CHAPTER XXVII
Mrs. Barwell, who had never previously had it in her power to patronise any one, now thoroughly enjoyed the novel experience. She issued continual "commands" to Verona and Dominga Chandos, and the latter waited on her constantly, and soon became an established favourite; her flatteries were so piquant and unfailing. But Verona disliked attending the "drawing rooms" of her former acquaintance and present patroness; she found ample occupation at home, reading with Pussy and Nicky, rowing with them on the river, bicycling about the district, teaching her grandmother to knit, and reviving her father's old attachment to games. Now and then she spent a long evening in his room, playing piquet, or discussing books and places and people. Paul Chandos was a well-read man, a cultivated and delightful companion; strange that this cultivated, clear-headed gentleman should start and shrivel into silence when he heard the sound of his wife's quick footfall and rasping tongue! Undoubtedly he enjoyed these evening hours with Verona, but she had an instinct that these tête-à-tête were not looked upon with favour by her mother; indeed, she had a secret, a dreadful conviction that her mother disliked her. In little indescribable ways, this fact was brought home to her a dozen times a day.
When Verona had recovered from the paralysing shock of her first sensations, and after her illness had crept back to life and good resolutions, she made a bold effort to win her mother's affections.
In every possible way she endeavoured to capture her approval. She worked in the garden, she mended, and made, and darned and trimmed. She was prepared to accept cheerfully this life of renunciation and self-denial; but oh! how dark and dreary it would be without a little love. Her mother was devoted to Dominga; her eyes and voice seemed different when she spoke to her. Why should she not venture to ask for some crumbs; she, too, was her mother's daughter? Though not naturally demonstrative, she one day astonished and exasperated Mrs. Chandos by clinging to her with tears as she begged her "to spare her—though she came so late—a little of the affection she gave to the others; it would make her so happy."
Mrs. Chandos, when she had recovered from her surprise, stared critically at her daughter and exclaimed, "My, what a funny girl! Why, of course I love you!" and she accorded her a hasty kiss. "You get lots of love; your Nani is awfully fond of you—so is Pussy; so am I. No!"
But yet, in spite of this declaration, Verona felt that between her and her mother was fixed a gulf, which widened daily; indeed, she still had the dreadful, secret conviction that her mother actually disliked her. But why?
Sometimes, her father was ill—so said Mrs. Lopez; sometimes for three or four evenings his door would be shut fast, and the old lady would assure her, with a potent nod, that "Chandos was not for reading; he was fatigued, he was 'a little seek,' and wanted to be quiet," and once the girl overheard her mutter, "Truly, it is easier to be rid of your shadow, than a bad habit."
Poor man! he was in the grip of the opium fiend, and lived in a delightful dream-country in his arm-chair, with drowsy eyes and folded, wasted hands. After one of these attacks, Verona noticed that his features were haggard, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his spirits most desperately depressed; also, that all tender inquiries and expressions of sympathy were somewhat curtly set aside.
It was now the very height of the cold season. Rajahpore was full, the cane crop was being cut, and every one seemed busy. One day Mrs. Lepell sent her protégée a little note, which said:
"My dear Verona,—