CHAPTER XLI
The days which followed her momentous confession were passed by Mrs. Chandos in the darkness and seclusion of her own room (and on the bungalow there fell a sense of extraordinary peace). Here she gave audience to her mother and to Verona. Sitting in that dim apartment, watched by a pair of implacable black eyes, Verona heard the details of her parentage and infancy. Mrs. Chandos rendered up to her the letters, photograph and proofs, which established her as the child of another race. She also urged her to remain with them until Mrs. Lepell came down from the hills. In Manora nothing of importance was ever undertaken without the help or countenance of the reigning lady; and if Verona went away suddenly, there would be—oh, such talk! Verona, whose affection for Mr. Chandos, Pussy and Nani, was very real and warm, agreed to remain as a member of the household until arrangements were completed for her return to England; and in those critical days Verona's manner was a beautiful study in tact and forbearance. The news that she was only a child by adoption, and that her name was Hargreaves, was allowed to gradually ooze out to the ears of the neighbours, who had been secretly wondering what all the smothered fuss had been about; and what was the cause of so many letters and telegrams being delivered at the Chandos bungalow?
Mrs. Lepell had telegraphed and written to Verona, urging her to join her—she was not strong, and to descend to the plains in the rainy season was impossible. In October or November she was going to England and could escort her friend home. But Mr. Chandos clung to Verona in a way that was pathetic; Nani and Pussy bewailed her suggested departure so loudly and so continuously, that she decided to remain in Manora for the present.
The Trotters and Watkins were aware that a great stirring of the waters had recently taken place in their vicinity; they were acquainted with the tale of the adopted daughter—but they did not know all. Much was known in the bazaar, but not elsewhere—when the station has one topic, the bazaar has a dozen. Even the bazaar could not guess why Salwey Sahib was staying at the big bungalow—instead of at home; nor did it know that for hours he was closeted in the dufta with Mrs. Chandos. Brian Salwey had discovered Saloo, after much toilsome search, and yet now he was anxious to hush up her identity, and to conceal her iniquities. With this sole end in view, this truly brave man passed whole mornings alone with Mrs. Chandos and her ledgers. He, too, had a capital head for figures, and went systematically through all her books, and discovered that although morally a culprit of the blackest dye, yet she just managed to keep herself clear of the sword of Justice. There is no law to prevent people paying (and they will) one hundred per cent. But Salwey was strong and resolute; piece by piece he wrenched her prey from the clutches of Saloo. In spite of her shrill expostulations during those long early hours, mortgages were remitted, claims were abated, restitution was made; The process was almost like dragging a calf from a famished tigress, but it was accomplished with inexorable determination. Mrs. Chandos's usual weapons, such as imprecations, abuse, personal insults, and piercing screams, might just as well have been addressed to a stone as to the figure who was steadily working through her accounts. Such an attitude amazed her; she had struck terror to the hearts of her father and her husband—but this calm, austere young man, he frightened her. Day by day she saw her balance ebbing—day by day she restored sums of money to those she had despoiled. She was compelled to sign orders, and letters, and receipts, that made her writhe with impotent rage. Once, in an early stage of the proceedings, she had rebelled and shrieked out:
"Why should I permit this robbery? I will not—I defy you! What can you do to me?"
"I can acquaint the world with your identity—and cover your family with shame."
"Cha-a-ah! I care not!" she screamed, "who hath money, hath many friends!"
"Also," he continued gravely, "it will cost you your life!"
"Am I a fool?"
"No, and therefore you will comprehend that your enemies are legion; you have been the cause of much suffering, and even of death; you will not keep your gain and go free."
"What! do you threaten?" she yelled.
"I believe I can protect you from ambush and assassination, but here poison is a fine art; all who know of her, spit upon the name of Saloo, and whoever rids the world of Saloo, would be well thought of by his fellows. Your days would be numbered—worth about a month's purchase—you must buy your life!"
"Buy it, of you?"
"Yes, in a way—for I am shielding you. Were I to transfer this frightful business to others"—here he struck the ledger before him—"and it is the work of several men—would they be silent?"
She was dumb.
Like all bullies, Saloo was an arrant coward. Moreover, she had no wish to die—as a girl, she had seen one case of poisoning, and it sufficed. Therefore, she succumbed, though her voice still rose loud and shrill; and over each payment there was a protracted struggle.
Occasionally as Verona sat with her late grandmother, she could hear the low growl of a man, and then a high prolonged reply. One day, as she was arranging Nani's knitting—she now aspired to socks—the ventilator between the two rooms, which was always shut fast, suddenly fell open, and a torrent of shrill and distinct abuse instantly flooded the room.
"What, all this trouble and toil for Chandos, and to save him, and his good name—'tis a lie, you do it for that girl! Bah, you love her! Now she is a great lady, do you think she would look at such as you—a pig of a police wallah—I know her sort."
Verona rose, and hurried over to close the ventilator, and as she reached vainly for the cord, she heard:
"Come, now, Mrs. Chandos, don't excite yourself. Let us stick to business."
"But you know Verona will go to England, and never think of you again. Eh, speak? Say you know!"
"Yes, I know," came the reply, "now be good enough to sign here." And at this instant Verona, with a brilliant colour in her face, succeeded in reaching the cord, and violently slamming the little shutter. So now she understood why Mr. Salwey had seemed so determined to avoid her. Why he scarcely spoke when they met to the grand-daughter of the Earl of Sombourne, though formerly he had been on the best of terms with the granddaughter of Nani Lopez! He accepted the change in her fortune like a stoic, and had tacitly and resolutely relinquished her! She almost wished she were once more a humble Eurasian—the protégée of his Aunt Liz.
During these last weeks, those tedious trying weeks at the end of the rains, Mr. Chandos had been ailing, and the thought of losing Verona filled him with despair. He could not endure the mention of her departure, although he knew that she must soon be restored to her relations, and the Melvilles, who had written out to claim her; Verona divided her time between Mrs. Lopez in the mornings, and Mr. Chandos in the evenings; she read to him, talked to him, cheered him, and had almost persuaded him to return to England with her and see his beloved Charne.
"Yes, I really think I would die happy, if I could behold it once more," he exclaimed; "people change—but places do not."
"Then you will come home with me," she urged, "yes, in the same ship. What a good time we shall have together; the sea voyage will set you up! There is nothing like the sea."
"Ah," he said, "I've no doubt it would; but what am I to do with them? They could never go home. Imagine my wife in county society—as Mrs. Chandos of Charne."
"I am now going to ask you what I have never dared to do before. Would you mind telling me why you married Mrs. Chandos?"
"I married her," he answered, "chiefly to pay my cousin's debts. He was deeply involved in her father's books. I had backed his bills; he deserted me and went home; I remained to face dishonour. Miss Lopez, the money-lender's daughter, was good enough to like me. Her father offered to release me, if I would make her my wife, and I did"—here an involuntary sigh escaped him—"for between that and ruin I had no alternative. Pussy is a good girl; you will be kind to her, I know; somehow I don't think you and Dominga ever had much in common. Your aunt has written out for you, I saw her last letter and telegram—what date does she name?"
"The fifteenth of October, but I can put it off; I will wait until you feel ready to come home. Even if you do return here—surely you should see Charne? Yes, and show it to me, and wind up all your affairs."
"I will think it over, Verona; somehow when you talk to me, I feel inspired with hope and courage. I have not been home for twenty-nine years—to return has always been my dream! Well, my dear, I will sleep on your advice!"
The next morning a servant coming in early to sweep and dust the room, discovered his master still sitting in his arm-chair—asleep, with a beautiful smile upon his face—the smile of one who was happy. Mindoo had never yet seen the Sahib's expression so serene. But why was he so still—so quiet?
The question was readily answered—Mr. Chandos had gone home.