Her own people

by B. M. Croker

"I shall always think of you as my father, though I suppose I shall have to go away. I daresay kind Mrs. Cavalho will take me in for a few days?"

"Oh, Verona!" and Pussy rose and threw her arms round her. "You cannot leave me! you must not leave us! you must not! you must not! I cannot live without you—it will kill me! You shall not stir, for I shall die!" and she burst into a flood of tears.

"The best thing to be done," said Mr. Lepell, "is for you to go up to Lizzie; I suppose you can remain here for the night, and I will take you to Naini Tal myself to-morrow."

All this time Salwey had remained in the background, listening to Mrs. Chandos' wild confession. He now came forward and made a rather important statement: "You remember the lady who sat opposite us at the ball supper, Miss Chandos—Lady Ida Eustace. Her sister, Lady Vera, married a Mr. Hargreaves. It is quite true that it was a runaway match, and all the family were implacable until poor Lady Vera died in India, and then she was forgiven. It was a tragic story. I remember hearing of it as a boy—of beautiful Lady Vera, and how her husband was killed three weeks after her death. The baby, it seems, did not die after all; Lady Ida, you see, is your own aunt, so you are not entirely without someone belonging to you. Well, now, I think," taking his uncle's arm, "we had better go away; you have to make your arrangements for an early start to-morrow."

CHAPTER XLI

The days which followed her momentous confession were passed by Mrs. Chandos in the darkness and seclusion of her own room (and on the bungalow there fell a sense of extraordinary peace). Here she gave audience to her mother and to Verona. Sitting in that dim apartment, watched by a pair of implacable black eyes, Verona heard the details of her parentage and infancy. Mrs. Chandos rendered up to her the letters, photograph and proofs, which established her as the child of another race. She also urged her to remain with them until Mrs. Lepell came down from the hills. In Manora nothing of importance was ever undertaken without the help or countenance of the reigning lady; and if Verona went away suddenly, there would be—oh, such talk! Verona, whose affection for Mr. Chandos, Pussy and Nani, was very real and warm, agreed to remain as a member of the household until arrangements were completed for her return to England; and in those critical days Verona's manner was a beautiful study in tact and forbearance. The news that she was only a child by adoption, and that her name was Hargreaves, was allowed to gradually ooze out to the ears of the neighbours, who had been secretly wondering what all the smothered fuss had been about; and what was the cause of so many letters and telegrams being delivered at the Chandos bungalow?

Mrs. Lepell had telegraphed and written to Verona, urging her to join her—she was not strong, and to descend to the plains in the rainy season was impossible. In October or November she was going to England and could escort her friend home. But Mr. Chandos clung to Verona in a way that was pathetic; Nani and Pussy bewailed her suggested departure so loudly and so continuously, that she decided to remain in Manora for the present.

The Trotters and Watkins were aware that a great stirring of the waters had recently taken place in their vicinity; they were acquainted with the tale of the adopted daughter—but they did not know all. Much was known in the bazaar, but not elsewhere—when the station has one topic, the bazaar has a dozen. Even the bazaar could not guess why Salwey Sahib was staying at the big bungalow—instead of at home; nor did it know that for hours he was closeted in the dufta with Mrs. Chandos. Brian Salwey had discovered Saloo, after much toilsome search, and yet now he was anxious to hush up her identity, and to conceal her iniquities. With this sole end in view, this truly brave man passed whole mornings alone with Mrs. Chandos and her ledgers. He, too, had a capital head for figures, and went systematically through all her books, and discovered that although morally a culprit of the blackest dye, yet she just managed to keep herself clear of the sword of Justice. There is no law to prevent people paying (and they will) one hundred per cent. But Salwey was strong and resolute; piece by piece he wrenched her prey from the clutches of Saloo. In spite of her shrill expostulations during those long early hours, mortgages were remitted, claims were abated, restitution was made; The process was almost like dragging a calf from a famished tigress, but it was accomplished with inexorable determination. Mrs. Chandos's usual weapons, such as imprecations, abuse, personal insults, and piercing screams, might just as well have been addressed to a stone as to the figure who was steadily working through her accounts. Such an attitude amazed her; she had struck terror to the hearts of her father and her husband—but this calm, austere young man, he frightened her. Day by day she saw her balance ebbing—day by day she restored sums of money to those she had despoiled. She was compelled to sign orders, and letters, and receipts, that made her writhe with impotent rage. Once, in an early stage of the proceedings, she had rebelled and shrieked out:

"Why should I permit this robbery? I will not—I defy you! What can you do to me?"

"I can acquaint the world with your identity—and cover your family with shame."