CHAPTER XXVII
"THE SIN"
Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne sat in their cool matted verandah drinking early morning tea, and watching the malees splashing water over the plants from their primitive earthern chatties, and the syce cutting luscious green lucerne for the expectant horses. Their only companions were the fox-terriers, Sam and John, and any description of the Gascoigne ménage which omitted these gentlemen would be inadequate and incomplete. They were twins, and as unlike in appearance and disposition as it was possible to be. Sam was a remarkably handsome dog, exhibiting all the best points of his race. He had a black face, bright tan eyebrows, and silky white ears; his disposition was sporting, affectionate, easy-going, and game, but his intellect was not brilliant. On the other hand, his brother was endowed with the master mind; he planned, and Sam carried out. It was John's great brain that found means to extricate them when they got into nasty scrapes connected with breakages, pet rabbit-killing, and egg scandals. In the clever discovery of other dogs' bone stores in ferreting out useful short cuts and rare sport, John was prominently to the front. Sam was a determined hatter—and, alas, "catter"—of unwearying energy and speed, but not insensible to luxury, caresses, and praise. He liked to lie on a lady's lap—although he weighed twenty-one solid pounds of bone and muscle. He liked to be petted, and to have his throat scratched, and to repose in the middle of a soft down quilt (he being muddy or otherwise); but he was so handsome, and so insinuating, that his wishes were generally gratified.
Sam was a nice, simple, unaffected dog, and a general favourite. John was stout, well set on his legs, with no approach to style or pedigree; his head was too round, his nose too short—foolish people declared he had "a pretty face," and judges admitted that his cat-like paws were models. He abhorred all endearments and liberties—though to gain certain ends he could beg and give the paw. He was fond of music, and came and sat under the piano when Angel played, occasionally accompanying her in soft, melodious howls. He also sang—to the mandoline. He was a very duck in the water, which his brother loathed. He was shamelessly greedy, and Sam was an ascetic. John was immensely clever, and Sam was a fool. John was self-centred, impulsive, and irritable. Occasionally he and his twin fought for no apparent reason, almost to the death, and were only separated by being vigorously pumped on, or torn, as it were, asunder. They were always badly mauled and covered with blood; Sam was invariably the victor, and immediately set himself to lick his brother's wounds, who received this Samaritan-like attention with sullen toleration. On the sole occasion when John was the best dog he bore himself most unchivalrously, lorded it over his vanquished foe for twenty-four hours, and would not suffer him to come into the presence of their joint mistress, or to approach within six yards of his fat, vainglorious self.
But John had delivered his brother from the disagreeable consequences of murder and theft, secured him excellent sport, and on one occasion saved his life, returning home in the middle of the night, rousing the household by his terrific howls, and leading forth a rescue party to where Sam—ever the most enterprising—was smothering in a snake hole. The couple thoroughly appreciated camp life, and, no doubt, bragged prodigiously of their feats and escapades to other less lucky dogs whom they met at the band-stand or in the club compound. At the present moment they were shivering to be taken out. John sat on his hind legs, his gaze pathetically fixed on Gascoigne's last piece of toast, for his greed and presumption were unique. Sam divided his attention between driving sparrows out of the verandah—those vulgar street boys of the world—and keeping a sharp eye on his master's movements.
"I say," said Gascoigne, "these fellows have done themselves well in camp! John is actually bloated; he has the figure of an alderman." Angel laughed. "But I can't say as much for you," and he looked at her steadily.
He was thinking how soon India robs a girl of her good looks. Angel was white, her cheeks were hollow, her features had sharpened.
"I should hope not," she retorted; "surely you don't want me to have the figure of an alderman?"
"I should like to see a little flesh on your bones," and he reached over and took up her limp hand and wrist. "What have you been doing to yourself, Angel?"
"Nothing."
"And no one has done anything to you? What is it? You seem rather down on your luck."
"Then appearances are deceitful," she answered, dragging away her hand. "I—I"—Angel was unaccustomed to telling broad, flat-footed lies—at last she brought out—"enjoyed myself enormously."
"Though there were only the three of you! Donald Gordon is an able man, but a murderous bore—the compressed essence of a dozen wet blankets. A little of his society goes far. Oh, but I forgot—you had that fellow Lindsay. How did you like him?"
Angel coloured faintly; there was a moment's perceptible hesitation before she said:
"I don't dislike him."
"Come! this is enthusiastic praise! and yet he is quite a ladies' man; far more at home reading poetry than pig-sticking; in fact, he rides so badly that it makes me positively uncomfortable to see him. He is an humbling spectacle on a horse."
"Um—yes; but I don't think clever people generally ride well—as a rule," said Angel.
"Then there must be a crowd of clever people in Marwar! By the way, I'm told that Lindsay came into his property about three or four months ago—why on earth does he not clear out? A man with six thousand a year is out of focus in India. What is his anchor out here, I wonder? A woman?"
Angel blushed furiously—guiltily. Gascoigne looked at her in mild surprise.
"How should I know?" she answered impatiently.
"He likes his work, just as you do yourself—he worked very hard indeed."
"And when he had a little breathing time—how did he employ himself?"
"He played chess, and went for long walks and he read aloud—Rossetti and Browning."
"Just what I would expect."
"You need not scoff; you read to us yourself—once upon a time."
"True, oh, Angel; but then—I was in love."
"Were you?"
"Certainly I was. Shall I read to you now?" picking up the local paper. "We are a little late this morning; my horse had to be shod."
"Yes, do read," assented his wife; "but there is never anything in the paper now, but the plague—and the rupee."
"I say, listen to this," he exclaimed, beginning to read. "'Sad Accident at Suchapore.' Why, you must have met her."
"I don't in the least know what you mean, and I hope I do not."
"It's a Miss Cuffe. 'We regret to record a fatal carriage accident at Suchapore, which resulted in the death of Miss Mabel Cuffe, recently arrived from England. She and a friend were driving in a dogcart, when the horse took fright at an elephant, bolted, and upset the cart. The unfortunate girl was thrown out, and killed on the spot. This painful incident has thrown a gloom over the entire station.'"
"I should think so," exclaimed Angel. "How dreadful—and how soon."
"Dreadful—certainly," agreed Philip, looking at her interrogatively; "but why soon?"
"It is such a short time since I saw her; it seems only the other day we all had our fortunes told by a Fakir, and he said, when he looked at Miss Cuffe's hand, 'I see death.' Of course she did not understand—and she was not told—and it was only a fortnight ago."
"A mere coincidence," said Gascoigne; "I don't believe in these predictions. Did you have your fortune told too?"
"Oh, yes, we all had, including Mrs. Gordon."
"And what did he tell you?"
Angel looked at him meditatively; she seemed to be making up her mind. At last she said:
"He told me that I was married."
"That was nothing new or strange."
"No; but that my husband had married me at the bidding of—another woman."
"That, at least, has the merit of novelty."
"And—truth?" she added quickly.
"Now, is it likely? I would be far more inclined to marry because a woman told me not to marry you. But I did not want any telling, did I, Angela mia?" and he bent over and brushed her cheek with his glove, and John instantly sat up, believing that it was something to eat. "You must cheer up, and come for a good gallop. Remember there is a big dinner at the Residency this evening."
"Do you think that a lively prospect?"
"No; I dread big dinners of thirty."
Here Gascoigne signed to the syces to bring up the horses, swung his wife into her saddle, and in another moment they were crossing the parade ground at a sharp canter, followed by Sam and John ventre à terre.
A big official dinner in India is a solemnity, not a festivity; people are invited, and accept as a matter of duty. They do not anticipate enjoyment; but the women look forward with keen expectation to receiving their rightful precedence, and to exhibiting their newest gowns. Angel, though but twenty-three, was a lady who sat among the chief guests, thanks to her husband's position. As these were many years her senior, she was generally most desperately bored. On the present occasion, she contemplated the prospect with an involuntary sigh, as she swept down the steps in a graceful white gown, and got into the brougham, followed by Gascoigne, in all the usual evening war paint of a Colonel of the Royal Engineers.
"What a dull evening we shall have!" she exclaimed, as she held out her glove to be buttoned. "All oldish official people that we have met a hundred times. We do take our pleasures sadly."
"Yes, if you call this function a pleasure," said her husband, as he neatly completed his task. "I've a heap of work at home I ought to get through, instead of eating for two mortal hours, and listening to Lady Nobb—she is generally my fate. Her idea of conversation is a monologue on missionaries."
"Well, at least, it saves you exerting yourself. Oh dear," and Angel yawned, "if we could only have games or charades—or even blindman's-buff."
"What a profane suggestion," ejaculated her husband.
"Yes, or see a few new faces; and here we are—and there is Lady Nobb getting out of her carriage. Oh, Philip, she has on such a smart pink silk petticoat—quite a wicked petticoat!"
"Then I shall certainly make it the basis of our conversation," said Gascoigne, as he opened the door and jumped out.
In a few minutes "Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne" had been received by the aide-de-camp, and ushered into the great durbar room—a lofty, pillared apartment, with palms, rare Persian carpets, rose-shaded lamps, soft inviting lounges, beautiful curios, and many large photographs scattered here and there (the signed gift of passing guests in return for various favours received). In spite of Angel's melancholy forecast it presented a brilliant scene, with brave men in uniform, and beautiful women in their best array.
The new arrivals were formally presented to their Excellencies, with whom they were on a most friendly every-day footing, and then drifted away into the crowd.
"Quite a collection of strangers," said Alan Lindsay, as he attached himself pointedly to Angel. "I must say I think it's hard lines on the Lieutenant-Governor and Lady Eustace to have to invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry who write their names in the book. I suppose you have seen Mrs. Gordon to-day?" he added in a cautious undertone.
"No," very sharply.
"That is unusual, is it not?" he pursued; "she is not well—she was 'Darwaza Bund' when I called. I'm off in ten days' time, I—think."
"Oh, are you?" said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a more cordial tone. "How glad you must be!"
"I'm not glad, you know I'm not, and why," he said, fixing her with his keen eyes; "you know all about it." He made a quick, eager gesture and sat down on the sofa; then he bent his head towards her and murmured, "Why—pretend?"
Colonel Gascoigne, who was engaged in discussing hydrostatics and flying levels with a brother sapper, noticed this little scene,—Lindsay's assured attitude, his confidential pose. He stared for a second as if struck by some new idea, but at that instant his attention was required elsewhere.
"Hullo!" exclaimed his companion, "I thought we were going to stay all night, and I've seen the L. G. look twice at his watch. Here come the Blaines, and a friend. By Jove, she was worth waiting for."
Philip turned and glanced casually toward the entrance, and saw Sir Evans Blaine, K.C.B., and Lady Blaine, charged with apologies, and in the act of presenting their friend, "Mrs. Waldershare."
Lola! Yes, Lola herself, looking brilliantly lovely, a very queen of society. She wore a long trailing black gown, which followed her in sinuous lines along the soft white carpet, and shimmered as she moved, like the scales of a fish. Her arms were covered with tightly-fitting sleeves, her neck was very bare, according to the prevailing mode; the black jet set off her white skin to great advantage. A slender chain of diamonds encircled her throat and fell below her waist, and a diamond comb or crown shone amid her piled-up dark hair. In one hand she held a tiny painted fan, and she carried herself like a sovereign prepared to receive the homage of her subjects.
Lola made a beautiful picture, as she stood talking with animation to the Lieutenant-Governor and became the immediate cynosure of every eye. To Lola, these were the moments that made life worth living.
Angel, who had been on the point of speaking sharply to Lindsay, held her breath as this vision swam into her view. Horror, surprise, admiration, chased one another through her brain. Her face looked white and wan, all her girlish beauty seemed to shrivel up and fade, as she realised that she and her rival were now within the lists.
Mr. Lindsay caught a glimpse of her expression, and exclaimed: "Oh the bewitching widow! Sandys of my service came out with her on board ship; she's just arrived from home. Isn't she a wonderful creation—and quite lovely."
"Not very young," remarked a lady who sat near, "but well versed in the arts of fascination. I would give a good deal to know the name of her dressmaker!—what a wonderful gown."
"Yes," agreed Lindsay, "dramatic and realistic—it's not a gown—but a personality."
"Do you know what she reminds me of," continued the lady eagerly—a clever worn-looking woman, in a frumpish but expensive garment, a woman whose children and whose heart were in England—"it is a picture in a gallery in Munich. I stood before it for twenty minutes, and I went back to look at it twice; it is of a beautiful woman, a dark woman, with a face like hers—she is dressed entirely in a serpent, a great dark blue serpent, wound round her body, whose head rests confidentially over her shoulder. They are both beautiful, both similar, both wickedly fascinating—and the name of the picture is 'The Sin.'"
"My dear Mrs. Frobisher," cried Lindsay, with affected horror, "how shocking—surely sin and this enchanting stranger have not even a bowing acquaintance."
"Possibly not," she answered dryly, "but she and 'The Sin' are identical in appearance."
"And now we are on the move," said Lindsay. "I am so fortunate as to have the honour of taking you in to dinner, Mrs. Gascoigne."
Angel rose, and accepted the proffered arm in a sort of trance. Had Lola and Philip met? Would they sit near each other? Her eyes roved round anxiously, as she moved to her place at that exquisitely decorated table, covered with lovely La France roses, shining silver, and delicate ferns.
No, but it was almost worse, she said to herself with an inward groan; they were seated exactly opposite to one another; and Lola had such eloquent eyes!