CHAPTER XIII
More dead than alive, Audrey, when she had left Lord Clanfield’s house, hurried through the flower-garden, where she passed Geoffrey, indignant at her having given him the slip but not ready with a coherent protest, and came to a sudden standstill under the spreading branches of an old beech-tree, against the trunk of which she leaned for support.
Panting and breathless, too deeply agitated for connected thought, she cast longing eyes back at the old red-brick house, and felt the first pang of the parting with her husband.
She had left him so abruptly, not daring to stay, not daring to speak clearly to him, that she asked herself, in dismay, whether the bewilderment in which he must be would not more than counterbalance the joy he had felt in seeing her again.
Perhaps, after all, Lord Clanfield was right, and the meeting, unavoidable as it had been, might have done the invalid more harm than good.
In a state of fresh suspense, she asked herself whether she would not do better to go back again, to make inquiries about him, to make one more attempt to soften the viscount’s heart towards her.
But she knew, even while she thus debated with herself, that she would find no melting in the obstinate and autocratic old gentleman, whose prejudices as well as principles she had offended, and whose pride she had wounded by her counter-attacks.
No. She must refrain at all hazards from irritating him further, and she could trust him to fulfil his promise to be kind to Gerard if he were allowed to work in his own way.
In the meantime, how would he satisfy his nephew’s demands to know more about her? Would Lord Clanfield tell him all he knew, and worse, all he suspected about her? Would he tell of the splendid house where she was surrounded by luxury, visited by troops of acquaintances, all belonging to a set more noted for its enjoyment of life than for its austerity?
Surely, surely he would never do such a cruel thing as to try to oust her from his nephew’s heart by means which would inevitably do more harm to Gerard than to her!
And then in the midst of her trouble and distress there came into Audrey’s heart a comforting thought: Gerard would never believe her other than true to him in word and deed without such overwhelming proof to the contrary as even malignity could not bring!
Struggling to regain her self-command, and drying the tears which would flow, she recovered enough composure to resume her walk towards the park gates.
But as she went, she cast many a look behind, perhaps with the secret hope that she might be called back, that she might even see Gerard himself in pursuit of her.
And on one of these occasions she caught sight, not indeed of any member of the viscount’s household, but of a figure which seemed familiar. This was her first impression when she perceived, a long way behind her, a man going in the same direction as herself. The second impression was less pleasant: the man stopped short when she turned, and Audrey suddenly wondered whether he was following her.
On this assumption she waited, looking at him. He seemed disconcerted by her action, and, after turning away so that she could not see his face, he walked until he reached the shelter of an intervening clump of ornamental firs, after which she saw no more of him for the time.
At first she thought she would go back and try to find out who the man was. But on second thoughts she decided that, if he was really dogging her footsteps, her best plan would be to go on to the station without looking back, trusting to chance for some convenient season for identifying him.
This was a sensible decision, and, as she had supposed, she found the desired opportunity before reaching the little country railway station.
Coming to a knoll of rising ground, she passed it and waited on the other side. In a few minutes the man she had descried in the park came into full view.
And she recognised one of the footmen in the service of the Duchess de Vicenza, a man with a clever face and watchful, cunning eyes, whose duty it was to open the door for arriving guests.
“Barnard!” ejaculated she, under her breath.
It was evident to her that the man had been following her, and she guessed that he must have been in pursuit from the time she left “The Briars” in the morning. He pretended not to see her, but from the slight change of countenance which she noticed, she was convinced, not only that he was fulfilling an allotted duty, but that he was infinitely vexed at being seen, and that he guessed that he was found out.
She let him go past, and he was much too astute, now that he had once been caught, to betray himself further by looking round. He disappeared from sight before she moved from the spot where she had taken up her stand, and she saw no more of him till she reached “The Briars”; but she had shrewd suspicions that, though unseen, he was not far away.
This incident filled her with fresh misgivings to add to the vexations and griefs from which she was already suffering.
She was sure that the man would never have set out to follow her on his own responsibility; he must be fulfilling orders which had been given him.
By whom, then, were those orders given?
Surely not by the old duchess, whose only care was understood to be that her house and grounds should be kept in proper order.
Who, then, was it that had set him to play the spy upon her?
And once more, as had happened to her so often previously, a sudden uncomfortable sensation, as of being a puppet in unseen hands, a tool in the employ of some powerful organisation, seized her and made her shudder.
If only she could break away from the strange, invisible but strong ties that seemed to bind her to a position she loathed, to hold her in a course which was, she felt, suicidal to her self-respect, and to her hopes of restored happiness with her husband!
And then the poor creature realised, as she had never done before, that to break these ties abruptly would bring her no nearer to Gerard, no nearer to his uncle’s regard, while it would bring upon her the blame of her one woman friend, Mrs. Webster, and certainly the disapproval and resentment of the one man who had done the most to help her—Mr. Candover.
It seemed to her fortunate that, when she reached “The Briars,” only just in time for a late and hurried dinner, she found Mr. Candover himself there to see her.
He had come, he said, to submit to her certain notions of Mademoiselle Laure’s concerning the winter campaign. The Frenchwoman was still in Paris, but she had made extensive purchases of models, and wanted the approval of her nominal chief for certain others.
Audrey, however, was tired, impatient, petulant.
“Why does she send you to me?” she asked. “Surely she knows more about these things than I do, and I gave her carte blanche to buy what she thought proper. Besides——”
“Well,” interrupted Mr. Candover quickly, “I think you ought to be consulted. You have excellent taste, and——”
“Oh, no, I know nothing and care nothing about these things! I wear the dresses she tells me to wear, I recommend those she advises me to recommend. I am a mere puppet, without a will of my own or a word to say on my own account!”
Mr. Candover took her petulance sublimely. He was as patient as a lamb.
“Oh, don’t say that. You won’t when you have rested a little, and had something to eat. Don’t let me detain you. I can wait here, if I may, while you dine.”
Audrey bit her lip.
“You have dined, yourself?” she asked perfunctorily.
For some reason, perhaps it was on account of Lord Clanfield’s disapproval of her friends, she did not feel kindly disposed to Mr. Candover at that moment. She had, even while he consulted her on this question of fashions, an uneasy, dim, vague sense that he was connected with her misfortunes; connected wilfully, and not by unhappy chance. At another time she might have been ashamed of this vague feeling, but at this moment of irritation, disappointment and despair, she could not be just, she was at the mercy of—instincts.
And her instincts, at this moment of depression, were all in arms against him.
“Yes, thanks. I dined early, before leaving town. You will see me to settle this matter, won’t you?”
He was winning, persuasive, gentle. Wounded, irritable, full of misgivings as she was, she could not help finding his deference, his almost humble courtesy, both welcome and soothing.
She left him, and dining hurriedly, dressed herself with care, as a woman does when she is conscious that there is an ordeal of some sort in prospect.
And when she came down to the drawing-room she was at least outwardly calm, radiant and beautiful, even if her mind was torn with perplexing questions.
She had intentionally said no word as yet to Mr. Candover of the momentous news of Gerard’s release. Not a word, either, of her visit to Lord Clanfield’s. These pieces of information would, she knew, open up such a wide field for discussion that they could not be approached except with full leisure. That leisure, had, however now come, and she knew, as she swept into the drawing-room, in her dress of cream silk muslin with huge rosettes of palest turquoise velvet, that there was a struggle in store.
She wanted to withdraw from the wretched position in which she found herself, cut off from husband and relations. He would want her to snap her fingers at prejudices and principles alike, and to continue at her post.
Thus much she knew, but what she did not know, until she began to approach the subject, was that Mr. Candover was already in possession of the greater part of her news.
“I have something to tell you,” she began, not taking the chair she generally used, low and easy, but a higher, more stiff-backed one in which she could assume more dignity; “something that will, I think, surprise you very much.”
“Well!”
“Gerard is released—is at his uncle’s, Lord Clanfield’s.”
“So I heard—yesterday. And you are going to join him there?”
Did he, could he, know, the cruelty of this question? It broke down all poor Audrey’s defences, her pride, her self-command; and turning her head away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes, she bit her trembling lip and tried in vain to recover her coolness.
Meanwhile, however, Mr. Candover quickly perceived his mistake.
“Oh, what have I done? Believe me, I had no intention of—of—Tell me. I don’t understand yet; what is the position?”
After a brief struggle, Audrey regained enough composure to answer, not in a firm, even tone, but in short, broken sentences:—
“They disapprove—Lord Clanfield disapproves strongly, utterly, of what I have done, what I am doing. He dislikes the notion of my being in business, on the one hand, of my receiving guests who gamble on the other. I feel he is justified.”
“Well, but surely Gerard doesn’t disapprove! Knowing you were left insufficiently provided for, surely he applauds your spirit in striking out a line for yourself! He wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t!”
“He can say nothing. He is ill, very ill. So ill that his best chance is to stay where he is so well cared for, even if—it means——”
“Means what?”
“Even if it involves a temporary separation.”
Mr. Candover leapt to his feet.
“Surely,” he cried with passionate excitement, “no man worthy of the name would submit to such a state of things for a moment! He would say: ‘My wife, my poor wife whom I was forced to leave alone and unprotected, is my first care. I will not stay at my ease with the relatives who have snubbed and neglected her, and left her to the kindness and care of people who are not connected with her or with me by any ties but those of friendship!’ Surely, surely, Madame——Audrey, you would never cling so tenderly to a husband who could let you go and keep safe and snug himself in the house of a man who had no respect and regard for his true wife!”
Audrey was trembling and again on the verge of tears. She saw that this was a possible view to take of the situation of affairs, even though it was not the right one. She interposed earnestly:—
“You don’t understand. It was I who took upon myself to arrange matters with Lord Clanfield. Knowing that even to Gerard, my engaging in business—not to speak of other things—would be a great shock, I hurried everything through so quickly that we had scarcely met and rejoiced in meeting, when I ran away again. I left him no time to speak, no chance to object. I took advantage of the fact that he couldn’t run after me, to run away!”
Mr. Candover was standing near her, bending his eyes upon her with such a look of passionate devotion as she could not and would not meet. He appeared, indeed, to have almost lost his self-possession in anger at this treatment of her.
“As long as he had a leg to stand on,” he persisted emphatically, “he should have run. Why, I would have crawled on my hands and knees sooner than let you go away from me in such a case! Audrey, it is hard, terrible, to see you used like this, to know that you are not appreciated as you ought to be by the man who has the blessing and honour of being your husband. No, I won’t stop, I won’t be shut up! I tell you it makes my blood boil to think of your being exposed to the insolence of those men, who think, because they are well-born, they have a right to trample under foot all decency, all duty, in dealing with the rest of mankind. Oh, Audrey Audrey,” and as he spoke he came nearer to her, his eyes ablaze with passion, “forgive me if I say too much, but it’s because I feel, I feel as if my own heart would burst to think of it!”
Although he spoke with intense passion, with torrential excitement, he took care not to wound her susceptibilities by so much as a too near approach. Keeping near her, indeed, but clenching his fists as if to keep away from her the hands that longed to touch hers, hovering over her rather than assuming any airs of authority or insolence, Mr. Candover succeeded in rousing in her a spark of the gratitude he was so anxious to excite. Seeing his opportunity in a certain softening of her features, a relaxing of her attitude, he was drawing stealthily nearer when, suddenly realising her danger, her weakness, she raised her head, and went on with her exculpation of Gerard.
“He cannot choose, he is in the hands of others,” she said. “For not only is he so ill that there’s a doubt whether we can save him, but his uncle has undertaken to sift the evidence against him, the false evidence that got his conviction. So that on Lord Clanfield may be said to depend not only his life, but his honour.”
Mr. Candover seemed struck by this fact. So strongly impressed was he by it indeed that he at once changed his attitude, and from the passionate, enthusiastic friend became the cool-headed, cautious, sceptical man of the world.
“They had better leave things alone,” said he drily, after a pause. “To prove him innocent would be—excuse my saying so—extremely difficult. Indeed, it’s not at all likely that, with all his social influence, Lord Clanfield will be able to get the case reopened. It is all done, ended, and well-nigh forgotten by this time. Gerard had better let sleeping dogs lie.”
There was a deep note of warning, almost of menace in his tone, which could not fail to impress Audrey, even while it roused her indignation.
“I know you believe him guilty. You have said so,” she said, with fire. “But I know that he is innocent. And if Lord Clanfield were to heap up insults upon me, and were to refuse ever to speak to me again, I would forgive him everything if—if only—he would save my darling Gerard’s life, and prove his innocence to the world!”
“Your innocence does you credit, Madame,” sneered Mr. Candover as Audrey rose and walked away.