"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."