Her own people

by B. M. Croker

CHAPTER XXXV

Mrs. Lepell resolutely refused to dance; she declared that she did not consider it compatible with her responsibility as chaperon. But she chatted to her many friends, and listened complacently to the warm admiration they expressed for the pretty girl she brought with her. All at once Brian Salwey came and threw himself into a seat beside her, and said:

"Now, I'm going to give you a shock, Aunt Liz."

"That will be nothing new," she retorted with a laugh.

"But this, I warn you, will be out of the common. Do you know what brought me here to-night?"

"The train, and a second-class gharry."

"Yes; and the solemn resolve to ask Miss Verona Chandos to marry me!"

"No words can express my astonishment! Brian, you must be mad!" she exclaimed.

"No; although I do three acrostics a week, I'm still fairly sane. What have you to say against her? She is a lady, she is beautiful, and she is good. What more would you have?"

"Well, since you ask me, I would have a little money, and, my dear Brian! think of her family! Think of your mother-in-law! Think of your grandmother-in-law!"

"At present," he replied with the utmost composure, "I am not disposed to think of anyone but Verona, and if it comes to that, why don't you ask me to think of my father and my step-mother? My father married to please himself, and I shall certainly do the same."

"I had not the smallest suspicion of this," murmured Mrs. Lepell, opening and shutting her fan, with a meditative air.

"Has it not occurred to you that I have been a good deal at Manora of late?"

"Yes."

"To what did you attribute that?"

"To a natural desire to see me, your Aunt Liz, your mother's only sister. You know you are rather fond of your Aunt Liz."

"I am," he assented, and he laid his hand in hers, "and as it was certainly my Aunt Liz who first drew my attention to Verona Chandos, she has only to thank herself for the result."

"I am much attached to Verona myself; she is a dear, good girl; her beautiful face is but the outer shell of a beautiful, unselfish soul. Still, in spite of her mind and form, and much as I love her, I do not desire her as a niece. I know there is no use in arguing with you, Brian. What will be, will be. Your mind is made up, you will ask her to marry you, possibly within the hour."

"Possibly."

"And within the hour—she will refuse you."

"That remains to be seen," rejoined her nephew rising, as a general covered with orders came forward, and asked Mrs. Lepell if he might have the pleasure of taking her down to supper.

Verona had followed with Brian Salwey, who, with some difficulty, piloted his fair lady through the crowded room, and found two empty places at a large central table. She had scarcely been seated, and was taking off her gloves, when she heard her name spoken, and looking up saw a handsome, middle-aged woman, wearing a diamond tiara, leaning towards her eagerly.

"Surely it is Verona Chandos?" she enquired.

"Oh, Lady Ida!" she exclaimed, "is it you? What a surprise!"

"To you, but not to me. I have been expecting to come across you ever since I left Bombay," rejoined the other—speaking precisely as if India were a small country town. "The Melvilles told me you were out here. How do you like the gorgeous East? Not much," she added, answering herself, "you look a little pale and thin, but of course I would recognise you anywhere, by my very dear friend, your beautiful diamond bow! You and I must have a long chat by and by," and with this remark she once more turned her attention to her companion, and her plate.

"Who is the very dear friend of your diamond bow?" inquired Salwey.

"Lady Ida Eustace—she lives near the Melvilles, who brought me up. I have known her since I was a small child. She is a charming woman—so popular. Don't you think her handsome?"

(Lady Ida had an oval face, an aquiline nose, a pair of merry dark eyes, and a presence!)

"Um"—doubtfully; "I think she has plenty to say for herself. Who is she when she is at home?"

"She is married to Captain Eustace, who hunts the Halstead hounds. They have no children, and travel a good deal."

"We have been globe-trotting, as usual," resumed Lady Ida, once more addressing Verona. "The doctors would not allow Cecil to winter in England—such a blow for him. Do you know what has chiefly impressed me in India?—the cold!"

Verona smiled and said, "I have not felt it yet!"

"I do assure you I never was prepared for it. At Delhi I simply could not sleep at night, and Cecil actually had to pile Persian rugs on his bed. I suppose you have done no end of sight-seeing?"

"No, indeed. I only began yesterday."

"What have you been about, you lazy girl? Well, we move on to Benares day after to-morrow, and you had better come too?"

"I am afraid I could not manage that—thank you very much, Lady Ida."

"Pray who is your chaperon? Do let me ask her? Who brought you to the ball?"

"A friend, Mrs. Lepell."

"Lepell—Lepell!" she repeated, closing her eyes. "Now, let me think; yes! Her sister married a Colonel Salwey; she was a friend of mine, and died young. He married again, oh, such a little——"

"Excuse me, but I think you are speaking of my father," interrupted Brian, and looking straight at Lady Ida as he spoke.

"Oh! am I? Then you must be the boy I remember. Dear me! dear me! it makes me feel quite an old woman! How odd that I should meet you, and begin talking of your people. I've a dreadful way of stumbling into social pitfalls—and I was just about to discuss your stepmother. Now, tell me, when can I see your aunt?"

"Any time after supper. You will find her up on the daïs place. She is wearing a sort of purple gown."

(A sort of purple gown!—that exquisite French garment of misty mauve and silver.)

"Very well—and, Verona, I must have a little talk with you. I suppose you are engaged ten deep?"

"Yes, but I think I could give you the Lancers," she rejoined, "to sit out."

"My dear child! I am engaged; I am dancing with the Lieutenant-Governor! Oh, do please look at this party who have just come in—the two women especially. It is not often you see such dark complexions in society! How did they get here? Observe the creature with the shell chains in her hair. Why! you know them!" as Blanche nodded at Verona; "who are they?"

"They are my mother and sister," she answered in a low voice, and her features were so controlled as to be almost expressionless.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lady Ida, and the colour flew from her cheeks to her hair. "Oh, my dear girl, you are not serious!"

"I believe this is our dance," suggested Salwey, with admirable invention and composure, rising and pushing back his chair, "and it has already begun. Shall we go?"

In another moment Verona and her partner had disappeared, leaving Lady Ida gazing at a certain group at a side table, and greatly puzzled to know whether Verona Chandos were in jest or earnest. Then she suddenly remembered that there was some queer story about the girl's relations in India, and her ladyship relapsed into unwonted silence, and left her supper untouched, and as soon as her cavalier was movable, requested him to pilot her to the upper seats in the ball room, where she lost no time in making a search for a certain lady in a purple gown.

"We are just in time," said Salwey, as he and his partner re-entered the ball room; "we can have a second supper." He felt the hand on his arm trembling, and the girl's face was ashen pale; undoubtedly the scene at the supper table had told; but she maintained an air of composure, and the dignity of a high-bred silence, and in another moment they were launched upon the current of dancers. The waltz was a well-known German favourite—many a step had Verona danced to it elsewhere. When the last bar had sobbed away into the empty air, Salwey led his companion out to the great flagged terrace which overlooks the river.

It was a splendid Eastern night, light as day—no Indian ball would be complete without the moon. There were numbers of couples on the terrace, and Salwey guided his partner to where there were two spare seats, close to the parapet! No skulking in corners for him. He was proud to be seen with the new Miss Chandos.

"There is a lot of 'go' about this dance, is there not?" he remarked. "It is like a bit of your former life—old friends and all. I say, what a change it must have been to you, coming out to Manora."

"It was," she assented, without lifting her eyes from the river.

"I am going to propose"—he paused; she turned and looked at him gravely—"another change." And in quite a matter-of-fact voice he added:

"Miss Chandos, will you marry me?"

For a moment she stared at him, as if unable to realise the question.

A host of thoughts flew through her brain. Only one little month ago she had been prepared to marry Captain Haig, and she now recalled this fact with a sense of shame. But her mother's tongue and temper had strained her courage beyond the pitch of endurance. At the approach of her step she mentally quailed; at the sound of her voice her heart fluttered. Since then she had fought a stern battle with herself; she had braced her soul to accept the inevitable. Her health was better, her nerves were more composed, and she had resolved never to marry. Here was the first and only proposal she had received since her arrival in India (the promised land of proposals), and what a curious contrast was presented by this wooer to her former numerous suitors. He was a mere nobody—a Superintendent of Police. But then, he was not suing for the hand of Verona Chandos, the great heiress, but the hand of Verona, the penniless half-caste. He was well acquainted with her history, and with her circle of most undesirable connections. Whatever had been in the minds of her former lovers, this generous man was entirely disinterested. He cared for nothing but herself. Nevertheless, she was determined to say No. She would refuse to spoil his life, and to drag him into her miserable affairs. His aunt, too, who loved her as a protégée, would undoubtedly detest her as a niece!

She glanced from the glittering silver river to Salwey, who sat on the edge of the parapet leaning towards her, the shining flood at his back threw into strong relief his square shoulders and well-poised head. She looked into his face—his strong, stern face—his steady blue eyes, which were fixed gravely on her own, and anxiously awaiting her reply.

Another dance had commenced, and the distant music filled the air with a low, humming noise. Close by (with a partner and atmosphere of "Ess Bouquet") sat Blanche, squeaking, giggling and jingling her bangles. "Oh, you nartie man—be quiett! be quiett!" and there was a sound of a brisk smack; "you shall not say so. No-a! No-a!"

If Verona's mind had been momentarily undecided, her sister Blanche now recalled her to her senses and hardened her heart to a fixed resolution.

"Mr. Salwey, you have taken me by surprise. You have done me a great honour," here she paused.

"There!" he ejaculated; "I know—that's what girls always say when they mean to let a fellow down easy."

"I could not marry you—I will never marry any one."

"What is your reason?" he asked sharply.

"Need you enquire? I will never be a party to what is called a 'mixed marriage.'"

"As, for example?"

"As, for example, my own father and mother."

"Come, that is nonsense!" he protested impatiently. "You are no more like her—than I am like him."

"Ah, but you cannot tell what we might become. I have no doubt we should both be miserable. My father——"

Then he interrupted:

"Your father came to grief, good, amiable gentleman, because he never could say the word 'no.' Now I can; in fact, strange as it may sound, such is my peculiar character, that my first impulse is to say 'no' sooner than 'yes.'"

"Then I trust you will pardon me for saying 'no' to you."

"It is not a case of pardon at all. For me, it is a profound disappointment. I scarcely ventured to hope you would accept me right off, but I thought you might give me a little encouragement—just a little bit of hope to go on with."

"I had no idea you cared for me in this way, Mr. Salwey."

"Well, I do. I have cared for you 'in this way' as you call it, ever since I first saw you in Aunt Liz's garden, sitting under the bamboo trees. You are the first woman I ever asked to marry me, and I think you will be the last. Of course, I am aware that from a worldly point of view, I am not much of a match for anyone—only a police wallah, a D. S. P. with five hundred rupees a month. I went to Harrow and was going into the Service, but I got a bad fall out hunting, and was laid on my back for a good while, and could not go up for Sandhurst. Meanwhile, my father married again—a woman none of us liked, but he was quite infatuated about her. She declared it was nonsense, my reading for the army; I should always be loafing about at home, for the chances were I would not pass. She thought me dull—and, I confess, I'm not particularly brilliant—so she got me a nomination in the police, and packed me off to India, and here I am. But I'm not bound to live here always. I believe I could get a billet in our own country. If"—he came to a full stop, and then went on. "And is it really, No?" he asked, looking at her steadily.

She bowed her head, and then lifted her eyes slowly, and looked not into his, but over his shoulder at the river; Suddenly she gave a little shiver, and exclaimed:

"Oh, what is it? I feel something so cold in the air. So—so—so strange!" and she shivered again. "I should like to go indoors, Mr. Salwey," standing up as she spoke. "Indeed I am most grateful to you now, and some day, you will be grateful to me. I hope we may be friends till then—and always. Now please take me back to your Aunt Lizzie."

Although Captain Haig danced continuously—chiefly with the party from Government House—he happened to notice that Salwey hung about doorways, and that his eyes were constantly fixed on Miss Verona Chandos. Was he épris also? Would he dare to marry her? Brave Salwey! They had been at Harrow together, and Salwey had always been notorious for a species of reckless, and at the same time dogged, courage. Well, the girl herself was lovely—whatever her people were—and apparently fate had no stroke that she could not bear with dignity and fortitude.