Her own people

By B. M. Croker

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Title: Her own people

Author: B. M. Croker

Release date: February 18, 2025 [eBook #75402]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1903

Credits: MWS, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HER OWN PEOPLE ***





                            HER OWN PEOPLE

                         By Mrs. B. M. CROKER

                               Author of
                "Diana Barrington," "Beyond the Pale,"
                  "Peggy of the Bartons," "Terence,"
                          "The Catspaw," etc.

                                London:
                      Hurst and Blackett, Limited
                        Paternoster House, E.C.

                              DEDICATION.
                                  TO
                           EDITH M. VINCENT,
                        WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE


           [Illustration: "God pardon me and give me rest."]




                            HER OWN PEOPLE




                               CHAPTER I


"Oh yes! I know what it is to be hard up myself! I'm hard up now!--but
I'll help you in another way. You must marry, Malcolm, my boy! Leave it
to me, and I'll find you a rich wife!"

In making the foregoing boastful promise, Sir Horace Haig raised a
naturally harsh voice, and all but shouted his officious announcement.
The empty air seemed to echo the words, "rich wife"--"rich wife," their
regular measured tread to repeat, "rich wife"--"rich wife," as the two
men, uncle and nephew, hurried down a by-street in Homburg.

There was good reason for haste, a neighbouring clock was chiming
the hour, and already they were unfashionably late for the morning
ceremonies at the Elisabeth Brunnen.

"But----" began the prospective Benedict, in a doubtful tone.

"My grandfather used to say," interrupted his uncle, in a loud
authoritative key, "that a man should marry young, and marry often. He
had four wives!"

"And you, sir, have not had one!" rejoined his companion, with
unexpected audacity.

"Oh--ah--well, yes--that is true--but the fact is, I had an unhappy
love affair--(a fiction invented on the spot)--a--a--blighted life--a
blighted life!!--it is a--a painful subject."

Here Sir Horace suddenly turned into a narrow footpath, where, as it
was necessary to walk in single file, awkward questions were evaded, or
postponed.

The subject of "a blighted life" was a spruce, straight-backed
gentleman of sixty, with a large hooked nose, and two keen little blue
eyes, sheltered by a pair of beetling brows; he dressed in a careful
middle-aged style, and wore his clothes, and his years, with ease.

Sir Horace was the seventh Baronet--a resolute old bachelor, who
enjoyed a comfortable income, and was on the committee of the Bellona
Club. He claimed an immense acquaintance, and was fairly popular, being
recognised as a fine judge of a vintage, or a cook, and one of the best
bridge players in London. It is painful to add that he was incredibly
selfish, and never expended a shilling on any more deserving object
than Horace Haig, Baronet, and yet, in a hearty jovial fashion, he
contrived to extract an astonishing amount of hospitality and favours,
from other people!

Such an individual was naturally the last man in the world to trouble
himself respecting his relations--and above all, his poor relations.
Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was accompanied by his nephew
and heir. Indeed it was in answer to his uncle's warm invitation (but
not at his expense) that Captain Haig was visiting Homburg before
rejoining his regiment in India.

Malcolm Haig was a well-set-up young officer, with a pair of merry blue
eyes, and a touch of sunshine in his closely cropped locks. Sir Horace
introduced, with an air of bland complacency, a kinsman who did him
credit, made no demands on his patience, nor yet upon his pocket. All
the same, he had excellent reason to know that Malcolm was "hard up."
His private means were nominal, and he was about to conclude a year's
leave in England--a year's leave is often an expensive luxury. Under
such circumstances his banker's account would be uncomfortably low--in
fact, Malcolm had said as much. Sir Horace was disposed to exert his
social influence, and endeavour to do the poor young fellow a good
turn. He was handsome and well born; if his purse was lean, he had an
adventurous spirit and a susceptible heart.

As uncle and nephew followed the winding path which led to the
far-famed Elisabeth Well, the latter was struck by the exceptional
beauty of their surroundings, the admirably-kept greensward, the shady
trees and flowering shrubs, on which the early dew was still glistening.

There was a delicious perfume of roses in the air, and the inspiriting
sound of a string band in the near distance.

"I say," began the young man, now walking beside his companion, "I had
no idea that Homburg was like this--half park, half garden, and so
pretty."

"Hadn't you!" rejoined his uncle gruffly; "well, I suppose it is! This
is my twenty-seventh season--I've got over my first raptures by this
time."

"I don't believe I could ever come back to the same place twenty-seven
times."

"Think it argues a lack of originality? It would depend on its
attractions. You don't want to go back to Perapore twenty-seven times,
eh?"

"By Jove, no--nor twice!" he answered, with emphasis.

"But here it is different, my boy. It is good for one's liver, it is
gay, and, as you remark, pretty. There is any amount of entertaining;
dinners and luncheons; there is golf and tennis. I meet the people
I know--or want to know. In short, Homburg has become an agreeable
habit, which there is no occasion to relinquish. And here we are!" he
announced, as they emerged from a shady walk into a wide and crowded
promenade.

At one end of this promenade was the celebrated well, at present
closely invested by a number of votaries, who were sipping their first
glass, or waiting to be served by the active, blue-gowned maidens.

Here were young and old, society folk and nobodies, a Russian Grand
Duke stood elbow to elbow with a Scotch grocer, and the Countess of
Marmalade was patiently waiting till Cora Sans Souci was served.

As soon as Sir Horace had swallowed his glass (he took it warm), and
having vainly urged his nephew to pledge him in another, he carried him
off to stroll up and down, between the bandstand and the jewellers'
shops. As they sauntered along he saluted almost every second person,
and indicated the chief notabilities to his relation.

"Here comes the Duke of Luxembourg," and he swept off his hat, "getting
very shaky on his pins, poor old boy. This man passing now with the
lady in the Ascot frock is De Jeers, the great Jew financier. She
is Lady Merrythought, and getting all she can out of him, I'll lay
long odds. The pale girl in the white linen gown is the notorious
'Sauta'--the Spanish dancer. She stabbed a man with a hat pin the other
day. This couple comparing prescriptions are the Bishop of Timbucktoo
and Dooley, the steeplechase jock. The lady with the herd of Borzois
is the Duchess of Valetta, and the little woman with the brown poodle
is Madame Cuzco; that poodle is a European celebrity, and has his own
manservant and barber. Now let us go and sit on one of the seats and
watch the madding crowd."

"All right," assented his nephew, "they certainly are a
wonderfully-mixed lot! Look at these two swarthy giantesses--regular
six-footers--a most formidable couple!"

"Oh, the Misses Rookes--twins. They go by the name of the 'Powerful'
and the 'Terrible'!"

Captain Haig laughed aloud.

"Yes," resumed his mentor, "and this little dressy woman, with
tremendous knee action, who prances alongside of the rosy-cheeked
youth, is Mrs. Waller, with her third husband. They are known as 'the
Skipper and the Boy'!"

"Splendid!" ejaculated the other.

"And that red-faced man yonder is Turnbull, the great traveller. He is
called 'the Crimson Rambler!' Rather good, eh?"

"Rather--but who are these coming now?--this girl and the squat old
woman--walking in a sort of crowd, with a dog?"

"Oh, that is Madame de Godez--Madame de Gaudy they call her--a
fabulously wealthy widow. She always reminds me of a toad, with her
dark, mottled face, bright black eyes, and huge chinless mouth. Madame
is a personage here, as you may see. Gives wonderful dinners and
picnics, subscribes to everything, and is quite in the smart set!"

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated his listener, "why, she looks for all the
world like an old Portuguese half-caste!"

"She is Portuguese, I believe; of blue, not black, blood."

"And the girl?--she is a jewel, if the other is a toad. The princess
and the witch. What do they call her here?"

"Miss Chandos. She is Madame's adopted daughter, and lives with old de
Godez--goes everywhere, and has a good time."

"What do you call a good time?" questioned Captain Haig as his eyes
followed the de Godez group.

"She has everything money can purchase, each wish forestalled,
boundless admiration, forty-guinea frocks, and as many proposals of
marriage as there are days in the week."

"Oh, I say, come!" expostulated his nephew.

"Well, I know for a fact that she refused Dormer Lisle and Tubby
Coote, and, they say, Lord Caraway. Observe that young officer in the
Frankfort Dragoons rushing on his fate, and the dark, foreign-looking
chap leading the dog is Prince Tossati, an Italian prince, long
pedigree, lean purse!"

Captain Haig stared intently at the group, which had halted to greet
some friends within a few yards of his seat--at the stout old woman,
who had no chin or neck to speak of, but a shrewd, piercing eye--a
bargaining eye--and a far-reaching, authoritative voice. She was
dressed with great magnificence, in a crimson and black foulard, and
in her ears blazed two large diamonds. There was something tragic in
the intensity of the effort and the insufficiency of the result; for
all her pains Madame de Godez was merely an ugly old woman who waddled
like a duck. During her progress she talked incessantly in a high
falsetto--chiefly to a man who strolled beside her--listening with an
air of reverent attention, his head bent, his hands loosely clasped
behind his back. It would be difficult to imagine a more complete
contrast than that presented by Madame de Godez and her niece. Miss
Chandos was a tall and graceful demoiselle, who moved with deliberate,
indolent gait; her flowing white gown was studiously plain; she wore
no ornaments, and few would have cast a second glance at her large
black hat. It was a certain air of personal distinction which arrested
attention, for if her toilet was simple, her carriage was regal. Her
head was firmly set upon a long white throat, and the face beneath the
shady hat was unquestionably beautiful. The girl's complexion indicated
the morn and dew of youth; her features were cut with the precision of
a cameo; her eyes and hair were dark, and both were glorious.

The young lady's manner was considerably more animated than her
movements. She talked and laughed gaily and uninterruptedly, with a
slim, sallow cavalier (obviously her bondslave) who conducted Madame's
morose-looking pet by a long leather strap.

This animal was an elderly terrier, who did not appreciate these
early promenades where he was restrained from speaking to his own
species--and was secretly dosed with nasty waters. He loathed the
foreign food, foreign manners, foreign tongue--he never met an English
pal, or enjoyed a day's good English sport. Oh, where were the rabbits,
the cats, the friends and the enemies of his youth? He was an ill-used,
expatriated animal, as surly and injured as any other old gentleman
compelled to reside on the Continent against his inclination. Madame
de Godez invariably addressed the poor creature as "Dog Darling," for
she was passionately attached to him, despite his churlish humours; but
he remained his own dog, and nobody's darling, as he was half-dragged,
half-led, in the train of a triumphal progress.

Captain Haig's eyes dwelt long on this particular group, and his
uncle, noting the fact, made a sudden and startling remark.

"Malcolm, my boy, that girl would be the very wife for you!" and when
he had enunciated this opinion, he coughed, and gave his neat washing
tie an emphatic twitch.

"Wife for me, sir?" repeated his relative, "but I'm not looking for
one!"

"No! well it is never too late to mend--and fully time you were making
a search. Handsome heiresses won't fall into your mouth, and nothing
but an heiress will suit. I may live till I'm ninety, you know--and,
anyway, I'm a poor man. Don't wait till you are a stiff, stocky old
fellow, for, if you do, you _may_ wait. But now, when you are a
smart-looking chap, and I can give you a shove, is your time. There is
a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to
_a_ fortune."

"I don't think a lady with a fortune would care to swelter in India,"
remarked his companion, "and I could not bring myself to live at home
on my wife's money."

"Hut-tut-tut!" exclaimed Sir Horace, and his eyebrows assumed an
expression which invariably struck terror to the hearts of club
waiters. "That sort of talk is bosh! It's of no consequence which has
the coin, so long as it's _there_--and I could show you a dozen men who
live quite happily with wealthy wives--and haven't a rap of their own!"

There was a silence for two or three moments, broken only by the buzz
of voices and the strains of the "Valse Bleu." At last the younger man
spoke.

"What sort of a girl is this Miss Chandos?"

"The sort of girl you see. A beautiful creature who carries herself
superbly, knows how to talk, and to walk, and to put on her clothes. As
far as I'm aware, she neither gambles, swears, smokes nor drinks!"

"Good Lord, I should hope not!" ejaculated his nephew.

"But, mind you" (here Sir Horace's tone changed into a graver
key), "she is perfectly sensible of her own value--though affable
and gracious to all. Perhaps a little supercilious to her foreign
slaves--especially the Italian--she has a horror of dusky complexions
and black blood which amounts to a craze."

"Then what about the aunt?" inquired Captain Haig, with rather
malicious significance.

"My dear boy, I've already assured you that Madame is of _sang
azur_--an old Alcantara family. She married a Scotchman who made
a fortune in indigo. The girl has been brought up in England, and
polished abroad. I believe she is twenty-two years of age. From
personal experience I am in a position to inform you that she can keep
her temper, hold her tongue, write a fine hand, and add up a bridge
account."

"Oh, well, that is something."

"The old woman has given her a superior education, and lavished money
on her, and now takes her everywhere, for the pure pleasure of the
reflected glory she enjoys as aunt of the celebrated Miss Chandos! The
girl is her hobby. Instead of cats, china, or old furniture, her craze
is Verona, and she carries her about, and exhibits her, like a prize
animal, enters her for all the big shows, such as this--and when her
property comes in an easy first, looks on with a grin extending from
ear to ear, and for all I know, meeting under her wig!"

Here Sir Horace paused, and struck his cane forcibly on the gravel as
he added:

"Miss Chandos is the beauty here this year; all the world is at her
feet."

"And what does she say to all the world?"

"Nothing particular. Takes it as a matter of course--though she is not
a bit conceited, to give her her due--smiles and laughs, as you see,
and turns to conquests new."

"Such as the chap in the blue coat! Are the poor devils _never_ out of
uniform?"

"Never, except at tennis, and then they change before leaving the
pavilion. Miss Chandos would be a splendid match for some needy baron
or princelet. She will come in for fifteen thousand a year, and the
money is all there--I happen to know it for a fact."

"Fifteen thousand a year--and beauty--will never stoop to a poor
captain in the line!"

"Why not!" argued Sir Horace, "a good-looking chap, a future baronet,
with a pedigree that goes back to the Picts, is not to be despised!"

"He will be despised, all the same," muttered his nephew, in a tone of
sombre conviction.

"And I tell you, you can't do better, Malcolm. I'll present you; it's
an intimate sort of life--we all meet three or four times daily; golf
and picnics are easily arranged. Then there is the Casino Terrace of a
night, and romantic and sequestered walks hard by. In a week you should
be able to report progress. The game lies to your hand!"

"I assure you, sir, I really could not face it; it's too cold-blooded!
too bare-faced--and there is something unnatural in sitting here, on a
bench before breakfast, coolly discussing a possible marriage with a
girl to whom I've never even spoken!"

"A marriage discussed before breakfast is far more likely to be a
success than one arranged after dinner!" responded Sir Horace, with
knitted brows. "I'm afraid you are a fool! What have you against it?"

"Nothing. I admit that Miss Chandos is the prettiest girl I've seen
for ages. I admire her immensely. Now if she had but a few hundreds a
year----"

"She would not do at all," interrupted his uncle impatiently. "Well!
the gods cannot help a man who refuses opportunity. Why should you not
try your luck?"

"What's the good--it will only be adding to her scalps."

"Nothing venture, nothing have," declared Sir Horace, rising as he
spoke. "Come, we must be moving--it is long past the time for my second
glass."

Captain Haig got upon his legs with some reluctance, gave himself a
little shake, stamped down his trousers, and in another moment was
walking away in the footsteps of his mentor.




                              CHAPTER II


Sir Horace, followed by his nephew, made his way briskly to the well,
and having cast one searching glance among the crowd, immediately
descended the steps, where in a few moments, he and Captain Haig found
themselves wedged in closest proximity to Madame de Godez. On nearer
inspection, she really proved to be one of the ugliest old women in
Homburg, in spite of her costly clothes, elaborate black wig, and
brilliant earrings: but it was a shrewd--nay, a clever face; and the
countenance expressed not only determination, but animation. Madame
instantly accosted her neighbour in a sort of bleating foreign key,
each syllable most distinctly articulated.

"Oh ho, my friend! so here you are! Just get my glass filled, will you?
it is my own propertee," and as she spoke Madame handed Sir Horace a
gorgeous red and gold tumbler. "This ees your nephew, ees it not?" and
she looked up at Malcolm, with an eager twinkling gaze, and nodded her
head with an air of affable encouragement.

"Good Lord!" he said to himself, "why the old woman talks the purest
Chi-Chi!"

Meanwhile the old woman was inspecting him with her quick black eyes,
and as he swept off his Homburg hat, and stood momentarily bare-headed,
she was aware of his shining locks, deep blue eyes and winning smile
(oh, the hypocrite!). Here was a young man, with the face of the hero
in a picture-book. Between two sips of water she remarked:

"Your nephew is not one beet like you, Sir Horace. He is quite
nice-looking."

"Oh, but, dear lady, you should have seen _me_ at his age," protested
the Baronet, with a ludicrous effort to look languishing, but the
beetling brows frustrated the attempt.

"Now do not pretend that you were handsome," she retorted, giving him a
playful poke, "for I will nott believe eet."

"How cruel of you, madame," he rejoined, as he took her tumbler and
held it, whilst he gazed down into her swarthy, wrinkled face with an
air of melancholy reproach, "when I am prepared to believe anything you
tell me, and to swear that you were the belle of--was it Lisbon?"

"Verona," screeched the quondam beauty, ignoring Sir Horace and his
tender question--"where is Dog Darling? Do take care that he is not
trampled on."

"He is all right, auntie," replied her niece, "I left him with the
Prince."

"Ah," with a gasp of relief, "then thatt is arl-right. This is Sir
Horace's nephew, Verona--my niece, Miss Chandos."

The young lady looked at Malcolm gravely, and inclined her head
an inch or two. Unlike her aunt, her appearance challenged the
most critical inspection, and bore, triumphantly, the ordeal of a
searching gaze. The shape of her face was perfect, her beautiful
dark eyes were merry and intelligent, but the short upper lip was
slightly--slightly--supercilious.

"A frightful crowd, is it not?" she observed.

"Yes, and getting worse every moment," declared Sir Horace, taking the
remark entirely to himself; "allow me to pilot you out of it," and to
the amusement and admiration of his companion, he proceeded to manœuvre
madame and her niece far away from their own party. Giving the former
his arm up the steps, he said:

"Malcolm, I will leave you to look after Miss Chandos."

"Who is very well able to take care of herself, thank you," she
answered. Then, turning to Malcolm as they strolled along in the wake
of their elders, she continued:

"Have you come to do the cure?"

"Well, no, I'm merely an outsider--a spectator," he confessed, "but
I suppose I must drink something to give me the run of the place.
Something to talk about, and to establish a common interest with other
people."

"Very well, then," she rejoined with equal gravity, "between seven and
eight o'clock, you take three glasses of the Elisabeth Brunnen--with a
promenade of fifteen minutes between each. This, with a salt bath at
eleven, and a couple of tumblers of the Staal Brunnen at three o'clock,
will instantly place you on a proper footing in society. Now"--and she
came to a standstill--"where _is_ that dog?"

"Are you his keeper?" he asked in a bantering tone.

"Not exactly; I left him in charge of Prince Allessandro when we went
down to the well."

"Proud animal!" ejaculated Captain Haig, "it is not every terrier who
has a Prince for dog boy!"

"Dog _boy_," she echoed, "what do you mean?"

"It is an Indian term. All Europe dogs there keep their servant body to
look after them, and accompany them out walking."

"Oh, I see, and the Prince is doing dog boy for _me_. Well, he is quite
devoted to Dog Darling. You were going to say something?" and she
looked at her companion interrogatively.

"I was," he admitted, with a laugh, "but second thoughts are best."

"But I should like to hear your first thought. I insist on your telling
me; it is sure to be far more entertaining than its successor."

"Oh, well, I was merely going to quote an old saw!"

"Yes?"

"Love me, love my dog!"

"A decrepit saying, and entirely out of fashion. Love me, and loathe
my dog, is far more up to date, especially since these lap dogs are
the rage. Then why not hate me, and love my dog! There are one or two
people--whose _dogs_ I adore. Oh, dear me! just look at auntie! who
cannot be trusted out of my sight. She is eating peaches. That is Sir
Horace's doing! He has offered them to her, and she cannot resist,
although she is strictly forbidden to touch raw fruit!"

"Would you imply that my respectable uncle is playing the part of the
serpent?"

"No, but auntie is here for the cure, in order to get thin, and she
won't give herself a chance. She promises and vows all manner of things
to her doctor, and breaks her word as soon as she is out of his sight.
She sits up late, she eats creams and rich dishes, takes no exercise,
and is full of stern resolutions for to-morrow--it is always to-morrow!"

"I gather that between your aunt and the dog your responsibilities are
serious."

"Yes, very serious," she answered with a gay little nod.

As they loitered along together, Captain Haig was sensible of the many
admiring eyes which were turned towards his companion, and of certain
envious scowls which fell to him. Half glances, whole stares, beaming
smiles, and impressive salutes attended the lady's progress. Yes, for
sheer, blazing, aggressive admiration Miss Chandos received the palm.

After all, he asked himself, what was she to be thus acclaimed? A tall
girl, with a pair of wonderful dark eyes, a brilliant complexion, a
radiant smile!

"I suppose you come abroad every year?" he questioned, after a pause.

"Oh, no," she replied, "we live abroad. And you?"

"Yes; but my abroad is Asia; yours, I conclude, is Europe. My abroad
spells duty, and yours pleasure."

"Not altogether," rejoined Miss Chandos. "We live out of England as a
duty to an animal. We roam the continent because of the dog!"

Captain Haig looked at her with a puzzled air, then gave a short
incredulous laugh.

"But, I assure you that it is quite true," she continued, "Auntie is
devoted to Dog Darling, and owing to these dreadful new regulations
he would have to go into quarantine in England for six months; either
that, or be left at Calais. Such a separation would break his dear
heart--and be the death of auntie."

"And so you remain an exile as long as he lives."

"Yes."

"Is he old?"

"About nine; but he comes of a long-lived family, and has a fine
constitution."

"If I were you, I should administer some of the waters," suggested
Captain Haig.

"If you mean with felonious intent, I repudiate your heartless advice.
I am sincerely attached to Toby."

"But are you not also attached to home?"

"Well, you see, we have no home. When we were in England we lived at
hotels--and I am thoroughly at home on the Continent."

"And know it well?"

"Yes, some places, such as Paris, the Riviera, and Aix. I've also been
to Rome and Venice. We always winter in the South."

"Possibly on account of Toby," suggested the young man. "I absolutely
decline to call him Darling."

"You have made a sort of half-guess," she answered with a smile.
"I will not conceal from you that a certain chemist at Nice is a
celebrated dog doctor, and once, when Darling had bronchitis, auntie
stayed on a month longer, on purpose to be near him, although we had
taken our rooms at Venice. Is this your first visit to Germany?"

"Yes, I only arrived yesterday. I had no idea Homburg was such a
charming place--partly garden, park and forest. My uncle never prepared
me."

"I don't fancy the beauties of nature would appeal to Sir Horace."

"No, he is a practical man. If he were shown the mountains of the moon
in a strong telescope, he would immediately wonder if there was grouse
on them!"

"Then he and auntie would thoroughly agree. Are you remaining long?"

"I'm on my way back to India, worse luck, and sail from Marseilles in
ten days."

"Ah, so you don't like the East?"

"No, I suppose because I'm nailed out there by duty. Just as you
are held fast by the dog. Of course, it's the best country for
soldiering--lots of room to manœuvre and turn round."

"I've always cherished a wild wish to see India," she said. "Auntie
lived there for years, but she abhors it, and has not one single good
word for the country. Other people rave in its praise. What do you say,
Captain Haig--speaking unofficially?"

"Well"--and he took a long breath--"I admit that, like the curate's
egg, parts of it are good. But where I am stationed it is all cotton
soil, sugar cane, and sun."

"No antiquities?"

"Nothing more venerable than the oldest resident! Of course, your aunt
was born out there?" he rashly ventured, then could have bitten his
tongue in two. He glanced at his companion, but she appeared to be
serenely unconscious of any _faux pas_, the exquisite pink in her fair
cheek had not deepened in shade, as she answered with an air of cool
reflection.

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. But I know that she was married out
there!"

"Ah!" he ejaculated, "then, perhaps, that is why she dislikes the
country?"

Miss Chandos gave him a quick look and made no reply. Captain Haig
again regretted having spoken unadvisedly, and on this occasion he felt
distinctly snubbed.

"Do you play golf?" asked the lady abruptly.

"No, I cannot say that I play," he stammered, "but my uncle does."

"That sounds exactly like a sentence from Ollendorf. 'I do not ride on
horseback, but the sister of our neighbour does.' You really must take
to golf!"

"Verona, child," screamed her aunt, "what are you loitering for?
Come along, this sun is too hot for Dog Darling. We must be going.
Captain Haig," turning to Malcolm, "your uncle has promised to
bring you to dine with me to-night, at Ritter's. I have engaged
a table--seven o'clock is the hour. So mind you are not late!
Good-bye--good-bye--good-bye!"

As she made her adieux, madame--who was decidedly solid in figure--was
respectfully hoisted into a smart victoria. Verona took a place beside
her. Dog Darling nimbly accepted the front seat, and in another moment
a pair of smart bay steppers had borne the trio out of sight.




                              CHAPTER III


"I flatter myself I managed that rather neatly," remarked the Baronet,
as he surveyed his nephew with a complacent grin, "an introduction, a
_tête-à-tête_, and an invitation, all within half-an-hour."

"You could not have done more, sir, had you been a London chaperone of
twenty seasons. I assure you I am duly grateful."

"And I tell you what, young man," resumed Sir Horace, now turning to
pace beside him, "whilst you were laying siege to the young lady's
heart, I was compelled to listen to a history of her aunt's liver
affection, and an alarming account of the condition of her internal
organs. Some old women have only three topics: disease, domestics,
and diet. Besides these, Madame de Godez has a famous appetite--for
compliments."

"Which I presume you were good enough to feed."

"Yes; in my experience, the uglier the old beldame, the more she craves
for admiration. I am deservedly well established in Madame's good
graces--in fact, in her present frame of mind, I believe she would
marry me to-morrow--if I asked her!"

"She is enormously rich, and looks the soul of good nature," urged the
young man, and his tone implied encouragement.

"Quite true; but I have lived very comfortably without a wife for
sixty-one years, and I'm not going to be such an old fool as to take
one now, even if she _is_ worth her weight in gold. No, no, Malcolm,
my boy, joking apart, if the dowager favours you, and the young lady
accepts you, you can chuck the Service to-morrow, and forfeit your
return ticket, for your fortune is made!"

"Don't you think you are going ahead too fast, sir? For all you and I
know, there may be twenty Richmonds in the field."

"No," responded Sir Horace, with emphasis, "your only serious rival
is young Prince Tossati, the chap she left to mind the dog and carry
the parasol. He is one of the five sons of an impoverished Italian
duke, who has a palace full of priceless pictures and statuary, which
he may not sell--desperately as he is in need of ready money. His
pedigree goes back to the Cæsars, but unfortunately that is also
non-transferable. I don't believe the poor beggar can lay hands on
more than six hundred a year, and the sole chances for the sons--are
heiresses. One has married an American girl in Pork, and our friend
Allessandro has figuratively marked the fair Verona for his own."

"He is an insignificant little chap! as dark as an Arab," sneered
Captain Haig.

"Yes," assented his uncle, "I declare when I see him, I can't help
looking for the monkey and the organ! but he has a title--a real one,
mind you--and I believe Madame would give one of her eyes, or even go
without her dinner for a whole week, to be in a position to say, 'my
niece, the Princess!'"

"Oh, but she is not really her niece," objected Malcolm, with a
touch of impatience. "Why, Madame is exactly like an old Portuguese
half-caste, such as one sees on the West coast!"

"I can only tell you, that the girl has lived with her for twenty
years," responded Sir Horace with solemn deliberation, "and no one has
ever heard of, or seen, any other relations."

"And how did Madame de Godez get into Society?"

"Possibly because she did not care a straw about it, for one thing; for
another, she makes no false pretences, is notoriously good-natured, and
enormously rich, and she has also a fair supply of homely honesty and a
brusque wit."

"And where did her fortune come from?"

"Ah! now you go beyond me!" said Sir Horace, "from piracy, for all I
know!" and he laughed. "Madame is rather like the stock character of a
pirate's wife. But one thing is certain, the money is all there. Madame
will give us a first-rate dinner to-night, so don't eat a heavy lunch.
It will be none of your Homburg affairs, no occasion to bring your
purse and ask for the bill at dessert!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's a good old local custom. Friends invite you to dine at
their hotel, and you go. They pay for the flowers, and perhaps the
coffee--everyone settles for themselves--and there you are!"

"There I should not be," rejoined his nephew, with a laugh of contempt.

"I grant that it is undoubtedly a moderate form of entertainment, but
you meet your acquaintance. Of course, there are other dinners, too,
the dear familiar kinds. See here--" suddenly coming to a halt in front
of a flower stall not far from Ritter's Hotel, and lifting as he spoke
a bunch of exquisite roses to his face--"I'll send this to the aunt;
the old lady likes little attentions. Do you buy one for the niece. We
can leave them with the hall porter as we pass."

"Oh, but I say," expostulated his companion, "I don't like to send a
bouquet to a girl I've only spoken to once; she would think it such
awful cheek."

"Not at all," replied Sir Horace, "it is perfectly correct here. At
Homburg you do as Homburg does. I know my way about, my boy; pay up
and look pleasant; four marks, and--oh, you may as well pay for me too.
I've no change. I'll make it all right by-and-by."

Captain Haig nodded, as he produced a small gold piece and handed it
across the stand, well aware that he was about to present not one, but
two bouquets.

"You don't think she'd like a little dog as well?" suggested Sir Horace
facetiously, as he eyed some black Spitz puppies, which were being
hawked about hard by.

"No, I fancy Miss Chandos finds one dog enough, to go on with."

His uncle gave a loud harsh laugh as they moved away, each carrying a
superb bunch of La France roses.

Madame de Godez and her niece were at _déjeûner_ when the two bouquets
made their appearance. To be perfectly correct, Miss Chandos had
finished and was busy with a pencil and paper; but her aunt was still
actively engaged.

"What do you think of Sir Horace's nephew, Verona?" she enquired, as
she turned over the flowers and sniffed at them.

"Oh," looking up from her writing, "he is not bad."

"Bad--not bad! whatt a girl to talk so! Why he is very good-looking."

"Yes, I suppose he is; and it is rather a relief to meet with a
stranger who has never been here before, and does not know anyone, or
even his way about. I declare his ignorance is quite refreshing!"

"O--ah! he will not be long ignorant," replied Madame, squeezing up her
eyes, "his uncle is worldly wise. _He_ will educate him!"

"Oh, auntie, you know you promised Dr. Krauss you would not touch fruit
and cream, and you have had two helpings, besides macaroni and fish.
You really must not be so foolish."

"Now, now, now, Verona," she protested peevishly, "do let me a-lone!
Why may I not eat my food? It is all I have to enjoy. You spoil my
appetite; you always worry so. Here, Dog Darling! come and taste this
lobstar cutlet--so good, dear! Why!" with a gasp of surprise, "he won't
touch it!"

"Wise dog," said Verona, "he knows what agrees with him. I'm sure
animals are more sensible about their food than we are. I must write
out the cards for the dinner table now. We shall be thirty with these
two men."

"Their flowers may as well be sent down for the table," suggested
Madame (who dearly loved similar small economies). "Let me see, dear,
the names," and she glanced over a half-sheet of paper. "Lord and Lady
Bosworth, Monsieur and Madame de la Vallance, General Huntly, Prince
Tossati--oh, by the way, my dear child, why were you so unkind to him
to-day, leaving the poor fellow to carry your things, and lead about
Dog Darling, whilst you walked off with a stranger? Better not do so
again. He was hurt, I could see, he looked quite white with emotion!"

"Dearest auntie, he never could look white. His skin is the colour of
_café au lait_ when he turns pale--he merely becomes sallow."

"He is a handsome young fellow, with the blood of emperors in his
veins."

"Maybe so, but he is as swarthy as a Moor. He might be Emperor of
Morocco. His hair is lank, his eyes are two ink pools. I am sure he is
a most estimable young man, who writes every day to his mother, but if
we get up tableaux, I solemnly warn you that I shall certainly invite
him to do Othello."

"O--ah, Verona, for shame of you! You prefer the red-haired young
officer."

"Red hair--oh, oh!" she laughed. "You know very well, auntie, that I
prefer no one."

"Because you are so hard to please--so proud! Pray, what is the
difference between Tossati and Sir Horace's nephew?"

"Well, if you ask me, I should say, that one was a black prince, and
the other a white man!"

"Oh, my! my! my! whatt things you do say! quite shocking--though you
are but joking; you are nevarre in earnest--nevarre!"

"But occasionally I am," retorted the girl, suddenly rising. "For
instance, I am in earnest now, when I tell you that your mud bath will
be ready in a quarter of an hour." And as she spoke, she rang a loud
peal on the bell.

"Oh, no, no!" wailed her companion, beating the air with two little
dumpy hands. "I will not to-day, I will--not. These early hours do kill
me. I am too fatigued. No, I will go and lie down for a while and be
fresh for this afternoon. I will not take the bath, I will not."

"But really, auntie----"

"Really, child, I promised the duchess to go to her bazaar. I know you
are going to play golf. No, I will not take this nasty mud bath--you
must not insist--you must _not_!"

"Well, I shall tell Dr. Krauss," said Verona, nodding her head, "you
know you are dreadfully afraid of him."

"I will take it to-morrow--really and truly--oh, truly, I give you my
word! Look here, dearie, I cannot take Dog Darling to the bazaar. I
think you might allow him to go with you to the Golf. Do!"

"No, indeed, he fetches half the balls, then loses them, and disgraces
me."

"Oh, well, then I must ask Minette to get a fly and take him for a nice
drive round Saarbruck. The air will do him good, poor darling!"




                              CHAPTER IV


The dinner at Ritter's proved a brilliant affair, but Sir Horace
experienced an unexpected disappointment, when he discovered that
instead of being a guest at a pleasant little informal meal, he and his
nephew were two in a party of thirty. The menu was everything that
a Homburg menu could, and should, be; the company were _crême de la
crême_; but the crafty Baronet realised that this kind of entertainment
afforded no opportunities to advance his schemes. He and Malcolm might
as well have dined at their own hostelry--save that in that case, they
would have been obliged to pay for their food.

A long table, carefully screened from public gaze, was decorated with
a profusion of roses and silver; the company were smart, and Madame
herself was magnificent in black and gold, with touches of crimson--her
natural taste was for the primary colours, and many jewels, but this
weakness was sternly repressed by a strong-willed French maid.

The hostess was supported by a titled guest on either hand, ate
a hearty (and extremely unwholesome) meal, and enjoyed herself
prodigiously. Sir Horace sat beside a talkative, elderly dame, a
neighbour entirely after his own heart. They were in the same set, and
exchanged quotations from letters, highly spiced morsels of gossip, and
nodded and cackled, as they consumed various delicacies, and sipped dry
champagne.

Malcolm Haig was by no means so fortunate, for he was placed between a
deaf man and a plain dowdy woman. Far, far away, on the opposite side
of the table, he espied Miss Chandos--and the Prince--the former was
more beautiful than ever without her hat; the wealth of her wonderful
hair, exposed in all its glory, made a fitting frame for her brilliant
face.

She wore a gown of white lace, with long sleeves, a chain of splendid
pearls, and to his romantic imagination seemed the dazzling embodiment
of a princess in a fairy tale. The Prince, who was eating little,
talked to her incessantly, enforcing his conversation with flashing
eyes and quick, impassioned gestures.

What was he saying? Malcolm watched and wondered; finally he arrived at
the conclusion that he was making love after the most approved Italian
mode, and became sensible of a flaming desire to go round and punch
his sleek head.

Poor Allessandro! he really was devoted to the lovely English
Signorina. He could not sleep, he would not eat, he chiefly existed
on cigarettes and her society--and yet he was a little afraid of his
enchantress. She was so fascinating, yet elusive; always charming and
gracious, but when he became sentimental she laughed with heartless
indifference and brushed all his tender compliments aside. And then
she was so rich! Mother of Heaven, what a fortune! With this girl,
and her money, his existence would be heaven on earth. Good-bye for
ever to insolent creditors, to third-class tickets, shabby clothes and
undignified poverty.

"Ah, Verona," he murmured, "you are called after one of our most
beautiful towns; you ought to belong to Italy."

"Do you think so?" she answered gaily; "then, in that case, you should
belong to Turkey!"

"I would ever belong to where _you_ were," he murmured tenderly.

Miss Chandos merely helped herself to a salted almond. She had lovely
hands.

"Why were you called Verona?" he pursued.

"I have not the faintest idea. I suppose they thought it more uncommon
than Florence!"

"Did you never ask them the reason?" he continued in his soft voice.

"If by 'them' you allude to my father and mother, I am sorry to say I
have not even a dim recollection of either."

"Ah! So you are an orphan?"

She bowed her head.

"How sad! How I pity you!" he ejaculated. "Now _I_ have the good
fortune to have a charming father and mother--my mother is a beautiful
woman. How much I should like to make you known to her. I assure you
she would love you as a--daughter."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Prince."

"She lives in a noble old castle. It still retains many splendid
pictures and works of art. Perhaps you would visit her there one
day? It has such a wonderful view, being high on the top of a
mountain--almost in the clouds."

"Almost a castle in the air?" suggested Verona.

"Yes, yes, it is; and I, too, have my real castle in the air," he added
with tremulous significance. "Oh, such an adorable one." This speech
was accompanied by a long, intense look.

"Don't you think these castles in the air cost a good deal to keep up?"
remarked Miss Chandos. "I cannot afford to build them myself." Then
she smiled her sweet smile, and turned away to address her left-hand
neighbour.

All this time Malcolm was inwardly fuming, although he was eating his
dinner critically and carrying on a conversation with the lady beside
him, a lady who was blessed with a copious stock of words and laboured
under the delusion that she was a brilliant and dramatic talker. She
speedily discovered that her neighbour had been in India, and plied him
with opinions, suggestions and numerous questions with regard to native
life.

At last, utterly wearied by this severe cross-examination, he exclaimed:

"I am truly sorry my information appears so meagre, but the truth is
that India--real India--is to the European a closed book!"

"Oh no, surely not!" she protested warmly. "Only stupid, lazy people
say so!"

"Well, I have been out in the East seven years, and I know precious
little of the natives, although I speak their language. I was born
there, too, and sent home as a kid. My father was a judge in the
Punjaub for thirty years. Shall I tell you what he said?"

"Oh, pray do!"

"That we Europeans are like drops of oil on a great ocean of water, and
will never penetrate or mix!"

"Really! Well, I am afraid I do not share his opinion," declared the
listener with a shrug of her round shoulders.

"You have been in the country, of course?"

"No; but I have read about it, which amounts to almost the same thing.
Have you seen a book called 'Thrills from the Hills, or The Curse of
the Khitmagar'?"

"Yes, as it happens, I have! A fellow on board ship had it, and I
looked into it."

"Tell me, how did it strike you?" she demanded, and the lady's key was
pitched in the imperative mood.

"As absolutely the greatest drivel and rot I ever read--and that is
saying a good deal! It is no more like India than it's like Homburg!
I should say that the author took her facts from fiction, her local
colour from Earl's Court, and her grammar from her cook!"

There was an unusually spacious pause. Captain Haig glanced furtively
at his companion, and noticed that her face had become alarmingly red.
Presently she remarked in a repressed, but throaty voice:

"It is a misfortune that the book fails to meet with your approval. As
it happens it was written by my sister," and she turned her head away
and gave him a view of nearly the whole of her shoulders.

"Well, what was said was said!" reflected her neighbour, apologies
were useless. He tossed off a glass of champagne and settled himself
to brazen out the situation until a welcome signal should give him his
release.

For a considerable time the culprit was compelled to subsist on
disjointed scraps of the adjoining conversations. Among the crumbs he
gathered were these: "Fancy going 'no trumps' on such a hand! Wasn't it
sickening?"

"Oh--I don't know! He had two aces. It was unlucky he was done in
spades."

"A lovely piece of Persian lamb. Just enough for the collar."

"No; a man with a beard never takes on the stage."

"So they got the grand slam!"

"I'm sure the Staal Brunnen would suit you."

"But she is _so dark_--her eyes and hair--you don't think----?" Voice
dropped, man's raised in reply, and in the key of D sharp.

"Good heavens, no! What an awful suspicion! Not with that complexion."

Pushing back of chairs, general rising, general exit.

After coffee in the garden the party strolled over to the Casino in
order to see the grand fireworks. The grounds were illuminated, and
the crowd was immense. The entire scene was delightful, so gay, so
exhilarating and so foreign. People of many nations sat about, or
promenaded in groups, staring at the brilliant display, and listening
to the band.

Some of the members of the late festivity assembled on the terrace,
where they paced to and fro, or stood to exclaim at some specially
marvellous effect. Miss Chandos was so closely invested by Uhlan
officers and other friends that Captain Haig had no opportunity of
exchanging a word with her. After several frustrated attempts he turned
aside, took a seat apart, and, we may as well admit it, sulked! He
watched with discontented eyes the gay throng of well-dressed people,
the glitter of diamonds, the bright stars overhead, the bright light
around. He saw Verona (as he mentally called her) now holding a little
court on the terrace, again strolling up and down with an Austrian
field-marshal or a Russian grand duke, and he realised how difficult
it would be for him to improve their acquaintance, and what a complete
outsider he was. There were too many notable worshippers, all competing
for a lady's society and favour, and he was but an impecunious officer
who must not venture to claim the privilege of sunning himself in the
beauty's smiles.

Nevertheless, Captain Haig had some brief visions of Miss Chandos;
for instance, at the Elisabeth Well of a morning, at the opera, or at
church, now and then they exchanged a few sentences.

At the annual Battle of Flowers--which was attended by all Homburg
and Frankfort--the carriage of Madame de Godez was accorded a coveted
banner, and first prize. The landau was entirely covered with pink
roses, the very wheels had been transformed into colossal wreaths.
Four milk-white horses, caparisoned with roses and silver, were led
by grooms wearing pink and silver livery and white wigs. It was the
chariot of a Fairy Queen, and was received with shouts of admiration
and pelted with a hurricane of flowers.

Enthroned in the vehicle reclined Madame de Godez, arrayed (despite her
maid) in a gorgeous pink and silver pelisse, with feathered headgear of
the most imposing assumption. ("The blot on the escutcheon," Sir Horace
dubbed the lady.) Beside her was seated the Princess, clad in white,
her hat crowned with roses; on the coach box was perched Dog Darling,
decorated en suite, with an enormous pink bow--glowering at all the
world and shivering with shame!

The carriage was crammed with flowers of the most costly varieties,
which the two ladies tossed to the crowd with liberal hands.

As the splendid equipage rolled majestically between dense masses of
admiring spectators it seemed to represent the triumphal car of Beauty
and Mammon.

Captain Haig, posted in a coign of vantage, pelted the occupants with
the best of his assortment. He had no eyes, or flowers, for others,
not even for the cart laden with sheaves of corn and pretty girls and
drawn by oxen, nor for the gorgeous yellow coach, or yet the charming
Japanese; his flowers were only for Verona. Once he had the good
fortune to catch her eye, and as she passed she smiled and tossed him
a rose. This he kissed with fervour and stowed away as if it were some
holy relic, for Malcolm Haig was really in love. So much in love, that
he actually attended a charity bazaar in the extravagant and foolish
hope of finding _her_ within; but unfortunately Miss Chandos was
elsewhere, playing golf, and his temerity cost him three sovereigns.
His leave was ebbing hourly--his luck was dead out. Sir Horace, too,
was selfishly absorbed in his own affairs and the progress of his cure,
and had never given his unhappy nephew a helping hand since that first
notable morning. At last Fortune smiled! Captain Haig was returning
from a sad and solitary ramble in the woods, when to his surprise, and,
needless to add, joy, he came upon Miss Chandos and Dog Darling. She
was seated on the trunk of a fallen tree with the enviable animal in
her lap.

"Oh, this is fortunate!" she exclaimed, "I am in rather a quandary,
like the ferryman with the fox and goose and corn. Dog Darling has cut
his foot, and I don't know how I am to get him home. I dare not leave
him; he might stray, or be stolen, and, much as I love him--I cannot
carry him!"

"No, indeed," agreed the delighted lover. "Pray how do you happen to be
here all alone?"

"I was driving with Auntie from Nauheim, I got out to walk back the
rest of the way, and give Dog Darling a run. He has cut his foot on a
broken bottle, poor dear; so wicked of people to leave their picnics
loose."

"I see, his poor paw is badly cut," said Malcolm; "shall I bandage it
up?"

"I shall be most grateful if you will, but I warn you that he _may_
bite you!"

"And then you'll have to bandage me! Eh, is it a bargain?"

"I will guarantee to hold his mouth quite firmly, and you can please
take my handkerchief."

"No, no; mine is the best," said the impromptu surgeon, and in five
minutes the business was successfully accomplished.

"I think he has sense to know that I mean well," said Captain Haig,
"and now I propose to carry him home; it is not more than a mile."

"But he is so heavy!" objected the young lady. "If you were to go back
and send a carriage to fetch us--how would that do?"

Naturally this arrangement did not appeal to her companion, and he
replied with deliberate untruth:

"The patient is a mere feather! You lay him in my arms and I'll do
nurse as if to the manner born."

Having effected this amicable arrangement without any contretemps, the
pair set off, the young man carrying the dog, who proved to be a dead
weight and exceedingly irritable and sorry for himself.

"Where did Madame get him?" asked his bearer abruptly.

"Well, the fact is, he belonged to me originally, and is a native of
England," replied the girl. "I lived with a family from the time I was
eight till I was seventeen, and enjoyed a delightful country life."

"No lessons--all haymaking, jam and holidays, I presume?"

"Any amount of lessons and governesses. The Melvilles' daughter and
I shared them. Auntie paid me flying visits, and on one of these
occasions she noticed Toby, a young dog, full of tricks and spirits.
He was very nice to her (as he can be when he likes), and she simply
insisted on carrying him off."

"Precisely as I am doing."

"Oh, no; in a dog-box. It changed his whole career and outlook on
life. Instead of living in a barrel, hunting water rats and rabbits,
and having a brother in the house, and cousins in the village, he has
become a society dog, and a cynical, disappointed person."

"Poor old boy!" exclaimed his nurse, "so he is out of his element like
many of his betters."

From Dog Darling the conversation gradually became more personal,
Captain Haig walking as slowly as possible, and occasionally coming to
a dead halt, would have gladly carried his burden many miles--for the
sake of the dog's mistress. But everything, however agreeable, must
end, and the delightful _tête-à-tête_ concluded all too soon at the
door of Ritter's Hotel. Madame de Godez professed herself to be much
touched by Captain Haig's attention to her sweet darling, and, as a
suitable reward, the following evening she invited him to coffee on the
Casino terrace, which invitation he grasped at, since he had now come
to his last hours in Homburg. After the coffee had been served Captain
Haig and Miss Chandos instinctively, by a sort of mute mutual consent,
descended into the grounds, and strolled there in the moonlight,
listening to the superb string band. It happened to be playing "Die
Lieben Langen Tag," when Malcolm said:

"Do you know this is my last day here? I'm off tomorrow morning."

"Oh, are you?" she exclaimed, "must you really leave so soon? I am
sorry."

"Not a thousandth part as sorry as _I_ am," he responded, with what
seemed unnecessary emphasis. "I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"

"I wonder?" she echoed meditatively. "How I should like to see your
gorgeous East! but of course I never shall. Please give my love to
India!"

"Yes; the instant I sight Colaba light, if you will give me something
in return."

"What is it?"

"Your photograph," was the bold reply.

"Oh, but really, I never give that to any one," she answered rather
stiffly.

"In Europe, no. But I am going ten thousand miles away. Do grant me
this favour--it will be a talisman to summon happy memories in a
foreign land."

"But I know you will stick me in a row with forty other girls," she
objected, with a smile.

"I will not," he rejoined, with prompt vehemence, "never--I swear it."
A pause, and he reiterated his request. "Will you?" he pleaded, sinking
his voice to a half-whisper.

"I will see," she replied, "and now I really must return to auntie and
carry her off to bed. I am trying to coax her to keep early hours, and
she is as fractious as a little girl of six."

Malcolm Haig having mentally consigned Madame to the bed of the Red
Sea, reluctantly turned towards the Casino, and as they passed near
some great trees he halted abruptly and said:

"I think, if you don't mind, I'll say good-bye here."

"Why?" she asked quickly. Then, as she glanced at him, she noticed in
the moonlight that her companion's face was working with some strong
emotion, and it dawned upon her for the first time that Captain Haig
was in love with her, and struggling to say, with decent fortitude,
farewell for ever.

Miss Chandos was startled and not a little sorry, although her own
heart was untouched. Auntie need not have been so pointedly careful to
exclude Sir Horace's handsome nephew from all her select little parties.

She hesitated for a moment, then murmured "Good-bye" as she held out
her hand.

For a second he held it fast; then, suddenly stooping, pressed his lips
upon it, and the beautiful princess did not resist. Possibly she was
accustomed to such homage!

The following morning, before Captain Haig departed, a large square
envelope was delivered to him. He opened it with a thumping pulse to
discover (as he hoped) the portrait of his lady love.

Certainly it was a beautiful face. The lips and eyes seemed almost to
speak. Across one corner was inscribed, in a clear, fine hand, "Verona
Chandos."

Captain Haig was occasionally impulsive; he was stirred by impulse now,
and seizing a sheet of the hotel paper he sat down immediately and
scrawled:--

    "DEAR MISS CHANDOS,--

    "Thank you for your gracious gift, I prize it above everything I
    possess. I am, alas! but a humble soldier, and you are the Fairy
    Princess; should the princess ever need a champion to do battle for
    her, I pray that she may command till death,

                                                        "MALCOLM HAIG."

Malcolm Haig was already nearing Frankfort, with his cap drawn far
over his eyes, and a curious sensation gripping his heart, when Verona
received his note. She read it over twice--the first time quickly, the
second with a pleased smile--and somewhat to her own surprise, crammed
it away among her unanswered letters.




                               CHAPTER V


Many months had elapsed since Malcolm Haig bartered his heart in
exchange for a photograph; he was once more resigned to the monotonous
round of regimental duty in an Indian cantonment, had purchased a
promising pony, who ran at small meetings under the mysterious initial
of "V. C."--a "V. C." who was gradually absorbing the interest once
given to her namesake, and, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, the
memory of a certain dazzling princess had become a little dim!

Madame de Godez and Verona were in England. They had no occasion now
to dread the Dover Custom House, for Dog Darling was defunct. His
death had been a genuine grief to his mistress, who looked as if she
too would soon cross the frontier of an unknown land. The old lady was
changed, a life of uninterrupted self-indulgence had begun to tell at
last. There were deep lines in her face, and pouches under her eyes,
her breath was scanty and her spirits were low.

She had come to London in order to consult a specialist, and to confer
with her man of business, and for some weeks had been established in
the best suite of a well-known private hotel off Piccadilly.

It was a foggy night in March, the lamps across the way were barely
discernible, the traffic had almost ceased. In a stately drawing-room,
Madame, hunched up in a low chair, was cowering over the fire. As
she sat staring into the coals with a far-away, vacant expression,
she looked very old, and dark, and sick--despite a splendid satin
tea-gown, and the pearl-powder on her face. Verona, her pride and
boast, was now transformed from a mere beauty on exhibition to an
affectionate and efficient nurse--Madame's unwearied comforter
and companion. She had been reading aloud since dinner time, in a
clear steady voice, detailed descriptions of fashionable doings and
particulars of a great wedding: such news as the soul of her listener
loved, until Madame, who had been inattentive for a long time, suddenly
exclaimed in a fretful tone:

"There, there, Verona, child, that will do! Turn off the lights, they
hurt my eyes, and come and sit by the fire and talk to me."

"Yes, auntie," she answered, promptly putting aside the paper and
lowering the lights, "and now"--taking one of the old woman's hands in
hers and stroking it softly--"tell me, what shall we talk about?"

"I've been thinking of the Prince," was the unexpected answer. "How
I wish you had married him! He was a nice fellow, and if he had no
money--what matter for thatt!"

"I could not have married him, dear."

"Why nott?"

"Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark.
Why he was like a black-a-moor!"

"Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with
unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is
a great sin to be so particular--some of the Saints are ink-black in
their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"

"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help
it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing
class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our
hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp."

"I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day."

"Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry _now_, but I really can't help myself.
I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking
the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too
much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you
doing?"

"I was giving him instructions about my will--he was drawing it up."

"But I thought you had made it ages ago."

"Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her
hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so
unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has
been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel
ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will,
and so I will burn it! I have burned three"--there was a distinct note
of exultation in the confession--"now I am mailing," here she heaved a
deep sigh, "another."

"I'm sure you are not fit to do law business at present; do wait a
little."

"No, I can not; that Middlemass has been scolding me to-day, and says I
ought to settle my affairs, for if I--" she hesitated, and went on--"I
were to die, every pice I possess goes to my husband's relations. And
then what would become of you, my dearie?"

"Do not let us talk of such things, auntie. At present I have you, and
you are much better."

"I tell him a rich girl has always friends!" mused Madame, as if
talking to herself. "You have numbers of friends, Verona, but most of
them are abroad. So are your admirers. I am sorry now I've stayed out
of England these five years. One is soon forgotten, and loses touch
with people. At this time of year, too, our acquaintances are in the
country, or on the Riviera. When I feel arl-right, I shall take a big
house in town, and give dances, and bridge parties, and entertain--and
_then_ my old set will soon remember me."

There was a silence, during which the two women sat staring at the
fire. At last the girl spoke, with the abruptness of one who has made
up her mind to broach a strange topic.

"Auntie! I wish you would tell me something about myself. Do, dear
auntie! I am two-and-twenty years of age, and I know nothing of what
is called, my forbears. If anyone were to say to me, 'Who are you?' I
should be obliged to reply, 'I don't know!'"

"If you say, 'I am the adopted daughter and heiress of Fernanda de
Godez,' you will find they are perfectly satisfied," rejoined her
companion, in a sharp emphatic key.

"But _I_ am not.--Oh, do forgive me, dearest, I feel sure that no kith
or kin could have done more for me than you, and I am a truly fortunate
girl; for it is not money only that you have given me, but love. It
does seem so extraordinary, that I have no belongings, and that all I
know of my past is that when I was a tiny child, and a year old, you
adopted me and brought me home from India."

"That is true," granted her listener.

"I must have been over a year old, for I can dimly recall the steamer,
and the black faces of the Lascars."

"Ho, ho! there you go! black faces! You were nearly two when you
landed."

"They must have died within a short time of one another," resumed
Verona, in a low voice.

"What do you mean, child? Who are you talking about?"

"My father and mother."

"Yes, yes, yes, I have allowed everyone to suppose you were an orphan,"
continued Madame, staring straight before her in dreamy fashion, "but I
have never said so."

"Not an orphan!" repeated the girl, sitting erect, and turning quickly
to her companion. "Oh, darling auntie, do tell me--it will make no
difference to you--is my mother alive?"

Her voice shook for an imperceptible moment, and her eyes glowed with
expectancy.

"Now, what nonsense this is!" cried Madame de Godez peevishly. "What
would you give to know?"

Verona suddenly averted her eager face, and made no answer.

The ensuing silence was so unusually prolonged that at last the
old lady jerked her head round, and glanced interrogatively at her
companion. To her amazement and dismay she saw two great tears stealing
down the girl's face.

Verona's tears were more than she could endure. Verona, who rarely
wept, even as a child; Verona, who had scarcely grieved for the dog.

"Come, come, come, lovey, don't! I cannot bear it. No! since you are so
foolish, then I will tell you."

The girl turned to her instantly, her eyes were wet, her lips were
parted.

"Your father and mother are both alive--in India--and well, for all I
know--there now!"

For a moment her listener remained silent and motionless; she seemed
stunned; twice she endeavoured to articulate, but failed. At last she
said:

"My father and mother! Oh, thank God! Auntie, isn't it wonderful?"

"No-ah! there is nothing wonderful at all," retorted Madame de Godez,
"I knew the family. They were hard up, they had debts, and children,
and as I was leaving India a widow, alone, I offered to take you to be
my own daughter, and never to see them again."

"And they agreed?" exclaimed the girl, and her words were faint and
tremulous.

"Why, of course. It was a fine bargain for them, and you. Oh, you were
a pretty child! Just like a little angel on a Christmas card. Now,
Verona, I would never have spoken of this, and let you think what you
pleased, only--you have worried it out of me!"

"Are my people related to you?" she faltered.

"Never mind."

"Have I any brothers and sisters?"

"It does not matter, for you will never see them," replied the old
lady, who was obviously disturbed and displeased. "You will never go to
India, make yourself easy about thatt."

"Oh, dear auntie," said the girl suddenly, sinking on her knees, and
putting both her arms round her friend's dumpy figure, "you know very
well that it is not like you to talk in this way. You know that you can
make me very happy. You load me with diamonds and pearls, far more than
I want; give me a few precious words--they are of more value to me than
jewels. Do tell me something about my father, and above all"--with a
sudden impulsive movement--"my mother. Do, darling, please." And the
petitioner drew the old woman into a yet closer embrace, and imprinted
warm kisses on her ugly, lipless mouth.

"Well, then," gasped Madame, a little breathlessly, "you are such
a coax! I suppose I must! Your father is a gentleman, of old, old
family--he looks like a duke. He was in the Army long ago, but he was
hard up, and so he had to leave. He has now a civil post."

"And my mother?" Verona's lips dwelt lingeringly on the word; there was
a strange expression in her eye.

"Oh, no, no! She is not much! She is not a friend of mine. No, no, I
do not like her; but she was once a beauty. Now, Verona," suddenly
releasing herself, "that is enough. No, but too much. Be satisfied. I
am your father and mother, and sisters and brothers. They are Indian
people, with Indian notions, and they do not want you. You are not one
of them--and never can be one of them."

"No," agreed her hearer, half under her breath. "Gains involve
losses"--the saying flashed into her mind with cruel opportuneness, and
Verona realised with a pang that she had gained a life of luxurious
ease, in exchange for her own people and her father's house.

"Oh, no, no, they do not want you," reiterated Madame, "'the flower
returns not to the branch,' as Baptista Lopez would say: she and I
were at school together. My! what a girl for proverbs!"

"Do they ever write?" ventured Verona.

"There, now, you see what I have put in your head!" cried Madame
angrily. "I am sorry I told you one single word; it is all useless,
foolish talk. I am tired. Ring for Pauline, and I will go to my bed."
As she spoke she rose from her chair with Verona's assistance, then
grasped her arm, and tottered painfully out of the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Madame's adopted daughter had led a wandering life, until she was eight
years old, and was supremely ignorant of what the word "home" implied.
Madame had surely some gipsy blood in her veins (and was not averse to
the idea). She drifted about the Continent from one fashionable hotel
to another, with a retinue of servants, tons of luggage, a parrot, a
poodle, and a child.

This was all very well for the parrot and the poodle, but for the child
it was another affair. Her education was of a peculiar description,
and undoubtedly resembled a meal, where the sweets are served before
the joints. "La petite Verona" danced delightfully, acted with
extraordinary intelligence, and sang piquant little songs in her shrill
childish voice--such were her accomplishments. She was dainty, and
pretty, and graceful; in short, she was Madame de Godez's doll--and
idol. But, low be it whispered, she could hardly read simple words,
a pen and needle were strangers to her tiny hands; geography and
arithmetic were but hideous names, and yet the child could declaim a
tragedy, play the mandoline, and converse fluently in three languages.

It seemed a sheer miracle that this petted little creature should
have remained unspoiled, but her sense of truth and honour appeared
to be inborn and innate, and she had none of the greedy, selfish,
elfish ways of solitary and applauded children. In short, her little
heart was in its right place, her feelings were deep and sincere.
She was attached to her _bonne_, her auntie, and the parrot; to one
of the waiters at the "Hotel Bristol," and to Martin, the _concierge_
at "the Ambassadors" in Rome. But she and Polo, the poodle, had
never really fraternised, being performers, public favourites, and
necessarily--rivals.

The child was by no means perfect. Her temper was hot, and it must
be frankly admitted that her manner to those she considered her
inferiors was occasionally haughty and disdainful; her pride was stern
and unbending, for, although she had no petty conceit, she took the
personality of Miss Verona Chandos with a gravity that was ludicrous.

A sudden and complete change in the child's life may be attributed to
one cause, and the name of that cause was, "scarlatina." She caught the
complaint, and had it badly, thereby occasioned a serious commotion, as
well as much inconvenience, in a certain smart hotel, and subsequent
heavy expense to her auntie. A soft-voiced, dove-eyed matron pointed
out to this lady that a girl of Verona's age had still a whole gamut
of diseases to run through--measles, mumps, whooping cough--this would
necessarily lead to continual annoyance, quarantine, and enforced
seclusion.

"But _what_ am I to do?" demanded Madame in her staccato key.

"Send her to England without delay. It is fully time she was properly
educated, and mixed with other children."

"Oh, but she is so clever!"

"True, in a way, but she cannot read or write. Surely, dear friend, you
do not wish Verona to grow up an ignoramus and a laughing-stock?"

"No, no, no," ejaculated Madame, "but I could not send her to school. I
hated school myself."

Lady Wallsend stared; it seemed such a singular and grotesque idea that
Madame de Godez should ever have been at school.

"And I happen to know a most charming family in England--extremely
kind, refined, and well connected. They are looking for a companion, to
educate with their little girl Madge."

"Oh, do you think that would answer?"

"Yes, quite admirably. The Melvilles are my own cousins--not wealthy.
They would, of course, expect handsome terms, and for these, the child
would have every care, the best of teachers, a delightful country home,
and a playmate of her own age."

Madame, who was still smarting from exorbitant charges, and penetrated
with the dread of measles and chicken-pox, lent a ready ear to Lady
Wallsend's not wholly disinterested suggestion; preliminaries were
arranged, and Verona Chandos, a Frenchified, dressy, self-possessed
little personage, was duly received at Halstead Manor. Here she lived
as one of the family for nine happy years, sharing all the joys and
sorrows, games and lessons, of her friend Madge; and being an orphan,
was from the first adopted into the motherly heart of Mrs. Melville.

Madame de Godez did not lose sight of her _protégée_. During the
London season she travelled to England, and carried off Verona for a
sensational holiday; but when the girl was seventeen, and gave promise
of remarkable beauty, her adopted mother promptly claimed her, loudly
announcing that "life was no longer possible without her adored child."
Here was the first serious trouble in Verona's life. She felt almost
heartbroken as she and Madge went round, arm in arm, paying farewell
visits in the village, the stable yard--not forgetting the seagull,
and the tortoise in the garden. Their tears flowed fast as they
separated their respective treasures in the old schoolroom, but Madame
de Godez laughed at their sorrows, and believed that she had stifled
every regret when she presented each of the mourners with a fine pearl
necklace.

In spite of Madame's mock sympathy and real pearls, Verona found it a
painful wrench to bid good-bye to her beloved country home, with all
its happy associations, and to go forth into the blare and glare of the
great world, and the fierce white light which beats upon a beauty, and
an heiress.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

One afternoon, after enjoying a hearty lunch on prawn curry (with hot
condiments), roast hare, plum cake, and bottled stout, she sat down to
write to a house agent, and when in the act of signing her name, was
seized with an apoplectic fit, and before a doctor could be summoned,
became insensible, never recovered consciousness, and died that night.
Thus Madame de Godez had experienced a change, and one that she little
anticipated--the great change of all.

There was the usual amount of startled confusion succeeding a sudden
death. Verona was shocked and grief-stricken; all Madame's little
peculiarities were forgotten, her good qualities remembered, as she
gazed through her tears on the still, dark face, contrasting so sharply
with the sheets and pillows, and clothed in all the dignity of death.

Mr. Middlemass, a wooden-faced family lawyer, was soon on the spot,
and undertook all correspondence and funeral arrangements. Verona's
good friend, Mrs. Melville, hurried up to town at once, in order to be
with her, and she proved a comfort and tower of strength. Soon after
her arrival Mrs. Melville had a long conversation with Mr. Middlemass,
who said to her with alarming gravity: "I am sorry to inform you that
Madame de Godez has not signed her will."

"Oh!" exclaimed the lady, rather blankly. "Has she not?"

"No. I have urged her repeatedly to settle her affairs, in common
justice to Miss Chandos. She intended her to succeed to almost all she
possessed. I have drawn up her instructions. This is the fourth will I
have executed; the former three she destroyed. I had it prepared and
ready for her signature, but she postponed the appointment, day after
day, and now"--throwing out his hands--"she is gone----"

"Then it will make a great difference to Miss Chandos?"

"The greatest in the world. If the will had been duly signed--just
two words written--Miss Chandos would come in for fifteen thousand a
year--she would be an heiress. Now she is, I may say, penniless. It's
one of the worst cases of procrastination I've ever known."

"And what becomes of all the money?" asked Mrs. Melville.

"It goes to the next-of-kin--the Gowdys. They can claim everything,
under Mr. Gowdy's will, which states that, if his wife died intestate,
his fortune was to go to his brother and his children, the heirs at
law."

"And who are they?" she inquired, after a pause.

"Scotch farmer folk. I understand they have deeply resented the fact
that the whole of their uncle's estate was left to his widow. James
Gowdy was an indigo planter in the big days, and spent forty years in
India. Madame disliked the name of Gowdy and transformed it into De
Godez; it pleased her, and did no one any harm. Of course her business
papers are signed in her real name."

"This is terrible news for my poor young friend," exclaimed Mrs.
Melville. "Then she has no claim, and was no relation to her mother by
adoption?"

"No more than I was."

"And is left penniless?"

"Yes, as far as Madame's money is concerned. Of course, the Gowdys may
do something. I shall bring the matter strongly to their notice, and
urge them to be liberal. I have wired, and written, and requested them
to come down immediately, and I have postponed the funeral until their
arrival."

"Well, I must go and break all this bad news to my poor child," said
Mrs. Melville. "You know she is almost like one of my own; it is
dreadful to think of her being left alone in the world."

"Oh, there you are misinformed. She is not an orphan, as has been
generally supposed. Her father and mother are alive out in India.
Madame adopted her, and cut her off from her family; she allowed
no correspondence, as she was exceedingly jealous of the girl's
affections. Now, no doubt, Miss Chandos will return to her family."

"With all the ideas, refinements, tastes and habits of a girl who has
been brought up in England on an income of thousands. How cruel!"

"Yes, but from what I know of Miss Chandos, her tastes appear to be
simple, and her ideas are not extravagant. I think she will adapt
herself to circumstances. She seems a sensible girl."

"All you say is perfectly true, Mr. Middlemass. She lived with us for
nine years. Her own people are not rich, I gather?"

"No, very far from it."

"And is she to have nothing? Nothing whatever?"

"Her personal effects, clothes and jewellery--that is all that she can
claim, by the letter of the law."

"How inhuman the law is! I really think Madame has behaved in the most
shameful, selfish way. What a cruel old woman!"

"Only a superstitious old woman," amended Mr. Middlemass, "who believed
that a will was a reminder to the Angel of Death. She would be more
heart-broken than anyone, at the present state of affairs, and she
could not bear the name of the Gowdys. You may be satisfied that I
will do my utmost to secure some provision for Miss Chandos." And with
this friendly assurance Mr. Middlemass took his grey suède gloves, his
glossy hat, and his departure.




                              CHAPTER VII


Mistress Jean Gowdy was the tenant of a sheep farm on a moor, north of
Perth, where by rigorous economy and unwearied industry she and her two
sons and daughter contrived to make the rent, to live frugally, and to
put by a bit.

Jean was a hale, active woman of sixty, with a fine handsome face, but
no figure to speak of--a hard-headed, hard-working, God-fearing Scotch
woman.

She had not married over young, but was five-and-thirty years of age, a
sensible and settled person, when she bestowed herself and her savings
on Andy Gowdy, a small farmer body, with a little money, and a keen
desire to better his position.

The couple had taken a long lease of Ardnashiel sheep farm, because
being twenty miles from a railway it was cheap; there was plenty of
water, fair grazing, and a comfortable stone house on the moor. Here
for several years they struggled on bravely, through terrible winters
and wet springs, and were at last beginning "to see their way."
Unhappily, one dark morning, when the river was coming down in spate,
Andy, in endeavouring to ford it, with his horse and cart, was drowned.
The fierce mountain torrent turned over the cart, amidst the boulder
stones, as if it were a child's toy, and despite of the desperate
struggles of the fine young horse to effect a landing, he and his
master were swept away to their death.

The body of Andy was recovered three miles down the glen. There was
loud lamentation for him among the neighbouring farmers and shepherds,
and a great concourse from afar attended the funeral, when he was
buried in an almost forgotten churchyard among the hills. The loss of
a fine young horse, the marks of whose frantic hoofs were imprinted on
the banks for years, was almost equally deplored. He had lately cost
thirty pounds in Perth, and the tragedy was never related without due
mention of his fate.

Andy Gowdy was drowned, and his widow Jean reigned in his stead. The
poor woman found it no easy matter to carry on the farm, and to give
her children a bit of schooling; what with minding the bairns, the
housework, and the sheep, she was often on the point of breaking down
under her burthen, and it is a fact that only for the exertions of
three notable collie dogs they might almost have starved. But Jean
Gowdy, a woman of true Highland tenacity and indomitable courage,
struggled on bravely. Her children throve, thanks to the keen mountain
air and the good porridge and milk. The boys, Andrew and Jock, were now
able-bodied men, and Maggie, their sister, was a fine sonsie lassie of
two-and-twenty. She had received some sort of an education, for their
mother had sent them by turns to an aunt in Stirling, and they were all
great readers--what else was there to do in the long winter nights?
even when their mother drove them to bed at eight o'clock and reminded
them that their grandmother, who talked only Gaelic, had always retired
at dark. But these were different days, they declared, and no Scotch
folk would now consent to pass three-quarters of their time in bed--in
order to save lamp oil!

Oh, those winter nights! when the wind swept down through the glen,
and they could hear the starving deer stamping outside in the snow and
dragging at the wood stack. On these occasions, Mrs. Gowdy knitted
stockings, and did curious sums in mental arithmetic; the lads read the
paper and such books as they had borrowed from the minister. Jock's
shock-haired red head was bent over Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations."
He was clever and ambitious, and had long resolved that _he_ was not
going to waste his life in herding sheep, milking cows, and dragging
up and down the weary road to the town for coal and groceries. No!
Jock had heard the history of his uncle Jamie, and he was educating
himself with painful, but continuous, effort, in order that he might
also go out into the world and do something--something that would
bring him in money and applause. To begin with, he was going to the
University of Glasgow, and was reading for a bursary. His family
tacitly acquiesced; they respected his ambition and agreed that Jock
was to be somebody--some day. He was, therefore, allowed the largest
share of lamplight and first claim on the ink bottle. His sister had
also her dreams, as she sat with a collie at her feet. Maggie Gowdy
hated the hard rough life. It was aye fine for her grandmother, or even
her mother; but times were changed; there was no fun or stir beyond a
rare jaunt to Stirling or Glasgow. All the other girls in the glen were
a thousand times better off than she was. It was easy for her mother
to say "bide a wee"; she might bide at Ardnashiel till she was old and
toothless. Young Campbell of Lussie used to come up the valley, by way
of fishing, and spier for her, and have a crack, but her mother found
it out, and made an awful row, and threatened to lock her in her room.
The kirk was full six miles away, and a desperate rough walk, and there
was no one there foreby some old shepherds, their wives, and a few
farming folk. Aye, when she read beautiful stories in the paper penny
books she bought with her knitting profits, she felt wild to be away in
the big world, to see people--and be seen. She had overheard Mistress
Murray tell her mother that it was an awful pity such a bonnie lass
should be shut away up the glen. Maggie was a tall, broad-shouldered
young woman, with a pair of fine bold eyes, a fresh complexion and
ropes of coarse dark hair, and felt perfectly confident that, if she
only had a bit of money, she would get a match.

Mrs. Gowdy too had her own schemes and wishes. She was surely and
secretly putting by money, and intended Maggie to marry a minister, and
if Jock went out in the world, and Andy took a wife, she had made up
her mind to end her days in Glasgow, and in peace; leaving the young
ones to carry on the farm. Ardnashiel was paying well; they had only
lost five sheep that winter; they were getting good prices; she had
no shepherds to pay, and no wages; it was little going out and most
coming in. Of course, it was main dull for the bairns, puir bodies, but
they were young--and could wait.

The moor surrounding the grim blue-grey home of the Gowdys was
celebrated for an historical past, and a certain wild beauty peculiarly
its own; the romantic winding glen, guarded by steep mountains, was
watered by a capricious and picturesque river, which received many
tributaries. A rough cart track connected the glen with a high road,
which was seven miles distant, and in winter time the farmers and
cotters of Ardnashiel were frequently cut off from the outer world
for weeks. No wonder Maggie Gowdy dreaded these dark, dour days, the
leaden skies, the vast outlook on snow--snow, nothing but snow. Her
heart sank within her when, late in October, she watched the tenants of
a neighbouring shooting lodge pass down the rutty tracks, with their
servants, and luggage, and dogs--a long and imposing procession. As the
last cart turned the corner and was lost to sight, Maggie had known
what it was to rest her head between her knees and sob aloud.

Oh, winter was cruel to all the world, and especially to her; but
her mother was a woman of extraordinary force of character, and kept
everything going--the lads at the sheep-feeding and their books, and
herself at sewing and knitting. Summer and Autumn made some amends; the
streams ran merrily, the curlew called, the sheep bleated, the swallows
and the shooters returned, and the white mountains were clothed in
purple. When the day's work was over, the cows milked, the fowls
fed, Mrs. Gowdy would repair to her parlour in order to add up her
accounts. This was her period of mental refreshment, and if the lambs
had sold well, and fleeces were heavy, her heart was light. Jean Gowdy
lived meagrely below, in four rooms, a kitchen and three bedrooms.
She and Maggie washed at the pump, and shared one bed and a sixpenny
looking-glass.

But, like most self-respecting Scots folk, they had a sacred place
apart--a parlour, where they received company and entertained the
minister. This parlour had been handsomely plenished when Jean had
come to the glen a newly-wedded wife. She was proud of it then--she
was proud of it still. There was a green and red carpet, good mahogany
chairs, and a shiny sofa in horsehair, a variety of framed photographs,
two dyed sheepskin rugs, held down unnecessarily in the corners by
large foreign shells, some oleographs of Rome and Naples, and a large
picture of Queen Victoria; it was here, in a locked bureau, that Mrs.
Gowdy kept her business documents, her bank book, and her will. Sitting
there in her every-day gown and blue apron, with her bare arms and
toil-worn hands, she looked more like a servant who was poking through
her mistress's papers than the proprietor of the apartment. These were
her moments of delicious relaxation. Her daughter's diversion took the
form of a stroll as far as the next farm gate in the faint hope of
meeting someone, or else she climbed up to the old churchyard, which
commanded a magnificent prospect, and sat on a tombstone, building
castles in the air, and railing at her fate. Her thoughts frequently
turned to her father's brother Jamie, who, fifty years before, had gone
to the East Indies, and got on from one thing to another, had owned
hundreds of black men, and, it was even reported, elephants, and had
died as rich as a duke, leaving thousands and thousands to his widow,
but not one blessed bawbee to his own folk. Certainly, it was true that
her father and Uncle Jamie had had high words and a bitter quarrel
before he sailed, folks said, over a five-shilling piece, but they
might be wrong. Anyhow, her mother allowed they had no good will to one
another; but that was an old story, and she and her brothers were his
near kin. He had married a foreign woman, had no family, and had made
his home in the Indies, and never once came back to Scotland. His widow
had, so they heard, adopted a baby, and brought her up like a princess;
and there was she, his own flesh and blood, living on porridge, and
working and washing like any common woman. What a scandal!

When Maggie thought of this other girl, set out in silks and jewels,
and getting a grand education, and "chances," the blood fairly boiled
in her veins. She was far more embittered and furious against this
intruder than against her Uncle Jamie, or even his foreign wife. Here
was she, Maggie Gowdy, imprisoned and held fast within these glens by
poverty and a strong-willed mother, and she, though well enough looking
and educated and young, would never have a chance to be anything but
a drudge. She dared not throw off her mother's thrall; she had once
talked of service, but it was to deaf ears, and here she was, nigh
three-and-twenty and, as Jock had cruelly reminded her, "getting past
her market." Oh, she felt mad-like--to think of the wasted years!

When Maggie's mind dwelt on these matters and on the remorseless
monotony of her life, she felt distracted. She recalled how young Joe
Macdonald used to come up the moor, by way of looking for a stray
sheep, and how he had appeared at their chapel two Sundays running, and
met her once in Perth; and then, all of a sudden, he cooled off, and
took up with Allie McCrone, a yellow-haired girl, with a fortune of
three hundred pounds! Her mother had said, "Never you mind, my lass,
you shall have a fortune, too, as well as Allie. I was up for forty
when I got married, but I brought your father four hundred pounds. It
went to stock this place, and where we had one sheep then we have a
score the noo. You have plenty of time yet--you _wait_."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was late on an April evening in the glen, the snow had melted, and
swelled the river far above its banks, the waterfalls were pouring down
the hillsides, the small burns were noisy and boisterous, and Andy
Gowdy, who had been to the town with the cart for coal and a bag of
flour, was not sorry when he came to the last gate of all. As soon as
he had "loused" the pony, he carried into the kitchen a sack of flour,
a small parcel of tea and sugar, and a letter. This he brought to his
mother, who was frying something over the fire.

"There's a letter for you," he drawled.

"Leave it there--it can bide. It's about the sheep wash and tar."

"I'm no so sure of that, it looks out of the ordinary, and the postmark
is London."

"Land sakes--it's for the keeper above."

"Nay, it's for Mrs. Andy Gowdy, Ardnashiel."

"Then give it here. No, my hands is black--you read it, Andy."

Andy at once opened the letter and began:

    "LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS."

"Aye, didn't I tell ye it was aboot the farm!" interrupted his mother.

"No--no--listen here--to what it says," rejoined Andy, with heightened
colour.

    "MADAM,--I have to acquaint you with the sudden death of Mrs. James
    Gowdy, which took place yesterday at the 'Beaufort Hotel' in Dover
    Street, Piccadilly. I am her solicitor, and aware that her will,
    though drawn up, is unsigned. Therefore, I believe, the fortune of
    her late husband devolves upon his next-of-kin, who I assume to
    be your children. I am making all arrangements for the funeral,
    which I propose should take place at Kensal Green on April 30. I
    fixed this date presuming that you and members of your family will
    be present. Kindly write instructions at once, or telegraph. Miss
    Chandos, Mrs. James Gowdy's adopted daughter, is at present at the
    Hotel. I beg to add that my firm, having conducted the business of
    Mrs. Gowdy for twenty years, are conversant with all its details,
    and we shall be happy to place our experience at your service.

    "I remain, Madam,

                                                     "Yours faithfully,
                                                    "GEORGE MIDDLEMASS.

    "To Mrs. Andrew Gowdy."

When Andy had finished reading the foregoing, he drew a long loud
breath and looked around him. There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gowdy
straightened her back, and still holding a sausage on a fork, stood
staring hard at her son. Then she turned about, and snatching the pan
off the fire, exclaimed:

"Well! to think of that! Losh me! It's ten thousand a year coming among
ye. It's hard to credit!"

Maggie, who had been washing rubbers in the scullery, stood in the
doorway with cold wet arms and crimson cheeks and eyes like two flames.

"What shall we do?" she asked, hysterically. "What shall we do?"

"First of all, thank God," rejoined her pious mother, "and then have a
bit of supper before we begin to talk and make plans."

"I could not taste a mite!" cried Maggie, in a strange hoarse voice,
"let us talk now, if we ever talked. We are not dumb beasts. Let the
supper bide."

Mrs. Gowdy gazed at her daughter fixedly. The mere name of money had
transformed the girl into another creature; a woman with an imperious
countenance and a loud tongue.

"Well, well," she agreed, and she sat down and stared out of the window
reflectively, whilst her children stood around in a dazed silence,
momentarily speechless.

"We mun go to London in the morn," announced Mrs. Gowdy at last. "I see
that plain. This is Thursday, and the letter has lain two days. Jock,
the pony canna stir to-morrow; you mun run over and borrow Duncan's bay
horse, and bring it back with you. We will start at daybreak, there's
no call to be keeping the good money waiting, and we will just take a
few bits of things and my papers. I have a ten-pound note above in my
desk; Andy and Maggie will come with me, and you, Jock, mun mind the
place."

"No, no, I'm not for agreeing to that," rejoined Jock, sullenly. "Why
should I stay behind more than Andy or Mag. Have I no share in the
fortune? I'm going!"

Here were a son and daughter defying her authority for the first time
in their lives. And being a prudent and far-seeing woman, Mrs. Gowdy
instantly realised that she was no longer dealing with children and
dependents, subject to her thrall, but with the heirs of Jamie Gowdy's
fortune, who, should she stand in their way, would cut themselves loose
from her control. So much for money. In less than ten minutes it had
occasioned a domestic revolution.

"Well, then, have yer way," she agreed. "I'm thinking of who's to mind
the cows and the chickens--forby the sheep. You might cry in to Alec
Macnab on yer way for the horse, and ask him and his son to give a look
to the place, and he'll need to be here at streak of day. I'll make it
worth their while. I'll give him a good fee."

"All right," agreed Jock, "I'll bring Alec back with me."

"Aye, and don't let on but what we are going to Glasgow on a bit of
family business. No use giving out the news before we are well up in it
ourselves."

"Aye, I'll mind that."

"Oh, won't the Flemings be wild," cried Maggie, "when they know it. Ten
thousand a year--and maybe more! Ten thousand a year!" As she spoke,
she hammered on the table with her wet red hands.

"Now go off like a good lad," urged Mrs. Gowdy to her son, "and bring
over Alec and the bay horse. Mind ye, the train leaves the junction at
ten o'clock the morn."

There was little sleep for anyone in Ardnashiel that night, and sunrise
saw Jean Gowdy and her bairns clad in their Sunday clothes, driving
through the dew-soaked glen, _en route_ to establish their claim to a
fortune.




                             CHAPTER VIII


The Gowdy family was jogging slowly down the valley, which looked
brilliant in the early morning. The impetuous river raced alongside
its companion, a steady, rutty road, twisting and swirling, foaming
and flashing, rippling under rowan-beeches and tossing between great
boulders its white locks on high. Maggie and the river had one impulse
in common: they were both eager to escape from the glen; one drawn
by the world--the other by the sea. Halfway to the highway the party
encountered a boy with a telegram in his hand, which he held up as he
announced:

"It's for Mistress Gowdy."

A horrible idea instantly occurred to the four travellers--it might
contain something to put an end to their prospects! Telegrams in their
experience invariably brought tidings of ruin, accidents or death.

"Give it here," cried Mrs. Gowdy in a hoarse key.

"There'll be six shillings to pay!"

"Yer daft!" screamed the thrifty matron, "yer telling a lee."

"It's no lee--it's the post-office, and I came awa' at six this
morning. If yer going yonder ye can ask. But ye mun pay me the noo."

"Then giv it to me," said Mrs. Gowdy, and with tremulous fingers she
tore open the envelope and read aloud:

    "Hope you received letter respecting Mrs. James Gowdy's death and
    are coming to London immediately. Telegraph reply.--MIDDLEMASS."

"Oh, well"--with a sigh of relief--"so it's all right. But sax
shillings--to think of it!" and to tell the truth, for the remainder of
the drive (such is the force of habit), those poor six shillings had
a more prominent position in Jean Gowdy's thoughts than the splendid
prospect of thousands of pounds.

The very next forenoon a four-wheeled cab drove up to the office of
Middlemass and Son, and from it descended the Gowdy party--who, after a
long and protracted altercation with the cabman, dismissed him routed
and grumbling, and then proceeded to enter the office, and present
themselves to their man of business.

The widow in her decent black, her sons, with clever Scotch faces and
the hands of hard-working men--clad in homespun and embarrassment,
the daughter gay and complacent, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks,
arrayed in a sailor hat and a gown of hunting tartan. Yes, they had
all come with one consent to enter on their inheritance. Their papers
were duly produced, and found to be in order--marriage and baptismal
certificates had been registered in proper form, but the family were
not prepared for the law's delays, and certain irritating formalities
which must ensue before they could seize upon the Gowdy fortune. Mr.
Middlemass soon realised that in Mrs. Andy Gowdy he had to deal with a
sharp and capable woman of business. Her mind was clear; her questions
were to the point, and she soon laid bare the fact that Miss Chandos
was, to all purposes, now living luxuriously in a grand hotel, at their
expense!

"She will, of course, leave after the funeral to-morrow," explained the
attorney in a tone of apology, "I believe the suite was taken by the
week."

For the Gowdys themselves, rooms were engaged at a temperance hotel--a
sum of money was advanced for present expenses and mourning, and that
night, for the first time in their lives, they dined under the glare of
electric light, and were waited upon by brisk Germans.

The funeral of Madame de Godez was a pitiful affair for a woman who
had such an immense circle of notable friends. There were only three
mourning coaches, three private carriages, and about a dozen cheap
wreaths.

The heirs-at-law occupied the first coach (and had never before
driven behind a pair of horses). Verona and Mrs. Melville occupied the
second vehicle, the doctor and man of business the third; the private
carriages were empty!

At the cemetery the Gowdys for the first time beheld Miss Chandos. She
was tall, and wore a long, black veil, and really appeared to be in
grief!

They stood at opposite sides of the open grave--the penniless adopted
daughter, with her air of refinement and delicate breeding, and the
rough-looking farmer folk who were now so wealthy. The same afternoon
Mrs. Gowdy and her family made a formal call upon the girl they had so
unexpectedly supplanted, and were shown into a luxurious sitting-room,
for which, whilst they waited, Maggie remarked, "they were paying good
money."

In a few minutes Miss Chandos entered, unveiled. Her personality
was so striking that Mrs. Gowdy so far forgot herself as to stand
up and drop a half-curtsey, but Maggie never moved, merely sat and
stared impassively. What was it, she wondered, that made this girl
so different to herself? Her low voice, her long white throat, the
delicacy of her hands, the natural dignity of her movements! Miss
Chandos had something that she could never possess, and that never
could be taken from her! Maggie realised the fact, with an increasing
degree of stolid hatred.

"It is very kind of you to come and see me, Mrs. Gowdy," said the girl
gently.

"Oh, well, we thought we would just call for you, as we are idle folk
the noo--and see what like ye wer! It will be a sore change for ye, I'm
thinking," she added.

"Yes, it was very sudden."

"And she made no will--nor left you a penny piece."

"No; but she meant to do so."

"There's justice in the Lord's sight!" declared this daughter of the
Covenanters with a lifted hand, "and He cut her off before she could
will the whole of my children's heritage to a stranger!"

This was not a gracious speech. Her listener coloured vividly, but made
no reply.

"I'm real sorry for you, but you have had a good day and a fine
education, and I suppose ye have gran' acquaintance?"

"Yes, I have some friends."

"And ye have plans, maybe?"

"Yes; I shall remain with Mrs. Melville for a time, and then join my
own family in India."

"Oh, so you are an Indian!" exclaimed Mrs. Gowdy. "Well, to think of
that, now, and you so fair! Mrs. James, I've always heard, was awfu'
swarthy."

"My parents are English. I was brought home when I was quite small."

"Aye, aye; so ye were," assented her visitor. "I mind it all. Mr.
Middlemass has been talking to me, and he wants us to make you an
allowance. But you have your own folk, and I see no call to that!"
Verona was about to speak. "Whist, now," interrupted her visitor, "of
course your clothes and jewels and presents are your own." Then she
paused and added: "Mrs. James Gowdy had gran' gowns and laces and
diamonds, and her belongings will be coming to _me_." Verona assented
with a bow. "I've agreed to pay your passage out, and give you three
hundred pounds."

Verona could not immediately trust her voice. She would have rejoiced
to decline this liberal charity, but was keenly aware that it would be
her sole means of joining her parents.

Should she refuse the dole? "No," urged common-sense, "accept the
crumb." And again she bowed in acquiescence.

Maggie, who had never once opened her lips, sat glowering at this
English girl with a gaze of hard enmity, endeavouring to impress on her
memory her manner of doing her hair, of moving, speaking and looking.
Yes, she might for all the world be some great lady, and yet she was
nothing but a beggar, on whom her mother had just bestowed a fortune.

"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.

Now she could no longer indulge in what had been one of her chief
pleasures--buying gifts. There was her own jewel case; she unlocked
it and exhibited the contents to Mrs. Melville. It contained various
proofs of madame's wealth, and eye for effect. A long chain of pearls,
a variety of rings and bangles, brooches, a watch set in brilliants,
and several ornaments, including a magnificent diamond bow for the hair
or corsage.

"Well, no, if you take my advice, you will not sell them," counselled
Mrs. Melville. "They are worth a great deal of money, and if you must
part with them, I believe you could get a better price in India; some
native nobleman might purchase the pearls. Of course, dear, if you like
to dispose of them here, and invest the money, do; but I expect you
will only get half of what they are really worth. You say the pearls
cost nine hundred?"

"Yes, and auntie was always begging me to have diamonds, and rubies,
and emeralds, but I always said 'No.' Even as it was I had far too much
jewellery. This diamond and emerald pendant is exquisite--is it not?"
and she held it up to her throat.

"It is; and I wish, since this represents your entire fortune, you had
accepted madame's offer; for after all you have not such a wonderful
supply!"

"More than ample--to wear, or to sell--and I will take your advice and
keep them. I--I should like"--here she lowered her voice and coloured a
little--"my mother to have the diamonds."

And with this generous wish she closed the jewel case.

Verona had written to her mother immediately after the death of Madame
de Godez. Mr. Middlemass informed her of her address (and he had also
despatched a few lines on his own behalf).

Her letter said:

    "MY DEAR MOTHER,

    "I cannot tell you with what intense happiness I write these
    three words; for until a month ago I believed I was an orphan. My
    kind adopted mother is dead. She died most suddenly of apoplexy,
    and, meaning nothing but love and kindness to me, left her will
    unsigned, and all she possessed has passed to her husband's
    next-of-kin--a family of Scotch farmers. These people dislike me
    because they consider that for many years I have enjoyed their
    uncle's money. They have taken possession of everything, but intend
    to defray my passage out to India, and give me three hundred
    pounds. I have no ties in this country, and am longing to go to
    my own people. Amidst much trouble and worry, and a great change
    of circumstances, I have one indescribable joy, the prospect of
    soon seeing my father, and _you_. Madame de Godez had, until a
    month ago, kept me entirely in the dark respecting my birth and
    parentage. I was her child, and no more information would she
    divulge; but not long ago I contrived to break down her reserve,
    and she informed me with great reluctance, that you and my father
    were alive, and that I had brothers and sisters. More than this
    she would not disclose, and never spoke of the subject but once. I
    gather that my father is not wealthy, but you will find that I can
    adapt myself to circumstances, and I hope to be a useful addition
    to the family. I have had an excellent education; I have a strong
    constitution and can work hard. I have always wondered why I felt
    so drawn towards the East, but _now_ I understand at last. I am
    staying with Mrs. Melville at Halstead Manor, where I once lived
    for nine years, it was here I was educated and brought up. I would
    start off at once, so anxious am I to see you, but Mrs. Melville
    advises me to wait for a reply to this letter, and also until
    the monsoon has broken. She suggests my leaving England in July.
    Dearest mother, I am counting the very days till we meet. You will
    spare a little love for me, will you not? I am always picturing you
    to myself, and I have made up my mind that you are like someone I
    know, and who I have always _wished_ were my mother.

                             "Ever your most loving and happy daughter,
                                                      "VERONA CHANDOS."

It would take (so she had calculated) about five weeks to receive an
answer to this letter, and during these five weeks Verona renewed her
friendship with people and animals: became a delightful deputy daughter
to Mr. and Mrs. Melville, busied herself in making preparations for
her passage, and buying suitable gifts for her unknown relations. It
was near the end of June, when a letter, with an Indian stamp, in an
unknown, somewhat shaky writing, lay beside Verona's plate at breakfast
time. She opened it tremulously. It was written on cheap thin paper,
and at the top was stamped:

                                                 "MANORA SUGAR FACTORY,
                                                       "NEAR RAJAHPORE.

    "DEAR VERONA,

    "I am writing in reply to your letter, to assure you that we shall
    be glad to see you, although we have not much to offer, except
    a welcome. I fear, after what you have been accustomed to, that
    you will find our mode of life an uncomfortable change, but you
    are young and full of hope and courage, and everything will be a
    novelty.

    "I am sorry Madame de Godez is dead, and that she had made no
    provision for you. At the same time, we shall all be pleased to
    welcome you into what is your real home, and will look for your
    name in the passenger list of the steamer leaving London the second
    week in August. Write again, and tell us your plans.

                                       "I am, your affectionate father.
                                                         "PAUL CHANDOS.

    "P.S.--Your mother sends her love."

This epistle was a little disappointing to Verona, the echo to her
appeal seemed so faint, but after all it was a letter from her
_father_. They were all ready to welcome her, and if not so eager
to see her, as she was to see them, she remembered that they were
accustomed to family intercourse--they were many living together--she
alone out in the darkness, looked towards their hearth as the beacon
of her happiness. Verona reflected for a short time, and then decided
to show her father's letter to Mrs. Melville, who for her part found
it both kind and sensible, and said so, greatly to Verona's relief,
and that same day she wrote and engaged her passage by a steamer which
sailed in three weeks' time.

As she went singing about the garden, culling roses, and accompanied by
the dogs, Mr. Melville--a good grave man, with a spade-shaped beard,
and a taste for archæology--said to his wife--

"Lucy, I wish we could keep that child with us."

"So do I. She has always been one of ourselves, almost ever since she
came here, a little decked-out, Frenchified doll, speaking broken
English. But her heart is set upon her own people."

"Yes, and she knows nothing about them, nor, for that matter, do _we_."

"We know that her father is a man of good family--one of the Chandos of
Charne."

"And the black sheep for all you can tell," interrupted Mr. Melville.

"Come, don't make the worst of it, Joe!"

"Yes, it's bad enough as it is. This girl, brought up with a taste for
everything money can buy, and left without any provision. I call it a
most shameful, abominable business. Verona will never understand shifts
and scraping. She will have to put up with a vile climate, and to adapt
herself to a new life. Now Madge is away, and Robert is at sea, I think
she might remain on as our adopted daughter. She does the flowers for
you, and mends my gloves, and cuts my papers, and plays picquet, and
sends back my books to the London library--we shall not be able to
spare her."

"My dear Joe, I'm afraid we must, sorely as we want her, and much as I
believe she loves us. Her heart, as I've already assured you, is with
her own people. If we kept her with us, she would be continually pining
to fly away, like a robin in a cage."

"I sincerely hope her expectations may be realised, but I think it is a
risky experiment, attaching oneself to a hitherto unknown family."

"She will be an acquisition anywhere, so lively and so sweet tempered,
and entirely unconscious of herself. Her great social success never
made the smallest difference to us; she wrote to me as regularly as
Madge. I believe she had no end of offers of marriage--including one
from a prince!"

"Oh, well, I cannot exactly credit _that_. And anyway, I can assure
you, she will never have a chance of becoming a princess in India.
Joking apart, I'm really anxious about the child. Do you have a good
talk to her, Lucy, and try once more, if she will not accept the bird
in the hand, and remain with us, for the birds in the bush may be of
doubtful plumage."

"I will see what I can do," assented Mrs. Melville, "but in return for
your half proverb, I will give you a whole one."

"What may it be?"

"Far off hills are green."

Joselyn Melville made no attempt to argue the question further, but
merely resumed the _Guardian_ with a grunt.

In three weeks' time Mr. and Mrs. Melville accompanied their charge
to Tilbury, and when they saw the _Arabia_ leave her moorings, waved
good-bye to Verona with as much emotion as if she had been their own
child.




                               CHAPTER X


At four o'clock in the afternoon the chief event of the day, the Bombay
mail, was due at Rajahpore. The railway station was crammed, not merely
with passengers, but idlers and loafers, who attended this train in
order to see the people who were going North, and to gather jokes,
scraps of gossip, and news. Soldiers were present in considerable
force, as well as the local police, and numbers of Eurasians and
natives, all assembled with the harmless object of enjoying a slight
break in the monotony of their existence.

It was on a platform seething with strange faces, strange costumes and
a strange nationality that Verona Chandos alighted and looked about
her, with a vague, bewildered stare. She glanced hurriedly around in
quest of her father, mother and sisters--her own people. Surely they
were somewhere among this crowd! Her heart beat in rapid jerks as
she noticed a tall lady in grey and a lad, who were peering into the
carriages, evidently in search of friends. Yes--and had discovered
them! This soldierly man in riding kit, with erect figure and alert
eye--no! A young officer in khaki had come forward and carried him
off, and Verona realised with a painful sensation that no one appeared
to be awaiting _her_. The crowd hustled, and pushed, and clamoured
by--sweetmeat sellers, fruit hawkers shouted their wares, porters
rattled their trucks and excited parties of newly-arrived natives
chattered together like a flock of parrots.

At last the scene began to clear and her attention was attracted by one
solitary figure--a tall, elderly man, standing aloof in the background.
In spite of a shabby sun hat and a suit of shrivelled white drill he
had the unmistakable appearance of a gentleman. His features were
finely cut, he wore a grizzled moustache, but the face was marked by
that indefinable expression presented by life's failures, and his air
was timid, even apologetic, as if he felt that he was an intruder in
the throng.

Verona had surprised him looking at her with a quick, furtive glance,
instantly withdrawn. Oh no, the shabby gentleman, with the saddest eyes
she had ever encountered, could not be anything to her, and strangling
the thought at its birth, she turned away to claim her luggage.

Boxes and belongings, each marked "V. C.," had all been duly collected,
and for this service she was thanking the guard, when, in reply to
his nod of indication, she turned about and found the man from the
background at her elbow.

"Pardon me," he faltered, lifting his hat, and his voice though well
bred was tremulous, "is your name--Chandos?"

"Yes," she answered quickly, but the colour had left her lips,
"and--and--you are my father!"

His face grew livid as he murmured "Verona," and for a second he seemed
so overcome with agitation that he was unable to speak. Then he took
her hand--she felt his own tremble--and brushing her cheek with his
wiry moustache, murmured:

"My child, you are welcome."

As she looked up into his face she read amazement, incredulity, awe.

"Oh! am I so very different to what you expected?" she asked with a
little breathless laugh.

"God knows you are!" was the startling reply. Then, pulling himself
together, he added:

"I've a man here who will take charge of all your baggage," beckoning
to a Peon with a large brass badge on his sash.

"The victoria only holds two--so I came alone. Let me carry your wrap
and bag."

"Is it far to Manora?" she inquired.

"About four miles."

"Because I am so thirsty. May I have a glass of water?"

"Water--no!" he rejoined with unexpected decision; "But come along
and have a cup of tea. I ought to have thought of it before; you
must be choked with dust. I've got out of the way of--of----" The
remainder of the sentence was inaudible, as he opened the door into a
lofty, white-washed room, where several men were lounging at a long
refreshment bar.

Verona received an impression of quantities of bananas and buns; swarms
of flies and staring faces. As she stood sipping some hot weak tea,
from a very thick cup, a dapper little man, with a shiny face and
prominent blue eyes, approached and accosted her father in an off-hand
manner.

"Hullo, Chandos! I've never seen you here before. What has brought you
out of your shell?" he asked with an air of lofty condescension.

Mr. Chandos looked momentarily embarrassed, and then replied, rather
formally:

"How do you do, Major Gale. I came to meet my daughter."

"_Your_ daughter!" and in the echo there was a note of incredulity,
bordering on derision, but the little officer accepted the half
introduction and bowed profoundly as he said:

"Charmed to make her acquaintance."

Verona resented his air of free and easy patronage, and met the
stranger's full, bold gaze, with a pair of cold, unchanging eyes.

There was a chilling pause, during which the little officer quickly
summed up the new "Spin"; her grand manner, dainty linen costume,
expensive travelling case and ruffled wrap.

As the result of this inspection he turned abruptly to Mr. Chandos and
exclaimed:

"I say! I'd no idea you'd been married before!"

Whatever reply was forthcoming it proved unintelligible, for Mr.
Chandos was searching and fumbling in his pockets, and there was a hint
of colour in his worn face as he turned to the waiter and said:

"I've no money with me. I'll settle with you next time I'm in--you know
who I am!"

"How much is it? I'll make it all right," volunteered Major Gale.

"One rupee, Saar," said the turbanned kritmetgar.

Here Verona interposed, authoritatively:

"Thank you very much; I will pay for my tea," and promptly produced the
necessary coin.

"No one carries money in India," explained Major Gale; "we all go on
tick or borrow, as you'll soon find out. Just arrived?"

"Yes," assented the lady. The "yes" was like a hailstone.

"From England?"

"Yes." Another hailstone.

"I'm afraid you'll find Manora a bit slow! Eh? We are having our sports
on the twentieth. I hope you all come in. Eh----?"

Verona set down her cup and glanced interrogatively at her father. She
was anxious to depart.

"Oh, no use asking _him_," resumed the other, with a jocular air. "He
buries himself alive. Lots of people don't know of his existence; awful
mistake to cut the Service and take to sugar--eh, Chandos?"

"It suits me all right," he answered in a quick, troubled voice. Then
as an afterthought:

"I will give your invitation to my wife, thank you. Now, Verona, if you
are ready?"

"Quite ready," and with a slight inclination of her head she took leave
of her new acquaintance, and walked out of the refreshment room.

Mr. Chandos piloted his daughter into a wide space at the back of the
station, where a victoria was in waiting, with a showy bay arab in the
shafts and a man with a gigantic red turban and blue and red coat on
the box. His feet were bare, which struck Verona as peculiar.

"We can start at once," said her father, handing her in as he spoke;
"Hassan will see to the baggage," and he indicated a long, clumsy
conveyance, drawn by two water buffaloes, into which primitive concern
her boxes were already being hoisted.

In another moment they were whirled away from the station along a flat,
white road--indeed, the whole country seemed as flat as a billiard
table. They trotted through a narrow bazaar, full of customers,
domestic animals and gaudy little shops; occasionally they were obliged
to pull up until a recumbent cow or goat saw fit to rise and suffer
them to pass. From the bazaar the road led to a steep bridge, and as
they crossed it Mr. Chandos pointed out various objects.

"There is the city," he said, "this side of the river. Two hundred
thousand inhabitants. Where you see the spire and trees, is the
cantonment. We live farther out in this direction."

"And have you no neighbours?"

"Oh, any amount. We are a community of our own. The factory employs
some hundreds of natives, and about thirty English and Eurasians."

"Eurasian!" she echoed; "Oh, what a pretty name! What _is_ a Eurasian?"

A spasm of pain seemed to contract her father's face, but he appeared
not to have heard the question. It was evidently his habit to
occasionally ignore or misunderstand what was said to him.

"Had you a good passage, my dear?" he asked.

"Only pretty good. Hot in the Red Sea and rough off Aden."

Here several passing coolies salaamed to her father, and he
acknowledged their greeting with a jerk of his hand.

"What a charming salutation!" she exclaimed; "I like it so much better
than our nodding and scraping."

"I'm afraid it's the only thing you _will_ like," he remarked with a
sigh. "Our life will be irksome, I'm afraid. We are real Anglo-Indians,
and have made our home out here."

"I shall like my home, you may be sure," she declared, "my home and my
people. How long is it since you were in England, father?"

"Twenty-eight years."

"Oh! almost a lifetime. How is my mother?"

"As usual."

"And my sisters--what are their names?"

"Blanche, Dominga, and Pussy--her real name is Bellamina. Blanche is
married to a young man in the telegraph department. She has a little
boy."

"My nephew! How delightful."

Mr. Chandos gave a curious little laugh, and resumed:

"Pussy is nearly twenty-four; then you come; then Dominga--she is
twenty, and Nicky is seventeen."

"Oh, I do hope they will all like me," said Verona, as she turned a
beautiful enthusiastic face on the shattered man at her side.

He glanced at this refined English girl, with her reposeful manners and
air of culture and elegance. It was like gazing through an open window
on some former state of existence, when all the world seemed young
and gay and he had life before him. Well, he was now a grey derelict,
expiating his follies in exile. He found it impossible to realize that
the lovely eager girl at his side was his very own daughter; the little
Verona that twenty years ago they had, much against his will, consigned
to Fernanda Gowdy.

She had come back again--as what? To curse him--or to bless?

"Your sisters are not the least like you," he remarked in a harsh,
abrupt voice; "they are uneducated girls--simple and emotional. They
have only seen life from a sugar factory, and their ideas are cramped
and circumscribed; you must make allowances for them. Whatever they
are--I believe they mean well."

"Of course they do, and you need not ask me to make allowances for my
own sisters. I am only too happy and thankful to think that I shall be
with them always--and my mother."

As this conversation took place, the carriage was passing along a
winding road, fenced with dusty cactus and an occasional row of acacia
trees, but generally running between high standing crops of dense sugar
cane. The old bay Arab stepped out well, and before long a square,
high tower came into view; then gradually the outline of factory and
bungalows, all thrown into sharp relief by a deep crimson sky. Suddenly
the victoria rolled into a wide shady avenue, lined with thick trees
and bushes, which ultimately widened into a little park, bordered with
a number of picturesque bungalows, each standing apart. At the far end
was a fine imposing abode, with a great verandah and sloping lawns.

"That is Mr. Lepell's house," explained Mr. Chandos. "He is manager of
the factory."

"Why, father, I thought you were manager?"

"I!"--in a tone of ironical scorn. "No; I'm a mere bottle-washer, a
subordinate, and will never be anything else."

They now dashed by a group of people who were playing tennis with
screams and shoutings; and paused abruptly in their game to stare; and
drove on to a bungalow half-concealed from the road by thick bushes;
the porch and verandah were entirely screened with lattice work.

As they approached Verona's heart beat fast, and she was aware
of several white figures--which had hitherto been stationed like
outposts--flying within to give notice of her arrival.

But when the victoria came to a standstill under the porch there was no
one to be seen, and the girl was conscious of her father's long indrawn
breath, as he handed her out and said:

"I think they are all a little afraid--a little shy, of their English
sister. Come into the house and I will fetch them."

The drawing-room opened directly into the verandah, and on first
entering it seemed dark; but Verona soon groped her way to a sofa and
sat down to wait, whilst her father departed in order to summon the
family.




                              CHAPTER XI


As Verona waited alone in this dim, unfamiliar room, her heart throbbed
quickly; more than once she caught her breath with an involuntary gasp,
for she realized that she was on the threshold of the most momentous
event of her life; within the next few seconds she would be face to
face with her mother.

Picture the situation! For twenty years this girl had lived with
strangers, moving among friendly family circles, but belonging to
none; secretly envious of home and blood ties. Although she bestowed
her affections generously, an enormous reserve fund was stored up in
her heart, ready to be lavished on someone near and dear, and someone
near and dear was coming now. As she gazed with eyes grown deep with
longing towards the curtained doors, her feelings were indescribable;
in spite of the close, airless atmosphere, she was icy cold, and her
clammy hands trembled in her lap.

Half unconsciously she contemplated her surroundings, the imposing
grand piano, blackwood carved furniture, upholstered in red damask,
marble-topped tables, Indian rugs, and three high doors, corresponding
with the French windows. The room resembled a salon in some foreign
hotel; no flowers, photographs or books were to be seen, much less a
cat or dog, a rumpled newspaper, or scrap of work; but there was a
curious unfamiliar odour, a mysterious combination of musk and coffee.
To judge by their bungalow and the smart victoria, her parents were
in easy circumstances--the standard of wealth in the East presumably
differed from that in the West; poverty in England meant luxury in
Manora. It was true that her father's clothes were shabby, but she was
aware that some elderly men despised their personal appearance; and had
not her father administered a shock? A sharp unexpected disappointment?
Angrily she drove away the fact, but like an irritating insect, it
returned with determined persistence.

He was undoubtedly a gentleman, his features were finely cut, his voice
and manner unimpeachable, but there was a hidden tragedy in those weary
eyes and timid deprecating air. What was the experience which had
crushed all the light out of his face? and why did he look as if he
abode day and night with the giant Despair? Was his haggard expression
merely the result of ill-health, or, in consequence, of the doom of
exile? Then her thoughts sprang back to that central figure--her
mother. Oh, when would she come? What was detaining her?

Presently Verona became aware of a stealthy hustling and scuffling
outside one of the curtained doors; her relations were evidently in her
immediate vicinity. There was a sound of half-suppressed squeaks, of
giggling and tittering, then a voice, in a well-known accent, cried:

"Oh, goody me! Pussy, Pussy, come along!"

Instantly the reply in breathless jerks, like a double knock, "No! no!
no! you go!--you go!"

And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated--was briskly whisked
aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she
could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with
a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed
that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide
scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned
that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati--or
even Madame de Godez!

"Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced
and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are!
You must stoop for me to kiss you."

Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might
be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute.

"My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall
girls are the fashion--so the papers say!"

As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and
fixed intently on the door, she cried:

"Whatt are you doing, child? Why are you staring so?"

"I am expecting my mother; is she coming soon?" she faltered, in a low
tone.

"Soon," repeated the little dark woman, with a scream of hysterical
laughter, "why, she is here, child! Don't you know that _I_ am your
mother? Whatt a funny girl! My! whatt a joke!"

"_You_," stammered Verona, in a faint voice; the room was whirling
round, as she hastily put out her hand to support herself by the table.

"Why, of course, and who else?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, in a sharp
challenging key. "You are astonished because I am so small; I am
astonished because you are so big, so we are quits. No?"

Verona could not speak; she felt as if a rock had fallen upon her heart
and was seized by a choking sensation that threatened to strangle her.
It was the crucial moment of her life. A thunderbolt had shattered her
personality; her very identity seemed dissolved, who was she? What was
she? Vainly she struggled to realize that she was the daughter of this
half-caste woman! Yes, she, with all her delicate fastidiousness, her
uncontrollable antipathy to black blood--her invincible pride of race.

Poor old Madame was indeed prophetic, when she had talked of
"punishment." What a sentence! It was worse than death.

Fortunately the light was dim, the sudden Indian twilight had invaded
the room, for Verona's face was fixed and frozen in an ecstasy of
horror.

"You don't seem to have much to say for yourself," began Mrs. Chandos,
in a querulous, complaining tone, but before she had completed the
sentence her husband entered, closely followed by two young women, and
a slouching youth in a gaudy red blazer.

"Ah, you and your mother have met," he observed in an unnatural muffled
voice. "So you have seen her?"

"Who could see anyone in this light?" cried his wife. "Here is the
lamp," as a bearded servant entered, carrying a large argand, which he
placed on the table.

"Now I'm going to have a good look at Verona," announced Mrs. Chandos,
as she seized the girl's wrist in a fierce claw-like clutch--her tiny
hand resembled the paw of a marmoset--and led her nearer to the light.
The scrutiny proved to be critical, it was more--it was cruel; the
hard, eager eyes that stared into hers, were keen as sword points, and
the unhappy girl realized that no love lay within that searching gaze.

Releasing her daughter with a little contemptuous push, Mrs. Chandos
turned to her husband, and said, "She's like no one I've ever seen; I
suppose _you_ think Verona takes after your family," and she laughed,
as if this idea embodied an excellent joke.

"Yes, I believe she does," admitted Mr. Chandos, as he glanced at the
white, set face with a look of anxious deprecation.

"Well, now we must introduce Verona to her sisters and brother,"
pursued his wife; "this is Dominga," as she led forward a tall, slim
girl of twenty, with a bleached complexion and masses of splendid red
hair; her eyes were long and narrow, her nose delicately cut, her lips
were full; as she pressed them on Verona's cheek they were dry and
burning like two coals.

"And here is Pussy; her real name is Bellamina." Pussy, who was shy,
approached wriggling and giggling. She was dark and plump, but had a
sweet good-tempered face, and her eyes were magnificent. She looked up
timidly at her pale English sister, and in another second Pussy had
flung her arms around her neck and given her her first really cordial
embrace.

"Oh, my goodness, Verona!" she gasped, "you are a beautee, just like a
picture. I shall love you, I know."

"And here is Nicky," continued Mrs. Chandos, dragging up a reluctant
youth, with his long lank wrists bare of cuff, his wiry hair on end,
his sunken eyes twinkling and mischievous. Nicky grinned from ear to
ear, but made no attempt to salute his relative.

"So now you have seen them all except Blanche, and she will come
to-morrow," said Mrs. Chandos. "Oh, my! how funny it is, to have one
great big, new daughter, just like a stranger, is it not, Verona?"

"Yes," she acquiesced, mechanically, scarcely aware that she had
spoken. Was this scene really happening, or was it not some hideous
dream?

"If old Fernanda had not been so weecked we should never have seen
you at all. No?" Mrs. Chandos concluded most of her sentences with a
staccato-like note of negation.

"Which would have been our misfortune," supplemented Mr. Chandos, with
unexpected force. "We are all glad to claim Verona."

As he spoke his eyes rested on this mute newcomer with a look of
melancholy pride. Here was the only one among his children who was
a true Chandos in bearing and breeding; the little fledgling who,
twenty years previously, had, despite his remonstrances, been thrust
out of the nest. What a difference her companionship would have made
to him!--an ever present reminder of his home and youth. Would she be
a comfort to him now? or would she hate and despise him (he cringed
mentally at the thought) for having given her such a mother?

"And now you have seen us all, what do you think of us?" demanded Mrs.
Chandos.

Verona was still too stunned to speak; her sole reply was a sickly
smile.

"You know all about Blanche."

"And she doesn't count now she's married," protested Dominga; "she made
such a bad match; he is only in the telegraph at one hundred and twenty
rupees a month. Oh, she was a mad girl!"

"Come, I wonder what you think of us," reiterated her mother, who
seemed determined to extract some reply to her question. "My! how white
you look! You are tired; better have some tea, it is arl ready."

"No, thank you," faltered Verona, "I had some at the station."

"Whatt," wheeling sharply on her husband, "thatt was just waste, and
must have cost one rupee; but you always have these grand lord ways
when you are alone, and you forget your big family and small pay. No?"

Verona listened, mentally benumbed; her eyes seemed too large for her
face; she looked white and worn, and years older than the girl who so
eagerly alighted at Rajahpore an hour previously; but of all the gazing
group, the wretched girl's father alone comprehended her sensations;
his heart ached for her cruel disillusion. He had intended to drop a
word, a little, little hint on their way home--but cowardice had laid
her finger on his lips!

"I am sure your sister is tired," he said, glancing hurriedly at Pussy
as he spoke; he dared not meet Verona's eyes, tragic with misery and
pain. "Take her away, like a good girl, and show her her room." Oh,
thrice, thrice blessed escape! Pussy, the ever impulsive, instantly
flung her arm round Verona's waist, while Dominga held aside the
purdah, and the three sisters passed forth.

"Of course, it is all strange to you at first," began Dominga, leading
the way with a swaggering gait and the heavy trail of some sickly
perfume, "but you will soon seem like one of the family, you will see,
and just as if you had lived here arl-ways."

What a prospect!




                              CHAPTER XII


The apartment into which Verona was formally conducted proved large and
airy--somewhat of the barn-like type.

"And you're to have it to yourself!" announced Dominga, with an
impressive gesture. "Father made an awful fuss, and had it newly
matted, and white-washed, and see! it opens on the back verandah." As
she spoke she unfastened a glass door and admitted a splendid Eastern
moon, which illuminated the whole country and displayed a wide river
within a few yards of the bungalow. The room was furnished in simple
Indian style; a small cot, large wardrobe and bare dressing-table,
on which stood a bowl of exquisite roses. Dominga indicated with
increased complacency a rickety little Davenport. "Father had it put
in; he said English ladies write letters in their bedrooms."

"It was very thoughtful of him," murmured Verona, and oh, how devoutly
she wished that these two girls would go away and leave her to herself.
But no! having been cut off from her society for so many years, her
sisters were anxious--not to say determined--to enjoy it now. They
fidgetted round the dressing-table, talking incessantly and together,
devouring her all the time with their eyes. "My! what wonderful hair
you have!" cried Pussy, when Verona removed her hat, "and every bit as
much as Dominga. Just look, Dom."

Dominga nodded acquiescence as she stroked it with a patronising touch,
and declared:

"Oh, yes--it _is_ theek." Then she glanced into the mirror, which
was large, and portrayed two faces--nay, three--for Pussy now leant
forward, and added herself to the group.

Verona, in the middle, was the tallest of the trio; her two Eurasian
sisters beamed triumphantly on her reflection and their own.

"Oh no, no, no; we are not one bit a--like!" announced Pussy with a
giggle, "who would suppose we were relations?"

"But she has a great look of _me_," proclaimed Dominga; "her hair grows
in the same way, her nose is the same shape. We must certainly dress
alike! although I am so fair and you," glancing at Verona, "are so very
dark. What do you say?"

Verona nodded assent; she could not have uttered a word were it to save
her life.

Her sister's remark enforced a terrible and tragic truth--she _was_
very dark. On the other hand, Dominga was more of a Chandos than a
Lopez, and her appearance was not altogether out of keeping with a
long line of patrician ancestors. Her head was small and well set on,
and her air was distinctly imperious. Besides these advantages she
had magnificent hair, and a thin delicate profile. A tinge of colour
in her cheeks and lips would have transformed Dominga into a beauty;
unfortunately her skin was as white and dead as any sunbleached bone.

As she stood gazing into the glass the mirror reflected three faces,
and of the trio, her own, in Dominga's opinion, was infinitely the
fairest. It was possibly the most uncommon: being instinct with a
peculiar fiery vitality. A striking--but scarcely what is called "a
good face"--the jaw was a little square, the lips were a little cruel,
the brilliant grey-green eyes were a little hard, a countenance that
could look animated, alluring, impassioned, or implacable, reckless
and grim. Like many red-haired women Dominga generally wore green--it
was her favourite, and she believed, most flattering colour. On the
present occasion her white cambric gown was enlivened by a vivid shade
of emerald in belt and tie, and she surveyed her reflection with
affectionate complacency as she remarked:

"Still, I daresay the same colours will suit us--we are both so pale! I
am longing to see your dresses. Now I wonder if your boxes have come?
I'll just go and ask if there's any sign of that bandy?" and with
obliging alacrity the fair Miss Chandos quitted the room.

"Dominga is mother's favourite," announced Pussy. "Mother is awfullee
proud of her hair and her dead-white skin and her figure. She is sure
to be fond of you too; you are _so_ pretty. But when she first heard
you were coming--my! but she was mad! She said she would not have you,
and she would not write. You see," and Pussy's soft dark eyes became
apologetic, "we are so many girls, and Blanche was, oh, such a trouble!
I'm afraid"--stopping short--"you have a headache. You look so seedy."

"Yes," assented Verona, "I have a dreadful headache."

"It is the horrid train; you will be better after dinner, I know. I
will go and hurry it."

What a relief, if only for a moment, to get that ceaseless chatter
out of her ears! To have a little breathing space in which to realize
her position! Verona was conscious of a sick buzzing in her brain as
she sat down, closed her eyes tightly, and endeavoured to collect her
thoughts, and lay hold of her self-possession. Truly, she had found her
own people; she was one of them now--always and for ever! No wonder
she had felt drawn to the East, since its blood ran in her veins! Her
outlook on life must be entirely re-focussed; her former aims and
illusions lay shattered around her. The unhappy girl sat there, as it
were, among the very ruins of her hopes. But solitude and meditation
were luxuries far too valuable to be enjoyed for any length of time.
A loud thumping on the door aroused Verona from a sort of stupor, and
a voice called: "Rona, Rona, dinner! Come a--long!" Outside in the
passage Pussy was waiting in ambush, and when her sister appeared,
literally fell upon her, and led her triumphantly into the dining-room.

Mrs. Chandos was already seated at table, soup ladle in hand. She
had made no change in her dress, but her husband--who hurried in
with a muttered apology--wore a white open coat, white shirt and
red silk cummerbund, the lingering instinct of the English officer
and gentleman. A yellow shaded lamp in the middle of the table was
supported by two dishes, one of custard apples and the other of butter
cakes. The meal itself was solid and plentiful, and consisted of river
fish, baked kid, curry, and cocoanut pudding. Most of the menu was
absolutely new to Verona, but although she had not tasted food for
hours she was unable to eat; her throat felt constricted and her head
burned. Mrs. Chandos viewed such a poor appetite as a direct personal
grievance, and--despite her daughter's almost tearful protestations,
hinted at "airs" and "pride." The other young people ate heartily, not
to say gluttonously, and devoured the hot curry and butter cakes with
a relish that was amazing. Beyond a little wrangling among themselves
(Verona caught such expressions as "You get out!" "You don't talk to
me like thatt!"), they contributed nothing to the general conversation.
The head of the house wore the rigid look of a mask and scarcely
opened his lips; he was far more taciturn than during the drive from
the station, but his wife made ample compensation for all deficiencies
by continually scolding the servants and plying Verona with sharp
questions--questions respecting money, accomplishments, acquaintances!
questions resembling a series of darts shot by a sure hand. She could
scarcely trust herself to speak of the Gowdys; when she touched on the
subject her voice became shrill and hysterical. Mrs. Chandos appeared
to be bitterly disappointed that her daughter had no acquaintances in
the regiment at Rajahpore--or, indeed, as far as she knew--in India,
and she had made no "nice friends" on board ship.

"But whatt is the use of the P. & O., but for making useful friends?"
argued Mrs. Chandos; "you might as well have come out in a cheap line.
The Finlays, of the railway, came out in the _Peninsula_ with people
who asked Tilly up to Simla. Of course, they did not hear that old
Finlay was once a platelayer, but Lizzie Finlay is a clever girl;
oh, she is a sharp one! No? Now, boy, whatt are you about?"--turning
fiercely on a servant who had upset some gravy--"whatt a stupid pig you
are! Yes! you did see! Whatt do you go telling lies for? Look at the
cloth! When first we were married"--addressing Verona--"Mr. Chandos was
so particular he would always have two clean tablecloths a day, and now
we have two a week; it is all habit! He has got used to things, and to
being poor and a nobody."

"But father may have a great fortune some day," proclaimed Dominga, in
a loud, exultant key, and as she spoke she planted both elbows firmly
on the table.

"You don't know what you are talking about!" muttered Mr. Chandos into
his moustache; "I have never said so."

"Oh, but he may! A beautiful place in England; Mr. Chandos always goes
on like that; we don't mind him," declared his wife with a toss of her
head.

"And then you will see where _we_ come in!" resumed Dominga; "you will
see what carriages and clothes we will have. Oh, there will be no more
of this dirty sugar work then!"

"Ah, but 'Delhi is still a long way off,'" quoted Pussy, with a sly
laugh.

"Oh, you choop! do," cried her sister; "you shut up; you are as bad as
Nani with your native proverbs. We must take Rona into Rajahpore. Goody
me, how the people will stare! They don't know of our new sister."

"I say, I wonder what they will call _her_?" growled Nicky, speaking
with his mouth full of custard apple, and staring reflectively at the
recent arrival. "Dom," indicating his sister with a spoon, "is called
'Red Chandos'; Pussy is 'Black Chandos,' father is 'Old Chandos,' I am
'Inky Chandos,' and mother----"

"Now you be quiett!" shrieked his mother, "telling such stories! For
shame of you!"

"Well, I'd like to know what they call mother?" demanded Dominga, with
the face of a fury.

"I'll tell you thatt when we're by ourselves," he answered with a
wink. Nicky had a way of investing his insolence with a surprisingly
matter-of-fact air.

"Verona, you will make quite a stir, I think," interposed Pussy;
"you look so ladylike, and hold your head so high; you are far more
genteel than Mrs. Captain Tully or Mrs. Major Barrwell, who won't know
_us_: none of the officers' wives ever call here, although they go to
Lepell's, and yet father was an army man, and in the cavalry, too."

"See, now I have an idea," announced Mrs. Chandos suddenly, as if
struck with an inspiration; "since last comers call first, why should
not Verona make a round of the cantonment? It is quite etiquette, and I
can wait outside in the victoria, and then we shall have all the nice
people coming out here instead of railway and contractors, and such
like trash."

"The army people will never come out here," declared Dominga, "no, not
even for Rona; they are a nasty, sneering, low, stuck-up lot, and I
hate them."

"Only the women," corrected Nicky, who had finished his meal, and now
felt at leisure to converse. "You don't hate the officers. Oh, ho! Dom,
you like them! You are awfully keen to go into tennis and badminton and
bands and church. Dom,"--addressing himself especially to Verona--"has
had no end of cases! She is a tremendous flirt; she even tried her hand
on Salwey, but he didn't seem to see it--did he, Dom?"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." There must have been some
tiny grain of truth in Nicky's rude chaff, for the face Dominga turned
on him was fiendish in its expression.

"Will you choop? Will you be quiett?" she screamed, half-rising from
her chair, her voice choked with rage.

"Now, do not tease your sister, for I will not have it," remonstrated
Mrs. Chandos. "Verona does not know that no one minds one single word
of what Nicky says. Oh, he is a shocking liar!"

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!)

Her little black eyes considered every item of Verona's appearance,
from the crown of her dark head to the tip of her neat shoe.

"What do you think of her, Nani?"--(Hindustani for grandmother.)

"She looks like a Burra Miss-Sahib; and is awfully handsome. Soon,
soon, she will be married, and you will be glad of that!"

As Mistress Lopez uttered this prophecy she again looked up at her
daughter and laughed. Her laugh resembled the sound emitted by a pair
of broken bellows.

"I'm sure _I_ wonder she was not married long ago!" rejoined Mrs.
Chandos in an aggrieved tone.

"Oh, but Fernanda would not let her," explained the old woman. "I
know her ways! And so you lived with Fernanda Gowdy for years," now
addressing herself to the girl. "She and I were cronies together at
the Kidderpore school; the Kidderpore was such a big place, and stood
in a great park, and now and then the lady in charge gave a great ball
to the officers and people. Anyone could choose a bride. Fernanda was
a beauty, my! such a figure! You might blow her away! That Scotchman
only saw her twice before he made an offer of marriage. She was just
sixteen. I was married at eighteen. My! my! my! whatt a long time a-go;
and Fernanda is dead! Did you like her?"

"Yes," replied Verona, "she was good to me always. I was very fond of
her."

"But left you no money, no-a--not one pice. Eete was too bad! Aré, it
was a shame! Yet she never was a mean girl!"

"She intended to provide for me, and she gave me a first-rate
education."

"Ah, that is so; and you have learnt to speak and look like some big
swell. Oh, oh, yes! you are a beautee; you will cut out Dominga."

At this point Mrs. Chandos brusquely interposed, speaking in
Hindustani, and mother and daughter had a loud altercation, which
lasted for some minutes.

"Well, well, well! let a-lone, let a-lone!" exclaimed the old woman,
who had evidently had the worst of the argument.

"Verona, child, I hope you may be lucky. Some day I must try your
fortune in the crystal; this is not a good day, it is the twenty-fifth."

"Your Nani is taken up with signs, and tokens, and cards, and spells,"
grumbled Mrs. Chandos, "just like any old bazaar woman. Oh, you will be
surprised at her ways!"

"I hope she will get used to all our ways, for some of them are funny,"
rejoined Mrs. Lopez good-humouredly, and she nodded her head till her
three chins shook again.

"Yes, you will, miss, oh, so many fine things; but there is no other
home for you, and you cannot live in the river, and be at enmity with
the crocodile!"

Verona stared at the speaker with an expression of complete
bewilderment.

"Pah! it is only one of mother's silly proverbs," explained Mrs.
Chandos; "here, sit down," pushing a cane stool towards her. Her
daughter gladly accepted the morah, and while her two relatives once
more discussed her in voluble Hindustani, her eyes wandered languidly
around the room.

The floor was covered with soiled matting and one handsome Persian
rug. The walls were ornamented with gaudy-coloured prints; in a
corner was a low charpoy, or bed, with red-lacquered legs and heaped
high with pillows; a press, an ancient bureau, a card-table, and a
cooking-stove completed the furniture. Nani's shoes, which were small,
an umbrella, which was large, occupied a prominent position; a dress
on a peg still retained the voluminous outline of her figure: there
were also her domestic pets. In a rude tin cage on the bureau dozed,
as Verona subsequently discovered, a peculiarly rude green parrot. The
empty fire-place, instead of exhibiting the usual paper frills, made
a comfortable cot for a huge black cat. In an angle beyond the press
lay some larger animal, and Verona received a distinct shock when she
discovered that the object of her curiosity was a full-sized goat.

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Lopez, as she caught her eyes. "The go-at! But she is
so tame--tame as the cat; I keep her for my coffee; I make it myself
fresh, fresh every three days, and see it roasted and ground--just
what fills three bottles. Oh, it is awfully good! You shall have some
to-morrow, when I will tell your fortune."

"And your Nani will stuff your head with nonsense and proverbs," said
Mrs. Chandos.

"No-a, indeed! they all feete," protested her mother. "Verona is
sensible, thatt I can see, and now she is in her father's house she
will be content, and will stretch her feet to the length of the sheet.
Won't you, child?"

"I am not looking for riches and luxuries, ma'am."

"Yes. But hitherto you have had five fingers in the ghee. You do not
know what it is to be poor."

As this was true Verona remained silent.

"And you are so handsome!" resumed the old woman. "You will be
arl-right, I see it in your face. You will be lucky. You know the
saying, 'Who eats sugar, will _get_ sugar.'"

Then turning sharply to her daughter, she said:--"Rosie, this girl is
not like any one of you, no! she is different to all. It is another
_face_!"

"And how do you account for it, Nani?" inquired Mrs. Chandos, with a
sneering smile.

"Oh, it is quite plain! Oh, thatt is easily done!" rejoined Mrs. Lopez
with delighted alacrity. "She takes after my mother. Yes; she must
inherit from her; for, although she was only a Temple girl who danced
before the gods--a Naikin from Goa, where my father first saw her--yet
she was celebrated as the most beautiful woman on the whole West coast!"

"And you think Verona beautiful, and like her?" cried her daughter,
bursting into a peal of derisive laughter. "Whatt a joke! Well, Nani,
you _must_ be blind! She is well enough, but no beauty."

"Pah! pah! pah! you are no judge, Rosa! You have only eyes for that red
cat of yours; and I tell you this child," and she pointed to Verona,
"has a face that will make her fortune; it may be, arl your fortunes."

"And that reminds me of the money," said Mrs. Chandos, with a sudden
start--"the three hundred pounds fortune. Did you bring it in
sovereigns, Verona, as we wished?"

"Yes, it is all in my dressing bag."

"Ayah, ayahjee!" and Mrs. Chandos went screaming to the door. "Go,
fetch the Missy's big leather bag, and bring it here, quick, quick!
quick! Or, wait! I go myself," and she darted into the moonlight.

"She is wonderful, your mother," remarked the old woman; "so sharp
about money! Such a manager! Great show outside, and pinching in the
belly; but she will have it thus, since there are so many to feed, and
young girls to marry. Her wishes are high."

"Yes," assented her daughter mechanically.

"Arl-day she works so hard in the office next door, doing figures and
accounts. She owns a few little houses in the bazaar, and adds on to
the pay. It is not much, two hundred a month."

"Pounds?" suggested her companion.

"No! rupees--that is to say, shillings. But she is a manager."

"Well, here it is," panted Mrs. Chandos, pushing open the door with her
foot, and entering bag in hand; "now let us see the money."

As Verona hastened to produce her keys, and proceeded to unlock the
bag, Mrs. Chandos continued:

"I will invest it for you, child; it will bring in good interest;
as much as one hundred and fifty rupees a year, which will buy you
clothes."

"No, no! it is all for you and father," protested the girl. "I only
wish it were more! I really do not want it."

"Yes, that is what I said," agreed Mrs. Chandos, with astonishing
animation; "but your father does not agree; it is your little dowry,
he says, and is to be put by for your use alone. He will not touch one
pice. Sometimes he can be as obstinate as a rock, and I have given him
a promise not to accept one rupee from you. No! even should you offer
it on your knees!"

While she was speaking Verona had unearthed a green silk bag, which she
was now about to place upon the table, but Mrs. Chandos seized it from
her, drew the string and emptied out the gold into one shining mass.
How her eyes glittered and her cheeks blazed as she bathed her hands in
the sovereigns, and let them dribble through her claw-like fingers. She
appeared completely transformed, her complexion glowed, the hard lines
on her face relaxed into smiles.

Verona, as she stared in wonderment, no longer disbelieved the tale
that her mother had once been a beauty. How strange that the mere
sight of gold should thus transfigure her countenance--for a second it
was illumined with the colour and sparkle of her long lost youth. At
this moment there was a sudden sound of crushed gravel without: the
door was opened unceremoniously, and a tall, obese old man stood on
the threshold. Verona's heart failed her as she beheld him, and asked
herself the desperate question if here was yet another relation?

This time a pure native.




                              CHAPTER XIV


The visitor wore a long, blue cloth coat, belted with leather, a huge
white turban and a venerable white beard. His air and expression of
benevolent dignity recalled to Verona the pictures of the prophet
Abraham.

"Why, it is Abdul Buk!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Abdul, what a man you
are! I believe," laying her hand over the gold in front of her, "you
smell money."

"Nay!" and he salaamed as he spoke; "I have come hither on a little
business; I know nought of smell, but the sight of money is ever good."
He grinned broadly at his own pleasantry and displayed several yellow
stumps.

"Behold my new grandchild, Abdul," cried Mrs. Lopez, indicating Verona
with flattering complacency; "is she not well grown?"

Once more he salaamed, and the girl slightly bent her head in
acknowledgment of the salute.

"He manages your mother's little property," continued the old woman,
"and has doubled her income. Oh, he is very clever!"

"I hope he will double this gold," said Mrs. Chandos, piling it up into
neat rows. "See, Abdul, three hundred English sovereigns; it belongs to
my daughter; it is her fortune," and as she spoke she filled both hands
with the coin and held them towards him with a playful air. "Don't you
wish it was all yours?"

"Money, in a woman's hands, won't last; a child, left in the hands of a
man, won't live," quoted Mrs. Lopez with impressive solemnity.

"But Abdul will invest it for Verona, and get her good interest--won't
you, Abdul?" said Mrs. Chandos; "say one hundred and fifty rupees a
year." As she spoke she turned towards him, and their eyes met in one
long, fixed look.

"Oh, yess; certainly," he answered, "I can promise thatt. Oh, yess."

"Then you will invest in sugar?"

"Oh, yess."

"Had you better take it now, or another time?"

"No time like the present," he replied; "delays are dangerous. See,"
to Mrs. Lopez, "I have the English proverbs at my fingers' ends. My
carriage is here, and I will take the money. In this big house it is
not safe."

"That is true," acquiesced Nani. Meanwhile Mrs. Chandos, who seemed to
be feverishly excited, gathered up the sovereigns with hot, tremulous
fingers, and returned them into the green silk bag, which she handed to
Abdul with a nod of mysterious significance.

"Of course, he will give a receipt," said Mrs. Lopez in a sharp
business-like voice; "better take receipt."

"Oh, yess; I will go into the office and write it, and Mrs. Chandos
will lend me one stamp," and he tramped out with ponderous creaking
footfall. Whilst Abdul was absent the crocodile travelling case
attracted Mrs. Lopez' curiosity, and she requested an immediate
introduction to its further contents. One by one these were gradually
presented, a tiny gold watch and jewelled chain, a case of valuable
rings. As each was exhibited Mrs. Lopez and her daughter joined in a
harmonious duet of "Oh, mys!" But a turquoise and diamond necklace,
and a splendid emerald pendant, set in brilliants, reduced them to
a condition of gasping silence. Subsequent silver-mounted brushes,
mirrors and bottles and even a gold shoe-horn appeared in comparison
but very small deer. Had that gambling old card-table, imported in
the early days of John Company, ever exhibited as much money's worth?
The ayah had crept in stealthily; so had Pussy. Were they drawn by
some inexplicable instinct, or by the mere, careless chance of pure
coincidence? Abdul, too, had returned, paper in hand, and stood silent
in the background, admiring, and possibly appraising, the jewels.
What a scene for an artist! The hot, squalid room, the dark faces,
the staring, greedy eyes; in the midst the little old table loaded
with jewels, and the pale, indifferent English girl to whom they all
belonged.

"What think you of these, Abdul?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, pointing with
a tremulous finger.

"That," advancing two steps, with creaking boots, "the wife of the
Viceroy hath no better."

"And their value?" she asked, sharply.

"Nay, I am ignorant. I deal in sugar cane and gram, not precious
stones. It were wise to put them in some place of safety, and here is
the receipt for the money," he continued, holding out a sheet of paper
on which was inscribed: "Manora, September fifth. Received, to place at
good, safe interest, as I may find occasion, the sum of three hundred
sovereigns, English money, from Miss Verona Chandos, the interest to be
paid every six months into her hands by me, ABDUL HAMID BUK."

"There! that is all right and stamped," he said, "and now I will take
the gold and depart. I would advise the Missy Sahib to be mindful of
her jewels."

"Thank God the money will be out of the house!" said Mrs. Lopez,
piously; "this, as is well known, is an awful district for robbery and
murder."

"Only among natives," corrected Mrs. Chandos, with a fearless toss of
her head.

"It has a very bad name," argued her mother, "that you know, and that
is why Salwey is in charge of the police; truly the last man was an old
woman."

"And this one is a young devil!" cried her daughter with startling
vehemence.

"Come to the office once more, Abdul. I want a word with you about my
rents," said Mrs. Chandos.

"Certainly," he replied, and, money in hand, and having executed a
general salaam, the benignant patriarch tramped out of the room in the
wake of his employer. Pussy assisted her sister to collect and put away
the jewellery, uttering, as she did so, many flattering adjectives.

"Now you must go to bed, children," announced their grandmother;
"it is after nine o'clock. The travelling girl is dead tired," and
at last Verona escaped to her own quarters, kind Pussy carrying the
dressing-bag, and affectionately anxious to help her to undress, and,
above all, to brush her hair. Her good offices were set aside with the
greatest difficulty. Being naturally a little dense, it never dawned
upon Bellamina Chandos that her sister did not require assistance, or
would prefer her own company.

At last her simple mind accepted the novel idea, and her entreaties
ceased.

"Dom," she whispered, as she embraced her, "is not quite sure; but _I_
know--that I shall love you."

With one vigorous hug she vanished, and Verona was left alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as she had closed and carefully bolted the door on Pussy's
pretty entreating face, Verona turned down the smoky lamp and sat for a
considerable time in the dark, alone with her own thoughts. Presently
these thoughts became so terrible--so unbearably painful, like some
intense physical agony, that she rose, unfastened the window and
wandered into the verandah and down a path by the bank of the river.
The river was wide and swift, being swollen by the recent rains; on the
further side it was bordered by a high jungle of reeds and rushes, and
beyond it, as seen through a filmy veil of gauze, lay the spreading
moonlit plain which seemed to stretch away into the infinite, which
was also India! Behind rose the bungalow, large and straggling: on the
left towered the factory; to the right lay the office, with the light
still burning in the window. Verona noticed these details as she paced
the pathway, flitting to and fro like some distracted spirit on the
banks of the Styx; and was she not a creature suddenly transported
to an unknown world? She was no longer Verona Chandos, who had fared
delicately all her life, who had a carefully cultivated taste in
music and literature, definite ideas respecting bindings and coloured
prints, who collected book plates, was discriminating in her choice
of associates, dainty in her tastes, a much-desired partner for golf,
bridge or cotillon, a girl who had found her world a pleasant place
to live in, and had tried to share with others some of the sunshine
which had fallen to her lot. And she was not a bad girl--though she
might have been better; was inclined to be quick-tempered and a little
supercilious, but she had endeavoured to be sincere, to be kind to the
sick and poor, and to champion dumb animals. Well, that Verona was
dead; she had passed away for ever, with all her little vanities and
tempers and love of pretty clothes and interesting pursuits.

And here was the other, the real original Verona, a poor half-caste,
whose life and thoughts must be confined to the limits of her parents'
purse and wishes, who must keep in step with her two sisters and look
for nothing beyond the horizon of her home. And what had she in common
with her relations? Nothing beyond the mere fact of her existence and
name. Apparently their aim in life was to climb into station society;
and her aim in life?--what was her dearest wish at the present moment?
Her dearest wish--she scarcely dared whisper it even to her inner
soul. Verona was making acquaintance with the truth, the hideous,
hard-hearted truth, and her thoughts were so disordered that she did
not realise what time of night it was, or even that it was night! But
at last her tired body refused to co-operate with her restless mind,
and completely exhausted, she was compelled to drag herself to her
bed--where sleep immediately claimed her.

Though dreams visited the worn-out traveller, her slumbers were almost
as profound as if she had really passed away. Once she awoke in the
still night; the moon streamed full into the room; there was a faint
sound of flowing water. Where was she? Her drowsy brain failed to
recall the great events of yesterday.

Suddenly a strange, weird sound pierced the silence, the wild, horrible
howl of a pack of hunting jackals as they swept across the plain beyond
the river, and for a frantic moment the wretched girl believed herself
to be listening, in some dim region, to the agonised wailing of lost
souls.

But no; it was only a hideous nightmare! She turned on her side with a
sigh of relief, and again relapsed into slumber.

In the morning when Verona opened her eyes, it was to gaze vacantly
about her. She was at a loss to remember how she came to be lying
in this great bare room. Where was she? Was she in Spain, or some
out-of-the-way French town? She strove to summon her scattered
thoughts, and all too soon they came trooping back and assured her that
she was at last at home--yes, in her real home, among her own people!
She was sensible of a feeling of repulsion and absolute despair, and
yet another self--which must have been her original baby self--cried
shame on her for her hard heart and unnatural, wicked pride. Why should
she be proud? She was nothing more nor less than a well-educated
half-caste, who had been foolishly removed from her proper sphere,
her own particular class. Her father--oh! why had he married a woman
of such a race? Now, she understood his constrained manner, his
ashamed silence and his downcast air, why he seemed to shun his former
associates and to withdraw from society like some social outlaw. And
she, who had never had one hint of her own origin, had acquired the
ideas, refinements and prejudices of a high-bred English girl. What was
to become of her?

She sat up in bed, holding her hands to her throbbing head, and
endeavoured to individualise her relations. Her father--the broken-down
gentleman, lethargic and dumb; her mother--she shrank from the subject
as a flame; her sisters--uneducated, emotional, shrill; given to cheap
scents and greasy sweetmeats; her grandmother--but one degree above the
ayah; and her own good looks complacently attributed to an ancestress,
a Temple girl who danced before the gods!

It all sounded like an Opéra Bouffe, a transformation scene of wild,
topsy-turvy comedy, instead of which it was the sharp, agonising truth;
no burlesque, but a heart-breaking tragedy--the tragedy of her life.
How was she to endure this existence? What could she do? Where could
she go? Where hide herself? For the first time in her existence, a
longing for death surprised her.

There was a loud rattling and calling at the door, which she
opened, to discover (as she half expected), Pussy, in a tattered
pink dressing-jacket and bare feet, bringing her her morning Chotah
Hazri. Here was an end to silence and self-communion; she must rouse
herself, summon her self-command and confront her fate. Meanwhile a
cup of fragrant Indian tea, some slices of curious grey bazaar bread
and peculiarly white butter seemed delicious fare to a girl, who had
scarcely tasted food for four-and-twenty hours.

The long hours of the morning were devoted by Verona to unpacking her
boxes and distributing gifts, such as books, fans, little ornaments and
knick-knacks; her sisters and Nicky were enchanted with their presents;
her mother only, accepted her share with a doubtful and ungracious air,
nor did she attempt to disguise her opinion that she regarded such
outlay as a sinful waste of money.

In the afternoon, when tiffin was over, it was the custom of the entire
family to repair to their several lairs in order to enjoy a long
siesta; and Verona, thus released, now set about unpacking her own
personal effects; but Pussy, for once, dispensed with her nap and clung
to her sister with an offer of her society and assistance; it was
impossible for her to comprehend that any one could endure to be alone.

She artlessly believed that Verona was as anxious for her company
as she was to accord it. Her co-operation being politely declined,
instead of taking her departure--as hoped for--Pussy merely kicked off
her shoes and flung herself at full length on the bed, where she lay
in an attitude of voluptuous ease, lazily contemplating her sister's
exertions.

"My, my, my! how neat you are!" she exclaimed in admiration, as she
watched her busy relative emptying boxes and putting away linen, "and
how quick; the ayah would have taken hours! What heaps of stockings,
petticoats, and books--none of us read, except father and Dom--you see,
we've not had much schooling. Nicky is as ignorant as a coolie boy;
only for that, he would get into the works. I am just as bad. Dominga
is our clever one; she writes a good hand, and she sings splendidly."

"Oh, does she?" said Verona; "where was she taught?"

"She learnt at the school; we were both at school in Nani Tal. They say
her voice is extraordinary, you can hear it half a koss away. She plays
tennis and badminton better than any girl in Manora. Mother is so proud
of her! Mother is clever too, especially at writing and figures; she
loves accounts. Yes, mother loves two things, Dominga and money! Father
loves silence and smoking. Nani loves coffee and news."

"And Pussy?" looking up with a smile.

"Loves you, Verona."

"Thank you, dear."

"And also someone, oh, so much! but I cannot tell you _yet_; it is a
secret," and Pussy turned her face away and hid her blushes in the
pillow. However, her blushes and emotion were of transitory duration,
for in a few seconds her sprightly voice was saying:

"Of course, _you_ have a thousand lovers, Verona?"

"I? Certainly not!"

"Oh, but--it cannot be true; why there is Dominga, not a quarter so
pretty, and she has had dozens. Even Lizzie Trotter has a young man in
the commissariat."

"And I have not, even what you call one young man, in anything."

"You are so pretty, you will get millions of offers; mother wishes us
all to marry. Even when Blanche went, and it was such a poor match, she
was glad. She expects Dominga to marry an officer. Ah, Rona, you are
not even listening," she protested in a little piteous wail, "and I
thought you might like to hear all about it."

"Of course I am listening," replied her sister, from the interior of an
open box over which she was stooping; "you were saying something about
Dominga and an officer."

"Yes, and we hardly know one. Father was in the army himself, the 51st
Hussars, and yet he will never call on the mess, although friends of
his have been in the station. Father is so odd--nothing will make him
go near a regiment, not even mother, and she can generally get him
to do whatever she chooses; he has given in to her about everything,
except about _you_."

"What about me?" asked her sister, quickly raising her head; "but no,
don't tell me--it is better not."

"Oh, mother will tell you herself; it is no secret! She has told
everyone in Manora that she did not want you to come out. It was
another girl to marry, she said, and no money! She declared you
could get a nice situation at home; and you were a stranger, a black
stranger, and would ruin us with your bad example and silly English
notions. Even Nani said you were like the Dhoby's donkey, for you
neither belonged to the house, or the river! You know how she talks in
proverbs?"

"Yes," assented Verona in a faint voice.

"But father swore you should come, and he wrote himself--he who never
writes. Do you know, when mother got your letter she screamed for three
whole hours! She always does that when she is awfully angry. Oh, she
is not angry now she has seen you; no, no, no, she is proud! I heard
her this morning talking over the wall to Mrs. Trotter, and boasting of
your air and figure. But still I think Dominga will always be first."

"And why not? My mother has had her with her since she was born, and I
am, as you know, a stranger."

"You won't be long so," declared Pussy; "you will soon be at home, I
can see. Just look how you've put away your things and arranged this
room. Now, I must tell you something about the people all round before
they come to call--so you will know. First of all there are Mr. and
Mrs. Lepell in the big bungalow; he is the manager of the factory, and
draws two thousand rupees a month; he is nice and friendly, but we
never get to know _her_ any better. Oh, she is not exactly proud, but
she keeps us off. Her father was a big swell, and she has a fortune.
She is not at all young; mother says she must be five-and-forty, but
she dresses beautifully, and gives such fine parties; they entertain
the whole station like a king and queen. Yess, she is quite the Burra
Mem Sahib, and only asks us to her small affairs, when we meet just the
other factory people. Mother hates her--oh, goody me!--like poison, but
is always awfully pleasant to her, and sends her her best mango jelly
and chutney, because she hopes she may take up Dominga. She did ask Dom
once to sing, and if Mrs. Lepell would chaperon Dom into society, her
fortune would be made. Oh, my, yess!"

"I see," assented her listener, "and it is with this hope that mother
sends her mango jam?"

"Of course. Then there are the Trotters," resumed Pussy, with an air
of complacent narration; "he was only a sergeant in some regiment, and
he is the engineer here; they say he is very clever--just a common,
rough man, with such a pushing family. There is Mrs. Trotter and Amelia
and Georgina, Louisa and Tom. Tom is in the works. He and Dominga used
to be pals; but she threw him over long ago. The Trotters are always
looking down on us, because we have never been home, and they were
born in England; but they are coolie people, and our father is an
officer and a gentleman. Sometimes we are awfully friendly with the
Trotters, and in and out ten times a day; sometimes we don't speak for
months. Last time we quarrelled was about a bottle of anchovy sauce
which they never returned.

"Then there are the Watkins, a newly-married couple, out from
Manchester. He is secretary; she is awfully prim, and afraid to know
any one, and dresses for dinner when they are quite _alone_, and talks
of her father keeping two gardeners. There are the Cavalhos; they are
just half-castes; oh, so dark, and yet not bad. I like them; they
are awfully good natured. When anyone is in trouble they all run to
Mistress Cavalho. Also, there are the Olivers--gone home on leave--very
nice people and not stiff, though they are gentry folk. There are some
young men clerks--Raymond, and Smith and Mackenzie. We all meet at the
tennis three times a week and play together, whether we are friends or
not. Then there is Salwey----" She paused.

"Who is he?" inquired Verona, feigning an interest which she was far
from feeling.

"The police officer, a nephew of Mrs. Lepell's; he lives in
cantonments. He is so strict and severe. Oh, mother does hate him--I
believe she is afraid of him!"

"How can he possibly affect mother?" inquired Verona, as she sorted out
some gloves.

"Of course, not at all, but he gives you the horrid notion that he can
read your thoughts, and knows every single little thing about you.
Whenever he looks at me, I can't help wriggling like an insect on a
pin, and mother declares that he has the evil eye!"

"The evil eye!" repeated Verona; "you don't really believe in such
nonsense?"

"Well, perhaps not. Salwey's eyes are bluey-grey, like steel. He is not
bad looking, and once--now I'll tell you a secret----"

"No, don't! Please!" protested Verona, throwing up her hands.

"Oh, but I must; I do like talking secrets," pursued Pussy with
breathless volubility, "I think Dominga used to be crazy about him, and
sent him notes by Nicky."

"What!"

"Yes; but I don't believe he ever gave them. Salwey and Nicky are
great friends. He lives near the river and has a boat, and comes up
to the Lepells that way when he is in the station. He gave Nicky a
pup, and books and advice, and taught him to row. We have a boat, too.
Nicky's awfully fond of Salwey, he just worships him; but he can't bear
Dominga, and I don't believe he ever gave the letters. You must know
that in this house there are two factions: it is Dom and mother against
Nick and me. Oh! oh! oh!" suddenly sitting erect, "you are getting out
your dresses! how lovelee!" as Verona unfolded and displayed a white
crêpe de chine, a green foulard and an exquisite white and silver ball
dress.

Pussy clapped her hands excitedly, and screaming, "Oh, I must call the
others," leapt off the bed and ran shoeless out of the room.

Verona was a girl who wore her clothes well in every respect; not
only had she the knack of investing them with her own grace and
individuality, but they still seemed dainty and fresh long after they
had passed their first bloom. There were no tea or coffee stains on
the front breadth (that every-day misfortune), frayed seams or ragged
edges in the gowns she was taking from her boxes or ranging round the
room for the promised exhibition. Here were tailor costumes, evening
dresses, muslins, laces and many dainty frocks which had been worn at
Homburg, Aix and Cannes, and some had cost what is figuratively termed
"a small fortune."

The apartment now resembled the atelier of some fashionable milliner,
the stock was so choice and extensive. In a surprisingly short time
the "others" had assembled. These included Mrs. Chandos, her hair in
curling pins, spotted dressing-jacket and short striped petticoat--she
had very neat feet; Dominga, in ragged _déshabille_; the ayah,
attracted from her hookah; last, not least, Granny Lopez, clad in
a loose garment that was really an old tussore silk dust-cloak, a
scanty petticoat and a pair of discarded tennis shoes, carrying under
her arm a reluctant black cat--all come to behold and gloat over the
great show. Nani was accommodated with a chair, and Verona, by special
request, held up and exhibited separately the most elegant items of her
wardrobe.

What little screams of admiration greeted the sight of some garments;
what a chorus of "Oh, mys!" attended the display of others. By the
end of half an hour every possible epithet of admiration had been
exhausted, and Verona was exhausted too.

"Well, in all my life, I never did see such beautiful clothes,"
confessed Mrs. Chandos.

Which statement was no doubt true.

"They must have cost hundreds of pounds."

This was also a fact.

"Oh, my! Oh, my! what advantages you have had, Verona, child, compared
with these poor girls," she continued as she flitted about the room
in a condition of extraordinary excitement; "you must share your fine
feathers with them now. If Dominga here were set off in that blue and
white, she would look every bit as well as you; all she wants is to be
dressed up in good clothes--eh, Nani?"

"That is so," agreed the elder with her wheezy laugh, "for who can row
without water?"

"Now I shall divide some of these things," declared Mrs. Chandos, as
she hovered about; "Verona could not wear half of them."

Verona, who had made up her mind never again to mix in society, and
had originally brought out this large outfit with the intention of
sharing it with her sisters, would nevertheless have preferred to have
bestowed her garments to her own liking, and not to stand by passively
while her mother distributed her wardrobe. The choicest articles were
shamelessly selected for Dominga--for instance, a magnificent white
satin gown, a pale blue crêpe de chine, an elaborate lace costume, a
mauve and silver tea gown. Then Pussy was endowed with various frocks
and hats (Verona helping in the selection), and the possession of a
certain pink feather boa had made her completely happy. Verona also
chose a pretty chiffon cape, which she spread over her grandmother's
ample shoulders. It was a very orgie of millinery, among which Mrs.
Chandos hovered, picking out a toque here, a sash there. At last, when
the supply had become somewhat low, she said:

"Well, that will do for the girls; I will take these blouses and the
pink satin for myself; it will alter, and I will wear it for the
Volunteer Ball. Eh, Nani, what do you say?"

"I say that if you wear such a frock you'll be more celebrated than the
devil!"

"Ah, bah!" cried her daughter. "You funny old woman. Is that all you
have to say?"

"No," she responded, and turning to Verona with a nod of her head at
the different piles of her property which had been distributed, "they
all like you very much now, Verona, child--'he who holds the ladle has
everybody his friend.' But let me tell you one thing more--your mother
has a pocket like the crop of a duck--you can never fill it!"

"And you are a curiosity and should be put in a museum," retorted her
daughter in great good humour. "Come, come, it is now half-past four
o'clock; Blanche and Montagu will be here soon; let us clear away and
dress," and swooping down upon a heap of her spoils, Mrs. Chandos
hurried out of the room, followed by Dominga, Pussy and the ayah, each
bowed down and nearly hidden by their loads of new finery.

But Mrs. Lopez was slower to move; having extricated herself from her
chair with considerable difficulty, she stood for a moment gazing at
Verona, and said, in an impressive voice:

"You have given me a nice present; you are a very generous girl and do
not despise your old crannie grandmother, so I will tell you one good
proverb to cheer you! Now listen."

"I am listening, Nani."

"'Our past is ourselves, what we are, and will be,'" quoted Mrs.
Lopez, and she continued to look fixedly at Verona with a significant
expression in her little dark eyes. "Do not trouble, child--you will
never be of _us_," then hitching the black cat under her arm, she
waddled away to her own quarters.




                              CHAPTER XV


There was a sudden commotion in the front part of the
bungalow--barking, running and calling. Dominga, in a breathless
condition, burst in upon Verona, and gasped out:

"Oh, my goodness, here is Blanche! and none of us are dressed! Do go
into the drawing-room, you are ready. Go, go, go!"

Thus exhorted, Verona hastened into that apartment, barely in time to
see a gharry, drawn by two wretched ponies, rattle underneath the porch.

The first person she descried was a stout ayah, who descended
backwards, carrying an infant over her shoulder; an alert,
sharp-looking creature, in a gay hood, with eyes like two jet beads,
and a dusky skin.

The next to appear was, no doubt, Blanche herself; a little, dark, wiry
woman, closely resembling her mother, wearing a smart pink cotton, a
picture hat and a profusion of bead chains. She sprang up the steps,
suddenly stopped short, stared helplessly at Verona, and exclaimed:

"Hul--lo! I suppose this is the third Miss Chandos?" Then she giggled
immoderately, and proceeded to kiss her, adding:

"I am Blanche. Blanche Montagu Jones, you know, and here," turning and
dragging forward her husband, "is your brother, Montagu."

Montagu was a lank, narrow-chested Eurasian, showily dressed in a blue
and white striped suit; he wore a red satin tie, a gilt chain and
several rings. He had well-cut features, a simple, amiable expression,
and a pair of pale grey eyes, which seemed peculiarly out of place when
contrasted with his dark face, and ink-black hair.

"Come, you may kiss her; I give you leave," declared his sprightly
wife, pushing him forward with both hands.

But however willing he might have been to accept this permission,
there was an expression on the face of the third Miss Chandos which
constrained him, and he merely sniggered and offered a limp hand.

"What! not kiss Monty, your own brother?" cried Blanche, in a tone
of affronted amazement, "then all I can say is--I'm sorry for your
_taste_!"

Meanwhile Monty consoled himself by saluting his mother-in-law--with
whom he appeared to be on terms of unnatural affection.

"And here," resumed Blanche, now waving forward her offspring, "is your
dear little nephew, Chandos Montagu Jones; he is ten weeks old to-day.
Kiss your new auntie, sweetie king."

From this embrace there was of course no escape; for the ayah promptly
handed the child to Verona with an air of gratified relief. If Verona
had been informed that it was the woman's own infant, she would have
accepted the announcement without demur, the little thing was so dark;
its olive face was bright and cheery, and she dandled it, kissed it,
and carried it about with a secret presentiment that she would like it
better than either of its parents!

"Well, now there is so much I want to know," began Blanche, as she
threw herself into a chair; "when did she come?" nodding at Verona,
"for we all went to the train and could not see her anywhere. We took
the De Castros, and the Jenkins, and Mr. Bott, and those two young
fellows from the cantonment office. Oh, my! they were all dying to get
the first sight of Verona, and she was not there. She must have come by
the four o'clock, and we went to the half-past two."

"Dios!" suddenly interrupting herself with a loud shriek, for here
entered, with mincing and self-conscious gait, Dominga and Pussy,
attired in two of Verona's most elegant casino costumes. The former
in pale green (her particular colour), veiled with white lace, and
garnished with black velvet; the latter, in a superb hand-painted
muslin. They wore hats and ruffles to correspond, and an air of
overwhelming complacency.

"Why, why, what is this, what is this?" screamed Blanche, backing
towards the verandah with uplifted hands and an expression of awe and
bewilderment.

Without delay it was volubly explained to her by three voices, all
gabbling together, that these were the garments of Verona, who had
more smart clothes than the room could hold. Then Dominga and Pussy
sat down, each on a separate sofa, spread out their skirts, fanned
themselves languidly, and proceeded to imagine that they were fine
ladies. Gradually Blanche's gaze of awed admiration faded into a scowl
of envy.

Montagu stared and sniggered, and twirled his moustache, whilst Verona
stood in the background, holding the little dark child, who apparently
liked her, and clung to her neck like a very crab.

"Oh, but you shall have your share, too!" said Dominga, in a soothing
tone, as she recognised the storm cone--for Blanche had inherited her
mother's temper.

"There is a lovely toque for you, and such a dress piece of white
alpaca, and you shall have one of my parasols. There now!"

"Parasol, cha--a--h" (native expression of scorn)--"you put me off like
that! Why shouldn't I have a smart dress? How sly and greedy you all
are, keeping the grand things to yourselves--just like pigs. One thing
you forget," as she straightened herself and glared from Dominga to
Pussy, then back from Pussy to Dominga, "I am the eldest!"

"Oh, yes, but that does not count now," was the bold retort, "you are
not one of us; you are married. Oh, my!" with a change of key. "Here is
Mrs. Lepell, what shall we do?"

During this interesting altercation a slim little lady, with a clever
piquant face, had walked on to the verandah totally unnoticed.

She wore a simple linen gown and a large garden hat, and her hair,
which was turned off her delicate careworn face, was touched with grey.

"How do you do, Mrs. Chandos?" she said, coming forward, then gave a
perceptible start as her eye fell on the two Paris models.

"I've just walked across to call on your daughter, the new arrival,"
and she nodded to the rest of the company.

"Oh, thank you," stammered Mrs. Chandos, "you are so kind, there
she is," and she beckoned to Verona, who stood in the background,
still holding the child; this its grandmother snatched from her with
irritable haste, and said as she thrust it into the ayah's arms:

"Verona, here is Mrs. Lepell, she has been so kind as to ask for you."

If Mrs. Lepell had been amazed by the brilliant toilettes of the Misses
Chandos, she was more astonished now, when a girl of her own class
came slowly forward: a beautiful dark-eyed creature, with an air of
unaffected distinction.

At first she could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses. Here,
indeed, was a dove in the crow's nest.

"So you only arrived yesterday?" she managed to articulate at last.

"Yes, last evening."

"Shall we sit over here?" said Mrs. Lepell, indicating a settee a
little apart. Her visit was to the stranger, whose acquaintance she was
now really anxious to make. She particularly disliked Mrs. Chandos,
and if there was one young woman who was more obnoxious to her than
Dominga, it was Blanche Montagu Jones. The family accepted the hint
with obvious reluctance, and stood aloof in a group, whispering,
giggling and wrangling.

"I believe you have never been in India since you were a small child,"
continued Mrs. Lepell, addressing her companion.

"No, I do not remember it; I have lived in Europe for twenty years."

"Ah, I wonder what you will think of us all!"

Verona raised her eyes to her visitor, then dropped them hastily, but
not before Mrs. Lepell had caught their look of unspoken despair.

"I am quite an old Anglo-Indian," she continued briskly. "I loathed
the country at first, now I am much attached to it; the cold weather
will be here in another few weeks. You will enjoy that, it is our gay
season."

Here it seemed to Mrs. Lepell that her companion gave a slight
involuntary shudder.

"I am sure you will wonder at the way these mad girls are giggling,"
said Mrs. Chandos, with a would-be jaunty air, as she approached and
indicated Dominga and Pussy. "They are awfully smart, and have been
trying on their sister's kind presents."

"Why, mother," interposed Blanche (who had no fear of Mrs. Lepell, her
husband not being in the factory), "Pussy tells me that besides the
beautiful presents she brought out, you divided all Verona's best gowns
between her and Dominga!"

On such occasions as the present Mrs. Chandos hated her eldest
daughter, who had a sharp and utterly fearless tongue.

"Oh, you do not understand," she began excitedly.

"I see I've come in for a dress-rehearsal," observed Mrs. Lepell,
hoping to smooth matters.

"Borrowed plumes! secondhand clothes. Ch-a-ah!" sneered Blanche, in
a shrill, discordant key. She breathed so hard that all her beads
jingled, and her husband retreated precipitately into the verandah.

Was Blanche going to have a row with her mother?

Oh, she was so fond of rows! Rows commencing with shrill vituperation,
screaming abuse, and concluding (in cases of defeat) in hysterics and
collapse.

"I think you must have come out with the Trevors," continued Mrs.
Lepell, as she turned to Verona, "I see they were in the _Egypt_."

"Yes, and I met them before; we were at the same hotel in Cannes for
three months."

"Then you know the Riviera?"

"Yes, we generally spent the winter there--or in Florence."

"You seem to have travelled a good deal."

"We lived on the Continent ever since I grew up. This time last year we
were at Homburg."

"I wonder if you met my cousins, Sir Ellis and Lady Byng? They go there
every season."

"Oh, yes, I used to go motoring with them, and played golf with their
daughter Eva; she is such a nice girl. We were great friends."

For the moment Verona had forgotten herself and her surroundings.
She was no longer a Eurasian, patronised by the wife of her father's
employer, but one English woman talking to another on an agreeable
equality.

"I'm sure you had happy times at Homburg," said Mrs. Lepell, "and of
course you went to the Opera at Frankfort?"

"Yes, constantly; we used to rush over on a motor car."

"And here you come down to bullock carts! Well, if we're not
progressive, we're at least picturesque. I hope you brought out a few
of the last new books, as well as the last new fashions?"

"Yes, I've a fairly good supply, and all this month's magazines."

"Then I shall certainly come and borrow from you; I am a ravenous
reader, and find it difficult to keep myself going in books. At present
I am starving and reduced to back numbers."

"I shall be delighted to supply you."

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Lepell, rising, "you have no idea how
rapacious I can be. I hope you will come and see me as soon as you are
settled. I am always at home, from three to five."

This was the warmest invitation the stiff-necked little lady had ever
accorded to a Chandos; she had never told Dominga she was "at home from
three to five." But, then, she neither admired nor pitied Dominga, who
was not an interesting acquaintance, merely an emotional, empty-headed
half-caste, with a fierce craving for pleasure, and a powerful soprano
voice.

This new arrival was a totally different person, well-educated,
refined, reserved. Alas, poor child! fresh from congenial English
society and many agreeable friends, to be cast into the midst of this
squalid Eurasian family. What a fate!




                              CHAPTER XVI


Mr. and Mrs. Montagu Jones remained to dine with their relations, and
Nani Lopez joined the party, invested in the rich satin purple gown
which she had purchased for Blanche's wedding; or, more correctly
speaking, she wore the flowing skirt, but had substituted for the
bodice an easy white jacket, and had coloured her face white to
correspond. Verona surveyed her venerable relations with reproachful
eyes. _How_ could people, who were naturally dark, imagine it possible
to change their skin by merely covering it with layers of pearl powder?

"Granny always comes in when we have Blanche," explained Dominga, in a
whisper, "because she hears the news. All the same she and Blanche were
never good friends. She calls Blanche a silly little bazaar cat."

Mr. Chandos, who seemed to spend his entire day in the factory,
appeared shortly before dinner and received with surprise the little
gifts offered by his English daughter.

"Books," he muttered, "now I wonder how you guessed at what I liked
best? Books, and a tobacco pouch. My two resources are reading and
smoking."

"Oh, yess, he is arl-right when he has his pipe and his books,"
remarked Nani Lopez in her soft fat voice. "He thinks he gets away from
his cares; but it is not so. Go to the wilderness, you cannot escape
fleas."

During dinner conversation was loud and animated. Blanche and Dominga,
who were seated opposite to one another, leant their elbows on the
table, and screamed across the board in their thin ear-piercing
trebles. Dominga volubly related the particulars of a recent social
outrage on the part of Mrs. Watkin, whilst Blanche, whose feelings were
chiefly on the surface, gave a highly coloured description of the death
of a kid and the illness of a bosom friend.

"I went to see Lucia Mendoza this morning. She looked so, so sick.
Well, I declare I was so struck, I fell down on her bed and I cried,
and I cried. If anything should happen to thatt girl, I shall _die_; I
know I shall."

"What nonsense you talk, child!" protested her grandmother. "Such
foolish grief might have frightened the poor creature to death."

"And," broke in Nicky, "though you and Lucia Mendoza are such grand
friends now, it is not a month since you came out here very mad, and
talking of going to law, because she had called you bad names."

"If Lucia were to take curdled milk and coriander seed she would soon
get arl-right," resumed Mrs. Lopez, "but she should begin it on a
Wednesday, it is a lucky day. Mind you tell her," and she looked over
at Blanche, and nodded her head impressively.

"Isn't Nani a funny old woman?" said Blanche, suddenly addressing
herself to Verona. "Did you ever see anyone like her in England?"

"Now, you don't talk like thatt, Mistress Blanche Jones," interposed
the old lady good-humouredly. "Anyhow, I know more of drugs, and cures,
and charms, than any old woman she has ever seen. Do you tell us some
news!"

Thus invited, Blanche readily poured out all the latest intelligence
respecting the forthcoming theatricals, and the race meeting which was
to be held after Christmas. A long altercation ensued respecting the
prices of tickets, in which Monty, Pussy and Mrs. Chandos took part.
Even Granny Lopez threw in a word or two, but Verona and her father
remained silent; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and as far
as the family were concerned, his body might have accompanied them;
evidently they were accustomed to his attitude of remoteness. Verona
looked at his hollow, expressionless eyes, and wondered what manner of
man he might be? His stolid, inert silence had an almost paralysing
effect, but she struggled bravely against the sensation, and ventured
several remarks on the climate, the wonderful beauty of the surrounding
trees and shrubs, the war in South Africa; but to all these efforts
the sole response was a brief, monosyllabic reply. She felt repulsed,
painfully disappointed, and shrank into herself and silence.

Meanwhile Blanche was retailing to her delighted grandmother the most
recent and reliable "cook-house" gossip. She learnt that Mrs. Cotton
had had five ayahs in a week, her temper was so furious, and she had
got an awfully bad name in the bazaar. The Coopers of the railway had
always bragged of their cook, and now he had run away with a lot of
money, four fat ducks, and the new water filter.

Then there was a rumour of the other half of the regiment coming from
Bhetapore. The colonel's lady and the major's lady did not speak, they
had quarrelled about a dirzee. There were going to be theatricals in
Rajahpore in race week, a big ball in Lucknow for charity; anyone could
go who paid ten rupees.

"But for my part," added Blanche, "now I am married, I don't care for
dancing. Give me my evenings at home!"

"Oh, wait till the dances begin in the cold weather," rejoined Mrs.
Lopez, "and all the other women go. Oh! I know you! 'The cat is a
Dervish--till the milk comes'!"

Blanche merely shrugged her skinny shoulders and giggled, then leaning
half across the table, said:

"Mother, is it true that the Trotters are always asking that young
Smith out, and making a fuss with him and having him to dinner? Do you
think Mrs. Trotter wants to marry him to Lizzie?"

"Mrs. Trotter told me yesterday," announced Nani Lopez, resolved not to
be thrust out of the conversation, "that it is all foolish talk, and
there is nothing in it; but I do not believe her. There is two hundred
rupees a month, and free quarters in it; we can all see her plan and
the meaning of her good dinners. It is a mountain behind a straw!"

"You will notice your grandmother has a proverb for every occasion,"
said Mr. Chandos, at last turning to Verona and addressing her. If
they were the silent members of the party, they were also to all
appearances--the sole Europeans present.

Mrs. Lopez, Mrs. Chandos, Blanche, Pussy, Monty, and Nicky were dark.
Even Dominga, for all her white skin, had a peculiar foreign look;
there was something alien in the cast of her features, and the shrill
tone of her voice.

Monty made little conversation, but an excellent meal; indeed, most
of the family ate heartily of mulligatawny, stewed beef and stuffed
bunjals, concluding with a quantity of mysterious-looking sweetmeats.

"You must come in and stay with us, and we will show you off," said
Blanche, accosting Verona. "I will take you to church, and to the club;
you will cut out all the officers' wives. My, how they will stare! Oh,
goody me!"

"But you cannot have Verona!" protested Dominga, "you have never been
able to have Pussy, or me; you know you have no room."

"Oh I can make room if I _want_ to," rejoined Blanche, meeting her
sister's gaze with a bold stare.

"Truly you are paid a fine compliment by Mistress Blanche," put in her
irrepressible Nani. "She does not care for guests. She likes, as the
proverb says, 'Talk in my house--a dinner--in yours.'"

"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people,"
resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We
will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go
into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing."

As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her
own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up
a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of
bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown,
and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna.

She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat
uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with
her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong,
and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange
metallic ring--a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who
poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang,
her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the
family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and
Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together
in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them.

"Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos
turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye.

"It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her
fortune if it were trained."

"Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises
often an hour a day. I suppose"--with a little sniff--"your voice has
been what you call 'trained'?"

"Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from
Dominga's."

"But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing
the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the
piano"--pulling her sister by the arm--"Verona will take your place."

"Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her
in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always
said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing."

"I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she
approached the piano, "but they want to hear me."

"Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied
Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she
began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music.

A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart,
and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos"
was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie."
Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she
sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."

Verona had an exquisitely sweet, haunting voice; every note was clear
and full, and told. When she had removed her hands from the piano,
instead of applause, there ensued strange silence. Monty and his
father-in-law were standing inside the door and the face of the latter
was working with some irrepressible emotion.

"Whatt a nice little song," exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Why," with a
sudden start, "here are the Cavalhos," as she descried two figures
mounting the steps. "Oh, my goodness, whatt a bother."

"May we come in?" inquired a high, chirrupy treble, and without
waiting for a reply, an elderly woman, wearing a white dress and a
black apron, walked forward, followed by her husband, a very stout,
clean-shaven man with a round bullet head. They were both decidedly
dark, but had kind, good-tempered faces, and indeed, in Mistress
Cavalho's sweet dark eyes there lingered traces of a once renowned
beauty.

"We heard Dominga singing," she announced, "so we knew you must have
the lamp lit in the drawing-room, and we came over in a friendly way
to see"--here she glanced incredulously at Verona--"is this your
daughter?" She pronounced it "da-ter."

"Yes."

"Oh, how do you do, Miss. I hope you will like Manora."

"Thank you."

"And here is Pedro, my husband, come to pay his respects."

Pedro gave his stout body a little jerk--doubtless intended for a bow.

"Now, pray do not let us stop the music," accepting a seat on the sofa
beside Mrs. Chandos.

"Oh, my! Dominga, you do sing better and better; that last song, it
nearly killed me. We waited outside to listen; it sounded like an angel
who was shut up in some prison house and breaking her heart; I tell
you it squeezed my throat, and Pedro--oh, he gave one great sob." Here
Pedro, with a deprecatory grin, suddenly backed into the verandah and
the company of his host.

"Oh, I never heard such singing," resumed his wife, with her eyes fixed
on Dominga, "my, my, whatt a gift! What pleasure to others." A moment's
pause, then, with a sudden laugh, Nicky burst out:

"It was Verona," pointing with a rude forefinger, "Verona, who gave
your throat a squeeze, and made old Daddy sob."

Once more there was a silence, this time of a truly painful
description. Dominga's face was livid; her mother's mouth was set, and
there was an angry sparkle in her eye.

Then Verona, with extraordinary courage and presence of mind, threw
herself into the gulf and said:

"It was the pretty air which affected you, Mrs. Cavalho; my voice is
very poor in comparison to my sister's."

"Oh, thatt is true," assented her mother with feverish energy, "thatt
is quite true. It is no voice at all--and Dominga you can hear for a
mile."

Poor Mrs. Cavalho was sincerely grateful for the explanation, being
secretly afraid of Dominga, whose expression had fully justified her
alarm; and as a proof of her gratitude to Verona, moved a little closer
to her mother, and laying a hand on hers, softly whispered:

"Oh, my dear friend, whatt a lucky woman you are with your five
children around you--and we, that have not one--and this new da-ter,
like a queen, the most beautiful of all!"

But Mrs. Chandos gave her chin a contemptuous tilt, shook off the kind,
little hand, and remarked in a querulous tone:

"Oh, yes, she is all very well now; but when she has had a couple of
hot weathers, she will not be so wonderful, you will see."

But to this melancholy prophecy good Mrs. Cavalho absolutely refused
to assent. Dominga, who had succeeded to the piano stool, now favoured
the company with two penetrating songs; then a servant appeared with a
tray on which was rum (factory rum), water, sweet syrup (home-made) and
biscuits--a signal that the entertainment was waning.

The community at Manora were early risers, and the guests now began to
disperse.

"Do look at grandmamma!" said Blanche as she rose, "she is sound
asleep; she does not care for music, only snake-charmers, and
tom-toms, and those whining bazaar tunes. Ayah and baby are already
in the gharry, and we must be going. Remember I expect you all to tea
to-morrow, especially Verona," and after a series of shrill good-byes,
parting injunctions, and smacking kisses, the Jones family were once
more packed into their hired conveyance, and rattled back to Rajahpore.

"Aré, so they are gone," said Mrs. Lopez, sitting erect, and indulging
herself with a prodigious yawn; "that Monty is a stupid owl, and
Blanche is still so gay and grand. Well! Well! Well! You know the
saying, 'The cow does not find her own horns heavy.' Now I'm going away
to my bed."

       *       *       *       *       *

In half-an-hour the whole family had retired, and a profound peace fell
upon the bungalow. Verona opened the glass door of her room and stole
out, and once more began to pace the path by the river bank.

It was a perfect moonlight night, and oh, what a delightful change from
the noise and chatter of the day! The scene was beautiful, all the
landscape being outlined in silver; the everyday yellow plain across
the water had now a far-away, fairy-like effect. The silence was almost
death-like; the hideous cry of the hunting jackal, the scream of a
night hawk, disturbed the night--elsewhere, and the only sound to be
heard was the occasional flop of a belated fish. To Verona there was
something extraordinarily soothing and grateful in her surroundings,
although her head throbbed and ached, and she held her hands to her
forehead as she paced up and down. All at once she was aware of
something--a faint distant sound--what was it? The regular dip of oars
coming nearer and nearer; in two or three minutes a white boat rowed
by one man shot into sight. As it approached, she perceived that the
oarsman, whose curly head was bare, was a sahib, for the moon shone a
full dazzling light on his good-looking, determined face. When the boat
was almost opposite he leant for a moment on his oars and called over
to her:

"Hullo! Miss Dominga, are you not afraid of the malaria at this time of
night?" As Verona made no reply he rowed a stroke nearer, stared hard
at her, and then exclaimed with apologetic haste:

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I mistook you for Miss Chandos!" and without
another word rowed swiftly away. Verona watched his long, sweeping
strokes till he turned a bend in the river, and so was lost to sight.

No doubt this was Dominga's lover; he had a pleasant voice, a fine
face, and a stalwart pair of arms.

Dominga was unaccountably fortunate.




                             CHAPTER XVII


Whilst this genial family party was proceeding in Mr. Chandos' house, a
gathering of another description took place in the vicinity.

"The big bungalow," as it was called, was large and luxurious; the
furniture modern and tasteful. Mrs. Lepell's frequent journeys to
England resulted in many pretty things, such as choice water-colours,
bits of quaint silver, fresh chintz covers; then there were soft
draperies and screens, books and flowers in profusion.

After dinner three men sat smoking, sipping coffee in the verandah;
Mrs. Lepell, in a comfortable chair, and graceful tea-gown, was the
only woman present. Her husband, Tom Lepell, a hale man of sixty, had
been respected in India for five-and-thirty years; he was reputed to
be hard, but just; a stern master and a staunch friend, whose energies
were solely devoted to sugar and crops, to goor and rab. Then there
was his charming wife, bright and popular; his wife's nephew, Brian
Salwey, superintendent of police in the Rajahpore district. When at
headquarters, he frequently rowed up the river, and spent an evening
with his Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Tom. He had his own room, his own chair,
and kept a suit of evening dress-clothes at Manora, for he found favour
in the eyes of his well-to-do relations.

Brian Salwey had a pair of steady grey eyes, his features were finely
cut, and their expression intelligent; his face was tanned to almost
the same shade as his curly locks, his mouth was firm, and his age
was thirty. Originally he was intended for the Army, but the idea had
been relinquished, and he thought himself exceedingly fortunate to
procure a nomination in the Indian police. The billet fitted him like
a glove, his profession interested him profoundly; like some young
police officers he was an enthusiast, and was one of those men who,
putting his hand to the plough, never looks back. Salwey was poor, but
well-educated, well born, but without social influence.

Being considered a most able officer by the heads of his department,
he was naturally dispatched to quite the worst circle in the district.
Here he was extravagant in horseflesh and books; and Bazaar report
declared him to be in love with the Lal Billi (Red Cat); in other
words, Dominga Chandos. The fourth individual in the verandah was the
little officer to whom Verona had been introduced in Rajahpore station
refreshment room.

"The Chandos' are all lit up, and having a grand party," remarked Mr.
Lepell. "There was a gharry at the door just now. Out here, we live in
our neighbours' pockets, you see."

"I saw such a tragedy there to-day," observed his wife, sitting up and
leaning forward, "something that haunts me; a lovely girl"--here she
paused and sighed.

"I've not the slightest objection to her haunting _me_," cried Major
Gale, with a snigger. "Pray go on."

"I called on the Chandos family, or rather on the daughter from
England."

"Oh, by-the-way, yes," interrupted Major Gale, with sudden animation,
"I saw her yesterday at the station with the old boy. He looked as
if he did not know what on earth to do with her! She is uncommonly
handsome, the profile of a cameo, the air of a duchess, and the
pride--may I say--of the devil."

"Oh, poor girl," exclaimed Mrs. Lepell, with a little fluttering sigh,
"she had not seen her relations _then_."

"No, I assume not," assented Major Gale, as he tossed away the end
of a cigarette. "I give you my word, she is as white as you are, Mrs.
Lepell."

"That is no compliment, for she has a beautiful complexion," was her
generous reply, "and I have been twenty years grizzling in India."

"Chandos looked hang-dog, and thoroughly ashamed of himself, as he
always does," resumed Major Gale.

"An unfortunate man, I am always sorry for him," remarked Mr. Lepell,
speaking for the first time. "I happen to know his history."

"Oh, really, do you?" ejaculated his guest, with the utmost
indifference, selecting, as he spoke, a fresh cigarette.

"But what about the girl, Aunt Liz?" said her nephew suddenly, "is she
really own sister to my friend Dominga?"

"I think so--indeed, what am I saying? Of course she is; she comes
between her and Pussy, and by all accounts is the flower of the flock;
adopted as an infant by an enormously rich woman--the schoolfellow of
Mrs. Lopez."

"I cannot believe"--here he laughed--"that Mrs. Lopez ever went to
school."

"Yes, she did, to Kidderpore. Mrs. Lopez was a beauty once, so was Mrs.
Chandos."

"I don't admire beauties of that type."

"Don't you?" exclaimed Mr. Lepell. "I've seen some lovely Nair women on
the West coast, handsomer you could not find; slim and graceful, with
wheaten coloured skins and perfect features."

"But what about this young lady?" resumed his nephew.

"Oh, she was brought up in England by this old Portuguese woman, who
died suddenly without a will. And there was nothing for this girl to do
but return to her own relations--whose existence she now discovers for
the first time!"

"Well, I call it a tragedy," exclaimed Brian Salwey, "what do you say,
Aunt Liz?"

"Yes, I went over to-day, expecting to see another edition of Dominga
with European veneer, and discovered a pretty, refined English girl,
who has no doubt been accustomed to her maid, her carriage, her French
milliner, and any quantity of admiration. She looked completely dazed
and bewildered; I found her sisters arrayed in her best frocks, while
she held in her arms, with a terrified expression, her black baby
nephew, Chandos Montagu Jones! As I let it be clearly understood that
my visit was to Miss Verona, she came and talked to me, and they all
sat round and gaped upon us with their mouths. Her manner was perfectly
lady-like and self-possessed, but once I caught her off her guard, and
if ever I saw horror or despair in any human eyes, it was in hers! I
suppose she had no idea she was a Eurasian, till yesterday, and will, I
am convinced, run away--or do something."

"And can't _you_ do something, Aunt Liz?" urged Salwey.

"I certainty will, if I can; but my position is extremely difficult;
I am obliged to hold myself aloof, and be friendly with none,
otherwise I should get sucked down into the raging whirlpool of Manora
politics. First, there is Mr. Chandos, sub-manager, a gentleman,
and of indisputably old English family. There are his people, all
dark Eurasians, with the exception of Dominga, her mother's idol,
whom I particularly dislike; she reminds me of a deadly mechanical
toy, harmless to look at, but ready to explode, unless handled most
delicately. Her craving for notoriety, admiration, and pleasure are
beyond all words."

"Well, I must say, she is an uncommonly good-looking girl," exclaimed
Major Gale, with unexpected fervour.

"Oh, yes--she is handsome, I admit. Then there are the Trotters,"
continued Mrs. Lepell, "pure Europeans; they despise the Chandos for
their taint of native blood; the Chandos family look down on them,
as common people--they themselves being gentry. Then there are the
dear, good old Cavalhos, and the Watkins; if I show partiality to
one family, I make the others angry and envious. I should like to
befriend that poor girl, I know she is most unhappy and desolate, for
Mr. Chandos holds himself curiously aloof from his circle, and she has
not a creature of her own class to help or to comfort her. Imagine the
change, from the petted heiress to fifteen thousand a year, to becoming
the odd daughter out, in that _ménage_."

"I've no doubt she wishes she were dead," exclaimed Major Gale. "I
should if I were in her shoes. Marianna in the Moated Grange was ten
times better off."

"I believe Mother Chan, as they call her, was greatly averse to her
joining the family, and for once she showed her sense," remarked Mr.
Lepell.

"Yes, but the miserable creature rushed on her fate," added his wife;
"she was craving to see her own people, and, above all--her mother."

"Her mother!" repeated Major Gale, with his little cackling laugh.

"And Mr. Chandos himself was urgent," continued the lady, "no doubt he
hoped for 'one fair daughter.'"

"The fair daughter having arrived and seen her home, if I'm not
mistaken, will never forgive him for his _mésalliance_."

"Poor Chandos," exclaimed Mr. Lepell, "all through his life he has
meant well, and done ill; he has made a mull of everything--career,
profession, marriage."

"Ah," said Major Gale, standing up and straightening himself, "that is
the one pitfall I have eluded."

"Thank you, Major Gale."

"Oh, yes, with all respect to you, Mrs. Lepell, I am a timid man,
and there are too many blanks. It is not everyone who is so lucky as
Lepell, and draws a great prize." Here Major Gale nodded and smirked;
he was rather pleased with the manner in which he had turned this
delicate compliment. "There's early parade to-morrow, and I must
be off, Salwey," turning to the policeman, "can I give you a lift
back--you are on my road?"

"Thank you, no; my road is by water. I like rowing myself to and fro
these moonlight nights."

"Ah, see what it is to be young and romantic!" and having made his
polite adieus, the little Major effected a brisk departure.

       *       *       *       *       *

"No need for _you_ to move yet, Brian," urged his aunt, "on such a
night as this; I hate the idea of going to bed; I prefer to sit, and
laze, and talk, and listen."

"All right, then, I'll stop for half-an-hour. Oh, I say, Uncle Tom,
I'd like to hear something more about that chap Chandos. Is it not
extraordinary, a man of his class, and who has been in the Service,
settling down here for life, with a half-caste family, and working in
the sugar factory?"

"It would seem a great deal more extraordinary, if you knew as much
about him as I do," rejoined Mr. Lepell, as he lit another cheroot,
crossed his legs, and evidently prepared for narration.

"Why, Tom, I never dreamt that you knew his past," exclaimed his wife.
"How _close_ you have been all these years."

"Oh, but I was never personally acquainted with him, I merely saw
him two or three times, but I heard the story. It made rather a stir
some eight-and-twenty years ago. He is not aware that I am behind
the scenes, and I've not been anything more to him than what you
see. In the first place, he would resent any intimacy based on such
reminiscences, and, secondly, his family are quite impossible; I'd far
rather have to do with the Cavalhos than the Chandos lot, with their
pretensions and struggling and greed."

"But tell us more about Mr. Chandos," reiterated his nephew. "I bar the
family, too."

"Well, you would never suppose, that that thin, worn man, with a
melancholy face and downcast air, was one of the cheeriest and
best-looking fellows in the Service, and mad about balls, and racing,
and sport. When I saw him win the Cup at Lucknow, what an ovation
he got! I little anticipated the hero of that day would become my
sub-manager, and that the irresistible Adonis, in a blue satin jacket,
would develop into a haggard, gaunt automaton, in patched khaki, whose
horizon is limited to cane fields, his topics to sacks and sugar mills,
goor and fuel. A man who calls me 'sir,' and touches his hat to me
daily."

"Now I understand, Tom--why you overlook his irregularity, and----"

Her husband interposed with a gesture of his hand.

"This Manora has proved his harbour of refuge; here he has been
anchored for eighteen years, here he will remain, till the end of the
chapter. I mean _his_ chapter."

"Unless the new daughter creates a revolution in the family," suggested
Salwey.

"On the contrary, the family will alter her. You say," looking at his
wife, "that she is fair."

"Yes, entirely a Chandos, and an aristocrat--a pure English girl."

"No--no--nature takes care of that! She has her mother's blood in
her veins, her mother's example to drag her under; it will be a mere
question of--weeks."

"No, not in this case, Tom," rejoined his wife with brisk decision.

"Why not? My impression, after many years of life in India, is, the
fairer a Eurasian the darker their disposition. The duskier their
complexion, the whiter their hearts. For instance, compare Dominga to
Mrs. Cavalho; now _she_ is a good woman, and a true lady."

"Pray, why should you be so prejudiced against this new Miss Chandos,
Tom? You have not even seen her; she will be a success--of that I am
convinced."

"Nothing bearing that name has ever come in the way of poor Chandos,
nothing but bad luck; he seems to be under the influence of an evil
star."

"Scorpio!" suggested his nephew, "in other words, his wife."

"He is a capital sub-manager," resumed Mr. Lepell, "punctual
and orderly; has wonderful command over the employees; is a fine
disciplinarian, and speaks the language like a native. Latterly, his
health is bad."

"And the reason of that, is easily understood," said Brian, looking at
his uncle with significance.

"Yes, God help him! he takes opium; and I'm afraid the habit is gaining
on him; he flies to it, to kill the past--aye, and the present."

"Well, you may think me a brute, but I must say, I don't pity Chandos
in the least; he brought all his woes on himself by marrying a
half-caste, a low-bred Eurasian, a money-lender's daughter."

"He has to thank another for his misfortunes."

"Has he?" echoed his wife, in a tone of incredulity. "Well, Tom, we are
both dying to hear the history of Mr. Chandos."

"It must be eight-and-twenty years since Paul Chandos came out to
India"--a pause--"and has never been home since. He had good looks,
good health, good prospects, the younger son of an old family, and
seemingly endowed with every gift, but a long purse, and the power of
uttering the word, 'No.' By all accounts, he was full of the wildest
spirits, delighted with his first taste of freedom, and his first look
at the world; and the world out here was pleased with him. He was in a
smart cavalry regiment, among a nice lot of young fellows of his own
stamp--perhaps with a little more money than he had. Still he might
have managed to hold his own, and be a happy man now--only----"

"For a woman," interposed Brian Salwey.

"No--only for his own cousin. Sydney Chandos was many years older than
Paul. He was on the staff out here, and brilliantly clever. He had a
splendid figure, a wonderful pair of eyes, and charming smile, but
was utterly unscrupulous and base. Thanks to his brains, and manners
of extraordinary fascination, he managed to pass himself off as not
a bad sort; a bit casual, perhaps, and fond of racing and gambling.
And in those days, I can tell you, the gambling on the Indian turf
was something to make you sit up. Well, this fellow came down to Mhow
to spend his leave with his cousin Paul, who was devoted to him, and
looked up to Sydney as superhumanly wise and great and good. The poor
lad worshipped him slavishly, and thought his idol could do no wrong.
Paul, I should say, was an orphan, who had been brought up and educated
in his cousin's home. It was not long before he fell entirely under the
influence of Sydney, who got him into his power, body and soul. 'Burra'
Chandos had, it was whispered, ruined several young fellows, but people
expected that he would spare his own cousin."

"And apparently he did not," remarked Mrs. Lepell.

"No, he laughed at his scruples and economies, encouraged him to play
cards and gamble; he took him about to races and lotteries--he plunged
him into debt. Then he introduced him to the money-lenders."

"Ah!" ejaculated Brian, "and that naturally _finished_ him?"

"Your _bête noire_, eh, Brian?" said his aunt, "whom you hope to
finish!"

"Yes," returned Mr. Lepell, "young Chandos backed his cousin's horses
and bills, went security for his debts, and got thoroughly entangled in
the web of Lopez, a notorious soucar of evil repute."

"I cannot understand any young man, who is not an idiot, being so
completely under the thumb of a cousin!"

"Ah, but you did not know that cousin, my dear sir; his cleverness
was something appalling; it was downright uncanny; his manners were
irresistible. He was a first-class horseman, a notable billiard player,
and he sang like an angel: to hear Sydney Chandos singing affecting
ballads after a big guest night, where he had been fleecing youngsters
and punishing the champagne, was enough to melt the heart of a stone!
His voice stood him in the place of an excellent moral character, and
he had the art of making you believe every word he said; in fact, his
very tones brought conviction. With all his advantages, he was one of
the worst young men who ever set foot in India. He was mixed up in a
sultry business about a race, but with his damnable art he contrived
to pass on the odium to his cousin--along with the greater portion of
his debts--and then went gaily home with a light heart, leaving his
wretched dupe to his fate! Much of this came out long afterwards, for
Chandos was dumb. He was dumb then, he is dumb now. It was suspected
in the regiment, that Paul had some secret drain on him; he had lost
his spirits and appeared to be struggling in a hopeless sea of debt;
he sold off all his ponies, he cut down his expenses, he even parted
with his watch and guns; in fact, he stripped himself bare, and yet the
mountain of debt never seemed to decrease; the interest rose up, and
up, and up like a spring tide!"

"Of course; it always does," muttered Salwey.

"He had sworn to his cousin to keep his bill-backing a dead secret;
he wrote to his uncle imploring assistance--this was sternly refused.
Sydney had his own story to tell of Paul's debt, and shortly afterwards
his father died. I believe the poor chap was contemplating suicide,
as the only way out of his difficulties, when, at a sergeant's ball,
he was presented to Miss Rosa Lopez. She was twenty years of age, the
belle of the evening--and by all accounts distractingly pretty."

"That I decline to believe," declared Mrs. Lepell, with emphasis.

"Well, you can please yourself, my dear," rejoined her husband,
"but she was handsome. Her complexion was a pale olive; her eyes,
teeth, hair, and figure, all most attractive; she danced like a
sylph, and fell madly in love with poor, unfortunate Chandos! He was
extraordinarily good-looking, and no doubt this desperate state of his
affairs, added a sort of haggard charm to his appearance. I understand
she waltzed with him half the night, and subsequently made all the
advances, daily throwing herself in his way, and writing him notes. He
was a reckless young fellow, and a chivalrous fool. He, it seemed, had
always been his aunt's good boy, and brought up under her influence;
this, which made him sensitive, quixotic, and truthful, had earned him
the secret ill-will and envy of his cousin.

"By and by, it transpired that Rosa's father, Juan Lopez, was
unfortunately but too well known to Lieutenant Chandos. Miss Rosa was
an ambitious girl, strong-willed, passionate, and desperately in love
with the handsome young cavalry officer. Her father was easily enlisted
on her side, and was prevailed upon to make an offer to Rosa's lover.
He proposed to release Paul Chandos from his debts and bonds, provided
he made Rosa Lopez his wife.

"At first, I am told, that Chandos indignantly refused, but every
day pressure became heavier and heavier--Rosa was so seductive
and so devoted. Chandos had taken no one into his confidence, his
debts and disgrace were not his--but another's. Vainly his brother
officers endeavoured to help him, but Chandos, the cheery and genial,
had become glum, secluded, and mute; and once or twice his friends
had been puzzled at seeing him driving in a brougham with a dark,
foreign-looking man; then, all at once the secret was out. He had
married the daughter of Lopez, the notorious money-lender--and Lopez
had cancelled his debts!"

"Poor devil," muttered Salwey.

"The regiment was furious, but this did not affect the happy pair,
who were spending the honeymoon in Cashmere. Of course, Chandos was
compelled to send in his papers, and within about twelve months
the police discovered a series of financial frauds, and Juan
Lopez was obliged to leave the country--that is to say, to fly to
Pondicherry--where he died.

"'Chotah' Chandos was now minus a profession, and plus not only a
wife, but a mother-in-law. Another man would have bolted, and fled
to Australia; but he stood fast, and, for a time, lived in the hills,
on the sale of his commission; then, as his nursery increased, he was
forced to rouse from his apathy and look round for employment. After
being for some time on a Government stud farm, he eventually drifted
here; in fact, I heard of his plight and offered him the billet."

"And what about his people at home?" inquired Mrs. Lepell.

"His uncle and aunt were dead, and his other relations with one accord
washed their hands of him. When he married Rosa Lopez and left the
Service, he had figuratively cut his throat."

"How does he put in his time?" inquired Salwey. "He has no associates,
for he never mixes with his equals, and shuns all soldier men like the
plague."

"I think he reads a good deal, and he gardens a little, but I fancy
that his life is one long purgatory; he has nothing in common with his
household."

"What an existence!" ejaculated the police officer; "perhaps the new
member will be a comfort to him?"

"Cold comfort, I should say; but he may live on hope, for he is a
Chandos of Charne, and may possibly be a rich man some day. His cousin
is childless."

"Do, pray, imagine Mrs. Chandos in England!" exclaimed Mrs. Lepell.
"How I should like to see her mixing in county society--mincing about
on her tip-toes, and conversing in high Chi-Chi, wouldn't you, Brian?"
turning towards her nephew, who sat with his cigar out, his hands
clasped behind his head and his eyes fixed on the distance.

As he made no reply, his aunt continued:

"My dear, you are in a brown study!"

"If you mean that I am thinking of Mrs. Chandos--I am _not_."

"Then a penny for your thoughts!"

"I was thinking of that girl," he said, rising and stretching himself,
"an heiress in the beginning, a penniless Eurasian now. What will her
end be?"

"Ask me that question in a year's time, and now, Brian, it is twelve
o'clock, your bark is on the tide, if you don't go soon, your bearer
will be paddling up here to know what has become of you?"




                             CHAPTER XVIII


Verona was now painfully conscious that she could no longer harbour
illusions, and had begun to realise her situation, her relations and
her home. Her home, large, dark, straggling, with an atmosphere close
and airless, the handsome furniture, picked up at auctions--dead
bargains, surrounded by a deep verandah and a bushy garden, full of old
apricots, cork trees, dried-up water channels, straggling rose bushes,
beds of tomatoes and a few sickly orange trees.

She understood and conformed to the daily routine of the household.
There was the scrambling breakfast at nine o'clock, at which neither
her father nor grandmother appeared. The latter partook of coffee and
"hoppers" in the seclusion of her own quarters, and busied herself
with the feeding of fine buff fowl, making coffee and condiments, and
giving audience and medicine to numbers of native visitors, chiefly
the sick and afflicted. Dominga, her red mane in two thick plaits,
wearing a dressing-gown and slippers, practised her songs, knitted
ties, wrote letters, or lay on her bed, devouring novels and bazaar
sweetmeats--such as paras and jalabies--having commandeered the sole
punkah coolie.

Pussy and Nicky were unaffectedly idle, but Mrs. Chandos, on the
other hand, was feverishly busy, whisking in and out of the rooms,
herding the servants here and there, scolding every one in her high,
far-reaching falsetto. Twelve o'clock was the orthodox visiting hour,
and three days after Verona's arrival it brought Mrs. Trotter, Miss
Lizzie Trotter, Miss Georgina Louisa Trotter in all their best clothes,
to make a formal call. Mrs. Trotter, a worthy, hard-working woman, who
always declared that "she knew her place and kept to it," had a round,
flat face, resembling a bread platter, the idea being well carried out
by a toque in tussore silk.

She was obviously abashed on her first introduction to the new Miss
Chandos, and stared at her with genuine surprise, but Susan Trotter
very soon rallied and found her tongue, and taking a good grip of her
self-possession, began:

"You and I, Verona----"

Verona started.

"----have more in common than all the other members of your family--as
we have both been in England; I," she bridled, "of course was born
there," and she looked round the room. "You," to Verona, "were born out
here--whereabouts?"

Verona glanced at her mother interrogatively.

"Oh--in Murree," she answered sharply, then exclaimed:

"My! whatt a long time since Mrs. Trotter has been in England; she will
not know it as you do, Verona. Twenty-five years, is it not?"

"Yes," assented Mrs. Trotter with obvious reluctance.

"So Lizzie was born at home? And that makes her at least twenty-seven,"
and Mrs. Chandos closed her eyes, as much as to say "I have scored."

"Lizzie is twenty-six next birthday; she looks just as young as
Dominga, but that is because she is English."

"I suppose you were awfully gay in England?" said Lizzie, now
addressing Verona for the first time.

"Yes, but we lived chiefly abroad," replied Verona.

"And in grand, smart society," announced Mrs. Chandos; "princes and
dukes and all that sort of thing."

"There is not much of that sort of thing out here; you will only know
the railway people, and contractors and such like," remarked Mrs.
Trotter. "I suppose London is a good deal changed since I was there; I
remember going in the Underground and thinking it so wonderful."

"That is an old story now," rejoined Verona with a smile; "there is the
Tube."

"And the Crystal Palace and Madame Trousseaux's" (she meant Tussaud's),
"with the murderers in the basement. What a sight!--Oh!" with a start,
"here is Mrs. Watkin; I thought she was coming, for I saw her ayah
shaking out her best dress--so now I will go, as at present we do not
speak."

Enter Mrs. Watkin, a young woman, pale, very stiff, and smartly
dressed. She stared at Verona with cold inquisitive eyes, and chiefly
confined her conversation to the climate. The lady was--as Pussy
had hinted, "stuck up," but although there was some conversation
with respect to flowers, she had no opportunity to introduce the two
gardeners.

A proper sequel to these morning calls was a visit to Blanche in the
afternoon. Mrs. Chandos excused herself, but Verona and Pussy started
off in the victoria to spend a happy afternoon in Rajahpore!

The residence of Mrs. Montagu-Jones was a trim little red brick
bungalow, with a shallow verandah, covered with purple railway creeper.
Everything looked precisely as it was--or had been--cheap; everywhere
was evident, audacious apings at style and at fashion; everywhere the
ugly adjective "makeshift" obtruded itself with heartless prominence.
There were scrimpy cretonne curtains in the windows; sixpenny fans and
brackets on the walls; unreliable flounced cane chairs, a gaudy Europe
carpet and many rickety tables crowded the drawing-room.

Quite a number of guests had been specially invited to meet Miss Verona
Chandos at tea, and ladies connected with the railway, commissariat and
telegraph departments were well to the fore; smart, dark young men,
slender and effusive; gaily dressed women, their faces covered with
powder and reeking of sickly scents.

As Verona looked round the company she asked herself what she would
have thought of this society a year ago? Of Mrs. De Castros, in a black
crêpe hat trimmed with poppies, who drank loudly from her saucer,
and put her tongue out at a friend; of Mistress Thomas, elaborately
painted, wearing a very low white gown and a transparent blouse; of
young Braganza Brown, the beau of the party, in a florid waistcoat
with silver buttons, and a pink satin tie, scented and oiled like some
ancient Roman dandy. Pussy was undoubtedly in her element, and giggled
and talked incessantly, for she was a social favourite.

"Fie! For shame! Pussee, whatt a noise you are making," expostulated
Blanche. "Do be quiet."

"Oh, Pussy," cried a girl, leaning over and addressing herself to her,
"Dom is too grand to look at me now; she is always in the station; they
say she will marry an officer. Whatt do you think?"

"Aré Bap! don't ask me," cried Pussy; "ask Dom."

"But I dare not. I hear Dom will sing at the concert," resumed the
girl; "we shall all go and hear her, and pay eight annas. Whatt a
voice; where _did_ she get it? where does she keep it?"

"But I do not like it," interposed Ada Diaz; "it is so big, it hurts my
head; and tell us, Pussy, who is the little officer so awfully in love
with Dom?"

"I believe it is quite a case!" added another uneasily.

"Oh, I don't know," said Pussy, helping herself to sweets. "There is
often some one in love with her, but she is so hard to please; she has
such grand notions."

On the other hand Blanche was saying:

"Mother has so many engagements; she is going to buy another horse; one
was enough for _me_, but she never grudges anything for Dominga; every
one knows thatt. Now, Verona, do you come along; we are going to the
railway tennis ground, and Mr. Bott wants you to play with him."

Mr. Bott, a stout dark man, was the chief guest--and perfectly alive
to his own importance. As Blanche pulled her sister's sleeve, she
whispered, with a smothered giggle:

"Five hundred rupees a month! He is baby's godfather, but you may marry
him if you like!" and she pushed Verona before her.

What an afternoon it had been--of pretension and make-believe, of civil
speeches and staring eyes, of long whispers and sidelong looks, and of
warm invitations, and strokings and flattery and painfully sustained
effort.

Verona was thankful when she and Pussy were at last ushered to the
overworked victoria and driven home along the flat, white road to the
sequestered bungalow in Manora; which now appeared to the miserable
pleasure-goer a veritable harbour of refuge.

The morning succeeding this dissipation, found Verona lying on her
bed racked with a headache and fever; she was unable to rise, and lay
prone, fervently hoping that she was going to be very ill and die. In
the midst of these miserable reflections, Pussy burst in to announce:

"Rona, this is Sunday; we cannot all fit into the victoria, but you and
Dominga and mother must go to the cantonment church; there is a grand
parade--you will see the officers!"

"I cannot stir," protested Verona; "my head aches so dreadfully."

"Ah," coming over and taking her hand, "so you have fever. Now I wonder
how you got thatt?" (By midnight rambling on the river banks when the
air was full of mist and malaria.)

For two long days Verona remained in her room, her head burning,
her bones racked with pain. She was driven nearly distraught by
affectionate Pussy's well-meant attendance and tireless chatter, by
Dominga, who sat upon the bed and poured forth a stream of questions
(questions respecting dress, deportment, hair-dressing, letter-writing,
and the manners and customs of society at home); by Nicky, whose
carpentering was close at hand, and by the ceaseless barking of the
Trotters' pariah.

On the third night she got up--finding herself alone--put on a
dressing-gown and slippers, and staggered about the room; then she
tottered out to contemplate the river.

Oh, how cool it looked! And she was burning--her veins ran fire. How
delightful to slip into it, and thus end her life; she was useless now
to herself--or any one. From her former existence she was separated by
a great gulf; her new existence was intolerable. To her relations she
was an encumbrance, and to her they were a nightmare.

She stole further and stared about her. There was the light in the
office window; between it and her a stooping head. The recent rains had
filled the Jurra to its brim. As it flowed past muttering to itself
in the moonlight it looked most enticing. The river spirit seemed to
whisper in her ear with seductive, rippling murmur:

"Come with me! Come with me!"

Only a little choking feeling and all would be over! Drowning, people
said, was such an easy death. "Why wait?" urged the rippling river; in
two minutes from this very time, she might be elsewhere, safely landed
on the other shore. She must cross the River of Death sometime--why
not now? It would not be wrong; on the contrary, it would be a blessed
relief to every one, including herself. Oh, why should people speak of
suicide with bated breath and horror?

"Oh, it is not wrong," she said aloud; "God knows all. He will forgive
me. God pardon me and give me rest," she exclaimed, and raising her
arms, she stepped down to the water's brink; suddenly a boat shot up
close to the steps, a white figure rose before her, a firm, peremptory
hand was laid on her wrist.

"Surely you would not bathe at this hour?" remonstrated a man's voice.

She drew a long, shuddering breath and moaned:

"Oh, let me go! Let me go!"

"Are you not afraid of the crocodiles?" he asked.

"Crocodiles," she stammered, and began to laugh; "crocodile, no, it's
in my dressing bag!"

"You must go back to the house at once, and promise to remain there,"
continued the stranger authoritatively. "Your arm is burning--you have
fever."

"But, who are you?" she asked; "are you the Angel of Death? Is this
the boat to take me over? Oh, I am so thankful you have come," and she
gazed into his face, her eyes ablaze with fever. "Oh, Angel of Death, I
am not afraid; let us go," and she prepared to enter the boat. "Let us
go now."

"No, no, no!" protested Salwey, in a voice so persuasive and gentle
as to sound like that of another person. "I cannot take you over this
time; the current is too strong."

"Oh, do, please; I cannot stay. Oh! I cannot wait!" and she wept and
wrung her hands with a gesture of frantic despair. "Well, then I must
go alone," and as she spoke, she thrust him aside with all her feeble
might.

It was not often that Brian Salwey found himself in such a
dilemma--although it was by no means the first time that he had
indirectly represented the Angel of Death. If he left this distracted
girl in order to seek for assistance she would drown herself without
a doubt. After considerable delay and many solemn and astounding lies
he induced her to believe that he truly was the Angel Azrael and would
return for her, without fail, on the following evening. Having made
this soothing and mendacious promise he "charmed so wisely" that he
prevailed upon Verona to re-enter her room. He then fastened the door
outside, in a makeshift fashion, with his handkerchief and necktie, and
ran at the top of his speed in order to summon his aunt.




                              CHAPTER XIX


Mrs. Lepell was about to retire for the night when her nephew, almost
breathless, dashed into the verandah.

"Oh, what is it?" she asked, "Dacoits, or fire?"

"It is that girl, Aunt Liz, Miss Chandos, she was going to throw
herself into the river; you were quite right when you said she would do
something. As I was going home, I noticed her on the bank carrying on
in a rum sort of way, and tossing her arms about. So I rowed up pretty
close, and was just in time to stop her from jumping into the water.
I have persuaded her to return to her room, on the sole understanding
that I am the Angel of Death, and am coming to fetch her to-morrow. I
want you to hurry over at once--this moment--and get someone to look
after her."

"Why, of course, I'll go myself."

In another moment Mrs. Lepell was calling for her cloak and shoes, and
she and her nephew were running--followed by an ayah and a peon--in the
direction of Chandos Koti.

       *       *       *       *       *

A visit from Mrs. Lepell at twelve o'clock at night! Was the world
coming to an end?

Mrs. Chandos appeared fully dressed, alert, and lamp in hand, to be
informed that her daughter Verona had been wandering on the river bank
in a high fever, quite off her head!

"Oh, Madre di Dios! Whatt a trouble that girl does give," and she put
down the lamp and threw up her hands, "whatt a bother! and trouble."

"You should see to her at once, there is not a moment to be lost,"
urged Mrs. Lepell, "or shall I go?"

"No; oh, I will go, you wait here."

Presently Mrs. Chandos returned and calmly announced to the couple in
the verandah that "it was arl-right, Verona could come to no harm, for
she lay on the floor in a dead faint."

"Shall I go into Rajahpore for the doctor," suggested young Salwey.

Mrs. Chandos looked at him quickly--one swift glance of irrepressible
hate.

"No, no, no!" she replied, "my mother knows all the fever cures, it is
only that the girl is out from home, and not accustomed to the climate.
It is nothing but the bad season and the rains. In a few days she will
be arl-right. Thank you so much. Good-night," and with a wave of her
lantern, and an abrupt nod, the two good Samaritans found themselves
somewhat cavalierly dismissed.

In spite of her mother's cheering diagnosis, for days Verona lay at
the point of death; indeed, she certainly would have died, but for
the valuable offices of old Mrs. Lopez, who thrust Mrs. Chandos and
her daughters out of the sick room, and took the duties of nurse upon
herself.

What a pitiful object the poor girl looked, with her sunken cheeks,
lips cracked with fever, and cumbersome masses of dark hair. Now she
moved her head from side to side, beating her burning hands upon the
counterpane, muttering and moaning--often in a foreign tongue.

It was some time before the concoctions of her grandmother brought
Verona round--these were simples of her own manufacture, and in the
end proved efficacious. The good woman imported her charpoy into a
corner of Verona's room, and scarcely left her patient night and day.
In fierce and fluent Hindustani she kept the entire family at bay, and
by and by, having no other company, Verona came to know and love her
unwieldy, old, half-caste "Nani." As she lay there convalescent in the
dim light, Mrs. Lopez unfolded to her ear many a curious Indian tale;
but occasionally the conversation was of a more personal description.

"Of course, I know you are not content," said Nani, "for it is all so
strange now, but you are young, and you will be gay enough yet. Fill
your life with good deeds, and that will make you happy. Once upon
a time I, too, was miserable; now, I am so busy with other folks'
troubles, I have no time to think of my own; when I was young, I was
married to Lopez, the money-lender. I was very pretty. Oh, you will
laugh, but it was true! I had yards of red hair like Dominga, and good
eyes. Then when I grew fat and ugly, Lopez no longer cared for me; all
his thought was of money--money--money--always. He used to lend to
the young officers, and the Zemindars, and the bazaar people. But he
was never satisfied with what he got--and he got much--he was always
reaching--reaching--reaching after more. Rosa, your mother, would be
like him, if she had the rupees; oh, she is so fond of accounts and
business. Lily, my other girl, was quite different--but she is dead.
Ah! that was my great sorrow. Sometimes, when I looked at you lying
there, so seek, with your black hair, thin hands, and white face, I
could have thought it was my own poor Lily. I think that is why I talk
to you, and--tell you things. Lily was very soft and gentle, not clever
and quick like your mother, who always knows what she wants--and _will_
get it. She says I am too friendly with native people, and the ayah,
but, why not? They are all flesh and blood, and some of them are _so_
good."

"Yes," assented her listener, languidly, "are they?"

"Now, there is the ayah, for instance, Zorah; she had a husband, and
slaved hard for him, and had beautiful gold jewels, and brass cooking
pots, and money, for she was always working, working, working. Then she
went to England, with a lady, for two or three months, and when she
came back--now, what do you think? That good-for-nothing man had run
away with all her things, and married another wife! and so she had to
begin life over again. She is old now, and very poor indeed; all she
had in the world was a silver chain. A niece of hers was ill-treated
by her husband's family--because she had no children, so they beat
her, and starved her--and made her a slave. And Zorah sold her silver
chain, and went and brought her here from a long way off, a journey
costing twenty rupees, and keeps her; and all she has is five rupees a
month--now, would you or I do that?"

"I expect _you_ would, grandmother."

"You, too, if you had the money; you have the generous eyes. I am
sorry you gave your gold to Abdul Buk; I do not trust him, but in your
mother's opinion he is great and wise; she and I sometimes do not like
the same people. For instance, I like Salwey, the police officer; he
is a just man, and lives a good life; he is kind to Nicky and takes
notice of that poor boy; but your mother hates him more than anyone in
the whole world, I think. She says he is her enemy. I cannot understand
that. But if that is true, 'Better a wise enemy, than a foolish
friend,' is it not so?"

"But why is he her enemy?"

"Ah, I cannot tell you. It must be a secret between her and him. I
know that some of the city people have an ill-will to Salwey--he
lives among foes, like a tongue among teeth." Just at this moment the
door was dashed violently open, and Mrs. Chandos, followed by Dominga
and Nicky, entered the room without ceremony. "There has been a
robbery," announced Mrs. Chandos, who was evidently in a condition of
extraordinary excitement.

"Not of fowl?" cried Mrs. Lopez, struggling to her feet.

"No," burst in Nicky, "all Verona's things--her jewellery, I mean."

"Now why you come telling these tales now, while the poor girl is so
seek?" cried her grandmother, "go away, all of you--go away."

"Oh, but I must tell her!" said Mrs. Chandos, turning to Verona, "I
locked up that bag, you know, in the press in the Dufta. Just now
I go; the lock is not broken, but the top is off the press--and the
jewellery is stolen out of the bag."

"All?"

"Well, the gold watch and chain, the bangles and rings, and the
beautiful necklace. Oh! my! my! my!" and she put her hands to her head.
"What villains people are! Whatt wickedness! Whatt shall I do?"

"Send for the police," suggested Verona, in a weak whisper.

"Pah! the police!" cried Mrs. Chandos, "they are torturers and
murderers--if you wait for them you will never see your things. They
come--they walk about--they stare, then they take away the servants;
they pull the men's beards, they pinch the women, they make all to eat
sweetmeats, which cause awful thirst, and give no water, till they
confess--lies. Che-a-ah! the police!" and she paused breathless.

"Then get a magic wallah," suggested Nani, "they are clever and good,
and give no trouble."

"The police are very sharp now," urged Nicky, "they have discovered
lots of things, thanks to Salwey. Why not have Salwey up? I will go and
fetch him!"

"Salwey!" screamed his mother, "who asks your advice?--and the milk
not dry on your lips. Send for Salwey"--and she looked around her
fiercely--"I would just as soon send for the devil!" and with this
formidable announcement, she quitted the room.




                              CHAPTER XX


The rains were unusually late, and continued unabated till to the end
of September, with brief intervals of steamy heat. It was owing to this
circumstance that the "new Miss Chandos," as she was called, was such
a long time recovering her strength: in spite of her grandmother's
unflagging attendance, she appeared to have arrived at a certain
point of convalescence and there stuck fast. Sickness had brought an
obliteration of her troubles, but she was still sunk in a gulf of
weakness.

Mrs. Lopez plied her with her most potent remedies (she was acquainted
with some of the subtle herbs and invaluable native secrets unknown
to the European pharmacopœia), and several of her hitherto infallible
charms, without any obvious result. The truth was that the old woman
had to contend with the young girl's will--Verona had no desire to
recover. One afternoon as she lay in a sort of apathetic languor,
listening to the rain streaming down the gutters, pouring on the stone
verandah and beating on the big banana leaves with a steady "Drum,
drum, drum," her Nani entered a little wet and out of breath, carrying
some small object in her hand.

"Aré! Bai! see what I have got for thee! a baby squirrel to keep thee
company. We found him just now, washed out of the nest; all his sisters
and brothers are drowned, but the life is yet in him."

As she spoke Nani unfolded a morsel of red flannel and proudly
displayed a half-drowned squirrel (it looked like the proverbial rat).
She was about to hand it to Verona, who drew back with an instinctive
shudder, but when two little black eyes, full of terror, met her own,
she took the creature and proceeded to dry it very gently, and then
cover up the small, shivering body.

"Oh, ho! we will call him 'Johnny,' and make him a pet," announced
Nani, who presently fetched a bit of sponge and some warm milk
and proceeded to feed him. She was wonderfully expert in rearing
nondescript orphans, such as kids, kittens and young parrots.

Warmed and fed, Johnny crept up the sleeve of Verona's flannel jacket,
and there slept the sleep of exhausted infancy. For the first day or
two he was weakly and timid, and whenever he was startled immediately
sought refuge up Verona's sleeve! But he throve; he was promoted from
a bit of sponge to an egg-spoon and a morsel of rice, and in a short
time Johnny began to realise himself, to flit about the room, to dress
his fur and to take an interest in his personal appearance! And Johnny
gave Verona something to think of, and attract her thoughts outwards;
he did her ten times more good than her grandmother's most warranted
charm. She and Johnny had something in common; and when she felt the
forlorn little animal trembling in her sleeve, she recognised that here
was a fellow sufferer, who, like herself, was despairing and desolate
in the midst of unfamiliar surroundings. Verona and Johnny became fast
friends; at the sound of her call he would dart to her side, no matter
how absorbing his occupation. He was seeing the great big world for the
first time from the splendid vantage ground of a back verandah!

Nani--as already mentioned--slept in her granddaughter's room. She
also not infrequently took her meals there, and her manner of eating
was a complete revelation to the beholder, who never wearied of the
spectacle. Nani loved curry and rice--oh, such curry and rice as
never was tasted on sea or shore in the Western hemisphere! The meal
was served in two bowls--the curry, consisting of pieces of meat or
fowl, thick rich yellow gravy, charged with all manner of spices and
condiments, _so_ hot. Verona once ventured to taste a mouthful, and the
result was a gasping, a spluttering, and several irrepressible tears.
For here was the real true and only curry (no English make-believe),
but such as was eaten by the natives on the West Coast. One bowl
contained the notable comestible, and the other was filled with flaky
rice. Into the curry Mrs. Lopez plunged a plump and eager hand, seized
a morsel, then she dipped the same hand into the rice; in a moment it
became a neat and shapely ball; the next instant it had disappeared for
ever in her mouth.

Nani continued the process until both bowls were empty, not a trace of
curry or even a grain of rice remained. It was all assimilated with
extraordinary dexterity and despatch. When the meal had ended and the
bowls had been removed, Nani would declare:

"After such food one can seat oneself like a king! Now, that is how we
are intended to eat; it is the best way, and see, I make no mess--no
more than you and your bread and butter. I can use a knife and fork as
well as any one, but the fingers are best. Wash them, and there is no
trouble. Some day you will like it too, child."

But Verona only shook her head and smiled incredulously.

"How old are you, Nani?" she asked.

"Not so old as you think--about sixty-three, and how life flies. 'It is
as a swift horse passing a crevice,' so says the proverb. It seems but
yesterday, and I was young."

"You must have seen some strange things, Nani."

"Oh, yess; thatt is so," assented Mrs. Lopez, with gentle deliberation.

"What sort of things--do tell me?"

"Well, I have seen an enchanted well; this is true, true, true. No
matter how the water failed, it was always full. When the rains came it
remained just as before--never overflowed, the water always stopping
in the same place. All the learned people see it and marvel. I have
also seen a Mahommedan missionary preaching in the city to a crowd
of English soldiers; also I have seen strange people in the bazaar
too--Europeans who became natives, and forgot their own speech and
country."

"Oh, Nani--no!"

"Yes, it is true, especially in the old days. Some went into the bazaar
and they never came out. I remember one--oh, such a fine, straight,
strong man; he was a tent lascar and Mahommedan, at seven rupees a
month. People thought he was a Punjaubi--he was so fair--but I knew he
was an Englishman by his eyes. He came from a place called York-shire.
He had a pretty wife--a lascar's daughter. He was happy. Oh, yess."

"Do you remember the Mutiny, Nani?"

"Why not, when I was twenty years of age, and married? We were in
Bombay, then."

"And you saw nothing of it?"

"Truly I did, child; for four months after the massacre, I, who speak
to you, stood within the Bee-Bee Ghur itself."

"What was that?"

"Whatt! You not know? the ladies' house in Cawnpore, the bungalow where
the butchers cut them to pieces."

"Why were you there, Nani?"

"Child, you may ask! Lopez had business up country; in those days he
took me about, for he was proud of me. He stopped at Cawnpore--he had
an agent there, and he wanted to see the bungalow, 'the ladies' house',
where two of his own cousins were there murdered. Oh, yess, and so we
went; such a common old shabby place--just two large rooms. We went
in--many were there too, talking in whispers. The walls--oh, I wept
when I looked--they were covered with writing, prayers and bits of
hymns and loving messages and good-byes and names. Yes, the walls were
white once; but oh, Bapré Bap! such awful splashes, and high up in one
place, the full mark of a great red hand; and the floor--though all
washed, looked black. The room seemed damp and full of horrors and fear
and death. Oh no, no, I could not stay, like Lopez! No! no! no! in two
minutes I had run out, and there before me was the well. Yes, they were
all down there, and the top was bricked over. I could scarcely see for
crying, but I hid away behind a little wall and fell down. Oh, I could
not help it, and prayed for those souls, so cruelly, cruelly put to
death. My child, I did not get over that day for long years; it haunts
me now. As I speak to you, I can see it, and staring out at me from the
wall, the--hand--the--butcher's hand!"

"Oh, Nani--don't!" protested her listener. "I can almost see it too!"

"Well, we will not talk of that time any more, for in my veins I have
both the blood of those who killed at Cawnpore, and those who blew them
from the guns. My grandfather was an English officer, and we--we will
say no more. Let there be peace. Let us try and forget--and for a sick
child such talk is not good." Nani paused and remained silent for some
time. Then she said abruptly:

"But see, here is the crystal!"

As she uttered the word "crystal," she drew from some mysterious
receptacle an article resembling a glass paperweight.

"Now I will tell your fortune!"

"What is the use, Nani? It is told," protested Verona, wearily.

"What nonsense, child!" looking at her sharply; "the best part of your
life is to come."

Her granddaughter gave a faint, incredulous laugh.

"No, do not speak one word. I must look and be quiet for an hour. I
have to fix my mind."

Verona, thus silenced, summoned Johnny to play with her. He was a
pretty little fellow, the ordinary verandah squirrel of India--grey,
with a broad brown stripe down his back. He came at once, and sat on
the table beside her, and trimmed his whiskers. Presently he crept
into his old quarters--her sleeve--where he lay motionless for a long
time; perhaps he knew that the fate of his beloved lady was at that
particular moment trembling in the balance; perhaps he was merely
sleepy, being still a baby.

"Aré! Aré! whatt this is arl about I cannot say," proclaimed Nani after
an hour's silent contemplation. "I have seen strange things, child,
and a change that is coming to you--not death, not marriage. You look
at me--I see your face, and it smiles and--fades. No, no, no; it is of
no use! Yet this is a lucky day, and the omens are good. I met this
morning first thing, Mrs. Trotter--a mother of sons--what could be
better?"

"Never mind, Nani--I have no luck."

"Well, you have something--I cannot understand; a veil hangs over your
future. Now with Dom it is so easy, and Dom believes in the ink-pool of
the crystal."

"Does she?"

"To her you see it tells of a great uplifting--she stands with a light
around her. This may mean one of two things--a place above others, or
a violent death. Dom is a strange creature--she has strange blood in
her veins. She is all for herself. Only you notice, Dom will say: 'So
and so, he likes me'; 'there's So and so, she adores me'; but never 'I
like this one, or that one.' Dom likes only Dom," and Nani nodded with
melancholy emphasis.

"She has a handsome, witch-like face, and such a clever head--but of
whatt use here, I say to myself. What avails a mirror to a blind man?
She can never go beyond Manora--no? She will marry into the railway,
like Blanche, for all her cravings."

"Nani, I wonder why my father ever came here?"

"Because he had no choice, child."

"You remember him as a young man?"

"Why, of course. I remember as yesterday when I saw him. Oh, so
handsome and straight, and fair--who would think it now? And Rosa, she
was dying for him. Oh, she _would_ have him! What she wills ever comes
to pass. It were better she had never seen him. It is not always lucky
to have one's wishes granted--and the omens were bad. His cousin's
debts chained him here, but his heart was in Europe. All his thoughts
are there still--he changeth not. You know the proverb--'Bury a dog's
tail for twenty years, it will still be crooked.'"

"Why is he always so sad--and silent, Nani?"

"I know not the very truth, but often have I said to him:

    'Gaiety is the support of the body,
    But sadness makes it to grow old.'

You too are sad, always, child. Why is it so? Come, now tell your old
Nani?"

Verona made no reply, but hid her face in her hands, and shuddered
convulsively from time to time. Johnny, vaguely alarmed, ran down her
sleeve, peeped out and fled; but not a moment too soon--for the second
time in his short life he had escaped a deluge! On this occasion--of
tears. Bodily weakness, weariness, misery caused this sudden outbreak,
to the amazement and alarm of Nani; and despite her expostulations and
ejaculations, Verona wept till she sank into a sort of stupor, and so
passed into the land of dreams.




                              CHAPTER XXI


We have seen how Verona was affected by her relations, it now remains
to exhibit the other side of the shield and to describe her relations,
and how they were affected by Verona.

First of all, Paul Chandos, her father. To him her society--little
as he appeared to appreciate it--was a pure and unalloyed delight.
During many years he had acquired the habit of silence, and although
sufficiently fluent in the factory, at home he was a dumb man; whilst
Verona was pained and mortified by his still tongue, on his side (as
he gave her his wistful yet stealthy attention) he was conscious of
inexpressible happiness. Here beside him sat the embodiment of his
lost youth, lost ideals, aye, and it might have been his lost love!
The sound of the girl's high-bred accent, the delicate shape of her
face, her air of repose and refinement, recalled the tender grace of
a day that was dead, and the sound of a voice that was still. Still,
as far as he was concerned--never whilst he lived would it again fall
on his ears. Nevertheless, he kept, from sheer force of habit, all
this enjoyment to himself, and his pale, unhappy daughter had not the
faintest reason to suppose that for him, she had momentarily swung back
the gates of the Elysian fields. When Paul Chandos had realised his
cousin's infamy, and beheld him as he was--a cruel, base, unprincipled
wretch--the result was a shock, which morally stunned him for the
remainder of his days. On the altar, before his cousin Sydney, he had
laid all that was best in his disposition--Faith, Hope, Charity--but a
fire had ascended and reduced his offering to ashes. The horror of this
experience had almost turned his brain.

As soon as Sydney had succeeded his father in the family estates, Paul
had written him a letter, indited, so to speak, in his heart's blood--a
letter reminding him of debts, dues, and of solemn vows, and imploring
him, for the sake of his dead mother, to extend a hand and draw him
out of the pit of despair--a pit into which Sydney had plunged him. To
this, Captain Chandos (late Blue Light Lancers), D.L., of Charne Hall,
Flatshire and Charlton Terrace, replied:

    "SIR,--You have disgraced your family by your abominable
    marriage--we look upon you as dead. Further communications will be
    destroyed unread.

                                                     "Yours faithfully,
                                                          "S. CHANDOS."

Thus Paul had sacrificed himself to pay his cousin's debts--and
especially one old debt, not entered in any ledger--the debt of
jealousy. The late Mrs. Chandos had been passionately attached to her
orphan nephew; he was her darling, and she had "understood" her son.

At one time, the unhappy victim had contemplated making a desperate
effort for release, of going home (steerage) and appealing to his
relations--and the law.

"But of what use?" urged despair. "The debts were in his own name--the
rope was round his neck; his hands were bound--it was exile for life."

The unfortunate man gradually realised that he had no choice but to
settle down and make the best of his lot. By degrees he had grown
terribly apathetic, and, also, he had become bitterly ashamed of his
family. Nevertheless, he toiled for them incessantly, like an ox in
a sugar mill, but now and then human nature asserted itself, and the
miserable automaton felt that he must have some relief--or succumb.
He was not a human being, but a mechanism under a pith helmet. Paul
Chandos found his sole consolation in dreams. Occasionally he read
in the papers the names of former associates, his school-fellows and
brother officers. Oh, how he envied them! One was a famous soldier,
another a diplomatist, a third a writer--and what was he?--a worm,
and no man. With abject horror he shrank instinctively from whatever
recalled his former profession; he never entered the cantonment, and
the chance sound of a gun, the sight of a mounted officer clanking
by, was like the sudden pressure on some aching nerve. With respect
to his domestic affairs, he both hated and feared his wife--precisely
as a captive animal hates and fears a cruel keeper. She was strong,
and he felt himself to be helpless. His daughter Dominga inspired him
with a peculiar mixture of mystification and awe. Pussy he was fond
of--also of poor Nicky, his son and heir, and of dear old Nani Lopez.
According to her lights she was an upright, good creature; but Blanche,
figuratively, set his teeth on edge, and even the sleek and fawning
Monty, filled him with a sense of unchristian repulsion.

When he surveyed Blanche and Dom, as they leant across the table
bawling at one another, Paul Chandos breathed an inward prayer, that
in a future state his relations would neither recognise nor claim him.
He had a secret--those little dark-brown pills, which a trusty native
apothecary prepared. The secret was called "opium"; he took it in order
to dream, and to banish misery and care; and the gracious alchemy of
the drug transmuted his poor surroundings like an enchanter's wand.
Once more he was at home in England.

       *       *       *       *       *

To Mrs. Chandos, her new daughter had proved an agreeable surprise.
She was quiet, subdued even, and had exhibited, so far, no airs. The
girl had a simple way of doing things, and the grace and composure of
a great lady; this endowment would prove invaluable to her family, and
was bound to open the doors of cantonment society. Rosa Chandos had
her secret. She loved money--she hungered for it, as a ravenous animal
craves for food--and money came in ample supply; yet her appetite was
never appeased. She was that truly despicable character--a money-lender
to the poor, sheltering her personality behind the broad proportions
of her agent, Abdul Buk, who found in his employer the true daughter
of the horse leech, and of Lopez, the soucar. No one suspected Mrs.
Chandos; her business--which was enormous--was termed, "the love of
figures" and collecting rents. She was a capital accountant, and had a
marvellous head for a certain class of finance. The wretched woman was
torn by two conflicting passions, both inborn and hereditary; these
were the love of money, and the love of display--fellow inmates of her
mind, and yet inveterate foes.

To Pussy, Verona represented a revelation, and she was figuratively on
her knees before her sweet, English sister. And pretty Pussy, too, had
her secret--there was a certain young Alonzo Diaz on the railway, to
whom she had given her tender heart. Each time she went into Rajahpore
pretty Pussy adorned herself with gaudy ribbons, and with anxious care,
in the fond hope of meeting Alonzo; and she always carried a packet of
"conversation" lozenges in her pocket, in order (should opportunity
offer, and her mother's attention be diverted) to squeeze one into his
hot, limp hand. Oh, Pussy! who would have thought it of you? Artful
little Pussy! And what of the girl curled up luxuriously on a long cane
chair, with cushions heaped behind her, and her eyes half closed?

Dominga--the Lal Billi, or Red Cat--was a power in her own family--a
power which stood behind the throne ever since she had been a
passionate infant, a delicate child, and a precocious little girl, in
a long pig tail. Her mother adored her, and denied her nothing. Before
she had cut her second teeth, Dominga knew exactly what she wanted--and
secured it; and when at the age of twelve years (having mastered the
knowledge of many curious things), she had clamoured to be sent like
Pussy to a hill school, there to complete her education, her wish was
immediately gratified.

Mark the difference between the sisters! Good-natured, giggling Pussy
had left the establishment with a very small mental equipment. She
could write a love-note,--with many ill-spelt adjectives, lavishly
underscored; she could dance, crochet, do her hair, and make delicious
cocoanut toffee; but she was as ignorant in her way as any Pahareen
(hill woman), toiling under her load of baggage up the Ghât. But Pussy
left behind her, as she went down, not a few devoted friends and many
weeping eyes. Dominga, when it came to her turn to depart, not one;
but she carried away a supply of information sufficient to flavour her
conversation, and enable her to pose as "well informed." She wrote a
fine hand, had worked hard at her singing, and imbibed some knowledge
of history. Not only could she fix the date of the battle of Hastings,
but of the battles of Pavia, Malplaquet, and Bunker Hill. She enjoyed
reading realistic descriptions of the time of Nero, and the sack of
Rome; the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the Reign of Terror. Her
taste leaned to horrors, and she would have gone miles at any time to
witness (surreptitiously) an execution! Dominga had her secrets--one
was a whole live ambition! she ardently desired to shake off Manora and
all her family, and to go forth into the world, there to shine alone.
Although amazingly talkative, she was extremely reserved as to her
own plans; no one guessed at her aim--an aim she never once permitted
herself to lose sight of--its name was "emancipation."

At sixteen years of age, her doting mother had summoned Dominga from
school, and she was launched upon society at a railway ball (the
same at which Monty had proposed for Blanche). Dom was a born flirt,
extremely lively, and indeed so vivacious that she invariably created
a sensation. She imagined that it was "smart" and "up-to-date" to
be loud and noisy (an enemy at Naini Tal had told her this thing);
consequently, she ruined her best prospects by establishing a
reputation for being rowdy, and bad form. She threw things at supper,
and sat on the edge of a refreshment table, dangling her legs,
screaming repartees, and making an uproarious clamour. Thus she brought
herself into immediate notice and ill-repute. But shrewd Dominga had
long discovered that this pose was a calamitous mistake--a false step
she could never repair. She had actually gone out of her way to destroy
her own social chances. Then she was frightfully handicapped by the
Jones family--not merely by Blanche and Monty, but by his horde of
connections, and she was compelled to foregather with the party when
her mother was unable to accompany her--and they were such a crew! Oh,
if she could only get a fresh start now! This girl Verona was so quiet
and ladylike--she had such an air of dignity, she was sure to be taken
up by the cantonment. Doors, at which she had figuratively waited and
whined in vain, would be thrown wide, and she was determined to enter
them by clinging to her sister's skirts.

Dominga had a second secret--a declared, and not impossible, lover--in
a certain Mr. Charles Young, a subaltern in the Muffineers; he was
a merry, round-faced boy, known to his friends as "Baby Charles,"
and he humbly worshipped the Red Chandos. To tell the truth, they
were privately engaged. The fact was never suspected, for it was a
well-established tradition that no one took "D.C." seriously. She had
been flaring about Rajahpore for five years, and was all very well to
flirt or dance with, but to bring into a regiment--no, thank you! At
a whisper of the news the commanding officer would have bundled Baby
Charles out of the place--to a hill depôt--a garrison class--anywhere,
rather than submit one of his subalterns to the claws of the Lal Billi.
The pair had been engaged for six happy weeks; they posted notes to one
another in "Mrs. Beeton's Household Management"--a volume in the Club
Library--and they sat together holding tender conversation on the Club
roof, which was flat and unfrequented--few ever ascended there--whilst
Mrs. Chandos waited, and wondered, in the family victoria. She was not
in the secret, and fondly believed her fair daughter to be detained in
the reading-room.

Although Dominga was not in love, she was satisfied with her prospects.
Charlie was young, and poor, and rather stupid, but he was an English
officer--his father was an old retired General. If nothing better
offered, she intended to marry him, and thus make her escape from
Manora--shaking its dust for ever from off her feet.

Once married and presented to the regiment as Mrs. Charles
Vavasour-Young, she resolved to enact the _rôle_ of officer's wife, to
the best of her ability. She was young, she was lively, she was--unless
all men were liars--handsome. She could sing and dance like a
professional, and would have a glorious time and go far. Meanwhile,
Blanche, in her dingy little bungalow, and Lizzie Trotter, and Ada Diaz
would die of sheer envy and jealousy--this reflection afforded Dom a
species of intoxicating rapture. It was surprising that Dom had never
been in love, although her flirtations were notorious and countless;
and she could have married Tom Trotter, Alonzo Diaz, and a stout
Eurasian doctor (Edinburgh M.B.); also, she would have married, had he
been willing, Brian Salwey, but she had made up her mind that, unless
she could "better herself," she was determined to compel her mother
to give her money and her countenance, and to try her fortune on the
Calcutta stage.

Dom's lithe, seemingly boneless figure had been supreme in skirt
dancing at the school; her dancing had a charm, which her singing
lacked. She represented the very poetry of motion, and seemed to drift
before the eye like some exquisite summer cloud.

There was a good deal of the Chandos blood in Dominga--unhappily she
had inherited some of the characteristics of her cousin Sydney, and,
like him, she was secretive and false. She was also endowed with his
brains, his irresistible will, his wheedling tongue, and his red hair.
To her mother's side she was indebted for her indolence and love of
soft luxurious ease.

Not a trustworthy or attractive character--is it? and yet some would
declare, if they saw the graceful Red Cat, coiled up on her corner of
the verandah, the indictment to be a libel, and that Dom was nothing
more than a vivacious, shallow, impulsive creature.

Truly she was a curious mixture, this slim Eurasian, with the patrician
profile--and the dark marks in her filbert nails. Her mind was as
restless as the ocean, her body was indolent and self-indulgent--which
of the two would rule her life? Which god would Dominga follow--ease or
ambition? Ambition; for ambition often carried luxury in her train.




                             CHAPTER XXII


Three weeks elapsed before Verona was convalescent, and during that
time, she saw but little of Dominga and her mother; indeed, the
attitude of the latter with respect to an invalid was invariably one
of suppressed hostility. Sickness in the house was a visitation that
Mrs. Chandos could not tolerate, and the patient was sensible that she
was guilty of giving a great deal of trouble, and was more or less in
disgrace.

She and her mother never drew nearer. It was a painful fact, but they
seemed to be cut off from one another by some impassable barrier of the
spirit. On the other hand, Verona and her grandmother were drawn closer
together day by day.

"I do love you, Verona," announced Mrs. Lopez as she stroked her hair;
"you are so quiet and so sweet-tempered; you remind me of my poor Lily.
Dominga is not a bit like you; she is always dragging your mother to
the station and the club. Your mother is busy trying to mix in society,
but it is foolish--she gets no further, though she thinks she does;
people only smile and whisper. For all her trouble she will soon find
that 'by running in the boat you do not come to land.'"

Verona made no reply; she knew nothing whatever of the station or her
mother's position in Rajahpore.

"Mrs. Lepell and my daughter are awfully sweet to one another," pursued
the old lady; "but it is a rat and cat friendship! Mrs. Lepell will not
have us; she would rather have the Cavalhos; and as for your mother's
liking for Mrs. Lepell, she waters the creeper, but cuts the roots! She
wants Dominga to make a grand marriage; Dominga, too, is willing; your
father, he meddles not in these things."

"No," assented Verona.

"She tried to drag him to visit once or twice, but it was no use. Now
and then she cannot move him. There are things he will _not_ do."

There was a silence for some time, while Mrs. Lopez fed and fondled
a delicate buff chicken she was nursing in her lap. Then she said
suddenly:

"Verona, why did you leave England? Why did you come here?"

"Because," replied Verona, and her pale lip quivered, "I wanted so much
to see my own mother."

Mrs. Lopez gave vent to her queer, wheezy laugh.

"Then you were wrong to come," she declared. "It is as if one had put
their head in the oil press and cried: 'The favour of Vishnu, be on
me.'"

"I don't understand you, Nani. What do you mean?"

"It is always dark under the lamp."

"But still _I_ am in the dark," she murmured.

"Well then, lovey, you are a stupid girl! you will guess my meaning
when I say an English proverb: 'Put not your head in the lion's mouth.'
You have heard that, surely?"

"Yes, but where is the lion, Nani?"

"My child, may you never find out!" and with this somewhat solemn
aspiration Mrs. Lopez left the room in order to restore her other
invalid to its mother. It must not be supposed that Verona was entirely
neglected by her family--for such was far from being the case. Her
father daily came and gazed at her through the door, and brought her a
few flowers. Pussy was demonstratively affectionate, and remained with
her sister as long as her grandmother would tolerate. Mrs. Lepell sent
dainty little dishes and picture papers; otherwise, as far as the outer
world was concerned, the arrival of "the new Miss Chandos" appeared
to have been almost forgotten, and when Dom and Blanche mixed in the
little local gaieties and were asked about Verona, they invariably
replied that "she was arl-right!"

One day Mrs. Lepell paid a visit, and had an interview with the invalid
and her mother. "She wants a change," declared the benevolent lady.
"Miss Verona, will you come over and spend a week or two at my house?"

"Thank you," faltered Verona; "you are very kind," and she looked
interrogatively at her parent.

"Oh no, no," she rejoined, with energy; "I could not think of it.
Mrs. Lepell, I cannot have one girl more favoured than another; you
recollect when Dominga was ill you never invited her--and you have
known her almost since she was a baby. If I allow Verona to visit you,
'and she a stranger,' Dominga would be so awfully hurt; she has such a
feeling heart, and she is so fond of _you_."

"Well, I suppose she will not object if I take her sister for a drive?"
said Mrs. Lepell, rather sharply.

To this project Mrs. Chandos accorded an unwilling assent, and
presently the Trotters were greatly edified by beholding poor
whitefaced Verona stagger out to Mrs. Lepell's luxurious victoria,
Pussy following her with pillows and propping her up with care.

It was a lovely soft evening, and Mrs. Lepell allowed the girl time to
enjoy her surroundings before she commenced to talk. She glanced at her
as she lay back among the cushions; what a fine, high-bred face it was!
although so wan and languorous.

"About here the country is all very flat," she began, "cane and
millet crops, millet crops and cane! Now and then you notice one
enormous, solitary tree, the last of the forest perhaps. See that
one yonder--more than a mile away; I've often thought I would like
to make a nearer acquaintance, but he stands encompassed by wheat.
Every time I drive out I look at him and bow, for we have been friends
for twenty years. There, on the left, you may notice the city in the
distance--beyond the city the spire of the cantonment; but we will go
for a drive into the country, and you will like that best."

Verona nodded her head as Mrs. Lepell's black Australian steppers flew
along a flat, red road bordered with high cane crops and acacia trees.
Now and then, they passed a cluster of huts or a drove of goats, and
once they met a tall, two-storied cage on wheels, drawn by a camel,
full of chattering travellers.

"The mail-cart to Beetapore!" announced Mrs. Lepell, with a laugh.
Then--"you are better, are you not, my dear?"

"I am afraid I am," she answered, half under her breath.

"My dear, you must not talk like that," said Mrs. Lepell, laying her
hand on hers. "Fever does leave one a wreck; _I_ know exactly how you
feel."

"I hope you have never known how I feel," exclaimed the girl, turning
two tragic eyes slowly on her companion. "I feel--oh, _why_ didn't I
die?" and she burst into tears.

"I am so sorry for you, you poor dear child." Mrs. Lepell took her hand
tightly in her own; "I know it is all so very new and strange."

"And it can never be otherwise," sobbed Verona. "I have come out too
late ever to be one of them. It were really better if I were dead."

"My dear, don't say such things!"

"Not to every one, Mrs. Lepell, but you have been so kind to me, and
you look sympathetic. It is a relief to me to say aloud what my brain
keeps repeating all day and sometimes all night, 'I wish I were dead.'"

"Why?"

"Because I have no real home, here or anywhere; I am an outsider--an
intruder--and oh! I was so anxious to come! My grandmother is right
when she says I am like the dhoby's donkey, for I belong neither to the
house nor the river."

How nearly she belonged to the river! Did she remember? Mrs. Lepell
wondered.

"And there are other things."

"Yes; but now listen to me, Verona--of course I shall call you Verona;
there _are_ other things. You are only twenty-two, with all your best
years before you; you have been well educated; you have enjoyed all the
advantages of wealth and mixed in the world; you have the use of your
faculties; you have a certain amount of brains and beauty. All these
other things you actually possess. It is the act of a coward to throw
down her arms when she meets with a reverse, and cry, 'I want to die! I
am tired of life.' And life is so interesting, even to me, Verona, who
am old enough to be your mother. I wish to live, and see it all--and
what will happen."

"Ah, but," she protested, "you are different--so different."

"My dear, every one has their own row to hoe; how do you know that
Providence has not sent you to brighten your home, and refine--and
raise your surroundings?"

Verona gave a sort of gasping, hysterical laugh.

"I grant you that your mother and Dominga may not be altogether
sympathetic, but you would have immense influence with Pussy and Nicky;
she is indolent, sweet-tempered, easily led; and Nicky is extremely
clever, but only half-educated, poor boy! they took him away from the
Martinière school, and he has loafed about ever since. Brian Salwey
declares that he has a capital head-piece; all he wants is some one at
home to urge him on, to set to making his way in the world. But he is
losing his best days slacking about Manora, playing tennis and making
hencoops. Now you should take him--and Pussy in hand."

"I? how do you mean? What can I do?"

"Do? Why teach them! Give them a couple of hours English and French
lessons of a morning. I can lend you some books. Let them do English
and French dictation, and reading; Green's 'History of the English
People' and Macaulay's 'Essays' will keep them going. I'm sure Pussy
will be all the better for a little arithmetic and spelling. You'll
find that it will interest you--and employ them."

Verona made no reply.

"Then there is your father, dear; have you thought of him?"

"Yes, he scarcely ever opens his lips to me or any one; he appears to
accept everything as it is, and to be sunk in a sort of lethargy."

"Oh, my dear child, if you only knew his life as my husband related it
to me, you would be sorry, and make allowances for his silence. He has
been a scapegoat for others: he has remained out here for twenty-eight
years, and fallen away from the memory of all his old friends. You call
him lethargic? Well, I daresay his feelings are benumbed. Early in life
he received a terrible shock, which has stunned him. Once he was one of
the cheeriest young fellows; what a contrast to his present condition!
He just grinds away at his post like a horse in a mill, in order to
support his family. You and he should be especial friends."

"Yes--but why?"

"Because, presumably, you are a Chandos; you know England--his native
country; the others do not. There is one bond. You like books and
perhaps chess--so does he; you might easily bring some light and warmth
into the poor man's grey life. Will you try, dear?"

"Yes; but I don't think it will be of the smallest use!"

"It will! In occupation you will soon forget yourself."

"I hope I may--for I hate myself at present."

"You hate everything just now, because you are in low spirits and weak
health. Adopt my prescription--it will cure you. You and I might have
some long drives and talks together, but I am aware that I may not
enjoy your company too often."

The two ladies returned to the big bungalow, where they sat in the
verandah and had tea. It was like an English tea, with all its dainty
little appointments. The sight of the pretty drawing-room, with its
books and flowers and sketches acted as a restorative. So all Indian
drawing-rooms were not dingy and dark and squalid! Mrs. Lepell's
society was a veritable tonic, and when she had deposited the invalid
at the door of her home, the girl felt miraculously stimulated and
revived.

       *       *       *       *       *

Verona lost no time in putting Mrs. Lepell's advice into practice--her
project of being governess to Nicky and Pussy was accepted by the pair
with unexpected pride and gratitude. A large table in one corner of
the verandah was carefully screened off, and here they worked for two
or three hours every morning, in spite of the jeers and derision of
Dominga and her mother. Pussy was incredibly dull; nothing could induce
her to put the "e" in the right place in "believe" and "receive," and
as to the difference between latitude and longitude she merely laughed
and shook her head.

On the other hand, Nicky had brains, and a decided taste for
mathematics. Salwey gave him lessons twice a week, for Nicky had been
promised a clerkship in the works if he proved steady and industrious;
certainly, it was only fifty rupees a month, but it was better than
nothing. His ambition had been set alight, and Salwey had fired him
with the desire to be an engineer, and to endeavour to pass into Roorki
College. Nicky now turned his carpentering talents to mending an old,
long-neglected boat, and of an afternoon he rowed his two sisters about
the river--even his grandmother ventured once--anything to please
Nicky, for Nicky was her darling. Verona, to her great satisfaction,
now began to know her father a little better; he dropped his reserve,
and seemed faintly interested in the boating and lessons.

One evening, much to her surprise, he invited her into his own
particular den; it was at the far end of the bungalow, opened directly
into the verandah, and was entered by three steps. As she stood and
gazed about her Verona gave an exclamation of astonishment; she had
seen an officer's barrack room in England, she was standing in its
counterpart here. There was the brass-bound chest of drawers, the camp
bed, the folding chair and round table; over the mantel-piece hung a
sabre, sabre-tasche, and spurs; on the walls, covered with numbers of
faded regimental groups, were also polo sticks, hog spears and some
old sporting prints. One side of the room was lined with a bookcase;
there was a writing table, a shabby, comfortable-looking armchair, and
quantities of pipes. It was the room of an officer, and gentleman!

"Here I sit and smoke and dream alone," explained Mr. Chandos.

"Always alone?" enquired Verona.

"Yes; no one else cares to dream and read."

"I think I do, father."

"Then I invite you here; consider yourself an honorary member of the
Den."

"Thank you."

"Do you play piquet or chess?"

"Yes--but not well."

"No doubt you will beat me--I am terribly rusty."

"At any rate I shall try," she answered with a bright smile. "Who?"
suddenly walking over to a picture, "is this handsome young man in
racing colours?"

"Do you not know?" he asked with an air of distressed surprise.

"You!" she exclaimed, with an unflattering start.

"Yes; that was taken after I won the Civil Service Cup, at Lucknow,
on Good Fortune. Names go by contraries, for since that day my luck
turned. I have been going steadily down the ladder ever since."

"Oh, father," and she paused and turned and looked at him; "why do you
say so? What do you mean?"

"I've done those things which I ought not to have done, and not done
those things which I ought to have done, and there's no health in me."

She gazed into his eyes, laden with inexpressible remorse; then turned
away to hide her own tears--and presently said, in a totally different
voice:

"Ah, I see," pointing to the bookcase, "you have all Sir Walter Scott,
tattered and torn--how I love him!"

"Is he your only love so far?"

"Well," with an effort at gaiety, "I must confess I am very fond of
Charles Lamb and Emerson and George Eliot."

"So am I," cried her parent; "I see that we shall agree."

"Above all I love William Thackeray."

"Here," he laughed and said, "you have my consent; it is a family
failing."

"Oh, what a beautiful old place!" she exclaimed, as she paused before
a little spotted landscape, in the midst of which stood a stately and
picturesque mansion.

"Yes, Charne Hall; I was born there."

She moved in order to examine it still closer, thinking of the
appalling contrast between her father's birthplace and his present
abode.

"It has been in our family since the reign of James I.; my cousin has
it now. He married a woman of large fortune; they have no children."

Verona turned and glanced at him. Her thoughts flew to Nicky. Was Nicky
the heir to this ancestral English home?

"It is a beautiful place," continued her father, gazing at the picture
with eyes of deep affection; "it is the sort of mansion house agents
cry up, with its saloon, suite of drawing-rooms, picture gallery,
library, and forty or fifty bedrooms; but if it was only a little
roadside cottage I should love it just as much. I am proud of being
a Chandos of Charne. In all the ups and downs of my life I have
remembered this fact, and kept the name spotless, to the best of my
power. You can never guess, my dear, what sacrifices this has cost me,
miserable and insignificant as I am. I have upheld our name. Were any
one belonging to me to dishonour or disgrace it, it would kill me."
He spoke with such vehemence and suppressed passion, that he seemed
transformed.

"Here," he continued as he unlocked a drawer, and produced a large
photograph, which showed the place on a much finer scale. "And here,"
he added, placing another picture in her hand. It was a photograph of a
pretty girl in her teens, the face was sweet, the dress old-fashioned,
"Oh, no, not that," hastily seizing it. "But this--it is your
grandfather." It was a photograph, from a portrait, of a handsome,
haughty, elderly man.

And across one corner of the picture was inscribed in a bold hand:
"Chandos, of Charne."

Verona took the picture in her hand and considered it attentively.

Her grandfather! What a contrast was presented by this aristocratic
English magnate to her grandmother in the Dufta!

"I have never shown it before," resumed her father in a tremulous tone,
"so do not say anything about it. But you have been at home--you are
a Chandos--_you_ understand. I think, my dear," and his voice broke a
little, "we shall have many things in common. I am thankful that you
came; already you have done good to Nicky and Pussy and me." He paused
abruptly and stood in a listening attitude.

Yes, there was a sound of wheels! The victoria had returned from its
daily round and common task.

Presently a shrill voice came pealing down the verandah.

"Verona, Verona! Now where _is_ that girl?"

"There, there, my dear, you had better go," urged her father nervously;
"you will come again soon." As she turned to leave the room she met her
mother face to face in the doorway.

"Oh, ho!" she cried, "so _you_ have found your way here? I have seen
Mrs. Lepell; she says she wants you and Pussy to go to tea to-morrow. I
can't think what she is up to!"




                             CHAPTER XXIII


It was an unprecedented honour for Pussy to be invited to tea at the
big bungalow, and when Verona had arranged her hair, and dressed her in
a white skirt and pink silk blouse, she looked surprisingly handsome.
Indeed, when Mrs. Lepell shook hands with her, and noticed the look
of timid self-approval on her pretty dark face, she began to realise
Mrs. Chandos in her youth. She had invited the girl as a screen and
companion for her friend Verona, and the three sat out under the bamboo
trees and had tea. Pussy felt excessively nervous, yet triumphant;
never before had she been thus honoured--only invited as one of the
factory crowd; she gazed about her admiringly at the cane chairs and
rugs and books. While her sister and her hostess conversed, she munched
cakes and chocolates--stared at them steadily and mentally compared the
two. Verona was quite as much a great lady as Mrs. Lepell, her eyes
were so queenly; she sat with such ease, with her pretty hands in her
lap, and even in a plain cambric gown she seemed beautifully dressed.
Here was Mr. Salwey riding up on his splendid black horse--how fine he
looked! She surveyed him furtively as he came quickly down the steps,
in his neat brown riding boots, his light coat, his tie and his hat.
What blue, blue eyes he had! How quiet they were, and yet they seemed
to see everything with their cool, watchful glance!

He was almost the only gentleman of Pussy's acquaintance; he was
Pussy's idea of a story-book hero; everyone of her favourites fitted
him, but he was better, and handsomer, and cleverer than them all. She
looked up to Salwey as her ideal--but had bestowed her heart on his
antipodes.

"Well, Aunt Liz," he said, coming forward with a smile.

"Oh, Brian, I am glad to see you! I thought you were on duty."

"No, I'm on pleasure," and he nodded to Pussy with a friendly air.

"This is my nephew--Brian Salwey," said Mrs. Lepell. "Brian, let me
introduce you to Miss Verona Chandos."

Verona inclined her head; he bowed profoundly and, as he moved aside
some papers, and took a chair, Brian Salwey was inwardly telling
himself that this young person--was no half-caste; she looked like a
lady of high degree, with her delicate features and well set-on head.

"And here," resumed his aunt, turning to the shy, dark girl, with eyes
like fixed stars, "is Miss Pussy, with whom you are already acquainted."

"Oh, yes; Miss Pussy has often been down to my place with her
brother--and seen my ponies."

"Oh, they are lovelee! such beauties! Oh, I do love ponies," she
exclaimed, then wriggled, and relapsed into a condition of smothered
giggling. What a curious contrast was afforded by the English and the
Indian sisters! One seemed a refined, cultivated girl of the world--the
other, a daughter of the bazaars! Could education achieve so much with
respect to deportment and voice?

Presently Salwey expressed a hope that "there was some tea left
for him? Being as you know," turning to his aunt, "a thoroughly
domesticated character."

"And pray, how did you leave England?" he inquired, now addressing
himself directly to Verona.

"I left it with some regret," she answered, with a smile. "It was
August, you know."

"Ah, August is my favourite month," he remarked, as he carefully
selected a lump of sugar.

"Yes, you impostor!" said his aunt. "You would like Miss Chandos to
suppose that you are thinking of gorgeous sunsets, and harvest homes,
and early autumn tints. My dear, the truth is, he is thinking of the
shooting."

"Well, I have not been able to do anything but _think_ of it for some
years. Pray, who is the owner of this pretty thing?" he asked, as he
stooped to pick up a little gold pencil-case.

Verona held out her hand. "Yes, is it not pretty? I got it at the Army
and Navy Stores."

"Oh, the Stores! They are painfully associated in my mind with wedding
presents--I have put in some bad quarters-of-an-hour there."

"Yes, it's a ready-money place," suggested his aunt with a sly smile.

"Oh, that was not it--thanks awfully for the insinuation--it was the
worry of thinking, and making up my mind."

"Why give anything?"

"What can I do, when fellows I know will get married?"

"Console yourself with the expectation of the crop _you_ may reap some
day."

"That depends! If I were to marry an heiress--I daresay I'd have a
good harvest, on the principle of 'give an apple where there is an
orchard'--you see," glancing at Verona, "that I can quote proverbs, as
well as Mrs. Lepell."

"But she is not a cynic like you, Brian."

"Come, don't crush me in public, Aunt Liz. I hear"--turning to
Verona--"that you have brought out no end of new books----"

"Yes, I have a good many; can I lend you some?"

"If you lend him a book, Verona, you will be sorry," interposed his
aunt.

"Now--she is impeaching my honesty, you see! Any cheap paper-backed
edition--not turning solely on murder and robbery--would be gratefully
appreciated."

"I daresay I can supply your requirements."

"The fact is," said Salwey, taking off his hat and throwing it on the
grass, "I cannot stand anything that demands sternly concentrated
attention. I don't want to hear of the 'over man,' nor even the
'sub-conscious brain'; on the other hand, I find the reading of
'shockers' requires an amount of physical courage, in which I am
deficient--and--for love stories--I have--to borrow the American terms,
'no use.'"

"So, you see, he will not be easy to suit!" supplemented Mrs. Lepell.

"Oh, yes," he protested. "He is merely a simple, unsophisticated police
wallah."

"Not so _very_ simple, Brian. And you _have_ some use for love stories.
Do you recollect how you borrowed and gobbled up 'A Princess of Thule,'
and sent it back horribly disfigured and reeking of tobacco?"

"I offered to replace it----"

"To keep it--as I understood----"

"For my part, I much prefer 'Macleod of Dare,'" declared Verona.

This remark at once started an animated discussion.

And now that the conversation circled round books and pictures, poor
Pussy was completely out of her depth, and could contribute nothing
beyond the language of the eye, and spasmodic gigglings.

Meanwhile, as Brian Salwey talked to her charming low-voiced sister,
he felt figuratively swept off his feet; it was impossible to realise
that this girl was the daughter of the sub-manager and "Mother Chan.";
that her great-grandmother had been a Temple girl from the West coast,
who had sung and danced before the gods. His brain actually reeled as
he endeavoured to assimilate this fact, with the beautiful face, the
well-cut, firm lips, that were imparting her impressions of the recent
Passion play at Oberammergau. Never for a moment did she appear to
recall that terrible scene by the river, and her own pitiful cry, "Let
me die! Oh, let me die!"

At present she was laughing at some epitaphs that Mrs. Lepell had
unearthed from an American magazine, little dreaming how near she had
been to earning an epitaph herself!

"I must say I like the unquestioning conviction of this one from
Wyoming county," said Mrs. Lepell, and she read aloud:

    "She was in health at 11.30 a.m.
    And left for heaven at 2.30 p.m."

Brian leant nearer, and looked over his aunt's shoulder, and said:
"Yes, but I think this one from Maine would be hard to beat as a
monument of punctuation.

    'John Philips
    Accidentally shot as a mark of affection by his brother.'

or this is most excellent:

    'Here lies the body of Obadiah Wilkinson and Ruth his wife,
        Their warfare is accomplished.'

"Now let us hand the book to Miss Chandos that she may make her
selection." As he spoke he took it from Mrs. Lepell, and held it to
Verona. After a slight pause, she said: "I really think mine is the
best of all."

"Then I challenge you to let us hear it," said Salwey.

In a low steady voice she at once began to read aloud:

    "'Our life is but a winter's day,
    Some breakfast and away,
    Others to dinner stay--and are well fed,
    The oldest sups and goes to bed.
    Large is the debt who lingers out the day,
    Who goes the soonest--has the least to pay.'"

"So you would go soon?" looking at the girl interrogatively.

"Yes, after breakfast, so to speak," she responded.

"And I would remain till after supper--when the band had dispersed, and
the lights were put out."

"I, too, should like to remain till the Last Post," said Mrs. Lepell.

Pussy listened to this conversation with a face of blank bewilderment.
What did they mean by talking of breakfast, and supper, in this odd
fashion?

"By-the-way, Verona," said Mrs. Lepell, "to change to another subject,
have you ever had any trace of your jewels?"

"No, never."

"Pray, Brian," turning to her nephew, "what are you about? I repeat the
common cry, 'Where are the police?'"

"The police were never informed of this theft," he rejoined. "I heard
of the robbery as a mere bazaar shave."

"Do you mean to tell me," said his aunt, now sitting erect, "that you
were not officially informed that Mrs. Chandos had a press broken into,
and that Verona's dressing-bag was opened, and all the valuables in it
were carried off?"

"What valuables?" he asked, judicially.

"Oh, oh--oh!" cried Pussy, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "Oh,
such lovelee things, that must have cost lakhs of rupees! A gold
watch and chain, a diamond and turquoise necklet, pearl bangles, and
a pendant with an emerald as big as _this_"--making a circle with two
little brown fingers--"and rings, and all sorts of things."

"How long ago did this happen?"

"Six weeks."

"And this is the first I have heard of it; I am afraid everything is
scattered far by this time."

"I did suggest sending for the police," said Verona.

"Yes, it was when you were so sick; mother would not have it; she," and
here Pussy giggled, "says all the police are thieves."

"Even so, I wonder she did not endeavour to set a thief to catch a
thief," rejoined Salwey, "and I maintain that the police are not
thieves. Has nothing been done?" turning to Verona. "Why has the affair
been allowed to drop?"

"I really don't know," she replied.

"And has there not been one single trace?" pursued Mrs. Lepell.

"I don't know what you would call a trace. You know that man, Abdul
Buk?"

Salwey's eyes brightened.

"Yes, I have that--experience."

"I was walking on the road the other day when he drove by in that
battered old phaeton of his; when he saw me he pulled up, and said:
'Oh, what a pity about your pretty things, Miss Sahib, I am so sorry. I
think the watch and chain might be got, if you would give reward--say,
of three hundred rupees.'"

"Yes?" said Salwey.

"I refused; I told him I had no money to spare."

"No," put in Pussy, "for she has spent it all on my bicycle."

Verona coloured vividly, and Salwey said: "If you will write me out a
list of all the things that have been stolen, I should like to see what
I can do, on the principle of 'Better late than never.'"

"I will--thank you very much," the clock was now striking six, and
Verona rose to depart. She had enjoyed an hour of what had once been
her everyday life, a woman's brilliant, cultivated talk, and dainty
refined surroundings, a man's astonished first look--and subsequent
subdued homage. Oh, she knew it all so well! For one short hour she
had been back at Cannes, with the sun setting over the Estorells. The
sun here had just set behind the sugar factory, where her father was
employed; she was nothing more or less than a foolish discontented
half-caste, who had momentarily forgotten her place in the world, and
must at once return home, or her mother would be angry.

Salwey accompanied Verona and Pussy, carrying magazines and papers,
the gift of his aunt; almost before he left them he must have heard an
irritable:

"Now, where have you two been? Oh, my! you are late. And look at Pussy
in a pink blouse! How set up she is!"

All this harangue was from Dominga--who was lolling in the verandah in
a long cane chair.

She and her mother had lately returned from Rajahpore, bringing with
them a considerable amount of irritation and ill-temper.

When Salwey once more made his way to the tea-table, his aunt was still
there.

"Now, Brian," she said, "sit down here; I want to know what you think
of her."

"Her?" he repeated, "which her?"

"Don't be so ridiculous! You know perfectly well who I mean."

"I think," he said, "that the new Miss Chandos is the most beautiful
girl I have ever seen."

"And has no recollection, that this is not your first meeting, and that
but for you her body would have been found in the Jurra?"

"I don't know how to believe that she is the sister of that fat little
dark girl, or the daughter of Mother Chan, or even the sister of the
illustrious Dominga."

"Their noses are rather alike," said Mrs. Lepell, with a meditative
air; "do you see much of Dominga?"

"Much too much! She and her mother are continually in the club,
ostensibly to read the papers; the girl plays tennis and badminton--she
also plays the fool."

"You don't like her, Brian?"

"Well, no, I know a few things about Miss Dominga Chandos."

"Oh, tell me?" said his aunt, eagerly.

"Her people ought to look after her."

"And is that all I am to hear?"

"Isn't it enough? Think of all the events, situations, and mysteries,
your imagination can weave out of that little sentence. To me she is
always the Cat--the Red Cat; she has a disagreeable way of winding
herself about, and purring."

"Singing, you mean?"

"I don't admire her caterwauling; her voice is detestable. I always
seem to hear the native note dominating her song, the Nautch girl
note."

"And so you say that Dominga reminds you of a red cat? Take care she
does not scratch you some day."

"No fear!" Then, as if suddenly recollecting something, "What an
extraordinary business this is about Miss Verona's jewels; I cannot
understand it."

"Neither can I."

"To me it looks rather like a hushed-up affair; someone in Manora has
had a hand in the robbery."

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Lepell, doubtfully, "but Mrs. Chandos is the
last woman in the world to allow herself, or her family, to be robbed
without a struggle."

"Yes, that old scoundrel, Abdul Buk, seems to know something about it."

"I always thought he was rather a nice, venerable old person."

"He is a nice, deep old person, and I must admit, that I've never yet
found him out; he is full of palaver and civility. If I were to believe
anonymous letters----"

"But no one believes them," protested his aunt.

"He is at the bottom of the worst form of usury and blood-sucking in
the district."

"There you go," said his aunt, "started on your hobby, usury and
money-lenders."

"Well, they are the curse of the country, and if it is in my power to
abate that curse, and release a few hundred slaves, I shall not have
lived in vain."

"Brian, you ought to have been a barrister; I can see and hear you
haranguing a jury."

"Thank you, I'm perfectly satisfied with my present profession, hunting
down and securing criminals for barristers to denounce and juries to
condemn."

There was a long silence; Mrs. Lepell put a few stitches in her work,
and Salwey made some notes in a little book.

"District Superintendent Salwey," she began suddenly, "of what are you
thinking?"

"Aunt Liz, this question of yours has become a confirmed habit, as
regular as 'how do you do?' Since you particularly wish to know--I am
thinking of the new Miss Chandos and her turquoise necklet; why is she
kept so strictly in the background?"

"Perhaps her mother imagines that she would extinguish Dominga--and
Dominga is her idol, her brazen image."

"Possibly, and the other is a true lady, unaffected, refined, and
altogether a most attractive and interesting personality."

"But nothing to _you_, Brian. You must not fall in love with her;
think of Mrs. Lopez as you see her, basking in the sun, a shapeless
old woman, a mass of superstition and ignorance; think of Verona's
grandmother, and then think of your own. You know the beautiful picture
in the Roxley library--I believe if you were to marry a Eurasian girl,
she would come down out of her frame!"




                             CHAPTER XXIV


"Girls, I have ordered the wagonette for this afternoon," announced
Mrs. Chandos, "so we will all go to the club. Verona, you have been
here two months, and never once been in to the station. Just fancy!"

Verona's attempted apologies and excuses were imperiously silenced.
In a quarter of an hour she found herself driving from the door, in
company with her mother, Dominga, Pussy and Blanche, who had been
spending the morning with her relations.

"Oh, Verona, how I wish you knew some of the officers' wives," bewailed
her mother; "it would be such a help to your poor sisters. You see,
although we are such a good family at home, and go back for hundreds of
years, yet we are looked down on in Rajahpore as just factory nobodies.
Your father will never leave a card on the mess, no, not even when his
old friends were here, though I went down on my knees and asked him to
do it. Yes, I did! No one calls on us except one or two young men who
are no good. No?"

"But don't you go to numbers of entertainments and tennis parties?"
enquired the newcomer.

"We go only to look on--to sports and cricket matches, but we know no
one, for we, of course, will not sit beside the Trotters and the wood
contract people. Then, when we go to the station club, people give us
the cold shoulder, and look as much as to say, 'Now, what are _you_
doing here?' If you only knew one or two officers' wives they would ask
us to balls and dinners, and what a thing it would be for us! There
must be hundreds and thousands of people in the world that you know,
Verona."

"Yes; but I do not think that I shall meet any of them at Rajahpore."

During this conversation the party had been driving towards the
cantonment, which at this period of the year resembled green, park-like
plains, diversified with barracks, bungalows, clumps of feathery
bamboos, and clumsy mango trees.

Outside the club waited many carriages, and round the tennis courts
a number of people were assembled, as Mrs. Chandos and her daughters
descended (unassisted) from the wagonette.

They chattered into the reading-room, _en masse_, and went over to the
big table where the picture papers were to be found. These they tossed
about recklessly, or turned over with contemptuous indifference. No
one took the smallest notice of them, although Blanche, Dominga and
Pussy had duly announced their arrival by loud remarks and laughter, as
ear-piercing as a peacock's scream.

Mrs. Chandos was apparently buried in the _Queen_, but her little
black eyes were all the time roving round the room; yet she did not
appear to observe the glances of annoyance that were cast at her three
merry daughters. Verona, more sensitive, got up and walked away into
the adjoining library, which was lined with books. Several people
were also examining the shelves. As she was turning over the pages
of an old friend, she was startled to hear a voice beside her say:
"Is it possible that I behold Miss Chandos?" She looked up quickly,
and beheld a little blonde lady, with a pert, piquant face, and in an
instant recognised Miss Snoad, a second-rate girl, who lived near the
Melvilles, and whom she suddenly remembered had, to the surprise and
delight of her family, married an officer and gone to India.

"Ah! I know you're going to say 'Miss Snoad,'" she continued, and her
little green eyes danced gleefully, "but I am Mrs. Barwell now; my
husband is a Major in the Muffineers. Who would have thought of seeing
_you_ out here? I suppose you are globe-trotting. How is Madame de
Godez?"

These questions were poured forth so rapidly that Verona had no time to
reply.

"Madame de Godez is dead; she died very suddenly last March."

"Oh!" ejaculated Mrs. Barwell. Undoubtedly Madame de Godez's heiress
stood before her, the happy owner of fifteen thousand a year! "And
only fancy your being at Rajahpore! I suppose you have a smart
chaperone--some lady of title. You must both come and stay with me--a
good long visit."

"Thank you very much, but I am with my own relations," replied Verona.

"Why--I never knew you had any relations in India."

"Nor did I, until within the last few months."

"Who are they?" asked the lady breathlessly. "What is their name?"

"Chandos; they live at Manora."

"What! _Those_ people?" and Mrs. Barwell's voice grew shrill, her face
became quite pink, as she collapsed on a chair and exclaimed:

"Well, I never!"

Verona remained standing, motionless, gazing at her in dead silence,
and there was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"And what has become of all the money?" gasped Mrs. Barwell at last.

"It went to Madame de Godez's next of kin."

"My gracious goodness! my stars! What a change for you; what an _awful_
come down!"

At this moment Mrs. Chandos bustled into the library, closely attended
by Pussy and Dominga.

"Whatt!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, "so you _have_ found a friend,
Verona!" and she looked from her daughter to the little, hard-faced
woman in the armchair. "You must introduce me, Verona. No?"

Verona, painfully embarrassed, remained silent. What was she to do? Of
course her mother wished to know Mrs. Barwell, but Mrs. Barwell did not
wish to know her mother.

To her profound relief the latter stood up, and said:

"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Chandos? I believe I get my eggs and fowls
from you? Your daughter and I were acquainted in England."

"Yes, yes, yes; and this is my other daughter, Dominga. I daresay you
have met Dom at the tennis----"

Mrs. Barwell merely closed her eyes at Dominga, and turning abruptly to
Verona, said:

"Now, when will you come to see me?"

"I really cannot say."

"Oh, you can have the victoria any day," volunteered her mother with
gushing officiousness.

"Let me see," said Mrs. Barwell, "Wednesday is the polo; suppose you
come to tea and we go on there afterwards. There is to be a grand
match, and a number of people are coming over from Cheepore."

Mrs. Chandos once more put herself forward, and with eager volubility
promised her daughter's company without fail, and after a few little
speeches Mrs. Barwell left the library.

"Whatt luck!" cried Mrs. Chandos. "Dominga, you can _not_ play tennis;
you must come down with me to the bazaar and get a pair of shoes.
Whatt luck! Whatt luck!" she kept repeating. "Whatt luck!"

Verona failed to see any connection between the word "luck" and
Dominga's new kid shoes, but she understood this puzzle later.

When Wednesday came, Verona--who was exceedingly reluctant to fulfil
her engagement to Mrs. Barwell--was astonished to find that Dominga was
to bear her company! Dominga, arrayed in her own best green foulard and
one of "Suzanne's" celebrated hats, was dragging on a pair of new white
gloves as she entered the drawing-room.

"Where are you going, Dominga?" she asked.

"I am going with you--a pleasant surprise!"

"But, Dom, you cannot come; you know you were not invited."

"Oh, yes, I can. Tea is nothing--she will not mind."

"Then I shall not go at all," announced Verona, and as she spoke she
began to remove her hat. "I will write a note of excuse. Please tell
the man to take round the victoria."

Mrs. Chandos was barely in time to hear the fag end of this
conversation, and burst out in a fury of passion.

"Hi! hi! what do you mean giving those grand lady orders here? I only
give orders in this house. You learn thatt, Miss. I now order you, take
your sister to Mrs. Barwell's. If you were not a bad hearted, mean,
thankless wretch, you would feel glad and proud to introduce Dominga to
your friends. She shall go--and I say it!"

"Then she goes alone; and, indeed, I am not at all anxious to resume my
acquaintance with Mrs. Barwell."

"Oh, it is already three o'clock," screamed Mrs. Chandos; "you will be
late! What is the good of you--you idle, useless doll, but to help your
sisters into society?" Mrs. Chandos was perfectly livid with passion;
her tongue, now loosened, gave vent to a torrent of abuse.

At this particular moment Verona caught sight of her father timidly
opening the door of his den, and, turning her back on her storming
mother, she hurried to appeal to him.

"Father," she began, "I am invited to tea in Rajahpore with a lady I
once knew slightly; I have no desire to know her any better. My mother
accepted the invitation, and now insists on sending Dominga with me.
I'm sure Mrs. Barwell will think it a great intrusion. What am I to do?"

"Go, my dear," was his surprising reply; "go; you must submit to your
mother. There is no alternative."

"Go?" she repeated incredulously. "You are not in earnest!"

"Yes," and his voice faltered, poor, craven man. "Go for my sake,
Verona--and the sake of peace. These scenes"--and he nodded towards the
verandah--"are distracting. Oh, go, my dear, for God's sake--it will
only be a little hurt to your pride, and it will soon be over!" and
with this extremely faint consolation, Verona, holding her head very
high, went down the steps and took her place in the victoria beside her
exultant sister.




                              CHAPTER XXV


As Verona bowled along the road beside Dominga, she felt brave enough
to cope with this unprecedented occasion. When she thought of her
father's miserable eyes, and agonised appeal, she was prepared to face
a dozen Mrs. Barwells, but by and by, her courage subsided; the cold
fit came on, her heart beat fast, her lips trembled involuntarily. She
was aware that for the first time in her life she was about to take an
unwarrantable liberty. They had all too soon reached their journey's
end; dashed up a gravelled avenue, and come to a full stop under the
porch of Major Barwell's bungalow. Presently they were ushered into the
presence of the lady of the house, who was lolling in an armchair,
reading a paper. She rose with alacrity to greet her visitor, but
when she caught sight of "Red Chandos" behind her pretty pale sister,
her agreeable smile instantly changed to an expression of angry
astonishment.

"I have ventured to bring Dominga," said Verona, rather faintly.

"So it seems," rejoined Mrs. Barwell, with an almost imperceptible
inclination of the head.

"A most unexpected honour"--the words were "unexpected honour," but
tone was "unpardonable impertinence."

Mrs. Barwell raised her voice and called, "Qui Hye." A servant came
running in.

"If any other ladies call--say I am not at home."

Verona thoroughly understood. Mrs. Barwell did not wish her friends
to find Dominga Chandos sitting in her drawing-room, and she made up
her mind that as soon as possible the lady should be relieved of her
society--nothing would induce her to remain to tea.

"Oh, stop a moment," said Mrs. Barwell. "Now that I think of it, the
private theatrical people are coming in--never mind, never mind." With
a wave of her hand she dismissed the bearer.

Then she sat down and motioned the sisters to two chairs, and
addressing her conversation exclusively to Verona, began:

"I was so surprised to see you the other day; I had no idea you were in
the neighbourhood. What an awful change you must find it in every way!"

Verona mentally assented to this remark, but merely replied:

"I like India. I have always wished to see it."

"That is fortunate, is it not, my dear? as your home happens to be
out here. What a contrast to Halstead! Do you often hear from the
Melvilles?"

"Not very often--I am a bad correspondent."

These letters were Verona's constant difficulty, she could not
tell the truth--also, she could not tell falsehoods. She loved Mrs.
Melville even more than ever, but she dared not acquaint her with her
unfortunate condition. There is loyalty to one's kindred--be they
who they may--rich or poor, black or white. Her letters home were
consequently constrained; after the first mention of her relatives she
rarely named them. Mrs. Melville could read between the lines. The
child was disillusioned and depressed.

"What funny people they were," resumed Mrs. Barwell.

Verona's friends had never struck her as particularly humorous.
Possibly Mrs. Barwell thought them "funny," because they had never
cultivated her acquaintance in former days, when she was Miss Snoad.

"By-the-way, what a wretched match Margery made!"

"Oh, no!" protested her friend, "she is extremely happy."

"But he had scarcely a penny besides his pay, and that girl had the
advantage of the very best county society. What _is_ the good of county
society, and being exclusive, if you can't do better than that? Of
course, she was no beauty; indeed, for my part, I always thought her
very plain."

During the conversation Dominga sat aloof, totally unabashed by her
icy reception, and stared round the room exhaustively. It resembled
its mistress--it was cheap and showy, not dark and gloomy, with heavy
hangings and solid furniture, like the drawing-room at Manora, but
light and gay. The walls were coloured bright green, and covered with
large fans and small mirrors; quantities of wickerwork chairs were
dressed in gaudy flounced cretonne.

Over the floor were scattered numbers of deer-skins, mounted on red
flannel. Whilst her sister and Mrs. Barwell talked of home, Dominga
presently rose from her seat, strolled around examining the photographs
and ornaments, as calmly and critically as if they were so many lots
at auction. Meanwhile Mrs. Barwell followed her movements with angry
eyes. Just at this moment two ladies were ushered in, Mrs. Palgrave
and Miss Richards, the Colonel's wife and sister. Mrs. Palgrave was
tall and slight; her face was rather plain, but animated, and she had a
charming smile. Her sister was a handsome, bright-looking girl of about
five-and-twenty. They were both remarkably well dressed, and appeared
to be in the highest spirits. Mrs. Barwell received them effusively,
but did not attempt to present the other ladies. Her slight civility to
Verona had now become congealed.

"So you have just come from the rehearsal?" she began, making room for
Mrs. Palgrave beside her.

"Yes, we are quite worn out with our exertions, at least, Dolly is. I
am merely chaperone, critic, peacemaker, and prompter."

"How are you getting on?" turning to Miss Richards.

"Only pretty well. Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Long have been squabbling, and
Captain Prescott has thrown up his part. He won't act; I cannot imagine
why he is so cross."

"But I know," said Mrs. Palgrave, with a laugh. "It is his liver.
Whenever he has a touch of liver, he always becomes argumentative and
cynical, and says no woman under forty is worth speaking to."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Barwell, "then there is no one to suit
him here--we are all too juvenile."

"Like Baby Charles, such a dear boy, who is acting with me," said Miss
Richards. "He is so young, and so pleased with everything--hockey,
cricket, racquets; he really should have a child's part."

"And what _is_ his part?" asked Mrs. Barwell.

"Oh, he is my _fiancé_, but he can't make love a bit--although he is
_in_ love."

"Pray, how do you know, Dolly?" demanded her sister, and her tone was
authoritative.

"Well, he wears a very badly knitted green tie, a shocking affair! I
have remonstrated with him about it, and told him I will not be engaged
to him unless he leaves it off; it entirely spoils his appearance, but
he still clings to his green tie, and blushes when I chaff him, and
looks quite hurt. I am perfectly convinced that _she_ made it. Does
anyone know," laughing and looking round the room, "a young lady in
this neighbourhood who knits ties?"

Verona glanced instinctively at her sister and their eyes met. Dominga
had been deeply interested in the conversation, and there was a tinge
of colour in her cheeks which added to her appearance; she looked
brilliantly handsome. Verona, aloof and ignored, had felt the irony of
Mrs. Barwell's insolence eating into her very soul--and now rose to
depart.

"What," cried her hostess, "why are you going away? you know--I _asked_
you to tea."

"Thank you very much, but we really cannot stay." She glanced
imploringly at Dominga, who nevertheless remained rooted to her chair,
and returned her sister's look with a stare of bold defiance. No, no!
she would not stir. Seeing this _impasse_, Mrs. Barwell turned to
Verona, and said:

"I cannot let you run away like this--here is tea--do sit down, and
don't be silly. I am sure you have no _other_ engagement!"

In the meanwhile Miss Richards was talking to Dominga, and conversation
now became general. Presently Dominga drew Miss Richards' attention to
a photograph of her hostess, over which she went into audible raptures.
Now Mrs. Barwell was not insensible to flattery, she liked to inhale
it in strong doses. She was pleased to hear Dominga comparing her
photograph to Mary Anderson--the comparison being considerably to her
advantage.

After all, "Red Chandos" was not a bad sort of girl; she was really
beautifully dressed, undoubtedly handsome, and, if the men were to be
believed, "great fun." She accorded one or two words to her visitor,
and the favourable impression was deepened.

"Oh, Mrs. Barwell," said Dominga, "I did so want to see your pretty
room." Here was a half apology. "I'd heard so much about it--and it
really is perfectly charming; I hope you don't mind my saying so."

Mrs. Barwell did not mind at all, but coldly appropriated the
compliment as her due, and Dominga--who would always be very useful in
any house but her own--stood up, and began to help her with the tea
things.

"Mr. Salwey is stage manager, is he not?" said Mrs. Barwell.

"Yes, and such a capital one," replied Mrs. Palgrave, as she helped
herself to cake; "immovable, implacable, a sort of armour-plated man,
whom nothing can ruffle! I wish you could have seen him to-day, when
those two women were talking hard to one another about a certain scene,
neither listening to one single word the other said. Mr. Salwey stood
by, gently throwing in occasional blocks of solid sense."

"Had it any effect?"

"Oh, yes, ultimately. I like Mr. Salwey; I always think it is such a
pity that he is not in the Service!"

"I am sure he thoroughly agrees with you," sneered Mrs. Barwell.

"And why is he not in the Army?"

"Well, it is all owing to his stepmother," explained Mrs. Palgrave.
"George knows his father, Colonel Salwey, such a smart dapper old beau.
He came in for a very nice property after he left the Army; his wife
died, leaving this one boy, to whom he was apparently devoted."

"_Was_--yes?"

"But at some foreign watering-place he came across a pretty little
fluffy-haired, plaintive widow, who beguiled him into marrying her,
and completely metamorphosed the old gentleman. Brian Salwey failed
for his first examination at Sandhurst; then he quarrelled with his
odious stepmother, so got no second chance. She bundled him out of his
father's house, out of the country, and into the Indian police: for she
did not want a great big stepson hanging about at home."

"Oh, here they all come," exclaimed Mrs. Barwell, as five men followed
one another into the room.

The first to enter was Colonel Palgrave, a tall, handsome, soldierly
man, a little bald, with a hearty, cheery voice; Major Barwell,
a short, formal-looking gentleman, with a skin like a winter
apple--considerably older than his wife; Captain Prescott, a dark young
man, in polo kit, with a sallow complexion; Charles Young, a handsome
boy--though two-and-twenty, he looked about nineteen--bubbling over
with good humour, vitality, and _joie de vivre_. Last, not least, Brian
Salwey.

These men soon dispersed themselves about the room, each seeking the
lady of his choice (they were all apparently acquainted with Dominga
Chandos--and perhaps a little surprised to find her in the present
company; when Charlie's merry eyes fell on her, he blushed up to his
ears), and presently the talk grew loud and brisk, concerning "shop"
and theatricals, theatricals and "shop."

"I do think it is such a shame," said Mrs. Barwell, during a pause in
the general buzz, "that my husband won't allow _me_ to act," and she
looked at him coquettishly. "It is really too bad of you, Bingham,
to have such strict old-fashioned ideas. I know"--addressing the
company--"you all have such fun at the rehearsals."

"I don't know what _you_ call fun," remarked Captain Prescott, with
an aggrieved air. "It's worse than being at school again. I had to
mug up my part with a wet towel round my head. I worked myself up to
a tremendous pitch for a great love scene, and was told for my pains
that my voice sounded for all the world like a dog, whining outside a
door!--so naturally I chucked."

"Oh, I assure you, it's not all beer and skittles, Mrs. Barwell,"
supplemented Charles Young, who was half sitting on a table. "What _do_
you think. They want me to cut off my moustache!"

At this there was a roar of laughter, his moustache being represented
by a very faint outline of delicate down.

"Well, now, I suppose we ought to go on to the polo," said Colonel
Palgrave, putting down his tea-cup, "perhaps we shall lose something
good."

Mrs. Barwell immediately agreed, hurried into her bedroom, and
returned in a second, in a flowery hat, and the party sallied forth on
foot. Verona found herself walking beside Mrs. Palgrave; she had a good
face and a charmingly sympathetic manner. Verona had heard that the
wife of the commanding officer was a most popular lady, and Blanche's
tale, that she and the major's wife did not speak, was obviously a
fable.

Mrs. Palgrave, although but eight-and-thirty years of age, was a deputy
parent to all "the boys." She listened to their troubles, and had them
to dine on Sundays; she nursed them when they were ill; she wrote to
their mothers, and generally kept her eye on them. She was, moreover,
a treasure to her husband; managed all the sewing clubs and mothers'
meetings, visited hospitals, had never made the slightest effort to
marry her sister in the regiment, and was generally respected and
beloved.

"I've not seen you before," she remarked to Verona. (But she had heard
of her.) "And now you have found your way into the station, I hope some
day you will come and spend an afternoon with me."

"Thank you very much," was the girl's non-committal answer.

She did not wish to mix in station society.

"I think it is very likely that we have some mutual friends."

"Perhaps we have."

"Do you act at all?"

"No, I prefer to be one of the audience."

"Then you will come in and see these theatricals, won't you?"

"By-the-way, Lucy," interrupted Colonel Palgrave, hurrying up to join
them, "I forgot to tell you that young Fielder has arrived; I daresay
he will be at the polo--I'll bring him up and present him to you."

"Another boy?" she asked, with a smile.

"Well, not exactly, I should say he is six or seven-and-twenty;
you know he comes to us from the Guards, with the reputation of a
lady-killer."

"The Guards," she repeated. "Really!"

"I fancy he has been going ahead a bit, and his father, Lord
Highstreet, has sent him out to India to us."

(Verona lagged behind--surely this intimate sort of conversation was
not intended for her ears.)

"I see," assented Mrs. Palgrave, "as a sort of punishment. What a
compliment to the regiment!"

"Well, the exchange has been effected merely with the idea of getting
him into another set."

"You have seen him, of course?"

"Oh, yes, and he has no resemblance to one's preconceived idea of a
naughty boy--perfectly self-possessed, cheery, and rather good-looking."

"Perhaps he may be an acquisition, after all."

By this time they were at the polo ground. Mrs. Palgrave waited a
moment for Verona, and said:

"My husband has been telling me about a new officer who has just
joined, a Captain Fielder. We have some chairs and rugs near the
tent--won't you come and sit by me?"

A large and motley native crowd were assembled on the edge of the
ground, their brilliant red and yellow garments giving a touch of
colour to the scene, and the game was already in full swing. As
Verona accepted Mrs. Palgrave's invitation, she noticed that Dominga
and Mr. Young appeared to have a great deal to say to one another;
unquestionably they had not met for the first time to-day.

On the contrary, as we know, Charlie Young and Miss Dominga were fast
friends--little Charlie was constantly chaffed about his infatuation
for "Red Chandos," and bore jokes and gibes with a good temper that
discouraged and, at the same time, disarmed his tormentors.

"I say, I can't tell you how surprised and delighted I was to find you
at Mrs. Barwell's," he murmured, as he walked beside his enchantress.

"Oh, my sister met her at home," rejoined Dom, in her most off-hand
manner; "that is why we were asked to tea. Verona knows hundreds of
swells. Do tell me what you think? Do you call her pretty?"

"Oh, yes, uncommonly good-looking, but rather sad--a bit down on her
luck, I should say."

"People seem to think she will cut out everyone in Rajahpore."

"Except you. No fear of that, darling."

"Hush, Charlie, you really _must_ be careful----"

"Well, tell me about your sister. Where has she been all this time?"

"At home--living among all the grandees, and so rich--and having such a
good time. But her friend died, and her money went to others--such an
awful shame. She used to know Princes, and Dukes, and Lords."

"Oh! then I'm afraid we can't do much for her in that line out here.
Our nearest approach is the only son of a lord, who joined the regiment
three days ago."

"Oh, my! really. Who is he? Do tell me about him, Charlie, dear."

"Well, his name is Fielder--the Honourable James Fitzalan Egbert
Fielder, son and heir of Lord Highstreet, late of the Guards."

"Why has he come out to India?"

"I believe--this is strictly between you and me--he was sent out by
his father because he got into some mess with a lady--he is a great
lady's man. He wanted to marry a tremendously frisky widow, years older
than himself. And so his people shoved him out here, to get him out of
harm's way. That's the story. Of course, it may be a lie."

"What is he like?"

"Oh, not much to look at--sleek, well-groomed, drawling sort. A cool
hand, I should imagine; says he is awfully keen on seeing active
service. I don't fancy he is up to much of a rough campaign--more of
a fine fellow strolling down Piccadilly. However, he has taken to us
kindly, and professed himself delighted to join the regiment. Not like
that chap who, when he was asked what the new corps was, said, 'I
don't know, but you go from Waterloo--and they have green facings!'"

"His family are old, I suppose?" enquired Dominga, to whom this
anecdote was the purest Greek.

"Old--oh, lord, yes! I expect they paddled over with the Conqueror."

"We are an old family, too," announced Miss Dominga, turning her head
slowly from side to side. "Though father never talks--he is in the
Landed Gentry book--you can see it at the Club--and we are the Chandos
of Charne."

Little Mr. Young, much as he adored his companion, could scarcely
restrain a smile, to hear a Chandos of Manora boasting in this fashion.
Her people were terrible. No, he never attempted to defend them. Her
quarrelling, pushing, half-caste mother, her dusky brother and sister,
her father--the old broken officer, who, it was said, took opium.

But his Dominga stood apart from these. She shone like a star against
a dark sky. Some day he would marry her--not her family. Yes, the
infatuated youth, aged twenty-two, with one hundred pounds a year and
his pay, had determined to make Dominga his wife. Their engagement was
to be kept secret until the regiment moved to another station--the
Colonel would cut up rusty if he heard of it, and hustle him off to the
depôt in England; he objected to married subalterns. The Honourable
Jimmy was dispatched to India because he wanted to marry someone at
home--and it would be odd if he was packed off home because he intended
to marry a girl in India.

Whilst he was pondering over this idea, his fair ladylove, who strolled
beside him, was occupied with other thoughts. She was unusually silent,
and when she did speak, her answers were somewhat brief and distrait.

At the present moment her glance was alert with excitable watchfulness,
and her mind was filled with eager speculations respecting the
newcomer. Had luck at last thrown fortune in her way? Was this young
future lord her fate? Her fate, come to seek her in this out-of-the-way
corner of the world! Her face looked vivid and her eyes dilated as she
recalled her grandmother's prediction, that "Dominga would wear jewels,
and stand in a great light." And what of Baby Charles?

By this time they had arrived at the polo ground, where a place near
the tent was reserved exclusively for the party. Captain Prescott rode
up to them proudly on his new polo pony, a recent investment.

"Hullo, Prescott," cried Charlie Young; "where did you rise the animal?
Did you get him out of the Zoo?"

"Yes," he rejoined, with the utmost gravity; "don't you remember him
when you were in the monkey-house?"

Dominga received this sally with a peal of laughter--this sort of wit
appealed to her at once.

And Verona now saw Dominga in the society of men for the first time.
She appeared to be enjoying herself prodigiously, and was what may be
called "a quarrelsome flirt." Tossing her head, she said to one:

"Oh, Mr. Cox, I am not going to speak to you! Please pass on. You never
came for that set of tennis. No! no! no!" and she turned her back
on him with considerable dramatic effect. "Yes--and here is Captain
Hibbert, just as bad! You wicked, faithless man, how can you look me in
the face! Where is the novel that you promised me? You have fallen in
my esteem to the bottom of the ladder."

"But won't you allow me to crawl up again?" he implored, with his hands
in the attitude of prayer.

"No, certainly not; go away--do!"

By and by most of the men drifted away to play polo, and Major Gale
captured "Baby" Charles, who departed with pitiable reluctance. And
now Dominga and Mrs. Barwell fell into conversation, which, as time
went on, became more intimate and more animated. Dominga's purrings and
flatteries tickled the little lady's vanity and softened her heart;
she discovered that Dominga Chandos was not "half bad," but a really
agreeable girl, with plenty to say for herself, and full of news (such
delicious little spiteful stories). Dominga had learned the fact that
you may be risky--but never dull. Before they parted, Mrs. Barwell had
invited her delighted acquaintance to come in and spend a long day with
her soon. Oh, triumph! Oh, goal attained! Oh, success!

All at once Colonel Palgrave reappeared out of the crowd near the tent,
accompanied by a young man, wearing the colours of a well-known cricket
club. He had quick, red-brown eyes, sleek brown hair, a pale, impassive
face, and a well-knit figure. He was presented to Mrs. Palgrave and her
sister--to Mrs. Barwell and to Mrs. Tully. The stranger was completely
at his ease, charmed to make their acquaintance, and somehow managed to
convey the singular impression that he was an old resident--and that
they had but just arrived.

On the whole, the general opinion of Captain Fielder was highly
favourable. "Oh, yes, he was already fascinated with what he had seen
of Rajahpore and India. He was sure it was a capital country for sport,
and," he added, with a peculiar slow smile, "amusement."

When such topics as his journey, the dust, and a few items of home news
had been exhausted, his roving gaze distinguished the two sisters to
whom he had not been presented. He surveyed Verona calmly. Handsome?
Yes, but down in the mouth, and not his style. Then his glance passed
quickly to Dominga; their eyes met, and his opened suddenly with a bold
eager stare. Oh, there was the girl for his money! What hair! What
colouring! What a spice of the devil in that vivid face.

Dominga certainly looked her best. She wore green, which was ever
becoming. Her figure was graceful, there was a brilliant colour in
her face, born of excitement; yes, she was undeniably striking and
attractive. Moreover, it was the first time that this poor Dominga
had ever beheld anyone connected with the aristocracy, and her
feelings were a mixture of admiration and awe. "The Honourable," as
she mentally called him, appeared at the first glance to be somewhat
similar to other men, but her imagination lost no time in investing
the newcomer with an air of distinction, and every quality which is
generally considered necessary to the equipment of a perfect hero of
romance. He approached and muttered something to Charlie Young, and Dom
received a delightful and unexpected shock when she understood that
Captain Fielder desired to be presented to her. He had singled her out
from all the other girls! This was indeed the proudest moment in the
life of Dominga Chandos! She coloured charmingly, her eyes sparkled,
her face broke into smiles--for an instant her beauty was transcendent!
Ungrateful Dominga gradually ignored, and soon entirely forgot, poor
little Charlie, and presently abandoned him in order to go and sit on
a distant bench with Captain the Hon. James Fielder, the new arrival,
just then so very much in the public eye; and Dominga took care that
they placed themselves where the public eye could behold them without
unnecessary inconvenience.

Verona noticed at a distance Mrs. Trotter and her two unattractive
daughters. As they appeared to be rather "out of it," and forlorn, she
walked over and spoke to them. Mrs. Trotter accorded Verona a civil
welcome, and as usual conversed chiefly about home.

"Oh, ho! it is very plain to see that _you_ have been in England!"
she remarked, as she glanced over at Dominga, who was now too lofty
to notice the Trotters, and had cut them dead. "It is plain that you
know what's what; you have some manners--not like that 'Crannie' girl,
Dominga."

Fortunately, at this point, Mr. Salwey came up and joined the group,
and the topic was changed. The Trotter family were visibly gratified
by his attention; but after a little conversation he carried off Miss
Chandos, and invited her to walk round the outside of the polo ground
and see the ponies.




                             CHAPTER XXVI


In the meanwhile Dominga and Captain Fielder lounged on a
bench--conspicuously aloof from the crowd. A somewhat constrained
silence had fallen between them; he was wondering if this handsome
girl, with talking eyes and vivid expression, was "good fun"? She
was meditating as to whether she might treat him as just a common,
every-day officer, or not? Dom had finally made up her mind--as she
looked up quickly and met his full, bold stare, a stare so prolonged
and searching that another girl would have felt affronted and abashed;
not so Dominga.

"Well?" she asked, raising her eyebrows interrogatively. "Now, tell me
candidly, what do you think of them?"

"Er--think of what?" he stammered, obviously a little startled.

"My eyes--what else?" said the girl, with disconcerting bravado.

"Oh--by Jove! they are splendid. Er--I was not quite sure of the colour
five minutes ago. I'd have sworn they were black; now I see they are
greenish brown----"

"And in another five minutes they may be a greyish blue--one thing I
can promise, they are never red."

"Do you never cry? Oh, come now! Every woman cries."

"Pray, why should I cry?" she asked, with a touch of defiance.

"But you must have some sort of escape for your feelings?"

"Not necessarily. I have no feelings."

"Then you are one of the sights of India! What more uncommon than
a woman who has eyes like a chameleon, who never cries, and has no
feelings? You are a marvel, Miss Chandos!"

"But I am not really Miss Chandos. I am only number four, and I am
called Dominga."

"Good heavens--what a name! Where _did_ they find it?"

"In foreign parts. My grandfather--was Portuguese."

"Have you no pet name--at home?"

"They call me 'Dom'--when we are by ourselves."

"Er--may I call you 'Dom'--when we are by ourselves?" As he spoke
Captain Fielder hitched himself an inch nearer and assumed his most
insinuating expression.

"This seat is intended for two," she remarked, giving him a little tap
with her parasol. "If you want the whole of it, please say so. As to
calling me 'Dom,'--we shall never be by ourselves again----"

"Pray why not? Don't you like me?" he asked pathetically.

"Because," ignoring the second question, "I am not in society."

"Then I am sorry for society. Why do you call yourself an outsider?"

"We are--only the sugar people!"

"Er-r, now I understand my sensations, the instant I saw you; you
looked too sweet for words!"

"Don't be silly, and please don't run away with the idea that I am
either soft or sweet. I leave that sort of thing to Pussy and Verona."

"Verona, is a town--Dominga, I _think_, is an island; Has your mother a
craze for geography?"

"Verona's name is really Veronica."

"Why have you such--curious names?"

"Can't you guess?" she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her
eyes.

Her companion shook his head in hopeless ignorance.

"Then I will tell you, and when you know us better you will see how
well our names fit! We are called after two saints!"

Captain Fielder's broad grin and incredulous wink went a long way in
advancing his intimacy with this lively companion.

"Now, tell me, why are you so down on yourself? It's a mistake--you
should leave that sort of thing to other people--they do it so _much_
better. You said you were not sweet, and that you have no feelings. I
am sure you were wrong."

"No----"

"Er--well, I won't take your word for it; I mean to find out for
myself."

"You will not have the opportunity. After to-day the station
ladies--who are very jealous of me----"

"By Jove, I don't wonder at that!" he interpolated with decision.

"Will fence you in--with barbed wire!"

"Oh--will they?" with a derisive laugh. "It is not very easy to keep
Jimmy Fielder in bounds! Ask papa?"

"See--they are all staring over here now," and she pointed with her
parasol. "They are ready to tear my eyes out."

"I'll take care of your beautiful and matchless eyes. You just leave
them to me."

"I can take pretty good care of myself, thank you. What do you think of
Rajahpore, Captain Fielder?"

"I adore it already."

"What a ridiculous answer. Why?"

"Because it has made me acquainted with you."

"How can you be so silly?"

"I was born so. Tell me, how do _you_ put in your time here?"

"Oh--I sing a good deal, I have a wonderful voice--and I bicycle,
and--I read--and play tennis."

"Can you read--French?"

"Why, of course."

"Then I can lend you some ripping novels!"

"No, thank you," rather stiffly; assume a virtue if you have it not.
Dom had once laboured through a few French exercises, and could no more
read a page than ride a steeplechase.

But Jimmy was promptly taken in, and impressed.

"Proper, good little girl! Well, I must confess--some of them--are--a
bit--strong."

"You would not lend them to your sisters, I presume?" adopting her
well-known quarrelsome attitude, "though you offer them to _me_."

"Oh, I've no sisters, thank the Lord! As to offering the books--you
might have jumped at them. I did not know what sort you were. You see,
a fellow never can tell----"

"I see Verona looking this way. She is coming to fetch me----"

"Er--is she your keeper? Has she got you on the chain?"

"No; I should pity her if she had!"

"Then you and I are in sympathy--a pair of bold, independent spirits.
When shall I see you again--Dom?"

"Perhaps to-morrow at the Club."

"Oh, so you come to the Club. Hurrah!"

"Yes, for books and tennis; but we are complete outsiders, as you will
soon discover."

"You will never be an outsider to me, Dom--already you have your
place----"

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "What place?"

"Only the box seat in my heart."

"Heart!" she repeated with a scornful laugh. "No one talks of hearts in
these days--except the heroes of stories in penny magazines."

As she spoke Dominga rose, and drew herself to her full height. She was
two inches taller than Jimmy, who gazed at her in profound admiration.
Yes; already he was caught and enthralled by her audacity and
insolence, and entangled in the meshes of her splendid burnished hair.

"Dom," said Verona as she joined her, "it is past six o'clock, and we
must be going home."

"Very well," assented Dominga, "I am ready." But she did not attempt
to make her sister and "Jimmy" known to one another. No, she would
not share the captive of her bow and spear--that is to say, eye and
tongue--she was determined to keep him exclusively to herself. (Dom
knew what girls did, being a most daring and successful poacher!)

Jimmy stared at this Miss Chandos, who looked and spoke like a
well-bred English lady, and yet was Dominga's own sister. What did
it mean? Dom, with all her charm, spoke with a quaint, half-foreign
accent, and her manners decidedly lacked the repose which stamped the
caste of Vere de Vere, whilst Verona--the other girl, "the slow one,"
as he already classed her, was Vere de Vere--and no mistake!

As Dominga crossed the polo ground attended by her new slave, she
tossed her head and flounced her skirts, and glared at spectators as
much as to say, "Don't you wish you were in my shoes?" When she stepped
into the victoria she leant forward, and smiled with cruel exultation
at the Watkins and the Trotters--they could not fail to have seen "the
Honourable" tucking the dust cover over her knees. They knew that _she_
had got into society at last!

As Dominga was driven homewards her body was unquestionably in the
shabby victoria, but her mind was in the seventh heaven!

"He" had chosen her out from among all the women in the station. "He"
had called her "Dom," and, at parting, had given her fingers a fierce,
emphatic squeeze, from the effects of which they were still tingling!




                             CHAPTER XXVII


Mrs. Barwell, who had never previously had it in her power to patronise
any one, now thoroughly enjoyed the novel experience. She issued
continual "commands" to Verona and Dominga Chandos, and the latter
waited on her constantly, and soon became an established favourite; her
flatteries were so piquant and unfailing. But Verona disliked attending
the "drawing rooms" of her former acquaintance and present patroness;
she found ample occupation at home, reading with Pussy and Nicky,
rowing with them on the river, bicycling about the district, teaching
her grandmother to knit, and reviving her father's old attachment to
games. Now and then she spent a long evening in his room, playing
piquet, or discussing books and places and people. Paul Chandos was
a well-read man, a cultivated and delightful companion; strange that
this cultivated, clear-headed gentleman should start and shrivel into
silence when he heard the sound of his wife's quick footfall and
rasping tongue! Undoubtedly he enjoyed these evening hours with Verona,
but she had an instinct that these _tête-à-têtes_ were not looked
upon with favour by her mother; indeed, she had a secret, a dreadful
conviction that her mother disliked her. In little indescribable ways,
this fact was brought home to her a dozen times a day.

When Verona had recovered from the paralysing shock of her first
sensations, and after her illness had crept back to life and good
resolutions, she made a bold effort to win her mother's affections.

In every possible way she endeavoured to capture her approval. She
worked in the garden, she mended, and made, and darned and trimmed.
She was prepared to accept cheerfully this life of renunciation and
self-denial; but oh! how dark and dreary it would be without a little
love. Her mother was devoted to Dominga; her eyes and voice seemed
different when she spoke to her. Why should she not venture to ask for
some crumbs; she, too, was her mother's daughter? Though not naturally
demonstrative, she one day astonished and exasperated Mrs. Chandos by
clinging to her with tears as she begged her "to spare her--though she
came so late--a little of the affection she gave to the others; it
would make her _so_ happy."

Mrs. Chandos, when she had recovered from her surprise, stared
critically at her daughter and exclaimed, "My, what a funny girl! Why,
of course I love you!" and she accorded her a hasty kiss. "You get lots
of love; your Nani is awfully fond of you--so is Pussy; so am I. No!"

But yet, in spite of this declaration, Verona felt that between her and
her mother was fixed a gulf, which widened daily; indeed, she still had
the dreadful, secret conviction that her mother actually disliked her.
But why?

Sometimes, her father was ill--so said Mrs. Lopez; sometimes for three
or four evenings his door would be shut fast, and the old lady would
assure her, with a potent nod, that "Chandos was not for reading; he
was _fatigued_, he was 'a little seek,' and wanted to be quiet," and
once the girl overheard her mutter, "Truly, it is easier to be rid of
your shadow, than a bad habit."

Poor man! he was in the grip of the opium fiend, and lived in a
delightful dream-country in his arm-chair, with drowsy eyes and folded,
wasted hands. After one of these attacks, Verona noticed that his
features were haggard, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his spirits most
desperately depressed; also, that all tender inquiries and expressions
of sympathy were somewhat curtly set aside.

It was now the very height of the cold season. Rajahpore was full, the
cane crop was being cut, and every one seemed busy. One day Mrs. Lepell
sent her protégée a little note, which said:

    "MY DEAR VERONA,--

    "Would you care to go over the factory? I am expecting a party
    this afternoon, and Tom has promised to show them round the works.
    Manora people are sick of them, but it will be a novelty to you.

                                                                "E. L."

Verona accepted the invitation with pleasure, and when she arrived
at the big bungalow there found assembled Major Gale, Major and Mrs.
Barwell, Mr. Salwey and various strangers from Rajahpore. Mr. Lepell
personally conducted the party round the yards; here he pointed out the
great carts, laden with sugar-cane, just brought in by buffaloes.

"Now, here you see it at the start," he said. "Later on, you shall see
it in the sugar bowl."

Guided by him the visitors explored the entire factory--saw the mills
grinding the cane, saw the black sugar in liquid form, the refining
processes, the furnaces; last of all, the loaf sugar in blue paper
caps, ready for departure. Then they inspected the distillery, and the
gigantic casks of rum--intended for the use of the army. Mr. Lepell was
an enthusiast, and harangued his guests eloquently--"Sugar" was his
text--then he gave them a long object-lesson in machinery; finally,
they climbed up a winding, spiral staircase, and stood on the flat roof
of the factory, and surveyed the whole country--a dead level, with
nothing to break the monotony but an occasional village or mango tope.

"Oh, what a sea of cultivation and crops!" exclaimed Verona.

"Yes," assented Mr. Lepell; "India is agriculture, agriculture is
India. All around you see the cane; it is a good year. The chief
industry here, of course, is sugar. There are scores of private mills."

"What are they like?" some one asked.

"Oh, primitive affairs--a rude wheel, an ox driven round and round to
crush the cane; then there is a hole in the floor, and a furnace to
boil the stuff into goor, or treacle."

"I suppose the people are very well off," said Verona, turning to Mr.
Salwey.

"They ought to be," he replied; "the cultivators pay about fifteen
rupees an acre for cane, which in a good season produces two or three
hundred rupees' worth of juice; but they are all in debt to the
money-lenders."

"How is that?"

"Well, you see they have no savings or capital; they live hand to
mouth. For a marriage, a birth or a funeral, they must spend largely;
it is a tradition handed down for centuries; they borrow money on the
coming crop, say two hundred rupees--that is fifteen pounds. For this
the money-lender takes as interest, one anna per rupee per month,
which is seventy per cent.; it runs up like the celebrated nail in
the horse's shoe! The unfortunate ryot soon finds that the interest
has trebled the original debt; in a short time the account will show
that all the money due from his harvest, does not half cover the first
advance! and still the interest on the debt rolls on month after
month. The cultivator who once pawns his crop never gets out of the
money-lender's power, but the money-lender allows him enough grain
to keep the wretched man alive--who, sooner than be turned from his
paternal home, becomes his bond slave for life."

"Is it not dreadful?" Verona exclaimed.

"Yes; the usurer makes enormous profits, and allows the other just what
keeps soul and body together. He is careful not to kill the goose who
lays the golden eggs--his manner is always most kind and sympathetic!
The old story of burying money in a pot is dying out; usury has taken
its place. Most of the money paid down in that office," and he nodded
to the building below, "goes to them."

"Can it not be prevented in some way, Mr. Salwey?"

"I'm always trying to stop it, but with little success; there are men
in the city, living at their ease, and piling up thousands, while
these"--pointing to the broad expanse of cane land and the swarms of
workers below--"toil."

"Usury is the ancient custom of the country," she remarked.

"So was once suttee. It is the curse of India."

"Do you know any of the money-lenders?"

"Yes; some of the native bankers are fair and square. It is the private
ones, who are the fiends. They have neither fear nor pity. They charge
daily interest, they count their victims by hundreds--their slaves; for
generations they toil always for the money-lender; children succeed to
the family debts, which go from father to son; they represent valuable
live asset to the soucar, who fattens on their earnings! His only fear
or risk is the cholera, which sweeps away whole villages, and then
there is none left to pay! Many of these poor creatures do not know
what it is to have two meals a day. I could not have believed, had I
not seen it for myself, how abject is their poverty." Here he smothered
a sigh.

"What a hopeless state of affairs!" exclaimed the girl.

"Yes; and they are content with so little. If a man has enough to eat,
a roof to cover him, a little tobacco for himself and some pewter
bangles for his wife, he asks no more."

"He could not well ask for less!"

"I declare I feel in a blazing rage when I think of his misery
and toil, and the wealth and indolence of those who are literally
devouring his life. Now, observe the people coming in with carts of
cane and barrels of juice; they are almost like skeletons, or is it
my imagination? There, you see, two of them are quarrelling about
something--possibly a copper coin, worth half a farthing. They often
quarrel; it is one of the most quarrelsome circles in India."

"What do they quarrel about?" she asked.

"I can tell you," said Mr. Lepell, who was listening, "generally land.
In other countries people are attached to their ancestral acres; in
India it is a mania."

"Have they never any amusements?" inquired Mrs. Barwell, who had
approached.

"Yes; those who are pretty well off excel in wrestling matches; they
have quail and cock-fighting, and they are all fond of cards and
gambling and kite flying," said Mr. Lepell, "and now shall we go down
to tea?"

Salwey and Verona still lingered on the roof; she was taking a last
long look at the scene, the winding river, the cane crops, the little
villages, the distant city. In the golden rays of a gorgeous sunset
India looked both rich and prosperous.

"Well, what do you think of it?" inquired Salwey.

"I like it," she answered; "it is my native country; there is something
mysterious and fascinating about it. Even before I knew that I was born
out here, I yearned to come to India."

"In short, you heard the East calling."

"Yes," she replied, "and now I hear Mr. Lepell calling, and we must go."

       *       *       *       *       *

Brian Salwey lived in a bungalow overhanging the river, and close to
the cantonments (he was honorary member of the mess). The rooms were
small and bare, but the stables were ample, and handsomely furnished.
Twice a week, in the cold weather, did Nicky Chandos row down the river
to do an hour's mathematics with his model and hero. Salwey had always
been sorry for the boy, and felt drawn to him; for with all his Eastern
lounging ways, his stiff brown hair and sallow skin, Nicky had brains,
had ambition and the inherited instincts of an English gentleman. Yes,
Salwey had encouraged the visits of young Chandos; he told him long
yarns about his own school-days, he lent him books, he lectured him,
he taught him how to row a boat--indeed, he taught him many things as
they sat together in the shabby little sitting-room that overlooked the
shining river. Salwey now began to realise that he took an additional
interest in Nicky, and looked forward with peculiar pleasure to his
visits and his talk; What, he asked himself honestly, did it mean?

The answer was simple as A B C.

It meant that Nicky had an attractive sister; to sum it all up in one
word, it meant "Verona." He caught his thoughts recalling her pale,
delicate beauty, her slow, reluctant smile, her air of detached,
unstudied repose. Evidently the newcomer was working wonders up
the river; she was wheeling Pussy into line; he noticed a distinct
improvement in Nicky's manners, which had previously left much to be
desired. He talked of good sets of tennis, and bicycling, rowing and
reading aloud. Home was such a jolly place since Verona had come! There
was no nonsense about her, and even Nani Lopez said she was "a jewel."

But what was this "jewel" to him? Was he going to make a fool of
himself, and fall in love with this beautiful, unfortunate Eurasian?
What a mother-in-law! What a grandmother-in-law--as his Aunt Liz had
reminded him. And yet, why should he not think of Verona Chandos? His
life was lonely; he had no ties; his father had married a detestable
little adventuress, and had allowed her to thrust herself between them.

(Colonel Salwey was a timidly good man, and ventured to write to his
son once a year--at Christmas.)

Why should he not make his home in India? Do as he would, he could
not get the girl out of his head; she haunted him as he sat in his
verandah, or as he rode about the district, looking after his work.
"She is a half-caste," whispered a warning voice; "look at her sister
Blanche."

On the other hand, old Mother Lopez was a truly good woman,
tender-hearted, simple and charitable. Little Mrs. Cavalho was in her
way an uncanonised saint. If the truth were really known and boldly
proclaimed, there was a certain amount of Eastern blood to be found in
English society! Many unconscious individuals were Eurasians, counting
back to the pagoda tree days of their grandfathers, and the spacious
times of Old John Company. If one must judge by appearances, Verona
Chandos might very easily be taken for the daughter of a hundred earls,
and, at any rate, on her father's side, her race was undeniable.

Here came Nicky, rowing himself down from Manora, eager to enjoy
a promised lesson in practical chemistry, for Salwey dabbled in
photography and chemistry, and between his dark room and his amateur
laboratory, the vapours, sounds and explosions, one or two of his
myrmidons were under the impression that he kept an evil spirit on the
premises!

A white bull terrier, called "Chum," the most intelligent and attached
of dumb friends, when he saw Inky Chandos toiling up the steep garden
from the boat, lashed his long whip tail, where he sat in the verandah,
and greeted him with an all but human grin of welcome. "Chum" was a
dear dog, and a courteous gentleman; the whole cantonment loved "Chum."
But he only loved his master--and Inky Chandos.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII


It was the second week in January, the date of the Rajahpore
race-meeting, the one notable local event in the year. Every bungalow
in the station had several tents pitched in its compound for the
accommodation of guests; the Rest House was crammed; strange faces
were to be seen at the Club, and strings of unfamiliar ponies were
being exercised on the course. The great day dawned at last; it was, of
course, brilliantly fine, and the oldest resident was heard to declare
that the events on the cards, the class of entries, and the number
of visitors, had never been approached. Such a fête was naturally a
proper occasion for Mrs. Chandos to make an ostentatious appearance in
a wagonette with two horses; and the wagonette, which resembled a gay
parterre, contained the lady herself, Dominga, Pussy, Blanche, Monty,
Nicky, on the box, and last, not least, Verona, who would gladly have
been excused, but was compelled to come forth in her best remaining
dress and a pretty white hat--which fortunately had not happened to
have been becoming to Dominga.

Mrs. Chandos had secured tickets for the stand, and, previous to the
first event, she and her little clutch fluttered and strutted about
the enclosure with a notable amount of aggressive swagger. Salwey, who
had entered Baber, his black "Waler," for a hurdle race, was returning
from the stables when he encountered Verona and Nicky--who were walking
together, apart.

"I say, would you two like to come into the paddock and see the
horses?" he said.

They gladly accepted his invitation and accompanied him round the
stables, where he pointed out to them the different celebrities, and
gave a rapid sketch of their several careers, with their failings,
foibles, victories and defeats. Suddenly Verona found herself face to
face with a young man in a long racing coat, whose face seemed familiar.

"Miss Chandos!" he exclaimed, halting immediately before her, and then
she recognised Captain Haig, who snatched off his cap and held out his
hand, saying:

"This is, indeed, an unexpected pleasure! Pray, when did you arrive?"

"Some time ago," she answered. "And you?"

"Only this morning; I have two ponies entered, one of them a
celebrated performer; her name is"--and he looked at her with steady
significance--"V. C."

"Oh!" she ejaculated. "What an odd name for a pony."

"Hallo, Salwey, how are you?" he said; "I did not see you"--then
he glanced interrogatively at the bony, half-caste youth, Salwey's
companion.

"No," replied Salwey, "and yet I'm generally visible to the naked eye."

"Miss Chandos and I," explained Captain Haig, "are--I hope I may
say--old friends; we met each other year before last at Homburg. Poor
Madame!" looking at Verona as he spoke, "so she is gone. What a cheery
old lady she was! Shall we take a turn round the paddock? I want to
show you your namesake." The young lady inclined her head and the pair
strolled off, leaving Salwey and Nicky alone.

"I say," burst out Nicky, "I should not wonder if that fellow is a pal
of Verona's."

"I should not wonder, either," repeated Salwey, and he became suddenly
silent. Meanwhile, Verona and Captain Haig moved slowly round the
paddock, where she was, as of old times, the cynosure of admiring eyes.

Captain Haig considered her critically. She looked a little pale and
thin, but was as beautiful, as well turned out, as self-possessed
as ever. There was the same perfection of dress and perfection of
untroubled composure, and he had never forgotten her--so he imagined
now; she had exercised over him a lasting and vivid fascination.

"I was in two minds about this meeting," he announced; "how glad I am
now I came."

"Oh, are you?" she murmured vaguely.

"Yes, I needn't tell you that I would thankfully travel many miles to
see _you_."

To this over-blown compliment Verona made no reply; she was wondering
what he would say when he saw her mother and sisters!

In the distance she caught sight of Dominga, splendidly dressed,
boisterous, shrill. A stranger might reasonably have suspected that
this laughing and chattering was the effects of champagne--they would
be mistaken. Dominga was merely intoxicated with her own supreme
happiness, her extraordinary social success.

"I suppose you are out here for the cold weather?" resumed Captain
Haig. "It is quite the thing to do now."

"No," she responded, "I am out for altogether--my people live here."

"Here," he repeated, "how fortunate! How I should like to make their
acquaintance; I hope you will be good enough to present me to your
mother."

"Certainly," she replied, with a somewhat fixed smile.

Very soon, she assured herself, there would be an end to this fool's
paradise. It would be a case of he came--he saw--he fled.

In the meantime she enjoyed walking about with Captain Haig. As
she glanced at his handsome, animated face, she seemed to see the
background of Homburg--the crowds, the bouquets, and to feel the
impression of a past sensation.

Here, indeed, in a humble way, her presence was creating a stir, "the
other Miss Chandos," as she was now called, being so rarely seen; she
was handsome, and graceful, and carried herself well--"as did most
Eurasians," whispered onlookers.

In a distant station, no doubt, she would be considered a beauty;
apparently she had picked up some young man she had known at home;
he seemed very much _épris_. Well! her conquest would be but
short-lived--he had but to see her people!

"Of course, your regiment is still out here?" remarked the lady to her
escort.

"Yes--in a bad station--where there is no sport--we can't even manœuvre
guns, the ground is all cotton soil--this is a jolly little place, I
wish they'd send us here--capital duck and snipe shooting."

"Is that a sufficient reason to move troops?" she inquired.

"No--not at all--only it keeps the mess from grumbling--and the men out
of the bazaar. But," with a sudden change of tone, "I want to hear more
about you, Miss Chandos. How have you spent the last eighteen months?"

"I was in England till August. I have been here ever since."

"But you will soon be getting under way for the hills. I wonder what
station you will select?"

"None at all--we remain down in Manora."

"What! you are not serious--you have no conception of the heat--it will
kill you!"

"I think not. I believe one's first hot weather is never very trying."

"But, I assure you----"

"Captain Haig," she interrupted, "I see that you have not
heard--Madame's death has made a great change in my circumstances--I am
now quite poor."

He stopped for a second, and stared back into her face with a gaze of
blank surprise. After an expressive pause he spoke:

"I can't imagine you--what is called 'poor.'"

"Often I cannot realise it myself--but it is true--Madame left no
will--I was not related to her--all I have in the world is three
hundred pounds and some diamonds--now"--with a faint smile--"you know
the worst!"

"What hard luck! I am awfully sorry," he began.

"Thank you; but it is not so bad after all--I do not mind--much."

If she, who had been brought up surrounded with all that money could
provide, "did not mind much," why should he? It was not her money which
had attracted him, but her most beautiful, dazzling self; and she was,
in his opinion, more lovely than ever, as she stood looking at him with
her dark pathetic eyes.

He had recently come in for an unexpected windfall--a legacy of four
hundred a year--he could afford to marry and live quietly; his rapid
brain sketched the programme in a flash, and arranged the details of
his plans with calm celerity; her three hundred pounds would buy the
trousseau, etc., and he would take her to the hills for the honeymoon;
they would go to Cashmere. With Verona in Cashmere! Ah, but would
Verona come? He would have a good try, at any rate!

"This is a capital little station," he remarked, with a swoop to
mundane matters.

"At any rate, it seems to have made an immense impression on you," she
rejoined, with a smile; "this is the second time you have praised it
within five minutes!"

"Yes, so it is. I think after the races I shall stop on--I have some
leave due, I should like to put it in here."

"And have some duck-shooting?"

"No--I was--thinking of golf with you--there are links, I know----"

"Oh, but I never play now."

"Then you must begin, again--it's splendid exercise. Do you remember
you started me at golf, and I'm now quite a respectable performer. I
wonder," suddenly lowering his voice, "if you remember--something else?"

They were standing close to the railings which enclosed the course.
Verona looked at him with a hot colour in her face.

"That I called you my Princess--you are my Princess still----"

"Haig, Haig!" shouted a man, running up; "what the devil--oh, I beg
pardon"--glancing at the lady--"you are wanted in the weighing-room at
once--come on!"

"The horses will be going down to the post," he said, turning to his
companion; "allow me to take you back to your seat."

"No thanks," she rejoined quickly. "I know you are in a great hurry. It
is only a few steps. Please do go."

"Well, I shall find you again when the race is over. Wish me luck," and
lifting his cap he ran off.

The crowd was streaming out of the paddock as Verona turned in the same
direction; her heart was beating with unusual speed. He--although he
knew she was now penniless--was anxious to resume the story where it
had been interrupted. At least, he was not mercenary. Formerly she had
liked him--now--now--no--she could not have fallen in love in fifteen
minutes' time--impossible! But circumstances alter cases; at home among
a crowd of suitors he was not distinctive, here he stood forth as a
hero--a champion--it might be a saviour! Undoubtedly he loved her. If
he held out his hand she would accept it, and her release. Her burthen
had become intolerable; her fortitude was ebbing fast. Her mother's
humours, her mother's tongue were distracting; a recent long illness
had weakened her self-command. She felt desperate--and if she did
not love Malcolm Haig now, love would come. Perhaps he would ask her
to marry him--everything pointed that way. But he had not seen her
relations--how would they affect the situation? Formerly, she stood
above him; he was insignificant and impecunious; but at present their
positions were entirely reversed, and _he_ must stoop to marry her.
All these thoughts were chasing one another through her mind as Verona
moved slowly forward, with the intention of joining her family.

Yes, there they were--in the middle of the second tier; and never
before had they struck her as so dark, so over-dressed, and so
complacent. Blanche, in a scarlet felt hat and a purple velvet bolero,
trimmed with mother-of-pearl (which she had bought second-hand), was an
object that, so to speak, hit one in the eye; and even Pussy's sweet
face, above the pride of her wardrobe, the pink feather boa, had never
looked so dusky.

"Hullo, Verona!" cried Blanche, half rising as she spoke. Blanche
occasionally gave the impression of being all eyes and teeth. "Do tell
us about the lovely young man you were walking with--who is he?"

"I knew him at Homburg," she answered; "his name is Haig."

"Oh, do bring him up and introduce him to _me_!"

"Haig--Haig," repeated Monty, resplendent in lavender flannel and
a brilliant green tie, examining the card in his hand, "Captain
Haig, Enfield Regiment; he has two ponies--one in thees race, called
Dulcimer, and another, with such a funny name, entered for the Cup--V.
C."

"V. C. is a ripping good pony," put in Nicky, who affected to be posted
in racing matters; "Salwey says so."

"Choop! you and your Salwey!" ejaculated his mother with angry energy.

Meanwhile, Salwey and Captain Haig had ascended to the top of the
stand, field-glasses in hand.

"No start," remarked Salwey.

"It's that brute Blue Devil," declared his companion; "he will keep
them there for twenty minutes. I would like to shoot him!"

"I daresay you would," rejoined Salwey; "he is the favourite, and sold
for a thousand in the lotteries last night."

"By the way, Salwey, you saw that Miss Chandos? I never was so
astonished as when I came face to face with her in the paddock here;
last time we met she was at Homburg, with every man in the place at her
feet."

"Including yourself," suggested Salwey.

"I should rather think so. Of course, a poor devil like me dared not
lift his eyes to fifteen thousand a year."

"Then she is the original V. C."

"What a brilliant guess! She tells me her people live here, and has
promised to introduce me."

"Yes," assented Salwey, with dispassionate brevity.

"I say, I've got a month's leave owing, and I intend to put it in here."

"Hullo! they are off!" and there was a dead silence.

The constantly moving dark clump had suddenly scattered into
items--there was a hum-hum-hum of thundering hoofs--a cloud of dust, a
flight of bright jackets, of bent backs and uplifted arms--they passed
the post, and Dulcimer had won by a neck.

Captain Haig looked upon his success as a good omen. Beaming with
pride--and the fact of having won eight hundred rupees--he led his pony
into the paddock, and subsequently hurried out to the enclosure in
order to seek for Miss Chandos, and receive her congratulations.

"Ah, here you are!" he exclaimed, when they met; "I have been hunting
for you everywhere. Did you see the race well?"

"Yes--you won," she said, "I am so glad."

"It was a near thing, but Todd is a clever boy, and just pulled it
off. Rajahpore seems to bring me good fortune. I shall make it my head
quarters. When will you be so kind as to introduce me to your people?"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before he was surrounded by a
crowd of half-castes--they actually pushed and jostled one another in
order to get close to him, and an excited, over-dressed, elderly woman
began:

"Verona, won't you introduce me to your friend?"

Although Verona had known that this terrible moment must surely arise,
she grew white to the very lips as she caught the glimmer of horrified
amazement dawning in Captain Haig's blue eyes. Well, she was about to
test his friendship! Would it stand the strain?

"Captain Haig," she said, and her manner was outwardly composed, "this
is my mother, Mrs. Chandos."

"O-ah, how do you do?" she said, effusively. "A friend of Verona's,
I see. Oh, we are always awfully pleased to know her friends. Let me
present you to----" here she waved a soiled white-gloved hand:

"My dater Dominga." Dominga accorded him a smile--and one of her looks!

"And my dater Bellamina." Bellamina merely giggled hysterically.

"My married dater Mrs. Montagu Jones, and Mr. Montagu Jones--my son
Nicholas."

One after the other the family bowed themselves, and shook hands with
him with every evidence of the most cordial satisfaction.

At first his stupefaction was so complete, that Captain Haig was unable
to utter one single word.

The beautiful Miss Chandos! the fairy Princess! Oh, she must be under
some spell of enchantment! This wizened little black monkey-faced woman
her mother! These awful half-castes, her sisters! Was he awake or
asleep?

Salwey and Mrs. Lepell, who were standing close by, understood the
scene, and pitied Verona Chandos from the bottom of their hearts.

How brave and dignified she was! How high she held her head! One might
have supposed that her mother was a duchess.

"I am awfullee glad your pony won," said Nicky, in his Chee-chee
accent. "O-ah, my! he ees a good pony!"

His civil congratulation broke the ice, and Captain Haig recovered
sufficiently to say:

"Thank you; had you any money on?"

"Oh, no-ah! oh, my, no-ah," protested Mrs. Chandos. "Poor boy, he does
not bet. Are you staying here?" she continued. "No?"

"Just for the races," he stammered.

"Oh, then you must come out and dine with us, and just take us as we
arre. We live at Manora. Now you must not make _any_ excuse"--here
she put her head on one side and nodded in a manner intended to be
fascinating--and which, once upon a time, had produced a gratifying
result!

"I am engaged to-night, thank you," he answered stiffly.

"Arl right, then, to-morrow. Come to tiffin to-morrow--you see I will
not let you off."

"But there are races again to-morrow, you know."

"My! my! so there arre. Well, the day after tomorrow is Sunday--and
there are no races; and if you do not come to tiffin, I am sure
Verona"--here she glanced at the rigid face on her left--"will be
awfully offended. You come--and bring a friend."

"Then, thank you, I will come on Sunday. There is the saddling bell, I
really must go!" and in another moment Captain Haig had effected his
escape.

When next he caught sight of Salwey, he went straight up to him and
began:

"Good God! I never got such a shock in my life! You are an old friend,
and I think you might have prepared me; I have just had a three-finger
peg of whisky and soda, and even with that I feel completely knocked
out of time. To think of that girl being a half-caste! It seems
impossible! What awful people! Why, her mother is as dark as an ayah!
Who are they?"

"Her father is in the sugar works at Manora--he was in the cavalry,
and----"

"See it all," interrupted Haig; "got into a scrape, married a
half-caste--fired out of the Service--social collapse."

"I presume you are not _now_ contemplating taking a month's leave at
Rajahpore," remarked Salwey, with dry significance. "Seen the family?"

"Don't rub it in, Salwey, you savage! You cannot understand what a
fearful blow I've just had." He really looked as white and shaken as if
he had recently had a fall.

"You don't want to meet Miss Verona again?"

"Oh, I wish to God I'd never seen her at all!" he groaned.

"She is handsome, not to speak of being a good girl--and a lady. I'm
sorry I cannot say the same for her sister Dominga. I sincerely pity
Miss Verona--the shock you are struggling under is nothing to the shock
she received when she came out--and beheld her parents."

"Then, she never knew!"

"Never--if she _had_ known, do you suppose she would have left England?
Cheer up, old man! you'll get over it--we all do."

"Bosh! you've never had anything to get over--but the measles. I'll
never get over this as long as I live. She tells me that Madame de
Godez left her nothing at all."

"No, her face is her fortune--her family are her misfortune," rejoined
Salwey, and here he was imperatively claimed by another acquaintance.

As far as the Chandos family were concerned, the Rajahpore races had
proved a brilliant success. Pussy had been supremely happy, for
Alonzo was present, and they had enjoyed a good deal of chattering and
giggling together (as well as a large packet of conversation lozenges),
and thrice had sallied out arm in arm to the tent, to partake of such
refreshments as lemonade and cake.

Dominga had attracted a certain amount of flattering attention and won
several bets. Her mother's eyes had followed her with triumph, as in a
long green dress and carrying a white parasol she trailed up and down
the paddock, in company with Mr. Young and Major Gale, D.S.O.; but she
lost sight of her darling during the hour when she sat behind a screen
in the refreshment tent--whispering with Jimmy Fielder.

Dominga and Jimmy were more than the mere acquaintance they appeared to
be.

The Station had listened to their occasional chaffing and sparring,
had seen them playing tennis, but never supposed--or suspected--that
the Honourable Jimmy cast a second thought to the diverting and
dashing Dominga. Poor little Baby Charles was her slave; but as
soon as the regiment moved he would cast off her shackles, and no
harm would be done! Deluded Station! Baby Charles was merely the
stalking-horse--behind this harmless and acknowledged "friendship"
Dominga and her new admirer screened a real love affair. In public
they rarely addressed one another, but they made ample amends for this
abstinence on other occasions. Oh, worthy Mrs. Grundy was being cruelly
deceived!

The first day's racing came to an end. A great deal of money was lost
and won; a great many hopes had been raised and shattered. Brian
Salwey's Baber, splendidly ridden by himself, won the welter race,
but in the supreme event of the day--"the cup,"--the favourite was
hopelessly beaten--alas! the celebrated V.C. was not even placed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kind-hearted Mrs. Lepell had compassion on the original "V.C." and
drove her home with her in the victoria (in order to save her from
her relatives), and Brian Salwey occupied the front seat. They were
a somewhat silent trio, but as they passed the Chandos family in the
wagonette, their chattering resembled nothing so much as a party of
excited jackdaws!

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day Verona did not attend the meeting; Pussy was chaperoned by
her sister Blanche, and Dominga was the triumphant companion of Mrs.
Barwell. Mrs. Chandos was far too much occupied with preparations for
Sunday's tiffin to spare time for any relaxation. The entertainment
was to be on a sumptuous scale; she went into the bazaar herself, and
bought candied fruit, _pâté de fois gras_, and a fine Europe ham! (in
spite of her chaffering, the latter was an expensive item); it was all
to find favour in the eyes of Verona's lover; but if he would only
marry the girl, and take her off her hands, the Europe ham would be a
well invested outlay.

Whilst Mrs. Chandos was bargaining in the bazaar, Verona was sitting
with her grandmother in the garden, reading--as the old lady's eager,
but unaccustomed fingers manufactured a woollen necktie. It was the
hour of sunset; birds were squabbling for the best branches--an
artesian well was sending up its final creak--a native was droning as
he shuffled down the road--the smell of wood smoke was in the air.
Mrs. Lopez, who had been buried in thought, now suddenly put down her
knitting and said:

"Well, so you have been here nearly six months, Verona! and you have
wrought changes. Pussy is improved, so is Nicky; Dom copies the way you
speak, and move; and your father, too, he is different; but you must
not make him too content. No, no, no!"

"But why not, Nani?" she inquired, with a smile.

"Because, though your talk is to him as water to a parched-up plant,
yet I must give you a word of warning. Your mother is a leetle, leetle
jealous; she cannot help it, poor girl! but these talks, and readings,
and games are not to her taste. No, no! sometimes when you are sitting
with your father, she is walking up and down the verandah--oh, quite
mad! I have seen her face! No, no, it is not good to look at. So, my
dear child, once a week for these readings--will be plenty--no more."

"Well, Nani, you know best," agreed Verona, with a sigh. "Come,
Johnny!" Johnny, the squirrel, who was playing among the trellis work
with some young friends, gave a whisk to his tail, and darted down to
his owner, ran up her extended arm and nestled to her cheek. When the
poor girl's heart ached very badly, Johnny's soft caresses and adoring
friendship seemed somehow to deaden the pain. Johnny was now a pretty
little fellow, though smaller than his cousins, who flocked round the
verandah. He associated with them--and he wished them to associate with
Verona. On many an occasion she had entered her room, and found a dozen
squirrels on her dressing-table! (Johnny's home was in a drawer, an
old ramshackle drawer, which had a hole at the back; here he crept in
and slept comfortably among her gloves and handkerchiefs--his nest was
in a red silk necktie.) He frequently entertained company before the
mirror, and no doubt his relations were delighted with his residence,
but the instant his lady appeared, they scampered out. Once Johnny had
been absent for a whole day, but honourably returned at nightfall, and
when Verona heard him pattering in, she felt a thankfulness out of all
proportion to the occasion. She loved Johnny, and could not bear to
lose him. As she stroked his fur now, there was a long silence--she was
thinking of Malcolm Haig's face as she had last seen it. She was firmly
persuaded that she would never look upon it again. She had been mad to
harbour hopes of release.

"See--see, Verona," said her grandmother, "I have dropped two--three
stitches. Child, has it seemed to you that there is a change in
Dominga?"

"No, Nani."

"Well, she has got a lover, or else I am an old fool."

"What makes you think so?"

"Many little things. She is quiet, she no longer squabbles--her
thoughts are enough--they are pleasant. She dresses herself for
hours--she writes much--she sees us no more, she is in another world
with her secret. Oh, it is a big one--can you guess?"

"No; as far as I have seen, Dominga has many admirers, and one--who
is more--little Mr. Young--but she does not care for him. Dominga is
always reserved and mysterious--she likes having secrets."

"Perhaps she is wise! You know the proverb: 'Never make known one's
wealth, one's remedies, one's lover, where one has hidden money, the
good works one does, the insults one has received, or the debts one has
contracted.'"

"Dominga makes known her debts, Nani--she owes two hundred rupees in
the bazaar, and is at her wits' end."

"Chitt! she will coax her mother, and she will pay," rejoined Mrs.
Lopez, with an air of easy confidence; "and here is Rosa coming back.
My, my, what parcels! Oh, she has been spending a lot of money!"
adding, with a laugh, "she will be _so_ cross!"

The preparation for the tiffin party was on a sumptuous scale; there
was a brand new white cloth--flowers--and dessert. The family wore
their very best garments; even Mr. Chandos had put on a suit of old
blue serge, in order to do honour to Verona's friend. Verona herself,
with two great red spots on her cheeks, inwardly prayed that her
expected guest would not come--and her prayer was answered.

Half-past one--no Captain Haig--a quarter to two--Nicky ran to the
corner of the tennis ground; the Trotter family were all in their
verandah--for it had not been concealed from them that Mrs. Chandos
expected two officers to tiffin.

Two o'clock, yet still tarried the wheels of Captain Haig's chariot. A
gloomy silence now descended and settled upon the Chandos family like a
pall.

Half-past two! a gurrah at the factory struck "three."

"No-ah, he is not coming," announced Dominga, with a conviction
that tolled the knell of her mother's hopes. Nicky and Dominga were
clamouring for food, and a certain portion of the long-delayed meal
was hastily served. But Mrs. Chandos was too excited to eat; her mind
was dwelling on the triumph of the Trotters, and her costly useless
outlay--unfortunately, she could not return the ham, for it had been
boiled. Her temper, which had been gradually rising like a storm at
sea, now burst, and dashed itself like a tornado upon Verona. It was
not the recreant Captain Haig with whom Mrs. Chandos was furious; his
unlucky friend represented the scapegoat.

Verona sat white and speechless, whilst her mother overwhelmed her
with a torrent of reproaches for her airs, her uselessness, the heavy
cost of her maintenance, and her most devilish pride. But when once a
Eurasian loses her temper and her self-control, she hardly knows what
she says. The tempest like a typhoon is soon over,--but while it lasts,
it is bad, very bad.

Mrs. Chandos finally concluded with one of her celebrated screaming
fits, and Mrs. Lopez--well accustomed to these hysterical
outbursts--led her away sobbing and exhausted, in order to console and
soothe her in her own apartment.




                             CHAPTER XXIX


The band had played the men back to barracks to the rousing tune of
"When Johnny comes marching Home again"; it was eleven o'clock on
Sunday morning, and Captain Haig, who had been to Parade Service,
walked across the maidan to pay a morning call. His thoughts were
still full of one subject--Verona Chandos, and he was anxiously
debating whether to go to Manora or not? The question had kept him
awake for hours; it had harassed him through the Book of Common Prayer,
and the text of the padre's sermon had been, "To go to Manora or not?"
Something in Verona's eyes magnetised him and drew him towards her, to
be instantly driven away by her swarm of terrible relations, and they
really were her own kindred; he had heard all about them at the mess.
Malcolm Haig was on his way to see his cousin (once removed), Jimmy
Fielder, and to have a friendly "bukh" with him in his own diggings. He
knew all about Master Jimmy's affairs, and why he was now languishing
on the plains of India. Lord Highstreet, who was a cast-iron parent of
the so-called old school, had cut off the supplies, and sent his heir
into banishment--sent him to the East in order to be out of harm's
way, for, by all accounts, there were no widows in India. The native
women were very properly burnt, and the Europeans were of the innocuous
species, termed "grass," and not matrimonially dangerous. Captain
Fielder was sprawling on a Bombay chair in the verandah, still clad in
a smart blue silk sleeping suit and a pair of straw bath-slippers, and
was engaged in reading a French novel, and smoking a Russian cigarette.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, half rising, as he descried his cousin.

"Hullo!" repeated the visitor, "so this is what you call going to
church!"

"There's a chair--here's a box of cigarettes. I never go to
church--within four walls. I believe in parson green fields."

"So I see," assented Malcolm, as he seated himself and glanced
significantly at the yellow book.

"You have been, of course--hence this air of virtue. Needs must when C.
O. drives; your tent is pitched in the old man's compound, and you were
under the paternal eye."

"Bosh!" blowing a cloud.

"Many in church?"

"Crowds--rather good singing."

"Ah! then--Dom Chandos was there."

"If you mean a tall, pale girl, with a soprano that nearly lifted the
roof--she was----"

"Isn't it a marvellous voice? It's an awful shame she is lost out
here----"

"Lost? She seems to know her way about fairly well----"

"I mean--her voice. If that girl had a chance at home at the Gaiety--or
the halls--she'd become the craze; and she can dance a bit, too----"

"I knew the other Miss Chandos at home," said Captain
Haig--slowly--knocking the ash off his cigarette in a preoccupied
fashion. "She was the beauty of Homburg."

"Oh, well, I don't admire her one little bit. A beauty at home is not
a beauty here, and _vice versâ_; I grant you she has a fine pair of
unhappy, dark eyes, but give me her sister. I like a girl with a spice
of the devil----"

"Cannot say that I do! How are you getting along, Jimmy?"

"Oh, all right. The pater thought he was sending me to penal
servitude, but it's rather jolly. They are not a bad lot--these
Muffineers--awfully sporting, but it's a rotten regiment. However, the
duty is easy."

"How do you kill time?"

"Oh, there's polo, and squash rackets, some fair shooting--duck and
snipe, partridge; quite a lot of small game----"

"And no other game?--eh, Jimmy? Sport was never in your line.
Piccadilly, Hurlingham, the theatres and halls, used to be your orbit."

"Oh, I put in my days all right, though the climate undermines my moral
character, and I eat enormously, and sleep many hours. When the hot
weather comes, I'll trek for the hills!"

"Ah--I hope you won't get into mischief there. Had your father
consulted _me_, I should have told him he was turning you out of the
frying-pan into the fire!"

"Bah! the pater is only terrified that I should marry, that's all. No
one marries in India--we carry on----"

"Oh, do you? And--what about Mrs. de Lacy? Have you dropped her?"

"I wish to goodness she'd drop _me_, Malcolm!" declaiming with uplifted
hand and cigarette. "The pater was right there, though I'm the last man
to tell him so! Nita is awfully up-to-date--plays bridge like a book,
smokes like a chimney, has a ripping good figure--but twelve years, you
know--I say, come, it's a good bit of a start, eh?"

"On the wrong side--yes. Uncle Horace wrote me a raving letter--he has
a tremendous idea of what he calls 'A suitable alliance.' I fancy I see
him and your father together at the club, wagging their heads over your
'case.' I bet your Uncle Horace prescribed India----"

"He has never been out, eh?" and Jimmy grinned significantly from
ear to ear. "Well, I can't say I bear the old boy a grudge. I'm glad
I came. Every one does India now; the Taj is as familiar as Charing
Cross. I've been here four months--and the days have just slid along.
I've had a blazing good time!"

"Ahem! Then--James--I'm much afraid you're at your old games. And
yet--there are not many women of your style in the station----"

"That's true, oh, observant sage! Find the lady? By the way"--giving
the conversation a sudden twist, "what are you doing to-day?"

"I don't quite know. Mrs. Chandos--asked me to tiffin----"

"What infernal cheek!" half sitting up; "you are not going to be such
an ass as to give yourself away like that. If you do, she will nail
you. Who enters there, leaves hope behind."

"What do you mean----?"

"Oh, you know--and you know too, that it's no good hankering after
that girl--not a little bit. I grant you she is handsome and ladylike,
but--keep her relations well in your mind's eyes. Think of the future
cousins in the bazaars."

"Oh, you be hanged! Of course you have never been near the place?"

"I should say not! The Chandos bungalow is out of bounds; Chandos
himself is a shady old chap, who shows his sense by never leaving
cards on a mess, and never enters the station. His 'Mem Sahib' is all
over the shop, flitting in and out of the club, and hanging on to the
coat-tails of society. Of course we meet her at times in the reading
room, and to speak to. She has a whole clan of brown relations in the
city, called Jones. The man only wants a turban to be a khidmutgar!"

"Then you don't know them at all?"

"Oh, yes; I know Dom--she is different; she is not off the cab rank,
and is rare good fun, and says the most amusing and unexpected things.
We are tremendous pals, though I need scarcely remark that we don't
publish the fact on the club notice board, or in the market place."

"Um--no; but where else----?"

"We write one another nice little notes. Our post office is a book
in the library--last volume on fourth shelf. It is called 'Two
Kisses'--rather neat, eh--quite my own idea----"

"Do you merely correspond?"

"Oh, no," responded Jimmy, with an airy flip of his cigarette, "on
moonlight nights I drive out to Manora after mess; I have a rare
stepper, and the cart has rubber tyres. I wait behind a little tope of
trees for Dom, and we go for a couple of hours' spin. It's all as still
as death and as bright as day; we have the whole country to ourselves.
I'm not a fellow for humbugging about scenery, and the picturesque,
but I tell you, Malcolm, that there's something in the quiet, still,
spreading plains--with a silver shine on them, and the river here
and there--flashing at one like a looking glass--that makes me feel
quite--er--er--enthusiastic--and impressed, and all that sort of
thing!"

"Oh! and I should like to know how Mr. Chandos would be impressed and
all that sort of thing, if he met you and his daughter scouring the
country in the middle of the night?"

"Bless your heart, there's not a soul in the secret but my syce. We
always get home all right, and Dom creeps in as easily as a roof cat."

"If you will take my advice, Master Jimmy, you won't go _too_ far."

"Ten to fifteen miles is our limit----"

"Oh, shut up! You know what I mean; that girl, by the look of her, has
the real tropical temperament. If you play any of your tricks you will
find yourself in the wrong box! Unless I'm mistaken, Nature has given
her teeth and claws, and the power to use them. Mind you, it's not for
nothing she's called the Red Cat--and I never trust any one with that
particular shade of red hair----"

"Red hair! Come, I like that! And what about your own crop of carrots,
my boy? I admire Dom's hair; it is splendid--the true Venetian colour,
whilst you are on the ginger shade----"

"Carrots and ginger! What mixed metaphors!"

"No! vegetables both! I grant you that Dom is not an everyday girl; she
is quick and all alive, O! and she never bores, but keeps your wits on
the stretch all the time. She is not a bit like any woman I have ever
met before, and that is what appeals to me. She is awfully plucky, too.
One night we drove over a buffalo, and were pitched out on the road,
and, I give you my word, she simply shrieked with laughter."

"Pray, what is going to be the end of this?" inquired his cousin in a
cool, judicial tone.

"Oh, I don't know----"

"Still in the early chapters of the romance, eh----?"

"Yes; when it begins to get a bit--er--dull, and we are bored--we will
say ta-ta; that's all!"

"All?" ejaculated his visitor.

"Well--I say, hang it, Malcolm! A fellow must have some amusement!"

"Play to you, and death to her--reputation."

"Oh, Dom will take good right care of that--I tell you----"

"And I tell you that if you play fast and loose with Dom she is just
the sort of girl that would--kill you!"

"Oh, Lord! here we have a five-act tragedy in two lines! A tragedy
generally makes me howl with laughter. Well, now I must go in, and
shave and dress. I say, if you like, I'll drive you round by Manora
this afternoon. It's a pretty sort of settlement--lots of trees and
greenery--on the river side. We won't stop, but I will point you out
the roof which shelters the Misses Chandos--your lady love, and mine!"

And tossing the end of his cigarette into a bush, he called for his
boy, and disappeared indoors.




                              CHAPTER XXX


That same Sunday afternoon Mrs. Chandos, having recovered from her
"seizure" went out into the front garden in order to "eat the air" in
solitude. The Trotters were also abroad, but she turned her back upon
them, and walked down the little drive and gazed along the road with
an expression of grim resentment. But what was this which she beheld
speeding towards her? A grey stepping horse, a dog-cart, and two
gentlemen--and at what a pace they came! Indeed, they were all but past
before the driver discovered her, and pulled the grey on his haunches.

"Oh, good day, Mrs. Chandos," said Captain Haig; "I am so awfully sorry
I was not able to come to tiffin. I was--prevented," here Jimmy gave
him an approving nudge, "from accepting your kind invitation."

"Aye, and so you have come to tea instead. All right, come in--come
in----"

"I am afraid we cannot wait, thank you."

"Oh, my! but why not? The girls are at home," and she put her hand on
the wheel of the cart as if she would detain them by physical force.

Captain Haig merely shook his head.

"And poor Verona will be _so_ disappointed," urged the persistent
matron.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Chandos," interposed Jimmy, leaning across, "but I
must really take him away. We have an important engagement."

"Ah, but here is Dominga!" cried her mother in a tone of triumph, as
Dom, in a French muslin costume, came flitting to the gate.

"You know my daughter, Dominga, Captain Haig?"

Dominga immediately took her mother's place, and began to converse with
Jimmy, whilst Mrs. Chandos stood aside and contemplated the scene with
a bursting heart. She had hoped for a mere captain, but here was "the
Honourable" talking away to Dom as if he had known her all his life!
And the Trotters were staring over the wall, like so many stuck pigs.

In another moment the grey horse had sprung forward, and the ecstatic
vision was swept from her contemplation. Still there yet remained
the Trotters! She turned herself about, looked at them with rude
significance, and nodded with imperial condescension. Who would
suppose, from her manner, that her neighbour was a close, intimate
friend of many years' standing, and had once nursed her like a sister,
when she and Nani were both down with jaundice?

No, no; she had forgotten all that. Those common Trotter people must be
taught their place, and with this determination Mrs. Chandos proceeded
indoors.

On Sunday evening the chaplain from Rajahpore held service in the
little conventicle at Manora; his congregation consisted of the sugar
people and a few native Christians. On this particular day Pussy and
Nicky were the sole representatives of the Chandos household. As Mrs.
Lepell and her nephew were walking homewards they overtook the pair.

"Pray what has become of Verona this evening?" inquired the lady.

"She has such a bad headache!"

"That is unusual. What has given it to her?"

"Crying, I think," replied the ever indiscreet Pussy. "She cried a lot
this afternoon."

"I hope she has not had bad news?"

"Oh, no--ah! but mother asked a friend of hers to lunch--that Captain
Haig--and he never came," announced Pussy, regardless of her brother's
angry nip. "And mother was so vexed."

"Poor Verona!" said Mrs. Lepell to herself, as they came to the gate of
the Chandos abode.

"Look here, Pussy, will you run in and ask your mother if you and
Verona may come over to dinner? It will cheer up your sister. Don't be
long, like a good girl."

As they waited, she turned to her nephew and said: "Poor girl, I
suppose he could not face them! Brian, what makes you look so solemn?"

"My sins and the sermon," he answered with a short laugh. "By the way,
Aunt Liz, I'm on the track of those jewels; I believe I've got a clue,
but mum's the word."

At this moment they were joined by Pussy, who panted out, "Thanks
awfully, Mrs. Lepell; we may both come."

At dinner that evening Verona was unusually white and silent. "So,"
said Salwey to himself, "she has been crying for that fellow. Little
she knows how Pussy let her namesake out of the bag."

The chief part of the conversation was sustained by Mr. Lepell and
Pussy, who, though a little daunted by the entrées and coloured wine
glasses, was much elated to find herself dining in the big house. Her
host noted how she was improved; she had ceased to giggle at the end
of every sentence, and was really quite a pretty girl, with her liquid
dark eyes, beautiful teeth and radiant smile.

Mr. Lepell was astonished when he realized that this sparkling,
happy-looking guest was only little Pussy Chandos! They were discussing
dreams, and during a lull in the talk her thin staccato tones were
heard saying: "Oh, I do dream such strange dreams! They seem so real!
Two or three times I dream of Dominga--always the same; she walks
through my room in her hat with a wrap on her arm--just as if she was
there. Last week I dreamt of her, and I called out, and she put her
finger on her lips and was gone. Now, what can it mean, do you think?"

One of the khidmutgars in waiting caught the eye of his mate. _They_
knew, but this by-play was lost on the company--with one exception.

"Did you tell your sister of these visions?" inquired Salwey.

"Oh, yes; and she said it was only nightmare. I think I had been having
too much curried fish--I'm awfully fond of curry; when I see curry I
must eat it."

"Now, Brian," said his aunt, "you have scarcely opened your lips--do
amuse us! What are you looking so glum about? If you are thinking of
the usurers, I will allow you to take a short canter on your hobby."

"It's nothing to joke about, Aunt Liz," rejoined Salwey, suddenly
rousing himself. "You know old Hirzat Sing--they have sold him up at
last!"

"Oh, no! Poor old fellow--he has been in difficulties for years!"

"Yes," assented her husband; "he borrowed money for his son's wedding,
and it was his ruin. His son is dead, and he has been getting
deeper and deeper into debt every year. A slave to the soil and the
money-lender--working from dawn to dark to keep himself and his wife
alive--and feed the daughter of the horse-leech."

"One would suppose he could throw off the yoke, and the strangling
hundred per cent., and go elsewhere," said Mrs. Lepell.

"He is too old," replied Salwey, "and he would say, 'Kahn
jaga?'--whither shall I go? He clings to his ancestral acres with the
extraordinary love of home, which is a passion in a Hindoo. There is a
saying, 'The rent is heavy, the debts are many, but still he loves his
field.' Now that Hirzat Sing is getting infirm and stiff, and his wife
is blind, he is of no further use to the soucar, who has thrust him
from his home, after making hundreds, aye, thousands of rupees out of
him. The original debt was but two hundred and fifty; now he will end
his days as a bazaar mendicant, after slaving for sixty years."

"This is very bad, Brian; can you do nothing?"

"I'm afraid not, Aunt Liz; poor old Hirzat Sing is in the grip of
Saloo--a notable money-lender known only to us by name; I believe he
lives in Poona, but his meshes are all over the district, and he does
his business secretly; he is the most fierce and rapacious of the whole
lot. Once or twice I've thought I had him. I believe from what I hear
that the wretch has no less than five hundred victims on his books--in
his web, I should say."

"Poor old Hirzat Sing!" said Mrs. Lepell. "I shall look him up
to-morrow. We could get him some job about the place, eh, Tom?"

"Yes, my dear; but already we are fairly well supplied with your
_protégés_."

"Don't be horrid, Tom. I have, and so have you, the greatest respect
for Hirzat Sing. He is one of Nature's noblemen."

"And I have to find him some job--such as weeding or sweeping--at five
rupees a month. Well, I'll do what I can."

"By the way, Miss Verona," turning to his silent, sad-faced guest, "I
saw in _The Times_ the death of a Chandos of Charne Hall. I believe
he's related to your father? I am not sure--but I think he is his
cousin."

"Oh my, yes; it must be father's cousin," burst in Pussy. "He never
speaks of him, but mother does; she says he was such--a--thief and a
budmash--he--ought to have been put in jail!"

"Pussy!" remonstrated her sister.

"If it is Sidney, it will make a great difference to your father,"
continued Mr. Lepell, addressing Verona.

"I don't believe anything would make any difference to him," then she
dropped her voice as she added the word "now."

"Dear me! How dull we have all been!" exclaimed Mrs. Lepell. "I really
think we shall have to introduce the Chinese system of having little
slips of paper inscribed with jokes, which they solemnly hand to each
other during intervals in the conversation."

"I wish I could remember a few," said Salwey; "but they run in at
one ear and out at the other! I wonder if this would do? A certain
schoolboy was asked, 'Who was Titus?' 'Titus,' he promptly replied,
'was a gentleman who wrote a letter in the Bible. Then, as a Roman
general, he sacked Jerusalem. Subsequently, having adopted the name of
Oates, he headed an abominable insurrection.' How is that, Aunt Liz?"

"Much too historical and stupid," she said as she rose. "I suppose you
wished to drive us off, and therefore we depart. Good-bye!"

The three ladies were followed into the verandah by coffee and the men,
and Salwey, drawing up a low chair beside Verona, said:

"Did you ever see this pretty thing before?" As he spoke he dropped a
ring into her lap.

She picked it up and exclaimed, "I should think so--my long-lost
property! Where did you find it?"

"Can you swear to it?"

"I can do more, if necessary. I was in the shop when auntie bought
it--a black pearl, set in brilliants. I wanted all emeralds, but she
insisted. Look here," and she unpinned a plain, gold safety brooch, "do
you see this?"

In another moment her nimble fingers had unscrewed the cluster in the
ring, and screwed it into the brooch.

"There!" handing it back, and slipping the ring on her finger. "It
makes three separate articles--a ring, a brooch, and a bangle. Are you
convinced?"

"I am. May I have the brooch and ring? And I must ask you to swear to
your property before Uncle Tom, who is a magistrate."

"Very well, though I feel slightly alarmed; it sounds so formal--and as
if I had been breaking the law."

"Do you know that you have done an immense service, for you have not
only given me a clue to the recovery of your jewels. This," holding up
the safety-pin, "will get a notorious evil-doer two years' hard labour,
with a shorn head, and chains, in Rajahpore jail. Now, I wish you could
put me on the track of Saloo, the money-lender!"




                             CHAPTER XXXI


The change in Dominga, which had not escaped the sharp eyes of old
Nani, gradually became visible to her sister. Dom's whole mind was
evidently concentrated on something, or someone--who could that someone
be? She was abstracted, silent and forgetful--at one moment in the
maddest and most unaccountable spirits, at another sunk in the depths
of ferocious gloom. Dominga was in love--and for the first time in her
existence. Ambition and a hungry vanity had impelled her to strain
every effort in order to attract "The Honourable" (as he was called in
Manora), and her aim was accomplished but too easily. On the occasion
of their second meeting he exclaimed:

"Lovely Dom! won't you be real good friends with me? _won't_ you like
me--and let us see a great deal of one another?"

This appeal she had laughed at and "pooh-poohed." Now to see "Jimmy"
was all she lived for. She was indifferent to position; she had no
desire to snatch a coronet--all she cared for was Jimmy himself. If
Jimmy ceased to love her, if he were to leave her, the whole world
would become wrapped in darkness--and she would die.

Meanwhile, none suspected their intimacy. Dom was an accomplished
actress, and full of resource and courage; she concealed an impassioned
love affair behind the cloak of a duly licensed (warranted "harmless")
flirtation with her unhappy dupe, "Baby Charles."

These two strings to her bow were a severe tax on Dominga. Admirable
performer as she was, she found it difficult to keep both strings in
tune, and to wear an everyday air of smiling self-possession. She
worshipped Jimmy, and with regret, it must be added, that she now
secretly detested Baby Charles. These devastating emotions had their
natural result; she became nervous, thin and restless as the sea
itself; sleep and appetite both left her, and yet Dom retained her
looks--she had a sort of glorified expression; a soft brilliance in her
eyes had replaced their former challenging stare.

Towards the middle of February the nights were becoming warm. At any
rate, Verona found it difficult to rest; and on more than one occasion
she rose, slipped on her shoes and a long cloak, and set forth to
wander along the old familiar path by the river. The air was cool and
refreshing after a close room (they had not yet begun punkahs), and
one night she was tempted to stroll beyond her usual bounds, towards
a certain lonely spot--the desolate garden of an old bungalow which
had fallen into ruins. This garden was a jungle of trees and creepers;
bamboos, loquats and apricots struggled fiercely for spaces--beautiful
roses, gone mad, threw their shoots in all directions. Here the blue
jay and the golden orioles were undisturbed--it was a wilderness of
flowers and birds, far from the hurry and dust of the outer world. Few
ever passed that way, because the old ruined house had an evil name,
and was reputed to be haunted. Verona had discovered this sanctuary,
and many a half-hour she spent, sitting on the steps of the verandah,
whilst Johnny darted about among the neighbouring branches, and played
on a circular stone platform close by--a "chabootra," where in former
days the family had enjoyed the air and tea--raised a few inches from
undesirable insects, and snakes. To this retreat Verona had now wound
her steps, and as she made her way among the bushes she was aware that
someone else was in the garden--someone who was singing "The Jewel of
Asia." She approached, and thrusting aside the high plumes of the grass
blossoms, beheld a tableau which rooted her to the spot.

Dominga--on the chabootra--wearing a low evening dress, her hair
crowned by a wreath of passion flowers, was not merely singing, but
dancing! As she sang she held with extended arms her flowing white
skirts, and weaved the most dainty measures. She moved with the true
"bird-like step" and the swaying, undulating grace of her renowned
grandmother, the Nautch girl!

Naturally Dom was not singing or dancing solely for her own amusement,
or the entertainment of roof cats, owls and night-jars. As she executed
her fairy-like _pas seul_ on the stone platform, the "Honourable,"
cigarette in mouth, lounged by the edge of the verandah, and clapped
applause.

Whilst Verona stood transfixed, this pretty scene fell to pieces, for
Dom, in answer to a gesture from Jimmy, turned, saw her sister, and
uttered a piercing shriek.

"Hush--sh!" said her companion, rising simultaneously to his feet--and
the occasion. "Quite the time of day to be out--is it not, Miss
Chandos?" sauntering towards her as he spoke. "I wandered over to
Manora, and had the good luck to meet first your sister--and now
yourself!"

"Oh, Verona!" cried Dominga, "what a fright you did give me! I thought
you were the ghost! You know this place is haunted by those Mutiny
people who were killed here."

"I assure you that I was equally startled," rejoined the other in a
frosty voice.

"I suppose you came out for a breath of air--same as myself," continued
Dom, with unsurpassed effrontery--and her fairness was dazzling in the
moonlight.

A breath of air! and she dressed in her best gauze ball gown--white
satin shoes, and all!

Verona made no answer, and being painfully conscious of the great
deficiencies of her own toilette, without further formality effected a
rapid retreat.

"I say! I call that most beastly bad luck," exclaimed Jimmy, looking
after the departing figure. "Does she twig anything?"

"She must--unless she is an idiot."

"She won't give us away, Dom! You must make that all right, old girl!"

"If I can."

"If you cannot, there will be the devil to pay!"

"What particular devil?" enquired his lady love.

"Well, your _father_ might kick up a row."

Dominga laughed with infinite mockery.

"Or our old man--who is supposed to keep me under lock and key? You
must square it, won't you, darling?"

"Of course, I will do whatever you like, Jim. I always do."

And Verona was fully as uncomfortable as the lovers. She crept guiltily
into bed, and once there her heart beat so fast she could not sleep.
So this was Dom's secret--Jimmy Fielder! How well she had kept it! and
yet how reckless to choose an open spot, not far from the house, for
entrancing her lover with song and dance!

They must have met frequently--this was no unusual occasion. Verona,
unable to sleep or close her eyes, beheld again, with inward vision,
the scene: the background of flowering shrubs, the white floating
figure with waving arms and gliding grace--Jimmy, sitting with his
elbows on his knees, his hat on the back of his head, cigarette in
mouth, gazing and glowering like a masher in a music hall--where no
doubt, for the moment, he believed himself to be!

And Dominga was her own sister--what should she do? What must she do?

At this moment a stealthy footfall entered the room--it was Dom come to
answer that question in person.

"Verona," she whispered, "are you asleep?"

"No--I wish to goodness I was."

"You know our secret."

"I'm not so sure that I do!"

"But you see what we are. Jimmy adores me, and I adore him."

"If so, why does he not come here and adore you in broad daylight?"

"Because of people's tongues--think of the spite of the Trotters and
Watkins, and Blanche's chum, Mrs. Wandle. Verona, dear," and she fell
on her knees beside the bed, "will you promise to say nothing of what
you saw? Promise, and I will do anything--anything."

"I will promise, if you will listen to what I have to say first."

Dominga, with an impatient "Ch-a-ah!" sat suddenly down on the floor.

"I have seen Captain Fielder's father. He is a curious old man--very
proud, and very hard--and enormously rich."

"How rich?" asked Dom, raising herself a little.

"Oh, about forty thousand a year."

"Rupees?"

"No, pounds; there are no rupees in England. He has eyes like two bits
of granite, and a long chin; he wears a tall white hat and black stock,
and lifts his feet high off the ground as if they did not fit him.
I've often laughed at his way of walking. He is crazy about pedigree
and position, and Jimmy is his only remaining son. If he makes an
unsatisfactory marriage--for instance, if he were to marry a girl
without position or fortune--it would be his deathblow!"

"So much the better," said Dominga, springing to her feet.

"But Dom, do listen. Captain Fielder can never make you his wife--do
give him up."

"Do you think he will give _me_ up?" she demanded, in a low, grating
voice.

"Well, promise me at least that you won't meet him at night again.
Promise, Dom, on your word of honour."

"I promise," she responded, in a passionate whisper; "and now, Verona,
listen! if you are false to me, I will"--she paused for a second, in
order to formulate a threat and deal adequate vengeance. Her ear caught
a rustle on the dressing-table--yes! there was naughty little Johnny,
out of his bed at that time of night, sitting up, and watching the
sisters with his two glittering black eyes.

"I won't say I'll kill you," resumed Dom, "for you wouldn't care--oh,
I know your mind--but I will kill Johnny, I will burn him--yes, I'll
roast him alive, and _that_ would hurt you!"

"Oh, Dom, don't say such hideous things! Of course, you may depend on
me; but you--can I really trust you? Will you swear to me on the Bible?"

"No; but I'll swear to you on my soul! will that satisfy you?"

Dominga Chandos set but a nominal value on her soul. What little soul
she had belonged to Jimmy Fielder, and she broke her oath within three
days.




                             CHAPTER XXXII


The next event of importance was a grand dinner party given by Mrs.
Lepell, to which she invited Verona alone. Mrs. Chandos was loudly
indignant because Dominga had been overlooked, for she had learnt all
particulars of the festivity from her ayah, who heard it from the
Lepell's khansamah. There were to be no less than twenty-four guests.
These included Colonel and Mrs. Palgrave, Miss Richards, Mr. Young,
the Deputy-Inspector-General of Police, Mr. Salwey, a Sir Rupert and
Lady Maxwell, who were staying at the Dak bungalow, and various other
notabilities; altogether it was to be an unusually smart affair. Poor
Verona, who was not particularly anxious to be present, was compelled
to listen patiently whilst her mother harped from morning till night on
Mrs. Lepell's many delinquencies and Dominga's grievances.

The evening arrived, and Verona, with Pussy's volunteered assistance,
began to make her toilette. She arranged her hair carefully, and put on
a dress, relic of happier times, a white crêpe de chine; it had come
from the atelier of Laferrière, and was a simple, but exquisite gown.
Pussy was loud in her expressions of admiration.

"Oh--it is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! Verona. If you will sit
down before the glass, I will clasp your pearls round your neck, and
then you are ready. Now, what do you think mother did to-day?"

Verona shook her head in hopeless ignorance. Her mother did so many
things--she resembled a little black ant, and was never idle.

"You know she is awfully mad that Dominga was not invited, especially
as Mr. Young is going, so she wrote a note over to Mrs. Lepell to ask
her if she could possibly squeeze in Dominga anywhere? The answer came
back in two minutes to say that Mrs. Lepell was extremely sorry, but
the number of her guests was quite complete."

Verona, listening to this little tale, blushed for her mother to the
roots of her hair. At this moment the door of the verandah was burst
open, and Mrs. Chandos herself appeared; she looked both angry and
excited.

"My! whatt ages you have been," she declared, as she surveyed Verona's
toilette with glittering, malevolent eyes.

"I was helping Nicky with his sums, and I forgot the time. I am afraid
I am a little late."

"I am afraid you will be _very_ late," cried Mrs. Chandos, with a
queer, hysterical laugh, and she suddenly swept a pail of water from
behind her dress, and deluged her unfortunate daughter from head to
foot. At first the shock was such that Verona could do nothing but
gasp, and gasp; then, to the amazement of the spectators, she burst out
laughing.

What an object she was! the water streaming down her hair and nose,
and a pool in her lap, her gown a mere soaked rag. Verona's laugh was
an inspiration! If for days she had been preparing an effective retort
to her mother's malicious action, she could not have hit the mark more
cleverly. Mrs. Chandos stood disarmed, astounded, humiliated.

"I am afraid I shall now be very late indeed," said Verona as she rose,
dripping from head to foot, and looked at her parent with extraordinary
composure, "so late that it will not be worth my while to go at all. If
you will all kindly retire, I should like to change my wet clothes."

Without a single word Mrs. Chandos slunk out, bucket in hand, but Pussy
lingered to profess her sympathy and dismay.

"Now, what can you say? Oh, you must send an excuse?" she enquired,
with an awestruck face.

"You can say I have had a severe wetting," rejoined Verona. In her
heart of hearts she was not sorry to be compelled to remain at
home. These local gatherings had nothing to offer her but pain and
humiliation.

"A severe wetting!" cried Pussy, "they will not believe it. There has
been no rain for weeks!"

"I cannot help that," retorted her sister, "but if you want to make it
appear plausible, you may add that I have gone to bed."

Pussy sat down and scrawled off the following note:

    "Dear Mrs. Lepell,--

    "_Please_ excuse Verona. She has had a _bad_ wetting, and is gone
    to _bed_.

    "Believe me,

                                                      "Yours sincerely,
                                                   "BELLAMINA CHANDOS."

The true state of the case was not long in finding its way to Mrs.
Lepell's ears. She could not help laughing at the incident as she
related it to her nephew, but she felt more sorry than ever for Verona
Chandos.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was eleven o'clock at night. The bungalow was silent, the lights
were extinguished everywhere except in the office, and here we behold
Mrs. Chandos and Abdul Buk face to face across a table, exceedingly
grave and busy. In front of each was a large ledger, and as Mrs.
Chandos read out figures and totals Abdul Buk said "Jehan, jehan," and
ticked off the duplicate in pencil; occasionally Mrs. Chandos would
point out discrepancies and losses, and a certain amount of argument
and wrangling would ensue.

"There is that widow in the Gorra bazaar; she owes me a hundred rupees."

"With interest," amended Abdul.

"She has only had twenty-five in her hand."

(By which it will be seen that Mrs. Chandos, like Ralph Nickleby,
expected to get two pence for every half-penny.)

"She worked very hard, and borrowed the money to pay for her husband's
funeral."

"It was my money, though, and I will have it back, and the interest.
_You_ know what to do," said this daughter of the horse-leech. "Then
there is that girl who drowned herself in the well; I shall never get
an anna from her now, and she is down in my books for two hundred
rupees."

"You lost nothing by _her_--she had paid the principal over and over."

"My losses have been heavy this last six months. Again, there is that
man who took poison."

"What you call losses are trade risks, and but nothing when you take
into consideration your enormous gains. No one does such business as
Saloo"--he gave a sort of grunting laugh. "I paid a big sum into the
Bank of Bengal in the name of your mother, as usual. Oh--ho! What a
good thing it is that she leaves business to you, and thinks she has
only a few hundred rupees. Bee Bee Chandos, you are a very rich woman."
Here he pulled up a large bag, made of knotted twine, and poured on the
table a quantity of rupees and notes. These his companion proceeded to
count with eager, greedy fingers (and a celerity that was positively
astonishing and indicated long habit), arranging them in piles of fifty.

"Four thousand, seven hundred," she said at last. "I don't know what
you call rich; I have been twenty years in the business; I have worked
hard, and I pay you and your agents well."

"It is a difficult, risky business," protested Abdul Buk. "I go in
fear of my life of that Salwey; if I am found out, it is ruin to me;
my character will be gone. If it was supposed that I was the agent of
the greatly-feared Saloo, surely the very beggars would spit upon me--I
would not have a friend in the world."

"Money is a good friend," said Mrs. Chandos sententiously.

"Ay," assented Abdul Buk, "and you must have laks by now."

He paused and looked at her reflectively; then he said:

"Why do you not spend it instead of hoarding? Why not enjoy the money
before"--he paused, then he added--"you are found out."

"Cha-a-h! I will never be found out!" she answered shrilly. "I love
handling money; it is in my blood. I get it from Lopez, my father. He
left me no fortune, with all his once great riches."

"Of a truth his riches did _him_ no good; he died a ruined man."

"But he left me a legacy," rejoined Mrs. Chandos; "his books, his
accounts, the names of his clients and his methods. I found them all
in an old box, when my mother came to live with me. They have been of
value."

"Take my advice and wind up now," urged Abdul Buk. "I feel a
presentiment of evil. Lo! I see a little cloud, like a man's hand, as
it says in your book which I have read. I fear Salwey--some day he will
discover all; he is working, working, working. You will have your veil
torn off, and be known through the province as the accursed Saloo,
whilst I may be cast into prison. Anyway, I lose my honour."

"Abdul Buk, you are a coward; you ought to be the old woman, I, the
man."

"So you say," he exclaimed with sullen scorn.

"What of Hirzat Sing?"

"He wails and weeps and prays to be suffered to die in his ancestral
home."

"He is a tiresome old fool and can no longer till the ground to good
profit. All I made last year on that acre and a half of cane was one
hundred rupees--he must go."

"It will kill him!"

"Even so!" was the callous reply; "it were time he were dead! And now
what of the money belonging to my daughter, Verona? Have you put it out
to a good charge?"

"Yes; four thousand rupees," he replied, "to build an oil mill;
twenty-five per cent. They cannot pay, so the interest will be
compound."

"And the jewels, Abdul. Are there no tidings?"

"No, though Salwey seeks them everywhere."

"True; he wanted to search here, but I said no. He might have found
other matters. Yet it is past belief that there is no trace of them.
What sayest thou, Abdul?"

Abdul nodded his head three times, but made no other reply.

"I put them in the bag myself. It was not locked, but I locked the
press, and the door of the dufta, and some one came in and broke the
press at the back and took the necklace, the watch, a gold bangle and
rings. Think of it!"

"Truly this district has an evil name for thieves and budmashes. The
robber has carried the jewels to the city, and they are doubtless ere
now broken up and sent to Delhi."

"You think, Abdul, there is no chance of ever getting them back or of
finding the things?" enquired his employer as she settled her elbows on
the table and stared at him fixedly.

"None; truly 'tis but a loss of time!"

"How lucky that I kept out the beautiful diamond and emerald pendant.
It is worth all the rest. Such stones!"

Abdul sat more erect, and his eyes now assumed a look of keen interest,
hitherto somewhat lacking in their expression, as he ejaculated a
sonorous "Ah-h!"

"I admired the ornament so much, Verona made me take it. I have no
jewels, and I have hidden it safely."

"Hidden it--and where?" he asked.

As he put the question Abdul's great turbaned head lay half resting on
his shoulder; his countenance was childlike and bland.

"Nay, nay," she answered with a laugh, "I cannot tell you that; the
very walls have ears."

"It is not then in the dufta?"

"Am I a fool?" she demanded, with pardonable indignation.

"Nay; thou art a marvel of wisdom."

"I think I shall sell the jewel some day; it will add to my daughters'
fortunes."

"They will have great fortunes, your daughters."

"Maybe."

"All you pay me for my risks and labour is but a few hundred rupees."

"If your commission is low--it is your own fault. The more you bring
me, the more you receive."

"I receive but little. I am a poor man. I have a large family to
maintain; they all look to me."

"They will be looking for you now!" said Mrs. Chandos briskly.

"Truly thou art a hard woman--hard as a rock."

As she spoke Abdul rose and closed the ledger before him with a bang.
Mrs. Chandos also rose, and with her foot turned back a rug in the
middle of the room; under this was revealed a trap door, which she
proceeded to unlock, whilst Abdul Buk lifted the heavy lid. Below was a
small space, wherein were boxes and account books.

"Surely this is a great convenience," she said. "Here, in the old days
of the factory, they too kept money and books."

The bag of knotted twine and the big account book were laid within, the
trap door was closed, the rug replaced.

"I may not come here again for some time," said Abdul Buk. "Salwey
spends half a week at Manora; I cannot understand what brings him here,
unless he what you call 'smells a rat.'"

"Bah!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos, with great scorn.

"Here I am ill at ease. Now, in my quarters in the cantonment bazaar, I
feel all right. There I can do business, and take measures."

"Truly, yes," assented Mrs. Chandos, "'every dog is a lion in his own
lane.' Your peons, and the little deaf writer, how fare they?"

"They are at your service. Behold! they are well chosen. They know
neither pity nor fear. Thou art a woman with a strong mind."

"I am," she answered complacently, "and it is the mind that maketh
the body rich! Meet me in two weeks' time, by chance, at the railway
station--I will name the hour and day--and there we will confer about
the loans on the wheat crop."

Mrs. Chandos, as she spoke, turned down the lamp, and went out, locking
the door of the office, while Abdul Buk stole round the corner of the
bungalow and along the road to where his phaeton was waiting, and drove
away.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII


The next morning Razat Sing, a tall old man, leading by the hand his
blind wife, presented himself at the Chandos verandah, and asked to see
the Mem Sahib.

"What would you?" she demanded, in her shrill voice.

"Great lady," and he salaamed to the ground, "protector of the poor,
it hath come to my knowledge that Abdul Buk--whose rope is round our
necks--will do much for a word from thee."

"Aré, what nonsense is this?" she screeched, in her fluent Hindustani.
"Art thou mad? What have I to do with such as thee?"

All her daughters were assembled in the verandah, listening to this
conversation; the servants, too, were, as usual, within earshot.

"It is true, O! lady, they say, that thou hast done him some noble
favour; therefore, will he listen to thee. We ask not much--only
to remain in the old house by the old well, on the soil on which I
was born. Lo! when I say we ask not much--we ask our lives. Sixty
years have I toiled and striven," holding up as he spoke his worn,
knotted hands; "I have not wasted my money on aught; I have gone no
pilgrimages; I have held no feasts; I have fed scantily; I have worked
harder than a mill bullock, but to no avail--the fruit of these hands
hath gone to the money-lenders, for once, in an evil hour, I did
borrow one hundred rupees. Alas, I am now in the toils of Saloo, the
soucar--he groweth richer and richer as we wax poorer and poorer; and
I have no son to carry on the debt--therefore am I driven forth, being
old and feeble. Speak but one word, oh, great lady, and Abdul Buk will
grant us our request."

As he pleaded the poor old creature, whose body was almost
skeleton-like in its leanness, whose only garments were a dhoti and a
ragged red turban, sobbed aloud as he went down upon his knees, and
placed his head at the feet of Mrs. Chandos.

"Bah! what have I to do with Abdul Buk?" she cried, "and his affairs?
Go! I mix not myself up with crops and beggars!" To avoid further
importunity--and secretly startled and alarmed--she retreated indoors.
The old ryot raised himself with a groan, slowly picked up his stick,
took his blind wife by the hand, and with downcast head led her away in
silence. They were a truly pitiful sight. Verona and Pussy whispered
together. Between them they had two rupees, and with these in her hand,
Pussy ran after old Razat Sing, and pressed the silver into his palm,
but he seemed to be dazed with trouble, and scarcely aware of her gift.

"I know where he lives," said Pussy to Verona, "it is the old house
under the big pepul tree, a mile off the Bhetapore road. Let us walk up
there to-morrow morning, and take them some clothes. We will get Nani
to help us."

The two girls constantly walked in the morning, but Dominga was a
lie-a-bed. And now and then they were joined by Mrs. Lepell--also an
early riser.

At tennis that same evening, Verona related the story of Saloo to Mrs.
Lepell.

"I mean to go to see old Razat Sing, too," she declared. "My husband
will give him quarters, and he can sweep up the leaves in the garden;
of course, it will be a change from his home, but still it means food
and shelter. If I could pay off his debt, I would, but if I began to
release the poor slaves, I should never have done--I might as well try
to empty the sea with a tea-spoon."

At three o'clock the next morning the three ladies set forth on their
charitable errand; the two girls carried a piece of calico for a turban
and a little shawl, Mrs. Lepell some rupees. On their way they were
overtaken by Salwey, who, strange to say, was also about to look up the
unfortunate ryot; he dismounted and walked along with Verona, his aunt
and Pussy being in advance.

It was a beautiful February morning; the dew was still glistening on
the grass, the air was cool, the sky blue and cloudless; presently
the little party came in view of a dwelling, standing some way off
the road. There was a well, an enclosed patch of garden, a ruined
cart-shed, and at the back some cow-sheds. The whole place had a
forlorn and dilapidated appearance, but once upon a time had evidently
some pretensions to importance.

Mrs. Lepell and Verona went to the door and knocked gently--no reply.
They opened it and entered; the room was bare and scrupulously clean.
The fire was out; near it were some earthen pots, an iron spoon and
plate; some very old harness hung on the wall; in one corner was a
plough and a battered leather bucket. The inner room, into which they
peeped, was dark; there they discerned a string bed, on which lay a
huddled-up figure under a tattered coverlet.

Mrs. Lepell addressed this figure in Hindustani, but there was no
reply. She went nearer, and turned back the comli, or blanket; the
old blind woman lay with her face to the wall; she did not move when
her visitor placed her hand on her shoulder, for she was quite dead.
Charged with this appalling discovery, Pussy darted out to break the
news to Salwey, who had been fastening up his horse. When he came in
and surveyed the still figure on the charpoy, he looked very grave;
then, as he led the way into the outer room, he said to the three
ladies:

"Will you wait here? I will be back in a moment."

In a very short time he returned; he had an open clasp knife in his
hand.

"It was as I feared," he said, "the poor old chap is dead too; he
hanged himself with the well rope--I have just cut him down."

Having locked up the house of death, Salwey rode off at once to make
arrangements for the inquest, while the three ladies returned home.
Pussy, who was weeping bitterly, sobbed to her sister:

"You remember yesterday, Verona, what poor old Razat Sing said, 'he was
asking for their lives'--it was true."

As the police officer galloped in to the cantonments he believed that
he held in his hand the clue to Saloo's identity, for he had found a
morsel of writing in the ragged turban of the suicide. If old Razat
Sing was the means of delivering others from the usurer's yoke--he had
not died in vain.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV


The tragic fate of Razat Sing and his blind wife made a little stir for
a few days in and around Manora, but, unfortunately, these suicides
of despair were becoming common; public sensitiveness was somewhat
hardened and callous--familiarity breeds indifference. Razat Sing had
hanged himself; his blind wife had gone from darkness to darkness by
the aid of a little poisonous root. There was an end of the old couple,
and other affairs wafted these two insignificant particles down the
dark river of forgetfulness. The great charity ball already mentioned
was imminent at Lucknow; it was to be on a grand scale, and held in
that notable building, "the Chutter-Munzil," formerly the palace of
the kings of Oude. This function would be the brilliant closing event
of the cold weather season. Residents from surrounding districts,
soldier folk from distant stations, and crowds of tourists, would
pour into Lucknow for the occasion, and thus swell the receipts of
the fund. Tickets were only ten rupees; the committee had been most
carefully selected; everything was to be thoroughly well done, and
carried out on a scale of unusual magnitude. Mrs. Lepell, who was one
of the patronesses, volunteered to chaperon Verona and Pussy, and had
taken rooms at an hotel, where the two girls would be her guests. (Mrs.
Chandos, not to be behindhand, had secured somewhat squalid quarters
for herself in the abode of a friend, and would be present at the ball,
carrying in her train Dominga and Blanche.) This visit was an event
for Verona, who had seen nothing of India beyond Manora and Rajahpore.
The afternoon of her arrival at the "Royal Hotel" Mrs. Lepell drove
the two girls out to see the historic Residency; its grey walls,
torn and shattered by shot and shell, were now clothed by the most
exquisite white and yellow creepers. The compound, that scene of such
desperate bloodshed, was a velvet sward, intersected with neat paths
and flowering shrubs.

It was only when the sightseers came to the graves, that Tragedy raised
her face. From the Residency the party were driven round by Dilkoosha
and into the cantonment. Here they saw numbers of people riding and
driving; polo was going forward, bands were playing, and in some places
the traffic of landaus, dog-carts, ekkas and bullock bandies was so
great that the roads were almost blocked. Here, too, were bugle calls,
the sounds of cheery English voices, the distant hum of a great city.
Here was another India to Manora, with its monotonous stretches of
rippling cane, half-naked coolies, and a few red-roofed bungalows,
clustered around the factory.

It was ten o'clock; the hired landau was at the steps and Mrs. Lepell
and her charges were ready to start for the ball. The lady herself,
who was always admirably turned out, wore a dress of a delicate mauve
shade, and splendid diamond ornaments. Verona, in white, wore her
pearls and a wonderful bow of brilliants, which fastened her corsage;
these being her most valuable possessions she had hoarded them in a
little chamois-leather bag, and thus saved them from the thieves.
No doubt her jewels and her dress were startlingly unsuitable to
the daughter of Mr. Lepell's sub-manager, but she had resolved for
once to enjoy the occasion, and to abandon herself to this evening's
entertainment as the Verona Chandos of other days. Mrs. Lepell mentally
seconded this resolution, and was determined that nothing on her part
should be wanting to encourage the illusion.

When they arrived at the Chutter-Munzil, the ball was already in full
progress (Indian ball-goers are notoriously punctual). Mrs. Lepell was
recognised by many acquaintances as she moved up to a raised platform
at the other end of the room, sacred to sitters-out. Many a glance
was cast at her beautiful companion, and, indeed, Pussy, in a smart
pink gown, with her luminous eyes and smiling lips, was a by no means
ill-looking young person. All sorts and conditions of people were
present--a charity entertainment covers many classes--but there was a
large preponderance of smart people, and crowds of men, the dresses and
the diamonds well up to the mark of a London ball-room. Verona stood by
her chaperon on the raised platform, and looked down on the scene--the
great pillared hall, the wonderful chandeliers and the glittering
show. A multitude gay with uniforms, bright dresses, bright faces, and
bright jewels, whirled round and round to the strains of a languorous,
heart-broken waltz.

Among the dancers who swept by she noticed Captain Haig and Captain
Fielder, and presently Salwey sauntered up and accosted his aunt.

"Why, Brian," she cried, "I thought you told me that you could not
possibly get away?"

"I've just managed it at the last moment. I go back the day after
to-morrow. One ball a year is not much. Miss Chandos," turning to
Verona, "I hope you will honour me with a waltz?"

"Yes, with pleasure," she replied.

"Number seven?"

"Very well," she acquiesced.

"And what do you say to the fag end of this one? just to try the floor."

Verona rose, took his arm, and descended into the vortex and found to
her great relief that Brian Salwey, in spite of but one ball a year,
danced delightfully well. As she presently stood aside a little out of
breath, he said:

"I've been trying to trace your jewels," and he glanced at her
beautiful diamonds; "I see you had _some_ left."

"Yes," she assented, "these I had sewn inside the sleeve of one of my
dresses--they are the most valuable of all."

"I believe I am on the track of the others," he said, "but the
necklace--has gone to Delhi."

"From whence I feel convinced it will never come back!" she said;
"well, it cannot be helped. After all, it would not be much use to me
now."

"I left your brother Nicky in charge of my stud while I am away; he
is monarch of all he surveys. I expect he will keep the horses going
pretty well."

"Yes, poor Nicky," she said, "he is so fond of riding, and would never
get a mount at all only for you. You have been very good to him, Mr.
Salwey."

"Good to myself," he rejoined. "Nicky is capital company for me, and I
like him; there is a lot of grit about that boy; unless I am mistaken,
he will turn out well."

As they talked, they were strolling slowly round the great ball-room,
the dance being over, and among the crowd they encountered Captain
Haig, who paused, not a little startled to behold the Miss Chandos
of other days! On the spur of the moment he accosted her and begged
for a dance. This she at once accorded him, and having scribbled down
"Captain Haig" opposite number nine, passed on. Mrs. Lepell, who had
found partners for Pussy, was now besieged for introductions to her
friend, "the girl in white," and in a few moments after Verona's return
to her side she had not one dance to spare.

Dominga and Captain Fielder were inseparable, and for once reckless
of appearances; Dom with her lithe white figure, her red hair, green
wreath, and bright shameless eyes, looked like a beautiful Bacchante.
As Captain Haig lounged on the edge of the crowd, he overheard several
sentences which sank into his mind and there abode.

"Do just look at that red-haired girl! how she is enjoying herself,"
remarked a man to his partner--a lady of a certain age and importance.
"What a graceful creature she is!"

"Yes, she seems crazy with excitement! I really wonder Captain Fielder
cares to make himself so conspicuous, especially as he is staying at
Government House. She is a Eurasian, from that sugar factory near
Rajahpore. Her mother is as black as your boot--she has aunts and
uncles in the bazaar!"

"Nonsense, I would not have believed it."

"It is true, and here comes another of them," as Blanche swept by, in
the arms of a dusky partner. Blanche, showing all her teeth, as she
chattered incessantly; Blanche decked out in a flame-coloured frock,
with long blue silk gloves and strings of shells in her hair.

"I daresay you would not believe that that girl opposite in white
is their sister," and the lady indicated Verona with her fan. "She
has been in England, and looks quite presentable, only for her paste
ornaments! Mrs. Lepell brought her here to-night--such a mistake! they
are awful people, and have no pretensions to be in society."

"At any rate, the girl seems to have any number of fellows clamouring
to dance with her!" remarked the man rather dryly. "She is uncommonly
handsome. I should never have thought that _she_ had a touch of the tar
brush."

"Well, she has, and four annas in the rupee at least!" retorted his
partner viciously. (Verona had been admired in her hearing, and was
obviously overwhelmed with partners, whilst _she_ had only three names
on her programme, and was naturally envious and annoyed.) Captain Haig,
now too late, bitterly regretted his impulse. What a fool he had been
to ask the girl to dance! He had no desire to make himself conspicuous
by being seen with her; besides, what was the good of it? She and he
must be strangers for the future. At one moment he thought of shirking
number nine altogether--finally, he decided to claim it, and withdraw
into some secluded place, and there sit it out. And here was number
nine now! As the band had struck up "Valse Bleu," Captain Haig and
his partner took one turn before they came to a full stop, and then
they stood side by side in silence. He still deplored his momentary
madness--what had possessed him? what was he to say to this girl? He
was dumb, and from all sides rose the hum of voices, and there was a
general effect of gaiety and social pleasure. At last he muttered:

"Shall we go on?" and slipped his arm round her waist.

At the end of a brief turn, he abruptly led his partner away into a
distant corridor lined with seats. Was he ashamed to be seen with her?
This was the humbling impression he gave his former goddess. Yet he
felt the spell of her beauty drawing him towards her, precisely as it
had done of old, and he also felt that he was bound to say _something_.
How was he to tell her that he had adored her until the disclosure of
her parentage had extinguished his passion? As he stood beside her,
still tongue-tied, whilst she fanned herself with a languid grace, her
mother flaunted by on the arm of a stout Eurasian. Mrs. Chandos wore
the celebrated pink satin, a tuft of feathers quivered in her hair; at
her throat sparkled the emerald pendant. She was talking so eagerly to
her companion that the presence of her daughter entirely escaped her
sharp black eyes. As she disappeared down the corridor, Captain Haig
stifled a sigh, and began without preamble:

"Miss Chandos--what must you think of me? but I will say one
thing--I shall honour _you_ as long as ever I live--and I ask
for--nothing--don't hate me--but----" and he paused with embarrassing
significance.

"Hate you, Captain Haig?" she exclaimed, looking up; "why should I hate
you? I"--and her eyes involuntarily followed the little mincing pink
figure--"I understand."

"I am most awfully wretched," he continued, in a lachrymose voice.

"'Into each lot some rain must fall,'" she quoted gently.

"By Jove, then, I've had a whole monsoon! all my hopes have been torn
down and washed away. You know what they were."

Before she could make any reply to this question the band ceased with a
crash, and a crowd of dancers poured into the corridor, _en route_ to
the refreshment-room. As Dom and Captain Fielder hurried by, she said,
as she looked after the retreating couple:

"Captain Fielder is your cousin, I believe?"

"Yes," giving himself a mental shake, "my second cousin--not a bad sort
of chap--rather a silly ass in some things."

"Now I am going to ask you a strange question. Do you think he intends
to marry my sister?"

"Well, Miss Chandos, since you put it to me straight like that, I
should say that I am sure he does not."

"Captain Haig, do you remember a note you wrote me the morning you left
Homburg?"

"I do--I remember everything in any way connected with you" (this was
a statement of the wildest exaggeration), "every dress you wore, every
word you said, every look you gave me."

"You remember what you said in that letter?"

"I do. If ever the Princess wanted a champion, to summon _me_."

"I am no Princess now--but I need your help sorely."

"All right, only too glad to get the chance of being of service--to
you."

"It is not for myself exactly--it is to help my sister Dominga." He
frowned involuntarily. "Yes, I want you to use your influence with your
cousin--to get him to put an end to this foolish affair--otherwise
I am convinced it will end in a--a scandal. My father has had many
troubles--he must be spared this. A family disgrace--would kill him!"

"He shall be spared this if I can manage it, but Jimmy is a queer
mixture; in one way he is weak, and easily worked upon--in another, the
more you oppose him, the harder he resists. If I tried to interfere
openly, it would be no good. Can't _you_ persuade your sister to break
it off?"

"No; she is hopelessly headstrong, and deaf as an adder to all my
entreaties. She thinks"--and here she paused.

"What does she think?"

"You will laugh when I tell you--she thinks that I am jealous."

"Jealous of her, and that empty-headed dolt. Good heavens! I say, I'll
tell you what I can do. The hot weather is coming on--I have invited
Jimmy to spend a couple of months tiger shooting in the Terai. He is
not particularly keen, but I'll do my very best to persuade him. In two
months he will have forgotten her--a fortnight is his usual limit--but
she won't forget him, eh?"

"Oh, but that won't matter; for, as my grandmother says, 'One hand
cannot clap.'"

"Do you mean to say your grandmother is alive?" he asked aghast.

"Yes, and a most remarkable woman," she replied, with the utmost
nonchalance; "very clever indeed in medicine and nursing--full of wise
sayings. I am extremely fond of her."

Captain Haig made no remark, and she continued:

"You will go soon--won't you?"

"Out shooting? Yes," he answered, with a start; "I'll make
arrangements, and we will set out the week after next."

"Thank you, a thousand times."

"Don't--I wish I could do a thousand times more."

At this moment Dominga and her partner returned and halted directly in
front of them.

"We have been having oysters--delicious oysters," she announced, and a
wild vivacity was in her face and manner. "I'd advise you two to go and
get some before they are all gone."

"Thank you, Miss Chandos," said Captain Haig, "but I have not your
courage."

"Cha-a-ah! fancy being afraid of a poor little oyster--a Bombay oyster!
What are you two confabbing about? You look as if you were discussing
the affairs of the nation."

Verona made no answer (a partner had come to claim her for the next
dance), and her late cavalier replied to the question with a forced
smile.

"We were only arranging the affairs of some of our friends."

Dominga, as she moved on, turned her long neck, and with one of her
peacock screams, cried:

"Happy friends!"




                             CHAPTER XXXV


Mrs. Lepell resolutely refused to dance; she declared that she did not
consider it compatible with her responsibility as chaperon. But she
chatted to her many friends, and listened complacently to the warm
admiration they expressed for the pretty girl she brought with her. All
at once Brian Salwey came and threw himself into a seat beside her, and
said:

"Now, I'm going to give you a shock, Aunt Liz."

"That will be nothing new," she retorted with a laugh.

"But this, I warn you, will be out of the common. Do you know what
brought me here to-night?"

"The train, and a second-class gharry."

"Yes; and the solemn resolve to ask Miss Verona Chandos to marry me!"

"No words can express my astonishment! Brian, you must be mad!" she
exclaimed.

"No; although I do three acrostics a week, I'm still fairly sane. What
have you to say against her? She is a lady, she is beautiful, and she
is good. What more would you have?"

"Well, since you ask me, I would have a little money, and, my dear
Brian! think of her family! Think of your mother-in-law! Think of your
grandmother-in-law!"

"At present," he replied with the utmost composure, "I am not disposed
to think of anyone but Verona, and if it comes to that, why don't you
ask me to think of my father and my step-mother? My father married to
please himself, and I shall certainly do the same."

"I had not the smallest suspicion of this," murmured Mrs. Lepell,
opening and shutting her fan, with a meditative air.

"Has it not occurred to you that I have been a good deal at Manora of
late?"

"Yes."

"To what did you attribute that?"

"To a natural desire to see me, your Aunt Liz, your mother's only
sister. You know you are rather fond of your Aunt Liz."

"I am," he assented, and he laid his hand in hers, "and as it was
certainly my Aunt Liz who first drew my attention to Verona Chandos,
she has only to thank herself for the result."

"I am much attached to Verona myself; she is a dear, good girl; her
beautiful face is but the outer shell of a beautiful, unselfish soul.
Still, in spite of her mind and form, and much as I love her, I do not
desire her as a niece. I know there is no use in arguing with you,
Brian. What will be, will be. Your mind is made up, you will ask her to
marry you, possibly within the hour."

"Possibly."

"And within the hour--she will refuse you."

"That remains to be seen," rejoined her nephew rising, as a general
covered with orders came forward, and asked Mrs. Lepell if he might
have the pleasure of taking her down to supper.

Verona had followed with Brian Salwey, who, with some difficulty,
piloted his fair lady through the crowded room, and found two empty
places at a large central table. She had scarcely been seated, and was
taking off her gloves, when she heard her name spoken, and looking up
saw a handsome, middle-aged woman, wearing a diamond tiara, leaning
towards her eagerly.

"Surely it is Verona Chandos?" she enquired.

"Oh, Lady Ida!" she exclaimed, "is it you? What a surprise!"

"To you, but not to me. I have been expecting to come across you
ever since I left Bombay," rejoined the other--speaking precisely as
if India were a small country town. "The Melvilles told me you were
out here. How do you like the gorgeous East? Not much," she added,
answering herself, "you look a little pale and thin, but of course I
would recognise you anywhere, by my very dear friend, your beautiful
diamond bow! You and I must have a long chat by and by," and with this
remark she once more turned her attention to her companion, and her
plate.

"Who is the very dear friend of your diamond bow?" inquired Salwey.

"Lady Ida Eustace--she lives near the Melvilles, who brought me up. I
have known her since I was a small child. She is a charming woman--so
popular. Don't you think her handsome?"

(Lady Ida had an oval face, an aquiline nose, a pair of merry dark
eyes, and a presence!)

"Um"--doubtfully; "I think she has plenty to say for herself. Who is
she when she is at home?"

"She is married to Captain Eustace, who hunts the Halstead hounds. They
have no children, and travel a good deal."

"We have been globe-trotting, as usual," resumed Lady Ida, once more
addressing Verona. "The doctors would not allow Cecil to winter in
England--such a blow for him. Do you know what has chiefly impressed me
in India?--the cold!"

Verona smiled and said, "I have not felt it yet!"

"I do assure you I never was prepared for it. At Delhi I simply could
not sleep at night, and Cecil actually had to pile Persian rugs on his
bed. I suppose you have done no end of sight-seeing?"

"No, indeed. I only began yesterday."

"What have you been about, you lazy girl? Well, we move on to Benares
day after to-morrow, and you had better come too?"

"I am afraid I could not manage that--thank you very much, Lady Ida."

"Pray who is your chaperon? Do let me ask her? Who brought you to the
ball?"

"A friend, Mrs. Lepell."

"Lepell--Lepell!" she repeated, closing her eyes. "Now, let me think;
yes! Her sister married a Colonel Salwey; she was a friend of mine, and
died young. He married again, oh, such a little----"

"Excuse me, but I think you are speaking of my father," interrupted
Brian, and looking straight at Lady Ida as he spoke.

"Oh! am I? Then you must be the boy I remember. Dear me! dear me! it
makes me feel quite an old woman! How odd that I should meet you, and
begin talking of your people. I've a dreadful way of stumbling into
social pitfalls--and I was just about to discuss your stepmother. Now,
tell me, when can I see your aunt?"

"Any time after supper. You will find her up on the daïs place. She is
wearing a sort of purple gown."

(A sort of purple gown!--that exquisite French garment of misty mauve
and silver.)

"Very well--and, Verona, I must have a little talk with you. I suppose
you are engaged ten deep?"

"Yes, but I think I could give you the Lancers," she rejoined, "to sit
out."

"My dear child! I am engaged; I am dancing with the
Lieutenant-Governor! Oh, do please look at this party who have just
come in--the two women especially. It is not often you see such dark
complexions in society! How _did_ they get here? Observe the creature
with the shell chains in her hair. Why! you know them!" as Blanche
nodded at Verona; "who are they?"

"They are my mother and sister," she answered in a low voice, and her
features were so controlled as to be almost expressionless.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lady Ida, and the colour flew from her cheeks
to her hair. "Oh, my dear girl, you are not serious!"

"I believe this is our dance," suggested Salwey, with admirable
invention and composure, rising and pushing back his chair, "and it has
already begun. Shall we go?"

In another moment Verona and her partner had disappeared, leaving Lady
Ida gazing at a certain group at a side table, and greatly puzzled to
know whether Verona Chandos were in jest or earnest. Then she suddenly
remembered that there was some queer story about the girl's relations
in India, and her ladyship relapsed into unwonted silence, and left her
supper untouched, and as soon as her cavalier was movable, requested
him to pilot her to the upper seats in the ball room, where she lost no
time in making a search for a certain lady in a purple gown.

"We are just in time," said Salwey, as he and his partner re-entered
the ball room; "we can have a second supper." He felt the hand on
his arm trembling, and the girl's face was ashen pale; undoubtedly
the scene at the supper table had told; but she maintained an air of
composure, and the dignity of a high-bred silence, and in another
moment they were launched upon the current of dancers. The waltz was
a well-known German favourite--many a step had Verona danced to it
elsewhere. When the last bar had sobbed away into the empty air, Salwey
led his companion out to the great flagged terrace which overlooks the
river.

It was a splendid Eastern night, light as day--no Indian ball would
be complete without the moon. There were numbers of couples on the
terrace, and Salwey guided his partner to where there were two spare
seats, close to the parapet! No skulking in corners for him. He was
proud to be seen with the new Miss Chandos.

"There is a lot of 'go' about this dance, is there not?" he remarked.
"It is like a bit of your former life--old friends and all. I say, what
a change it must have been to you, coming out to Manora."

"It was," she assented, without lifting her eyes from the river.

"I am going to propose"--he paused; she turned and looked at him
gravely--"another change." And in quite a matter-of-fact voice he added:

"Miss Chandos, will you marry me?"

For a moment she stared at him, as if unable to realise the question.

A host of thoughts flew through her brain. Only one little month ago
she had been prepared to marry Captain Haig, and she now recalled this
fact with a sense of shame. But her mother's tongue and temper had
strained her courage beyond the pitch of endurance. At the approach
of her step she mentally quailed; at the sound of her voice her heart
fluttered. Since then she had fought a stern battle with herself; she
had braced her soul to accept the inevitable. Her health was better,
her nerves were more composed, and she had resolved never to marry.
Here was the first and only proposal she had received since her arrival
in India (the promised land of proposals), and what a curious contrast
was presented by this wooer to her former numerous suitors. He was a
mere nobody--a Superintendent of Police. But then, he was not suing for
the hand of Verona Chandos, the great heiress, but the hand of Verona,
the penniless half-caste. He was well acquainted with her history, and
with her circle of most undesirable connections. Whatever had been
in the minds of her former lovers, this generous man was entirely
disinterested. He cared for nothing but herself. Nevertheless, she
was determined to say No. She would refuse to spoil his life, and to
drag him into her miserable affairs. His aunt, too, who loved her as a
protégée, would undoubtedly detest her as a niece!

She glanced from the glittering silver river to Salwey, who sat on the
edge of the parapet leaning towards her, the shining flood at his back
threw into strong relief his square shoulders and well-poised head. She
looked into his face--his strong, stern face--his steady blue eyes,
which were fixed gravely on her own, and anxiously awaiting her reply.

Another dance had commenced, and the distant music filled the air with
a low, humming noise. Close by (with a partner and atmosphere of "Ess
Bouquet") sat Blanche, squeaking, giggling and jingling her bangles.
"Oh, you nartie man--be quiett! be quiett!" and there was a sound of a
brisk smack; "you shall not say so. No-a! No-a!"

If Verona's mind had been momentarily undecided, her sister Blanche now
recalled her to her senses and hardened her heart to a fixed resolution.

"Mr. Salwey, you have taken me by surprise. You have done me a great
honour," here she paused.

"There!" he ejaculated; "I know--that's what girls always say when they
mean to let a fellow down easy."

"I could not marry you--I will never marry any one."

"What is your reason?" he asked sharply.

"Need you enquire? I will never be a party to what is called a 'mixed
marriage.'"

"As, for example?"

"As, for example, my own father and mother."

"Come, that is nonsense!" he protested impatiently. "You are no more
like her--than I am like him."

"Ah, but you cannot tell what we might become. I have no doubt we
should both be miserable. My father----"

Then he interrupted:

"Your father came to grief, good, amiable gentleman, because he never
could say the word 'no.' Now I can; in fact, strange as it may sound,
such is my peculiar character, that my first impulse is to say 'no'
sooner than 'yes.'"

"Then I trust you will pardon me for saying 'no' to you."

"It is not a case of pardon at all. For me, it is a profound
disappointment. I scarcely ventured to hope you would accept me right
off, but I thought you might give me a little encouragement--just a
little bit of hope to go on with."

"I had no idea you cared for me in this way, Mr. Salwey."

"Well, I do. I have cared for you 'in this way' as you call it, ever
since I first saw you in Aunt Liz's garden, sitting under the bamboo
trees. You are the first woman I ever asked to marry me, and I think
you will be the last. Of course, I am aware that from a worldly point
of view, I am not much of a match for anyone--only a police wallah, a
D. S. P. with five hundred rupees a month. I went to Harrow and was
going into the Service, but I got a bad fall out hunting, and was
laid on my back for a good while, and could not go up for Sandhurst.
Meanwhile, my father married again--a woman none of us liked, but he
was quite infatuated about her. She declared it was nonsense, my
reading for the army; I should always be loafing about at home, for the
chances were I would not pass. She thought me dull--and, I confess, I'm
not particularly brilliant--so she got me a nomination in the police,
and packed me off to India, and here I am. But I'm not bound to live
here always. I believe I could get a billet in our own country. If"--he
came to a full stop, and then went on. "And is it really, No?" he
asked, looking at her steadily.

She bowed her head, and then lifted her eyes slowly, and looked not
into his, but over his shoulder at the river; Suddenly she gave a
little shiver, and exclaimed:

"Oh, what is it? I feel something so cold in the air. So--so--so
strange!" and she shivered again. "I should like to go indoors, Mr.
Salwey," standing up as she spoke. "Indeed I am most grateful to you
now, and some day, you will be grateful to me. I hope we may be friends
till then--and always. Now please take me back to your Aunt Lizzie."

Although Captain Haig danced continuously--chiefly with the party
from Government House--he happened to notice that Salwey hung about
doorways, and that his eyes were constantly fixed on Miss Verona
Chandos. Was he _épris_ also? Would he dare to marry her? Brave Salwey!
They had been at Harrow together, and Salwey had always been notorious
for a species of reckless, and at the same time dogged, courage. Well,
the girl herself was lovely--whatever her people were--and apparently
fate had no stroke that she could not bear with dignity and fortitude.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI


It was just tiffin-time at the hotel, and Mrs. Lepell, somewhat weary
and yawning, was about to summon her two young ladies, when her ayah
hurried into her room in breathless haste, and announced:

"Salwey Sahib want see Mem Sahib," and her nephew followed almost on
the ayah's heels. He looked so discomposed that she knew at once that
something serious had happened.

"Oh, what is it?" she asked. "Is it Tom?"

"No," he said, glancing round the room to see that all the doors were
closed--then lowering his voice, he added:

"It is Nicky Chandos."

Mrs. Lepell stepped back and sank into a chair.

"Ssh! don't talk loud. Tell me all about it. How did you hear?"

"The head constable has come in with a letter, and I am off in five
minutes. I left the poor boy the use of my horses, and last night he
was riding out to Manora on Baber, no doubt full gallop. Some devil
had put a rope across the road. Baber broke his neck, and I fancy that
Nicky was killed on the spot. They were found early this morning, with
my dog 'Chum' on guard over the two bodies."

Mrs. Lepell endeavoured to speak, but failed.

"And the worst of it is," resumed her nephew, "the trap was intended
for _me_; several people were anxious that I should break my neck--but
poor Nicky had not an enemy in the world. Now I must be off to the
inquest and funeral; I will leave you to break it to the family here."

"Oh, but really, Brian--I cannot!"

At this moment Verona entered the room:

"I beg your pardon," she said, drawing back from what seemed a private
interview between aunt and nephew.

"No, no, no--Verona, come here," cried her friend; "Brian, you must
tell her."

Salwey looked down on the ground for a moment, and then he said, with
obvious reluctance:

"Well, I suppose I must. Miss Chandos, I'm sorry to say--I am the
bearer of very bad news. Your brother Nicky----"

"Is hurt?" she questioned. There being no answer--"Is dead?"

"Yes, he fell into a trap intended for me, and was killed on the spot."

Verona covered her face with her hands and leant against the wall.

"You know, _you_ are the one to bear up," he continued, "you will tell
Dominga--Dominga will tell your mother. Tell them"--and his voice
shook a little--"the poor boy's death must have been instantaneous and
painless." And without another word he opened the door and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mrs. Chandos and her daughters returned to Manora the following
day, the funeral had already taken place. The sudden, as it were,
departure of Nicky struck them all with a sort of icy chill. Nicky's
place was vacant; his chair at table stood empty.

Two days previously he had been among them, noisy and cheery; whistling
about the bungalow, knocking things over and carpentering; the most
active and animated of the whole family--and now he was gone--not down
the river to Mr. Salwey's, not into Rajahpore for an hour or two,
but gone--gone, never to come back. There were his books, his shabby
clothes, his cap, his tennis bat--everywhere they looked their eyes met
something to recall Nicky. Nicky had never been his mother's favourite
child--Dominga, Blanche, and even Pussy, came far before him; but her
grief was loud, ceaseless and unreasoning. She had long fits of frantic
screaming that nothing would subdue, and poor old Mrs. Lopez, who was
heartbroken at the death of her darling, vainly endeavoured to soothe
her.

Good Mrs. Cavalho, true angel in cases of sickness and death, tried her
best to comfort them both. At times, such was Mrs. Chandos's grief,
that she was as if demented, tossing her head from side to side, and
crying out:

"Oh, my poor boy! Oh, my poor boy! He is dead! And that is not the
worst--oh, you do not know the worst! Oh, my poor boy! my poor boy!"

These cries were looked upon as the delirious ravings of a
grief-stricken mother; no one could make out, or even attempted to
understand, what Mrs. Chandos meant by saying:

"Oh, you do not know the worst! Oh, you do not know the worst!"

And one thing no one ever knew. It was never discovered who it was that
tied a well-rope across the road, where it was so dark under the peepul
trees, and thereby caused the death of Black Baber, and Nicky Chandos.

The shock of his son's death appeared to have aroused Mr. Chandos
from his condition of mental stupor. As he stood by the graveside, a
dignified, pathetic figure in deep mourning, many now looked upon Paul
Chandos for the first time. Although the hand of affliction was heavy
upon him, and he was worn and weary-eyed, there was an indefinable
distinction in his air, and people were quite prepared to believe the
fable, that he was the next heir to an ancient name and great estate.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII


The hot weather had driven most of the residents in Rajahpore to the
hills. Mrs. Lepell had departed to Naini Tal, having vainly urged
Verona to accompany her, but Verona refused to leave home, and boldly
declared that she would like to find out if all the tales about the
season were true? The crops were reaped; where yellow grain and green
vetches had flourished was now but miles and miles of a substance
resembling red sandstone. The trees were leafless; the hot wind roared
about the country, driving clouds of sulphur-coloured dust before it,
and the thermometer was over a hundred in the shade. The doors of the
bungalow were fitted with transferable screens made of matting; over
these a coolie poured water continually, in order to establish a damp
atmosphere.

The punkah swung lazily in the darkened room, in which sat Pussy and
Verona, and occasionally Mr. Chandos, but Mrs. Chandos and Dominga
made no effort to exert themselves; the latter lay brooding on her bed
for hours with a packet of love letters under her head. The expedition
had duly come off. Jimmy was away in the Terai, tiger-shooting with
his cousin, Captain Haig, and Dom was deserted and distraught. She
became thin, haggard, and unbearably restless; she spent hours writing
letters--and lived upon those she received. Dom rarely left the
house nowadays, and made not the slightest attempt to conceal her
indifference to Baby Charles. There had been no more notes for him in
"Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management," and on the rare occasions
when they happened to meet she snubbed him ruthlessly.

"What did it mean?" After puzzling over the matter the station gave up
the riddle. They never imagined, even in their most brilliant moments,
that Dom had become tired of playing a part in a mock love affair,
and that all her thoughts, and hopes, and fears were buried in the
jungle--along with Jimmy Fielder.

One afternoon Verona received an urgent message from her grandmother
to say that she wanted to see her at once in her own room. When she
entered the dufta she discovered the old lady sitting with crossed legs
on her red lacquered bed--her sole costume a charm and a chemise.

"What is it, Nani?" enquired the girl, languidly.

Nani continued to fan herself with a prodigious hand punkah, and
presently remarked:

"Aré, Bai! it is hot to-day!"

Verona nodded. Surely Nani had not wished to see her merely to inform
her of this obvious fact!

"Shut the door, child, and sit down," resumed Mrs. Lopez. "Tell me,
have you noticed how happy Dom is these times? how she sings, and no
longer mopes like a sick owl? Would you hear the reason?"

"If you please, Nani."

"Once I told you she had a lover. Now I tell you--that she joins him in
a few hours."

"Oh, no, Nani--it is impossible!"

"Listen--he is one they call the 'Honourable.' At night he often came
out here to meet Dom--they thought no one knew. Cha-a-ah!" snapping her
fingers; "it was the talk of the bazaar. It came not to the knowledge
of the station folk--save of Salwey--who knows all things."

"But about to-day, Nani?"

"Oh, yes, Dom goes to-day, and she is packing now," she added
tranquilly.

"It must be stopped," said Verona, suddenly rising to her feet. "Think
of the shame and disgrace! your own grandchild!"

"Nay, you are my grandchild, also Pussy--and my best of all is gone.
Aré, Hai! Hai! But Dom is naught. I know her, and keep my own counsel.
I have two ears--but one tongue. I meddle not with Dom. No! 'Let
everyone sweep before his own door'!"

"Oh, Nani, tell me what you know--and how you know it?"

"How I know I will keep to myself, but _what_ I know--is this. There
is the gate, half a mile beyond the factory, where by signal the train
stops for sugar and passengers. At night, when one would travel that
way, old Jaggerie shows a lamp--he will show it at ten o'clock, when
the mail for the north goes by. The plan is this. Dom, with her luggage
carried by a syce, will be there and meet the train. Her lover is in
it--they go together to Cashmere."

"But he is in the Terai shooting," interrupted her listener.

"He is not there now. Dom's letters have recalled him to her. You go
into her room and see if I do not speak truly. Then come back."

Verona entered her sister's apartment, immediately after her knock, and
found her busily engaged in rolling up clothes into the smallest space,
and stuffing them into a leather bag, over which she threw a cloak
instantly--an instant too late. She looked hot and flushed.

"What is it?" she asked, peevishly; "what do you want? A paper? Goody
me! what paper?"

"_Truth._"

"Then it is not here, so now," with a stamp of her foot, "you go; go,
go, go. I am busy."

"Well?" enquired Mrs. Lopez, when Verona had returned.

"Yes, you are right. We must think of something?"

"You suppose you can stop her--the Red Cat--no, better let her go."

"Oh, Nani, no. Think of father, and do help me!"

"If you have a stout heart--it can be done. Verona, see, you take
Zorah, my woman, you wear a dark frock, and lie in wait near Jaggerie's
hut. When he hears the train coming, about one mile away or less, he
raises the lamp and shows light. He is old and very fat; but you are
young. You throw a cloth over light, and run away and blow it out. No
light, no train, you see--and so--Dom will be left."

"It is a splendid idea. I think I can manage to carry it out, Nani,
unless there is some other plan. Would you tell mother?"

"No; does she ever gainsay Dom?"

"Then Pussy?"

"She would but laugh and cry and let them go. No, you are the only one,
and Zorah may be trusted. You snatch the light--she will hide it."

At nine o'clock that night--a night so warm that the heat seemed to
fan one--Verona (supposed to have gone to bed) and Zorah, the ayah,
stole forth, and hurried away to the gate crossing. They arrived at the
hut, and crept round to the far side, and then stood in the shadow,
motionless. In twenty minutes' time Dom appeared, stepping delicately
on the warm, dried-up grass, and carefully holding up her spotless
white gown. She was closely followed by a syce, carrying a box and a
bag. Arrived at the gate she stood still, and held a long whispered
conference with old Jaggerie.

"Truly, in fifteen minutes," he said aloud, "in fifteen she will pass.
You can hear the train three miles away this still night. When she
comes to the bend, I raise my lamp and all will be well," and forthwith
he returned to his huka. The fifteen minutes seemed to Verona like
fifteen hours. She felt cold with apprehension as she stood in the
shadow of the hut, straining her ears, and catching no sound but the
shrill chirping of insects in the air and the discordant cry of some
night bird. If she missed the lamp, and was caught and unmasked--what
then? If with jeers and derision Dom threw her aside and made her
escape--what then? And, after all, what right had she to put herself
forward in Dominga's life? She did it, since no one else could, to
save the name of "Chandos," to fend off this blow from her father's
bent head. Oh, here it was! She heard the train coming, and how her
heart thumped! At first the sound was merely a dull rumble, becoming
gradually louder and louder. Now it was at the turn, and Jaggerie
shuffled out of the hut swinging a great square lantern. But what was
_this_? Something from behind sprang on him, and dragged the lamp
from his nerveless grasp, and there was instantly a thick darkness!
The cries of Jaggerie--"A Shaitan! A Shaitan!" were mingled with the
agonised voice of Dominga calling for the "light, the light, the
_light_!" But none was forthcoming; no spark to penetrate an oppressive
darkness--dense and thick as velvet. The train, the flaming engine
approached, was upon them with a roar--the great furnace for a second
illuminated a woman's figure at the gate, standing with extended
arms; then the locomotive thundered by, with its rumbling string of
carriages. The door of one of these stood wide, and in the aperture
appeared the gesticulating form of a man. Another second, and the mail
train for the north had swept by, and Dominga was left behind! For some
time she appeared totally unable to realise this fact and remained
rooted to the spot, staring after the rapidly receding red light with
dazed, incredulous eyes. Meanwhile the syce had darted into the hut and
brought forth a piece of blazing wood. Too late, alas! it was all too
late!

Suddenly with one wild scream Dominga flung herself face downwards on
the track, and abandoned her soul to an outbreak of passionate Oriental
despair. Truly, she was no Chandos now, this woman who lay in the dust,
beat her head upon the ground and shrieked aloud in piercing Hindustani.

Zorah stood far off, holding the extinguished lamp, but Verona, who was
nearer, viewed the spectacle with horror. Dominga had gone mad with
grief--could that dreadful, writhing, shrieking thing be her very own
sister?

By and by the syce approached--next Jaggerie (still groaning and
shaking from the effects of his devilish experience); attention was
diverted, Zorah beckoned, and in another moment was joined by her
fellow conspirator, and together they hurried home, maintaining a
somewhat guilty silence.

"So you have done it arl-right?" said Nani, as Verona entered.

"Yes, and I am--so sorry now--her grief was awful. Oh, Nani, I feel as
if I had killed Dominga!" and overcome with emotion and excitement, the
girl burst into tears.

"Pah--pah! no fear you kill Dom! More like she kill _you_. And what
says your proverb--'A cat has nine lives.'"

Verona sat up till one o'clock, anxiously listening until she heard the
stealthy return of her sister, and then she at last went to bed, and
fell into an uneasy sleep. The next afternoon Dominga appeared, looking
terribly pale and shattered. Her face was badly cut, her temples
bruised, her lips were lacerated. She was really a startling sight, but
in reply to her mother's anxious questions she replied:

"I fell in the garden last night--in the dark."

"Oh, my! it looks more than that--you make so little of your hurts,
Dom. What has happened?"

"It is as I say," she answered savagely. "Let there be no more talk."

Later, after the household had retired, Dominga, lamp in hand, came
trailing into Verona's room, and stood and stared at her as she
lay--with glaring, glittering eyes. She seemed to be the incarnation of
some wounded tigress. After an alarmingly long pause--

"_You_ know what it was," she declared in short gasps, "yes, you were
there and stole the light! The syce saw you! Oh, you deceitful devil!
you envied me my love, and so you snatched it away. I know, too, that
it was _you_ who begged Captain Haig to take Jimmy tiger shooting.
Yes, _he_ told Jimmy and Jimmy told me! We both hate you. May you be
accursed! May you go to Hell for ever, and be the prey of serpents. And
accursed you will be--even now--for I shall make your life a torment!"

Here was indeed the raw stuff of poor human nature illuminated by a
blaze of passion. Dom, with her fierce white face and furious eyes, was
the very embodiment of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Her
lips were quivering and bloodless; she seemed scarcely able to breathe,
and shook with the vehemence of her feelings.

"Dom, you are talking nonsense," protested her sister. "I did prevent
your running away with Captain Fielder; you will thank me some day--and
I have kept your secret loyally. This sort of affair is hateful to
me--I do assure you."

Dominga's incredulous laugh was almost like the cry of a hyena.

"I know that Captain Fielder does not intend to marry you; you see what
his love means! I thought you were proud of being a Chandos. Could you
bear to drag your life out in the gutter?"

"I could bear to drag out my life, following Jimmy round the world on
my bare knees--I would ask no more; and last night I had not seen him
for six weeks--and I was within three minutes of meeting him--I--who
have been counting the very hours since he left me. And you--you"--she
choked--"oh, I cannot speak! but I could tear you to pieces"; and with
a moan like some wounded animal Dominga staggered from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whatever Dominga had told her mother, she now evinced to her third
daughter a bitter and invincible animosity--life became almost
insupportable, and the wretched girl's only refuge was either the den
or the dufta.

"Aha," exclaimed Nani, "it were better to have been advised by me. Dom
avers that you have ravished from her her lover--'The Honourable'--the
lord's son. She hath her mother's ear, and for all your good will, Dom
has set her against you. So you will find, 'that to gain a cat--you
have lost a cow'!"




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII


Were she to live to the age of one hundred years Verona could never
forget that hot weather at Manora--the memory was burnt into her very
soul. It was not merely the absolute desolation of the season, not
only the breathless atmosphere that seemed to quench all vitality, the
endless hours spent in idleness, because the rooms were necessarily
darkened, it was not the maddening "Tonk Tonk" of the coppersmith bird,
the thoughts of her past, the hopelessness of her future, but every
other sensation was dominated by the fact that under the same roof,
in that still, dim bungalow, abode two malignant spirits, whose every
glance and word breathed invincible hatred and ill will.

These were her mother and Dominga. Since Dominga's elopement had been
so successfully frustrated, she had fallen into a state of lassitude
and lay for hours motionless, and, so to speak, torpid, coiled up with
closed eyes in her long cane chair. When the all too terrible sun had
sunk below the plains across the river, and the soft blue haze of an
Indian evening had taken its place, she would wander alone about the
untidy garden, muttering to herself incessantly (as if rehearsing
some important conversation). She still wrote many letters; these the
Dak runner now no longer carried fearfully through the high elephant
grass, or the thorny Dak bushes of the Terai, but they travelled
in full state on His Majesty's mail tonga, and were delivered by a
postman in orthodox uniform at a certain hill club. The hot weather
had seemingly the power of relaxing the stiff social bonds peculiar to
the cool season. Most women cast aside curling pins and corsets and
wore muslin wrappers, and their hair "plain." Men abandoned formality
with waistcoats and collars, and Mr. Lepell frequently walked over to
smoke a pipe with his sub-manager. On these occasions Mrs. Chandos
never appeared; she was incessantly occupied with business, and besides
this, Tom Lepell was one of the two men in the whole world whom she not
only hated but feared. Mrs. Cavalho constantly trotted across to sit
and gossip with Mrs. Lopez on a little plot of scorched grass in the
garden; here, under the stars which shone between the bare branches of
the cork trees, the two old women talked for hours; talked of their
youth and their good days, before they had become a pair of derelicts
moored beside the Jurra river. Pussy and Verona occasionally joined
them, and listened with unaffected interest to tales of visions, and
warnings, of life, love and death, and many other curious matters.
In the dim, soft light Mistress Cavalho's old face seemed to assume
a different expression--perhaps Youth himself came to her in the
dusk, along with his tender recollections? Her eyes looked large and
brilliant, the lines of her features appeared faultless. She had a
low, sweet voice, and there was something in the personality of Felipa
Cavalho that was inexpressibly soothing and restful.

Now and then one of the girls wandered alone about the thirsty,
sunburnt garden, accompanied by her own reflections. Pussy's mind was
entirely occupied by Alonzo--when would she meet him? What would he
think of her new yellow hat? and Verona, too, had musings sacred to
her own heart. Her thoughts frequently turned to Salwey, as she paced
the narrow "kunker" paths. She had not seen him for a long time! He
never came up to Manora now! No doubt, he had outgrown his foolish
fancy. After all, was it not precisely what she desired? Yet, even as
Verona assured herself that all was for the best, she was conscious of
an inward pang, and of a half-stifled sigh. She was aware of something
blighting in the atmosphere--an enervating, creeping influence, which
made her feel languid, callous and numb. Was this merely a temporary
lassitude--the effect of the pitiless hot weather? or--horrible
thought!--was it the native element developing in her veins, stealing
into her heart and claiming her for its own at last?

Occasionally Verona joined her father and Mr. Lepell as they sat and
smoked together on the verandah, but on these occasions Pussy yawned
and went to bed, for she found their conversation much too dull.
Their theme was of the shop--of mango wood fuel, of rab and goor, and
contracts and transport, and new machinery. But Verona, who had not her
sister's easy faculty for sleep, remained languidly interested, and
still more interested when her father asked his guest in a casual tone:

"By the way, what has become of Salwey? I've not seen him about lately?"

"Oh, he is out in the district; the hot weather is his busy time," was
the reply.

"Why?" enquired the girl; "I thought during the hot weather everyone
remained at home in a state of torpor."

"Not every one, especially a police officer," rejoined Mr. Lepell. "The
hot weather is the idle time in this circle. When the crops are cut,
and tillage awaits the rains, people have no occupation; they sit round
the village 'Chabootra' and smoke and talk and quarrel; they brood over
old feuds, they argue over wrestling matches and cock fights and land,
and they kill one another with lathies or reaping hooks. I can assure
you they keep Salwey and his men pretty well on the run. We have four
murderers lying in Rajahpore jail at this moment. I say, young lady,
you are looking pulled down. Why don't you accept my wife's pressing
invitation, and join her in the hills?"

"If Verona were to see the hills she would never return here," declared
her father with a melancholy smile.

"It is very kind of Mrs. Lepell to ask me, but the rains may come any
day, Nani says, and it is not worth while to move."

"There is no sign of the south-west monsoon yet," argued Mr. Lepell,
"with all due deference to Mrs. Lopez. By the way, I often notice your
mother driving to the city at the hottest time of the day. She must be
a veritable salamander!"

"Oh yes, but Abdul Buk is ill, and her tenants are giving her a good
deal of trouble."

"Aha! you see, the hot weather again! Please God the rains come before
long."

The rains came at last. For dreary and hopeless months, the country
had lain bare and brown; now, almost in a night, the heat-cracked
plains were clothed with grass, and the fainting trees and plants were
lit up with young leaves; everywhere was the sound of running water!
The ducks quacked triumphantly, as they swam on the former drive;
frogs hopped hilariously about the verandah, and even invaded the
bedrooms, whilst their relations in the marshes made an uproar that
murdered sleep! Jurra river, flooded to the brim, brought down on its
breast all manner of strange things, including stranded, sand-embedded
charpoys, that had been the last resting-place of corpses--for Jurra
was a holy river--and Verona and Pussy, who had languidly rowed about
its shrunken, hot-weather dimensions, now went farther than before.
One evening as the two girls were passing below the little white house
where the police wallah lived, they descried him and his dog "Chum"
sitting together in the verandah.

He signalled to them immediately, and came running down the steep steps
which led through the garden to the water's edge.

"Hullo! So you are back," called Pussy from her nest among red cushions
in the stern.

"Yes; how are you?" But as he spoke, he looked at Verona. "The weather
is getting a little cooler."

"It is not particularly cool yet," she replied, resting on her oars and
raising a colourless face.

"Won't you come up and see my diggings, and have some iced lemonade or
tea?"

"Oh, do let's go, Rona?" pleaded Pussy, with outstretched fingers,
every joint of which was eloquent. "I've often been."

"Yes, come along," he urged, fastening the boat; and he held out his
hand to Pussy, who sprang ashore with alacrity, saying:

"I know my way! I'll go to old Jaloo, and tell him to get ready the
lemonade and cake. Oh, I must have some cake," and she bustled up the
steps, and disappeared among the orange and apricot trees.

"No, thank you," said Verona, looking at Salwey's still extended hand;
"I prefer to wait, like the train--ten minutes for refreshments."

"You mean to say you won't honour my poor abode! I'd like to show you
my photographs of home, and some books, and odd things I've picked up
in the district."

"I'll come another time, but I'm a little tired. I don't think I could
face your hill."

"I must say you look completely played out; you ought to have gone to
Aunt Lizzie. I say, I shall row you back."

As he spoke he stepped into the boat, closely attended by "Chum," and
motioned her to the place recently occupied by her lazy sister.

"But what about Pussy?" she asked with a faint smile, as she arranged
the cushions and leant back with a sense of well-earned repose.

"Oh, Pussy is all right. She and old Jaloo are tremendous pals. She was
often here--with Nicky."

Verona inclined her head.

"Miss Chandos, this is a lucky chance!" he resumed. "I wanted to see
you alone."

"Yes?" and she coloured faintly.

"I have found out about the robbery and how it was effected. I've not
been away all the time, though my house has been closed. I came back to
see what the mice were doing!"

"Yes, I--understand." She smiled as she added, "What an artful cat!"

"One morning I went up early to the dufta and examined the walls more
minutely. I detected the marks of bare feet; it was evident that the
thief--a very thin man--climbed on the shoulders of a tall confederate,
and squeezed himself through the window, which, as you know, is high,
then cut a board out of the press and looted the jewels; the traces
of the foot-prints are faint, but I have made out that one foot lacks
a toe. Now, it happens that Abdul Buk's eldest son is as lean as a
herring, and has lost one toe in an--adventure. It was he who offered
your ring for sale; his family believe him to be in Fyzabad, but he is
really in Delhi jail. At first he swore that your mother had given him
the ring as a bribe. Now, solitary confinement, low diet, the loss of
his smoke and a wholesome fear of the law, have changed his tune!"

"And what have you discovered?"

"We have discovered much. For instance, that Abdul Buk--the benevolent,
the collector of cantonment house rents, the dispenser of promises, the
ladies' praised and petted Abdul--'dear old Abdul'--is nothing more or
less than a receiver of stolen goods!"

"Nonsense--that respectable old man!"

"Yes, and he does business on a large scale, though he takes good care
never to put his own paw into the fire. I believe I have got him at
last! Little does he suspect that he is sitting on a mine, and that the
match is in my hands----"

"And when will you apply it?"

"Immediately. I have some slight reason to suspect that he is one of
the agents of the notorious Saloo. If I can only bag the _two_ with one
charge, won't it be splendid?"

"Splendid indeed; you will have gained your heart's desire, and I shall
congratulate you most sincerely."

"I should be glad if I could catch Saloo, but the feat is not
exactly"--a pause--"my heart's desire! Saloo's identity is a dead
secret; he is an old fox. I've heard that he is a marwarri down Poonah
way, but this is not confirmed. Saloo has hitherto baffled every effort
to trace him."

"If you were to consult my grandmother, she would advise you to look in
the ink pool!"

"No doubt!" rejoined Salwey, with a short laugh. "Have you ever seen
her appeal to it?"

"No; but she believes in it implicitly. It is magic, is it not?"

"And black magic at that. I am myself orthodox, but I must admit that I
have witnessed some extraordinary and utterly unaccountable things out
here in the far East----"

"Tell me, please, about the ink pool!"

"Oh, well, when a native wants to find out something, he gets hold of
a small boy, bribes him with promises, takes him to some quiet spot,
pours ink into the palm of his hand and commands him to look, and to
report what he sees!"

"Yes----"

"The seer is supposed to describe some remarkable scenes. One of my
constables consulted the oracle with respect to Saloo. Personally and
officially I am not supposed to countenance such--irregularities."

"No, but you heard the result," said the young lady, with an air of
conviction. "What did the child see? What did he say?"

"He said he saw Saloo--and that Saloo was a woman!"

"Oh!" cried Verona, suddenly sitting erect. "Now that is too
ridiculous; no woman could be so crafty--or so--wicked."

"Many women are both."

"You speak from experience----?"

"No, thank God; I know little about them!"

For a moment there was an absolute silence, merely broken by the soft
lapping of the water against the sides of the old boat. Salwey looked
at his companion as she reclined among the cushions; her home life was
telling upon her, the East was stealing her rare beauty, her face was
colourless, the exquisite outlines of cheek and throat were emaciated,
and the brilliant eyes looked lack-lustre and spiritless.

"Tell me," she began suddenly, "is it only children who see things in
the ink pool?"

"Yes. Only children!"

"But why?"

"They are supposed to be endowed with some ethereal gift, which remains
with them until their hearts are touched, their emotions awake; then
it leaves them--the power is lost--the door, as they say out here, is
shut."

"What a pity! I wonder if I am too old to look into the ink pool?"

"You have never, I infer, cared two straws for any one?"

She shook her head--slowly--and as she did so the truth came to her in
one dazzling flash--she cared for _him_! He had touched her heart. It
was amazing to discover that of all her suitors, with their advantages
of social status, wealth, surroundings, the only one who had aroused
her interest was this Indian police officer, who sat there within a
few yards, bareheaded, grave-eyed, with his arms resting on the oars.
It was true that he was poor; a miserable "parti" from a worldly point
of view, but he was a strong man!--a strong man, armed with many fine
qualities, who had entered her heart and closed the door on all others.
Were she still Verona--the heiress--she would gladly be his wife, but
as Verona--the Eurasian--she must keep her secret from him and all. But
oh, what a temptation! To go away from Manora, to forget--to go with
Brian, who loved her--for her own sake----!

No, no, no; for his own sake she would never marry Brian Salwey.

As the lady's reply was a suspiciously long time in coming, her
companion said:

"Besides, you are disqualified! If you have never loved--many have
loved you!"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How can--you know? At home----"

"At home I imagine your conquests were Legion. Out here--there is Haig."

"No, no," she protested; "he does not care; he cannot forgive my birth.
Once he volunteered to be my champion--there is an end of all that."

"Well then, there is myself," was Salwey's bold announcement.
"I--whatever comes or goes--will wear your colours to the end of my
life, between my heart and armour! Accept me--as your knight?"

And "Chum," the dog, leaning his muzzle over his master's arm, seemed
to second the proposal.

Verona looked down and slowly shook her head; never had she felt so
miserable. She seemed to see the panorama of her future, the absolute
weariness, and absence of interest from her life. And yet it must be
so! Then, with a sudden movement, she raised her face, and confronted
her companion. Hard work and the hot weather had told upon him also.
There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his figure, the keen
blue eyes were sunken and his jaw bone was squarely prominent.

"You must wear the colours of some other lady," she said in a low voice.

"No," he answered resolutely; "yours only--till I die; I will never
give you up."

"See, I have brought you some lemonade, you lazy people!" said a voice
behind Salwey. And there was Pussy, her face wreathed with smiles, her
hands full of cake, and Salwey's vain old bearer--his venerable beard
dyed red--standing beside her with a little tray and two tumblers of
liquid in which tinkled blocks of ice. Salwey rose at once, and handed
one of these to Verona, and took the other himself.

"I wish your enterprise success," said the girl, as she smiled at him
gravely before drinking.

"To my heart's desire," he replied with significance, as he pledged her
with a bow, and tossed off the contents of the glass.

"Now, I am going to row you back," he said, turning to Pussy, "if you
will get in, and sit here beside your sister."

"O--ah! how nice! O--ah! I do love being rowed--it is such hard work--I
do hate it!"

In a few minutes the trio had floated off, leaving Jaloo, the red
bearded, with his spotless coat and pointed leather shoes, standing,
tray in hand, watching their progress with eyes of grim disapproval.

There was the boat moving slowly up the surface of the broad, shining
river, now swollen far above its usual limits, its brimming waters
almost on a level with the plains; in the prow sat a white dog, in
the stern two dark-haired girls in white; in the midst his master,
bareheaded, rowing against the current with long, easy strokes. A rainy
season sunset lit up the scene with a magnificent blaze of crimson and
orange; the combined brilliance cast a dazzling glamour over the water,
and the figures in the boat seemed transmuted to gold.

"What a fool was his master!" grunted Jaloo, as he stood gazing; "was
he not well enough, and yet he would surely marry one of those women,
doubtless the girl with the proud eyes, whom they in the bazaar called
the 'Belait' (Europe) Missy." With this conviction he turned his back
on the receding bank, and proceeded to toil up to the bungalow with his
tray of jingling glasses, grunting and grumbling all the way.

"I do believe it was you who sent us all the books and mangoes this
hot season," said Pussy; "now, was it not, Mr. Salwey? Mother thought
they came from some of Dom's friends. Oh, the mangoes were so good and
juicy. I loved them--but Verona loved the books."

"I am glad you were both pleased," rejoined Salwey with a smile.

"Dom doesn't read now, nor Mother; she is so busy at her own books,
since Abdul Buk has a boil on his neck. Oh, goody me! she does work.
All day long and half the night."

"At books? Do you mean that your mother writes?"

"No, no, no; only in account books--about her propertee--and she has
such piles of them! I saw them," giggled Pussy; "I peeped into the
office the other day, when she was with Nani. My, such books! all
ruled, like a draught board. Such rows and rows of figures!"

"Surely you must be making a mistake?" and Salwey paused abruptly,
resting on his oars, and contemplated Pussy with a glint of steel in
his blue eyes, "only one class keeps accounts that way."

"But no, no, no; I am quite certain," she giggled. "I thought it
awfully queer--and what class do keep such funny books?"

"Money-lenders," was his curt reply.

"Mother is so fond of figures--oh, so mad about them. Perhaps," still
giggling, "she is playing at being a soucar."

"Perhaps; but she never struck me as a likely person to play--at
anything!"

Oh, Pussy, Pussy! what a gigantic cat you have suffered to escape
through your imprudence! You have aroused the dawn of a suspicion in
your boatman's shrewd mind!

The golden light disappeared with the rude abruptness of an Eastern
sunset; then came the changing touch in the air, the smell of rank
water plants, the flip of a bat's wing; a silence and gloom which had
fallen on the landscape was shared, for some inexplicable reason, by
the little party in the boat.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX


Two evenings after this boating party Mr. Lepell and his nephew had
a long interview with Mr. Chandos, who heard with astonishment that
in Abdul Buk's house in the bazaar part of his daughter's jewellery
had been recovered. That Abdul Buk's money ledgers had been examined,
and he stood exposed as a cheat, a swindler, and a thief. He was a
true wolf in sheep's clothing, who had contrived to pass himself off
as an inoffensive, if somewhat garrulous, old man. Terrified by his
situation, Abdul had turned King's evidence, and had confessed all, and
figuratively given away his employer. His employer--incredible as it
seemed--was Mrs. Chandos.

It was she, who for twenty long years had been the chief usurer in
Rajahpore; she it was, who had lent money, taken bonds, charged huge
interest, extorted pitilessly, ground down the faces of the poor, and
was very wealthy. It seemed inconceivable, but it was proved beyond
doubt that Rosa Chandos was no other than the notorious "Saloo." Her
husband lived too much with his splendid dreams, his books, and his
opium (alas! for those little black pills), to realise who Saloo was;
for, as he had repeatedly assured Mr. Lepell, he had nothing to do
with soucars now. His monthly salary he handed to his wife; and Rosa,
his wife, was a notorious usurer! At first he declared that it was
impossible--for one thing, she had no capital.

"She had a large amount of capital, secured in her mother's name, in
the Bank of Bengal, as well as shares in half the good things in India.
She had impressed deeds and papers which did not belong to her, and
she must relinquish them at once, or her office would be searched. We
will wait here, Chandos," said Mr. Lepell, "and you can talk to your
wife about it. These papers are the property of zemindars, her debtors;
she has come by them illegally. If they are not given up, there will
be a row. Salwey and I wish to manage this thing quietly, for the sake
of you and your family, and that is one reason why Brian rode out here
before dark and came first to me, so as to disarm any notice; but he
has a search warrant in his pocket."

"God knows, I have gone through many things in my life," declared Mr.
Chandos, with dignity, "and I have been brought low in the world; my
wife has her faults, but she is no money-lender, that is certain."

It was also certain that Mrs. Chandos happened to be in a peculiarly
bad temper that evening; she had had a quarrel with Dominga; and
although she adored Dom, they had their little differences.

Dom was the only creature who dared to withstand her mother, and their
disputes were terrible. Beginning in the ordinary every-day English
tongue, as the altercation waxed in fury, they passed into shrill
Hindustani, from that to "Gali" (abuse), and to hear the pair when the
battle was raging an outsider would have supposed them to be a couple
of mad grass cutters! Mrs. Chandos was walking about the dining-room in
a highly-strung condition, when her breath was almost taken away by her
husband entering the room and demanding "the keys of her office!"

At such an impudent request, she simply laughed in his face.

"Give them at once, Rosa," he said, with astonishing decision, "and
clear your character; there are terrible charges against you. If
what the police say is true, you have covered us all with shame and
disgrace."

For a moment Mrs. Chandos was too paralysed to speak, but she speedily
found her tongue, and overwhelmed her husband with such a torrent of
wild, shrieking abuse, that she literally drove the poor man before
her, backing him down the verandah steps into his own sanctum.
Then turning swiftly about, she found herself face to face with
Salwey--Salwey, in full official dress (a khaki uniform, with narrow
red collar, spurred boots, and cord breeches).

"The keys of your office, if you please," he said, holding out his hand.

"Get out of my house," she screamed. "Get away!"

"The keys of your office," he repeated, with the utmost composure, "I
do not wish to proceed to extreme measures, but I have a search warrant
here, and I will break open the door."

"What do you want, you thief! you beast! you spy!"

"Stolen bonds and documents which I've every reason to believe are
in your possession. The keys!" He spoke with an air of decision and
command.

The keys were not to be had, and to the astonishment of the peeping
servants, the door of the dufta was taken off its hinges and Mr.
Lepell and Salwey entered in the wake of two men in blue coats and red
turbans--in other words, constables. The desk was opened, also the
press. These did not yield much, but thanks to a hint from Abdul Buk,
the rug was lifted, and the trap door laid bare. Everything necessary
to incriminate Mrs. Chandos was found in this secret hiding-place.
Their owner looked on in silence, but her pocket handkerchief was torn
into rags, and in her eyes sat two devils. The bulk of the papers were
carried into Mr. Chandos' smoking-room, and subsequently examined at
leisure.

Yes, these were the books of "Saloo"; there were her webs, there were
her flies. There were receipts, there were letters from Abdul Buk,
replying to certain instructions; there were bags of rupees and notes,
the ledgers disclosed receipts for very large sums invested in various
ways. Mrs. Chandos had followed her effects with hysterical screams,
precisely like some bird of prey whose nest had been robbed! Finally,
she stood in the middle of the room, unashamed, furious--and at bay.
Mr. Lepell, Salwey, Dominga and Verona were present, as well as poor
old Mrs. Lopez, who cowered in a corner muttering to herself and
weeping audibly.

When these proofs of guilt and rapacity, cruelty and avarice had been
exposed, Mr. Chandos turned to his wife, and said in a shaky voice:

"So, for twenty years you have secretly carried on your father's trade.
Whilst your children have lacked education and common necessaries, you
have hoarded money and been the ruin of hundreds. And I thought, till
to-day, that I was beyond the reach of shame! I thought that after long
penance I might once more venture out and face the world. My cousin
is dead and, as Mr. Lepell is aware, I have been summoned to England
to take up my place there as head of the family. Since Nicky is gone,
there is no heir to come after me; but for the sake of my girls I had
almost decided to claim my own. This," turning fiercely on her, "I will
never do now. Do you suppose I will put such a woman as _you_ in my
aunt's place? No, I will let my name be called across the seas in vain.
I will live and die out here--an obscure Anglo-Indian."

At the name of Charne, and the news of her husband's succession to the
property, Mrs. Chandos' face changed, her eyes lit up like beacons.

"Bah! you old guddah!" she cried, "these men have stuffed your head
with silly nonsense; if I did take interest, what harm? I traded with
my own money. As to Charne--since you are hanging back, _I_ will go to
England, and claim it _for_ you."

From many years of terrible experience her husband knew that she
invariably carried out her threats, and in a sudden transport of fear
and fury he snatched the picture of Charne off the wall, smashed the
glass, and destroyed the sketch.

"Idiot!" jeered his wife, "you will be sorry for that to-morrow. You
have broken your fetish!"

"And these papers," he said, dragging a packet from a drawer, "are the
proofs of my identity." He held them towards his wife, and then with a
sudden, furious energy, tore them into shreds, and scattered them over
the floor.

"Charne is only mine for life," he gasped breathlessly, "the place is
strictly entailed. For the rest of my days I live here--because of
_you_. I am sorry for the girls; and of all my children, I am most
sorry for Verona."

"Verona!" interrupted Mrs. Chandos, at last finding her voice; her face
was working and livid with fury. "You throw away your great estate to
punish _me_! Oh, ho! Well, now! see--I will punish you!"

She glared at her husband, as if she was going to fly at his throat;
then she drew one long breath, and announced with grim composure:

"Verona is not our daughter."




                              CHAPTER XL


"Oh, ho! yes, it is true what I say," continued Mrs. Chandos, breaking
a dead, incredulous silence; "she is no more to us than this book," and
she seized a copy of "The Newcomes" and pitched it across the room.

"Aré, it is a relief to my heart to speak and to get rid of her," and
she turned and looked at Verona; "for ever since I had aught to do with
that girl she has been my thorn and curse."

"You are beside yourself, Mrs. Chandos," protested Mr. Lepell, "all
this excitement is too much for you. Mrs. Lopez, will you not take your
daughter away and persuade her to lie down?"

"Cha-a-ah! I am not beside myself," screamed the fury with a stamp,
"and if you will listen--all of you--you shall hear the true story." As
she spoke, she flung herself panting into a chair.

"Oh! it is more than twenty-six years ago since I married that oloo"
(owl), and she indicated Mr. Chandos as she spoke and stared back
deliberately into every gazing face. "Oh, he was so lazy! We lived up
in the hills at first--and he used to just loaf and shoot; one cannot
pay bazaar on that. We had two children, Blanche and Pussy; they
were--not fair, no, and I could see that he was awfully disappointed.
Money was low just before our third child was expected, and so he went
down to the plains to seek for an appointment. The baby, a little girl,
was born at Murree. She was very dark--once again--_so_ dark! I knew
you would be very vexed," turning on him; "you were always hoping for a
fair baby--that would be a true Chandos."

Mr. Chandos endeavoured to interrupt, but she silenced him with a wild
gesture of her hand. "No, no, no! Wait! wait! wait! I will not be long.
In the little bungalow next to mine was a pretty young English girl,
an officer's wife; she had a baby and she died, but her baby lived. I
lived--my baby died. You begin to see. Eh?" She paused and gazed about
her. Her audience were now dumb.

"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.)

"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."

"Cha-a-ah! I care not!" she screamed, "who hath money, hath many
friends!"

"Also," he continued gravely, "it will cost you your life!"

"Am I a fool?"

"No, and therefore you will comprehend that your enemies are legion;
you have been the cause of much suffering, and even of death; you will
not keep your gain and go free."

"What! do you threaten?" she yelled.

"I believe I can protect you from ambush and assassination, but here
poison is a fine art; all who know of her, spit upon the name of
Saloo, and whoever rids the world of Saloo, would be well thought of
by his fellows. Your days would be numbered--worth about a month's
purchase--you must buy your life!"

"Buy it, of you?"

"Yes, in a way--for I am shielding you. Were I to transfer this
frightful business to others"--here he struck the ledger before
him--"and it is the work of several men--would they be silent?"

She was dumb.

Like all bullies, Saloo was an arrant coward. Moreover, she had no wish
to die--as a girl, she had seen one case of poisoning, and it sufficed.
Therefore, she succumbed, though her voice still rose loud and shrill;
and over each payment there was a protracted struggle.

Occasionally as Verona sat with her late grandmother, she could hear
the low growl of a man, and then a high prolonged reply. One day,
as she was arranging Nani's knitting--she now aspired to socks--the
ventilator between the two rooms, which was always shut fast, suddenly
fell open, and a torrent of shrill and distinct abuse instantly flooded
the room.

"What, all this trouble and toil for Chandos, and to save him, and his
good name--'tis a lie, you do it for that girl! Bah, you love her! Now
she is a great lady, do you think she would look at such as you--a pig
of a police wallah--I know her sort."

Verona rose, and hurried over to close the ventilator, and as she
reached vainly for the cord, she heard:

"Come, now, Mrs. Chandos, don't excite yourself. Let us stick to
business."

"But you know Verona will go to England, and never think of you again.
Eh, _speak_? Say you know!"

"Yes, I know," came the reply, "now be good enough to sign here." And
at this instant Verona, with a brilliant colour in her face, succeeded
in reaching the cord, and violently slamming the little shutter. So now
she understood why Mr. Salwey had seemed so determined to avoid her.
Why he scarcely spoke when they met to the grand-daughter of the Earl
of Sombourne, though formerly he had been on the best of terms with the
granddaughter of Nani Lopez! He accepted the change in her fortune like
a stoic, and had tacitly and resolutely relinquished her! She almost
wished she were once more a humble Eurasian--the _protégée_ of his Aunt
Liz.

During these last weeks, those tedious trying weeks at the end of
the rains, Mr. Chandos had been ailing, and the thought of losing
Verona filled him with despair. He could not endure the mention of
her departure, although he knew that she must soon be restored to her
relations, and the Melvilles, who had written out to claim her; Verona
divided her time between Mrs. Lopez in the mornings, and Mr. Chandos
in the evenings; she read to him, talked to him, cheered him, and had
almost persuaded him to return to England with her and see his beloved
Charne.

"Yes, I really think I would die happy, if I could behold it once
more," he exclaimed; "people change--but places do not."

"Then you will come home with me," she urged, "yes, in the same ship.
What a good time we shall have together; the sea voyage will set you
up! There is nothing like the sea."

"Ah," he said, "I've no doubt it would; but what am I to do with
_them_? They could never go home. Imagine my wife in county society--as
Mrs. Chandos of Charne."

"I am now going to ask you what I have never dared to do before. Would
you mind telling me why you married Mrs. Chandos?"

"I married her," he answered, "chiefly to pay my cousin's debts. He
was deeply involved in her father's books. I had backed his bills; he
deserted me and went home; I remained to face dishonour. Miss Lopez,
the money-lender's daughter, was good enough to like me. Her father
offered to release me, if I would make her my wife, and I did"--here
an involuntary sigh escaped him--"for between that and ruin I had no
alternative. Pussy is a good girl; you will be kind to her, I know;
somehow I don't think you and Dominga ever had much in common. Your
aunt has written out for you, I saw her last letter and telegram--what
date does she name?"

"The fifteenth of October, but I can put it off; I will wait until you
feel ready to come home. Even if you do return here--surely you should
see Charne? Yes, and show it to _me_, and wind up all your affairs."

"I will think it over, Verona; somehow when you talk to me, I feel
inspired with hope and courage. I have not been home for twenty-nine
years--to return has always been my dream! Well, my dear, I will sleep
on your advice!"

The next morning a servant coming in early to sweep and dust the room,
discovered his master still sitting in his arm-chair--asleep, with a
beautiful smile upon his face--the smile of one who was happy. Mindoo
had never yet seen the Sahib's expression so serene. But why was he so
still--so quiet?

The question was readily answered--Mr. Chandos had gone home.




                             CHAPTER XLII


The difficulties in the path of his true love had but increased Jimmy
Fielder's interest in Dominga--now that Dom was unattainable, she
appeared to be almost indispensable to his happiness. He had been bored
to death in the Terai, and bitten by the most ferocious of insects,
grilled alive and half starved, all for one mangy tiger skin! He had
been equally bored on a hill station; none of the girls were half as
amusing as Dom--poor Dom, who was breaking her heart for him on the dim
blue plains far below. Now and then he strolled to a certain point and
gazed down, and thought of that sparkling face, those ruddy locks,
that lithe form and nimble tongue--the recollection of those days was
still sharp and vivid. Then came an unexpected summons home, which
blurred the vision. His father had tendered the olive branch and a
handsome cheque; Lord Highstreet was failing fast, and his son, for
his part, was now thoroughly sick of India. Captain Fielder hurried
to Rajahpore in order to settle up, collect his belongings and say
good-bye to the regiment and the Service. He must also say good-bye
to Dom! She had made the memory of his stay on the plains a joy for
ever, and he would send her a jolly present from Streeter's, as soon
as he got home. Of course he had heard of the death of Mr. Chandos,
and he was aware that the family had been in some mysterious trouble;
the victoria, full of gay cushions, no longer waited under a certain
tree near the club, nor were there any more letters to be found in "Two
Kisses."

Captain Fielder had already secured his passage and paid his farewell
calls; the station was almost empty, the ladies were in the hills. He
was an idle man, and Fate finds some mischief still for idle men to do!
Inspired by Fate, he made up his mind to drive out to Manora, in broad
daylight, and interview Dom, and see if his memory had not flattered
her too much.

Captain Fielder was ushered into the drawing-room, and then in
another moment she had flown to him, gasping and sobbing with joy and
astonishment. She clung to his neck, her sweet breath (a peculiarity of
Eurasians) fanning his cheek, her glorious hair falling back, her eyes
gazing into his own. He succumbed at once to her spell, her wonderful
seduction--her, for him, fearful fascination. Oh, why was she not a
lady? and one he could marry and take home, for Dom was so entirely to
his taste; ever the same, yet never boring him.

"Oh, why should he not please himself, why? why?" he mentally exclaimed
with impotent fury.

"Oh, ho! So you are the beast that has broken my daughter's heart,"
cried a shrill voice, and Mrs. Chandos, in funereal weeds, darted into
the room. "It is well poor Chandos is dead, and does not know of your
wickedness!"

"What do you mean, Madam?" he demanded, now releasing Dom, and boldly
facing his assailant.

"That you wanted her to run away with you. Oh, yes, we arl know _that_,
and now you are coming to say good-bye, and thank you very much, before
you go to England."

"Oh, he is not going to England!" screamed Dominga, seizing him by the
arm, whilst her face assumed a sudden pallor, and her nostrils quivered
nervously.

"Yes, he is; he goes in the _Persia_, on the fourth," said her mother.
"Is it not so?" and she flashed on him a look of fury.

Jimmy nodded his head emphatically, and Dominga broke into a wailing
cry.

"Well, now I will speak plainly; before you go," said Mrs. Chandos,
"you shall marry Dominga, and take her with you."

"Oh, impossible! nonsense!" protested her visitor, in an angry voice.

"No, no; not at all im-possible. You do many bad things; you pretend to
every one you don't know my daughter, at all; you come out here on the
sly, sly--all Manora saw you; you make love, but you do _not_ break her
heart and then leave her. You marry her, then you go!"

"But my good lady----" he interrupted.

"Cho-op!" she screamed, "see, now, I give you your choice; you take
her--or you take--_me_!"

"What? you are mad--raving!"

"Yes; me, me, me," indicating herself with three sharp finger taps; "I
am not poor, and I follow you all over the world, and I punish you.
First, I tell the station; then I go to the orderly room and tell the
Colonel; next, I write to your father! See, look, I swear it. I, too,
take passage in _Persia_--sit at your table; every now and then I call
'Rascal! rascal! rascal!' So, too, in England; I follow in the street;
I point, and cry 'Rascal, rascal, rascal!'"

"The police----" he began.

"Police take me up--arl-right. Say she is crazy! I go to court, I tell
all the story--what fun for the newspapers, and all the world will
know, and they will laugh, laugh, laugh, and cry shame. This I do,
if it cost my life, and my money. Whatever I want I get. You ask! my
husband could tell you--what I will happens; ask my mother and Dominga.
I always come out what you call 'top dog!' So now you speak, and say
which you take in the _Persia_--Dominga or me?"

Her black gown had the effect of making Mrs. Chandos look judicial
and almost diabolical. She spoke rapidly, but with complete
self-possession, only that a light in her eyes flickered like the flame
of a candle.

Poor Jimmy was completely dominated by this fierce little iron-willed
half-caste. Her victim felt instinctively that she would surely carry
out her threat, and be as bad as her word. Well, after all, why should
he not marry Dom? The present moment was critical--the future--was the
future. He was immensely fond of Dom. She was handsome, dashing and
clever, and adored him. Away from Manora she would be quite a striking
personality. It was her background--for instance, this devilish mother
of hers--which played the mischief.

Yes, yes; he would do it--marry Dom before the magistrate, or by
special license, and wire for another passage--and, fired with this
reckless resolve, he drawled:

"I say, you need not make such a confounded hullaballoo!" turning
suddenly on his future mother-in-law; "I intend to marry Dominga!"

And Dominga, who had been clinging to his arm until now, on hearing
this announcement, slipped down to the floor in a limp heap. She had
fainted.

Here was a fine piece of news for all the station, the bazaar, the
factory, the letters to the hills--"Captain Fielder had actually
married, by special license, Dom Chandos, and they had gone home in
the _Persia_! What would his father say?"

And it had all been so secret! such a general hoodwinking was as
incredible as it was successful. Poor Colonel Palgrave! Poor Mrs.
Palgrave! Poor Mrs. Grundy!

Dominga, in the midst of the hastiest preparations, and the most
bewildering happiness, nevertheless found time to pay a hurried visit
to the Trotters and to Blanche. She was marrying Jimmy for himself, but
to be in a position to tell Blanche and Lizzie that she would one day
be Lady Highstreet, and that in the meantime they must put "Honourable"
on her letters, was a joy that repaid her for many weeks of sorrow.
Lord Highstreet had transported his heir to India in order to avoid an
undesirable match, his son was now returning, and bringing (did his
father but know!) as wife, one of the daughters of the people!

The true history of the Honourable Mrs. J. Fielder remained a profound
secret. Chandos was a good name; she was the grandchild of Chandos
of Charne, and talked not a little of her ancestors. Dom, clever,
imitative Dom! easily adapted herself to circumstances. She carried her
head high, she dressed well, and had a just sense of her own place in
the world. To see her in her carriage in the Park, with Jimmy grinning
beside her, they presented a charming and instructive picture of
domestic felicity--and in spite of his gallant boast, Master Jimmy _is_
kept in bounds!

Mrs. Fielder's accent is unquestionably a little foreign--and when
extremely angry she has been known to break out into the language of
an unknown tongue--but then she is so accomplished! Who would believe
the graceful figure trailing about the lawns of Hurlingham was the
self-same woman, who, not so long ago, at a certain railway crossing,
had dashed herself down, torn her hair, beat her head upon the ground,
and called upon heaven and earth with heart-rending cries.

Dom has one little boy. He is not the least like his parents, who are
both fair--he is too absurdly dark! His complexion is a puzzle to the
entire Highstreet connection, but Dom herself is silent! She knows
perfectly well (and buries the truth in her heart) that her darling
Villiers Augustus bears a fatal resemblance to his dear little Indian
cousin, Chandos Montagu-Jones!




                             CHAPTER XLIII


The marriage and departure of Dominga was a signal for the general
break-up of the Chandos household. The bungalow belonged to the
factory--and they must all seek another home. Pussy was now betrothed
to her Alonzo, who through Lepell interest had been promised a fine
post at Tundla Junction. Nani Lopez was to accompany her daughter into
the "Doon," for Mrs. Chandos had still ample means, and was enabled
(though shorn of her ill-gotten spoils) to give Pussy a fortune, and to
personally live at her ease. It may here be mentioned that she and her
parent spent the hot seasons in Mussouri, where, as the mother of Lady
Highstreet, she receives in certain circles a considerable amount of
agreeable attention.

The news of Verona's existence came as a delightful shock to the Bourne
and Hargreaves families. Her new relatives were all eagerness to
welcome poor Vera's girl with open arms, not to speak of the invitation
she received from her friends, the Melvilles. It was arranged that she
was to return home with Mrs. Lepell in November, and when it came to
her very last hours in the Chandos Kothi, the grief of Pussy and Nani
was profound. Poor Pussy wept incessantly as she hung about her adored
Verona.

"Only Alonzo has promised to take me _home_ some day," she sobbed; "I
would not marry him--and I would die--never to see you again--to think
of it! I could not live--No!"

"And why do you cry so?" remonstrated Nani. "Behold me!" her old face
looked sharpened and blanched; two unshed tears glittered in her eyes.
"I love Verona more than you do, and yet I shall never see her again.
For me there is no hope; yet I do not weep. Verona has done good here,
now she goes elsewhere--what says the proverb? 'Great rivers, medicinal
plants, and virtuous people, are born, not for themselves, but for the
good of others.' She goes to do good elsewhere, and I shall come and
stay with you at Tundla, and we," stroking Verona's cheek, "will often
talk of _her_."

"I will never forget you, dear, dear Nani," whispered the girl. "Be
sure of that, and I will write to you often--and send you such pretty
wools."

"Ah, core of my soul, no wool will make up for thee! And what of
Johnny?"

"I would like to take him, but it would be selfish--here he has his
freedom and all his friends." At the moment he was executing gymnastic
feats among the lattice work; there was a rustle, a pair of watchful
eyes, a swift patter, and Johnny, with a new blue ribbon round his
neck, joined the party, and fearlessly climbed into his lady's lap.

"Aré, see, I have half a mind to take him to the Doon," announced Nani.

"No, no, Nani, let him stay here," pleaded Verona, "where he was first
found. As long as he lives, he will be a happy little monument to you,
and me--you saved his life, and I won his heart."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Verona's last evening at Manora. The Chandos bungalow was now
untenanted, and she was staying with Mrs. Lepell. The two ladies and
Salwey, who had come to say good-bye to his aunt, were strolling about
the garden after dinner. To fitly describe Mrs. Lepell's garden would
fill a small volume, for it was not alone her mere garden; it was her
pride, her employment and her glory! In twenty years she had changed a
bare straggling compound into a little Eastern paradise. The lawn was
its chief feature; a large expanse of velvet turf, watered and clipped,
and lined with borders of the choicest rose-trees--in some of which the
bul-buls built their nests--it gave the impression of being full of
sweet flowers, of shady nooks, of blossoming shrubs and graceful trees,
and was the resort of many gay bold birds and brilliant butterflies.

The lawn lay immediately behind the house; beyond it were cool green
pergolas shaded with ferns, and great patches of sweet pea; then came
the maze of mango trees, thickets of lemons, and beds of tomatoes,
gourds and lettuce. It was one of Mr. Lepell's jokes that his wife
could not endure to see people promenading on her precious English
turf! but to-night, she and two companions paced it slowly from end to
end--and once and again from end to end. They spoke but little. At last
Mrs. Lepell said:

"And so you are not coming home, Brian? Well, I think you are very
foolish. You have had three hot weathers straight off."

"I don't think it can be done this year, Aunt Liz."

"It ought to be done, when your Aunt Liz is in England. Don't you
require some new clothes? Oh, there is old Mordoo beckoning; I suppose
he wants to speak to me about the doves. Don't go in, Verona, I will be
back in two seconds."

"Your last evening here," said Salwey, breaking a somewhat constrained
silence. "How glad you must be to leave the land of regrets--when you
can regret nothing."

"You forget," she answered, in a low voice. "Two graves."

"Yes, and I promise you that they will be well cared for--since Mrs.
Chandos is leaving the station."

"And is all her business arranged and wound up?"

"Yes, it is now in the hands of a trustworthy man--her books have been
destroyed. She has, however, an ample income."

"So Saloo is no more, thanks to you. And your wish is accomplished."

How bold she was!

Her companion made no reply, as he paced the grass with his eyes on the
ground, and his arms locked behind him.

"And you are not coming to England?" she pursued recklessly.

"No; you see my work is out here."

"Ah, yes, of course--and your heart is in your work!"

Oh, what an abominably forward girl she was! If Mrs. Lepell did not
quickly return, she would find herself proposing to the man beside her.
She felt desperate; cool and self-possessed as she outwardly appeared.
Must she go home--and never see him again? Would he not speak even one
word? Her heart thumped so violently, she was half afraid that he might
hear it!

"You have had some interesting experiences," he remarked. (She was on
the verge of the most extraordinary experience of all--did he but guess
the truth.)

"But I am sure you will be thankful to get out of this country," he
resumed, "and, needless to say--you will never return."

"I--I would return," she stammered--he suddenly stood still, raised his
head and looked her intently in the eyes--"I would return," she went
on, now with her gaze fixed on the ground--"if I was asked."

"Asked!" he repeated. "What do you mean--asked, by whom?"

"By the right person." Her voice had sunk to a whisper--her cheeks were
two flames.

It was enough--further humiliation was spared her. Brian Salwey was
not so simple as he had declared. With a sudden brusque movement he
laid his hand on her shoulder; his face was white with the pallor of
intense emotion, as he looked straight into her eyes and said:

"Am I the right person, Verona?"

Verona's reply was inarticulate but sufficient.

"It seems incredible!" he exclaimed, after a moment's stupefied silence.

The blue campanulas rang their bells, the bamboos whispered, the
roses nodded to one another, and the great silver moon slowly slid
up from behind the clump of mango trees, raised her broad face over
the branches, and stared complacently on this couple in the garden.
Here was Mrs. Lepell hurrying back, and as she approached, Verona,
whose courage had entirely ebbed, ran into the verandah, and left her
companion to break as best he could the news to his aunt.

"So!" exclaimed Mrs. Lepell, "I am absent for three minutes, and you
seize the opportunity to ask Verona to return to India to marry you!
Well, Brian, you _have_ a good conceit of yourself!" This was not,
as we are aware, an accurate statement of the case, but Salwey was
eminently chivalrous.

"What is this I hear?" demanded her hostess, as she pursued Verona into
her room. "Niece to be--or not to be! I do not think I can accord my
consent!" and she surveyed her with a smile of good-humoured perplexity.

"Has it been asked, Aunt Liz?" she murmured slyly.

"Verona, you are a most exasperating creature! Do please think of what
will be said of _me_ at home--of the match-making woman, who took
time by the forelock, and arranged it all with her own nephew--such a
wretched _parti_! Think of what your grandfather will say!"

"No, indeed, I've already had two sets of grandfathers, and I don't
care what anyone says--I shall marry to please myself."

"Like mother, like daughter! Oh, dear child, do forgive me! I don't
mean to be horrid!"

"I intend to marry Brian," continued Verona, in a firm voice, "who,
when I was a nobody, treated me like a Princess--and loved me for
myself."

"And you will come out here once more, to be the wife of a police
wallah?"

"Yes."

"And since he really is not raving mad, I suppose he is to travel to
Bombay--and see us off?"

"Yes, Aunt Liz, I suppose so."

Mrs. Lepell put her arm round the girl's neck and kissed her
affectionately. "Of course, dear--speaking unofficially--I am
delighted, and though I say it, who am his own aunt, few girls are in
my opinion good enough for Brian. _You_ are; and I should be entirely
happy, only for thinking of your relations. Your grandfather so anxious
to claim you--your aunt; if I only----"

"If you only say another word, Aunt Liz," interrupted Verona, "I
declare I shall take a three months' return ticket to Bombay."




                             CHAPTER XLIV


It was five o'clock on a June evening; a day of tropical heat had
almost prostrated London, and many people were in the Park, strolling
slowly to and fro, or sitting on penny chairs, watching the crowds near
the Achilles statue. Among these lookers-on were Sir Horace Haig and
his nephew, recently returned from India on sick leave. Sir Horace's
little blue eyes peered forth from beneath their shaggy brows, with
an even fiercer intentness than of old, as he leant on his cane,
and delivered criticisms on those unfortunates who passed along the
surrounding brown grass.

"I say, see these smart women!" he growled, "Mrs. Blynne and her
daughter--flaunting in French frocks. I'll swear they live in two
rooms, and have not a stiver over three hundred a year. How the dickens
do they do it?"

"Credit," muttered his companion.

"Bah! widows with small incomes don't get _that_. It's my belief she is
going to induce that old fool, Montlevi, to marry her."

"I am sure I haven't the smallest objection," drawled Captain Haig.

"And here comes Lady Tracy-Fleet, with her two little girls on show,
quite the pattern matron! and I happen to know that she lost eight
hundred pounds one night last week at bridge. There is Leoni and his
daughter; she will have a great fortune. Eh, Malcolm? rather dark, but
you can't have everything!" But Malcolm made no reply; he was gravely
considering his boots.

"Hallo!" exclaimed his uncle after a pause; "I say, do you remember
that girl at Homburg--Miss Chandos, the heiress? Why, of course you
do--you were rather gone in that quarter, eh?--old woman left her
nothing, and she went to India and got mixed up with a lot of shady
people."

"Yes; what about her?"

"Why, she is over there! and coming this way, with Lord Sombourne and
Lady Ida Eustace."

Malcolm ceased to lounge and contemplate his favourite pair of boots,
and instantly sat up erect and alert.

Yes; walking with measured ease between a tall, aristocratic old man
and a tall, aristocratic woman, he beheld Verona. She wore a long,
flowing white gown, a black hat, and carried in her hand a dainty pink
parasol. She looked lovely!

"So it turned out that she was Sombourne's grand-daughter," resumed Sir
Horace, "daughter of that Lady Vera, who made a bolt of it instead of
marrying Sir Job Gilderman. Lord, what a hub-bub! I remember it like
yesterday. The girl has not lost her looks, and, by all accounts, she
will have a good fortune. I say, what do you think?"

"Oh, I think I'm going to speak to her," replied his nephew, who had
risen to his feet, yielding to an impulse he only half understood.

"All right; don't mind me."

Captain Haig walked a few paces across the turf and confronted Verona,
and swept off his hat.

"Oh, Captain Haig, how do you do?" she exclaimed. "I did not know you
were at home."

"I arrived a month ago--sick certificate."

"Let me introduce you to my aunt, Lady Ida Eustace--my grandfather,
Lord Sombourne."

What a different class to the former family to which she had made him
known!

"I believe we met in India," said Lady Ida, offering her five and
three-quarter hand. "Positively this has been a real Indian day; we
came out for a breath of air and are just going home to tea, close by.
Will you join us?"

Captain Haig accepted the invitation with flattering alacrity, and
presently fell behind with the young lady. As they passed close to Sir
Horace that gentleman made a quick little sign to his nephew, as much
as to say:

"Bless you, my children!"

Lord Sombourne's town house was spacious, imposing, and at the present
moment delightfully cool and dim. Tea was served in a lofty drawing
room, lined with priceless old tapestry, and opening out of which was a
conservatory full of palms and tropical plants, cooled by a splashing
fountain. Here indeed was a home in every way worthy of Miss Verona;
and as Captain Haig furtively surveyed the powdered servants, the Queen
Anne silver, the rare old Sèvres service, all his former admiration
for his Princess suddenly flamed into life! He felt convinced that she
was the one woman in the world for him. There had been a temporary
interregnum, but no one had been exalted to the throne! Yes, he assured
himself--he had always been true to her. Could he persuade _her_ to
believe this?

After tea Lady Ida, having excused herself to write a note, departed
into the front drawing room, and the pair were alone.

"It is hot enough, as Lady Ida says, to recall India!" exclaimed
Captain Haig as he passed a delicate silk handkerchief over his
forehead. "I don't suppose you care to be reminded of anything out
there! It must be all like a bad dream."

"Oh, I don't know," she responded; "there were some good days, and I
made some good friends."

"The Lepells, for instance."

"Yes; I came home with Mrs. Lepell."

"And so you were not a Chandos after all!"

"No; I have had a most varied circle of connections, and now I belong
at last to my real relations."

"I cannot somehow call you Miss Hargreaves."

"To tell the truth I have hardly got accustomed to it myself!" and she
laughed.

"I was always so puzzled--I may say dumbfounded. You were so utterly
different to Pussy and Dominga. Dom appalled me."

"Did she?--and now," looking at him with a mischievous smile, she
added, "_you_ are connected with her--and I am not!"

"Yes; and do you know, she is quite a success!--has swept the old
Lord straight off his legs, and my uncle, Sir Horace, is actually
enslaved! I say," he added, leaning towards her, and lowering his voice
mysteriously--"_they don't know_."

"No? I used to be dreadfully prejudiced; now I am not. I agree with Mr.
Salwey that a slight mixture of Eastern blood is not a disadvantage."

"Salwey! By the way, that reminds me, I saw the death of his father in
this evening's paper."

"Really!" she exclaimed, and her colour deepened. After a pause she
added, "It must have been rather sudden."

"I cannot say--I am sure," he rejoined indifferently. "I believe it is
a fine property, and I am glad poor old Salwey will get his innings at
last. It will make a great difference to him. What do you think?"

"Yes," drawing a long breath, "and it will make a great difference to
me!"

"Why," he asked, "should it affect you?"

"Because I need not now return to India."

"Then--then," he stammered, "I gather that you and Salwey are engaged."

"It is true," she answered softly, "though not yet announced in the
_Morning Post_, and I tell you as an old friend. He is on his way home."

"Oh, Miss Hargreaves! I--of course--wish you every happiness, but this
is very terrible news to me."

"To you? I don't quite understand," she said sedately.

"You know very well how long I have been attached to you, don't you?
And now I'm too late. Do you realise what brought me to England?"

"Sick leave, I think you said."

"Home-sick leave. I wanted to see _you_."

"Now, Captain Haig, please don't be so tragic!" she exclaimed with a
touch of impatience, "you know very well that in your heart of hearts
you did not care so very much for me. You will soon forget all about
Homburg, and I will forget all about India, and so we will be quits,
and, I trust, good friends."

"I am sure you two must have had quite a nice Indian gossip!" said Lady
Ida, sweeping into the room, note in hand; "I suppose you have been
going over all your mutual experiences out there?"

"I--I--suppose we have," assented the visitor mechanically.

"I daresay you know Mr. Salwey?"

"Yes; we were at Harrow together. I was his fag, and he used to lick me
for not cleaning his boots! I also knew him in India."

"He is on his way home now."

"So I hear," rising as he spoke. "Well, I am afraid I ought to be on my
way home too. I am staying down the river."

"I hope you will come and look us up again, and meet your old
school-fellow," said Lady Ida. "You will generally find us here at
tea-time. We are always glad to see Verona's friends."

"Oh, thank you very much." Then he suddenly shook hands, gave the young
lady one glance, and without another word took his departure. Presently
the door below was heard to slam.

Verona went to the balcony, and gazed after the retreating figure. He
walked rapidly for an invalid--his quick footfall had an impatient
ring--and as he passed out of sight she heaved a little sigh.

"My dear child! what is the meaning of this?" enquired her aunt,
placing two hands heavily on her shoulders, "gazing after a young man,
and sighing like--I don't know what!"

"I am only looking after him--to see the last of an old love affair."

"What a funny girl you are!"

"That was what Mrs. Chandos used to say."

"Pray, don't mention that odious woman. And Brian--what would he say?"

"I adore Brian; I would not marry anyone else for the whole world, but
really you must allow me to be a little sorry for the--other young man!"

"Because you will not be his wife!" exclaimed Lady Ida, with dancing
eyes. "What a pretty, conceited niece!" and she kissed her with
effusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dominga and Pussy are married; so also, to the surprise of her friends,
is Lizzie Trotter, and there are some changes at Manora. For instance,
Mr. Lepell is at home, and Mr. Watkin officiates as a somewhat pompous
regent, with Mrs. Watkin as his insufferable consort. The Chandos
bungalow still stands empty, and the squirrels share the verandah with
the sparrows and the crows. Unmindful of the drowsy Chokedar, they race
along the flags or execute gymnastic feats in the lattice work with
many a "Chir--ip--pip--pip--pip." Pretty little creatures, with sleek
bodies and bushy barred tails.

One of the squirrels has a bit of faded ribbon round his neck--he is
very tame. No, Johnny has not forgotten! at a sudden footfall, he will
start and listen. When the house is open, he scours through all the
rooms; in a certain window he is often to be seen for hours watching
and waiting.

Alas, faithful little heart! your hopes are never to be realised. Other
steps and other voices may come and go within the Chandos bungalow--but
Verona will never return.


                               THE END.

       *       *       *       *       *

        _Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey._

    [Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]

       *       *       *       *       *

                       UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME


                            Madame Albanesi

                       Drusilla's Point of View
                              Marian Sax
                         A Question of Quality
                      The Strongest of all Things
                     A Young Man from the Country


                        Alice and Claude Askew

                                Destiny


                             M. E. Braddon

                            The White House
                     During Her Majesty's Pleasure


                           Mrs. B. M. Croker

                            Her Own People
                       The Youngest Miss Mowbray
                         The Company's Servant


                           Jessie Fothergill

                         A March in the Ranks


                            Cosmo Hamilton

                         The Infinite Capacity


                             E. W. Hornung

                                Peccavi


                        Justin Huntly McCarthy

                            The God of Love
                        The Illustrious O'Hagan
                           Needles and Pins


                             Mary E. Mann

                               Moonlight


                           Charles Marriott

                          The Intruding Angel


                             Mrs. Oliphant

                        The Cuckoo in the Nest
                      It was a Lover and His Lass
                                 Janet
                                 Agnes


                           William Le Queux

                      The Man from Downing Street


                         Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

                           The Ides of March


                                "Rita"

                           The Seventh Dream


                           Adeline Sergeant

                             Kitty Holden
                             A Soul Apart
                             Jacobi's Wife


                            Beatrice Whitby

                              Bequeathed


                              Percy White

                            Colonel Daveron
                         The House of Intrigue


                         Mrs. C. N. Williamson

                        The Turnstile of Night
                           The Silent Battle


                         HURST AND BLACKETT'S
                         7d. COPYRIGHT NOVELS.






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