CHAPTER VI
What was she to do? If Mr. Candover had not been her most active if not her only friend, if his manners had not been so tactful, and his delicacy so great that he never came to see her except at her request, she would have left “The Briars,” where she felt that she was only nominally mistress of a house which resembled rather a public place of entertainment than a private dwelling, and would have taken refuge in solitary lodgings at the seaside.
But she did not like, she did not dare, to offend such a powerful friend and ally; and besides, painful as in many respects her position was, the truth remained that she had no friends in all the world to whom she could go.
Mrs. Webster, who was in the secret of her troubles about Gerard, was travelling in Scotland, or she would have written to her and suggested that they should stay somewhere together. Her husband’s nearest relation, Lord Clanfield, had been offended by the marriage of his nephew with a girl who did not belong to his “set”; and Gerard, who was high-spirited and indignant that his beautiful wife should not be welcomed with the honour she deserved, had retorted by cutting off all communication with his uncle, who, perfectly indifferent to the fact, had never even attempted to make his handsome niece’s acquaintance.
In this extremity, feeling the dire need of the companionship of some one to whom she could pour out at least some of the sentiments of her poor little aching heart, Audrey suddenly thought of Mr. Candover’s two young daughters, and at once wrote to Pamela, the elder, asking her to request permission to come over to spend an afternoon at “The Briars”.
This letter Audrey sent direct to the school at Windsor where the girls were staying.
The next morning came a telegram from Pamela, accepting the invitation jubilantly, in these words:—
“Delighted. Trains awful, will drive from Staines, expect us at one.—Pamela.”
And at one o’clock a fly brought to the gates two smiling, happy girls, overflowing with high spirits, and rejoicing in their holiday.
Audrey felt as if she had come suddenly out of the darkness of a vault into the bright sunshine, so delighted was she, after the distasteful acquaintances and unsympathetic companions of the past few weeks, to find herself once more with these bright, amiable, natural girls, full of the joy of living, and crazily excited over the pleasure of their visit.
“How is it you are able to come so quickly?” asked Audrey, as she led the beaming lassies into the house. “I was afraid it would be a matter of red tape, and that the head of the school would have to write and ask Mr. Candover’s permission for you to come, and all that.”
Pamela laughed gaily.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “we had a struggle for it. But our lives are so terribly dull, passing not only the terms but the holidays at school as we do, that when we got your invitation, refusal would have led to open revolt. Miss Willett made the usual fuss, of course, and said she ‘must ask Mr. Candover’. But when we pointed out that papa had already brought us to see you once already, and when we showed that we were determined to come, she gave way.”
“I daresay, Mrs. Angmering,” put in Babs, “she wasn’t sorry to get rid of us for a few hours, for she can’t even go away for a change now, while the holidays are on, because of us.”
Audrey looked surprised.
“Why,” she said, “I should have thought your father would have been only too glad of the chance of having you with him. He is so fond of you.”
“Ye-es, I suppose he is fond of us—when he remembers our existence,” said Pamela the ready, with a little shrug.
“Oh, hush, hush, you naughty girl!”
“Well, you must let us be naughty to-day, for we have to be so very, very good all the year round. Oh, what a darling pony!”
She had caught sight, in the paddock beyond the rose-garden, of a little rough-coated animal which Audrey had found in the stables when she took “The Briars”. And nothing would satisfy the girls but seizing the pony by the mane, and indulging in impromptu gallops over the field. They were in a state of joyous excitement during luncheon, and afterwards they took Audrey between them, twined their arms round her and walked with her in the pretty shady grounds, bubbling over with happiness at their unexpected holiday, and determined to take advantage of Audrey’s offer to have them with her again on the first opportunity.
The delight of the girls at this very simple pleasure was a revelation to Audrey, who had taken it for granted that Mr. Candover, who was so rich and so generous, would have treated his daughters with more consideration for youthful impulses.
Having already made Audrey’s acquaintance, the girls now looked upon her as an old friend, and they confided to her the utter loneliness of their lives, and the uncertainty they were in as to their future.
“You know I’m eighteen, and I want to ‘come out,’ ” said Pamela. “And Miss Willett herself thinks it is time I should. But when she writes about it to papa, he doesn’t answer, and although he’s always kind, he has a way of putting aside any question he doesn’t care to answer, so that I’ve never been able to talk it out with him myself.”
“Shall I speak to him for you?” asked Audrey.
“Oh, you darling, I wish you would! It’s quite true that I’m dying to leave school now, and to—to—well, I don’t exactly know what it is I want to do, except that it isn’t lessons!” cried Pamela, whose brilliant beauty and lively manners indeed showed her to be ready to take her first plunge out of the school seclusion into the waters of life.
“And am I to be left all alone?” cried poor Babs plaintively. “It’s bad enough with you, Pam, but it will be worse if I’m left with Miss Willett all through the holidays alone, while I know you are enjoying yourself with Mrs. Angmering!”
Audrey caressed her pretty head.
“Supposing,” she said, in a voice almost as full of suppressed excitement as that of the girls themselves, “I were to ask Mr. Candover to let you both go away with me somewhere for the Christmas holidays! How would you like that?”
Their answer was such a tumultuous outburst of gratitude and delight that she was, as it were, taken off her feet by it, and the three sat down on a garden seat under a knot of trees, and discussed the idea with noisy and merry comments and peals of laughter which made them all deaf to the sound of approaching footsteps over the gravel paths and the lawn behind them.
They were suddenly startled by the voice of Mr. Candover; and turning quickly with little cries, they were amazed to find themselves face to face, not with the smiling, indulgent father, the chivalrous and kind friend, but with a man whose face was dark with passion, and in whose black eyes there was a look of anger and alarm which struck them dumb, and filled Audrey at least with sudden and strange misgiving.
Mr. Candover looked from her to his daughters, who made no attempt to greet him, so much surprised were they.
“When did I give permission for you to leave your school? What is Miss Willett thinking about to let you come out without it?” asked he sharply.
“Oh, papa,” said Pamela, who was the only one who seemed ready to “stand up to” him, “we thought that, in the case of Mrs. Angmering——”
“Hold your tongue. I know nothing of any Mrs. Angmering. You are in the house of Madame Rocada——” Audrey broke into a protest of horror, but he went on, “and you have no business to come out even to see your nearest relations, without my permission. I’m surprised at Miss Willett. Put on your hats, and I will put you in a fly, and you can drive back at once.”
Indignant protests on the part of Pamela, tears from Babs, alarm and stupefaction on the face of Audrey, availed nothing.
Within ten minutes the poor girls were driving away, but not before Pamela, with a look of sullen anger and resentment in her lively black eyes, which were so like her father’s, had whispered into Audrey’s ear:—
“I shall come again, if you’ll let me. I’m not a child and I’m not going to be treated as one much longer!”
Poor Audrey did not know what to say, but “Hush, dear, hush!” as she kissed the bright-eyed girl, and waved them both a farewell which was almost tearful.
As soon as they were gone Mr. Candover recovered his usual gentle, kindly manner.
“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, my dear Madame Rocada, by my bluntness,” said he. “But the fact is the girls are both of very difficult character to manage, and it is my particular wish that they should live the quietest of lives, without any dangerous excitements, for a few years longer.”
Audrey summoned enough courage for a mild protest.
“Surely it’s not a very dangerous excitement to spend the afternoon with me!” she said.
“Of course not. But you forget that you have friends coming——”
Audrey interrupted sharply:—
“Friends! These horrible, noisy, fast men and faster women with their card-playing and their racing jargon are not my friends. Clients, customers, if you like, they may be. But never my friends!”
“Well, they are useful people to know, at least,” he persisted, more gently than ever.
Audrey turned away without reply, and the announcement he wished to make to her concerning some of the guests of the evening he had to leave unmade.
It came upon her, therefore, with a shock of surprise when, Mr. Candover having been forced to leave the house, as she gave him no invitation to remain to dine with her, he returned about nine o’clock in the company of half a dozen of the men whom she had had to accept as habitués of the house, and with two young men, both of unmistakably dissipated appearance, who were introduced to her as “Mr. Edgar Angmering” and “Mr. Geoffrey Angmering”.
It was with the greatest difficulty that Audrey could keep her countenance. For they were, she knew, the sons of Lord Clanfield, and first cousins of her own husband.
Neither had ever seen her, and she had little difficulty in guessing that they had no idea of the identity of “Madame Rocada”.
Whether as a result of the presence of these two noisy young men it is impossible to say, but the evening was an unusually noisy one, and the play was higher than ever.
Moreover, Audrey could not but be aware of the fact that the elder of the two young men had had more champagne than was good for him even before he arrived, and she expressed her indignation and disgust to Mr. Candover in no measured terms.
He was much concerned at her displeasure, and said that they must take care that it did not occur again; this was a rather vague assurance, which had no other result than the reappearance of the two young men a few nights later, in much the same condition as before.
On the following day Audrey wrote an angry letter to Mr. Candover, telling him that she intended to leave “The Briars” without delay, as she would not tolerate any more scenes such as that of the previous night, either in the hope of retaining valuable clients or for any other reason.
She had scarcely finished the letter when a servant came in, and announced: “Lord Clanfield.”
Audrey pressed her hand to her heart, which throbbed with frantic excitement. Did he know her? Was he come to make late amends for his neglect of poor Gerard?
She rose from her seat as there entered a dignified man of the middle height, strikingly like Gerard, who indeed resembled him much more closely than did either of his own sons.
Audrey bowed without speaking. She could not, indeed, trust herself to utter a word, even if she had known what to say.
A second glance at his open, honest face showed her that it was with no friendly intention he had come. His first words showed her that it was not to his nephew’s wife that his unexpected visit was paid.
“Madame Rocada,” said he, in the coldest, sternest of voices, “I have come to request you to do me the favour of forbidding my two sons to enter your house.”
A chill seized Audrey. The next moment a sense of resentment rose in her mind and sent a flush to her cheeks.
She looked not only handsome, but stately, as she drew up her tall figure and stood erect in the sunlight, which played upon her golden hair, and sparkled upon the pearl paillettes which studded the dress of cream silk muslin, with a billowy train, which she was wearing.
“Upon what grounds do you make such a singular request, and in such a singular manner?” asked she, subduing her voice to a level and quiet tone.
For one moment he hesitated. Great beauty in a woman compels a sort of respect from any man. And Audrey had never looked lovelier than she did at that moment.
“I regret to have to put it so plainly. I had hoped that you would have spared me the necessity. But since I must be plain, it is because I have just learnt that you, Madame Rocada, are the lady known abroad as the White Countess, the keeper of the Paris gaming-house in which the son of one of my friends, young Hugh Grey, committed suicide two years ago.”