CHAPTER V
Many months had elapsed since Malcolm Haig bartered his heart in exchange for a photograph; he was once more resigned to the monotonous round of regimental duty in an Indian cantonment, had purchased a promising pony, who ran at small meetings under the mysterious initial of "V. C."—a "V. C." who was gradually absorbing the interest once given to her namesake, and, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, the memory of a certain dazzling princess had become a little dim!
Madame de Godez and Verona were in England. They had no occasion now to dread the Dover Custom House, for Dog Darling was defunct. His death had been a genuine grief to his mistress, who looked as if she too would soon cross the frontier of an unknown land. The old lady was changed, a life of uninterrupted self-indulgence had begun to tell at last. There were deep lines in her face, and pouches under her eyes, her breath was scanty and her spirits were low.
She had come to London in order to consult a specialist, and to confer with her man of business, and for some weeks had been established in the best suite of a well-known private hotel off Piccadilly.
It was a foggy night in March, the lamps across the way were barely discernible, the traffic had almost ceased. In a stately drawing-room, Madame, hunched up in a low chair, was cowering over the fire. As she sat staring into the coals with a far-away, vacant expression, she looked very old, and dark, and sick—despite a splendid satin tea-gown, and the pearl-powder on her face. Verona, her pride and boast, was now transformed from a mere beauty on exhibition to an affectionate and efficient nurse—Madame's unwearied comforter and companion. She had been reading aloud since dinner time, in a clear steady voice, detailed descriptions of fashionable doings and particulars of a great wedding: such news as the soul of her listener loved, until Madame, who had been inattentive for a long time, suddenly exclaimed in a fretful tone:
"There, there, Verona, child, that will do! Turn off the lights, they hurt my eyes, and come and sit by the fire and talk to me."
"Yes, auntie," she answered, promptly putting aside the paper and lowering the lights, "and now"—taking one of the old woman's hands in hers and stroking it softly—"tell me, what shall we talk about?"
"I've been thinking of the Prince," was the unexpected answer. "How I wish you had married him! He was a nice fellow, and if he had no money—what matter for thatt!"
"I could not have married him, dear."
"Why nott?"
"Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark. Why he was like a black-a-moor!"
"Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is a great sin to be so particular—some of the Saints are ink-black in their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"
"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp."
"I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day."
"Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry now, but I really can't help myself. I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you doing?"
"I was giving him instructions about my will—he was drawing it up."
"But I thought you had made it ages ago."
"Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will, and so I will burn it! I have burned three"—there was a distinct note of exultation in the confession—"now I am mailing," here she heaved a deep sigh, "another."
"I'm sure you are not fit to do law business at present; do wait a little."
"No, I can not; that Middlemass has been scolding me to-day, and says I ought to settle my affairs, for if I—" she hesitated, and went on—"I were to die, every pice I possess goes to my husband's relations. And then what would become of you, my dearie?"
"Do not let us talk of such things, auntie. At present I have you, and you are much better."
"I tell him a rich girl has always friends!" mused Madame, as if talking to herself. "You have numbers of friends, Verona, but most of them are abroad. So are your admirers. I am sorry now I've stayed out of England these five years. One is soon forgotten, and loses touch with people. At this time of year, too, our acquaintances are in the country, or on the Riviera. When I feel arl-right, I shall take a big house in town, and give dances, and bridge parties, and entertain—and then my old set will soon remember me."
There was a silence, during which the two women sat staring at the fire. At last the girl spoke, with the abruptness of one who has made up her mind to broach a strange topic.
"Auntie! I wish you would tell me something about myself. Do, dear auntie! I am two-and-twenty years of age, and I know nothing of what is called, my forbears. If anyone were to say to me, 'Who are you?' I should be obliged to reply, 'I don't know!'"
"If you say, 'I am the adopted daughter and heiress of Fernanda de Godez,' you will find they are perfectly satisfied," rejoined her companion, in a sharp emphatic key.
"But I am not.—Oh, do forgive me, dearest, I feel sure that no kith or kin could have done more for me than you, and I am a truly fortunate girl; for it is not money only that you have given me, but love. It does seem so extraordinary, that I have no belongings, and that all I know of my past is that when I was a tiny child, and a year old, you adopted me and brought me home from India."
"That is true," granted her listener.
"I must have been over a year old, for I can dimly recall the steamer, and the black faces of the Lascars."
"Ho, ho! there you go! black faces! You were nearly two when you landed."
"They must have died within a short time of one another," resumed Verona, in a low voice.
"What do you mean, child? Who are you talking about?"
"My father and mother."
"Yes, yes, yes, I have allowed everyone to suppose you were an orphan," continued Madame, staring straight before her in dreamy fashion, "but I have never said so."
"Not an orphan!" repeated the girl, sitting erect, and turning quickly to her companion. "Oh, darling auntie, do tell me—it will make no difference to you—is my mother alive?"
Her voice shook for an imperceptible moment, and her eyes glowed with expectancy.
"Now, what nonsense this is!" cried Madame de Godez peevishly. "What would you give to know?"
Verona suddenly averted her eager face, and made no answer.
The ensuing silence was so unusually prolonged that at last the old lady jerked her head round, and glanced interrogatively at her companion. To her amazement and dismay she saw two great tears stealing down the girl's face.
Verona's tears were more than she could endure. Verona, who rarely wept, even as a child; Verona, who had scarcely grieved for the dog.
"Come, come, come, lovey, don't! I cannot bear it. No! since you are so foolish, then I will tell you."
The girl turned to her instantly, her eyes were wet, her lips were parted.
"Your father and mother are both alive—in India—and well, for all I know—there now!"
For a moment her listener remained silent and motionless; she seemed stunned; twice she endeavoured to articulate, but failed. At last she said:
"My father and mother! Oh, thank God! Auntie, isn't it wonderful?"
"No-ah! there is nothing wonderful at all," retorted Madame de Godez, "I knew the family. They were hard up, they had debts, and children, and as I was leaving India a widow, alone, I offered to take you to be my own daughter, and never to see them again."
"And they agreed?" exclaimed the girl, and her words were faint and tremulous.
"Why, of course. It was a fine bargain for them, and you. Oh, you were a pretty child! Just like a little angel on a Christmas card. Now, Verona, I would never have spoken of this, and let you think what you pleased, only—you have worried it out of me!"
"Are my people related to you?" she faltered.
"Never mind."
"Have I any brothers and sisters?"
"It does not matter, for you will never see them," replied the old lady, who was obviously disturbed and displeased. "You will never go to India, make yourself easy about thatt."
"Oh, dear auntie," said the girl suddenly, sinking on her knees, and putting both her arms round her friend's dumpy figure, "you know very well that it is not like you to talk in this way. You know that you can make me very happy. You load me with diamonds and pearls, far more than I want; give me a few precious words—they are of more value to me than jewels. Do tell me something about my father, and above all"—with a sudden impulsive movement—"my mother. Do, darling, please." And the petitioner drew the old woman into a yet closer embrace, and imprinted warm kisses on her ugly, lipless mouth.
"Well, then," gasped Madame, a little breathlessly, "you are such a coax! I suppose I must! Your father is a gentleman, of old, old family—he looks like a duke. He was in the Army long ago, but he was hard up, and so he had to leave. He has now a civil post."
"And my mother?" Verona's lips dwelt lingeringly on the word; there was a strange expression in her eye.
"Oh, no, no! She is not much! She is not a friend of mine. No, no, I do not like her; but she was once a beauty. Now, Verona," suddenly releasing herself, "that is enough. No, but too much. Be satisfied. I am your father and mother, and sisters and brothers. They are Indian people, with Indian notions, and they do not want you. You are not one of them—and never can be one of them."
"No," agreed her hearer, half under her breath. "Gains involve losses"—the saying flashed into her mind with cruel opportuneness, and Verona realised with a pang that she had gained a life of luxurious ease, in exchange for her own people and her father's house.
"Oh, no, no, they do not want you," reiterated Madame, "'the flower returns not to the branch,' as Baptista Lopez would say: she and I were at school together. My! what a girl for proverbs!"
"Do they ever write?" ventured Verona.
"There, now, you see what I have put in your head!" cried Madame angrily. "I am sorry I told you one single word; it is all useless, foolish talk. I am tired. Ring for Pauline, and I will go to my bed." As she spoke she rose from her chair with Verona's assistance, then grasped her arm, and tottered painfully out of the room.
Madame's adopted daughter had led a wandering life, until she was eight years old, and was supremely ignorant of what the word "home" implied. Madame had surely some gipsy blood in her veins (and was not averse to the idea). She drifted about the Continent from one fashionable hotel to another, with a retinue of servants, tons of luggage, a parrot, a poodle, and a child.
This was all very well for the parrot and the poodle, but for the child it was another affair. Her education was of a peculiar description, and undoubtedly resembled a meal, where the sweets are served before the joints. "La petite Verona" danced delightfully, acted with extraordinary intelligence, and sang piquant little songs in her shrill childish voice—such were her accomplishments. She was dainty, and pretty, and graceful; in short, she was Madame de Godez's doll—and idol. But, low be it whispered, she could hardly read simple words, a pen and needle were strangers to her tiny hands; geography and arithmetic were but hideous names, and yet the child could declaim a tragedy, play the mandoline, and converse fluently in three languages.
It seemed a sheer miracle that this petted little creature should have remained unspoiled, but her sense of truth and honour appeared to be inborn and innate, and she had none of the greedy, selfish, elfish ways of solitary and applauded children. In short, her little heart was in its right place, her feelings were deep and sincere. She was attached to her bonne, her auntie, and the parrot; to one of the waiters at the "Hotel Bristol," and to Martin, the concierge at "the Ambassadors" in Rome. But she and Polo, the poodle, had never really fraternised, being performers, public favourites, and necessarily—rivals.
The child was by no means perfect. Her temper was hot, and it must be frankly admitted that her manner to those she considered her inferiors was occasionally haughty and disdainful; her pride was stern and unbending, for, although she had no petty conceit, she took the personality of Miss Verona Chandos with a gravity that was ludicrous.
A sudden and complete change in the child's life may be attributed to one cause, and the name of that cause was, "scarlatina." She caught the complaint, and had it badly, thereby occasioned a serious commotion, as well as much inconvenience, in a certain smart hotel, and subsequent heavy expense to her auntie. A soft-voiced, dove-eyed matron pointed out to this lady that a girl of Verona's age had still a whole gamut of diseases to run through—measles, mumps, whooping cough—this would necessarily lead to continual annoyance, quarantine, and enforced seclusion.
"But what am I to do?" demanded Madame in her staccato key.
"Send her to England without delay. It is fully time she was properly educated, and mixed with other children."
"Oh, but she is so clever!"
"True, in a way, but she cannot read or write. Surely, dear friend, you do not wish Verona to grow up an ignoramus and a laughing-stock?"
"No, no, no," ejaculated Madame, "but I could not send her to school. I hated school myself."
Lady Wallsend stared; it seemed such a singular and grotesque idea that Madame de Godez should ever have been at school.
"And I happen to know a most charming family in England—extremely kind, refined, and well connected. They are looking for a companion, to educate with their little girl Madge."
"Oh, do you think that would answer?"
"Yes, quite admirably. The Melvilles are my own cousins—not wealthy. They would, of course, expect handsome terms, and for these, the child would have every care, the best of teachers, a delightful country home, and a playmate of her own age."
Madame, who was still smarting from exorbitant charges, and penetrated with the dread of measles and chicken-pox, lent a ready ear to Lady Wallsend's not wholly disinterested suggestion; preliminaries were arranged, and Verona Chandos, a Frenchified, dressy, self-possessed little personage, was duly received at Halstead Manor. Here she lived as one of the family for nine happy years, sharing all the joys and sorrows, games and lessons, of her friend Madge; and being an orphan, was from the first adopted into the motherly heart of Mrs. Melville.
Madame de Godez did not lose sight of her protégée. During the London season she travelled to England, and carried off Verona for a sensational holiday; but when the girl was seventeen, and gave promise of remarkable beauty, her adopted mother promptly claimed her, loudly announcing that "life was no longer possible without her adored child." Here was the first serious trouble in Verona's life. She felt almost heartbroken as she and Madge went round, arm in arm, paying farewell visits in the village, the stable yard—not forgetting the seagull, and the tortoise in the garden. Their tears flowed fast as they separated their respective treasures in the old schoolroom, but Madame de Godez laughed at their sorrows, and believed that she had stifled every regret when she presented each of the mourners with a fine pearl necklace.
In spite of Madame's mock sympathy and real pearls, Verona found it a painful wrench to bid good-bye to her beloved country home, with all its happy associations, and to go forth into the blare and glare of the great world, and the fierce white light which beats upon a beauty, and an heiress.
When Verona had assisted Pauline to put her mistress to bed—a lengthy and intricate process—when she had put everything in the way of salts, lozenges, and refreshment, within the patient's reach, lit a night-lamp and turned off the electric light, she returned to the drawing-room and sat down before the fire. Here she remained in one thoughtful attitude for a long time. As she leant her cheek on her hand, the firelight on the wall made a clear-cut silhouette of her graceful, motionless figure.
As the girl sat thus, she was staring, not at the coals, but into the dim past, yearning to recall some face, urging her torpid memory to send her even one sign. But, strive as she would, all that emerged from the veil which concealed those far-away days was a little painted toy! A wooden figure with a yellow turban, and a scarlet body covered with gold spots. She remembered it perfectly, her anguish when it had fallen overboard, and how she had wept. It was marvellous that such a paltry item should remain fixed in a child's brain, and that yet she could not recall the face of her parents. No, as far as they were concerned, her memory was a hopeless blank.
Her heart was full to bursting, her thoughts were moving and strange. At last she sprang up and began to pace the room, with subdued silken rustlings and a quick light tread.
Once she stood still and, stretching her arms to the irresponsive London fog, whispered in tones of the most exquisite tenderness, "Oh, mother, mother, mother!"