CHAPTER XXII
Three weeks elapsed before Verona was convalescent, and during that time, she saw but little of Dominga and her mother; indeed, the attitude of the latter with respect to an invalid was invariably one of suppressed hostility. Sickness in the house was a visitation that Mrs. Chandos could not tolerate, and the patient was sensible that she was guilty of giving a great deal of trouble, and was more or less in disgrace.
She and her mother never drew nearer. It was a painful fact, but they seemed to be cut off from one another by some impassable barrier of the spirit. On the other hand, Verona and her grandmother were drawn closer together day by day.
"I do love you, Verona," announced Mrs. Lopez as she stroked her hair; "you are so quiet and so sweet-tempered; you remind me of my poor Lily. Dominga is not a bit like you; she is always dragging your mother to the station and the club. Your mother is busy trying to mix in society, but it is foolish—she gets no further, though she thinks she does; people only smile and whisper. For all her trouble she will soon find that 'by running in the boat you do not come to land.'"
Verona made no reply; she knew nothing whatever of the station or her mother's position in Rajahpore.
"Mrs. Lepell and my daughter are awfully sweet to one another," pursued the old lady; "but it is a rat and cat friendship! Mrs. Lepell will not have us; she would rather have the Cavalhos; and as for your mother's liking for Mrs. Lepell, she waters the creeper, but cuts the roots! She wants Dominga to make a grand marriage; Dominga, too, is willing; your father, he meddles not in these things."
"No," assented Verona.
"She tried to drag him to visit once or twice, but it was no use. Now and then she cannot move him. There are things he will not do."
There was a silence for some time, while Mrs. Lopez fed and fondled a delicate buff chicken she was nursing in her lap. Then she said suddenly:
"Verona, why did you leave England? Why did you come here?"
"Because," replied Verona, and her pale lip quivered, "I wanted so much to see my own mother."
Mrs. Lopez gave vent to her queer, wheezy laugh.
"Then you were wrong to come," she declared. "It is as if one had put their head in the oil press and cried: 'The favour of Vishnu, be on me.'"
"I don't understand you, Nani. What do you mean?"
"It is always dark under the lamp."
"But still I am in the dark," she murmured.
"Well then, lovey, you are a stupid girl! you will guess my meaning when I say an English proverb: 'Put not your head in the lion's mouth.' You have heard that, surely?"
"Yes, but where is the lion, Nani?"
"My child, may you never find out!" and with this somewhat solemn aspiration Mrs. Lopez left the room in order to restore her other invalid to its mother. It must not be supposed that Verona was entirely neglected by her family—for such was far from being the case. Her father daily came and gazed at her through the door, and brought her a few flowers. Pussy was demonstratively affectionate, and remained with her sister as long as her grandmother would tolerate. Mrs. Lepell sent dainty little dishes and picture papers; otherwise, as far as the outer world was concerned, the arrival of "the new Miss Chandos" appeared to have been almost forgotten, and when Dom and Blanche mixed in the little local gaieties and were asked about Verona, they invariably replied that "she was arl-right!"
One day Mrs. Lepell paid a visit, and had an interview with the invalid and her mother. "She wants a change," declared the benevolent lady. "Miss Verona, will you come over and spend a week or two at my house?"
"Thank you," faltered Verona; "you are very kind," and she looked interrogatively at her parent.
"Oh no, no," she rejoined, with energy; "I could not think of it. Mrs. Lepell, I cannot have one girl more favoured than another; you recollect when Dominga was ill you never invited her—and you have known her almost since she was a baby. If I allow Verona to visit you, 'and she a stranger,' Dominga would be so awfully hurt; she has such a feeling heart, and she is so fond of you."
"Well, I suppose she will not object if I take her sister for a drive?" said Mrs. Lepell, rather sharply.
To this project Mrs. Chandos accorded an unwilling assent, and presently the Trotters were greatly edified by beholding poor whitefaced Verona stagger out to Mrs. Lepell's luxurious victoria, Pussy following her with pillows and propping her up with care.
It was a lovely soft evening, and Mrs. Lepell allowed the girl time to enjoy her surroundings before she commenced to talk. She glanced at her as she lay back among the cushions; what a fine, high-bred face it was! although so wan and languorous.
"About here the country is all very flat," she began, "cane and millet crops, millet crops and cane! Now and then you notice one enormous, solitary tree, the last of the forest perhaps. See that one yonder—more than a mile away; I've often thought I would like to make a nearer acquaintance, but he stands encompassed by wheat. Every time I drive out I look at him and bow, for we have been friends for twenty years. There, on the left, you may notice the city in the distance—beyond the city the spire of the cantonment; but we will go for a drive into the country, and you will like that best."
Verona nodded her head as Mrs. Lepell's black Australian steppers flew along a flat, red road bordered with high cane crops and acacia trees. Now and then, they passed a cluster of huts or a drove of goats, and once they met a tall, two-storied cage on wheels, drawn by a camel, full of chattering travellers.
"The mail-cart to Beetapore!" announced Mrs. Lepell, with a laugh. Then—"you are better, are you not, my dear?"
"I am afraid I am," she answered, half under her breath.
"My dear, you must not talk like that," said Mrs. Lepell, laying her hand on hers. "Fever does leave one a wreck; I know exactly how you feel."
"I hope you have never known how I feel," exclaimed the girl, turning two tragic eyes slowly on her companion. "I feel—oh, why didn't I die?" and she burst into tears.
"I am so sorry for you, you poor dear child." Mrs. Lepell took her hand tightly in her own; "I know it is all so very new and strange."
"And it can never be otherwise," sobbed Verona. "I have come out too late ever to be one of them. It were really better if I were dead."
"My dear, don't say such things!"
"Not to every one, Mrs. Lepell, but you have been so kind to me, and you look sympathetic. It is a relief to me to say aloud what my brain keeps repeating all day and sometimes all night, 'I wish I were dead.'"
"Why?"
"Because I have no real home, here or anywhere; I am an outsider—an intruder—and oh! I was so anxious to come! My grandmother is right when she says I am like the dhoby's donkey, for I belong neither to the house nor the river."
How nearly she belonged to the river! Did she remember? Mrs. Lepell wondered.
"And there are other things."
"Yes; but now listen to me, Verona—of course I shall call you Verona; there are other things. You are only twenty-two, with all your best years before you; you have been well educated; you have enjoyed all the advantages of wealth and mixed in the world; you have the use of your faculties; you have a certain amount of brains and beauty. All these other things you actually possess. It is the act of a coward to throw down her arms when she meets with a reverse, and cry, 'I want to die! I am tired of life.' And life is so interesting, even to me, Verona, who am old enough to be your mother. I wish to live, and see it all—and what will happen."
"Ah, but," she protested, "you are different—so different."
"My dear, every one has their own row to hoe; how do you know that Providence has not sent you to brighten your home, and refine—and raise your surroundings?"
Verona gave a sort of gasping, hysterical laugh.
"I grant you that your mother and Dominga may not be altogether sympathetic, but you would have immense influence with Pussy and Nicky; she is indolent, sweet-tempered, easily led; and Nicky is extremely clever, but only half-educated, poor boy! they took him away from the Martinière school, and he has loafed about ever since. Brian Salwey declares that he has a capital head-piece; all he wants is some one at home to urge him on, to set to making his way in the world. But he is losing his best days slacking about Manora, playing tennis and making hencoops. Now you should take him—and Pussy in hand."
"I? how do you mean? What can I do?"
"Do? Why teach them! Give them a couple of hours English and French lessons of a morning. I can lend you some books. Let them do English and French dictation, and reading; Green's 'History of the English People' and Macaulay's 'Essays' will keep them going. I'm sure Pussy will be all the better for a little arithmetic and spelling. You'll find that it will interest you—and employ them."
Verona made no reply.
"Then there is your father, dear; have you thought of him?"
"Yes, he scarcely ever opens his lips to me or any one; he appears to accept everything as it is, and to be sunk in a sort of lethargy."
"Oh, my dear child, if you only knew his life as my husband related it to me, you would be sorry, and make allowances for his silence. He has been a scapegoat for others: he has remained out here for twenty-eight years, and fallen away from the memory of all his old friends. You call him lethargic? Well, I daresay his feelings are benumbed. Early in life he received a terrible shock, which has stunned him. Once he was one of the cheeriest young fellows; what a contrast to his present condition! He just grinds away at his post like a horse in a mill, in order to support his family. You and he should be especial friends."
"Yes—but why?"
"Because, presumably, you are a Chandos; you know England—his native country; the others do not. There is one bond. You like books and perhaps chess—so does he; you might easily bring some light and warmth into the poor man's grey life. Will you try, dear?"
"Yes; but I don't think it will be of the smallest use!"
"It will! In occupation you will soon forget yourself."
"I hope I may—for I hate myself at present."
"You hate everything just now, because you are in low spirits and weak health. Adopt my prescription—it will cure you. You and I might have some long drives and talks together, but I am aware that I may not enjoy your company too often."
The two ladies returned to the big bungalow, where they sat in the verandah and had tea. It was like an English tea, with all its dainty little appointments. The sight of the pretty drawing-room, with its books and flowers and sketches acted as a restorative. So all Indian drawing-rooms were not dingy and dark and squalid! Mrs. Lepell's society was a veritable tonic, and when she had deposited the invalid at the door of her home, the girl felt miraculously stimulated and revived.
Verona lost no time in putting Mrs. Lepell's advice into practice—her project of being governess to Nicky and Pussy was accepted by the pair with unexpected pride and gratitude. A large table in one corner of the verandah was carefully screened off, and here they worked for two or three hours every morning, in spite of the jeers and derision of Dominga and her mother. Pussy was incredibly dull; nothing could induce her to put the "e" in the right place in "believe" and "receive," and as to the difference between latitude and longitude she merely laughed and shook her head.
On the other hand, Nicky had brains, and a decided taste for mathematics. Salwey gave him lessons twice a week, for Nicky had been promised a clerkship in the works if he proved steady and industrious; certainly, it was only fifty rupees a month, but it was better than nothing. His ambition had been set alight, and Salwey had fired him with the desire to be an engineer, and to endeavour to pass into Roorki College. Nicky now turned his carpentering talents to mending an old, long-neglected boat, and of an afternoon he rowed his two sisters about the river—even his grandmother ventured once—anything to please Nicky, for Nicky was her darling. Verona, to her great satisfaction, now began to know her father a little better; he dropped his reserve, and seemed faintly interested in the boating and lessons.
One evening, much to her surprise, he invited her into his own particular den; it was at the far end of the bungalow, opened directly into the verandah, and was entered by three steps. As she stood and gazed about her Verona gave an exclamation of astonishment; she had seen an officer's barrack room in England, she was standing in its counterpart here. There was the brass-bound chest of drawers, the camp bed, the folding chair and round table; over the mantel-piece hung a sabre, sabre-tasche, and spurs; on the walls, covered with numbers of faded regimental groups, were also polo sticks, hog spears and some old sporting prints. One side of the room was lined with a bookcase; there was a writing table, a shabby, comfortable-looking armchair, and quantities of pipes. It was the room of an officer, and gentleman!
"Here I sit and smoke and dream alone," explained Mr. Chandos.
"Always alone?" enquired Verona.
"Yes; no one else cares to dream and read."
"I think I do, father."
"Then I invite you here; consider yourself an honorary member of the Den."
"Thank you."
"Do you play piquet or chess?"
"Yes—but not well."
"No doubt you will beat me—I am terribly rusty."
"At any rate I shall try," she answered with a bright smile. "Who?" suddenly walking over to a picture, "is this handsome young man in racing colours?"
"Do you not know?" he asked with an air of distressed surprise.
"You!" she exclaimed, with an unflattering start.
"Yes; that was taken after I won the Civil Service Cup, at Lucknow, on Good Fortune. Names go by contraries, for since that day my luck turned. I have been going steadily down the ladder ever since."
"Oh, father," and she paused and turned and looked at him; "why do you say so? What do you mean?"
"I've done those things which I ought not to have done, and not done those things which I ought to have done, and there's no health in me."
She gazed into his eyes, laden with inexpressible remorse; then turned away to hide her own tears—and presently said, in a totally different voice:
"Ah, I see," pointing to the bookcase, "you have all Sir Walter Scott, tattered and torn—how I love him!"
"Is he your only love so far?"
"Well," with an effort at gaiety, "I must confess I am very fond of Charles Lamb and Emerson and George Eliot."
"So am I," cried her parent; "I see that we shall agree."
"Above all I love William Thackeray."
"Here," he laughed and said, "you have my consent; it is a family failing."
"Oh, what a beautiful old place!" she exclaimed, as she paused before a little spotted landscape, in the midst of which stood a stately and picturesque mansion.
"Yes, Charne Hall; I was born there."
She moved in order to examine it still closer, thinking of the appalling contrast between her father's birthplace and his present abode.
"It has been in our family since the reign of James I.; my cousin has it now. He married a woman of large fortune; they have no children."
Verona turned and glanced at him. Her thoughts flew to Nicky. Was Nicky the heir to this ancestral English home?
"It is a beautiful place," continued her father, gazing at the picture with eyes of deep affection; "it is the sort of mansion house agents cry up, with its saloon, suite of drawing-rooms, picture gallery, library, and forty or fifty bedrooms; but if it was only a little roadside cottage I should love it just as much. I am proud of being a Chandos of Charne. In all the ups and downs of my life I have remembered this fact, and kept the name spotless, to the best of my power. You can never guess, my dear, what sacrifices this has cost me, miserable and insignificant as I am. I have upheld our name. Were any one belonging to me to dishonour or disgrace it, it would kill me." He spoke with such vehemence and suppressed passion, that he seemed transformed.
"Here," he continued as he unlocked a drawer, and produced a large photograph, which showed the place on a much finer scale. "And here," he added, placing another picture in her hand. It was a photograph of a pretty girl in her teens, the face was sweet, the dress old-fashioned, "Oh, no, not that," hastily seizing it. "But this—it is your grandfather." It was a photograph, from a portrait, of a handsome, haughty, elderly man.
And across one corner of the picture was inscribed in a bold hand: "Chandos, of Charne."
Verona took the picture in her hand and considered it attentively.
Her grandfather! What a contrast was presented by this aristocratic English magnate to her grandmother in the Dufta!
"I have never shown it before," resumed her father in a tremulous tone, "so do not say anything about it. But you have been at home—you are a Chandos—you understand. I think, my dear," and his voice broke a little, "we shall have many things in common. I am thankful that you came; already you have done good to Nicky and Pussy and me." He paused abruptly and stood in a listening attitude.
Yes, there was a sound of wheels! The victoria had returned from its daily round and common task.
Presently a shrill voice came pealing down the verandah.
"Verona, Verona! Now where is that girl?"
"There, there, my dear, you had better go," urged her father nervously; "you will come again soon." As she turned to leave the room she met her mother face to face in the doorway.
"Oh, ho!" she cried, "so you have found your way here? I have seen Mrs. Lepell; she says she wants you and Pussy to go to tea to-morrow. I can't think what she is up to!"