"Oh, ho! yes, it is true what I say," continued Mrs. Chandos, breaking
a dead, incredulous silence; "she is no more to us than this book," and
she seized a copy of "The Newcomes" and pitched it across the room.
"Aré, it is a relief to my heart to speak and to get rid of her," and
she turned and looked at Verona; "for ever since I had aught to do with
that girl she has been my thorn and curse."
"You are beside yourself, Mrs. Chandos," protested Mr. Lepell, "all
this excitement is too much for you. Mrs. Lopez, will you not take your
daughter away and persuade her to lie down?"
"Cha-a-ah! I am not beside myself," screamed the fury with a stamp,
"and if you will listen--all of you--you shall hear the true story." As
she spoke, she flung herself panting into a chair.
"Oh! it is more than twenty-six years ago since I married that oloo"
(owl), and she indicated Mr. Chandos as she spoke and stared back
deliberately into every gazing face. "Oh, he was so lazy! We lived up
in the hills at first--and he used to just loaf and shoot; one cannot
pay bazaar on that. We had two children, Blanche and Pussy; they
were--not fair, no, and I could see that he was awfully disappointed.
Money was low just before our third child was expected, and so he went
down to the plains to seek for an appointment. The baby, a little girl,
was born at Murree. She was very dark--once again--_so_ dark! I knew
you would be very vexed," turning on him; "you were always hoping for a
fair baby--that would be a true Chandos."
Mr. Chandos endeavoured to interrupt, but she silenced him with a wild
gesture of her hand. "No, no, no! Wait! wait! wait! I will not be long.
In the little bungalow next to mine was a pretty young English girl,
an officer's wife; she had a baby and she died, but her baby lived. I
lived--my baby died. You begin to see. Eh?" She paused and gazed about
her. Her audience were now dumb.
"Her husband, a young artillery officer, was crazy with grief. Aré, it
was bad! They were not long out from home, and seemed friendless. He
was going to Afghanistan immediately on active service; our bungalows
were in the same compound, and so he came to me, and he said:
"'Look here, I believe you are an officer's wife, and have just lost
your baby; will you take my poor little one, like a good, Christian
woman, and be a mother to her till I come back? I have eight hundred
pounds in the Bank of Bombay. I shall make a will; if anything should
happen to me it will go to you altogether, if you will undertake to
provide for the child.' Well, he was so awfully handsome, and in such
awful trouble, and the baby was so pretty and so fair, I, like a fool,
agreed! His name was Hargreaves--Eliot Hargreaves--and his wife had
run away with him. She was engaged to someone at home--oh, a grand
match--but she preferred the poor young officer, and eloped with him
to India. She was an earl's daughter. Her name was Lady Vera Bourne;
the child was called after her, but I named her Veronica. Of course,
I heard all about this runaway match from the ayah--and that both the
families were so angry; the couple were in great disgrace, and got no
letters, and they were very, very poor. They lived in quite a cheap
little bungalow, not much better than mine. Three weeks after Mr.
Hargreaves marched with his battery he was killed at Maiwand; so I
claimed the money which he had left me, and passed off the child as my
own. No one knew the truth except two ayahs, also a native apothecary
and a native pleader, who got me the money. When my husband saw the
child she was three months old; and oh he was _so_ pleased with the
little fair Chandos!"
Here the narrator paused for a moment, closed her eyes, shook her head,
and laughed with shrill derision.
"Oh, yes, she was a pretty baby! she used to be called the little
'Rani'; when she was two years old, Fernande Godez came to see my
mother, took a fancy to the child, and offered to adopt her. Well, then
I was in great luck and got her off my hands. She goes to England with
her, and was brought up really like a little princess. But at the end
of twenty years, back she comes--there she is," gesticulating with a
tremulous hand. "From first to last, as I said before, she has been my
curse. With the money her father left me I began my banking business;
I could never have done so otherwise; and according to all of you I
have been awfully wicked! Well! it was _her_ money that tempted me!
As for herself, she comes here, and has stolen from me the affection
of my husband, of my daughter"--pointing to Pussy--"of my poor son
Nicky, and even"--indicating Mrs. Lopez--"my mother! It was owing to
her that Salwey has always been coming about Manora. It was owing to
her jewels, which I showed to Abdul Buk, that the poor man was tempted,
and he has been shamed and put in gaol. Vera Hargreaves"--pointing
to Verona--"you have nothing to do with us, and so you go out of this
house." She pointed to the door. "Good-a-bye!"
"But what proof have you of this extraordinary story?" demanded Mr.
Lepell, who seemed to be the only person who had retained his wits.
"Oh, plenty of proof! The old apothecary at Murree is still alive, and
will bear out my tale about Lady Vera. The chaplain who christened the
baby when she was but three days old can speak, and the name of Vera
Hargreaves will be in the church register. Besides, I have a photograph
of her mother which the ayah gave me. I have a letter from young
Hargreaves after he left Murree, and a little card-case and a book with
a crest inside. I don't know why I kept these things, I am sure, but
since the girl came out I have felt certain that this blow-up would
have to happen some day--and here it is!"
The confession was evidently a dreadful shock to Mr. Chandos; the fire
of his indignation had died down; he sat crouched up in his chair in
a condition of mental and physical collapse. Verona had been with him
less than twelve months, and yet she was far dearer to him than any of
his children. The blow seemed to have broken his heart; he gazed at
the girl, his face working, his eyes dim with pain, and held out his
trembling hands.
She went over to him, looking very white, and said:
"I cannot realize this news, it seems incredible; I am most
unfortunate--I seem to belong to no one."
(Whilst she was speaking, Mrs. Chandos had risen and rushed out of the
room, and in another moment she might be heard uttering shriek after
shriek, and indulging in a terrible attack of her screaming hysterics.)
"I shall always think of you as my father, though I suppose I shall
have to go away. I daresay kind Mrs. Cavalho will take me in for a few
days?"
"Oh, Verona!" and Pussy rose and threw her arms round her. "You cannot
leave _me_! you must not leave us! you must not! you must not! I cannot
live without you--it will kill me! You shall not stir, for I shall
die!" and she burst into a flood of tears.
"The best thing to be done," said Mr. Lepell, "is for you to go up to
Lizzie; I suppose you can remain here for the night, and I will take
you to Naini Tal myself to-morrow."
All this time Salwey had remained in the background, listening to
Mrs. Chandos' wild confession. He now came forward and made a rather
important statement: "You remember the lady who sat opposite us at the
ball supper, Miss Chandos--Lady Ida Eustace. Her sister, Lady Vera,
married a Mr. Hargreaves. It is quite true that it was a runaway match,
and all the family were implacable until poor Lady Vera died in India,
and then she was forgiven. It was a tragic story. I remember hearing
of it as a boy--of beautiful Lady Vera, and how her husband was killed
three weeks after her death. The baby, it seems, did not die after all;
Lady Ida, you see, is your own aunt, so you are not entirely without
someone belonging to you. Well, now, I think," taking his uncle's arm,
"we had better go away; you have to make your arrangements for an early
start to-morrow."