CHAPTER XXI
We have seen how Verona was affected by her relations, it now remains to exhibit the other side of the shield and to describe her relations, and how they were affected by Verona.
First of all, Paul Chandos, her father. To him her society—little as he appeared to appreciate it—was a pure and unalloyed delight. During many years he had acquired the habit of silence, and although sufficiently fluent in the factory, at home he was a dumb man; whilst Verona was pained and mortified by his still tongue, on his side (as he gave her his wistful yet stealthy attention) he was conscious of inexpressible happiness. Here beside him sat the embodiment of his lost youth, lost ideals, aye, and it might have been his lost love! The sound of the girl's high-bred accent, the delicate shape of her face, her air of repose and refinement, recalled the tender grace of a day that was dead, and the sound of a voice that was still. Still, as far as he was concerned—never whilst he lived would it again fall on his ears. Nevertheless, he kept, from sheer force of habit, all this enjoyment to himself, and his pale, unhappy daughter had not the faintest reason to suppose that for him, she had momentarily swung back the gates of the Elysian fields. When Paul Chandos had realised his cousin's infamy, and beheld him as he was—a cruel, base, unprincipled wretch—the result was a shock, which morally stunned him for the remainder of his days. On the altar, before his cousin Sydney, he had laid all that was best in his disposition—Faith, Hope, Charity—but a fire had ascended and reduced his offering to ashes. The horror of this experience had almost turned his brain.
As soon as Sydney had succeeded his father in the family estates, Paul had written him a letter, indited, so to speak, in his heart's blood—a letter reminding him of debts, dues, and of solemn vows, and imploring him, for the sake of his dead mother, to extend a hand and draw him out of the pit of despair—a pit into which Sydney had plunged him. To this, Captain Chandos (late Blue Light Lancers), D.L., of Charne Hall, Flatshire and Charlton Terrace, replied:
"Sir,—You have disgraced your family by your abominable marriage—we look upon you as dead. Further communications will be destroyed unread.
"Yours faithfully,
"S. Chandos."
Thus Paul had sacrificed himself to pay his cousin's debts—and especially one old debt, not entered in any ledger—the debt of jealousy. The late Mrs. Chandos had been passionately attached to her orphan nephew; he was her darling, and she had "understood" her son.
At one time, the unhappy victim had contemplated making a desperate effort for release, of going home (steerage) and appealing to his relations—and the law.
"But of what use?" urged despair. "The debts were in his own name—the rope was round his neck; his hands were bound—it was exile for life."
The unfortunate man gradually realised that he had no choice but to settle down and make the best of his lot. By degrees he had grown terribly apathetic, and, also, he had become bitterly ashamed of his family. Nevertheless, he toiled for them incessantly, like an ox in a sugar mill, but now and then human nature asserted itself, and the miserable automaton felt that he must have some relief—or succumb. He was not a human being, but a mechanism under a pith helmet. Paul Chandos found his sole consolation in dreams. Occasionally he read in the papers the names of former associates, his school-fellows and brother officers. Oh, how he envied them! One was a famous soldier, another a diplomatist, a third a writer—and what was he?—a worm, and no man. With abject horror he shrank instinctively from whatever recalled his former profession; he never entered the cantonment, and the chance sound of a gun, the sight of a mounted officer clanking by, was like the sudden pressure on some aching nerve. With respect to his domestic affairs, he both hated and feared his wife—precisely as a captive animal hates and fears a cruel keeper. She was strong, and he felt himself to be helpless. His daughter Dominga inspired him with a peculiar mixture of mystification and awe. Pussy he was fond of—also of poor Nicky, his son and heir, and of dear old Nani Lopez. According to her lights she was an upright, good creature; but Blanche, figuratively, set his teeth on edge, and even the sleek and fawning Monty, filled him with a sense of unchristian repulsion.
When he surveyed Blanche and Dom, as they leant across the table bawling at one another, Paul Chandos breathed an inward prayer, that in a future state his relations would neither recognise nor claim him. He had a secret—those little dark-brown pills, which a trusty native apothecary prepared. The secret was called "opium"; he took it in order to dream, and to banish misery and care; and the gracious alchemy of the drug transmuted his poor surroundings like an enchanter's wand. Once more he was at home in England.
To Mrs. Chandos, her new daughter had proved an agreeable surprise. She was quiet, subdued even, and had exhibited, so far, no airs. The girl had a simple way of doing things, and the grace and composure of a great lady; this endowment would prove invaluable to her family, and was bound to open the doors of cantonment society. Rosa Chandos had her secret. She loved money—she hungered for it, as a ravenous animal craves for food—and money came in ample supply; yet her appetite was never appeased. She was that truly despicable character—a money-lender to the poor, sheltering her personality behind the broad proportions of her agent, Abdul Buk, who found in his employer the true daughter of the horse leech, and of Lopez, the soucar. No one suspected Mrs. Chandos; her business—which was enormous—was termed, "the love of figures" and collecting rents. She was a capital accountant, and had a marvellous head for a certain class of finance. The wretched woman was torn by two conflicting passions, both inborn and hereditary; these were the love of money, and the love of display—fellow inmates of her mind, and yet inveterate foes.
To Pussy, Verona represented a revelation, and she was figuratively on her knees before her sweet, English sister. And pretty Pussy, too, had her secret—there was a certain young Alonzo Diaz on the railway, to whom she had given her tender heart. Each time she went into Rajahpore pretty Pussy adorned herself with gaudy ribbons, and with anxious care, in the fond hope of meeting Alonzo; and she always carried a packet of "conversation" lozenges in her pocket, in order (should opportunity offer, and her mother's attention be diverted) to squeeze one into his hot, limp hand. Oh, Pussy! who would have thought it of you? Artful little Pussy! And what of the girl curled up luxuriously on a long cane chair, with cushions heaped behind her, and her eyes half closed?
Dominga—the Lal Billi, or Red Cat—was a power in her own family—a power which stood behind the throne ever since she had been a passionate infant, a delicate child, and a precocious little girl, in a long pig tail. Her mother adored her, and denied her nothing. Before she had cut her second teeth, Dominga knew exactly what she wanted—and secured it; and when at the age of twelve years (having mastered the knowledge of many curious things), she had clamoured to be sent like Pussy to a hill school, there to complete her education, her wish was immediately gratified.
Mark the difference between the sisters! Good-natured, giggling Pussy had left the establishment with a very small mental equipment. She could write a love-note,—with many ill-spelt adjectives, lavishly underscored; she could dance, crochet, do her hair, and make delicious cocoanut toffee; but she was as ignorant in her way as any Pahareen (hill woman), toiling under her load of baggage up the Ghât. But Pussy left behind her, as she went down, not a few devoted friends and many weeping eyes. Dominga, when it came to her turn to depart, not one; but she carried away a supply of information sufficient to flavour her conversation, and enable her to pose as "well informed." She wrote a fine hand, had worked hard at her singing, and imbibed some knowledge of history. Not only could she fix the date of the battle of Hastings, but of the battles of Pavia, Malplaquet, and Bunker Hill. She enjoyed reading realistic descriptions of the time of Nero, and the sack of Rome; the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the Reign of Terror. Her taste leaned to horrors, and she would have gone miles at any time to witness (surreptitiously) an execution! Dominga had her secrets—one was a whole live ambition! she ardently desired to shake off Manora and all her family, and to go forth into the world, there to shine alone. Although amazingly talkative, she was extremely reserved as to her own plans; no one guessed at her aim—an aim she never once permitted herself to lose sight of—its name was "emancipation."
At sixteen years of age, her doting mother had summoned Dominga from school, and she was launched upon society at a railway ball (the same at which Monty had proposed for Blanche). Dom was a born flirt, extremely lively, and indeed so vivacious that she invariably created a sensation. She imagined that it was "smart" and "up-to-date" to be loud and noisy (an enemy at Naini Tal had told her this thing); consequently, she ruined her best prospects by establishing a reputation for being rowdy, and bad form. She threw things at supper, and sat on the edge of a refreshment table, dangling her legs, screaming repartees, and making an uproarious clamour. Thus she brought herself into immediate notice and ill-repute. But shrewd Dominga had long discovered that this pose was a calamitous mistake—a false step she could never repair. She had actually gone out of her way to destroy her own social chances. Then she was frightfully handicapped by the Jones family—not merely by Blanche and Monty, but by his horde of connections, and she was compelled to foregather with the party when her mother was unable to accompany her—and they were such a crew! Oh, if she could only get a fresh start now! This girl Verona was so quiet and ladylike—she had such an air of dignity, she was sure to be taken up by the cantonment. Doors, at which she had figuratively waited and whined in vain, would be thrown wide, and she was determined to enter them by clinging to her sister's skirts.
Dominga had a second secret—a declared, and not impossible, lover—in a certain Mr. Charles Young, a subaltern in the Muffineers; he was a merry, round-faced boy, known to his friends as "Baby Charles," and he humbly worshipped the Red Chandos. To tell the truth, they were privately engaged. The fact was never suspected, for it was a well-established tradition that no one took "D.C." seriously. She had been flaring about Rajahpore for five years, and was all very well to flirt or dance with, but to bring into a regiment—no, thank you! At a whisper of the news the commanding officer would have bundled Baby Charles out of the place—to a hill depôt—a garrison class—anywhere, rather than submit one of his subalterns to the claws of the Lal Billi. The pair had been engaged for six happy weeks; they posted notes to one another in "Mrs. Beeton's Household Management"—a volume in the Club Library—and they sat together holding tender conversation on the Club roof, which was flat and unfrequented—few ever ascended there—whilst Mrs. Chandos waited, and wondered, in the family victoria. She was not in the secret, and fondly believed her fair daughter to be detained in the reading-room.
Although Dominga was not in love, she was satisfied with her prospects. Charlie was young, and poor, and rather stupid, but he was an English officer—his father was an old retired General. If nothing better offered, she intended to marry him, and thus make her escape from Manora—shaking its dust for ever from off her feet.
Once married and presented to the regiment as Mrs. Charles Vavasour-Young, she resolved to enact the rôle of officer's wife, to the best of her ability. She was young, she was lively, she was—unless all men were liars—handsome. She could sing and dance like a professional, and would have a glorious time and go far. Meanwhile, Blanche, in her dingy little bungalow, and Lizzie Trotter, and Ada Diaz would die of sheer envy and jealousy—this reflection afforded Dom a species of intoxicating rapture. It was surprising that Dom had never been in love, although her flirtations were notorious and countless; and she could have married Tom Trotter, Alonzo Diaz, and a stout Eurasian doctor (Edinburgh M.B.); also, she would have married, had he been willing, Brian Salwey, but she had made up her mind that, unless she could "better herself," she was determined to compel her mother to give her money and her countenance, and to try her fortune on the Calcutta stage.
Dom's lithe, seemingly boneless figure had been supreme in skirt dancing at the school; her dancing had a charm, which her singing lacked. She represented the very poetry of motion, and seemed to drift before the eye like some exquisite summer cloud.
There was a good deal of the Chandos blood in Dominga—unhappily she had inherited some of the characteristics of her cousin Sydney, and, like him, she was secretive and false. She was also endowed with his brains, his irresistible will, his wheedling tongue, and his red hair. To her mother's side she was indebted for her indolence and love of soft luxurious ease.
Not a trustworthy or attractive character—is it? and yet some would declare, if they saw the graceful Red Cat, coiled up on her corner of the verandah, the indictment to be a libel, and that Dom was nothing more than a vivacious, shallow, impulsive creature.
Truly she was a curious mixture, this slim Eurasian, with the patrician profile—and the dark marks in her filbert nails. Her mind was as restless as the ocean, her body was indolent and self-indulgent—which of the two would rule her life? Which god would Dominga follow—ease or ambition? Ambition; for ambition often carried luxury in her train.