CHAPTER VI
The morning after this unusual conversation Verona awoke with the sensation that something extraordinary had happened; awoke to a vague sense of disaster—a loss of something out of her life, a loss of birthright and inheritance; and in spite of an imperious voice which clamoured in her ear of auntie's affection and indulgence, she was aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction and disquiet. Instead of rising as usual when her maid brought in her bath and tea, she lay for a long, long time, staring vacantly at the wallpaper and entertaining a succession of unfamiliar thoughts. She was endeavouring to become acquainted with the personal meaning of the strange words father, mother, brother, sister, and home.
There was a sudden improvement in the weather, a capricious change which flooded the city with sunshine; bright blue skies stared down upon the leafless parks and hinted at approaching Spring.
Madame de Godez, who was painfully sensitive to climate and constantly referred to herself as "a true child of the sun," now declared that she felt much better—almost well; and instead of cowering over the coals, with her head enveloped in a shawl, her feet encased in fur slippers, she roused up, made a toilet, ordered a carriage, and drove about to milliners, house agents and restaurants. "The child of the sun" was no longer a shivering, ailing old woman, but the bustling and jaunty Madame de Godez of former days. The transformation was astounding; she angrily refused to follow the doctor's orders, flouted the idea of a régime, and her appetite for the pleasures of the table and the pleasures of society was, if anything, keener than ever.
The convalescent, in spite of eloquent expostulations, returned to her favourite menu of spiced meats, rich entrées, champagne, and caviare, and boastfully assured her adopted daughter that "she was the best judge of her own health. London doctors were quacks and alarmists, and all she required was a complete change; a couple of weeks at Brighton would transform her into another woman." Madame was self-willed and strong. For twenty-three years no one had ventured to oppose her, and for some little time her own prescription—to eat and drink and make merry—seemed unexpectedly efficacious.
One afternoon, after enjoying a hearty lunch on prawn curry (with hot condiments), roast hare, plum cake, and bottled stout, she sat down to write to a house agent, and when in the act of signing her name, was seized with an apoplectic fit, and before a doctor could be summoned, became insensible, never recovered consciousness, and died that night. Thus Madame de Godez had experienced a change, and one that she little anticipated—the great change of all.
There was the usual amount of startled confusion succeeding a sudden death. Verona was shocked and grief-stricken; all Madame's little peculiarities were forgotten, her good qualities remembered, as she gazed through her tears on the still, dark face, contrasting so sharply with the sheets and pillows, and clothed in all the dignity of death.
Mr. Middlemass, a wooden-faced family lawyer, was soon on the spot, and undertook all correspondence and funeral arrangements. Verona's good friend, Mrs. Melville, hurried up to town at once, in order to be with her, and she proved a comfort and tower of strength. Soon after her arrival Mrs. Melville had a long conversation with Mr. Middlemass, who said to her with alarming gravity: "I am sorry to inform you that Madame de Godez has not signed her will."
"Oh!" exclaimed the lady, rather blankly. "Has she not?"
"No. I have urged her repeatedly to settle her affairs, in common justice to Miss Chandos. She intended her to succeed to almost all she possessed. I have drawn up her instructions. This is the fourth will I have executed; the former three she destroyed. I had it prepared and ready for her signature, but she postponed the appointment, day after day, and now"—throwing out his hands—"she is gone——"
"Then it will make a great difference to Miss Chandos?"
"The greatest in the world. If the will had been duly signed—just two words written—Miss Chandos would come in for fifteen thousand a year—she would be an heiress. Now she is, I may say, penniless. It's one of the worst cases of procrastination I've ever known."
"And what becomes of all the money?" asked Mrs. Melville.
"It goes to the next-of-kin—the Gowdys. They can claim everything, under Mr. Gowdy's will, which states that, if his wife died intestate, his fortune was to go to his brother and his children, the heirs at law."
"And who are they?" she inquired, after a pause.
"Scotch farmer folk. I understand they have deeply resented the fact that the whole of their uncle's estate was left to his widow. James Gowdy was an indigo planter in the big days, and spent forty years in India. Madame disliked the name of Gowdy and transformed it into De Godez; it pleased her, and did no one any harm. Of course her business papers are signed in her real name."
"This is terrible news for my poor young friend," exclaimed Mrs. Melville. "Then she has no claim, and was no relation to her mother by adoption?"
"No more than I was."
"And is left penniless?"
"Yes, as far as Madame's money is concerned. Of course, the Gowdys may do something. I shall bring the matter strongly to their notice, and urge them to be liberal. I have wired, and written, and requested them to come down immediately, and I have postponed the funeral until their arrival."
"Well, I must go and break all this bad news to my poor child," said Mrs. Melville. "You know she is almost like one of my own; it is dreadful to think of her being left alone in the world."
"Oh, there you are misinformed. She is not an orphan, as has been generally supposed. Her father and mother are alive out in India. Madame adopted her, and cut her off from her family; she allowed no correspondence, as she was exceedingly jealous of the girl's affections. Now, no doubt, Miss Chandos will return to her family."
"With all the ideas, refinements, tastes and habits of a girl who has been brought up in England on an income of thousands. How cruel!"
"Yes, but from what I know of Miss Chandos, her tastes appear to be simple, and her ideas are not extravagant. I think she will adapt herself to circumstances. She seems a sensible girl."
"All you say is perfectly true, Mr. Middlemass. She lived with us for nine years. Her own people are not rich, I gather?"
"No, very far from it."
"And is she to have nothing? Nothing whatever?"
"Her personal effects, clothes and jewellery—that is all that she can claim, by the letter of the law."
"How inhuman the law is! I really think Madame has behaved in the most shameful, selfish way. What a cruel old woman!"
"Only a superstitious old woman," amended Mr. Middlemass, "who believed that a will was a reminder to the Angel of Death. She would be more heart-broken than anyone, at the present state of affairs, and she could not bear the name of the Gowdys. You may be satisfied that I will do my utmost to secure some provision for Miss Chandos." And with this friendly assurance Mr. Middlemass took his grey suède gloves, his glossy hat, and his departure.