CHAPTER XIII
Was there a lower depth than she had touched? Her grandmother! Verona heard the word with dismay. Had she not yet reached the bottom of the abyss? Once upon a time she could claim no relations, but now their number was seemingly legion. With this thought in her mind, she followed with a beating heart and instinctive reluctance her mother, who, beckoning with the quick, supple motion peculiar to her class, led the way across a passage and verandah and down some steps at the rear of the house. Here, facing them, was a large square building or bungalow, its high roof thrown into sharp relief by the white moonlight. Mrs. Chandos paused for a moment and explained:
"Our house was once the manager's; that was before the Mutiny year, but it was not grand enough for the Lepells, so we got their leavings, and it suits us, being large. This," pointing to the building, "was the Dufta in old days. Of course, you don't know Hindustani? 'Dufta' means office. Your grandmother prefers it to the house."
As she concluded she had pushed open a door, and Verona found herself in a low bedroom, lit by a flaring wall-lamp and reeking with heat and oil. Two women were engrossed in a game of cards—(oh, such greasy black cards!)—a little grey-haired ayah, who squatted upon the floor, and a fat old person, who was seated in a battered cane-chair; She had a large, brown, good-humoured face, from which her reddish hair was tightly drawn back and fastened in a knob. Her features were small and well formed, but disfigured by several dark warts; that on her left eyebrow, taken in connection with one on her upper lip, gave a comical, interrogative expression to her otherwise placid countenance. She wore a turkey-red petticoat, a Kurta—the short-sleeved jacket affected by native women; over her shoulders and bare, wrinkled arms was thrown a strip of embroidered muslin; heavy gold ear-rings and a massive necklace completed the costume of Mistress Baptista Lopez. "Aré, so this is the girl," she exclaimed, as she put down her cards and extended a dumpy hand. For a moment she stared at the visitor in expressive silence, then turned to her daughter with a wheezy laugh, and said, "Aré, Bapré Bap! Now who would think she was my grandchild?" (Who, indeed!)
Her little black eyes considered every item of Verona's appearance, from the crown of her dark head to the tip of her neat shoe.
"What do you think of her, Nani?"—(Hindustani for grandmother.)
"She looks like a Burra Miss-Sahib; and is awfully handsome. Soon, soon, she will be married, and you will be glad of that!"
As Mistress Lopez uttered this prophecy she again looked up at her daughter and laughed. Her laugh resembled the sound emitted by a pair of broken bellows.
"I'm sure I wonder she was not married long ago!" rejoined Mrs. Chandos in an aggrieved tone.
"Oh, but Fernanda would not let her," explained the old woman. "I know her ways! And so you lived with Fernanda Gowdy for years," now addressing herself to the girl. "She and I were cronies together at the Kidderpore school; the Kidderpore was such a big place, and stood in a great park, and now and then the lady in charge gave a great ball to the officers and people. Anyone could choose a bride. Fernanda was a beauty, my! such a figure! You might blow her away! That Scotchman only saw her twice before he made an offer of marriage. She was just sixteen. I was married at eighteen. My! my! my! whatt a long time a-go; and Fernanda is dead! Did you like her?"
"Yes," replied Verona, "she was good to me always. I was very fond of her."
"But left you no money, no-a—not one pice. Eete was too bad! Aré, it was a shame! Yet she never was a mean girl!"
"She intended to provide for me, and she gave me a first-rate education."
"Ah, that is so; and you have learnt to speak and look like some big swell. Oh, oh, yes! you are a beautee; you will cut out Dominga."
At this point Mrs. Chandos brusquely interposed, speaking in Hindustani, and mother and daughter had a loud altercation, which lasted for some minutes.
"Well, well, well! let a-lone, let a-lone!" exclaimed the old woman, who had evidently had the worst of the argument.
"Verona, child, I hope you may be lucky. Some day I must try your fortune in the crystal; this is not a good day, it is the twenty-fifth."
"Your Nani is taken up with signs, and tokens, and cards, and spells," grumbled Mrs. Chandos, "just like any old bazaar woman. Oh, you will be surprised at her ways!"
"I hope she will get used to all our ways, for some of them are funny," rejoined Mrs. Lopez good-humouredly, and she nodded her head till her three chins shook again.
"Yes, you will, miss, oh, so many fine things; but there is no other home for you, and you cannot live in the river, and be at enmity with the crocodile!"
Verona stared at the speaker with an expression of complete bewilderment.
"Pah! it is only one of mother's silly proverbs," explained Mrs. Chandos; "here, sit down," pushing a cane stool towards her. Her daughter gladly accepted the morah, and while her two relatives once more discussed her in voluble Hindustani, her eyes wandered languidly around the room.
The floor was covered with soiled matting and one handsome Persian rug. The walls were ornamented with gaudy-coloured prints; in a corner was a low charpoy, or bed, with red-lacquered legs and heaped high with pillows; a press, an ancient bureau, a card-table, and a cooking-stove completed the furniture. Nani's shoes, which were small, an umbrella, which was large, occupied a prominent position; a dress on a peg still retained the voluminous outline of her figure: there were also her domestic pets. In a rude tin cage on the bureau dozed, as Verona subsequently discovered, a peculiarly rude green parrot. The empty fire-place, instead of exhibiting the usual paper frills, made a comfortable cot for a huge black cat. In an angle beyond the press lay some larger animal, and Verona received a distinct shock when she discovered that the object of her curiosity was a full-sized goat.
"Ah!" cried Mrs. Lopez, as she caught her eyes. "The go-at! But she is so tame—tame as the cat; I keep her for my coffee; I make it myself fresh, fresh every three days, and see it roasted and ground—just what fills three bottles. Oh, it is awfully good! You shall have some to-morrow, when I will tell your fortune."
"And your Nani will stuff your head with nonsense and proverbs," said Mrs. Chandos.
"No-a, indeed! they all feete," protested her mother. "Verona is sensible, thatt I can see, and now she is in her father's house she will be content, and will stretch her feet to the length of the sheet. Won't you, child?"
"I am not looking for riches and luxuries, ma'am."
"Yes. But hitherto you have had five fingers in the ghee. You do not know what it is to be poor."
As this was true Verona remained silent.
"And you are so handsome!" resumed the old woman. "You will be arl-right, I see it in your face. You will be lucky. You know the saying, 'Who eats sugar, will get sugar.'"
Then turning sharply to her daughter, she said:—"Rosie, this girl is not like any one of you, no! she is different to all. It is another face!"
"And how do you account for it, Nani?" inquired Mrs. Chandos, with a sneering smile.
"Oh, it is quite plain! Oh, thatt is easily done!" rejoined Mrs. Lopez with delighted alacrity. "She takes after my mother. Yes; she must inherit from her; for, although she was only a Temple girl who danced before the gods—a Naikin from Goa, where my father first saw her—yet she was celebrated as the most beautiful woman on the whole West coast!"
"And you think Verona beautiful, and like her?" cried her daughter, bursting into a peal of derisive laughter. "Whatt a joke! Well, Nani, you must be blind! She is well enough, but no beauty."
"Pah! pah! pah! you are no judge, Rosa! You have only eyes for that red cat of yours; and I tell you this child," and she pointed to Verona, "has a face that will make her fortune; it may be, arl your fortunes."
"And that reminds me of the money," said Mrs. Chandos, with a sudden start—"the three hundred pounds fortune. Did you bring it in sovereigns, Verona, as we wished?"
"Yes, it is all in my dressing bag."
"Ayah, ayahjee!" and Mrs. Chandos went screaming to the door. "Go, fetch the Missy's big leather bag, and bring it here, quick, quick! quick! Or, wait! I go myself," and she darted into the moonlight.
"She is wonderful, your mother," remarked the old woman; "so sharp about money! Such a manager! Great show outside, and pinching in the belly; but she will have it thus, since there are so many to feed, and young girls to marry. Her wishes are high."
"Yes," assented her daughter mechanically.
"Arl-day she works so hard in the office next door, doing figures and accounts. She owns a few little houses in the bazaar, and adds on to the pay. It is not much, two hundred a month."
"Pounds?" suggested her companion.
"No! rupees—that is to say, shillings. But she is a manager."
"Well, here it is," panted Mrs. Chandos, pushing open the door with her foot, and entering bag in hand; "now let us see the money."
As Verona hastened to produce her keys, and proceeded to unlock the bag, Mrs. Chandos continued:
"I will invest it for you, child; it will bring in good interest; as much as one hundred and fifty rupees a year, which will buy you clothes."
"No, no! it is all for you and father," protested the girl. "I only wish it were more! I really do not want it."
"Yes, that is what I said," agreed Mrs. Chandos, with astonishing animation; "but your father does not agree; it is your little dowry, he says, and is to be put by for your use alone. He will not touch one pice. Sometimes he can be as obstinate as a rock, and I have given him a promise not to accept one rupee from you. No! even should you offer it on your knees!"
While she was speaking Verona had unearthed a green silk bag, which she was now about to place upon the table, but Mrs. Chandos seized it from her, drew the string and emptied out the gold into one shining mass. How her eyes glittered and her cheeks blazed as she bathed her hands in the sovereigns, and let them dribble through her claw-like fingers. She appeared completely transformed, her complexion glowed, the hard lines on her face relaxed into smiles.
Verona, as she stared in wonderment, no longer disbelieved the tale that her mother had once been a beauty. How strange that the mere sight of gold should thus transfigure her countenance—for a second it was illumined with the colour and sparkle of her long lost youth. At this moment there was a sudden sound of crushed gravel without: the door was opened unceremoniously, and a tall, obese old man stood on the threshold. Verona's heart failed her as she beheld him, and asked herself the desperate question if here was yet another relation?
This time a pure native.