CHAPTER IX
If the skies had fallen, poor Audrey could not have been more utterly bewildered, dismayed and shocked than she was by this frank and deliberate statement of Mr. Candover’s that he believed Gerard to be guilty of the crime for which he was suffering.
That this chivalrous and kind-hearted gentleman, this devoted friend and helper, should thus suddenly transform himself before her eyes, not only into a traitor to his friend, but into an accuser, a traducer, was so unexpected, so appalling to the young and simple-minded woman and devoted wife that for a few moments she was paralysed, she could neither reproach him nor reply to him.
Mr. Candover, meanwhile, was not at a loss. With his eyes still glowing, his face still flushed, he presently went on, coming nearer to her, and speaking with the same passion as before:—
“Why do you hesitate to admit the truth, that you also know your wretched husband to be unworthy a thought? He didn’t even care for you. Lovely as you are, you were never in his eyes the one treasure, the one priceless pearl, that such a woman as you deserved to be. Hateful as the task is, I could prove to you that he never cared for you as he ought to have done, that the money of which he robbed his employers was not spent on you.”
By the time he had said these words Audrey had had time to recover from her first stupefaction, and to review her forces mentally.
And to this bewilderment, this horror, there succeeded a mighty fear. Who was this man whom she had believed so good, so kind, such a true friend? What were his motives in uttering these vile words? No passion, however unlawful, however wild, could have prompted an outbreak so violent, so wicked, against the friend he had professed to love and pity.
Did he believe what he said? Was he one of the great army of the outside world, who looked upon Gerard as a criminal well punished? She was frightened, amazed, perplexed rather than passionate or indignant. It was as if the rock on which she had relied had crumbled away, and it was this thought which she expressed when at last she spoke.
Standing by one of the lounge-chairs, and clutching the back tightly, as much for support as to put a barrier between her and the man who had so instantly become in her eyes a sort of demon, she said in a low-pitched, dull voice:—
“And I thought you our friend! I trusted you! And so did he!”
The words were so simple, so free from any trace of affectation or indignation in their unshaken loyalty to her own husband and bewilderment at his friend’s change of face, that even Mr. Candover, practised man of the world as he was, was rather thrown off his balance by them, and at a loss what to say.
Since it was evident that his accusations of Gerard had only recoiled on himself, it was useless to go on in the same strain. While to make love again to a woman who stared blankly and apprehensively at him as if at an enraged animal was equally out of the question.
This being the case, Mr. Candover speedily recognised the fact that his attack had been premature, and took refuge in the usual protestations of humility, and of despair at her displeasure.
“And you were right to trust me,” he said, after a pause, during which she had continued to look at him with the same steady and scarcely veiled abhorrence. “I think, Madame, you will own I have shown myself worthy of your trust, since it was not until I was driven out of myself by contemplation of your unhappy position that I allowed you even to guess at the feelings which possess me, the passionate longing to protect you with which your lonely position fills me.”
“I thank you very much for your kind feelings, but I hope you will not again express them in the same manner,” answered Audrey, not indeed with the quiet dignity she would have liked to show, but in an unsteady voice and with little gasps for breath between her words. “And please, first of all, to remember not to call me Madame. I won’t be called by that hateful name any longer, whether Lord Clanfield has made a mistake or not about the woman he calls the ‘White Countess’. And if you don’t tell these people that it’s not my name, and that I am not a countess, and have no wish to pretend to be one, why, I shall tell them so myself.”
Mr. Candover’s eyes were covered at that moment by his downcast eyelids, so that she could not see the look of dismay and rage that shone in them. But she was thankful to see that he had entirely regained his self-command when he looked up and quietly said:—
“And what name do you mean to take? Do you mean to use your own?”
The question was a stab to her. And the shame of her position, the bitterness she felt on account of poor Gerard, cut her so keenly that she could not answer, but stood with her teeth pressed upon her lower lip, and her hands tightly clenched.
She felt that the position in which she found herself was intolerable, and a spirit of fierce resentment took the place of the anguish and fear caused by Mr. Candover’s previous behaviour. Disdaining to answer him, and too well aware, indeed, that she would have found a satisfactory reply difficult to make, Audrey, with a gesture which implied that her patience was worn out, swept out of the conservatory without another word.
She saw no more of Mr. Candover that evening, but when she returned to the drawing-room, where her absence had caused Mrs. Webster some uneasiness and surprise, she found two of the gentlemen waiting to take leave of her.
One of these was Durley Diggs, the active little American secretary; the other was a young man in whom Audrey took something of an uneasy interest.
This was a baronet of about two and twenty, a tall, good-looking and good-natured young man who had not long come into the money which he had inherited with his father’s estates, and who showed, she thought, most unwise tendencies in the matter of his companions and of his amusements.
Audrey was just in the mood to be reckless of consequences, for she had quite made up her mind not to be the figure-head of this establishment any longer. The scenes which she had gone through with the young Angmerings and with Mr. Candover had left their traces upon her outward demeanour. She was flushed, excited, her mouth was set in a fashion which caused the clever and observant Durley Diggs to note her every movement, her every look, from where he stood behind Sir Harry Archdale.
“I’ve been most awfully unlucky, Madame Rocada,” said the young baronet with the utmost good humour, as he shook hands with her.
“Why do you play then, if you always lose?” she asked, with surprising frankness.
“Well, really, Madame, your house is such a pleasant one, and one enjoys oneself so much here,” he answered, after a moment’s pause, “that, when one sees other people playing, one must play too.”
“I should not, if I found that I always lost,” said Audrey, with more and more point, as she noticed that Durley Diggs was moving about uneasily behind Sir Harry. “At least, I should not play in the same house or with the same people, when I found myself always losing.”
“By Jove, I believe your plan would be the wisest,” answered Sir Harry, after another bewildered pause, during which he had been struck by the fact that the lady was not speaking in jest, as he had at first supposed, but in deadly earnest, with firm lips and grave eyes.
“Who did you play with?” she again asked abruptly.
But at that point Durley Diggs came forward and held out his hand, with the conventional murmurs about “a pleasant evening”.
“Have you lost too?” asked Audrey sharply, speaking with more abruptness than she was aware of.
The secretary suddenly changed colour, hesitated a moment, and then answered in so reserved and strange a manner that Audrey, who had put her question in all good faith, had her suspicions roused at once.
“I—I—I lost at first, but—but on the whole evening, I think I came out fairly well,” he said, with a curious half-look, veiled and cautious, at the young man by his side.
Sir Harry laughed.
“Well,” said he, “if you did as well all round——”
Then he checked himself, as Diggs looked up with an angry eye. “Fortune of war, fortune of war!” laughed Sir Harry, as he again turned to his hostess. “Madame Rocada——”
But Audrey interrupted him sharply.
“Don’t call me by that name,” said she with decision. “It is not mine; somebody suggested it as a name to use in business, but I hate it and do not mean to be called by it any longer.”
“What am I to call you then? Just Madame?” said the young man, rather taken aback by the anger and petulance she showed.
For one moment she hesitated, regretting already that she had said so much. Then recovering herself a little, she answered:—
“Well, there will be no need to call me anything but just ‘Madame’ during the few days I shall remain here.”
“Few days! Oh, I hope you are not going away?”
“I only took this house for two months and the time is nearly over,” said Audrey.
“Then I shall come and see you in London, and buy bonnets,” laughed Sir Harry. “I’ll set up my whole family in headgear, and you shall teach me to have a nice taste in hats.”
“I shall not be there either,” she answered shortly. “Really, I am nothing but a figure-head there. It is a clever Frenchwoman named Laure who does all the work.”
To all this Durley Diggs, who remained near them, listened with attentive ears. The young baronet was not to be put off.
“You won’t shake me off so easily as that, Madame,” said he, with the daring of youth and good spirits. “Wherever you go I shall find you out, and as long as you will allow me to continue your acquaintance, I shall show myself grateful for the privilege.”
She could not help relaxing into a smile at these words, which were uttered in too boyish and withal courteous a manner to be displeasing.
But she did not hold out any hopes, or give him any invitation, and the last glance he gave at her face revealed to him plainly the fact that she was ill at ease.
It was, as usual, very late before all the guests left the house, and Mrs. Webster was too sleepy to talk much that night.
But when she and Audrey met at breakfast on the following morning, she combated most strenuously the decision of the younger lady to give up both her new acquaintances and the business which they supported so royally. On the contrary, everything she had seen and heard on the previous evening convinced Mrs. Webster that there was nothing serious in Audrey’s objections to her new mode of life, except that natural disinclination of a woman with a heavy heart to be in a circle where so much gaiety went on.
“Perfectly harmless gaiety, as far as I could see,” went on the good lady, who had enjoyed her little talks with barons and baronets, men of note in the great world, and women who, if somehow they were a little less satisfactory than the men whose names they bore, were beautifully dressed and all attractive in one way or another.
Audrey leaned back in her chair.
“I have something else to tell you about,” said she in a dull voice, “something which will, I think, make even you change your mind. Mr. Candover presumed last night to—to——”
Mrs. Webster looked at her with apprehension.
“Make love to you?” she suggested with her lips rather than said.
Audrey’s reply was a burst of tears.
“Of course I ought to have been prepared,” she sobbed, “at least I suppose I ought! Men of that type look upon women who have no one to protect them as fair game. But oh, I had thought he was different! For he has been really kind, and I’ve been really grateful!”
“There, there, don’t fret, dear. It’s one of the misfortunes of your good looks to be exposed to that sort of thing. But I didn’t think it of Mr. Candover. The way he speaks of you is always quite charming! You must give him the cold shoulder, for a time at least, and I don’t suppose you will have anything to complain of again.”
Audrey sat up and dried her eyes.
“No, I don’t suppose I shall. He seemed very sorry and ashamed of himself,” admitted she. “But still it breaks one’s heart to have to be always on the defensive with everybody. And he said things—other things, that I can’t forgive. So that, while I mean to let him know that I won’t have anything to say to him for the future, I can’t get over what he did say.”
Mrs. Webster looked curious.
“It was something about—about my poor Gerard,” said Audrey, so quickly, with such evident reluctance, that her friend guessed at once something of the nature of the offending speech.
“Well, my dear, you have always other friends to come to,” the kind-hearted lady said gently. “Remember that. If you have really had to quarrel with Mr. Candover permanently—which I should be sorry for—at least you can always depend upon such help as I can give, and upon my standing by you through thick and thin.”
“I know I can,” said Audrey, with a grateful but tearful look.
Mrs. Webster did not go back to town till the afternoon, and when Audrey had driven her to the station in the little pony-carriage, and driven back again, she was told that Sir Harry Archdale had called, and that he was in the drawing-room.
Audrey went straight into the long, sunny apartment, where the soft afternoon light came in filtered through tinted curtains and mellowed by the outstretched roof of the wide veranda.
The young man came to meet her with a rather shy and hesitating manner.
“I do hope you won’t be very much offended, Madame, by my coming,” said he. “I know you don’t usually receive except in the evenings. But the fact is——” He paused, and evidently found a difficulty in choosing suitable words. Audrey, however, would not help him. She stood waiting for him to go on, with fear in her great eyes. “Well, you said something to me last night, something very kind, that set me thinking, and that—Really, I’m awfully afraid of what you’ll say, but——”
At last she felt bound to help him out. For the poor fellow hesitated, and floundered, and blushed, and stammered, so that it was quite impossible to make any sense of the words he uttered. Audrey, feeling sure that this was a visitor of whom she had no need to be afraid, smiled and sat down, saying:—
“Can I help you? I wanted you not to play cards if you always lost.”
“That’s it! That’s the very thing I meant,” cried he in relief. “I wanted to tell you—I’ve thought over it a great deal, and of course I would never have hinted at such a thing if you had not started the subject yourself. But—there’s a man one meets here who is always lucky, extraordinarily lucky, and——”
“Who is it?” asked Audrey sharply.
But Sir Harry hesitated to reply bluntly with the man’s name.
“Mind you,” he said, “I don’t mean for a moment to insinuate that it’s anything but a coincidence, but still, I’ve watched him and it’s always the same.”
“Who is it?” asked Audrey again.
“One moment, Madame. You might well ask, if I were to say anything not altogether pleasant about one of your guests, why I came to you about it, instead of speaking to some of the men. But one or two fellows to whom I mentioned it laughed at me, and said that if I were to speak to you, I should only get snubbed. I resented that, on your account, knowing how kind and straightforward you were with me last night. And—and I made up my mind to do, what is not really a very nice thing to have to do, to come to you and rely upon your tact to deal with the matter.”
“You did just what was right and wise and kind, and I’m very much obliged to you,” said Audrey earnestly. “I need not tell you that my position is a very difficult one—I’m not used to entertaining on a large scale, and my position as a business woman puts me at a disadvantage.”
“That was exactly what I thought, and why I felt it was a shame you should not know,” said the young man eagerly. “Well, the man I mean is Mr. Diggs.”
“I thought so,” said Audrey. “I won’t have him here again. Tell me—I’ll keep your confidence—how much he has won from you?”
“Oh, I don’t mean to insinuate——”
“Nor I. He is lucky, that’s all. But what amount has his luck been worth to him?”
He hesitated, but at last said simply:—
“About four thousand pounds from me, and nearly five thousand from the young Angmerings.”
Audrey was overwhelmed.
In stony silence she sat while Sir Harry described the faint suspicions he had from time to time entertained concerning the methods of Mr. Candover’s clever secretary, and added simply that he should never have thought of challenging him but for Audrey’s own words to him on the previous night.
“Then,” went on the young man, “I thought things over, and I remembered his curious manner to you as he said good-night, and I went out of my way to find the young Angmerings this morning, and to put questions to them. The result was that I found this Diggs had used just the same little devices with them as he had done with me, and that they had lost even more than I had to him. Now, you must understand that I don’t wish to have any fuss made; I think the Angmerings and I have only paid a proper price for our folly in playing so high. But I made up my mind that, out of gratitude to you for the way you spoke to me last night, I could not do less than come straight here and tell you what I have done.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Audrey. “He shall never play in my house again.”
Then the young baronet spoke out.
“I knew you would get rid of the fellow when you knew,” he said promptly. “The truth is I don’t think there’s any doubt that he is a sharper, and it must be a paying game!”
The moment Sir Harry had left the house, Audrey sat down to write the following letter:—
“Dear Mr. Candover,
“Will you please convey to your secretary, Mr. Durley Diggs, my refusal to allow him to come here again? It is of no use for him to ask my reasons; he must be satisfied with my decision.
“Yours faithfully,
“Audrey Angmering.”
She signed her own name out of bravado, to show Mr. Candover how strong was her determination to drop the title he had chosen for her without delay.
On the following afternoon, when she had suffered considerable trepidation at her own daring, and had watched the post, expecting a letter full of indignation, she was informed that Mr. Candover and Mr. Diggs were in the drawing-room.
Audrey went down to meet them with a bold front but in a state of nervous excitement and apprehension impossible to describe.
Both gentlemen were standing when she entered the room. Mr. Candover was looking grave and dignified; Durley Diggs, though he put his hands in his pockets and tried to assume an air of easy indifference, looked paler than ever.
“I got your letter,” said Mr. Candover, “and I thought it only fair to read it to Diggs, who is, as you know, a friend and confidential employee of some years’ standing. I think you will acknowledge it to be only right to let him know in what way he has merited such a curt dismissal on your part.”
Audrey, with her heart beating very fast, stood firm. She did not ask them to be seated, but remained leaning against a high-backed carved chair, and kept very still.
“What you ask is quite reasonable,” she said, looking steadily at Mr. Candover only, “but still I am afraid Mr. Diggs must be satisfied with what I have said. I don’t wish him to come here again.”
“You will at least tell me who it was that influenced you to come to this rather abrupt decision?”
“No, I refuse to do that.”
“And if he should treat this as an injury necessitating the interference of the law?” went on Mr. Candover.
But Audrey, frightened as she was, miserable as she was, knew better than to think Mr. Diggs would take such a step as that. She threw at the secretary a look of disdain and answered steadily:—
“He can do whatever he likes.”
Then for the first time Diggs spoke. Darting across the room, and planting himself before her, he thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his lounge coat and said impudently:—
“Come now, what have I done?”
And Audrey, summoning her spirit, replied at once:—
“You have cheated at cards.”
This accusation, evidently unexpected by one at least of her hearers, for a moment struck them both dumb.
It was Mr. Candover who recovered himself the first.
“Cheated at cards!” he repeated incredulously. “Madame, do you know the importance of such an accusation?”
But poor Audrey, now strung up to the sort of reckless defiance which despair and misery sometimes produce even in the feeble, replied boldly:—
“Of course I do. And I would not say such things if I didn’t know they were true. Mr. Diggs has won nearly nine thousand pounds from young men in this very house, by methods which were similar in each case, and which I will relate if you like.”
“What is more to the point,” replied Mr. Candover sternly, “is to know who made these accusations in the first place.”
“That I shall not say. It must be enough that I am satisfied that he used unfair means, and that I won’t have him in my house again. If it’s any question of law or of actions I’m ready to take it upon myself to answer them.” And she repeated stubbornly: “I won’t have him here again.”
For a moment there was dead silence, and Audrey, looking down on the carpet with her heart full of terrors, and clinging tightly to the chair by which she stood, expected an outburst of indignation, or perhaps of something worse.
To her intense surprise, however, when Mr. Candover broke the silence it was to speak to Diggs, and to say, in a solemn voice:—
“Diggs, I hope this is not true. I hope with all my heart that you, who have been my trusted confidant so long, have not done this awful thing of which Madame Rocada accuses you.” There was a silence, and glancing at Diggs, Audrey saw that, while he shook his head, he said nothing. Mr. Candover went on: “In any case, I must uphold Madame’s decision not to allow you to come here again, for, as she says, the slightest taint of a suspicion of such a kind would be a fatal thing, as you must see for yourself.” Diggs nodded, still without speaking or looking up. “And I’m sorry to say I don’t care to keep you in my employment unless you can clear yourself of the charge.” Still Diggs said nothing. “So, if you please, you will understand that your engagement with me terminates a week from now.”
Audrey was listening and watching attentively, and now the thing that struck her the most strongly was that Diggs did not seem surprised at this curt and amazing dismissal. He did not plead that there was no proof against him, he did not show resentment or regret. He simply took his dismissal in all humility, and bowing to them both with a muttered, “Very sorry—Not true—You might know me better,” he shuffled nearer and nearer to the door, and then popped out rapidly, quietly and ingloriously.
It was rather a bewildering victory, Audrey thought.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve had my doubts of the rascal before,” said Mr. Candover, when the door had closed on Diggs.
Audrey glanced up and then down, but she said nothing.
“I must go now,” said Mr. Candover.
And she made no attempt to detain him.