Dolly is. I
am merely chaperone, critic, peacemaker, and prompter."
"How are you getting on?" turning to Miss Richards.
"Only pretty well. Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Long have been squabbling, and
Captain Prescott has thrown up his part. He won't act; I cannot imagine
why he is so cross."
"But I know," said Mrs. Palgrave, with a laugh. "It is his liver.
Whenever he has a touch of liver, he always becomes argumentative and
cynical, and says no woman under forty is worth speaking to."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Barwell, "then there is no one to suit
him here--we are all too juvenile."
"Like Baby Charles, such a dear boy, who is acting with me," said Miss
Richards. "He is so young, and so pleased with everything--hockey,
cricket, racquets; he really should have a child's part."
"And what _is_ his part?" asked Mrs. Barwell.
"Oh, he is my _fiancé_, but he can't make love a bit--although he is
_in_ love."
"Pray, how do you know, Dolly?" demanded her sister, and her tone was
authoritative.
"Well, he wears a very badly knitted green tie, a shocking affair! I
have remonstrated with him about it, and told him I will not be engaged
to him unless he leaves it off; it entirely spoils his appearance, but
he still clings to his green tie, and blushes when I chaff him, and
looks quite hurt. I am perfectly convinced that _she_ made it. Does
anyone know," laughing and looking round the room, "a young lady in
this neighbourhood who knits ties?"
Verona glanced instinctively at her sister and their eyes met. Dominga
had been deeply interested in the conversation, and there was a tinge
of colour in her cheeks which added to her appearance; she looked
brilliantly handsome. Verona, aloof and ignored, had felt the irony of
Mrs. Barwell's insolence eating into her very soul--and now rose to
depart.
"What," cried her hostess, "why are you going away? you know--I _asked_
you to tea."
"Thank you very much, but we really cannot stay." She glanced
imploringly at Dominga, who nevertheless remained rooted to her chair,
and returned her sister's look with a stare of bold defiance. No, no!
she would not stir. Seeing this _impasse_, Mrs. Barwell turned to
Verona, and said:
"I cannot let you run away like this--here is tea--do sit down, and
don't be silly. I am sure you have no _other_ engagement!"
In the meanwhile Miss Richards was talking to Dominga, and conversation
now became general. Presently Dominga drew Miss Richards' attention to
a photograph of her hostess, over which she went into audible raptures.
Now Mrs. Barwell was not insensible to flattery, she liked to inhale
it in strong doses. She was pleased to hear Dominga comparing her
photograph to Mary Anderson--the comparison being considerably to her
advantage.
After all, "Red Chandos" was not a bad sort of girl; she was really
beautifully dressed, undoubtedly handsome, and, if the men were to be
believed, "great fun." She accorded one or two words to her visitor,
and the favourable impression was deepened.
"Oh, Mrs. Barwell," said Dominga, "I did so want to see your pretty
room." Here was a half apology. "I'd heard so much about it--and it
really is perfectly charming; I hope you don't mind my saying so."
Mrs. Barwell did not mind at all, but coldly appropriated the
compliment as her due, and Dominga--who would always be very useful in
any house but her own--stood up, and began to help her with the tea
things.
"Mr. Salwey is stage manager, is he not?" said Mrs. Barwell.
"Yes, and such a capital one," replied Mrs. Palgrave, as she helped
herself to cake; "immovable, implacable, a sort of armour-plated man,
whom nothing can ruffle! I wish you could have seen him to-day, when
those two women were talking hard to one another about a certain scene,
neither listening to one single word the other said. Mr. Salwey stood
by, gently throwing in occasional blocks of solid sense."
"Had it any effect?"
"Oh, yes, ultimately. I like Mr. Salwey; I always think it is such a
pity that he is not in the Service!"
"I am sure he thoroughly agrees with you," sneered Mrs. Barwell.
"And why is he not in the Army?"
"Well, it is all owing to his stepmother," explained Mrs. Palgrave.
"George knows his father, Colonel Salwey, such a smart dapper old beau.
He came in for a very nice property after he left the Army; his wife
died, leaving this one boy, to whom he was apparently devoted."
"_Was_--yes?"
"But at some foreign watering-place he came across a pretty little
fluffy-haired, plaintive widow, who beguiled him into marrying her,
and completely metamorphosed the old gentleman. Brian Salwey failed
for his first examination at Sandhurst; then he quarrelled with his
odious stepmother, so got no second chance. She bundled him out of his
father's house, out of the country, and into the Indian police: for she
did not want a great big stepson hanging about at home."
"Oh, here they all come," exclaimed Mrs. Barwell, as five men followed
one another into the room.
The first to enter was Colonel Palgrave, a tall, handsome, soldierly
man, a little bald, with a hearty, cheery voice; Major Barwell,
a short, formal-looking gentleman, with a skin like a winter
apple--considerably older than his wife; Captain Prescott, a dark young
man, in polo kit, with a sallow complexion; Charles Young, a handsome
boy--though two-and-twenty, he looked about nineteen--bubbling over
with good humour, vitality, and _joie de vivre_. Last, not least, Brian
Salwey.
These men soon dispersed themselves about the room, each seeking the
lady of his choice (they were all apparently acquainted with Dominga
Chandos--and perhaps a little surprised to find her in the present
company; when Charlie's merry eyes fell on her, he blushed up to his
ears), and presently the talk grew loud and brisk, concerning "shop"
and theatricals, theatricals and "shop."
"I do think it is such a shame," said Mrs. Barwell, during a pause in
the general buzz, "that my husband won't allow _me_ to act," and she
looked at him coquettishly. "It is really too bad of you, Bingham,
to have such strict old-fashioned ideas. I know"--addressing the
company--"you all have such fun at the rehearsals."
"I don't know what _you_ call fun," remarked Captain Prescott, with
an aggrieved air. "It's worse than being at school again. I had to
mug up my part with a wet towel round my head. I worked myself up to
a tremendous pitch for a great love scene, and was told for my pains
that my voice sounded for all the world like a dog, whining outside a
door!--so naturally I chucked."
"Oh, I assure you, it's not all beer and skittles, Mrs. Barwell,"
supplemented Charles Young, who was half sitting on a table. "What _do_
you think. They want me to cut off my moustache!"
At this there was a roar of laughter, his moustache being represented
by a very faint outline of delicate down.
"Well, now, I suppose we ought to go on to the polo," said Colonel
Palgrave, putting down his tea-cup, "perhaps we shall lose something
good."
Mrs. Barwell immediately agreed, hurried into her bedroom, and
returned in a second, in a flowery hat, and the party sallied forth on
foot. Verona found herself walking beside Mrs. Palgrave; she had a good
face and a charmingly sympathetic manner. Verona had heard that the
wife of the commanding officer was a most popular lady, and Blanche's
tale, that she and the major's wife did not speak, was obviously a
fable.
Mrs. Palgrave, although but eight-and-thirty years of age, was a deputy
parent to all "the boys." She listened to their troubles, and had them
to dine on Sundays; she nursed them when they were ill; she wrote to
their mothers, and generally kept her eye on them. She was, moreover,
a treasure to her husband; managed all the sewing clubs and mothers'
meetings, visited hospitals, had never made the slightest effort to
marry her sister in the regiment, and was generally respected and
beloved.
"I've not seen you before," she remarked to Verona. (But she had heard
of her.) "And now you have found your way into the station, I hope some
day you will come and spend an afternoon with me."
"Thank you very much," was the girl's non-committal answer.
She did not wish to mix in station society.
"I think it is very likely that we have some mutual friends."
"Perhaps we have."
"Do you act at all?"
"No, I prefer to be one of the audience."
"Then you will come in and see these theatricals, won't you?"
"By-the-way, Lucy," interrupted Colonel Palgrave, hurrying up to join
them, "I forgot to tell you that young Fielder has arrived; I daresay
he will be at the polo--I'll bring him up and present him to you."
"Another boy?" she asked, with a smile.
"Well, not exactly, I should say he is six or seven-and-twenty;
you know he comes to us from the Guards, with the reputation of a
lady-killer."
"The Guards," she repeated. "Really!"
"I fancy he has been going ahead a bit, and his father, Lord
Highstreet, has sent him out to India to us."
(Verona lagged behind--surely this intimate sort of conversation was
not intended for her ears.)
"I see," assented Mrs. Palgrave, "as a sort of punishment. What a
compliment to the regiment!"
"Well, the exchange has been effected merely with the idea of getting
him into another set."
"You have seen him, of course?"
"Oh, yes, and he has no resemblance to one's preconceived idea of a
naughty boy--perfectly self-possessed, cheery, and rather good-looking."
"Perhaps he may be an acquisition, after all."
By this time they were at the polo ground. Mrs. Palgrave waited a
moment for Verona, and said:
"My husband has been telling me about a new officer who has just
joined, a Captain Fielder. We have some chairs and rugs near the
tent--won't you come and sit by me?"
A large and motley native crowd were assembled on the edge of the
ground, their brilliant red and yellow garments giving a touch of
colour to the scene, and the game was already in full swing. As
Verona accepted Mrs. Palgrave's invitation, she noticed that Dominga
and Mr. Young appeared to have a great deal to say to one another;
unquestionably they had not met for the first time to-day.
On the contrary, as we know, Charlie Young and Miss Dominga were fast
friends--little Charlie was constantly chaffed about his infatuation
for "Red Chandos," and bore jokes and gibes with a good temper that
discouraged and, at the same time, disarmed his tormentors.
"I say, I can't tell you how surprised and delighted I was to find you
at Mrs. Barwell's," he murmured, as he walked beside his enchantress.
"Oh, my sister met her at home," rejoined Dom, in her most off-hand
manner; "that is why we were asked to tea. Verona knows hundreds of
swells. Do tell me what you think? Do you call her pretty?"
"Oh, yes, uncommonly good-looking, but rather sad--a bit down on her
luck, I should say."
"People seem to think she will cut out everyone in Rajahpore."
"Except you. No fear of that, darling."
"Hush, Charlie, you really _must_ be careful----"
"Well, tell me about your sister. Where has she been all this time?"
"At home--living among all the grandees, and so rich--and having such a
good time. But her friend died, and her money went to others--such an
awful shame. She used to know Princes, and Dukes, and Lords."
"Oh! then I'm afraid we can't do much for her in that line out here.
Our nearest approach is the only son of a lord, who joined the regiment
three days ago."
"Oh, my! really. Who is he? Do tell me about him, Charlie, dear."
"Well, his name is Fielder--the Honourable James Fitzalan Egbert
Fielder, son and heir of Lord Highstreet, late of the Guards."
"Why has he come out to India?"
"I believe--this is strictly between you and me--he was sent out by
his father because he got into some mess with a lady--he is a great
lady's man. He wanted to marry a tremendously frisky widow, years older
than himself. And so his people shoved him out here, to get him out of
harm's way. That's the story. Of course, it may be a lie."
"What is he like?"
"Oh, not much to look at--sleek, well-groomed, drawling sort. A cool
hand, I should imagine; says he is awfully keen on seeing active
service. I don't fancy he is up to much of a rough campaign--more of
a fine fellow strolling down Piccadilly. However, he has taken to us
kindly, and professed himself delighted to join the regiment. Not like
that chap who, when he was asked what the new corps was, said, 'I
don't know, but you go from Waterloo--and they have green facings!'"
"His family are old, I suppose?" enquired Dominga, to whom this
anecdote was the purest Greek.
"Old--oh, lord, yes! I expect they paddled over with the Conqueror."
"We are an old family, too," announced Miss Dominga, turning her head
slowly from side to side. "Though father never talks--he is in the
Landed Gentry book--you can see it at the Club--and we are the Chandos
of Charne."
Little Mr. Young, much as he adored his companion, could scarcely
restrain a smile, to hear a Chandos of Manora boasting in this fashion.
Her people were terrible. No, he never attempted to defend them. Her
quarrelling, pushing, half-caste mother, her dusky brother and sister,
her father--the old broken officer, who, it was said, took opium.
But his Dominga stood apart from these. She shone like a star against
a dark sky. Some day he would marry her--not her family. Yes, the
infatuated youth, aged twenty-two, with one hundred pounds a year and
his pay, had determined to make Dominga his wife. Their engagement was
to be kept secret until the regiment moved to another station--the
Colonel would cut up rusty if he heard of it, and hustle him off to the
depôt in England; he objected to married subalterns. The Honourable
Jimmy was dispatched to India because he wanted to marry someone at
home--and it would be odd if he was packed off home because he intended
to marry a girl in India.
Whilst he was pondering over this idea, his fair ladylove, who strolled
beside him, was occupied with other thoughts. She was unusually silent,
and when she did speak, her answers were somewhat brief and distrait.
At the present moment her glance was alert with excitable watchfulness,
and her mind was filled with eager speculations respecting the
newcomer. Had luck at last thrown fortune in her way? Was this young
future lord her fate? Her fate, come to seek her in this out-of-the-way
corner of the world! Her face looked vivid and her eyes dilated as she
recalled her grandmother's prediction, that "Dominga would wear jewels,
and stand in a great light." And what of Baby Charles?
By this time they had arrived at the polo ground, where a place near
the tent was reserved exclusively for the party. Captain Prescott rode
up to them proudly on his new polo pony, a recent investment.
"Hullo, Prescott," cried Charlie Young; "where did you rise the animal?
Did you get him out of the Zoo?"
"Yes," he rejoined, with the utmost gravity; "don't you remember him
when you were in the monkey-house?"
Dominga received this sally with a peal of laughter--this sort of wit
appealed to her at once.
And Verona now saw Dominga in the society of men for the first time.
She appeared to be enjoying herself prodigiously, and was what may be
called "a quarrelsome flirt." Tossing her head, she said to one:
"Oh, Mr. Cox, I am not going to speak to you! Please pass on. You never
came for that set of tennis. No! no! no!" and she turned her back
on him with considerable dramatic effect. "Yes--and here is Captain
Hibbert, just as bad! You wicked, faithless man, how can you look me in
the face! Where is the novel that you promised me? You have fallen in
my esteem to the bottom of the ladder."
"But won't you allow me to crawl up again?" he implored, with his hands
in the attitude of prayer.
"No, certainly not; go away--do!"
By and by most of the men drifted away to play polo, and Major Gale
captured "Baby" Charles, who departed with pitiable reluctance. And
now Dominga and Mrs. Barwell fell into conversation, which, as time
went on, became more intimate and more animated. Dominga's purrings and
flatteries tickled the little lady's vanity and softened her heart;
she discovered that Dominga Chandos was not "half bad," but a really
agreeable girl, with plenty to say for herself, and full of news (such
delicious little spiteful stories). Dominga had learned the fact that
you may be risky--but never dull. Before they parted, Mrs. Barwell had
invited her delighted acquaintance to come in and spend a long day with
her soon. Oh, triumph! Oh, goal attained! Oh, success!
All at once Colonel Palgrave reappeared out of the crowd near the tent,
accompanied by a young man, wearing the colours of a well-known cricket
club. He had quick, red-brown eyes, sleek brown hair, a pale, impassive
face, and a well-knit figure. He was presented to Mrs. Palgrave and her
sister--to Mrs. Barwell and to Mrs. Tully. The stranger was completely
at his ease, charmed to make their acquaintance, and somehow managed to
convey the singular impression that he was an old resident--and that
they had but just arrived.
On the whole, the general opinion of Captain Fielder was highly
favourable. "Oh, yes, he was already fascinated with what he had seen
of Rajahpore and India. He was sure it was a capital country for sport,
and," he added, with a peculiar slow smile, "amusement."
When such topics as his journey, the dust, and a few items of home news
had been exhausted, his roving gaze distinguished the two sisters to
whom he had not been presented. He surveyed Verona calmly. Handsome?
Yes, but down in the mouth, and not his style. Then his glance passed
quickly to Dominga; their eyes met, and his opened suddenly with a bold
eager stare. Oh, there was the girl for his money! What hair! What
colouring! What a spice of the devil in that vivid face.
Dominga certainly looked her best. She wore green, which was ever
becoming. Her figure was graceful, there was a brilliant colour in
her face, born of excitement; yes, she was undeniably striking and
attractive. Moreover, it was the first time that this poor Dominga
had ever beheld anyone connected with the aristocracy, and her
feelings were a mixture of admiration and awe. "The Honourable," as
she mentally called him, appeared at the first glance to be somewhat
similar to other men, but her imagination lost no time in investing
the newcomer with an air of distinction, and every quality which is
generally considered necessary to the equipment of a perfect hero of
romance. He approached and muttered something to Charlie Young, and Dom
received a delightful and unexpected shock when she understood that
Captain Fielder desired to be presented to her. He had singled her out
from all the other girls! This was indeed the proudest moment in the
life of Dominga Chandos! She coloured charmingly, her eyes sparkled,
her face broke into smiles--for an instant her beauty was transcendent!
Ungrateful Dominga gradually ignored, and soon entirely forgot, poor
little Charlie, and presently abandoned him in order to go and sit on
a distant bench with Captain the Hon. James Fielder, the new arrival,
just then so very much in the public eye; and Dominga took care that
they placed themselves where the public eye could behold them without
unnecessary inconvenience.
Verona noticed at a distance Mrs. Trotter and her two unattractive
daughters. As they appeared to be rather "out of it," and forlorn, she
walked over and spoke to them. Mrs. Trotter accorded Verona a civil
welcome, and as usual conversed chiefly about home.
"Oh, ho! it is very plain to see that _you_ have been in England!"
she remarked, as she glanced over at Dominga, who was now too lofty
to notice the Trotters, and had cut them dead. "It is plain that you
know what's what; you have some manners--not like that 'Crannie' girl,
Dominga."
Fortunately, at this point, Mr. Salwey came up and joined the group,
and the topic was changed. The Trotter family were visibly gratified
by his attention; but after a little conversation he carried off Miss
Chandos, and invited her to walk round the outside of the polo ground
and see the ponies.