When Verona had assisted Pauline to put her mistress to bed—a lengthy and intricate process—when she had put everything in the way of salts, lozenges, and refreshment, within the patient's reach, lit a night-lamp and turned off the electric light, she returned to the drawing-room and sat down before the fire. Here she remained in one thoughtful attitude for a long time. As she leant her cheek on her hand, the firelight on the wall made a clear-cut silhouette of her graceful, motionless figure.
As the girl sat thus, she was staring, not at the coals, but into the dim past, yearning to recall some face, urging her torpid memory to send her even one sign. But, strive as she would, all that emerged from the veil which concealed those far-away days was a little painted toy! A wooden figure with a yellow turban, and a scarlet body covered with gold spots. She remembered it perfectly, her anguish when it had fallen overboard, and how she had wept. It was marvellous that such a paltry item should remain fixed in a child's brain, and that yet she could not recall the face of her parents. No, as far as they were concerned, her memory was a hopeless blank.
Her heart was full to bursting, her thoughts were moving and strange. At last she sprang up and began to pace the room, with subdued silken rustlings and a quick light tread.
Once she stood still and, stretching her arms to the irresponsive London fog, whispered in tones of the most exquisite tenderness, "Oh, mother, mother, mother!"
CHAPTER VI
The morning after this unusual conversation Verona awoke with the sensation that something extraordinary had happened; awoke to a vague sense of disaster—a loss of something out of her life, a loss of birthright and inheritance; and in spite of an imperious voice which clamoured in her ear of auntie's affection and indulgence, she was aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction and disquiet. Instead of rising as usual when her maid brought in her bath and tea, she lay for a long, long time, staring vacantly at the wallpaper and entertaining a succession of unfamiliar thoughts. She was endeavouring to become acquainted with the personal meaning of the strange words father, mother, brother, sister, and home.
There was a sudden improvement in the weather, a capricious change which flooded the city with sunshine; bright blue skies stared down upon the leafless parks and hinted at approaching Spring.
Madame de Godez, who was painfully sensitive to climate and constantly referred to herself as "a true child of the sun," now declared that she felt much better—almost well; and instead of cowering over the coals, with her head enveloped in a shawl, her feet encased in fur slippers, she roused up, made a toilet, ordered a carriage, and drove about to milliners, house agents and restaurants. "The child of the sun" was no longer a shivering, ailing old woman, but the bustling and jaunty Madame de Godez of former days. The transformation was astounding; she angrily refused to follow the doctor's orders, flouted the idea of a régime, and her appetite for the pleasures of the table and the pleasures of society was, if anything, keener than ever.
The convalescent, in spite of eloquent expostulations, returned to her favourite menu of spiced meats, rich entrées, champagne, and caviare, and boastfully assured her adopted daughter that "she was the best judge of her own health. London doctors were quacks and alarmists, and all she required was a complete change; a couple of weeks at Brighton would transform her into another woman." Madame was self-willed and strong. For twenty-three years no one had ventured to oppose her, and for some little time her own prescription—to eat and drink and make merry—seemed unexpectedly efficacious.