The marriage and departure of Dominga was a signal for the general
break-up of the Chandos household. The bungalow belonged to the
factory--and they must all seek another home. Pussy was now betrothed
to her Alonzo, who through Lepell interest had been promised a fine
post at Tundla Junction. Nani Lopez was to accompany her daughter into
the "Doon," for Mrs. Chandos had still ample means, and was enabled
(though shorn of her ill-gotten spoils) to give Pussy a fortune, and to
personally live at her ease. It may here be mentioned that she and her
parent spent the hot seasons in Mussouri, where, as the mother of Lady
Highstreet, she receives in certain circles a considerable amount of
agreeable attention.
The news of Verona's existence came as a delightful shock to the Bourne
and Hargreaves families. Her new relatives were all eagerness to
welcome poor Vera's girl with open arms, not to speak of the invitation
she received from her friends, the Melvilles. It was arranged that she
was to return home with Mrs. Lepell in November, and when it came to
her very last hours in the Chandos Kothi, the grief of Pussy and Nani
was profound. Poor Pussy wept incessantly as she hung about her adored
Verona.
"Only Alonzo has promised to take me _home_ some day," she sobbed; "I
would not marry him--and I would die--never to see you again--to think
of it! I could not live--No!"
"And why do you cry so?" remonstrated Nani. "Behold me!" her old face
looked sharpened and blanched; two unshed tears glittered in her eyes.
"I love Verona more than you do, and yet I shall never see her again.
For me there is no hope; yet I do not weep. Verona has done good here,
now she goes elsewhere--what says the proverb? 'Great rivers, medicinal
plants, and virtuous people, are born, not for themselves, but for the
good of others.' She goes to do good elsewhere, and I shall come and
stay with you at Tundla, and we," stroking Verona's cheek, "will often
talk of _her_."
"I will never forget you, dear, dear Nani," whispered the girl. "Be
sure of that, and I will write to you often--and send you such pretty
wools."
"Ah, core of my soul, no wool will make up for thee! And what of
Johnny?"
"I would like to take him, but it would be selfish--here he has his
freedom and all his friends." At the moment he was executing gymnastic
feats among the lattice work; there was a rustle, a pair of watchful
eyes, a swift patter, and Johnny, with a new blue ribbon round his
neck, joined the party, and fearlessly climbed into his lady's lap.
"Aré, see, I have half a mind to take him to the Doon," announced Nani.
"No, no, Nani, let him stay here," pleaded Verona, "where he was first
found. As long as he lives, he will be a happy little monument to you,
and me--you saved his life, and I won his heart."
* * * * *
It was Verona's last evening at Manora. The Chandos bungalow was now
untenanted, and she was staying with Mrs. Lepell. The two ladies and
Salwey, who had come to say good-bye to his aunt, were strolling about
the garden after dinner. To fitly describe Mrs. Lepell's garden would
fill a small volume, for it was not alone her mere garden; it was her
pride, her employment and her glory! In twenty years she had changed a
bare straggling compound into a little Eastern paradise. The lawn was
its chief feature; a large expanse of velvet turf, watered and clipped,
and lined with borders of the choicest rose-trees--in some of which the
bul-buls built their nests--it gave the impression of being full of
sweet flowers, of shady nooks, of blossoming shrubs and graceful trees,
and was the resort of many gay bold birds and brilliant butterflies.
The lawn lay immediately behind the house; beyond it were cool green
pergolas shaded with ferns, and great patches of sweet pea; then came
the maze of mango trees, thickets of lemons, and beds of tomatoes,
gourds and lettuce. It was one of Mr. Lepell's jokes that his wife
could not endure to see people promenading on her precious English
turf! but to-night, she and two companions paced it slowly from end to
end--and once and again from end to end. They spoke but little. At last
Mrs. Lepell said:
"And so you are not coming home, Brian? Well, I think you are very
foolish. You have had three hot weathers straight off."
"I don't think it can be done this year, Aunt Liz."
"It ought to be done, when your Aunt Liz is in England. Don't you
require some new clothes? Oh, there is old Mordoo beckoning; I suppose
he wants to speak to me about the doves. Don't go in, Verona, I will be
back in two seconds."
"Your last evening here," said Salwey, breaking a somewhat constrained
silence. "How glad you must be to leave the land of regrets--when you
can regret nothing."
"You forget," she answered, in a low voice. "Two graves."
"Yes, and I promise you that they will be well cared for--since Mrs.
Chandos is leaving the station."
"And is all her business arranged and wound up?"
"Yes, it is now in the hands of a trustworthy man--her books have been
destroyed. She has, however, an ample income."
"So Saloo is no more, thanks to you. And your wish is accomplished."
How bold she was!
Her companion made no reply, as he paced the grass with his eyes on the
ground, and his arms locked behind him.
"And you are not coming to England?" she pursued recklessly.
"No; you see my work is out here."
"Ah, yes, of course--and your heart is in your work!"
Oh, what an abominably forward girl she was! If Mrs. Lepell did not
quickly return, she would find herself proposing to the man beside her.
She felt desperate; cool and self-possessed as she outwardly appeared.
Must she go home--and never see him again? Would he not speak even one
word? Her heart thumped so violently, she was half afraid that he might
hear it!
"You have had some interesting experiences," he remarked. (She was on
the verge of the most extraordinary experience of all--did he but guess
the truth.)
"But I am sure you will be thankful to get out of this country," he
resumed, "and, needless to say--you will never return."
"I--I would return," she stammered--he suddenly stood still, raised his
head and looked her intently in the eyes--"I would return," she went
on, now with her gaze fixed on the ground--"if I was asked."
"Asked!" he repeated. "What do you mean--asked, by whom?"
"By the right person." Her voice had sunk to a whisper--her cheeks were
two flames.
It was enough--further humiliation was spared her. Brian Salwey was
not so simple as he had declared. With a sudden brusque movement he
laid his hand on her shoulder; his face was white with the pallor of
intense emotion, as he looked straight into her eyes and said:
"Am I the right person, Verona?"
Verona's reply was inarticulate but sufficient.
"It seems incredible!" he exclaimed, after a moment's stupefied silence.
The blue campanulas rang their bells, the bamboos whispered, the
roses nodded to one another, and the great silver moon slowly slid
up from behind the clump of mango trees, raised her broad face over
the branches, and stared complacently on this couple in the garden.
Here was Mrs. Lepell hurrying back, and as she approached, Verona,
whose courage had entirely ebbed, ran into the verandah, and left her
companion to break as best he could the news to his aunt.
"So!" exclaimed Mrs. Lepell, "I am absent for three minutes, and you
seize the opportunity to ask Verona to return to India to marry you!
Well, Brian, you _have_ a good conceit of yourself!" This was not,
as we are aware, an accurate statement of the case, but Salwey was
eminently chivalrous.
"What is this I hear?" demanded her hostess, as she pursued Verona into
her room. "Niece to be--or not to be! I do not think I can accord my
consent!" and she surveyed her with a smile of good-humoured perplexity.
"Has it been asked, Aunt Liz?" she murmured slyly.
"Verona, you are a most exasperating creature! Do please think of what
will be said of _me_ at home--of the match-making woman, who took
time by the forelock, and arranged it all with her own nephew--such a
wretched _parti_! Think of what your grandfather will say!"
"No, indeed, I've already had two sets of grandfathers, and I don't
care what anyone says--I shall marry to please myself."
"Like mother, like daughter! Oh, dear child, do forgive me! I don't
mean to be horrid!"
"I intend to marry Brian," continued Verona, in a firm voice, "who,
when I was a nobody, treated me like a Princess--and loved me for
myself."
"And you will come out here once more, to be the wife of a police
wallah?"
"Yes."
"And since he really is not raving mad, I suppose he is to travel to
Bombay--and see us off?"
"Yes, Aunt Liz, I suppose so."
Mrs. Lepell put her arm round the girl's neck and kissed her
affectionately. "Of course, dear--speaking unofficially--I am
delighted, and though I say it, who am his own aunt, few girls are in
my opinion good enough for Brian. _You_ are; and I should be entirely
happy, only for thinking of your relations. Your grandfather so anxious
to claim you--your aunt; if I only----"
"If you only say another word, Aunt Liz," interrupted Verona, "I
declare I shall take a three months' return ticket to Bombay."