Hue and Cry (21 page)

Ambrose Medhurst sat forward. He had been an absolute fool to come and sit out with her like this. He could see the silver of her hood, the pale gold of her hair; the dusk was full of glamour. He was a first-class fool. He ought to have started talking about golf, or cars, or something, right away, instead of letting the silence close in upon them both like this. He ought to say something now, but for the life of him he couldn't think of anything to say except her name. And before he knew, he had said it:

“Candida,”—just like that.

“Look here, Ambrose, I want to ask you something; and I want the sort of straight answer you'd give to another man. I want you to remember we're pals, and let me have it dead straight.”

He found he was saying her name again:

“Candida!”

“I want to ask you a question. I want to ask you if you're in love with any one.”

The hand that was lying on his knee closed with a jerk.

“Why do you want to ask me that, Candida?”

He had found his voice now; but it was a voice that Candida hardly knew. She felt a little frightened.

“Aren't you going to tell me?”

“No, I'm not going to tell you.”

“Ambrose—why?”

“I've got my reasons.”

Candida leaned forward too.

“Ambrose, you've got to tell me.” With feminine mendacity: “You
promised.”

“I think not.”

Candida threw up her head and laughed.

“If you weren't in love with any one, you'd say so like a shot. So the answer is ‘Yes.' Who is it? Is it Janet?”

He remained dumb.

“Ambrose, you promised—you really did. You said you'd give me a straight answer, and I think you're being simply beastly. Do you suppose I
want
to ask you all these questions? Do you suppose I wouldn't m-m-much rather be proposed to p-p-properly?”

Ambrose pushed back his chair and got up.

“For the Lord's sake, Candida!”

Candida put her hands over her face.

“If you don't care for me, go right away! Go now—go at once!”

A most frightfully long minute went by. Then Candida sprang to her feet.

“Why don't you go? Why don't you?”

He made a sort of half step away from her, and then turned back.

“If you care,” said Candida. “If you care, and if you go away just because of my horrible money, I—I'll never speak to you again.”

Ambrose Medhurst was human. Candida's voice shaking like that—He found that his arms were round her without any very clear idea on his part as to how it had happened. With Candida in his arms, her money didn't seem to matter. He wanted to kiss her, but she held him off.

“You haven't answered. You haven't told me. If you're not in love with me, you're to go away.”

“Don't be an idiot!” said Ambrose. “I'm in love with you all right. I wish I wasn't.”

“Oh!”

Ambrose let go of her with a good deal of suddenness.

“What's the good of my being in love with you?” His voice was cross and jerky.

“I don't know,” said Candida. Then she added with a shade of defiance, “Do you want me to marry Paul Craddock? Because I shall if you go on like this. I think you're being a p-p-perfect beast.”

Ambrose ran his hands through his hair.

“It makes no difference to me who you marry. But Paul Craddock! Why in Heaven's name Paul Craddock?”

“He wants me to.”

Ambrose laughed.

“That seems a pretty poor reason. Of course I don't want to bias you; and, as I said before, it's no affair of mine——”

“Oh!” said Candida suddenly. “I hate you, Ambrose!” She stamped her foot. “I won't be preached at. Do you hear? And I won't be told it's no affair of yours. And I'll marry a dozen people if I like. And—and—what's it got to do with you anyhow? You don't care—you don't care a
damn
what happens to me.”

Ambrose glared.

“That's a lie!”

“It's not!”

“It is.”

“Then why are you being a perfect fiend to me?”

“Because——Look here, Candida, I haven't got a bean besides my pay, and I never shall have. And if you think I'm going to dangle round after a rich wife, I'm not—and there's an end of it.”

There was a silence. Candida pulled down her mask.

“All right. Paul won't mind.” Her voice shook a little. “Every one doesn't think such a lot about money as you do.”

“I don't.”

“Don't you? You never stop thinking about it. I don't matter—and you don't matter—and our both being unhappy doesn't matter. Nothing matters to you except my money.”

She straightened her hood and moved away from him into the corridor. Before he realized that she was going, she had gone.

Ambrose did not follow her.

Candida came out into the ballroom just as a new dance was beginning. She looked all round for the red and black domino, and saw him on the far side of the room alone. A moment later she was saying, “Don't you dance?” and the red and black domino was offering her his arm.

As they slipped into the stream of dancers, Candida hoped that Ambrose saw her, and that he knew who her partner was. After the first half-turn she made no attempt to disguise her voice, and a man with a much lower opinion of himself than Paul Craddock might have found her manner encouraging. Paul was certainly more than ready to respond. By the time the dance was over and they were sitting out, his manner had become tenderly confidential, and Candida was experiencing a slight sense of reaction. Quite definitely she did not want Paul to propose to her to-night. Ambrose had behaved like a fiend, but she hadn't finished with him yet. And then, quite suddenly, Paul was leaning closer, and saying in a very carefully lowered voice:

“I'm so glad of this opportunity. I was afraid I might have to wait until after supper. I simply had to see you to-night. I didn't think it would be fair to let it all come on you without any warning. Anyhow, I'm afraid, it's bound to be a shock.”

Was it a proposal? A
shock?
What on earth did he mean?

She sat up and said, in a voice calculated to discourage sentiment:

“What do you mean? Who's going to have a shock?”

“You are.”

“How do you know? Suppose I simply won't?”

Mr. Craddock waved this flippancy away with an earnest gesture.

“I'm afraid it's bound to be a shock. It's about your maid.”

“About
Brown?”

“About your maid. Her name is not Brown.”

“No, of course it isn't. If that's your shock, I'm bearing up quite nicely, thank you.”

“My dear Candida, I'm only trying to spare you.” His voice hinted a tender reproach. “I don't know what you know about the girl, but it's the unpleasant fact that she's a thief. A warrant for her arrest has been issued, and she'll be taken into custody to-morrow.”

“Nonsense!” said Miss Long with a good deal of vigor.

“I wish it were. It's most unpleasant for you—I quite see that. And I felt that, at all costs, you must be prepared.”

“I don't believe it.”

“It's most unfortunately true. She was little Barbara Peterson's nursery governess, and she took a very valuable diamond brooch belonging to my aunt.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“The brooch was actually found on her. After that she went off with some papers. Sir George thinks she may be unhinged.”

“Oh,” said Miss Candida Long.

She looked down at the point of a silver shoe, and then quickly up to Paul Craddock's face. He had taken off his mask, and as far as she could see in the dim light, he wore an expression of concern. For some reason this had an irritating effect upon her. She said quite crossly:

“What on earth makes you think that your nursery governess is the same as my maid? Why should she be?”

Paul began to explain patiently:

“The nursery governess was traced to Peddling Corner. As soon as you told me you had picked up a strange girl on the road just beyond, I naturally began to put two and two together.”

“People who put two and two together generally finish up with being at sixes and sevens.” Candida tossed her head as she spoke.

“My dear Candida, I saw her go downstairs with you this evening. By the way, why did she have a hat on?” The point had only just struck him, and there was alarm in his voice.

Candida felt so cross that she could hardly speak. When Paul Craddock called her “My dear Candida,” it roused her worst passions. And if it was true about Brown—“Oh Lord, what fuss Elizabeth'll make!” What on earth did Paul want to rake up all this for? Such a fuss! Going abroad without a maid—
impossible
! And she liked Brown—she liked her awfully.

“Why was she wearing a hat?”

“Because she was going out. Maids do go out, you know.”

“Where was she going?”

“Really, Paul, I'm her employer, not her chaperon.”

Paul awoke to the fact that he was not being diplomatic.

“Don't be vexed,” he said. “I'm dreadfully put out about the whole business. You know I'd do anything I could to save you a moment's annoyance. You know—you must know—exactly what you mean in my life.”

“Do I?” said Candida in a very dry voice. “H'm—let's go back and dance.”

Mr. Craddock was not sensitive, but it occurred to him that this was not a propitious moment for courtship.

CHAPTER XXV

Mally was dancing again with Ethan Messenger.

“This is the last,” she said regretfully. “It's ten minutes to twelve by the clock in the hall and I'm Cinderella—I can't face midnight.”

“I thought you were the fairy godmother.”

“So did I”—Mally's tone was mornful—“I thought so, but I'm not. I'm just Cinderella's ghost wandering through the palace and bound to disappear when the clock strikes twelve.”

“What about the Prince?” said Ethan.

She shook her head; her voice became more mournful still:

“There isn't any Prince in this story—or any happy ending. It's all frightfully modern and up-to-date. Happy endings aren't done. I'm just a ghost who doesn't know where to go. It's all hundreds of years afterwards, and the palace is a ruin, and Cinderella nothing but a little cold wreath of mist.”

“I say,
don't
!” said Ethan. Then he laughed. “Do you know, you made me feel quite creepy. I should think you'd be an awfully good actress.”

“I am.” Mally's voice stopped being mournful and became full of modest pride.

They both laughed.

“I
did
do it awfully well—didn't I? But you know, it's partly true. In three and a half minutes I'm going to vanish away, and you'll never see me again.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because you won't.” There was a pause, and then she added, most reprehensibly, “Do you
want
to?” Her voice was very soft; there was a little tremble in it. It might have been due to laughter, or it might have been due to tears.

“Why shouldn't I see you again?” said Ethan.

He was almost sure she was laughing at him—almost, but not quite. The doubt plucked at his heart.

“Why should you?”

“Because I should like to. I've left Peddling Corner, you know. I'm only about four miles away, staying with two of my father's sisters. Of course, I don't know where you're staying—but I don't see why you shouldn't tell me.”

Mally laughed. And when she laughed he could have sworn she was on the edge of tears.

“I don't stay anywhere. I run away. And when I can't run any more I sleep in a hay-loft, and a kind person gives me a banana. And then I run away again.”

“I say, where
are
you staying? You might tell me. I—I'm not fooling. I'd like to come and see you. There might be something I could do, you know. You can't go on like this.”

Before Mally could answer, her arm was touched. She looked over her shoulder and saw a black and silver domino receding.

“Some one wants to speak to me,” she said quickly. “Get me out of this crush, will you?”

They came to a standstill by door leading into the hall, and a moment later Candida Long came up with them. She was alone. She spoke rather breathlessly in Mally's ear:

“I've sent Paul for a brooch I didn't drop. Don't wait a minute, but go and get into the car! I'll come.”

She melted into the crowd and was gone.

Ethan Messenger had moved a step away when Candida began to whisper. He stood and watched the dancers until he saw her pass by. Then he turned back to Mally. But Mally was gone. There was no rose-red domino by his side or anywhere else in the ballroom. The hall was empty.

As he stood in the doorway looking about him, the big clock on the other side of the hall began to strike. It was midnight, and Mally Lee was gone.

It was quite extraordinarily cold out of doors. Mally ran all the way to the car, and was glad to shut herself in. Her bundle lay on the back seat. She unrolled it, pulled off her domino, and slipped back into the navy jumper and skirt which she had been wearing when she came. She had just changed her shoes and stockings and put on her coat and hat, when there was a sound of running feet and Candida pulled open the door by the driver's seat and jumped in.

“Are you there, Brown? Are you there?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Get into the front seat by me. I've got to talk to you. But we must get away first. I hope to goodness she starts without a fuss—it's most awfully cold.”

The car started up nobly. They ran down the long drive under thickly arching trees and came out upon a perfectly white road. Snow had been falling steadily whilst they danced, and before they had gone half a mile it began to come down again in small, wavering flakes that fell into the glare of the headlights and floated there.