CHAPTER XXIII
It was an unprecedented honour for Pussy to be invited to tea at the big bungalow, and when Verona had arranged her hair, and dressed her in a white skirt and pink silk blouse, she looked surprisingly handsome. Indeed, when Mrs. Lepell shook hands with her, and noticed the look of timid self-approval on her pretty dark face, she began to realise Mrs. Chandos in her youth. She had invited the girl as a screen and companion for her friend Verona, and the three sat out under the bamboo trees and had tea. Pussy felt excessively nervous, yet triumphant; never before had she been thus honoured—only invited as one of the factory crowd; she gazed about her admiringly at the cane chairs and rugs and books. While her sister and her hostess conversed, she munched cakes and chocolates—stared at them steadily and mentally compared the two. Verona was quite as much a great lady as Mrs. Lepell, her eyes were so queenly; she sat with such ease, with her pretty hands in her lap, and even in a plain cambric gown she seemed beautifully dressed. Here was Mr. Salwey riding up on his splendid black horse—how fine he looked! She surveyed him furtively as he came quickly down the steps, in his neat brown riding boots, his light coat, his tie and his hat. What blue, blue eyes he had! How quiet they were, and yet they seemed to see everything with their cool, watchful glance!
He was almost the only gentleman of Pussy's acquaintance; he was Pussy's idea of a story-book hero; everyone of her favourites fitted him, but he was better, and handsomer, and cleverer than them all. She looked up to Salwey as her ideal—but had bestowed her heart on his antipodes.
"Well, Aunt Liz," he said, coming forward with a smile.
"Oh, Brian, I am glad to see you! I thought you were on duty."
"No, I'm on pleasure," and he nodded to Pussy with a friendly air.
"This is my nephew—Brian Salwey," said Mrs. Lepell. "Brian, let me introduce you to Miss Verona Chandos."
Verona inclined her head; he bowed profoundly and, as he moved aside some papers, and took a chair, Brian Salwey was inwardly telling himself that this young person—was no half-caste; she looked like a lady of high degree, with her delicate features and well set-on head.
"And here," resumed his aunt, turning to the shy, dark girl, with eyes like fixed stars, "is Miss Pussy, with whom you are already acquainted."
"Oh, yes; Miss Pussy has often been down to my place with her brother—and seen my ponies."
"Oh, they are lovelee! such beauties! Oh, I do love ponies," she exclaimed, then wriggled, and relapsed into a condition of smothered giggling. What a curious contrast was afforded by the English and the Indian sisters! One seemed a refined, cultivated girl of the world—the other, a daughter of the bazaars! Could education achieve so much with respect to deportment and voice?
Presently Salwey expressed a hope that "there was some tea left for him? Being as you know," turning to his aunt, "a thoroughly domesticated character."
"And pray, how did you leave England?" he inquired, now addressing himself directly to Verona.
"I left it with some regret," she answered, with a smile. "It was August, you know."
"Ah, August is my favourite month," he remarked, as he carefully selected a lump of sugar.
"Yes, you impostor!" said his aunt. "You would like Miss Chandos to suppose that you are thinking of gorgeous sunsets, and harvest homes, and early autumn tints. My dear, the truth is, he is thinking of the shooting."
"Well, I have not been able to do anything but think of it for some years. Pray, who is the owner of this pretty thing?" he asked, as he stooped to pick up a little gold pencil-case.
Verona held out her hand. "Yes, is it not pretty? I got it at the Army and Navy Stores."
"Oh, the Stores! They are painfully associated in my mind with wedding presents—I have put in some bad quarters-of-an-hour there."
"Yes, it's a ready-money place," suggested his aunt with a sly smile.
"Oh, that was not it—thanks awfully for the insinuation—it was the worry of thinking, and making up my mind."
"Why give anything?"
"What can I do, when fellows I know will get married?"
"Console yourself with the expectation of the crop you may reap some day."
"That depends! If I were to marry an heiress—I daresay I'd have a good harvest, on the principle of 'give an apple where there is an orchard'—you see," glancing at Verona, "that I can quote proverbs, as well as Mrs. Lepell."
"But she is not a cynic like you, Brian."
"Come, don't crush me in public, Aunt Liz. I hear"—turning to Verona—"that you have brought out no end of new books——"
"Yes, I have a good many; can I lend you some?"
"If you lend him a book, Verona, you will be sorry," interposed his aunt.
"Now—she is impeaching my honesty, you see! Any cheap paper-backed edition—not turning solely on murder and robbery—would be gratefully appreciated."
"I daresay I can supply your requirements."
"The fact is," said Salwey, taking off his hat and throwing it on the grass, "I cannot stand anything that demands sternly concentrated attention. I don't want to hear of the 'over man,' nor even the 'sub-conscious brain'; on the other hand, I find the reading of 'shockers' requires an amount of physical courage, in which I am deficient—and—for love stories—I have—to borrow the American terms, 'no use.'"
"So, you see, he will not be easy to suit!" supplemented Mrs. Lepell.
"Oh, yes," he protested. "He is merely a simple, unsophisticated police wallah."
"Not so very simple, Brian. And you have some use for love stories. Do you recollect how you borrowed and gobbled up 'A Princess of Thule,' and sent it back horribly disfigured and reeking of tobacco?"
"I offered to replace it——"
"To keep it—as I understood——"
"For my part, I much prefer 'Macleod of Dare,'" declared Verona.
This remark at once started an animated discussion.
And now that the conversation circled round books and pictures, poor Pussy was completely out of her depth, and could contribute nothing beyond the language of the eye, and spasmodic gigglings.
Meanwhile, as Brian Salwey talked to her charming low-voiced sister, he felt figuratively swept off his feet; it was impossible to realise that this girl was the daughter of the sub-manager and "Mother Chan."; that her great-grandmother had been a Temple girl from the West coast, who had sung and danced before the gods. His brain actually reeled as he endeavoured to assimilate this fact, with the beautiful face, the well-cut, firm lips, that were imparting her impressions of the recent Passion play at Oberammergau. Never for a moment did she appear to recall that terrible scene by the river, and her own pitiful cry, "Let me die! Oh, let me die!"
At present she was laughing at some epitaphs that Mrs. Lepell had unearthed from an American magazine, little dreaming how near she had been to earning an epitaph herself!
"I must say I like the unquestioning conviction of this one from Wyoming county," said Mrs. Lepell, and she read aloud:
"She was in health at 11.30 a.m.
And left for heaven at 2.30 p.m."
Brian leant nearer, and looked over his aunt's shoulder, and said: "Yes, but I think this one from Maine would be hard to beat as a monument of punctuation.
'John Philips
Accidentally shot as a mark of affection by his brother.'
or this is most excellent:
'Here lies the body of Obadiah Wilkinson and Ruth his wife,
Their warfare is accomplished.'
"Now let us hand the book to Miss Chandos that she may make her selection." As he spoke he took it from Mrs. Lepell, and held it to Verona. After a slight pause, she said: "I really think mine is the best of all."
"Then I challenge you to let us hear it," said Salwey.
In a low steady voice she at once began to read aloud:
"'Our life is but a winter's day,
Some breakfast and away,
Others to dinner stay—and are well fed,
The oldest sups and goes to bed.
Large is the debt who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest—has the least to pay.'"
"So you would go soon?" looking at the girl interrogatively.
"Yes, after breakfast, so to speak," she responded.
"And I would remain till after supper—when the band had dispersed, and the lights were put out."
"I, too, should like to remain till the Last Post," said Mrs. Lepell.
Pussy listened to this conversation with a face of blank bewilderment. What did they mean by talking of breakfast, and supper, in this odd fashion?
"By-the-way, Verona," said Mrs. Lepell, "to change to another subject, have you ever had any trace of your jewels?"
"No, never."
"Pray, Brian," turning to her nephew, "what are you about? I repeat the common cry, 'Where are the police?'"
"The police were never informed of this theft," he rejoined. "I heard of the robbery as a mere bazaar shave."
"Do you mean to tell me," said his aunt, now sitting erect, "that you were not officially informed that Mrs. Chandos had a press broken into, and that Verona's dressing-bag was opened, and all the valuables in it were carried off?"
"What valuables?" he asked, judicially.
"Oh, oh—oh!" cried Pussy, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "Oh, such lovelee things, that must have cost lakhs of rupees! A gold watch and chain, a diamond and turquoise necklet, pearl bangles, and a pendant with an emerald as big as this"—making a circle with two little brown fingers—"and rings, and all sorts of things."
"How long ago did this happen?"
"Six weeks."
"And this is the first I have heard of it; I am afraid everything is scattered far by this time."
"I did suggest sending for the police," said Verona.
"Yes, it was when you were so sick; mother would not have it; she," and here Pussy giggled, "says all the police are thieves."
"Even so, I wonder she did not endeavour to set a thief to catch a thief," rejoined Salwey, "and I maintain that the police are not thieves. Has nothing been done?" turning to Verona. "Why has the affair been allowed to drop?"
"I really don't know," she replied.
"And has there not been one single trace?" pursued Mrs. Lepell.
"I don't know what you would call a trace. You know that man, Abdul Buk?"
Salwey's eyes brightened.
"Yes, I have that—experience."
"I was walking on the road the other day when he drove by in that battered old phaeton of his; when he saw me he pulled up, and said: 'Oh, what a pity about your pretty things, Miss Sahib, I am so sorry. I think the watch and chain might be got, if you would give reward—say, of three hundred rupees.'"
"Yes?" said Salwey.
"I refused; I told him I had no money to spare."
"No," put in Pussy, "for she has spent it all on my bicycle."
Verona coloured vividly, and Salwey said: "If you will write me out a list of all the things that have been stolen, I should like to see what I can do, on the principle of 'Better late than never.'"
"I will—thank you very much," the clock was now striking six, and Verona rose to depart. She had enjoyed an hour of what had once been her everyday life, a woman's brilliant, cultivated talk, and dainty refined surroundings, a man's astonished first look—and subsequent subdued homage. Oh, she knew it all so well! For one short hour she had been back at Cannes, with the sun setting over the Estorells. The sun here had just set behind the sugar factory, where her father was employed; she was nothing more or less than a foolish discontented half-caste, who had momentarily forgotten her place in the world, and must at once return home, or her mother would be angry.
Salwey accompanied Verona and Pussy, carrying magazines and papers, the gift of his aunt; almost before he left them he must have heard an irritable:
"Now, where have you two been? Oh, my! you are late. And look at Pussy in a pink blouse! How set up she is!"
All this harangue was from Dominga—who was lolling in the verandah in a long cane chair.
She and her mother had lately returned from Rajahpore, bringing with them a considerable amount of irritation and ill-temper.
When Salwey once more made his way to the tea-table, his aunt was still there.
"Now, Brian," she said, "sit down here; I want to know what you think of her."
"Her?" he repeated, "which her?"
"Don't be so ridiculous! You know perfectly well who I mean."
"I think," he said, "that the new Miss Chandos is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."
"And has no recollection, that this is not your first meeting, and that but for you her body would have been found in the Jurra?"
"I don't know how to believe that she is the sister of that fat little dark girl, or the daughter of Mother Chan, or even the sister of the illustrious Dominga."
"Their noses are rather alike," said Mrs. Lepell, with a meditative air; "do you see much of Dominga?"
"Much too much! She and her mother are continually in the club, ostensibly to read the papers; the girl plays tennis and badminton—she also plays the fool."
"You don't like her, Brian?"
"Well, no, I know a few things about Miss Dominga Chandos."
"Oh, tell me?" said his aunt, eagerly.
"Her people ought to look after her."
"And is that all I am to hear?"
"Isn't it enough? Think of all the events, situations, and mysteries, your imagination can weave out of that little sentence. To me she is always the Cat—the Red Cat; she has a disagreeable way of winding herself about, and purring."
"Singing, you mean?"
"I don't admire her caterwauling; her voice is detestable. I always seem to hear the native note dominating her song, the Nautch girl note."
"And so you say that Dominga reminds you of a red cat? Take care she does not scratch you some day."
"No fear!" Then, as if suddenly recollecting something, "What an extraordinary business this is about Miss Verona's jewels; I cannot understand it."
"Neither can I."
"To me it looks rather like a hushed-up affair; someone in Manora has had a hand in the robbery."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Lepell, doubtfully, "but Mrs. Chandos is the last woman in the world to allow herself, or her family, to be robbed without a struggle."
"Yes, that old scoundrel, Abdul Buk, seems to know something about it."
"I always thought he was rather a nice, venerable old person."
"He is a nice, deep old person, and I must admit, that I've never yet found him out; he is full of palaver and civility. If I were to believe anonymous letters——"
"But no one believes them," protested his aunt.
"He is at the bottom of the worst form of usury and blood-sucking in the district."
"There you go," said his aunt, "started on your hobby, usury and money-lenders."
"Well, they are the curse of the country, and if it is in my power to abate that curse, and release a few hundred slaves, I shall not have lived in vain."
"Brian, you ought to have been a barrister; I can see and hear you haranguing a jury."
"Thank you, I'm perfectly satisfied with my present profession, hunting down and securing criminals for barristers to denounce and juries to condemn."
There was a long silence; Mrs. Lepell put a few stitches in her work, and Salwey made some notes in a little book.
"District Superintendent Salwey," she began suddenly, "of what are you thinking?"
"Aunt Liz, this question of yours has become a confirmed habit, as regular as 'how do you do?' Since you particularly wish to know—I am thinking of the new Miss Chandos and her turquoise necklet; why is she kept so strictly in the background?"
"Perhaps her mother imagines that she would extinguish Dominga—and Dominga is her idol, her brazen image."
"Possibly, and the other is a true lady, unaffected, refined, and altogether a most attractive and interesting personality."
"But nothing to you, Brian. You must not fall in love with her; think of Mrs. Lopez as you see her, basking in the sun, a shapeless old woman, a mass of superstition and ignorance; think of Verona's grandmother, and then think of your own. You know the beautiful picture in the Roxley library—I believe if you were to marry a Eurasian girl, she would come down out of her frame!"