Then Ermengarde, ruffled and inwardly raging, but grateful for Mr. Welbourne's paternal care, took a seat touching the piano, and was silent; the man with the ascetic face came in and stood like a statue behind the player; the room slowly filled; but Mr. Welbourne, contrary to custom, played on, as if something within him must find expression in music, even when a buzz of talk hummed through the room and lights were turned up, until dinner.
Chapter XIII
The Publisher's Parcel
Though conjectures as to the manner in which poor Agatha Somers had become possessed of the necklace disturbed Ermengarde's sleep, and the glow of the sapphires coloured all her thoughts of her, she was obliged to take the creature to her heart; there was in her something so lovable and so pathetic, especially that appeal in her eyes—so she confided to Mr. Welbourne, who smiled and seemed gratified by this view of their mutual friend, though he said little.
She seems fond of me, Ermengarde reflected; I wonder why? How great, she mused, is the attraction that virtue has for the depraved and rectitude for the outcast! Who could tell what redeeming influence a good woman's kindness might exercise upon this erring young soul? She would certainly befriend the wanderer in every possible way, except that of helping her to dispose of ill-gotten jewellery. Perhaps there might be some grain of truth, some small foundation in fact, for the circumstantial family history this ingenious young person had related to her by the wood fire that evening. She was undoubtedly well-bred, possibly well-born; it was highly probable that she had been nurtured in comfort, if not luxury—still, how did she come by that necklace? It was a small fortune in itself. Nobody reduced to bread-labour would keep so much money locked up. Again, what possible work of a secretarial character could she be doing in this land of lotus-eating? Or how could a penniless young woman afford such an expensive holiday as this? Was she, could she be, a female detective?
In that case, who could she be shadowing, up here in the mountains, among this little company of highly respectable, not to say frumpish, folk? Surely not the thin man—yet human character abounds in the unexpected and even the incredible—had Mr. Welbourne, after all, a wife desirous of shunting him? Was he a wolf in sheep's clothing, a hypocrite steeped in iniquity? Lame and deformed people often have a twist in their character—not that poor Mr. Welbourne was deformed—indeed, had his fleshly covering been a little more abundant, he would have been rather good-looking, his features well-cut, his eyes bright and animated. There was nobody else to shadow at Les Oliviers—no English body else, that is—the visitors mostly consisted of family parties.
No; she must be some kind of spy or conspirator, in league as she was with the Anarchist. Yet Ivor Paul was hardly a spy or a conspirator; both the thin man and the fair Dorris agreed in placing him as the scion of a family of rank; they knew that he was only five lives off a peerage, but those lives were young and vigorous. Lady Seaton, who knew the ins and outs and most intricate ramifications of every family of consequence, and never forgot who married who, and how they were connected with everybody else, a widow old enough to mention her age without prevarication, and herself allied in some distant and complicated manner to every coronet-bearing English name, had known his father in his youth; she remembered that his mother had married a second time; she had forgotten the man's name; it would come back to her presently. Sir George, her late husband, had been in public life; the present baronet represented a North-country constituency, and had been a Minister. So far, the truth of Agatha's story was confirmed; though what the woman of mystery's relations with this young man might be, it was wiser not to dwell upon. And if she improvised ailing aunts at need, so did Miss Boundrish, about whom, with all her delightful deviations from the normal English girl, there was no manner of mystery, her father giving himself out for what he undoubtedly was—a plain, substantial British merchant.
"Our young friend," Mr. Welbourne observed one day after some act of kindness on the part of Agatha to Ermengarde, whose weakness had not yet entirely left her, "appears to be much attached to you, Mrs. Allonby."
"But I can't think why," she replied; "though I can't help liking the girl myself."
"Why should you help it? A kindly nature," he added, with a sigh so deep and so despairing that she was sorry for him. Had the thin man met with so few kindly natures on his earthly pilgrimage; or was it, could it, at his age be, hopeless passion?