CHAPTER XVI
Mr. and Mrs. Montagu Jones remained to dine with their relations, and Nani Lopez joined the party, invested in the rich satin purple gown which she had purchased for Blanche's wedding; or, more correctly speaking, she wore the flowing skirt, but had substituted for the bodice an easy white jacket, and had coloured her face white to correspond. Verona surveyed her venerable relations with reproachful eyes. How could people, who were naturally dark, imagine it possible to change their skin by merely covering it with layers of pearl powder?
"Granny always comes in when we have Blanche," explained Dominga, in a whisper, "because she hears the news. All the same she and Blanche were never good friends. She calls Blanche a silly little bazaar cat."
Mr. Chandos, who seemed to spend his entire day in the factory, appeared shortly before dinner and received with surprise the little gifts offered by his English daughter.
"Books," he muttered, "now I wonder how you guessed at what I liked best? Books, and a tobacco pouch. My two resources are reading and smoking."
"Oh, yess, he is arl-right when he has his pipe and his books," remarked Nani Lopez in her soft fat voice. "He thinks he gets away from his cares; but it is not so. Go to the wilderness, you cannot escape fleas."
During dinner conversation was loud and animated. Blanche and Dominga, who were seated opposite to one another, leant their elbows on the table, and screamed across the board in their thin ear-piercing trebles. Dominga volubly related the particulars of a recent social outrage on the part of Mrs. Watkin, whilst Blanche, whose feelings were chiefly on the surface, gave a highly coloured description of the death of a kid and the illness of a bosom friend.
"I went to see Lucia Mendoza this morning. She looked so, so sick. Well, I declare I was so struck, I fell down on her bed and I cried, and I cried. If anything should happen to thatt girl, I shall die; I know I shall."
"What nonsense you talk, child!" protested her grandmother. "Such foolish grief might have frightened the poor creature to death."
"And," broke in Nicky, "though you and Lucia Mendoza are such grand friends now, it is not a month since you came out here very mad, and talking of going to law, because she had called you bad names."
"If Lucia were to take curdled milk and coriander seed she would soon get arl-right," resumed Mrs. Lopez, "but she should begin it on a Wednesday, it is a lucky day. Mind you tell her," and she looked over at Blanche, and nodded her head impressively.
"Isn't Nani a funny old woman?" said Blanche, suddenly addressing herself to Verona. "Did you ever see anyone like her in England?"
"Now, you don't talk like thatt, Mistress Blanche Jones," interposed the old lady good-humouredly. "Anyhow, I know more of drugs, and cures, and charms, than any old woman she has ever seen. Do you tell us some news!"
Thus invited, Blanche readily poured out all the latest intelligence respecting the forthcoming theatricals, and the race meeting which was to be held after Christmas. A long altercation ensued respecting the prices of tickets, in which Monty, Pussy and Mrs. Chandos took part. Even Granny Lopez threw in a word or two, but Verona and her father remained silent; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and as far as the family were concerned, his body might have accompanied them; evidently they were accustomed to his attitude of remoteness. Verona looked at his hollow, expressionless eyes, and wondered what manner of man he might be? His stolid, inert silence had an almost paralysing effect, but she struggled bravely against the sensation, and ventured several remarks on the climate, the wonderful beauty of the surrounding trees and shrubs, the war in South Africa; but to all these efforts the sole response was a brief, monosyllabic reply. She felt repulsed, painfully disappointed, and shrank into herself and silence.
Meanwhile Blanche was retailing to her delighted grandmother the most recent and reliable "cook-house" gossip. She learnt that Mrs. Cotton had had five ayahs in a week, her temper was so furious, and she had got an awfully bad name in the bazaar. The Coopers of the railway had always bragged of their cook, and now he had run away with a lot of money, four fat ducks, and the new water filter.
Then there was a rumour of the other half of the regiment coming from Bhetapore. The colonel's lady and the major's lady did not speak, they had quarrelled about a dirzee. There were going to be theatricals in Rajahpore in race week, a big ball in Lucknow for charity; anyone could go who paid ten rupees.
"But for my part," added Blanche, "now I am married, I don't care for dancing. Give me my evenings at home!"
"Oh, wait till the dances begin in the cold weather," rejoined Mrs. Lopez, "and all the other women go. Oh! I know you! 'The cat is a Dervish—till the milk comes'!"
Blanche merely shrugged her skinny shoulders and giggled, then leaning half across the table, said:
"Mother, is it true that the Trotters are always asking that young Smith out, and making a fuss with him and having him to dinner? Do you think Mrs. Trotter wants to marry him to Lizzie?"
"Mrs. Trotter told me yesterday," announced Nani Lopez, resolved not to be thrust out of the conversation, "that it is all foolish talk, and there is nothing in it; but I do not believe her. There is two hundred rupees a month, and free quarters in it; we can all see her plan and the meaning of her good dinners. It is a mountain behind a straw!"
"You will notice your grandmother has a proverb for every occasion," said Mr. Chandos, at last turning to Verona and addressing her. If they were the silent members of the party, they were also to all appearances—the sole Europeans present.
Mrs. Lopez, Mrs. Chandos, Blanche, Pussy, Monty, and Nicky were dark. Even Dominga, for all her white skin, had a peculiar foreign look; there was something alien in the cast of her features, and the shrill tone of her voice.
Monty made little conversation, but an excellent meal; indeed, most of the family ate heartily of mulligatawny, stewed beef and stuffed bunjals, concluding with a quantity of mysterious-looking sweetmeats.
"You must come in and stay with us, and we will show you off," said Blanche, accosting Verona. "I will take you to church, and to the club; you will cut out all the officers' wives. My, how they will stare! Oh, goody me!"
"But you cannot have Verona!" protested Dominga, "you have never been able to have Pussy, or me; you know you have no room."
"Oh I can make room if I want to," rejoined Blanche, meeting her sister's gaze with a bold stare.
"Truly you are paid a fine compliment by Mistress Blanche," put in her irrepressible Nani. "She does not care for guests. She likes, as the proverb says, 'Talk in my house—a dinner—in yours.'"
"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people," resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing."
As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown, and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna.
She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong, and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange metallic ring—a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang, her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them.
"Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye.
"It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her fortune if it were trained."
"Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises often an hour a day. I suppose"—with a little sniff—"your voice has been what you call 'trained'?"
"Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from Dominga's."
"But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the piano"—pulling her sister by the arm—"Verona will take your place."
"Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing."
"I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she approached the piano, "but they want to hear me."
"Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music.
A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart, and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos" was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie." Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."
Verona had an exquisitely sweet, haunting voice; every note was clear and full, and told. When she had removed her hands from the piano, instead of applause, there ensued strange silence. Monty and his father-in-law were standing inside the door and the face of the latter was working with some irrepressible emotion.
"Whatt a nice little song," exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Why," with a sudden start, "here are the Cavalhos," as she descried two figures mounting the steps. "Oh, my goodness, whatt a bother."
"May we come in?" inquired a high, chirrupy treble, and without waiting for a reply, an elderly woman, wearing a white dress and a black apron, walked forward, followed by her husband, a very stout, clean-shaven man with a round bullet head. They were both decidedly dark, but had kind, good-tempered faces, and indeed, in Mistress Cavalho's sweet dark eyes there lingered traces of a once renowned beauty.
"We heard Dominga singing," she announced, "so we knew you must have the lamp lit in the drawing-room, and we came over in a friendly way to see"—here she glanced incredulously at Verona—"is this your daughter?" She pronounced it "da-ter."
"Yes."
"Oh, how do you do, Miss. I hope you will like Manora."
"Thank you."
"And here is Pedro, my husband, come to pay his respects."
Pedro gave his stout body a little jerk—doubtless intended for a bow.
"Now, pray do not let us stop the music," accepting a seat on the sofa beside Mrs. Chandos.
"Oh, my! Dominga, you do sing better and better; that last song, it nearly killed me. We waited outside to listen; it sounded like an angel who was shut up in some prison house and breaking her heart; I tell you it squeezed my throat, and Pedro—oh, he gave one great sob." Here Pedro, with a deprecatory grin, suddenly backed into the verandah and the company of his host.
"Oh, I never heard such singing," resumed his wife, with her eyes fixed on Dominga, "my, my, whatt a gift! What pleasure to others." A moment's pause, then, with a sudden laugh, Nicky burst out:
"It was Verona," pointing with a rude forefinger, "Verona, who gave your throat a squeeze, and made old Daddy sob."
Once more there was a silence, this time of a truly painful description. Dominga's face was livid; her mother's mouth was set, and there was an angry sparkle in her eye.
Then Verona, with extraordinary courage and presence of mind, threw herself into the gulf and said:
"It was the pretty air which affected you, Mrs. Cavalho; my voice is very poor in comparison to my sister's."
"Oh, thatt is true," assented her mother with feverish energy, "thatt is quite true. It is no voice at all—and Dominga you can hear for a mile."
Poor Mrs. Cavalho was sincerely grateful for the explanation, being secretly afraid of Dominga, whose expression had fully justified her alarm; and as a proof of her gratitude to Verona, moved a little closer to her mother, and laying a hand on hers, softly whispered:
"Oh, my dear friend, whatt a lucky woman you are with your five children around you—and we, that have not one—and this new da-ter, like a queen, the most beautiful of all!"
But Mrs. Chandos gave her chin a contemptuous tilt, shook off the kind, little hand, and remarked in a querulous tone:
"Oh, yes, she is all very well now; but when she has had a couple of hot weathers, she will not be so wonderful, you will see."
But to this melancholy prophecy good Mrs. Cavalho absolutely refused to assent. Dominga, who had succeeded to the piano stool, now favoured the company with two penetrating songs; then a servant appeared with a tray on which was rum (factory rum), water, sweet syrup (home-made) and biscuits—a signal that the entertainment was waning.
The community at Manora were early risers, and the guests now began to disperse.
"Do look at grandmamma!" said Blanche as she rose, "she is sound asleep; she does not care for music, only snake-charmers, and tom-toms, and those whining bazaar tunes. Ayah and baby are already in the gharry, and we must be going. Remember I expect you all to tea to-morrow, especially Verona," and after a series of shrill good-byes, parting injunctions, and smacking kisses, the Jones family were once more packed into their hired conveyance, and rattled back to Rajahpore.
"Aré, so they are gone," said Mrs. Lopez, sitting erect, and indulging herself with a prodigious yawn; "that Monty is a stupid owl, and Blanche is still so gay and grand. Well! Well! Well! You know the saying, 'The cow does not find her own horns heavy.' Now I'm going away to my bed."
In half-an-hour the whole family had retired, and a profound peace fell upon the bungalow. Verona opened the glass door of her room and stole out, and once more began to pace the path by the river bank.
It was a perfect moonlight night, and oh, what a delightful change from the noise and chatter of the day! The scene was beautiful, all the landscape being outlined in silver; the everyday yellow plain across the water had now a far-away, fairy-like effect. The silence was almost death-like; the hideous cry of the hunting jackal, the scream of a night hawk, disturbed the night—elsewhere, and the only sound to be heard was the occasional flop of a belated fish. To Verona there was something extraordinarily soothing and grateful in her surroundings, although her head throbbed and ached, and she held her hands to her forehead as she paced up and down. All at once she was aware of something—a faint distant sound—what was it? The regular dip of oars coming nearer and nearer; in two or three minutes a white boat rowed by one man shot into sight. As it approached, she perceived that the oarsman, whose curly head was bare, was a sahib, for the moon shone a full dazzling light on his good-looking, determined face. When the boat was almost opposite he leant for a moment on his oars and called over to her:
"Hullo! Miss Dominga, are you not afraid of the malaria at this time of night?" As Verona made no reply he rowed a stroke nearer, stared hard at her, and then exclaimed with apologetic haste:
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I mistook you for Miss Chandos!" and without another word rowed swiftly away. Verona watched his long, sweeping strokes till he turned a bend in the river, and so was lost to sight.
No doubt this was Dominga's lover; he had a pleasant voice, a fine face, and a stalwart pair of arms.
Dominga was unaccountably fortunate.