She had confided to Miss Somers her dark misgivings as to the Anarchist's interest in herself, to the intense and ill-concealed amusement of that lady, who was doubtless aware that her possessions, and not herself, were the object of his interest in her. Here she was, she reflected, when the lights were out and the house wrapped in silence, alone in a foreign country, utterly at the mercy of this unscrupulous and dangerously attractive young woman, who had made a dead set at her from the first, within an ace of being made her accomplice, practically in the same room with her; for the door of communication was unlocked, and the key had mysteriously disappeared. The police might at any time pounce upon them. She might be robbed to any extent—that is, had she happened to have possessed anything worth stealing—she might be implicated in robberies; stolen property might be secreted among her things to throw the police off the scent; she might be entangled in a conspiracy, mixed up with that dreadful Anarchist—anything—a frightful situation to be in, dangerous beyond imagination. Yet, after all, more amusing than the conventionalities and social amenities of Kensington, more thrilling even than that first wild experience of real life in the Casino Gardens.
And through all she had a sneaking kindness for this woman of mystery. Perhaps her sins were not entirely her fault; no doubt society had sinned against her and forced her into courses of a regrettable nature. Regrettable is a beautiful word. It was of absolutely incalculable value to us during the last Boer War, through which, indeed, we should never have come without it.
And however regrettable were the courses to which society had mysteriously condemned Agatha Somers, there was no doubt that she was a most charming and sympathetic companion, and read aloud to perfection. A nature of finest grain, however warped by circumstance; a kind heart beneath the sphinx mask; intelligence of high order, however misapplied; beauty of an unusual and distinguished kind, and a right instinct in dress—all these, Ermengarde reflected on her passage to the land of dreams, were the property of this fascinating but misguided young woman, whose life appeared to be exercising such a strong and sinister influence upon her own.
Chapter XII
M. Isidore's Heartache
It was among the many exasperating features in Arthur's character that you could never tell if a good, honest knock hit him hard or only just glided off him, so atrocious was the depth of his secretiveness and undemonstrativeness. He could have carried foxes, wolves, hyenas, even rats, under his cloak, and let them gnaw him till his last gasp, without giving a sign.
It was only from side-lights flashed from family and friendly letters that his wife could have enjoyed the just satisfaction of hearing that he was supremely uncomfortable in her absence; and even that was denied her, by reason of his perversity in remaining on that mysterious circular business tour, that never seemed to end, and respecting which he gave the most meagre information. There was no hope of his being uncomfortable on that tour; on the contrary, he was quite certain to enjoy it immensely. That is one of the irritating things in life—the supreme satisfaction with which business fills the male mind. Business is a large word; it embraces all the concerns of men that exclude women, or rather wives—so Mrs. Allonby sometimes explained to young friends about to marry.
Still, she could not help hoping that he was desperately uncomfortable and longing for her earlier return, though the wretch never had the decency to hint at anything of the kind. Well, she would not tell him of the unlucky necessity for her early return; she would simply appear in Kensington as if on a sudden impulse, and say that the Riviera was too hot, too cold, too rowdy, too respectable—either adjective fitted—but never confess to the misfortunes of Monte Carlo.
But the incident of the necklace had so strengthened her worst suspicions connecting the woman of mystery that, before she slept that very night, the headache having vanished, she took pen and paper, and, by the light of a moon looking steadily from a dark-blue vault, cleared of cloud by rain, related the whole story to her husband, not omitting the sudden irruption of improvised aunts at Monte Carlo, or the dark intriguings with the young English prodigal and the elderly Russian Anarchist. "If that creature," she wrote, with reference to the Anarchist, "dogs my footsteps and glares at me through his detestable goggles much more, I shall have to leave the place. I do hope he is not smitten by me, but sometimes I fear it. No doubt he ought to be in Siberia, where at least there would be nothing but wolves for him to glare at and scheme against." These remarks occasioned her correspondent some diversion of a harmless character. For her other bête noire—namely, the woman of mystery—she wrote, she thought it might be possible to obtain some information concerning her. Should she apply to the nearest British Consul, or ask information of the French police? It was becoming dangerous to be mixed up with a woman who had actually gone the length of trying to make her an accomplice in selling priceless jewels, of which she was obviously not the rightful owner.
It was while inditing this sentence that a beautiful thought flashed upon Ermengarde's mental vision, and, laying aside pen and paper, and sweeping her hair back from her shoulders, she leant her chin on her hands and looked out upon the silver-steeped olive-groves and pine-woods and the broad, bright path of sea trembling in silvery sparkles beneath the moon.