"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?