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.