Mrs. Barwell, who had never previously had it in her power to patronise
any one, now thoroughly enjoyed the novel experience. She issued
continual "commands" to Verona and Dominga Chandos, and the latter
waited on her constantly, and soon became an established favourite; her
flatteries were so piquant and unfailing. But Verona disliked attending
the "drawing rooms" of her former acquaintance and present patroness;
she found ample occupation at home, reading with Pussy and Nicky,
rowing with them on the river, bicycling about the district, teaching
her grandmother to knit, and reviving her father's old attachment to
games. Now and then she spent a long evening in his room, playing
piquet, or discussing books and places and people. Paul Chandos was
a well-read man, a cultivated and delightful companion; strange that
this cultivated, clear-headed gentleman should start and shrivel into
silence when he heard the sound of his wife's quick footfall and
rasping tongue! Undoubtedly he enjoyed these evening hours with Verona,
but she had an instinct that these _tête-à-têtes_ were not looked
upon with favour by her mother; indeed, she had a secret, a dreadful
conviction that her mother disliked her. In little indescribable ways,
this fact was brought home to her a dozen times a day.
When Verona had recovered from the paralysing shock of her first
sensations, and after her illness had crept back to life and good
resolutions, she made a bold effort to win her mother's affections.
In every possible way she endeavoured to capture her approval. She
worked in the garden, she mended, and made, and darned and trimmed.
She was prepared to accept cheerfully this life of renunciation and
self-denial; but oh! how dark and dreary it would be without a little
love. Her mother was devoted to Dominga; her eyes and voice seemed
different when she spoke to her. Why should she not venture to ask for
some crumbs; she, too, was her mother's daughter? Though not naturally
demonstrative, she one day astonished and exasperated Mrs. Chandos by
clinging to her with tears as she begged her "to spare her--though she
came so late--a little of the affection she gave to the others; it
would make her _so_ happy."
Mrs. Chandos, when she had recovered from her surprise, stared
critically at her daughter and exclaimed, "My, what a funny girl! Why,
of course I love you!" and she accorded her a hasty kiss. "You get lots
of love; your Nani is awfully fond of you--so is Pussy; so am I. No!"
But yet, in spite of this declaration, Verona felt that between her and
her mother was fixed a gulf, which widened daily; indeed, she still had
the dreadful, secret conviction that her mother actually disliked her.
But why?
Sometimes, her father was ill--so said Mrs. Lopez; sometimes for three
or four evenings his door would be shut fast, and the old lady would
assure her, with a potent nod, that "Chandos was not for reading; he
was _fatigued_, he was 'a little seek,' and wanted to be quiet," and
once the girl overheard her mutter, "Truly, it is easier to be rid of
your shadow, than a bad habit."
Poor man! he was in the grip of the opium fiend, and lived in a
delightful dream-country in his arm-chair, with drowsy eyes and folded,
wasted hands. After one of these attacks, Verona noticed that his
features were haggard, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his spirits most
desperately depressed; also, that all tender inquiries and expressions
of sympathy were somewhat curtly set aside.
It was now the very height of the cold season. Rajahpore was full, the
cane crop was being cut, and every one seemed busy. One day Mrs. Lepell
sent her protégée a little note, which said:
"MY DEAR VERONA,--
"Would you care to go over the factory? I am expecting a party
this afternoon, and Tom has promised to show them round the works.
Manora people are sick of them, but it will be a novelty to you.
"E. L."
Verona accepted the invitation with pleasure, and when she arrived
at the big bungalow there found assembled Major Gale, Major and Mrs.
Barwell, Mr. Salwey and various strangers from Rajahpore. Mr. Lepell
personally conducted the party round the yards; here he pointed out the
great carts, laden with sugar-cane, just brought in by buffaloes.
"Now, here you see it at the start," he said. "Later on, you shall see
it in the sugar bowl."
Guided by him the visitors explored the entire factory--saw the mills
grinding the cane, saw the black sugar in liquid form, the refining
processes, the furnaces; last of all, the loaf sugar in blue paper
caps, ready for departure. Then they inspected the distillery, and the
gigantic casks of rum--intended for the use of the army. Mr. Lepell was
an enthusiast, and harangued his guests eloquently--"Sugar" was his
text--then he gave them a long object-lesson in machinery; finally,
they climbed up a winding, spiral staircase, and stood on the flat roof
of the factory, and surveyed the whole country--a dead level, with
nothing to break the monotony but an occasional village or mango tope.
"Oh, what a sea of cultivation and crops!" exclaimed Verona.
"Yes," assented Mr. Lepell; "India is agriculture, agriculture is
India. All around you see the cane; it is a good year. The chief
industry here, of course, is sugar. There are scores of private mills."
"What are they like?" some one asked.
"Oh, primitive affairs--a rude wheel, an ox driven round and round to
crush the cane; then there is a hole in the floor, and a furnace to
boil the stuff into goor, or treacle."
"I suppose the people are very well off," said Verona, turning to Mr.
Salwey.
"They ought to be," he replied; "the cultivators pay about fifteen
rupees an acre for cane, which in a good season produces two or three
hundred rupees' worth of juice; but they are all in debt to the
money-lenders."
"How is that?"
"Well, you see they have no savings or capital; they live hand to
mouth. For a marriage, a birth or a funeral, they must spend largely;
it is a tradition handed down for centuries; they borrow money on the
coming crop, say two hundred rupees--that is fifteen pounds. For this
the money-lender takes as interest, one anna per rupee per month,
which is seventy per cent.; it runs up like the celebrated nail in
the horse's shoe! The unfortunate ryot soon finds that the interest
has trebled the original debt; in a short time the account will show
that all the money due from his harvest, does not half cover the first
advance! and still the interest on the debt rolls on month after
month. The cultivator who once pawns his crop never gets out of the
money-lender's power, but the money-lender allows him enough grain
to keep the wretched man alive--who, sooner than be turned from his
paternal home, becomes his bond slave for life."
"Is it not dreadful?" Verona exclaimed.
"Yes; the usurer makes enormous profits, and allows the other just what
keeps soul and body together. He is careful not to kill the goose who
lays the golden eggs--his manner is always most kind and sympathetic!
The old story of burying money in a pot is dying out; usury has taken
its place. Most of the money paid down in that office," and he nodded
to the building below, "goes to them."
"Can it not be prevented in some way, Mr. Salwey?"
"I'm always trying to stop it, but with little success; there are men
in the city, living at their ease, and piling up thousands, while
these"--pointing to the broad expanse of cane land and the swarms of
workers below--"toil."
"Usury is the ancient custom of the country," she remarked.
"So was once suttee. It is the curse of India."
"Do you know any of the money-lenders?"
"Yes; some of the native bankers are fair and square. It is the private
ones, who are the fiends. They have neither fear nor pity. They charge
daily interest, they count their victims by hundreds--their slaves; for
generations they toil always for the money-lender; children succeed to
the family debts, which go from father to son; they represent valuable
live asset to the soucar, who fattens on their earnings! His only fear
or risk is the cholera, which sweeps away whole villages, and then
there is none left to pay! Many of these poor creatures do not know
what it is to have two meals a day. I could not have believed, had I
not seen it for myself, how abject is their poverty." Here he smothered
a sigh.
"What a hopeless state of affairs!" exclaimed the girl.
"Yes; and they are content with so little. If a man has enough to eat,
a roof to cover him, a little tobacco for himself and some pewter
bangles for his wife, he asks no more."
"He could not well ask for less!"
"I declare I feel in a blazing rage when I think of his misery
and toil, and the wealth and indolence of those who are literally
devouring his life. Now, observe the people coming in with carts of
cane and barrels of juice; they are almost like skeletons, or is it
my imagination? There, you see, two of them are quarrelling about
something--possibly a copper coin, worth half a farthing. They often
quarrel; it is one of the most quarrelsome circles in India."
"What do they quarrel about?" she asked.
"I can tell you," said Mr. Lepell, who was listening, "generally land.
In other countries people are attached to their ancestral acres; in
India it is a mania."
"Have they never any amusements?" inquired Mrs. Barwell, who had
approached.
"Yes; those who are pretty well off excel in wrestling matches; they
have quail and cock-fighting, and they are all fond of cards and
gambling and kite flying," said Mr. Lepell, "and now shall we go down
to tea?"
Salwey and Verona still lingered on the roof; she was taking a last
long look at the scene, the winding river, the cane crops, the little
villages, the distant city. In the golden rays of a gorgeous sunset
India looked both rich and prosperous.
"Well, what do you think of it?" inquired Salwey.
"I like it," she answered; "it is my native country; there is something
mysterious and fascinating about it. Even before I knew that I was born
out here, I yearned to come to India."
"In short, you heard the East calling."
"Yes," she replied, "and now I hear Mr. Lepell calling, and we must go."
* * * * *
Brian Salwey lived in a bungalow overhanging the river, and close to
the cantonments (he was honorary member of the mess). The rooms were
small and bare, but the stables were ample, and handsomely furnished.
Twice a week, in the cold weather, did Nicky Chandos row down the river
to do an hour's mathematics with his model and hero. Salwey had always
been sorry for the boy, and felt drawn to him; for with all his Eastern
lounging ways, his stiff brown hair and sallow skin, Nicky had brains,
had ambition and the inherited instincts of an English gentleman. Yes,
Salwey had encouraged the visits of young Chandos; he told him long
yarns about his own school-days, he lent him books, he lectured him,
he taught him how to row a boat--indeed, he taught him many things as
they sat together in the shabby little sitting-room that overlooked the
shining river. Salwey now began to realise that he took an additional
interest in Nicky, and looked forward with peculiar pleasure to his
visits and his talk; What, he asked himself honestly, did it mean?
The answer was simple as A B C.
It meant that Nicky had an attractive sister; to sum it all up in one
word, it meant "Verona." He caught his thoughts recalling her pale,
delicate beauty, her slow, reluctant smile, her air of detached,
unstudied repose. Evidently the newcomer was working wonders up
the river; she was wheeling Pussy into line; he noticed a distinct
improvement in Nicky's manners, which had previously left much to be
desired. He talked of good sets of tennis, and bicycling, rowing and
reading aloud. Home was such a jolly place since Verona had come! There
was no nonsense about her, and even Nani Lopez said she was "a jewel."
But what was this "jewel" to him? Was he going to make a fool of
himself, and fall in love with this beautiful, unfortunate Eurasian?
What a mother-in-law! What a grandmother-in-law--as his Aunt Liz had
reminded him. And yet, why should he not think of Verona Chandos? His
life was lonely; he had no ties; his father had married a detestable
little adventuress, and had allowed her to thrust herself between them.
(Colonel Salwey was a timidly good man, and ventured to write to his
son once a year--at Christmas.)
Why should he not make his home in India? Do as he would, he could
not get the girl out of his head; she haunted him as he sat in his
verandah, or as he rode about the district, looking after his work.
"She is a half-caste," whispered a warning voice; "look at her sister
Blanche."
On the other hand, old Mother Lopez was a truly good woman,
tender-hearted, simple and charitable. Little Mrs. Cavalho was in her
way an uncanonised saint. If the truth were really known and boldly
proclaimed, there was a certain amount of Eastern blood to be found in
English society! Many unconscious individuals were Eurasians, counting
back to the pagoda tree days of their grandfathers, and the spacious
times of Old John Company. If one must judge by appearances, Verona
Chandos might very easily be taken for the daughter of a hundred earls,
and, at any rate, on her father's side, her race was undeniable.
Here came Nicky, rowing himself down from Manora, eager to enjoy
a promised lesson in practical chemistry, for Salwey dabbled in
photography and chemistry, and between his dark room and his amateur
laboratory, the vapours, sounds and explosions, one or two of his
myrmidons were under the impression that he kept an evil spirit on the
premises!
A white bull terrier, called "Chum," the most intelligent and attached
of dumb friends, when he saw Inky Chandos toiling up the steep garden
from the boat, lashed his long whip tail, where he sat in the verandah,
and greeted him with an all but human grin of welcome. "Chum" was a
dear dog, and a courteous gentleman; the whole cantonment loved "Chum."
But he only loved his master--and Inky Chandos.