CHAPTER XLIII
The marriage and departure of Dominga was a signal for the general break-up of the Chandos household. The bungalow belonged to the factory—and they must all seek another home. Pussy was now betrothed to her Alonzo, who through Lepell interest had been promised a fine post at Tundla Junction. Nani Lopez was to accompany her daughter into the "Doon," for Mrs. Chandos had still ample means, and was enabled (though shorn of her ill-gotten spoils) to give Pussy a fortune, and to personally live at her ease. It may here be mentioned that she and her parent spent the hot seasons in Mussouri, where, as the mother of Lady Highstreet, she receives in certain circles a considerable amount of agreeable attention.
The news of Verona's existence came as a delightful shock to the Bourne and Hargreaves families. Her new relatives were all eagerness to welcome poor Vera's girl with open arms, not to speak of the invitation she received from her friends, the Melvilles. It was arranged that she was to return home with Mrs. Lepell in November, and when it came to her very last hours in the Chandos Kothi, the grief of Pussy and Nani was profound. Poor Pussy wept incessantly as she hung about her adored Verona.
"Only Alonzo has promised to take me home some day," she sobbed; "I would not marry him—and I would die—never to see you again—to think of it! I could not live—No!"
"And why do you cry so?" remonstrated Nani. "Behold me!" her old face looked sharpened and blanched; two unshed tears glittered in her eyes. "I love Verona more than you do, and yet I shall never see her again. For me there is no hope; yet I do not weep. Verona has done good here, now she goes elsewhere—what says the proverb? 'Great rivers, medicinal plants, and virtuous people, are born, not for themselves, but for the good of others.' She goes to do good elsewhere, and I shall come and stay with you at Tundla, and we," stroking Verona's cheek, "will often talk of her."
"I will never forget you, dear, dear Nani," whispered the girl. "Be sure of that, and I will write to you often—and send you such pretty wools."
"Ah, core of my soul, no wool will make up for thee! And what of Johnny?"
"I would like to take him, but it would be selfish—here he has his freedom and all his friends." At the moment he was executing gymnastic feats among the lattice work; there was a rustle, a pair of watchful eyes, a swift patter, and Johnny, with a new blue ribbon round his neck, joined the party, and fearlessly climbed into his lady's lap.
"Aré, see, I have half a mind to take him to the Doon," announced Nani.
"No, no, Nani, let him stay here," pleaded Verona, "where he was first found. As long as he lives, he will be a happy little monument to you, and me—you saved his life, and I won his heart."
It was Verona's last evening at Manora. The Chandos bungalow was now untenanted, and she was staying with Mrs. Lepell. The two ladies and Salwey, who had come to say good-bye to his aunt, were strolling about the garden after dinner. To fitly describe Mrs. Lepell's garden would fill a small volume, for it was not alone her mere garden; it was her pride, her employment and her glory! In twenty years she had changed a bare straggling compound into a little Eastern paradise. The lawn was its chief feature; a large expanse of velvet turf, watered and clipped, and lined with borders of the choicest rose-trees—in some of which the bul-buls built their nests—it gave the impression of being full of sweet flowers, of shady nooks, of blossoming shrubs and graceful trees, and was the resort of many gay bold birds and brilliant butterflies.
The lawn lay immediately behind the house; beyond it were cool green pergolas shaded with ferns, and great patches of sweet pea; then came the maze of mango trees, thickets of lemons, and beds of tomatoes, gourds and lettuce. It was one of Mr. Lepell's jokes that his wife could not endure to see people promenading on her precious English turf! but to-night, she and two companions paced it slowly from end to end—and once and again from end to end. They spoke but little. At last Mrs. Lepell said:
"And so you are not coming home, Brian? Well, I think you are very foolish. You have had three hot weathers straight off."
"I don't think it can be done this year, Aunt Liz."
"It ought to be done, when your Aunt Liz is in England. Don't you require some new clothes? Oh, there is old Mordoo beckoning; I suppose he wants to speak to me about the doves. Don't go in, Verona, I will be back in two seconds."
"Your last evening here," said Salwey, breaking a somewhat constrained silence. "How glad you must be to leave the land of regrets—when you can regret nothing."
"You forget," she answered, in a low voice. "Two graves."
"Yes, and I promise you that they will be well cared for—since Mrs. Chandos is leaving the station."
"And is all her business arranged and wound up?"
"Yes, it is now in the hands of a trustworthy man—her books have been destroyed. She has, however, an ample income."
"So Saloo is no more, thanks to you. And your wish is accomplished."
How bold she was!
Her companion made no reply, as he paced the grass with his eyes on the ground, and his arms locked behind him.
"And you are not coming to England?" she pursued recklessly.
"No; you see my work is out here."
"Ah, yes, of course—and your heart is in your work!"
Oh, what an abominably forward girl she was! If Mrs. Lepell did not quickly return, she would find herself proposing to the man beside her. She felt desperate; cool and self-possessed as she outwardly appeared. Must she go home—and never see him again? Would he not speak even one word? Her heart thumped so violently, she was half afraid that he might hear it!
"You have had some interesting experiences," he remarked. (She was on the verge of the most extraordinary experience of all—did he but guess the truth.)
"But I am sure you will be thankful to get out of this country," he resumed, "and, needless to say—you will never return."
"I—I would return," she stammered—he suddenly stood still, raised his head and looked her intently in the eyes—"I would return," she went on, now with her gaze fixed on the ground—"if I was asked."
"Asked!" he repeated. "What do you mean—asked, by whom?"
"By the right person." Her voice had sunk to a whisper—her cheeks were two flames.
It was enough—further humiliation was spared her. Brian Salwey was not so simple as he had declared. With a sudden brusque movement he laid his hand on her shoulder; his face was white with the pallor of intense emotion, as he looked straight into her eyes and said:
"Am I the right person, Verona?"
Verona's reply was inarticulate but sufficient.
"It seems incredible!" he exclaimed, after a moment's stupefied silence.
The blue campanulas rang their bells, the bamboos whispered, the roses nodded to one another, and the great silver moon slowly slid up from behind the clump of mango trees, raised her broad face over the branches, and stared complacently on this couple in the garden. Here was Mrs. Lepell hurrying back, and as she approached, Verona, whose courage had entirely ebbed, ran into the verandah, and left her companion to break as best he could the news to his aunt.
"So!" exclaimed Mrs. Lepell, "I am absent for three minutes, and you seize the opportunity to ask Verona to return to India to marry you! Well, Brian, you have a good conceit of yourself!" This was not, as we are aware, an accurate statement of the case, but Salwey was eminently chivalrous.
"What is this I hear?" demanded her hostess, as she pursued Verona into her room. "Niece to be—or not to be! I do not think I can accord my consent!" and she surveyed her with a smile of good-humoured perplexity.
"Has it been asked, Aunt Liz?" she murmured slyly.
"Verona, you are a most exasperating creature! Do please think of what will be said of me at home—of the match-making woman, who took time by the forelock, and arranged it all with her own nephew—such a wretched parti! Think of what your grandfather will say!"
"No, indeed, I've already had two sets of grandfathers, and I don't care what anyone says—I shall marry to please myself."
"Like mother, like daughter! Oh, dear child, do forgive me! I don't mean to be horrid!"
"I intend to marry Brian," continued Verona, in a firm voice, "who, when I was a nobody, treated me like a Princess—and loved me for myself."
"And you will come out here once more, to be the wife of a police wallah?"
"Yes."
"And since he really is not raving mad, I suppose he is to travel to Bombay—and see us off?"
"Yes, Aunt Liz, I suppose so."
Mrs. Lepell put her arm round the girl's neck and kissed her affectionately. "Of course, dear—speaking unofficially—I am delighted, and though I say it, who am his own aunt, few girls are in my opinion good enough for Brian. You are; and I should be entirely happy, only for thinking of your relations. Your grandfather so anxious to claim you—your aunt; if I only——"
"If you only say another word, Aunt Liz," interrupted Verona, "I declare I shall take a three months' return ticket to Bombay."