"Verona!" interrupted Mrs. Chandos, at last finding her voice; her face was working and livid with fury. "You throw away your great estate to punish me! Oh, ho! Well, now! see—I will punish you!"
She glared at her husband, as if she was going to fly at his throat; then she drew one long breath, and announced with grim composure:
"Verona is not our daughter."
CHAPTER XL
"Oh, ho! yes, it is true what I say," continued Mrs. Chandos, breaking a dead, incredulous silence; "she is no more to us than this book," and she seized a copy of "The Newcomes" and pitched it across the room.
"Aré, it is a relief to my heart to speak and to get rid of her," and she turned and looked at Verona; "for ever since I had aught to do with that girl she has been my thorn and curse."
"You are beside yourself, Mrs. Chandos," protested Mr. Lepell, "all this excitement is too much for you. Mrs. Lopez, will you not take your daughter away and persuade her to lie down?"
"Cha-a-ah! I am not beside myself," screamed the fury with a stamp, "and if you will listen—all of you—you shall hear the true story." As she spoke, she flung herself panting into a chair.
"Oh! it is more than twenty-six years ago since I married that oloo" (owl), and she indicated Mr. Chandos as she spoke and stared back deliberately into every gazing face. "Oh, he was so lazy! We lived up in the hills at first—and he used to just loaf and shoot; one cannot pay bazaar on that. We had two children, Blanche and Pussy; they were—not fair, no, and I could see that he was awfully disappointed. Money was low just before our third child was expected, and so he went down to the plains to seek for an appointment. The baby, a little girl, was born at Murree. She was very dark—once again—so dark! I knew you would be very vexed," turning on him; "you were always hoping for a fair baby—that would be a true Chandos."
Mr. Chandos endeavoured to interrupt, but she silenced him with a wild gesture of her hand. "No, no, no! Wait! wait! wait! I will not be long. In the little bungalow next to mine was a pretty young English girl, an officer's wife; she had a baby and she died, but her baby lived. I lived—my baby died. You begin to see. Eh?" She paused and gazed about her. Her audience were now dumb.