CHAPTER IX
Her clothes and personal possessions—such as music, books (and [last, but not least] jewels)—were all that the deposed heiress carried away, when she left London with Mrs. Melville. The entire wardrobe of the late Madame de Godez was confiscated by her sister-in-law, who subsequently made a brave display in various gorgeous garments; whilst Maggie, in a red "creation," by Worth, was a sight for men, and gods! Oh, the purchaser of these superb confections, little, little dreamt who was to flaunt in her plumes, and to stand in her shoes!
Miss Chandos experienced the first effects of her change of circumstances when she travelled down to Halstead second class, looked after the luggage and secured seats, whilst her friend took the tickets and paid the cabman.
Her reception at the Manor was warm; from the old coachman's "Welcome back, miss," to the parrot's screech, "Verona, kiss me!" She once more occupied her own bedroom, in which nothing had been changed since she quitted it, five years previously, in order to follow her adopted mother into fashionable life. Here were the same old samplers, the paintings of Venice and Vesuvius, the dimity curtains in the windows, the hideous china dogs on the mantelpiece, the well-known writing table and cosy armchair. There was the same familiar bright outlook on the garden—and the unfamiliar quiet of the country. It was like returning into harbour after an extensive cruise, in order to refit for yet another voyage. She was about to refit and make a fresh departure; to begin life with her own people; to visit long-desired India!
The years with Madame de Godez had flashed by in a succession of splendid scenes, and kaleidoscopic views of strange countries, and strange faces. Now it all seemed singularly unreal. And when Verona sat in the bow window of the drawing-room, and watched the brown pony grazing on the lawn—saw the spaniel chasing his mortal enemy, the kitchen cat, out of the garden, whilst the jackdaw flapped applause—it seemed as if she had only been absent a few weeks. Those glittering scenes at Monte Carlo, and Aix, and Paris, were all so many dreams—merely dreams! Her old friends and neighbours, the folk in the village, were delighted to welcome her back among them, the only change she felt was the absence of Madge—who six months previously had married an officer and departed to Malta. Verona was thankful that in her day of prosperity she had had it in her power to delight Madge with diamonds. Auntie had been generous, and had bestowed on the bride a set of superb sables.
Now she could no longer indulge in what had been one of her chief pleasures—buying gifts. There was her own jewel case; she unlocked it and exhibited the contents to Mrs. Melville. It contained various proofs of madame's wealth, and eye for effect. A long chain of pearls, a variety of rings and bangles, brooches, a watch set in brilliants, and several ornaments, including a magnificent diamond bow for the hair or corsage.
"Well, no, if you take my advice, you will not sell them," counselled Mrs. Melville. "They are worth a great deal of money, and if you must part with them, I believe you could get a better price in India; some native nobleman might purchase the pearls. Of course, dear, if you like to dispose of them here, and invest the money, do; but I expect you will only get half of what they are really worth. You say the pearls cost nine hundred?"
"Yes, and auntie was always begging me to have diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, but I always said 'No.' Even as it was I had far too much jewellery. This diamond and emerald pendant is exquisite—is it not?" and she held it up to her throat.
"It is; and I wish, since this represents your entire fortune, you had accepted madame's offer; for after all you have not such a wonderful supply!"
"More than ample—to wear, or to sell—and I will take your advice and keep them. I—I should like"—here she lowered her voice and coloured a little—"my mother to have the diamonds."
And with this generous wish she closed the jewel case.
Verona had written to her mother immediately after the death of Madame de Godez. Mr. Middlemass informed her of her address (and he had also despatched a few lines on his own behalf).
Her letter said:
"My dear Mother,
"I cannot tell you with what intense happiness I write these three words; for until a month ago I believed I was an orphan. My kind adopted mother is dead. She died most suddenly of apoplexy, and, meaning nothing but love and kindness to me, left her will unsigned, and all she possessed has passed to her husband's next-of-kin—a family of Scotch farmers. These people dislike me because they consider that for many years I have enjoyed their uncle's money. They have taken possession of everything, but intend to defray my passage out to India, and give me three hundred pounds. I have no ties in this country, and am longing to go to my own people. Amidst much trouble and worry, and a great change of circumstances, I have one indescribable joy, the prospect of soon seeing my father, and you. Madame de Godez had, until a month ago, kept me entirely in the dark respecting my birth and parentage. I was her child, and no more information would she divulge; but not long ago I contrived to break down her reserve, and she informed me with great reluctance, that you and my father were alive, and that I had brothers and sisters. More than this she would not disclose, and never spoke of the subject but once. I gather that my father is not wealthy, but you will find that I can adapt myself to circumstances, and I hope to be a useful addition to the family. I have had an excellent education; I have a strong constitution and can work hard. I have always wondered why I felt so drawn towards the East, but now I understand at last. I am staying with Mrs. Melville at Halstead Manor, where I once lived for nine years, it was here I was educated and brought up. I would start off at once, so anxious am I to see you, but Mrs. Melville advises me to wait for a reply to this letter, and also until the monsoon has broken. She suggests my leaving England in July. Dearest mother, I am counting the very days till we meet. You will spare a little love for me, will you not? I am always picturing you to myself, and I have made up my mind that you are like someone I know, and who I have always wished were my mother.
"Ever your most loving and happy daughter,
"Verona Chandos."
It would take (so she had calculated) about five weeks to receive an answer to this letter, and during these five weeks Verona renewed her friendship with people and animals: became a delightful deputy daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Melville, busied herself in making preparations for her passage, and buying suitable gifts for her unknown relations. It was near the end of June, when a letter, with an Indian stamp, in an unknown, somewhat shaky writing, lay beside Verona's plate at breakfast time. She opened it tremulously. It was written on cheap thin paper, and at the top was stamped:
"Manora Sugar Factory,
"Near Rajahpore.
"Dear Verona,
"I am writing in reply to your letter, to assure you that we shall be glad to see you, although we have not much to offer, except a welcome. I fear, after what you have been accustomed to, that you will find our mode of life an uncomfortable change, but you are young and full of hope and courage, and everything will be a novelty.
"I am sorry Madame de Godez is dead, and that she had made no provision for you. At the same time, we shall all be pleased to welcome you into what is your real home, and will look for your name in the passenger list of the steamer leaving London the second week in August. Write again, and tell us your plans.
"I am, your affectionate father.
"Paul Chandos.
"P.S.—Your mother sends her love."
This epistle was a little disappointing to Verona, the echo to her appeal seemed so faint, but after all it was a letter from her father. They were all ready to welcome her, and if not so eager to see her, as she was to see them, she remembered that they were accustomed to family intercourse—they were many living together—she alone out in the darkness, looked towards their hearth as the beacon of her happiness. Verona reflected for a short time, and then decided to show her father's letter to Mrs. Melville, who for her part found it both kind and sensible, and said so, greatly to Verona's relief, and that same day she wrote and engaged her passage by a steamer which sailed in three weeks' time.
As she went singing about the garden, culling roses, and accompanied by the dogs, Mr. Melville—a good grave man, with a spade-shaped beard, and a taste for archæology—said to his wife—
"Lucy, I wish we could keep that child with us."
"So do I. She has always been one of ourselves, almost ever since she came here, a little decked-out, Frenchified doll, speaking broken English. But her heart is set upon her own people."
"Yes, and she knows nothing about them, nor, for that matter, do we."
"We know that her father is a man of good family—one of the Chandos of Charne."
"And the black sheep for all you can tell," interrupted Mr. Melville.
"Come, don't make the worst of it, Joe!"
"Yes, it's bad enough as it is. This girl, brought up with a taste for everything money can buy, and left without any provision. I call it a most shameful, abominable business. Verona will never understand shifts and scraping. She will have to put up with a vile climate, and to adapt herself to a new life. Now Madge is away, and Robert is at sea, I think she might remain on as our adopted daughter. She does the flowers for you, and mends my gloves, and cuts my papers, and plays picquet, and sends back my books to the London library—we shall not be able to spare her."
"My dear Joe, I'm afraid we must, sorely as we want her, and much as I believe she loves us. Her heart, as I've already assured you, is with her own people. If we kept her with us, she would be continually pining to fly away, like a robin in a cage."
"I sincerely hope her expectations may be realised, but I think it is a risky experiment, attaching oneself to a hitherto unknown family."
"She will be an acquisition anywhere, so lively and so sweet tempered, and entirely unconscious of herself. Her great social success never made the smallest difference to us; she wrote to me as regularly as Madge. I believe she had no end of offers of marriage—including one from a prince!"
"Oh, well, I cannot exactly credit that. And anyway, I can assure you, she will never have a chance of becoming a princess in India. Joking apart, I'm really anxious about the child. Do you have a good talk to her, Lucy, and try once more, if she will not accept the bird in the hand, and remain with us, for the birds in the bush may be of doubtful plumage."
"I will see what I can do," assented Mrs. Melville, "but in return for your half proverb, I will give you a whole one."
"What may it be?"
"Far off hills are green."
Joselyn Melville made no attempt to argue the question further, but merely resumed the Guardian with a grunt.
In three weeks' time Mr. and Mrs. Melville accompanied their charge to Tilbury, and when they saw the Arabia leave her moorings, waved good-bye to Verona with as much emotion as if she had been their own child.