"I like to put a 'mile' note on one number," she declared with a gay laugh; "I agree with an old man who sat next me, 'Ca vous donne des emotions.'"
Mrs. Waldershare returned each winter to the Riviera as punctually as a swallow, ostensibly in search of health, but in reality to gamble continuously, extravagantly, and recklessly. She lost enormous sums; her husband's pride now changed to alarm. The husband of the lovely Mrs. Waldershare, who was winning to the envy and admiration of her neighbours, was a different being to the man who had to disburse staggering sums almost daily. Lola promised to give up gambling, and never to touch a card or back a number. Her promises were invariably broken—nothing would or could keep her away from the scene of her gains and losses. She owed huge bills in London and Paris; the money to pay these she had flung into the great gulf—she, whose luck was astonishing, was now secretly selling her jewels—and wearing paste. Mrs. Waldershare was again at Monte Carlo the year her husband died; her fascinations were irresistible. A beautiful woman, thirty years his junior, sweet, seductive, persuasive, her stolid elderly partner could not withstand her. He was suddenly called away to Paris, on urgent business, leaving Lola and her maid and many acquaintances at the Hotel de Paris, but before he departed he extracted a solemn promise from his wife that during his absence she would not enter the rooms, and this promise she vowed to keep. The first day she went over to Nice, the second day was wet, and seemingly endless, the third day something drew her into the Casino in spite of herself. The talk of her friends, of runs of colour, of great "coups," was too much for her miserable little will; something, she afterwards declared, dragged her forcibly into the Salle de Jeux. She went with a party, merely in order to look on, but in twenty minutes' time, she was seated at the "trente et quarante" with a card a pin, and a pile of gold in front of her. She won—she won again the following day, and then she lost—lost—lost all the money—lost her self-control—lost her head. She borrowed until she could borrow no longer; in the frenzy of gambling, she drew a cheque for a thousand pounds and signed it "Reuben Waldershare." All moral sense expired, as she blotted the clever imitation of her husband's signature. This money followed her other losses in one short day, and then Lola was indeed desperate. She went at sundown and walked round Monaco, and gazed thoughtfully over the wall at a spot which other despairing eyes have measured, where there is a sheer precipice, lapped by the blue-green Mediterranean.
No, no—looking down always made her sick and giddy, she could not do it. Life was sweet. Reuben would certainly forgive her—after all, what was his, was hers.
When Mrs. Waldershare returned to the hotel, she found a telegram awaiting her; it announced that her husband was ill with a sharp attack of gout. She was requested to leave for Paris at once, and accompany him home. After a few days, during which time Lola made herself indispensable to the invalid, hourly hoping to seize a favourable moment, and make her little confession; unfortunately the cheque presented itself too promptly, and Reuben Waldershare, to whom such an act as forgery appeared as great a crime as murder, was deaf to all excuses and appeals. He raged with the deadly slow anger of a phlegmatic nature; in this condition, he added a codicil to his will, and having done so, died rather suddenly of gout in the stomach. And now, Lola found herself a widow, with a small jointure and immense debts. She endeavoured to patch up the wreck of her affairs, she tried to beguile creditors, propitiate people she had snubbed, to make friends with her cast-off relations, but she was alike in the black books of her acquaintances and her tradespeople. She therefore resolved to shift her sky, and come out to India, ostensibly to visit her dearest brother Edgar (who had no desire for her company), and to see something of the East. She brought with her a maid, a quantity of smart gowns, a large stock of courage and enterprise, and a very small amount of ready money.
In short, she had come out to seek her fortune, precisely like the young adventurer one reads of in books of fairy and other tales. Marwar was a capital centre, she had gathered this information en route; Indian people were approachable, hospitable, and not too inquisitive; appearances go far, when one sails away from a—reputation.
Then by a wonderful stroke of luck she encountered Philip Gascoigne; as good-looking as ever; no longer the impetuous boy, the impassioned subaltern, but a cool, self-reliant, distinguished Philip, with a fine position, a heavy purse, and a dear, simple, appreciative wife. They would be extremely useful, introduce her to the best society, save her expense, and officiate as her sponsors.
These were a few of Mrs. Waldershare's reflections, as she drove into the Gascoignes' compound the afternoon succeeding the dinner-party.
CHAPTER XXXI
FISHING FOR AN INVITATION
Mrs. Waldershare presented a most charming picture, as she rustled into Mrs. Gascoigne's great drawing-room, with her exquisitely gloved hands eagerly extended. Her entrée was accompanied by the rustling of silk, a faint jingling of beads, and atmosphere of heliotrope. She wore an elaborate white dress, a black plumed hat, both unmistakably French and expensive.