"And now I think we must be going," said Mrs. Gowdy as she rose stiffly, shook out her gown, and offered a large, black-gloved member, the fingers of which were at least an inch too long.
Jean Gowdy was a kind-hearted, motherly soul, and as she held Verona's hand she squeezed it and said:
"Good-bye, miss; I know it's an awful come-down for you, and an uprise for us. You have a lucky face, and I wish you well."
Maggie merely bestowed a quick nod of condescension, the two men a couple of admiring stares as they shuffled out of the room in the wake of their women-folk.
Exit the Gowdys! Their accession to wealth, their sudden emergence from obscurity to social prominence, the success of Jock and the marriage of Maggie would fill a volume, and this history is exclusively concerned with the affairs and fortunes of another family.
CHAPTER IX
Her clothes and personal possessions—such as music, books (and [last, but not least] jewels)—were all that the deposed heiress carried away, when she left London with Mrs. Melville. The entire wardrobe of the late Madame de Godez was confiscated by her sister-in-law, who subsequently made a brave display in various gorgeous garments; whilst Maggie, in a red "creation," by Worth, was a sight for men, and gods! Oh, the purchaser of these superb confections, little, little dreamt who was to flaunt in her plumes, and to stand in her shoes!
Miss Chandos experienced the first effects of her change of circumstances when she travelled down to Halstead second class, looked after the luggage and secured seats, whilst her friend took the tickets and paid the cabman.
Her reception at the Manor was warm; from the old coachman's "Welcome back, miss," to the parrot's screech, "Verona, kiss me!" She once more occupied her own bedroom, in which nothing had been changed since she quitted it, five years previously, in order to follow her adopted mother into fashionable life. Here were the same old samplers, the paintings of Venice and Vesuvius, the dimity curtains in the windows, the hideous china dogs on the mantelpiece, the well-known writing table and cosy armchair. There was the same familiar bright outlook on the garden—and the unfamiliar quiet of the country. It was like returning into harbour after an extensive cruise, in order to refit for yet another voyage. She was about to refit and make a fresh departure; to begin life with her own people; to visit long-desired India!
The years with Madame de Godez had flashed by in a succession of splendid scenes, and kaleidoscopic views of strange countries, and strange faces. Now it all seemed singularly unreal. And when Verona sat in the bow window of the drawing-room, and watched the brown pony grazing on the lawn—saw the spaniel chasing his mortal enemy, the kitchen cat, out of the garden, whilst the jackdaw flapped applause—it seemed as if she had only been absent a few weeks. Those glittering scenes at Monte Carlo, and Aix, and Paris, were all so many dreams—merely dreams! Her old friends and neighbours, the folk in the village, were delighted to welcome her back among them, the only change she felt was the absence of Madge—who six months previously had married an officer and departed to Malta. Verona was thankful that in her day of prosperity she had had it in her power to delight Madge with diamonds. Auntie had been generous, and had bestowed on the bride a set of superb sables.