"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!