CHAPTER XIV
The visitor wore a long, blue cloth coat, belted with leather, a huge white turban and a venerable white beard. His air and expression of benevolent dignity recalled to Verona the pictures of the prophet Abraham.
"Why, it is Abdul Buk!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Abdul, what a man you are! I believe," laying her hand over the gold in front of her, "you smell money."
"Nay!" and he salaamed as he spoke; "I have come hither on a little business; I know nought of smell, but the sight of money is ever good." He grinned broadly at his own pleasantry and displayed several yellow stumps.
"Behold my new grandchild, Abdul," cried Mrs. Lopez, indicating Verona with flattering complacency; "is she not well grown?"
Once more he salaamed, and the girl slightly bent her head in acknowledgment of the salute.
"He manages your mother's little property," continued the old woman, "and has doubled her income. Oh, he is very clever!"
"I hope he will double this gold," said Mrs. Chandos, piling it up into neat rows. "See, Abdul, three hundred English sovereigns; it belongs to my daughter; it is her fortune," and as she spoke she filled both hands with the coin and held them towards him with a playful air. "Don't you wish it was all yours?"
"Money, in a woman's hands, won't last; a child, left in the hands of a man, won't live," quoted Mrs. Lopez with impressive solemnity.
"But Abdul will invest it for Verona, and get her good interest—won't you, Abdul?" said Mrs. Chandos; "say one hundred and fifty rupees a year." As she spoke she turned towards him, and their eyes met in one long, fixed look.
"Oh, yess; certainly," he answered, "I can promise thatt. Oh, yess."
"Then you will invest in sugar?"
"Oh, yess."
"Had you better take it now, or another time?"
"No time like the present," he replied; "delays are dangerous. See," to Mrs. Lopez, "I have the English proverbs at my fingers' ends. My carriage is here, and I will take the money. In this big house it is not safe."
"That is true," acquiesced Nani. Meanwhile Mrs. Chandos, who seemed to be feverishly excited, gathered up the sovereigns with hot, tremulous fingers, and returned them into the green silk bag, which she handed to Abdul with a nod of mysterious significance.
"Of course, he will give a receipt," said Mrs. Lopez in a sharp business-like voice; "better take receipt."
"Oh, yess; I will go into the office and write it, and Mrs. Chandos will lend me one stamp," and he tramped out with ponderous creaking footfall. Whilst Abdul was absent the crocodile travelling case attracted Mrs. Lopez' curiosity, and she requested an immediate introduction to its further contents. One by one these were gradually presented, a tiny gold watch and jewelled chain, a case of valuable rings. As each was exhibited Mrs. Lopez and her daughter joined in a harmonious duet of "Oh, mys!" But a turquoise and diamond necklace, and a splendid emerald pendant, set in brilliants, reduced them to a condition of gasping silence. Subsequent silver-mounted brushes, mirrors and bottles and even a gold shoe-horn appeared in comparison but very small deer. Had that gambling old card-table, imported in the early days of John Company, ever exhibited as much money's worth? The ayah had crept in stealthily; so had Pussy. Were they drawn by some inexplicable instinct, or by the mere, careless chance of pure coincidence? Abdul, too, had returned, paper in hand, and stood silent in the background, admiring, and possibly appraising, the jewels. What a scene for an artist! The hot, squalid room, the dark faces, the staring, greedy eyes; in the midst the little old table loaded with jewels, and the pale, indifferent English girl to whom they all belonged.
"What think you of these, Abdul?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, pointing with a tremulous finger.
"That," advancing two steps, with creaking boots, "the wife of the Viceroy hath no better."
"And their value?" she asked, sharply.
"Nay, I am ignorant. I deal in sugar cane and gram, not precious stones. It were wise to put them in some place of safety, and here is the receipt for the money," he continued, holding out a sheet of paper on which was inscribed: "Manora, September fifth. Received, to place at good, safe interest, as I may find occasion, the sum of three hundred sovereigns, English money, from Miss Verona Chandos, the interest to be paid every six months into her hands by me, Abdul Hamid Buk."
"There! that is all right and stamped," he said, "and now I will take the gold and depart. I would advise the Missy Sahib to be mindful of her jewels."
"Thank God the money will be out of the house!" said Mrs. Lopez, piously; "this, as is well known, is an awful district for robbery and murder."
"Only among natives," corrected Mrs. Chandos, with a fearless toss of her head.
"It has a very bad name," argued her mother, "that you know, and that is why Salwey is in charge of the police; truly the last man was an old woman."
"And this one is a young devil!" cried her daughter with startling vehemence.
"Come to the office once more, Abdul. I want a word with you about my rents," said Mrs. Chandos.
"Certainly," he replied, and, money in hand, and having executed a general salaam, the benignant patriarch tramped out of the room in the wake of his employer. Pussy assisted her sister to collect and put away the jewellery, uttering, as she did so, many flattering adjectives.
"Now you must go to bed, children," announced their grandmother; "it is after nine o'clock. The travelling girl is dead tired," and at last Verona escaped to her own quarters, kind Pussy carrying the dressing-bag, and affectionately anxious to help her to undress, and, above all, to brush her hair. Her good offices were set aside with the greatest difficulty. Being naturally a little dense, it never dawned upon Bellamina Chandos that her sister did not require assistance, or would prefer her own company.
At last her simple mind accepted the novel idea, and her entreaties ceased.
"Dom," she whispered, as she embraced her, "is not quite sure; but I know—that I shall love you."
With one vigorous hug she vanished, and Verona was left alone.
As soon as she had closed and carefully bolted the door on Pussy's pretty entreating face, Verona turned down the smoky lamp and sat for a considerable time in the dark, alone with her own thoughts. Presently these thoughts became so terrible—so unbearably painful, like some intense physical agony, that she rose, unfastened the window and wandered into the verandah and down a path by the bank of the river. The river was wide and swift, being swollen by the recent rains; on the further side it was bordered by a high jungle of reeds and rushes, and beyond it, as seen through a filmy veil of gauze, lay the spreading moonlit plain which seemed to stretch away into the infinite, which was also India! Behind rose the bungalow, large and straggling: on the left towered the factory; to the right lay the office, with the light still burning in the window. Verona noticed these details as she paced the pathway, flitting to and fro like some distracted spirit on the banks of the Styx; and was she not a creature suddenly transported to an unknown world? She was no longer Verona Chandos, who had fared delicately all her life, who had a carefully cultivated taste in music and literature, definite ideas respecting bindings and coloured prints, who collected book plates, was discriminating in her choice of associates, dainty in her tastes, a much-desired partner for golf, bridge or cotillon, a girl who had found her world a pleasant place to live in, and had tried to share with others some of the sunshine which had fallen to her lot. And she was not a bad girl—though she might have been better; was inclined to be quick-tempered and a little supercilious, but she had endeavoured to be sincere, to be kind to the sick and poor, and to champion dumb animals. Well, that Verona was dead; she had passed away for ever, with all her little vanities and tempers and love of pretty clothes and interesting pursuits.
And here was the other, the real original Verona, a poor half-caste, whose life and thoughts must be confined to the limits of her parents' purse and wishes, who must keep in step with her two sisters and look for nothing beyond the horizon of her home. And what had she in common with her relations? Nothing beyond the mere fact of her existence and name. Apparently their aim in life was to climb into station society; and her aim in life?—what was her dearest wish at the present moment? Her dearest wish—she scarcely dared whisper it even to her inner soul. Verona was making acquaintance with the truth, the hideous, hard-hearted truth, and her thoughts were so disordered that she did not realise what time of night it was, or even that it was night! But at last her tired body refused to co-operate with her restless mind, and completely exhausted, she was compelled to drag herself to her bed—where sleep immediately claimed her.
Though dreams visited the worn-out traveller, her slumbers were almost as profound as if she had really passed away. Once she awoke in the still night; the moon streamed full into the room; there was a faint sound of flowing water. Where was she? Her drowsy brain failed to recall the great events of yesterday.
Suddenly a strange, weird sound pierced the silence, the wild, horrible howl of a pack of hunting jackals as they swept across the plain beyond the river, and for a frantic moment the wretched girl believed herself to be listening, in some dim region, to the agonised wailing of lost souls.
But no; it was only a hideous nightmare! She turned on her side with a sigh of relief, and again relapsed into slumber.
In the morning when Verona opened her eyes, it was to gaze vacantly about her. She was at a loss to remember how she came to be lying in this great bare room. Where was she? Was she in Spain, or some out-of-the-way French town? She strove to summon her scattered thoughts, and all too soon they came trooping back and assured her that she was at last at home—yes, in her real home, among her own people! She was sensible of a feeling of repulsion and absolute despair, and yet another self—which must have been her original baby self—cried shame on her for her hard heart and unnatural, wicked pride. Why should she be proud? She was nothing more nor less than a well-educated half-caste, who had been foolishly removed from her proper sphere, her own particular class. Her father—oh! why had he married a woman of such a race? Now, she understood his constrained manner, his ashamed silence and his downcast air, why he seemed to shun his former associates and to withdraw from society like some social outlaw. And she, who had never had one hint of her own origin, had acquired the ideas, refinements and prejudices of a high-bred English girl. What was to become of her?
She sat up in bed, holding her hands to her throbbing head, and endeavoured to individualise her relations. Her father—the broken-down gentleman, lethargic and dumb; her mother—she shrank from the subject as a flame; her sisters—uneducated, emotional, shrill; given to cheap scents and greasy sweetmeats; her grandmother—but one degree above the ayah; and her own good looks complacently attributed to an ancestress, a Temple girl who danced before the gods!
It all sounded like an Opéra Bouffe, a transformation scene of wild, topsy-turvy comedy, instead of which it was the sharp, agonising truth; no burlesque, but a heart-breaking tragedy—the tragedy of her life. How was she to endure this existence? What could she do? Where could she go? Where hide herself? For the first time in her existence, a longing for death surprised her.
There was a loud rattling and calling at the door, which she opened, to discover (as she half expected), Pussy, in a tattered pink dressing-jacket and bare feet, bringing her her morning Chotah Hazri. Here was an end to silence and self-communion; she must rouse herself, summon her self-command and confront her fate. Meanwhile a cup of fragrant Indian tea, some slices of curious grey bazaar bread and peculiarly white butter seemed delicious fare to a girl, who had scarcely tasted food for four-and-twenty hours.
The long hours of the morning were devoted by Verona to unpacking her boxes and distributing gifts, such as books, fans, little ornaments and knick-knacks; her sisters and Nicky were enchanted with their presents; her mother only, accepted her share with a doubtful and ungracious air, nor did she attempt to disguise her opinion that she regarded such outlay as a sinful waste of money.
In the afternoon, when tiffin was over, it was the custom of the entire family to repair to their several lairs in order to enjoy a long siesta; and Verona, thus released, now set about unpacking her own personal effects; but Pussy, for once, dispensed with her nap and clung to her sister with an offer of her society and assistance; it was impossible for her to comprehend that any one could endure to be alone.
She artlessly believed that Verona was as anxious for her company as she was to accord it. Her co-operation being politely declined, instead of taking her departure—as hoped for—Pussy merely kicked off her shoes and flung herself at full length on the bed, where she lay in an attitude of voluptuous ease, lazily contemplating her sister's exertions.
"My, my, my! how neat you are!" she exclaimed in admiration, as she watched her busy relative emptying boxes and putting away linen, "and how quick; the ayah would have taken hours! What heaps of stockings, petticoats, and books—none of us read, except father and Dom—you see, we've not had much schooling. Nicky is as ignorant as a coolie boy; only for that, he would get into the works. I am just as bad. Dominga is our clever one; she writes a good hand, and she sings splendidly."
"Oh, does she?" said Verona; "where was she taught?"
"She learnt at the school; we were both at school in Nani Tal. They say her voice is extraordinary, you can hear it half a koss away. She plays tennis and badminton better than any girl in Manora. Mother is so proud of her! Mother is clever too, especially at writing and figures; she loves accounts. Yes, mother loves two things, Dominga and money! Father loves silence and smoking. Nani loves coffee and news."
"And Pussy?" looking up with a smile.
"Loves you, Verona."
"Thank you, dear."
"And also someone, oh, so much! but I cannot tell you yet; it is a secret," and Pussy turned her face away and hid her blushes in the pillow. However, her blushes and emotion were of transitory duration, for in a few seconds her sprightly voice was saying:
"Of course, you have a thousand lovers, Verona?"
"I? Certainly not!"
"Oh, but—it cannot be true; why there is Dominga, not a quarter so pretty, and she has had dozens. Even Lizzie Trotter has a young man in the commissariat."
"And I have not, even what you call one young man, in anything."
"You are so pretty, you will get millions of offers; mother wishes us all to marry. Even when Blanche went, and it was such a poor match, she was glad. She expects Dominga to marry an officer. Ah, Rona, you are not even listening," she protested in a little piteous wail, "and I thought you might like to hear all about it."
"Of course I am listening," replied her sister, from the interior of an open box over which she was stooping; "you were saying something about Dominga and an officer."
"Yes, and we hardly know one. Father was in the army himself, the 51st Hussars, and yet he will never call on the mess, although friends of his have been in the station. Father is so odd—nothing will make him go near a regiment, not even mother, and she can generally get him to do whatever she chooses; he has given in to her about everything, except about you."
"What about me?" asked her sister, quickly raising her head; "but no, don't tell me—it is better not."
"Oh, mother will tell you herself; it is no secret! She has told everyone in Manora that she did not want you to come out. It was another girl to marry, she said, and no money! She declared you could get a nice situation at home; and you were a stranger, a black stranger, and would ruin us with your bad example and silly English notions. Even Nani said you were like the Dhoby's donkey, for you neither belonged to the house, or the river! You know how she talks in proverbs?"
"Yes," assented Verona in a faint voice.
"But father swore you should come, and he wrote himself—he who never writes. Do you know, when mother got your letter she screamed for three whole hours! She always does that when she is awfully angry. Oh, she is not angry now she has seen you; no, no, no, she is proud! I heard her this morning talking over the wall to Mrs. Trotter, and boasting of your air and figure. But still I think Dominga will always be first."
"And why not? My mother has had her with her since she was born, and I am, as you know, a stranger."
"You won't be long so," declared Pussy; "you will soon be at home, I can see. Just look how you've put away your things and arranged this room. Now, I must tell you something about the people all round before they come to call—so you will know. First of all there are Mr. and Mrs. Lepell in the big bungalow; he is the manager of the factory, and draws two thousand rupees a month; he is nice and friendly, but we never get to know her any better. Oh, she is not exactly proud, but she keeps us off. Her father was a big swell, and she has a fortune. She is not at all young; mother says she must be five-and-forty, but she dresses beautifully, and gives such fine parties; they entertain the whole station like a king and queen. Yess, she is quite the Burra Mem Sahib, and only asks us to her small affairs, when we meet just the other factory people. Mother hates her—oh, goody me!—like poison, but is always awfully pleasant to her, and sends her her best mango jelly and chutney, because she hopes she may take up Dominga. She did ask Dom once to sing, and if Mrs. Lepell would chaperon Dom into society, her fortune would be made. Oh, my, yess!"
"I see," assented her listener, "and it is with this hope that mother sends her mango jam?"
"Of course. Then there are the Trotters," resumed Pussy, with an air of complacent narration; "he was only a sergeant in some regiment, and he is the engineer here; they say he is very clever—just a common, rough man, with such a pushing family. There is Mrs. Trotter and Amelia and Georgina, Louisa and Tom. Tom is in the works. He and Dominga used to be pals; but she threw him over long ago. The Trotters are always looking down on us, because we have never been home, and they were born in England; but they are coolie people, and our father is an officer and a gentleman. Sometimes we are awfully friendly with the Trotters, and in and out ten times a day; sometimes we don't speak for months. Last time we quarrelled was about a bottle of anchovy sauce which they never returned.
"Then there are the Watkins, a newly-married couple, out from Manchester. He is secretary; she is awfully prim, and afraid to know any one, and dresses for dinner when they are quite alone, and talks of her father keeping two gardeners. There are the Cavalhos; they are just half-castes; oh, so dark, and yet not bad. I like them; they are awfully good natured. When anyone is in trouble they all run to Mistress Cavalho. Also, there are the Olivers—gone home on leave—very nice people and not stiff, though they are gentry folk. There are some young men clerks—Raymond, and Smith and Mackenzie. We all meet at the tennis three times a week and play together, whether we are friends or not. Then there is Salwey——" She paused.
"Who is he?" inquired Verona, feigning an interest which she was far from feeling.
"The police officer, a nephew of Mrs. Lepell's; he lives in cantonments. He is so strict and severe. Oh, mother does hate him—I believe she is afraid of him!"
"How can he possibly affect mother?" inquired Verona, as she sorted out some gloves.
"Of course, not at all, but he gives you the horrid notion that he can read your thoughts, and knows every single little thing about you. Whenever he looks at me, I can't help wriggling like an insect on a pin, and mother declares that he has the evil eye!"
"The evil eye!" repeated Verona; "you don't really believe in such nonsense?"
"Well, perhaps not. Salwey's eyes are bluey-grey, like steel. He is not bad looking, and once—now I'll tell you a secret——"
"No, don't! Please!" protested Verona, throwing up her hands.
"Oh, but I must; I do like talking secrets," pursued Pussy with breathless volubility, "I think Dominga used to be crazy about him, and sent him notes by Nicky."
"What!"
"Yes; but I don't believe he ever gave them. Salwey and Nicky are great friends. He lives near the river and has a boat, and comes up to the Lepells that way when he is in the station. He gave Nicky a pup, and books and advice, and taught him to row. We have a boat, too. Nicky's awfully fond of Salwey, he just worships him; but he can't bear Dominga, and I don't believe he ever gave the letters. You must know that in this house there are two factions: it is Dom and mother against Nick and me. Oh! oh! oh!" suddenly sitting erect, "you are getting out your dresses! how lovelee!" as Verona unfolded and displayed a white crêpe de chine, a green foulard and an exquisite white and silver ball dress.
Pussy clapped her hands excitedly, and screaming, "Oh, I must call the others," leapt off the bed and ran shoeless out of the room.
Verona was a girl who wore her clothes well in every respect; not only had she the knack of investing them with her own grace and individuality, but they still seemed dainty and fresh long after they had passed their first bloom. There were no tea or coffee stains on the front breadth (that every-day misfortune), frayed seams or ragged edges in the gowns she was taking from her boxes or ranging round the room for the promised exhibition. Here were tailor costumes, evening dresses, muslins, laces and many dainty frocks which had been worn at Homburg, Aix and Cannes, and some had cost what is figuratively termed "a small fortune."
The apartment now resembled the atelier of some fashionable milliner, the stock was so choice and extensive. In a surprisingly short time the "others" had assembled. These included Mrs. Chandos, her hair in curling pins, spotted dressing-jacket and short striped petticoat—she had very neat feet; Dominga, in ragged déshabille; the ayah, attracted from her hookah; last, not least, Granny Lopez, clad in a loose garment that was really an old tussore silk dust-cloak, a scanty petticoat and a pair of discarded tennis shoes, carrying under her arm a reluctant black cat—all come to behold and gloat over the great show. Nani was accommodated with a chair, and Verona, by special request, held up and exhibited separately the most elegant items of her wardrobe.
What little screams of admiration greeted the sight of some garments; what a chorus of "Oh, mys!" attended the display of others. By the end of half an hour every possible epithet of admiration had been exhausted, and Verona was exhausted too.
"Well, in all my life, I never did see such beautiful clothes," confessed Mrs. Chandos.
Which statement was no doubt true.
"They must have cost hundreds of pounds."
This was also a fact.
"Oh, my! Oh, my! what advantages you have had, Verona, child, compared with these poor girls," she continued as she flitted about the room in a condition of extraordinary excitement; "you must share your fine feathers with them now. If Dominga here were set off in that blue and white, she would look every bit as well as you; all she wants is to be dressed up in good clothes—eh, Nani?"
"That is so," agreed the elder with her wheezy laugh, "for who can row without water?"
"Now I shall divide some of these things," declared Mrs. Chandos, as she hovered about; "Verona could not wear half of them."
Verona, who had made up her mind never again to mix in society, and had originally brought out this large outfit with the intention of sharing it with her sisters, would nevertheless have preferred to have bestowed her garments to her own liking, and not to stand by passively while her mother distributed her wardrobe. The choicest articles were shamelessly selected for Dominga—for instance, a magnificent white satin gown, a pale blue crêpe de chine, an elaborate lace costume, a mauve and silver tea gown. Then Pussy was endowed with various frocks and hats (Verona helping in the selection), and the possession of a certain pink feather boa had made her completely happy. Verona also chose a pretty chiffon cape, which she spread over her grandmother's ample shoulders. It was a very orgie of millinery, among which Mrs. Chandos hovered, picking out a toque here, a sash there. At last, when the supply had become somewhat low, she said:
"Well, that will do for the girls; I will take these blouses and the pink satin for myself; it will alter, and I will wear it for the Volunteer Ball. Eh, Nani, what do you say?"
"I say that if you wear such a frock you'll be more celebrated than the devil!"
"Ah, bah!" cried her daughter. "You funny old woman. Is that all you have to say?"
"No," she responded, and turning to Verona with a nod of her head at the different piles of her property which had been distributed, "they all like you very much now, Verona, child—'he who holds the ladle has everybody his friend.' But let me tell you one thing more—your mother has a pocket like the crop of a duck—you can never fill it!"
"And you are a curiosity and should be put in a museum," retorted her daughter in great good humour. "Come, come, it is now half-past four o'clock; Blanche and Montagu will be here soon; let us clear away and dress," and swooping down upon a heap of her spoils, Mrs. Chandos hurried out of the room, followed by Dominga, Pussy and the ayah, each bowed down and nearly hidden by their loads of new finery.
But Mrs. Lopez was slower to move; having extricated herself from her chair with considerable difficulty, she stood for a moment gazing at Verona, and said, in an impressive voice:
"You have given me a nice present; you are a very generous girl and do not despise your old crannie grandmother, so I will tell you one good proverb to cheer you! Now listen."
"I am listening, Nani."
"'Our past is ourselves, what we are, and will be,'" quoted Mrs. Lopez, and she continued to look fixedly at Verona with a significant expression in her little dark eyes. "Do not trouble, child—you will never be of us," then hitching the black cat under her arm, she waddled away to her own quarters.