Her own people

by B. M. Croker

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Were she to live to the age of one hundred years Verona could never forget that hot weather at Manora—the memory was burnt into her very soul. It was not merely the absolute desolation of the season, not only the breathless atmosphere that seemed to quench all vitality, the endless hours spent in idleness, because the rooms were necessarily darkened, it was not the maddening "Tonk Tonk" of the coppersmith bird, the thoughts of her past, the hopelessness of her future, but every other sensation was dominated by the fact that under the same roof, in that still, dim bungalow, abode two malignant spirits, whose every glance and word breathed invincible hatred and ill will.

These were her mother and Dominga. Since Dominga's elopement had been so successfully frustrated, she had fallen into a state of lassitude and lay for hours motionless, and, so to speak, torpid, coiled up with closed eyes in her long cane chair. When the all too terrible sun had sunk below the plains across the river, and the soft blue haze of an Indian evening had taken its place, she would wander alone about the untidy garden, muttering to herself incessantly (as if rehearsing some important conversation). She still wrote many letters; these the Dak runner now no longer carried fearfully through the high elephant grass, or the thorny Dak bushes of the Terai, but they travelled in full state on His Majesty's mail tonga, and were delivered by a postman in orthodox uniform at a certain hill club. The hot weather had seemingly the power of relaxing the stiff social bonds peculiar to the cool season. Most women cast aside curling pins and corsets and wore muslin wrappers, and their hair "plain." Men abandoned formality with waistcoats and collars, and Mr. Lepell frequently walked over to smoke a pipe with his sub-manager. On these occasions Mrs. Chandos never appeared; she was incessantly occupied with business, and besides this, Tom Lepell was one of the two men in the whole world whom she not only hated but feared. Mrs. Cavalho constantly trotted across to sit and gossip with Mrs. Lopez on a little plot of scorched grass in the garden; here, under the stars which shone between the bare branches of the cork trees, the two old women talked for hours; talked of their youth and their good days, before they had become a pair of derelicts moored beside the Jurra river. Pussy and Verona occasionally joined them, and listened with unaffected interest to tales of visions, and warnings, of life, love and death, and many other curious matters. In the dim, soft light Mistress Cavalho's old face seemed to assume a different expression—perhaps Youth himself came to her in the dusk, along with his tender recollections? Her eyes looked large and brilliant, the lines of her features appeared faultless. She had a low, sweet voice, and there was something in the personality of Felipa Cavalho that was inexpressibly soothing and restful.

Now and then one of the girls wandered alone about the thirsty, sunburnt garden, accompanied by her own reflections. Pussy's mind was entirely occupied by Alonzo—when would she meet him? What would he think of her new yellow hat? and Verona, too, had musings sacred to her own heart. Her thoughts frequently turned to Salwey, as she paced the narrow "kunker" paths. She had not seen him for a long time! He never came up to Manora now! No doubt, he had outgrown his foolish fancy. After all, was it not precisely what she desired? Yet, even as Verona assured herself that all was for the best, she was conscious of an inward pang, and of a half-stifled sigh. She was aware of something blighting in the atmosphere—an enervating, creeping influence, which made her feel languid, callous and numb. Was this merely a temporary lassitude—the effect of the pitiless hot weather? or—horrible thought!—was it the native element developing in her veins, stealing into her heart and claiming her for its own at last?

Occasionally Verona joined her father and Mr. Lepell as they sat and smoked together on the verandah, but on these occasions Pussy yawned and went to bed, for she found their conversation much too dull. Their theme was of the shop—of mango wood fuel, of rab and goor, and contracts and transport, and new machinery. But Verona, who had not her sister's easy faculty for sleep, remained languidly interested, and still more interested when her father asked his guest in a casual tone:

"By the way, what has become of Salwey? I've not seen him about lately?"

"Oh, he is out in the district; the hot weather is his busy time," was the reply.

"Why?" enquired the girl; "I thought during the hot weather everyone remained at home in a state of torpor."

"Not every one, especially a police officer," rejoined Mr. Lepell. "The hot weather is the idle time in this circle. When the crops are cut, and tillage awaits the rains, people have no occupation; they sit round the village 'Chabootra' and smoke and talk and quarrel; they brood over old feuds, they argue over wrestling matches and cock fights and land, and they kill one another with lathies or reaping hooks. I can assure you they keep Salwey and his men pretty well on the run. We have four murderers lying in Rajahpore jail at this moment. I say, young lady, you are looking pulled down. Why don't you accept my wife's pressing invitation, and join her in the hills?"

"If Verona were to see the hills she would never return here," declared her father with a melancholy smile.

"It is very kind of Mrs. Lepell to ask me, but the rains may come any day, Nani says, and it is not worth while to move."

"There is no sign of the south-west monsoon yet," argued Mr. Lepell, "with all due deference to Mrs. Lopez. By the way, I often notice your mother driving to the city at the hottest time of the day. She must be a veritable salamander!"

"Oh yes, but Abdul Buk is ill, and her tenants are giving her a good deal of trouble."

"Aha! you see, the hot weather again! Please God the rains come before long."

The rains came at last. For dreary and hopeless months, the country had lain bare and brown; now, almost in a night, the heat-cracked plains were clothed with grass, and the fainting trees and plants were lit up with young leaves; everywhere was the sound of running water! The ducks quacked triumphantly, as they swam on the former drive; frogs hopped hilariously about the verandah, and even invaded the bedrooms, whilst their relations in the marshes made an uproar that murdered sleep! Jurra river, flooded to the brim, brought down on its breast all manner of strange things, including stranded, sand-embedded charpoys, that had been the last resting-place of corpses—for Jurra was a holy river—and Verona and Pussy, who had languidly rowed about its shrunken, hot-weather dimensions, now went farther than before. One evening as the two girls were passing below the little white house where the police wallah lived, they descried him and his dog "Chum" sitting together in the verandah.

He signalled to them immediately, and came running down the steep steps which led through the garden to the water's edge.

"Hullo! So you are back," called Pussy from her nest among red cushions in the stern.

"Yes; how are you?" But as he spoke, he looked at Verona. "The weather is getting a little cooler."

"It is not particularly cool yet," she replied, resting on her oars and raising a colourless face.

"Won't you come up and see my diggings, and have some iced lemonade or tea?"

"Oh, do let's go, Rona?" pleaded Pussy, with outstretched fingers, every joint of which was eloquent. "I've often been."

"Yes, come along," he urged, fastening the boat; and he held out his hand to Pussy, who sprang ashore with alacrity, saying:

"I know my way! I'll go to old Jaloo, and tell him to get ready the lemonade and cake. Oh, I must have some cake," and she bustled up the steps, and disappeared among the orange and apricot trees.

"No, thank you," said Verona, looking at Salwey's still extended hand; "I prefer to wait, like the train—ten minutes for refreshments."

"You mean to say you won't honour my poor abode! I'd like to show you my photographs of home, and some books, and odd things I've picked up in the district."

"I'll come another time, but I'm a little tired. I don't think I could face your hill."

"I must say you look completely played out; you ought to have gone to Aunt Lizzie. I say, I shall row you back."

As he spoke he stepped into the boat, closely attended by "Chum," and motioned her to the place recently occupied by her lazy sister.

"But what about Pussy?" she asked with a faint smile, as she arranged the cushions and leant back with a sense of well-earned repose.

"Oh, Pussy is all right. She and old Jaloo are tremendous pals. She was often here—with Nicky."

Verona inclined her head.

"Miss Chandos, this is a lucky chance!" he resumed. "I wanted to see you alone."

"Yes?" and she coloured faintly.

"I have found out about the robbery and how it was effected. I've not been away all the time, though my house has been closed. I came back to see what the mice were doing!"

"Yes, I—understand." She smiled as she added, "What an artful cat!"

"One morning I went up early to the dufta and examined the walls more minutely. I detected the marks of bare feet; it was evident that the thief—a very thin man—climbed on the shoulders of a tall confederate, and squeezed himself through the window, which, as you know, is high, then cut a board out of the press and looted the jewels; the traces of the foot-prints are faint, but I have made out that one foot lacks a toe. Now, it happens that Abdul Buk's eldest son is as lean as a herring, and has lost one toe in an—adventure. It was he who offered your ring for sale; his family believe him to be in Fyzabad, but he is really in Delhi jail. At first he swore that your mother had given him the ring as a bribe. Now, solitary confinement, low diet, the loss of his smoke and a wholesome fear of the law, have changed his tune!"

"And what have you discovered?"

"We have discovered much. For instance, that Abdul Buk—the benevolent, the collector of cantonment house rents, the dispenser of promises, the ladies' praised and petted Abdul—'dear old Abdul'—is nothing more or less than a receiver of stolen goods!"

"Nonsense—that respectable old man!"

"Yes, and he does business on a large scale, though he takes good care never to put his own paw into the fire. I believe I have got him at last! Little does he suspect that he is sitting on a mine, and that the match is in my hands——"

"And when will you apply it?"

"Immediately. I have some slight reason to suspect that he is one of the agents of the notorious Saloo. If I can only bag the two with one charge, won't it be splendid?"

"Splendid indeed; you will have gained your heart's desire, and I shall congratulate you most sincerely."

"I should be glad if I could catch Saloo, but the feat is not exactly"—a pause—"my heart's desire! Saloo's identity is a dead secret; he is an old fox. I've heard that he is a marwarri down Poonah way, but this is not confirmed. Saloo has hitherto baffled every effort to trace him."

"If you were to consult my grandmother, she would advise you to look in the ink pool!"

"No doubt!" rejoined Salwey, with a short laugh. "Have you ever seen her appeal to it?"

"No; but she believes in it implicitly. It is magic, is it not?"

"And black magic at that. I am myself orthodox, but I must admit that I have witnessed some extraordinary and utterly unaccountable things out here in the far East——"

"Tell me, please, about the ink pool!"

"Oh, well, when a native wants to find out something, he gets hold of a small boy, bribes him with promises, takes him to some quiet spot, pours ink into the palm of his hand and commands him to look, and to report what he sees!"

"Yes——"

"The seer is supposed to describe some remarkable scenes. One of my constables consulted the oracle with respect to Saloo. Personally and officially I am not supposed to countenance such—irregularities."

"No, but you heard the result," said the young lady, with an air of conviction. "What did the child see? What did he say?"

"He said he saw Saloo—and that Saloo was a woman!"

"Oh!" cried Verona, suddenly sitting erect. "Now that is too ridiculous; no woman could be so crafty—or so—wicked."

"Many women are both."

"You speak from experience——?"

"No, thank God; I know little about them!"

For a moment there was an absolute silence, merely broken by the soft lapping of the water against the sides of the old boat. Salwey looked at his companion as she reclined among the cushions; her home life was telling upon her, the East was stealing her rare beauty, her face was colourless, the exquisite outlines of cheek and throat were emaciated, and the brilliant eyes looked lack-lustre and spiritless.

"Tell me," she began suddenly, "is it only children who see things in the ink pool?"

"Yes. Only children!"

"But why?"

"They are supposed to be endowed with some ethereal gift, which remains with them until their hearts are touched, their emotions awake; then it leaves them—the power is lost—the door, as they say out here, is shut."

"What a pity! I wonder if I am too old to look into the ink pool?"

"You have never, I infer, cared two straws for any one?"

She shook her head—slowly—and as she did so the truth came to her in one dazzling flash—she cared for him! He had touched her heart. It was amazing to discover that of all her suitors, with their advantages of social status, wealth, surroundings, the only one who had aroused her interest was this Indian police officer, who sat there within a few yards, bareheaded, grave-eyed, with his arms resting on the oars. It was true that he was poor; a miserable "parti" from a worldly point of view, but he was a strong man!—a strong man, armed with many fine qualities, who had entered her heart and closed the door on all others. Were she still Verona—the heiress—she would gladly be his wife, but as Verona—the Eurasian—she must keep her secret from him and all. But oh, what a temptation! To go away from Manora, to forget—to go with Brian, who loved her—for her own sake——!

No, no, no; for his own sake she would never marry Brian Salwey.

As the lady's reply was a suspiciously long time in coming, her companion said:

"Besides, you are disqualified! If you have never loved—many have loved you!"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How can—you know? At home——"

"At home I imagine your conquests were Legion. Out here—there is Haig."

"No, no," she protested; "he does not care; he cannot forgive my birth. Once he volunteered to be my champion—there is an end of all that."

"Well then, there is myself," was Salwey's bold announcement. "I—whatever comes or goes—will wear your colours to the end of my life, between my heart and armour! Accept me—as your knight?"

And "Chum," the dog, leaning his muzzle over his master's arm, seemed to second the proposal.

Verona looked down and slowly shook her head; never had she felt so miserable. She seemed to see the panorama of her future, the absolute weariness, and absence of interest from her life. And yet it must be so! Then, with a sudden movement, she raised her face, and confronted her companion. Hard work and the hot weather had told upon him also. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his figure, the keen blue eyes were sunken and his jaw bone was squarely prominent.

"You must wear the colours of some other lady," she said in a low voice.

"No," he answered resolutely; "yours only—till I die; I will never give you up."

"See, I have brought you some lemonade, you lazy people!" said a voice behind Salwey. And there was Pussy, her face wreathed with smiles, her hands full of cake, and Salwey's vain old bearer—his venerable beard dyed red—standing beside her with a little tray and two tumblers of liquid in which tinkled blocks of ice. Salwey rose at once, and handed one of these to Verona, and took the other himself.

"I wish your enterprise success," said the girl, as she smiled at him gravely before drinking.

"To my heart's desire," he replied with significance, as he pledged her with a bow, and tossed off the contents of the glass.

"Now, I am going to row you back," he said, turning to Pussy, "if you will get in, and sit here beside your sister."

"O—ah! how nice! O—ah! I do love being rowed—it is such hard work—I do hate it!"

In a few minutes the trio had floated off, leaving Jaloo, the red bearded, with his spotless coat and pointed leather shoes, standing, tray in hand, watching their progress with eyes of grim disapproval.

There was the boat moving slowly up the surface of the broad, shining river, now swollen far above its usual limits, its brimming waters almost on a level with the plains; in the prow sat a white dog, in the stern two dark-haired girls in white; in the midst his master, bareheaded, rowing against the current with long, easy strokes. A rainy season sunset lit up the scene with a magnificent blaze of crimson and orange; the combined brilliance cast a dazzling glamour over the water, and the figures in the boat seemed transmuted to gold.

"What a fool was his master!" grunted Jaloo, as he stood gazing; "was he not well enough, and yet he would surely marry one of those women, doubtless the girl with the proud eyes, whom they in the bazaar called the 'Belait' (Europe) Missy." With this conviction he turned his back on the receding bank, and proceeded to toil up to the bungalow with his tray of jingling glasses, grunting and grumbling all the way.

"I do believe it was you who sent us all the books and mangoes this hot season," said Pussy; "now, was it not, Mr. Salwey? Mother thought they came from some of Dom's friends. Oh, the mangoes were so good and juicy. I loved them—but Verona loved the books."

"I am glad you were both pleased," rejoined Salwey with a smile.

"Dom doesn't read now, nor Mother; she is so busy at her own books, since Abdul Buk has a boil on his neck. Oh, goody me! she does work. All day long and half the night."

"At books? Do you mean that your mother writes?"

"No, no, no; only in account books—about her propertee—and she has such piles of them! I saw them," giggled Pussy; "I peeped into the office the other day, when she was with Nani. My, such books! all ruled, like a draught board. Such rows and rows of figures!"

"Surely you must be making a mistake?" and Salwey paused abruptly, resting on his oars, and contemplated Pussy with a glint of steel in his blue eyes, "only one class keeps accounts that way."

"But no, no, no; I am quite certain," she giggled. "I thought it awfully queer—and what class do keep such funny books?"

"Money-lenders," was his curt reply.

"Mother is so fond of figures—oh, so mad about them. Perhaps," still giggling, "she is playing at being a soucar."

"Perhaps; but she never struck me as a likely person to play—at anything!"

Oh, Pussy, Pussy! what a gigantic cat you have suffered to escape through your imprudence! You have aroused the dawn of a suspicion in your boatman's shrewd mind!

The golden light disappeared with the rude abruptness of an Eastern sunset; then came the changing touch in the air, the smell of rank water plants, the flip of a bat's wing; a silence and gloom which had fallen on the landscape was shared, for some inexplicable reason, by the little party in the boat.