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?”