“Well!” she said impatiently. “Well! You say nothing! I will have you say something. This Colonel of yours, who beat my mother, and left her and let her think he was dead—is he your respected dear friend now, or do you hate him with your whole soul, as I do?”
“I can’t hate an old friend on the spur of the moment, especially when I don’t know what he’s done,” said George in a tone which had the effect of a few drops of water on a fire.
“Don’t know what he’s done! Haven’t I told you all Sundran has said about the way he used to treat my mother, my beautiful darling mother; how he was harsh, and wicked, and jealous, and ran away from her when I was a little baby? Why did he call himself Captain Weston, when his real name was Lord Florencecourt, if he meant to be a good true husband to her? Was that like the noble English gentlemen you talk about, and poor mamma talks about?”
“His name was not always Lord Florencecourt,” said George rather meekly.
He knew that the Colonel’s name had never been Captain Weston; and that there were circumstances in this affair of which Lord Florencecourt was by no means proud had been amply shown by the mixture of constraint, dislike, and fear which had marked his behaviour to Nouna since his first meeting with her at the barracks. “And perhaps Sundran was mistaken,” he suggested in the same tone.
But Nouna laughed this idea to scorn, and he himself had nothing to offer in support of it. The Indian woman’s recognition was the first sign he had had of a clue to all the mysterious circumstances surrounding his marriage; and if it raised new doubts and suggested new entanglements, at any rate it pointed out one person near at hand who could, if he would, unravel them. George determined to see Lord Florencecourt again without delay, and to ask him simply and straightforwardly whether he was Nouna’s father, and if so, why he had thought it necessary to conceal the fact from him. The young husband thought he could now understand the strange reserve of Madame di Valdestillas, who, as the circumstances seemed to suggest, having been deceived in early youth by Lord Florencecourt, then masquerading as Captain Weston, was naturally anxious to conceal the evidence of her past indiscretion, and had therefore caused her child to be educated away from her, and had probably concealed Nouna’s very existence from her husband. In that case, Nouna’s mushroom sprung up fortune could not have been a testamentary provision of her father, as he was still alive. Where then did the money come from? George remembered with a shock Lord Florencecourt’s late complaints of an unexpected and heavy drain on resources which he knew to be by no means limitless, and the remarkable incident of the pearl necklace flamed up unpleasantly in his mind. This, together with the grudgingly given invitation to Willingham, and the socially important visit extracted by the Colonel from his sister to Nouna, seemed to point to a considerable influence being still exerted over Lord Florencecourt by Madame di Valdestillas, in spite of his unconcealed prejudice against dark-skinned women. Whether by tickling his remorse or his fear of publicity, the lady played very skilfully to be able to levy such substantial blackmail upon her former lover.
These conjectures ran in George’s head and absorbed him so completely, that Nouna, who was sitting in the opposite corner and gazing out of window with a pretty imitation of deep abstraction, found, on turning suddenly to direct his attention to a stack of red-tiled roofs and towering chimneys nestling, in Christmas-card prettiness, among trees in a hollow near the line, something deeply fascinating in the fact that he was, for the first time since their marriage, completely oblivious of her presence. She paused with her mouth open for speech, considering him in wonderment, noting the lines of the frown on his forehead, and the dull, steady outlook of clouded eyes that for once did not see her. Then she stooped forward, and, with her hands on his knees, stretched up to peer closely into his face. He started, and his eyes turned upon her with a look in which she saw, or fancied she saw, so much sternness, that her hands slipped off his knees, and she fell, a meek and frightened human bundle, on to the floor of the carriage. George snatched her up and crushed her tiny limbs against him with a sudden thrill of passionate tenderness in which she discerned at once some new and unknown element. She sunned herself in his caresses for a few moments and then looked inquiringly into his eyes.
“You have begun a new wooing,” she whispered, peeping up with languid eyes. “You are very sweet to me, but you seem to be asking me something I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know, my darling, whether I could make you understand.”
“Kiss me again to prepare me, and then try.”