During the above altercation Mrs. Chandos had been studying her pale English-bred daughter, and had arrived at the conclusion that she was either, like the officers' wives, "stuck-up," or else a dumb, inanimate fool.
"I see you have no tongue," she remarked, "and so"—with a withering glance at her husband—"you are like him. Oh, you will be just to his taste—a real Chandos!"
"I am a little tired to-night," replied the unhappy girl, in a faint, apologetic key, and tears were very near her eyes.
"Oh, it is not so very tiring, sitting in the train," retorted Mrs. Chandos, and her expression was not agreeable as she pushed back her chair with a jerk, and rose from the table.
Dinner had now concluded; of the butter cakes or custard apples not a vestige remained. Her father had retired to smoke on the verandah; her sisters were just about to seize upon Verona, and drag her away, when her mother interposed, saying:
"No! no! no! do let a—lone! Verona is coming with me. She has yet to see her grandmother."
CHAPTER XIII
Was there a lower depth than she had touched? Her grandmother! Verona heard the word with dismay. Had she not yet reached the bottom of the abyss? Once upon a time she could claim no relations, but now their number was seemingly legion. With this thought in her mind, she followed with a beating heart and instinctive reluctance her mother, who, beckoning with the quick, supple motion peculiar to her class, led the way across a passage and verandah and down some steps at the rear of the house. Here, facing them, was a large square building or bungalow, its high roof thrown into sharp relief by the white moonlight. Mrs. Chandos paused for a moment and explained:
"Our house was once the manager's; that was before the Mutiny year, but it was not grand enough for the Lepells, so we got their leavings, and it suits us, being large. This," pointing to the building, "was the Dufta in old days. Of course, you don't know Hindustani? 'Dufta' means office. Your grandmother prefers it to the house."
As she concluded she had pushed open a door, and Verona found herself in a low bedroom, lit by a flaring wall-lamp and reeking with heat and oil. Two women were engrossed in a game of cards—(oh, such greasy black cards!)—a little grey-haired ayah, who squatted upon the floor, and a fat old person, who was seated in a battered cane-chair; She had a large, brown, good-humoured face, from which her reddish hair was tightly drawn back and fastened in a knob. Her features were small and well formed, but disfigured by several dark warts; that on her left eyebrow, taken in connection with one on her upper lip, gave a comical, interrogative expression to her otherwise placid countenance. She wore a turkey-red petticoat, a Kurta—the short-sleeved jacket affected by native women; over her shoulders and bare, wrinkled arms was thrown a strip of embroidered muslin; heavy gold ear-rings and a massive necklace completed the costume of Mistress Baptista Lopez. "Aré, so this is the girl," she exclaimed, as she put down her cards and extended a dumpy hand. For a moment she stared at the visitor in expressive silence, then turned to her daughter with a wheezy laugh, and said, "Aré, Bapré Bap! Now who would think she was my grandchild?" (Who, indeed!)