CHAPTER VII
Audrey was struck dumb.
As if by a flash of lightning, she found her whole mind illuminated, and saw at once the meaning of the visit paid to her showrooms by the lady in white.
The pale, thin woman was, she felt sure, the real Madame Rocada, and it was the discovery that another woman was setting up in business under her name which brought the vengeful stranger on the visit which had turned out so fatally for herself.
The sudden understanding of the strange events in which she had been forced to take so active a part not only paralysed Audrey, but made her feel as if this direct attack were quite a secondary matter.
For there was the question of the disappearance of the White Countess to be met. And though indeed she had heard nothing of the matter since the evening when she had seen the white-clad lady lying, as she believed, dead in the fitting-room, there was suddenly borne in upon her in all its dreadful force the conviction that this was not the end, that she would be forced to hear more about the tragedy by-and-by.
Instead, therefore, of indignantly meeting the charge thus unexpectedly brought against her by the viscount, she drew a long breath, tried to speak, faltered, and seeming to lose her physical strength and her courage at the same time, put out her hand for the support of the writing-table from which she had just risen, and leaned upon it, swaying slightly, and looking, as she felt, the picture of utter distress and dismay.
Absolutely as he believed in her guilt, Lord Clanfield, a chivalrous gentleman, to whom this duty of rescuing his sons from the clutches of the keeper of a gaming-house was utterly distasteful, was extremely distressed by her behaviour.
He was far too simple-minded and unsophisticated, being rather a quiet country gentleman than a man of the world, to have recognised at once, what a shrewder man would have done, the improbability that this fresh-looking young woman could be the same person as the notorious Madame Rocada, whose wiles had brought about the death of the son of his friend.
At the same time, the effect of her extraordinary beauty and of the straightforward dignity of her manner was such that he felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and almost wished that he had not insisted upon taking this matter into his own hands, instead of leaving it to be managed by his solicitors.
After what seemed to both a very long pause, he said, with a change of tone:—
“I regret exceedingly to be forced to this course, Madame Rocada. I have, however, no choice. My sons are, unfortunately, extravagant and difficult to control, and I have therefore thought it best to come straight to you, to ask you to help me in this matter.”
Now this speech, uttered in a much less severe tone than his previous words, showed a distinct advance in the direction of friendliness.
Whether or not there was already some doubt in the viscount’s mind, he seemed to wish to qualify his blunt accusation.
To Audrey, however, this was a matter of no moment. The statement remained uncontradicted, the awful accusation of her having been a party to, or in some way concerned in, the death of a man.
With this in her mind, she did not appear to hear or understand this second speech, but, as soon as she had recovered herself a little, went straight back to the first.
“What you say of me is wholly untrue,” she said in a low, breathless voice. “My name——” Suddenly a flood of blushes suffused her pale face. How could she tell him what her name was? How introduce to the already indignant and reproachful visitor the knowledge that she was the wife of the nephew whom he no doubt believed to be a forger and a swindler? After a short pause she went on, while he waited quietly for her without interruption: “I have nev——”
She stopped again.
“Do you mean to say you have never been to Paris?” asked the viscount, less harshly, but still with evident incredulity.
Audrey raised her head in desperation.
“No. I did not mean that. I have been in Paris. I was there last winter.”
Her voice faltered, for she remembered the joy of that merry time. She and Gerard had spent part of their honeymoon there.
After another pause she went on:—
“But I have never kept a gaming-house, I do not keep one now. I have never heard of your friend Grey. I have never had a hand in anybody’s death. Your accusation is absurd. As for your sons, I do not want them here. They were brought here, without any invitation from me, by one of my acquaintances. They shall never come here again. And my name is not Madame Rocada. That is merely a trade name, and is not even of my own choosing.”
Lord Clanfield looked at her keenly. He was interested, in spite of himself, in this woman, whose manners and appearance were, he felt sure, quite different from those of the ordinary adventuress he had believed her to be. He hesitated, and then said, looking at her with a scrutinising gaze as he spoke:—
“And may I ask what your name really is?”
If there had been even a little kindliness, a little unbending, in his tone and manner, Audrey might perhaps have been tempted to tell him the whole truth as to her identity, and even to plead with him on behalf of that nephew whom she was sure he cruelly misjudged.
But Lord Clanfield, though he was perplexed, was not outwardly softened. If anything, indeed, he was inclined to be indignant that the keeper of a gaming-house, as he believed her to be, should be so amply endowed by nature, so well-bred in manner, as to increase the danger of her acquaintance for susceptible young men.
So Audrey merely said:—
“My name is an honourable one, and I have done nothing to disgrace it.”
And as she spoke the thought of poor Gerard, going through the terrible humiliation and hardship of penal servitude, with his heart breaking on her account, suddenly overwhelmed her, and she turned abruptly, and walked away down the long room, afraid of an outburst of tears.
If she had given way to this impulse, if she had broken down into the open and uncontrollable grief which possessed her, it is possible that Lord Clanfield’s pity might have been excited, and that a full confession on her part might have followed.
But whether such a confession would have been to the advantage of herself and Gerard is, perhaps, open to question. And it was some inkling of the enormous difficulty of her position in this respect which acted even more powerfully than her sense of dignity in enabling Audrey to control her emotions, and to retire abruptly from the contest.
There was nothing left to Lord Clanfield but to withdraw, with such conventional words of thanks as he could muster for her promise to refuse admittance to his sons. She bowed without a word, and the painful interview came to an abrupt end.
Audrey was left in a state bordering on stupefaction.
Before her on the table lay her letter to Mr. Candover, not yet put into its envelope. She took it up mechanically, read it, and wished she had handed it to Lord Clanfield. At least he would have seen then how anxious she was to get away from this place, how angry she was at the scenes which had taken place there.
But on the other hand, the letter would have been an acknowledgment that there had been scenes of a disagreeable kind; and, though the viscount would have seen that she had influential friends, as Mr. Candover was a man well known in society, Audrey reflected, with a pang of bitterness, that the men friends of an unprotected woman, however influential they may be, are not looked upon as witnesses to character.
And, realising that her complaints to Mr. Candover, however well founded and however passionate, would in all probability be met by him with his usual soothing assurances that she was very well off, and that she ought to take the drawbacks of her position with philosophy, Audrey tore up the letter, and wrote another, not to him, but to the only woman friend who knew of at least one and the greatest of her troubles.
This was Mrs. Webster, a kindly, honest-hearted woman, of mature age, yet not too old as to have lost touch with life and society, and one upon whose goodness of heart she knew that she could rely.
This was what she said:—
“Dear Mrs. Webster,
“I know you are away, so I am sending this letter to your flat to be forwarded, for I want you to come and see me as soon as you are back in town. I have taken this place for two months, one of which has now expired, I am happy to say. You don’t know that I’ve taken a business under the name of ‘Madame Rocada,’ and though I hate the name and mean to give it up, you had better direct to me by it, as it is the only one I am known by here. I am so terribly lonely, and am in a position of great difficulty for want of some one to advise me, so please, please come and see me as soon as ever you return to town.
“Yours most sincerely,
“Audrey.”
She got an answer almost by return of post, to say that Mrs. Webster was already back in town and would come to “The Briars” on the following day.
In the meantime Audrey passed her time in a state of great uncertainty as to what she would do when she left “The Briars,” as she had no doubt that Mrs. Webster would advise her to do.
On the one hand she knew that it was hopeless to expect to get, by her own unaided efforts, into another position where she would have a chance of making money, such as she undoubtedly had now.
On the other hand, as she had sunk all the capital she could spare in the flourishing business she had established, there would be very little for her to live upon if she were to throw it up and retire into obscurity in some quiet seaside place, which was the plan she had in her mind.
When Mrs. Webster arrived, as she did just before luncheon-time, Audrey’s heart beat high with pleasure and excitement. They had not seen one another since Audrey left her flat, and Mrs. Webster, who was the widow of a barrister, living in modest comfort on a small income which did not allow much margin for dress, was electrified by the magnificence of Audrey’s dress and surroundings.
“My dear child,” she exclaimed, as she looked at the pretty gown of grey silk muslin trimmed with strips of gorgeous Indian embroidery, “how smart you are! You make me ashamed of my old rags! And how splendidly you’re installed here! Good gracious, have you come into a fortune?”
And the good lady looked from Audrey to the beautiful room and the masses of flowers and palms which decorated it, with a slightly dubious uplifting of the eyebrows.
“No, of course not. Sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. I told you I’d gone into business, didn’t I? Well, this is part of the stock-in-trade. I’ve only got this house for another month, but I don’t want to keep it even as long as that. Listen.”
And she poured into her friend’s sympathetic ear the whole history of her start in her new career, of the energetic help given her by Mr. Candover, the prosperous beginning of the business, and then the terrible scene of the coming of the lady in white, of the mystery of her disappearance, and finally she told of her renting “The Briars,” and of the card-playing that went on there in spite of her.
Mrs. Webster listened with the keenest interest, but to Audrey’s astonishment, she did not share her views as to the impossibility of her retaining her present position.
It was even apparent that she was inclined to share the opinion expressed by Dr. Fendall, that part at least of the extraordinary story she told about the white-robed lady was the result of her imagination.
“If it had all really happened, my dear, I don’t see how it is possible to account for your hearing no more of it,” she added sagely.
Audrey, though rather discouraged by this attitude on the part of her friend, went on to narrate the circumstances of her coming to “The Briars,” of the numerous acquaintances and neighbours who at once visited her, and of the high play in which they indulged under her roof.
Again, to her dismay, Mrs. Webster was more impressed by the rank and position of these visitors than by the gambling in which they indulged.
“Lord Gourock and Sir William Dymchurch!” she exclaimed, with manifest enjoyment of the titles. “Why, they’re quite distinguished people, my dear, and I should think you ought to be proud to have them for your friends. As for their playing cards, why, everybody does it nowadays, women as well as men, and particularly people of fashion, such as your visitors are! I cannot understand what you have to complain about.”
“Well, they are noisy, some of them,” said Audrey, beginning to fear that she had found another opponent in seeking an ally. “And just now I wanted to live so quietly! It seems dreadful to me to have all this going on under what is for the time, at any rate, my roof, when I feel, as I’ve told you, as if I should like to shut myself up in a convent and never see anybody!”
“That would never do,” said Mrs. Webster with decision. “It would be bad for you, and it wouldn’t do any good to your poor husband.”
“Well, listen to this,” said Audrey impatiently, as she went on to narrate her very latest grievance, the visit of Lord Clanfield, and his astounding accusation.
To that Mrs. Webster replied by a question:—
“Well, and what does Mr. Candover say to that?”
“I haven’t seen him since, to ask him,” she answered. “And to tell you the truth I thought it was better to consult a woman than to have to ask a man about it. I don’t want to be dependent for everything upon the advice of Mr. Candover.”
“Well, of course it’s better to have friends of your own sex too,” admitted Mrs. Webster. “But as Mr. Candover was such an intimate friend of your husband’s, there can’t be much harm in speaking to him, as he knows everything too!” she added in a discreet undertone. “And he’s such a very nice man, so handsome, so well-bred, and so nice about his daughters!”
“Ye-es,” said Audrey, who knew that a certain vague mistrust in her mind had better not be too openly insisted on as yet. “But what do you think about his having suggested to me this name Rocada? Don’t you see that it has put me into a very unpleasant position? Perhaps some others among these people who come think I am the woman who kept a gaming-house in Paris!”
This was certainly not a pleasant suggestion, and Mrs. Webster, after a little reflection, offered to stay at “The Briars” and to be present at one of the evenings which caused Audrey so much distress. The offer was accepted with gratitude, and Mrs. Webster telegraphed to her housekeeper that she would not be home until the following day, and spent not only the day but the night with her unhappy friend.
That very evening the guests arrived in numbers, as they did regularly every Wednesday and Friday. There was the usual preponderance of the male sex, but there were quite enough ladies present to make Mrs. Webster decide that Audrey was too prudish in her strictures.
Mr. Candover, who came early, expressed himself delighted to see Mrs. Webster, and at once opened a long confidential conversation with her, in which he quite won her heart by his earnest solicitude for the poor unprotected young wife, and by the bitter regret he expressed that he had not been in England at the time of poor Gerard’s trial, to give him any help which might have been in his power.
He brought tears to the good lady’s eyes, and when he told her of the difficulty he experienced in persuading Audrey to do what was best for herself and her husband, and of the obstacles she put in the way of everything that was done for her, Mrs. Webster grew quite indignant at Audrey’s stupid obstinacy, and begged him to be patient with her, and to remember the state of over-wrought nerves in which she must be after the terrible excitement and trouble of her husband’s trial.
“I do remember that indeed,” said he in a low voice. “And I think myself it accounts for some most singular delusions which she has undoubtedly suffered from of late, delusions so strange that they made me quite unhappy as to her mental balance.”
“Do you mean the story about the lady in white?” asked Mrs. Webster in a whisper.
Mr. Candover nodded.
“And the visit of Lord Clanfield, and his accusing her of being a woman called the ‘White Countess,’ who once kept a gaming-house in Paris, do you think that is a delusion too?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve heard nothing about that,” said he.
“Oh, well then, don’t say I said anything about it to you. No doubt she’ll tell you about it herself. She seemed very much upset, poor thing!”
In the meantime Audrey, who had a vague consciousness of the existence near her of some perfect organisation which worked out all its ends in an admirable way, recognised the fact that on this particular evening, when she was anxious to prove to Mrs. Webster the difficulty of her position, there was nothing whatever in the demeanour or the actions of her unwelcome visitors to give the slightest colour to her complaints.
One room was, indeed, set apart for cards, but no sounds of undue excitement came thence to the drawing-room, where music and conversation formed the entertainment of the rest of the guests.
Audrey was uneasy, excited, miserable, afraid that the sons of Lord Clanfield might insist upon defying her prohibition to the servants to admit them, and anxious yet nervous about the talk she must have with Mr. Candover.
In the meantime, while he was occupied in conversation with Mrs. Webster, Audrey had a shrewd yet vague suspicion that he was having it all his own way, and persuading the impressionable lady into taking exactly his own views.
Audrey passed through the long drawing-room and glanced into the end room at right angles with it, where the card-playing was going on.
By this time there were certain faces which she knew she might always be sure of seeing on these evenings, and she mentally made a note of them as she looked.
There was Lord Gourock, conspicuous for his perfectly bald head and the heavy white moustache which seemed to have absorbed all his powers of hair-producing. Passive as a statue, with dull yet not unobservant eyes, he sat there, apparently indifferent to whether he gained or lost, as long as he played.
There were two silly-looking youths who put on airs of blasé middle age, and who were, she knew, the sons of men who had made a great deal of money in trade. She knew that both of them always lost heavily, and she wished she could find an opportunity of pointing out to them how silly they were to go on playing in the circumstances. She supposed that they must both be very careless in play or very stupid, for the luck to be so constantly against them.
There was Durley Diggs, Mr. Candover’s secretary. He, too, generally complained of having lost, and always got into a state of great elation if he won two or three pounds. He did not care what he played at, poker, baccarat, roulette, it was all the same to him, and he went from table to table, always alert, neat, trim, bright of speech yet quiet in manner, and always perfectly equable of temper even when his fellow-players, as sometimes happened, grew peevish and ill-tempered.
They were not noisy. Except when the young Clanfields, or one or two strangers were of the party, it was remarkable how quiet they all were. Audrey even thought sometimes, when only the habitués were present, that the silence in which they all staked and won or lost was uncanny.
There was another man whom she generally saw in the rooms, the heavy, solemn-looking Jim Johnson, Madame de Vicenza’s steward or secretary, Audrey did not exactly know which—who had accompanied her and Durley Diggs to the police court to arrange bail for Gerard.
Audrey noticed how modest this man was, how shy and awkward, how he always avoided the ordeal of greeting her or of bidding her good-bye.
He, too, was generally present, and Audrey thought that he was perhaps instructed by the duchess to frequent the place as much as possible in her absence, to see that no damage was done to the premises while they were sublet.
On this occasion Audrey, glancing round the card-room, saw Johnson’s face in profile, and was at once struck by a fact which she was surprised that she had not previously noticed, the extraordinary resemblance between him and the Dr. Fendall whom Mademoiselle Laure had called in on the eventful evening when the white lady appeared at the showrooms and disappeared from them so strangely.
The more she looked, the more certain she felt that the two men must be brothers. There was the same heavy protruding jaw, the same light blue eyes, the same slightly aquiline nose; both were of about the same height, were round-shouldered, and stooped a good deal.
The only noticeable points of difference, indeed, were the fact that while Johnson was clean-shaved, Dr. Fendall wore a greyish moustache, and that whereas the secretary used no glasses, the doctor wore gold-rimmed spectacles.
The longer Audrey looked, the more struck was she by this resemblance, and Johnson himself soon became aware of her curious gaze, grew uneasy under it, glanced at her apprehensively again and again, and finally, at the first opportunity, sprang up from the table at which he was playing and made a dash for the door at the opposite end of the room from that at which Audrey stood.
But she was determined to question him; and retreating hastily through the drawing-room she slipped out quietly into the hall, and came, as she had expected to do, face to face with Johnson, who was in the act of finding his hat from a pile on the hall table.
“Mr. Johnson,” said she, “I want to ask you something.”
He bowed without speaking, but looked very uncomfortable.
“You are a brother of Dr. Fendall, are you not?”
He burst into an awkward, self-conscious laugh.
“Why, yes, I am,” said he. “I am a brother of his. Do—do you know him?”
Audrey looked at him curiously, with a sudden suspicion.
“Then how is it,” she asked quickly, “that you haven’t the same name?”