Her own people

by B. M. Croker

"Her husband, a young artillery officer, was crazy with grief. Aré, it was bad! They were not long out from home, and seemed friendless. He was going to Afghanistan immediately on active service; our bungalows were in the same compound, and so he came to me, and he said:

"'Look here, I believe you are an officer's wife, and have just lost your baby; will you take my poor little one, like a good, Christian woman, and be a mother to her till I come back? I have eight hundred pounds in the Bank of Bombay. I shall make a will; if anything should happen to me it will go to you altogether, if you will undertake to provide for the child.' Well, he was so awfully handsome, and in such awful trouble, and the baby was so pretty and so fair, I, like a fool, agreed! His name was Hargreaves—Eliot Hargreaves—and his wife had run away with him. She was engaged to someone at home—oh, a grand match—but she preferred the poor young officer, and eloped with him to India. She was an earl's daughter. Her name was Lady Vera Bourne; the child was called after her, but I named her Veronica. Of course, I heard all about this runaway match from the ayah—and that both the families were so angry; the couple were in great disgrace, and got no letters, and they were very, very poor. They lived in quite a cheap little bungalow, not much better than mine. Three weeks after Mr. Hargreaves marched with his battery he was killed at Maiwand; so I claimed the money which he had left me, and passed off the child as my own. No one knew the truth except two ayahs, also a native apothecary and a native pleader, who got me the money. When my husband saw the child she was three months old; and oh he was so pleased with the little fair Chandos!"

Here the narrator paused for a moment, closed her eyes, shook her head, and laughed with shrill derision.

"Oh, yes, she was a pretty baby! she used to be called the little 'Rani'; when she was two years old, Fernande Godez came to see my mother, took a fancy to the child, and offered to adopt her. Well, then I was in great luck and got her off my hands. She goes to England with her, and was brought up really like a little princess. But at the end of twenty years, back she comes—there she is," gesticulating with a tremulous hand. "From first to last, as I said before, she has been my curse. With the money her father left me I began my banking business; I could never have done so otherwise; and according to all of you I have been awfully wicked! Well! it was her money that tempted me! As for herself, she comes here, and has stolen from me the affection of my husband, of my daughter"—pointing to Pussy—"of my poor son Nicky, and even"—indicating Mrs. Lopez—"my mother! It was owing to her that Salwey has always been coming about Manora. It was owing to her jewels, which I showed to Abdul Buk, that the poor man was tempted, and he has been shamed and put in gaol. Vera Hargreaves"—pointing to Verona—"you have nothing to do with us, and so you go out of this house." She pointed to the door. "Good-a-bye!"

"But what proof have you of this extraordinary story?" demanded Mr. Lepell, who seemed to be the only person who had retained his wits.

"Oh, plenty of proof! The old apothecary at Murree is still alive, and will bear out my tale about Lady Vera. The chaplain who christened the baby when she was but three days old can speak, and the name of Vera Hargreaves will be in the church register. Besides, I have a photograph of her mother which the ayah gave me. I have a letter from young Hargreaves after he left Murree, and a little card-case and a book with a crest inside. I don't know why I kept these things, I am sure, but since the girl came out I have felt certain that this blow-up would have to happen some day—and here it is!"

The confession was evidently a dreadful shock to Mr. Chandos; the fire of his indignation had died down; he sat crouched up in his chair in a condition of mental and physical collapse. Verona had been with him less than twelve months, and yet she was far dearer to him than any of his children. The blow seemed to have broken his heart; he gazed at the girl, his face working, his eyes dim with pain, and held out his trembling hands.

She went over to him, looking very white, and said:

"I cannot realize this news, it seems incredible; I am most unfortunate—I seem to belong to no one."

(Whilst she was speaking, Mrs. Chandos had risen and rushed out of the room, and in another moment she might be heard uttering shriek after shriek, and indulging in a terrible attack of her screaming hysterics.)