CHAPTER XI
As Verona waited alone in this dim, unfamiliar room, her heart throbbed quickly; more than once she caught her breath with an involuntary gasp, for she realized that she was on the threshold of the most momentous event of her life; within the next few seconds she would be face to face with her mother.
Picture the situation! For twenty years this girl had lived with strangers, moving among friendly family circles, but belonging to none; secretly envious of home and blood ties. Although she bestowed her affections generously, an enormous reserve fund was stored up in her heart, ready to be lavished on someone near and dear, and someone near and dear was coming now. As she gazed with eyes grown deep with longing towards the curtained doors, her feelings were indescribable; in spite of the close, airless atmosphere, she was icy cold, and her clammy hands trembled in her lap.
Half unconsciously she contemplated her surroundings, the imposing grand piano, blackwood carved furniture, upholstered in red damask, marble-topped tables, Indian rugs, and three high doors, corresponding with the French windows. The room resembled a salon in some foreign hotel; no flowers, photographs or books were to be seen, much less a cat or dog, a rumpled newspaper, or scrap of work; but there was a curious unfamiliar odour, a mysterious combination of musk and coffee. To judge by their bungalow and the smart victoria, her parents were in easy circumstances—the standard of wealth in the East presumably differed from that in the West; poverty in England meant luxury in Manora. It was true that her father's clothes were shabby, but she was aware that some elderly men despised their personal appearance; and had not her father administered a shock? A sharp unexpected disappointment? Angrily she drove away the fact, but like an irritating insect, it returned with determined persistence.
He was undoubtedly a gentleman, his features were finely cut, his voice and manner unimpeachable, but there was a hidden tragedy in those weary eyes and timid deprecating air. What was the experience which had crushed all the light out of his face? and why did he look as if he abode day and night with the giant Despair? Was his haggard expression merely the result of ill-health, or, in consequence, of the doom of exile? Then her thoughts sprang back to that central figure—her mother. Oh, when would she come? What was detaining her?
Presently Verona became aware of a stealthy hustling and scuffling outside one of the curtained doors; her relations were evidently in her immediate vicinity. There was a sound of half-suppressed squeaks, of giggling and tittering, then a voice, in a well-known accent, cried:
"Oh, goody me! Pussy, Pussy, come along!"
Instantly the reply in breathless jerks, like a double knock, "No! no! no! you go!—you go!"
And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated—was briskly whisked aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati—or even Madame de Godez!
"Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are! You must stoop for me to kiss you."
Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute.
"My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall girls are the fashion—so the papers say!"
As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and fixed intently on the door, she cried:
"Whatt are you doing, child? Why are you staring so?"
"I am expecting my mother; is she coming soon?" she faltered, in a low tone.
"Soon," repeated the little dark woman, with a scream of hysterical laughter, "why, she is here, child! Don't you know that I am your mother? Whatt a funny girl! My! whatt a joke!"
"You," stammered Verona, in a faint voice; the room was whirling round, as she hastily put out her hand to support herself by the table.
"Why, of course, and who else?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, in a sharp challenging key. "You are astonished because I am so small; I am astonished because you are so big, so we are quits. No?"
Verona could not speak; she felt as if a rock had fallen upon her heart and was seized by a choking sensation that threatened to strangle her. It was the crucial moment of her life. A thunderbolt had shattered her personality; her very identity seemed dissolved, who was she? What was she? Vainly she struggled to realize that she was the daughter of this half-caste woman! Yes, she, with all her delicate fastidiousness, her uncontrollable antipathy to black blood—her invincible pride of race.
Poor old Madame was indeed prophetic, when she had talked of "punishment." What a sentence! It was worse than death.
Fortunately the light was dim, the sudden Indian twilight had invaded the room, for Verona's face was fixed and frozen in an ecstasy of horror.
"You don't seem to have much to say for yourself," began Mrs. Chandos, in a querulous, complaining tone, but before she had completed the sentence her husband entered, closely followed by two young women, and a slouching youth in a gaudy red blazer.
"Ah, you and your mother have met," he observed in an unnatural muffled voice. "So you have seen her?"
"Who could see anyone in this light?" cried his wife. "Here is the lamp," as a bearded servant entered, carrying a large argand, which he placed on the table.
"Now I'm going to have a good look at Verona," announced Mrs. Chandos, as she seized the girl's wrist in a fierce claw-like clutch—her tiny hand resembled the paw of a marmoset—and led her nearer to the light. The scrutiny proved to be critical, it was more—it was cruel; the hard, eager eyes that stared into hers, were keen as sword points, and the unhappy girl realized that no love lay within that searching gaze.
Releasing her daughter with a little contemptuous push, Mrs. Chandos turned to her husband, and said, "She's like no one I've ever seen; I suppose you think Verona takes after your family," and she laughed, as if this idea embodied an excellent joke.
"Yes, I believe she does," admitted Mr. Chandos, as he glanced at the white, set face with a look of anxious deprecation.
"Well, now we must introduce Verona to her sisters and brother," pursued his wife; "this is Dominga," as she led forward a tall, slim girl of twenty, with a bleached complexion and masses of splendid red hair; her eyes were long and narrow, her nose delicately cut, her lips were full; as she pressed them on Verona's cheek they were dry and burning like two coals.
"And here is Pussy; her real name is Bellamina." Pussy, who was shy, approached wriggling and giggling. She was dark and plump, but had a sweet good-tempered face, and her eyes were magnificent. She looked up timidly at her pale English sister, and in another second Pussy had flung her arms around her neck and given her her first really cordial embrace.
"Oh, my goodness, Verona!" she gasped, "you are a beautee, just like a picture. I shall love you, I know."
"And here is Nicky," continued Mrs. Chandos, dragging up a reluctant youth, with his long lank wrists bare of cuff, his wiry hair on end, his sunken eyes twinkling and mischievous. Nicky grinned from ear to ear, but made no attempt to salute his relative.
"So now you have seen them all except Blanche, and she will come to-morrow," said Mrs. Chandos. "Oh, my! how funny it is, to have one great big, new daughter, just like a stranger, is it not, Verona?"
"Yes," she acquiesced, mechanically, scarcely aware that she had spoken. Was this scene really happening, or was it not some hideous dream?
"If old Fernanda had not been so weecked we should never have seen you at all. No?" Mrs. Chandos concluded most of her sentences with a staccato-like note of negation.
"Which would have been our misfortune," supplemented Mr. Chandos, with unexpected force. "We are all glad to claim Verona."
As he spoke his eyes rested on this mute newcomer with a look of melancholy pride. Here was the only one among his children who was a true Chandos in bearing and breeding; the little fledgling who, twenty years previously, had, despite his remonstrances, been thrust out of the nest. What a difference her companionship would have made to him!—an ever present reminder of his home and youth. Would she be a comfort to him now? or would she hate and despise him (he cringed mentally at the thought) for having given her such a mother?
"And now you have seen us all, what do you think of us?" demanded Mrs. Chandos.
Verona was still too stunned to speak; her sole reply was a sickly smile.
"You know all about Blanche."
"And she doesn't count now she's married," protested Dominga; "she made such a bad match; he is only in the telegraph at one hundred and twenty rupees a month. Oh, she was a mad girl!"
"Come, I wonder what you think of us," reiterated her mother, who seemed determined to extract some reply to her question. "My! how white you look! You are tired; better have some tea, it is arl ready."
"No, thank you," faltered Verona, "I had some at the station."
"Whatt," wheeling sharply on her husband, "thatt was just waste, and must have cost one rupee; but you always have these grand lord ways when you are alone, and you forget your big family and small pay. No?"
Verona listened, mentally benumbed; her eyes seemed too large for her face; she looked white and worn, and years older than the girl who so eagerly alighted at Rajahpore an hour previously; but of all the gazing group, the wretched girl's father alone comprehended her sensations; his heart ached for her cruel disillusion. He had intended to drop a word, a little, little hint on their way home—but cowardice had laid her finger on his lips!
"I am sure your sister is tired," he said, glancing hurriedly at Pussy as he spoke; he dared not meet Verona's eyes, tragic with misery and pain. "Take her away, like a good girl, and show her her room." Oh, thrice, thrice blessed escape! Pussy, the ever impulsive, instantly flung her arm round Verona's waist, while Dominga held aside the purdah, and the three sisters passed forth.
"Of course, it is all strange to you at first," began Dominga, leading the way with a swaggering gait and the heavy trail of some sickly perfume, "but you will soon seem like one of the family, you will see, and just as if you had lived here arl-ways."
What a prospect!