CHAPTER XIX
Mrs. Lepell was about to retire for the night when her nephew, almost breathless, dashed into the verandah.
"Oh, what is it?" she asked, "Dacoits, or fire?"
"It is that girl, Aunt Liz, Miss Chandos, she was going to throw herself into the river; you were quite right when you said she would do something. As I was going home, I noticed her on the bank carrying on in a rum sort of way, and tossing her arms about. So I rowed up pretty close, and was just in time to stop her from jumping into the water. I have persuaded her to return to her room, on the sole understanding that I am the Angel of Death, and am coming to fetch her to-morrow. I want you to hurry over at once—this moment—and get someone to look after her."
"Why, of course, I'll go myself."
In another moment Mrs. Lepell was calling for her cloak and shoes, and she and her nephew were running—followed by an ayah and a peon—in the direction of Chandos Koti.
A visit from Mrs. Lepell at twelve o'clock at night! Was the world coming to an end?
Mrs. Chandos appeared fully dressed, alert, and lamp in hand, to be informed that her daughter Verona had been wandering on the river bank in a high fever, quite off her head!
"Oh, Madre di Dios! Whatt a trouble that girl does give," and she put down the lamp and threw up her hands, "whatt a bother! and trouble."
"You should see to her at once, there is not a moment to be lost," urged Mrs. Lepell, "or shall I go?"
"No; oh, I will go, you wait here."
Presently Mrs. Chandos returned and calmly announced to the couple in the verandah that "it was arl-right, Verona could come to no harm, for she lay on the floor in a dead faint."
"Shall I go into Rajahpore for the doctor," suggested young Salwey.
Mrs. Chandos looked at him quickly—one swift glance of irrepressible hate.
"No, no, no!" she replied, "my mother knows all the fever cures, it is only that the girl is out from home, and not accustomed to the climate. It is nothing but the bad season and the rains. In a few days she will be arl-right. Thank you so much. Good-night," and with a wave of her lantern, and an abrupt nod, the two good Samaritans found themselves somewhat cavalierly dismissed.
In spite of her mother's cheering diagnosis, for days Verona lay at the point of death; indeed, she certainly would have died, but for the valuable offices of old Mrs. Lopez, who thrust Mrs. Chandos and her daughters out of the sick room, and took the duties of nurse upon herself.
What a pitiful object the poor girl looked, with her sunken cheeks, lips cracked with fever, and cumbersome masses of dark hair. Now she moved her head from side to side, beating her burning hands upon the counterpane, muttering and moaning—often in a foreign tongue.
It was some time before the concoctions of her grandmother brought Verona round—these were simples of her own manufacture, and in the end proved efficacious. The good woman imported her charpoy into a corner of Verona's room, and scarcely left her patient night and day. In fierce and fluent Hindustani she kept the entire family at bay, and by and by, having no other company, Verona came to know and love her unwieldy, old, half-caste "Nani." As she lay there convalescent in the dim light, Mrs. Lopez unfolded to her ear many a curious Indian tale; but occasionally the conversation was of a more personal description.
"Of course, I know you are not content," said Nani, "for it is all so strange now, but you are young, and you will be gay enough yet. Fill your life with good deeds, and that will make you happy. Once upon a time I, too, was miserable; now, I am so busy with other folks' troubles, I have no time to think of my own; when I was young, I was married to Lopez, the money-lender. I was very pretty. Oh, you will laugh, but it was true! I had yards of red hair like Dominga, and good eyes. Then when I grew fat and ugly, Lopez no longer cared for me; all his thought was of money—money—money—always. He used to lend to the young officers, and the Zemindars, and the bazaar people. But he was never satisfied with what he got—and he got much—he was always reaching—reaching—reaching after more. Rosa, your mother, would be like him, if she had the rupees; oh, she is so fond of accounts and business. Lily, my other girl, was quite different—but she is dead. Ah! that was my great sorrow. Sometimes, when I looked at you lying there, so seek, with your black hair, thin hands, and white face, I could have thought it was my own poor Lily. I think that is why I talk to you, and—tell you things. Lily was very soft and gentle, not clever and quick like your mother, who always knows what she wants—and will get it. She says I am too friendly with native people, and the ayah, but, why not? They are all flesh and blood, and some of them are so good."
"Yes," assented her listener, languidly, "are they?"
"Now, there is the ayah, for instance, Zorah; she had a husband, and slaved hard for him, and had beautiful gold jewels, and brass cooking pots, and money, for she was always working, working, working. Then she went to England, with a lady, for two or three months, and when she came back—now, what do you think? That good-for-nothing man had run away with all her things, and married another wife! and so she had to begin life over again. She is old now, and very poor indeed; all she had in the world was a silver chain. A niece of hers was ill-treated by her husband's family—because she had no children, so they beat her, and starved her—and made her a slave. And Zorah sold her silver chain, and went and brought her here from a long way off, a journey costing twenty rupees, and keeps her; and all she has is five rupees a month—now, would you or I do that?"
"I expect you would, grandmother."
"You, too, if you had the money; you have the generous eyes. I am sorry you gave your gold to Abdul Buk; I do not trust him, but in your mother's opinion he is great and wise; she and I sometimes do not like the same people. For instance, I like Salwey, the police officer; he is a just man, and lives a good life; he is kind to Nicky and takes notice of that poor boy; but your mother hates him more than anyone in the whole world, I think. She says he is her enemy. I cannot understand that. But if that is true, 'Better a wise enemy, than a foolish friend,' is it not so?"
"But why is he her enemy?"
"Ah, I cannot tell you. It must be a secret between her and him. I know that some of the city people have an ill-will to Salwey—he lives among foes, like a tongue among teeth." Just at this moment the door was dashed violently open, and Mrs. Chandos, followed by Dominga and Nicky, entered the room without ceremony. "There has been a robbery," announced Mrs. Chandos, who was evidently in a condition of extraordinary excitement.
"Not of fowl?" cried Mrs. Lopez, struggling to her feet.
"No," burst in Nicky, "all Verona's things—her jewellery, I mean."
"Now why you come telling these tales now, while the poor girl is so seek?" cried her grandmother, "go away, all of you—go away."
"Oh, but I must tell her!" said Mrs. Chandos, turning to Verona, "I locked up that bag, you know, in the press in the Dufta. Just now I go; the lock is not broken, but the top is off the press—and the jewellery is stolen out of the bag."
"All?"
"Well, the gold watch and chain, the bangles and rings, and the beautiful necklace. Oh! my! my! my!" and she put her hands to her head. "What villains people are! Whatt wickedness! Whatt shall I do?"
"Send for the police," suggested Verona, in a weak whisper.
"Pah! the police!" cried Mrs. Chandos, "they are torturers and murderers—if you wait for them you will never see your things. They come—they walk about—they stare, then they take away the servants; they pull the men's beards, they pinch the women, they make all to eat sweetmeats, which cause awful thirst, and give no water, till they confess—lies. Che-a-ah! the police!" and she paused breathless.
"Then get a magic wallah," suggested Nani, "they are clever and good, and give no trouble."
"The police are very sharp now," urged Nicky, "they have discovered lots of things, thanks to Salwey. Why not have Salwey up? I will go and fetch him!"
"Salwey!" screamed his mother, "who asks your advice?—and the milk not dry on your lips. Send for Salwey"—and she looked around her fiercely—"I would just as soon send for the devil!" and with this formidable announcement, she quitted the room.