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diff --git a/35336-h/35336-h.htm b/35336-h/35336-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e1d589 --- /dev/null +++ b/35336-h/35336-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12306 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Lady Evelyn, by Max Pemberton +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +P.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +P.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +P.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +P.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 50%; + text-align: center } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +P.salutation {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 85%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.letter {text-indent: 4%; + font-size: 85%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + font-size: 85%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +H4.h4center { margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0 ; + margin-bottom: .5% ; + margin-top: 0; + float: none ; + clear: both ; + text-align: center } + +IMG.imgcenter { margin-left: auto; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 1%; + margin-right: auto; } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lady Evelyn, by Max Pemberton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lady Evelyn + A Story of To-day + +Author: Max Pemberton + +Release Date: July 23, 2011 [EBook #35336] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY EVELYN *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-cover"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-cover.jpg" ALT="Cover art" BORDER="2"> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT=""She was aware instantly that the strangers were speaking of her"" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center"> +"She was aware instantly that the strangers were speaking of her" +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t1"> +THE LADY EVELYN +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +<I>A Story of To-day</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +By +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +MAX PEMBERTON +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>Author of "The Hundred Days," "Doctor Xavier," "A Gentleman's<BR> +Gentleman," "A Puritan's Wife," Etc.</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +New York +<BR> +CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY +<BR> +Publishers +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>Copyright 1906 by Max Pemberton</I> +<BR> +<I>Entered at Stationers' Hall</I> +<BR> +<I>All rights reserved</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +CONTENTS +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BOOK I.—THE ESCAPADE. +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="15%">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="85%"> </TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">Prologue. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap00b">The Face in the River</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">A Telegram to Bukharest</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">Etta Romney is Presented</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">Success and Afterwards</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">Two Personalities</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">The Letter</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">Strangers in the House</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">The Nonagenarian</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">Lady Evelyn Returns</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">The Third Earl of Melbourne</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">The Accident Upon the Road</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">A Race for Life</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">The Unspoken Accusation</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">The Interview</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">Inheritance</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">The Price of Salvation</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">A Game of Golf</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BOOK II.—THE ENGLISHMAN. +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="15%">XVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="85%"> +<A HREF="#chap17">Gavin Ord Begins His Work</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">A Duel over the Teacups</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">From the Belfry Tower</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">Lovers</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">Zallony's Son</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">A Spy from Bukharest</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BOOK III.—THE LIGHT. +</P> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="15%">XXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="85%"> +<A HREF="#chap23">Bukharest</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">The Price Of Wisdom</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap25">The House Above the Torrent</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap26">Through a Woman's Heart</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap27">Etta Romney's Return</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap28">The Impresario's Prayer</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap29">The Prisoners at Setchevo</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap30">There is no News of Gavin Ord</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap31">The House at Hampstead</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap32">A Shot in the Hills</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap33">Djala</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap34">The Shadow of the River</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">Epilogue. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap35">The Doctor Drinks a Toast</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS +</P> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#img-front"> +"She was aware instantly that the strangers were + speaking of her" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - <I>Frontispiece</I> +</A> +</H4> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#img-145"> +"Oh, please let me go; your hands hurt me" +</A> +</H4> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#img-243"> +"As you came in folly, so shall you go——" +</A> +</H4> + +<H4> +<A HREF="#img-314"> +"Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish" +</A> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-facs"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-facs.jpg" ALT="(Facsimile Page of Manuscript from THE LADY EVELYN)" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center"> +(Facsimile Page of Manuscript from THE LADY EVELYN) +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap00b"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE LADY EVELYN +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PROLOGUE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE FACE IN THE RIVER +</H4> + +<P> +The porter did not know; the station-master was not sure; but both were +agreed that it was a "good step to the 'all"—by which they signified +the Derbyshire mansion of the third Earl of Melbourne. +</P> + +<P> +"Might be you'd get a cab, might be you wouldn't," said the porter +somewhat loftily—for here was a passenger who had spoken of walking +over: "that'll depend on Jacob Price and the beer he's drunk this +night. Some nights he can drive a man and some nights he can't. I'm +not here to speak for him more than any other." +</P> + +<P> +The station-master, who had been giving the whole weight of his +intelligence to a brown paper parcel with no address upon it, here +chimed in to ask a question in that patronizing manner peculiar to +station-masters. +</P> + +<P> +"Did his lordship expect you, sir?" he asked with some emphasis; as +though, had it been the case, he certainly should have been informed of +it. The reply found him all civility. +</P> + +<P> +"I should have been here by the train arriving at half-past six," said +Gavin Ord, the passenger in question—"it is my fault, certainly. No +doubt, they sent to meet me——" +</P> + +<P> +"The brown shay and a pair of 'osses stood in the yard more'n an hour," +exclaimed the porter with just reproach. "I'll tell Mr. Jacob. He +knows his betters when he sees him, drunk or sober——" +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," said Gavin quietly, "but I will not put his knowledge to +the proof. After all, it's only five miles, you say——" +</P> + +<P> +"And a public-house at Moretown if the dust sticks in your throat. +You'll do better walking than up alongside old Jacob at this time of +night, sir——" +</P> + +<P> +"Had we known that his lordship expected a guest, we'd have answered +for a carriage," added the station-master, still apologetically. +</P> + +<P> +The tall, fair-haired Englishman perplexed him. He hardly knew whether +he addressed a Duke or a commoner. The voice and manner suggested the +former; the intention to walk spoke of a vulgar habit rather befitting +his lordship's curate than the honored guest of Melbourne Hall. Gavin +Ord, upon his part, perhaps, delighted in perplexing people. He quite +understood the kind of curiosity he had aroused; and, refusing to +gratify it, he snatched up a light dressing bag; and leaving directions +for his heavier luggage to be forwarded in the morning, he set off +briskly upon the high road to Moretown, beyond which, as all the world +knows, lies the Manor of Melbourne. +</P> + +<P> +"Going to make a long stay, sir?" had been the amiable station-master's +last shot. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I may settle down there for a long time," said Ord in reply; and +this news was all over the village in an hour. +</P> + +<P> +Strangers upon the road to Melbourne Hall were not so many that one +should escape remark. +</P> + +<P> +"If he's for the Lady Evelyn," the blithe porter confessed over his +cups at a later hour, "she might go farther and get a worse-looking +man. Gave me a shillin', he did, and carried his bag hisself. That's +what I call a gentleman, now." +</P> + +<P> +Unconscious of this tribute to his qualities, Gavin Ord was then more +than three miles upon his road to Melbourne Hall. A hot day of August +had given place to a delicious night, fresh and cool and redolent of +sweet perfumes. The moon stood high above the horizon, shining with +glorious mellow light upon the gathered sheaves and the grattan where +the wheat was garnered. So plain were the hill-tops to be seen that +the very flocks could almost be numbered upon them; while the bare +walls of limestone, the tors of spar, and the higher mounts were veined +as by rifts of jewels, giving back in glittering flashes the moonbeams +they had husbanded. The roads themselves were eloquent by night. When +a farmer's cart went rumbling by, Gavin could hear the echo of the +horse's hoofs and the rolling sound of wheels for quite a long time. +</P> + +<P> +He was a man of redoubtable physique, trained by laborious days at home +and abroad to the finer qualities of his endurance; and nothing was +more to his liking than this lonely pilgrimage to a splendid house +wherein he believed that an advantageous welcome awaited him. A +stranger to Lord Melbourne, he never allowed himself to forget that his +own talents and achievements had made this visit possible and opened to +him the doors of a house which few even of the aristocracy now entered. +For Gavin Ord was callen in London the first among the younger school +of architects—an artist of prodigious originality and daring, and one +with as many sides to his talent as a diamond has facets. Already had +Burlington House heaped her honors upon him. The great Church at +Kensington would, he believed, stand as his memorial to all time. But +for a prodigality and a refusal to consider a mere matter of money, his +plans for a new cathedral in the North would certainly have been +accepted by the committee. As it was, critics said, "There is the man +of to-morrow." He liked to hear them say it, for he had a great +conceit in his art if none for himself. Something of the spirit of the +old-time builders moved within him. His imagination dwelt in lofty +temples, roamed in vast aisles—looked down upon men from a masterpiece +of spires. He was but a servant, if only the stone which dominated +men's hearts. +</P> + +<P> +And now this famous old recluse, this eccentric unknown Earl of +Melbourne, had summoned him to save the stately Melbourne Hall from its +only enemy—time. He could not have found a more congenial task upon +all the continents. +</P> + +<P> +There can be no journey more pleasant than that which carries us a +stage upon the road to our ambitions. Every event of the wayside is +then an adventure to us; every inn at which we rest seems to offer us +ambrosia. Here was Gavin Ord, at ten o'clock of the night, as good a +walker upon the road to Melbourne Hall as any trained athlete out with +the lark for a morning breather. Five or ten miles to go, it mattered +nothing to him. He had forgotten already the five hours in a stuffy +train; his mind was set upon the beauties of the moonlit landscape, the +fine wooded slopes of the hills, the twinkling lights in the hollows, +the dark towers of the scattered churches—more than all, upon the +distant goal and the reception which would await him there. +</P> + +<P> +How earnestly had the old Earl implored him to go to the Manor! +</P> + +<P> +"Here is the finest Tudor house in England," he had written; "you can +save it. Make it your home and learn to love it as I do. They tell me +that in your leisure you ride and shoot. I will introduce you to the +finest fencer in Derbyshire, and you shall tell me what you think of +the pheasants. Don't expect to find a house-party. I see few people. +I desire to see fewer. My daughter will play tennis with you, and, if +you are a golfer, there are lean long women on the hills who talk of +nothing else but hazards and whins. These preach sermons in stones. +Come and hear them, and my motor shall show you Derbyshire. But, above +all, become the servant of the Manor, as every true artist must be." +</P> + +<P> +The letter of a man, Gavin said to himself when he read it. He liked +it best because there was no gilt-edge of money upon it. The Earl's +prodigious wealth had been the one blot hitherto upon the fair panorama +of his desires. "There will be a host of flunkies in red breeches," he +had thought, "and every one of them will look the question, 'How much +is he good for?'" He knew that the present Master of Melbourne Hall +had come to the estate and the title almost by accident late in life, +and after an adventurous career which men spoke of openly in clubs, but +rarely in private life. A wild man who had been everything from a +discredited attaché at Bukharest to an equally unsuccessful miner in +Australia—this was the third Earl of Melbourne. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +And what of his daughter, the Lady Evelyn? +</P> + +<P> +There were but wild fables spoken about this unknown girl and the +secluded life her father compelled her to live at the Manor House. +Some said she was the daughter of a Roumanian gypsy whom the Earl had +married after his disgrace at Bukharest. Others declared that her dead +mother had been an actress who had enjoyed a brief spell of notoriety +in Vienna and thence had been driven out by the infatuation of an +archduke. None knew the truth, but there were many to suggest what the +truth might be. Openly and scandalously, as the world will, idle +tongues hinted that the Earl must have some good reason for his +eccentric conduct. There were even stories that the Lady Evelyn was +unmistakably a gypsy girl herself. "As brown as a walnut chiffonier," +said little Backbiter at the Club. The fellow had never been within +fifty miles of Melbourne Hall; and if he had met the Earl, he would +have gone down on his marrow bones to him. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin Ord recalled some of these stories as he followed the tortuous +road and left the solitary village still farther behind him. They did +not interest him. He had gone into Derbyshire to see not a woman but a +house. Delight that he should be chosen for guardian of such a +national treasure as Melbourne Hall went with him upon his way. He +must be now, he thought, but a mile from the Manor gates. The road had +become narrow and closely bordered by leafy elms. No longer could he +see the moonlit heights or the twinkling lights in the valleys. There +were no kindly beams to guide his steps. In weird darkness he followed +the dusty track and pressed on toward the Manor. The rustling of +leaves sounded almost like a human voice in his ears. He liked to +think that Nature was still awake and speaking to him. +</P> + +<P> +So it is evident that he possessed that quasi-divine attribute, +imagination. His mood of thought responded instantly to any change, +atmospheric, or of the light of the heavens. The sunshine could ever +build temples of success for him; the twilight rarely failed to bring +the question, what is the good of it all, of ambition and the stress +and strife of arenas. In the night he would awake to remember that all +men must die. In the daytime he would laugh at death and all the vain +problems of the hereafter. That Melbourne Hall, approached in this +gloom of a summer's night, should provoke no evil thoughts but only +those of good omen, seemed a new witness to the pleasure with which he +contemplated his stay there. He would accomplish something amid those +ancient stones by which men should remember him. The aspiration +quickened his step. A turn of the road revealed the lodge-gates, with +a lighted window and a pleasant cottage. He entered Lord Melbourne's +park and discerned the Hall, dim and stately and starred with lights, +across the little river which stood for a moat before its walls. +</P> + +<P> +This, then, was his goal, this superb fabric which the genius of the +mediæval age had bequeathed to England and to posterity. No words +could rightly have described the emotions which stirred his imagination +as he stood to contemplate the jagged line of building and battlement, +chapel, tower and stable, which his hand should snatch from the greedy +hand of time. The very park, with its soft grasses, and deer in shadow +pictures beneath the trees, could conjure up a vision of knights and +pages and stately dames and all the witching pageantry of +half-forgotten centuries. The great house itself might have been the +house of a thousand mysteries, locked in banded coffers, enshrined in +ghostly walls—crying aloud none the less to him who would listen to +the tongue of their romance. Gavin Ord stood in an ecstasy of homage +to worship at the gates of such a temple as this. And, standing so, he +heard a woman's cry. +</P> + +<P> +He had walked across the park with slow steps and come to the narrow +bridge of five Roman arches which spanned the shallow river—shallow, +save for one deep pool over which many a fisherman must have thrown a +skilful fly. Standing by the balustrade to contemplate the picture, +his delighted eyes traced every tower and pinnacle of Melbourne Hall +with an artist's ecstasy—thence looked out over the moonlit park to +glades of surpassing beauty and scenes which the centuries had +hallowed. How inimitable it all was—the mighty yews about which +Elizabeth's courtiers had grouped; the groves which had listened to +many a child of Pampinea—the fearsome walls, what tragedies, what +comedies, had been played within them! Even a dullard might +contemplate the scene with awe. Gavin Ord was no dullard, and the +spell it cast upon him was such as he had never known in all his life. +So entirely did it claim his mind and will that when he heard a woman's +low cry beneath the very bridge he stood upon, he scarcely turned his +head or gave the matter a thought. +</P> + +<P> +What had happened; whence came the sound? Being repeated, he could no +longer ignore it. In truth, it awed him not a little; for it was not +the voice of a woman in danger but of one asking his pity, his help, as +it seemed, in a low whispering voice which he now heard more clearly +than if a strong man had shouted at him. Taking one quick glance at +the river, Gavin declared that the cry could not have come from there. +Splashing and leaping over mossy boulders, a child might have waded +across the stream, he thought. Then whence did the cry come? Turning +about, to the right, to the left, he discovered himself to be still +alone. It was the voice of imagination he began to say; and was about +to quit the place when he heard it for the third time, and so +unmistakably, that he no longer doubted it to be human. +</P> + +<P> +Some one called to him from the river below the bridge. +</P> + +<P> +He climbed upon the old stone parapet and looked down straight to the +black silent pool about the arches. So dark was it in the shadows that +the keenest eyes might not have perceived a human thing there. Gavin +Ord, however, saw the thing as clearly as in daylight—a woman's fair +head with great sodden leaves about it and streaming black hair caught +up upon the ripples. A shudder of awe indescribable came upon him as +he looked. For the woman was dead, he said—had been long dead, and +yet her voice spoke to him. +</P> + +<P> +He knew that she was dead, for the water lapped upon her half-closed +eyes and the fair head turned slowly as the eddies swirled slowly about +it. Every right instinct told him that this was a vision and not a +truth of the night. He listened for the voice again; but it was silent +now. As it ceased to speak to him, the spell vanished. He ran round +quickly to the river bank and clambered over the slippery stones to the +pool's edge. +</P> + +<P> +It was black as night and void as the ether. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +Gavin Ord was not a nervous man and very far from a superstitious one. +</P> + +<P> +When he had quite assured himself that he had been dreaming, his first +act was to return to the path and laugh aloud at the whole venture. +</P> + +<P> +"Melbourne Hall is generous to me," he said; "here are the very ghosts +coming out to welcome me." +</P> + +<P> +None the less he tried to remember what he had eaten in the train for +dinner and whether his recent nights had been late or early. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall get to bed at ten here," he said to himself, "and put in a +good walk before breakfast. I have been doing a good deal and I never +was great at night work. Of course, if I told anyone, I should be +written down a liar. It's always the case when you hear or see +anything the other man has not seen or heard." +</P> + +<P> +He caught up his bag and marched on resolutely up the wide gravelled +drive by which you reach the great gate of the Manor. A loud bell +answering to his touch awakened splendid echoes in the courtyard of the +house and set the dogs barking within. When a footman opened to him, +he discovered that Melbourne Hall was a building about a quadrangle and +that its main door admitted him no farther than to the great square +court of which the chapel and the banqueting hall were the chief +ornaments. Above the latter, lights shone brightly in many windows. +But the courtyard itself lay in darkness. +</P> + +<P> +"Say that Mr. Ord is here," Gavin instructed the footman, and added: "I +am very late, I fear; I was stupid enough to miss the afternoon train." +</P> + +<P> +The footman, shutting the door with a solemn formality, called another +to his aid that the dressing case might be safely conveyed to the +guest's bedroom. +</P> + +<P> +"'Is lordship was sayin' you wouldn't come, sir. Longish walk by +Moretown too. We'd have sent the motor but the 'shuffer' don't like +late hours. 'Is lordship is now in the boodore along of the Lady +Evelyn. This is Mr. Griggs, the butler, sir——" +</P> + +<P> +Gavin was not particularly interested in the fact; but the butler in +question had no intention of being ignored. A fat and pompous man of +flat and florid visage, he stood, in majestic pose, at the head of the +short flight of stone stairs leading to the boudoir, and his attitude +no archbishop could have bettered. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Gavin Ord, is it not?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin said that it was so. +</P> + +<P> +"We kept dinner back ten minutes, sir—I trust there has not been an +accident." +</P> + +<P> +"No accident at all—go and tell the Earl that I am here." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Griggs looked as though he had been shot. +</P> + +<P> +"James will do that," he retorted loftily—waving his hand as a +conductor waves a baton. +</P> + +<P> +The obsequious footman strolled off to do the majestic man's bidding +and Gavin meanwhile found himself in the banqueting hall, an old Tudor +apartment he had admired in many pictures but now entered for the first +time. The banners of three centuries hung in tatters from its oaken +ceiling; the musicians' gallery stood as it was when fiddle and harp +made music there for the seventh Henry, but Gavin resented the fashion +of electric lamps none the less and instantly resolved to change +them—in which intention the fat butler interrupted him with the news +that the Earl awaited Mr. Ord in the long gallery. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship is there too, sir. Perhaps you will be taking supper +afterwards." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing to-night," replied Ord quickly; "I shall dream enough in the +old house without that." +</P> + +<P> +"And I dare say you will, sir. Many's the night I've seen a something, +though I couldn't rightly say what it were." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin judged that it might have been a flask of spirits which thus +troubled the good man's dreams; but he made no comment as they mounted +a broad staircase, and passing through a dainty little room in one of +the turrets of the house, entered the superb long gallery which is the +very masterpiece of Melbourne Hall. The vast length of this, its +glorious ceiling, the carvings in geometric tracery, the embrasured +windows, the bays, the ingles—how familiar they seemed to Gavin, and +yet how far from the truth of them had the drawings been! Just as a +man may enter joyously the house of his dream as a very home of love +and welcome, so did Gavin pass into the gallery and feast his eyes upon +its treasures. Here, he said, a life's work might be done, indeed; +here the ripest genius might fall and be gathered by the lap of time. +</P> + +<P> +There were brass candelabra at intervals upon the walls of the gallery +and little electric lamps aglow in the sham candles above them. Far +down the immense apartment, Gavin perceived the stalwart figure of a +bronze-faced man and by his side a young girl, whose pose was so +natural, whose manner was so clearly that of an aristocratic, that he +did not hesitate to name her instantly for Lord Melbourne's daughter. +Unable at the distance to see much of her face, it took shape for him +as he drew nearer; and so he found himself against his will staring at +her intently as one who would satisfy himself as to where and when he +had seen her before. This interest he could not immediately explain; +nor did her father's cordial if somewhat loud-toned greeting recall him +from his vain pursuit of identity. He felt instinctively that the Lady +Evelyn was no stranger to him, and yet for the life of him he could +give no good account of any previous meeting. +</P> + +<P> +"Welcome to Melbourne Hall, Mr. Ord—I had begun to say that you had +deserted us." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin stammered some vain tale of lost train and business calls; but he +did not tear his eyes away from the Lady Evelyn's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Great God," he said to himself at last, "that was the face I saw in +the river!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK I +</H2> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE ESCAPADE +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A TELEGRAM TO BUKHAREST +</H4> + +<P> +Upon a night of May, some twelve months before Gavin Ord had gone down +into Derbyshire at the Earl of Melbourne's invitation, Count Odin, a +Roumanian celebrity of evil reputation in his own country and none in +others, quitted the Savoy Hotel by the Strand entrance and had just +called a hansom when a well-dressed girl, whom he was surprised to see +afoot, stumbled by accident against him, and nervously, yet very +prettily, offered him her apologies. +</P> + +<P> +Gifted with a prodigious amount of quite unmeaning gallantry, the Count +bowed low and said in passable English that no harm had been done and +that it should be his part to apologize. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle," he said, "it is all the fault of your narrow pavements. +Here is a cab. Since we are no longer strangers permit me to drive you +to your destination. The night is too hot for you to walk." +</P> + +<P> +The girl drew back instantly as though covered with confusion, and +without vouchsafing a single word of reply to the civil invitation, +went on westward as fast as the busy street would permit her to walk. +Her only desire appeared to be to escape recognition by those who +passed her by. She might have been any age between twenty and +twenty-five years; her hair was coal black, and her eyes were of the +deepest blue. So much the Count had not failed to observe; but his +curiosity was not by any means at an end. Dismissing the cab with a +haste so pronounced that a fortune might have hung upon his quest, he +set off down the Strand after the unknown; and was soon so near to her +that his outstretched hand could have touched her as she walked. +</P> + +<P> +Who was she? Whither was she going; whence she had come. The meeting +had been so unlooked for, it appeared to be such a very story of +marvels that the man would not, dare not even now, believe in his good +fortune. For three years, often by day and night, he had been dreaming +of an hour when he would find the daughter of the man who had consigned +a father to a living grave and compelled the son to a vagrant life. +And here, in a London street, he met her face to face—not by his own +desire or cleverness, but by one of those accidents which are the true +tragedies of life. Never for a single moment did he doubt that she was +the woman he sought. He had come to England, guarding as a precious +possession a miniature painting which had been found among his father's +effects. The face which he had so often looked upon in that little +picture was most certainly the face he had seen for one brief instant +in the Strand this night. Eyes, expression, the shape of the +characteristic mouth, the tiny ears, the coal-black hair, how familiar +they seemed to him. "She is Forrester's daughter," he said, and walked +the faster for the thought. +</P> + +<P> +It was an easy task, for the girl had no idea that anyone followed her. +Crossing the street by St. Martin's Church, she passed the National +Gallery at the same swift walk; and neither looking to the right nor to +the left, she made straight for Pall Mall and the Carlton Hotel there. +At the first hazard, Count Odin believed that this was her destination, +a fact which puzzled him not a little; but she passed the hotel without +a glance at its doors and going on up the Haymarket, turned suddenly +into one of the little courts there and was instantly lost to his view. +In his turn, he recognized the place at a glance, and as though both +relieved and enlightened stood a moment upon the pavement to debate the +situation. +</P> + +<P> +"So," he said to himself, "my lady is an actress—or would it be a +chorus girl? Well, we shall soon find that out." +</P> + +<P> +He strolled up the narrow alley, and coming to a broad double door of +wood, saw written above it in big red letters, "STAGE DOOR," and, on a +bell below, the words "Carlton Theatre." The comparative quiet of the +scene, the few people about, and the darkness of the passage beyond the +door told him that a rehearsal was in progress and not an actual +performance. When he read the bill of the play, affixed to a dirty +board, he learned that on the following Wednesday evening, at +eight-thirty precisely, Mr. Charles Izard would present Etta Romney in +the new play "Haddon Hall," by Constant Hayter. Not much of a +play-goer, though a recognized frequenter of those houses devoted to +musical comedy, the Count asked himself if he had ever heard the name +of Etta Romney before. He could not remember to have done so—but, +while he stood there, the stage door-keeper came out to smoke a pipe in +the alley, and to him the Count addressed himself with that disregard +of diplomatic approach which is a habit of the dubious adventurer. +</P> + +<P> +"The young lady who just went in—I think she is a friend of mine." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said the stage door-keeper, without taking his pipe from his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"If you could tell me her name, I would send in my card." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt you would," said the stage door-keeper. +</P> + +<P> +Nonplussed, the Count stroked his mustache a little viciously and began +to fumble in his trousers' pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"No good," said the stage door-keeper, anticipating the offer, and then +bridling up as he recognized the kind of man he had to do with, he +exclaimed peremptorily: +</P> + +<P> +"Come, it's time you went home to dinner, ain't it; you look hungry +enough." +</P> + +<P> +"I was going to give you five shillings," said the Count. +</P> + +<P> +"You keep 'em for your poor old mother in the workhouse," said the +stage door-keeper, and he went within and slammed the doors—a hint +that even Count Odin could not mistake. +</P> + +<P> +Far from being disturbed at this honest rebuff, the Count, with an +adventurer's ready resource, strolled round to the front of the theatre +and consulted the play-bills there on the off-chance that one of them +would enlighten him. The box-office was closed at this hour, but +framed photographs of the company engaged for the new play, "Haddon +Hall," decorated the pillars of the vestibule; while a large picture, +full-length and conspicuously displayed, "presented" the heroine, Miss +Etta Romney, to such of the curious as should care to take their stand +before it. Hardly had the Count glanced at the photograph when he +recognized the original of it to be the young girl whom he had just +left at the stage-door. +</P> + +<P> +"Forrester's daughter, beyond a doubt," said he. +</P> + +<P> +He waited for no more but called a cab and drove to the telegraph +office in Waterloo Place. Thence he sent a long telegram to Bukharest. +It was vague in its terms and would have been understood by none but +the person who read it. +</P> + +<P> +"Tracked down," it said; "am remaining here." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ETTA ROMNEY IS PRESENTED +</H4> + +<P> +The new play, "Haddon Hall," had been announced for half-past eight +precisely on the evening of Wednesday, the twentieth day of May. It +still wanted a few minutes to the hour of eight when that famous +American impressario, Mr. Charles Izard, permitted a waiter in the +Carlton Hotel to serve him with a coffee and liqueur; while he confided +to his invaluable confederate and stage-manager, Mr. Walter Lacombe, +the assuring intelligence that he had no doubt either about the play or +the company. +</P> + +<P> +"They're ho-mo-gen-e-us," he said, lighting a cigar with comfortable +deliberation; "the first act's bully and any play with that Third Act I +produce. We must get something written for her to follow in. My side +will take "Haddon Hall" and it will take Etta Romney. If it doesn't, I +close up." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Lacombe, the stage-manager, had his own doubts, but he was far too +diplomatic to express them. +</P> + +<P> +"When you close up, I sell bananas," said he; "that will be in the Ides +of March." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Charles Izard, who had not enjoyed the distinction of three years' +idleness at Cambridge (and so had made a vast fortune), produced those +strange concatenations of sounds which served him for laughter before +uttering a pious wish. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the 'ides of the critics' I'd like to touch," he exclaimed with +real feeling; "you know what they're going to say about this as well as +I do——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, of course," said Lacombe frankly, "they'll baste it, sure enough. +No historical play is likely to please Watley. He'll say that hot +blankets are the proper treatment." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to wrap him up in 'em and smother him," interjected Mr. +Charles Izard, still piously. +</P> + +<P> +"That's so—he's capable <I>de tout</I>. But I fancy he will take her none +the less." +</P> + +<P> +"Etta Romney, why yes! I'd like to see the man who wouldn't take her. +It's a woman that makes a play nowadays. If you'd more of 'em this +side, you wouldn't have so many failures. In America we star the woman +first and the play afterwards. Here you star the man and when all the +schoolgirls have seen him, your theatre's empty." +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly—this play is the exception. You've certainly cut the writing +on the wall. There's no room for whiskers on your ideas." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Izard drained his coffee cup and admitted loftily that there was +not. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd have been a fool not to. Here's a girl comes to me out of the +<I>ewigkeit</I>. No name, no story, nothing. Won't tell me who she is or +where she has played before. Just says, 'I've read about Constant +Hayter's play—I know Derbyshire; I have loved the tradition of that +story all my life. Money is nothing to me. Let me play the part Miss +Fay Warner has given up. Let me play it at rehearsal, and then say +whether you wish me to go on.' You couldn't better it in a fairy book. +I see her act a scene, hear her speak twenty lines, and say, 'That's +bully.' She doesn't ask a salary—why, sir, the girl's a genius born +and bred—and what's more she's a lady from the top of her hat to the +soles of her boots. I couldn't wish my own daughter to behave better." +</P> + +<P> +"Something odd about her all the same," Lacombe reflected; "dreadfully +afraid of being known. She goes in and out of the theatre like a +ghost." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Charles Izard laughed again. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, don't she play the part of one?" he asked affably. "How would +you have her come in and out? Whistling like the overhead? The part's +herself—the Lady of Haddon. She was born to it. If that girl hasn't +walked as a ghost sometime or other, put me down for twenty pounds to +an hospital. And no salary, sir, not a single penny." +</P> + +<P> +"Immense," said Lacombe, but immediately paused as a well-known critic +passed through the hall and went out to the theatre almost adjoining +the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +"There's Clayaton," he went on quickly, "it's not often he sits out a +sword-and-cape drama." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he'll sit out one to-night and be ashamed of himself in the +morning. Let's get, my boy, it's just on the half-hour. We must be +there." +</P> + +<P> +What precisely would have happened had so great a man not been there, +the merely humble individual might hardly dare to say. As events went, +Mr. Charles Izard put on a light great-coat with a great deal of +splendid ceremony, and giving the many-colored lackey a shilling, +strolled pompously into the street with his cigar still alight. +Passing His Majesty's, before whose doors the boards "House Full" were +conspicuously displayed, the pair walked leisurely on to the front +entrance of the Carlton Theatre, and were there gratified by one of +those spectacles which London alone can display upon the first night of +a new production. +</P> + +<P> +Cabs, carriages, electric broughams, even the motor-cars, arrived in +quick succession before the brightly lighted vestibule of one of the +prettiest theatres in London. From these emerged women in blazing +evening dress, men who had dined, and men capricious and irritable +because they had not dined—young girls to whom all plays were a dream +of delight, mere boys who already had voted the whole thing "rot." As +for the critics, they were chiefly patrons of hansoms; though a few +arrived on foot, two and two, each trying to learn what the other would +say about a performance which many had witnessed at a dress rehearsal. +Short men and tall men, bearded men and bald men, they cared nothing +for the success of the play, but everything for the glory of the +notices they must write. An historical drama could not fail to give +them a fine opening. They lolled back easily in their stalls as men +whose literary knives were for the moment sheathed, but would be busy +anon. +</P> + +<P> +The theatre was packed to the very ceiling when the curtain rose, and +few of the amiable first-nighters were missing from the audience. +Famous lawyers, doctors of letters, and doctors of medicine, editors of +illustrated papers and editors of papers that were not illustrated, +literary ladies and ladies who were not literary, novelists, essayists, +poets, that curious quasi-Bohemian crowd which constitutes a London +first-night house, stood for most of the arts and many of the sciences +of our day; and yet in the main brought a child's heart to the play as +Bohemian crowds will. The cynics of eighteen, mostly representing +halfpenny evening papers, were among the few who denounced the drama +before they had seen it. "'Haddon Hall' on the stage again—why," said +they, "there have been twenty Di Vernons in our time and why should +this Di Vernon find mercy?" She was already in the coach of failure so +far as they were concerned. The curtain rose upon their mutterings and +did not still them. +</P> + +<P> +It was a pretty scene, the park of famous Haddon Hall and the meeting +between pretty Dorothy Vernon and her young lover beneath the +sheltering yews. The unknown <I>débutante</I>, Etta Romney, received a +lukewarm welcome from the audience; but all admitted the grace of her +attitudes, the charm of her voice, and the earnestness she brought to +her assistance. A little amateurish in the earlier moments of the play +she warmed to her work anon; and a love scene which would have been +ridiculous had it been ill-played, she lifted by natural talent to a +pinnacle at least of toleration. So the curtain fell to some applause; +and the great impressario, Mr. Charles Izard, again ventured the +opinion that she was "bully," though his voice had not that confident +ring it possessed at the dinner-table. Could the girl make a failure +of it, after all? It was just possible. And undoubtedly the play was +not a masterpiece. +</P> + +<P> +So the Second Act passed and found him not a little anxious, and he sat +far back in his box when the curtain rose upon the Third and +concentrated his whole attention upon the performance. The scene was +that of the Long Gallery at Haddon; the episode, a midnight meeting +between Dorothy and her lover. Dressed in spotless white with the +softest black hair tumbling about her almost to her knees, young and +supple limbs moving elegantly, a face that Reynolds might have loved to +paint, a voice that was music to hear—nevertheless all these physical +attributes were speedily forgotten in the sincerity of Etta Romney's +acting and the human feeling which animated it. Here was one who loved +every stone of this ancient house which the quivering canvas attempted +to portray; who had wandered abroad often in its stately park, who +spoke the tongue of three centuries ago more naturally than her own, +who had been so moved by this story of Di Vernon's life that she gave +her very soul to its re-telling. From amazement the audiences passed +quickly to a kind of entrancement which only genius can command. It +did not applaud; its silence was astounding—not a whisper, scarce the +rustle of a dress could be heard. The spell growing, it followed the +white figure from scene to scene; was unconscious, perhaps, that any +other than she trod the stage; devoured her with amazed eyes; heard, +for the first time, each a tale of mediæval England as neither +historian nor romancer had ever told. When the curtain fell, the +people still sat in silence a little while; but the applause came at +length, upon a tempest of wild excitement rarely known in a modern +theatre. +</P> + +<P> +Who was she? Whence had she come? +</P> + +<P> +A hundred ready tongues asked the question which none appeared able to +answer. +</P> + +<P> +There was but one man in the house who made sure of Etta Romney's +identity, and he was a Roumanian. +</P> + +<P> +Count Odin had witnessed the girl's <I>début</I> from a box on the second +tier. +</P> + +<P> +"She is a great actress," he said to his companion, Felix Horowitz, a +young attaché from the Hungarian Embassy; "I am going to make love to +her." +</P> + +<P> +The young man looked up quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"I promise you failure," he said—"a woman who can speak of England +like that will marry none but an Englishman." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +SUCCESS AND AFTERWARDS +</H4> + +<P> +Etta Romney sat in her little dressing-room when the play was over, so +very tired after all she had done that even the congratulations of Mr. +Charles Izard failed to give her pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +Unlike the successful actress of our time, she had not yet attracted +the attention of the "flower" brigade, as little Dulcie Holmes, one of +her friends in the theatre, would call them; and despite her success +and the astonishment it had provoked, no baskets of roses decorated her +dressing-table, nor were expensive bouquets thrown "negligently" to the +various corners of the room. Two red roses in a cheap vase; a bunch of +narcissi, which had obviously come from the flower-girls of the +Criterion, witnessed her triumph in lonely majesty. Even the +redoubtable Mr. Izard, not anticipating the splendor of the evening, +had forgotten to "command" a basket for his star. He, good man, had +but one word for his surprising fortune. "It's bully," he said—and +repeated the conviction <I>usque ad nauseam</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Etta sat alone, but it was not for many minutes after the curtain fell. +Little Dulcie Holmes, the artist's daughter, who had a "walking part" +at twenty-four shillings a week, came leaping into the room presently +and catching her friend in both arms kissed her rapturously. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Etta," she cried ardently, "oh, my dear—they won't go away even +now. Can't you hear them calling for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"They are too kind to me," was the quiet response, "and all because I +love Derbyshire. Isn't it absurd?—but, of course, I'm very pleased, +Dulcie." +</P> + +<P> +"Think of it, dear Etta. Your very first night and Mr. Izard in such a +state that he'd give you a hundred a week if you asked him. Of course, +you won't play for nothing now, Etta." +</P> + +<P> +"I've never thought of it," said Etta still without apparent emotion +... and then with a very sweet smile, she asked, "What would you say if +I told you that I was about to give up the theatre altogether, Dulcie?" +</P> + +<P> +Dulcie opened her eyes so wide (and they were pretty blue eyes too) +that the rest of her piquant face was quite dwarfed by them. +</P> + +<P> +"Give up the theatre. You're joking. Here Lucy—here's Etta talking +of giving up the theatre. Now, what do you say to that?" +</P> + +<P> +Lucy Grey, a pretty brunette, whose share in the triumph was the saucy +delivery of the momentous line, "Oh, Captain, how could you?" (she +playing a maid's part for thirty shillings a week), would not believe +that Dulcie could possibly be serious. +</P> + +<P> +"Whatever will the papers say to-morrow?" she exclaimed. "Did you ever +think she could do it? I didn't, and I'm not going to say that I did. +Why, here's Mr. Izard quite beside himself." +</P> + +<P> +"And he'll be beside Etta just now wanting her to sign a three years' +engagement as principal. Now, you take my advice and don't you do it, +dear—not unless he'll pay you a hundred a week. That's where girls +ruin their prospects, taking on things just when they're excited. If +it were me, wouldn't I ask him something! Perhaps he'll play hot and +cold—they sometimes do; but your fortune's made, Etta, and I can't +think why you take it so quietly. How I should dance and sing if I +were you——" +</P> + +<P> +Etta had begun to gather up the heavy tresses of her long black hair by +this time; but she did so slowly and deliberately as one whom success +had neither surprised nor agitated. Could the two young girls about +her have read her thoughts they would have been astonished indeed. Not +idly had she asked Dulcie Holmes what people would say if she gave up +the theatre entirely. For give it up she must. In one short month her +father would return from the Continent. She must be at home by that +time, and none must ever know that she had left her home. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll talk it all over in the morning," she said, still smiling—"I +want both of you to come and see me to-morrow. We shall have read the +papers by that time. Whatever will they say about me?" +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't matter what they say. Everyone in London will be talking +about you before the week's out. All the same, the papers are going to +be nice. Lucy's cousin was in the vestibule between the acts and he +heard the critics talking. They called you 'immense,' dear. That +means bad luck for the play, but everything for you. You just wait +until the morning comes." +</P> + +<P> +"I fear I'll have to," said Etta, with a sly look toward them; but just +then there came a tap on the door and who should it be but a messenger +with the intimation that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Izard expected Miss Etta +Romney to supper at the Carlton Hotel as soon as she could conveniently +join their party. To the extreme astonishment both of Dulcie Holmes +and Lucy Grey, Etta appeared to be distressed beyond words by this +customary invitation. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I never can go; I dare not go—whatever shall I do?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Not go!" cried Dulcie, almost too amazed to speak; "why, of course you +must go. Charles would send soldiers to fetch you if you refused. The +star always sups with him on a first night. I never heard of such a +thing. She talks of not going, Lucy!" +</P> + +<P> +"That's the excitement," said Lucy wisely. "I should be just the same +in her place. She wants a glass of wine. She'll break out crying just +now if she doesn't get one." +</P> + +<P> +Their solicitude for Etta was very pretty and really honest. They were +too fond of her to be jealous. Women who love loyally welcome their +friends successes; men rarely do. Dulcie and Lucy might say "what a +lucky girl she is;" but they would not have wished her to be less so. +</P> + +<P> +As for Etta herself, the invitation perplexed her to distraction. How +if she met some one who knew her at the Carlton. It was very unlikely +she thought. Fifteen years passed in a French convent with few English +pupils do not admit of many embarrassing acquaintances. The subsequent +years, lived chiefly in the park of a mediæval country house rarely +open to strangers, were not likely to be more dangerous. Etta knew +that discovery might be disastrous to her beyond the ordinary meaning +of the term; but her cleverness told her that the risk of it was very +small. It was then after eleven o'clock. She remembered that they +turned the people out of the Carlton Hotel at half-past twelve. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell Mr. Izard that I will come," she said to the messenger, and then +to the girls, "You won't forget to-morrow. Run round early and we'll +read the newspapers together. And, dear girls, we'll spend Sunday at +Henley, as I promised you." +</P> + +<P> +They kissed her affectionately, promising not to forget. There was not +so much pleasure in their lives that they should pass it by when a good +fairy approached them. Sharing rooms together, they had as yet +discovered upon some fifty-odd shillings a week little of the glamour +and none of the rewards of theatrical life. For them the theatre was +the house of darkening hope, wherein success passed by them every hour +crying, "Look at me—how beautiful I am; but not for you." They had +believed that the pilgrim's way would be strewn with gold—they +discovered it to be paved with promises. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, we shall come," said Lucy in her matter of fact way; +"whatever should we be thinking of if we didn't." +</P> + +<P> +But Dulcie said: +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to wear my pink blouse on Sunday and the hat you gave +me—didn't I tell you that Harry Lauder would be at Henley? Well, +then, he will ... and, Etta, could you, would you, mind if I——" +</P> + +<P> +Etta laughingly told her that she could not, would not positively mind +at all; and then remembering how late it was, she hurried from the +theatre and found herself, just as the clocks were striking the +quarter-past eleven, in the hall of the Carlton, standing before Mr. +Charles Izard and listening but scarcely hearing the shrewd compliments +which that astute gentleman deigned to shower upon them. +</P> + +<P> +"You've struck it thick, my dear," he was saying. "Get twelve months' +experience in my company and you'll make a great actress. I say what I +mean. All you want is just what my theatre will teach you—the little +tricks of our trade which go right there, though the public doesn't +know much of them. Come and have supper now, and we'll talk business +in the morning. I shouldn't wonder if the critics spread themselves +over this. Don't pay too much attention to them—they dare not quarrel +with me." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Charles Izard, a frank florid woman, was much less discreet and +much more honest. +</P> + +<P> +"Perfectly adorable, my child," she said; "it was joy all the time to +me. You couldn't have played it better if you'd have been born in a +Duke's house. Wherever you got your manners from, I don't know. Now, +really, Charles, don't say it wasn't; don't contradict me, Charles. +You know that Miss Romney is going to make a fortune for you; and +you're rich enough as it is. Why, child, the man's worth five million +dollars if he's worth a penny. And it isn't five years since I was +making my own clothes." +</P> + +<P> +The supper room unfortunately put an end to these interesting +revelations. Etta followed the loquacious Mrs. Izard as closely as she +could, being sure that such a gorgeous apparition (for the lady was +dressed from head to foot in scarlet)! would divert attention from +herself; and, in truth, it did so. A few turned their heads to say, +"That's Izard and there's the only woman of his company who fixes her +own salary;" but the supper was already in full swing and the people +for the most part silent upon their own entertainment or that of their +guests. Of the six or seven women who remarked the stately girl in +Izard's company, the majority first said, "What a charming gown!" The +men rarely noticed her. They had taken their second glasses of +champagne by this time and were genially flirting with the women at +their own tables. If they said anything, it was just, "What a pretty +girl!" +</P> + +<P> +And what were Etta's thoughts as she sat for the first time amid that +garish company, typical of one of London's sets, and in some sense of +society? Possibly she would have had some difficulty in expressing +them. The music excited her, the ceaseless chatter hurt ears long +accustomed to silence. In truth, she had tried to depict this scene in +her Derbyshire home many times since her father had shut his gates upon +the world. But the reality seemed so very different from her dreams; +so very artificial, so shallow, so far from splendid. And beneath her +disappointment lay the fear that some accident might disclose her +identity. How, she asked, if she stood up there and told them all, "My +name is not Etta but Evelyn. To-night I am an actress at the Carlton +Theatre, but you will know me by and by as an Earl's daughter." Would +they not have said that she was a mad woman? Such a confession would +have been nothing but the truth, none the less. +</P> + +<P> +She had planned and carried out, most daringly, as wild an escapade as +ever had been recorded in the story of that romantic home of hers, to +which she must soon return as secretly as she had come. Until this +moment her success had been complete. Not a man or woman in all London +had turned upon her to say, "You are not Etta Romney but another, the +daughter of the one-time Robert Forrester, of whom your cousin's death +has made an earl." Living a secluded life in a quiet lodging in +Bedford Square, none remarked her presence; none had the curiosity to +ask who she was or whence she came. The very daring of her adventure +thrilled and delighted her. She would remember it to the end of her +life; and when she returned to Derbyshire the stimulus of it would go +with her, and permit her to say, "I, too, have known the hour of +success, the meaning of applause, the glamour of the world." +</P> + +<P> +These thoughts followed her to the supper room at the Carlton and were +accountable for the indifference with which she listened to the praises +and the prophecies of that truly great man, Mr. Charles Izard. He, +wonderful being, confessed to himself that he could make nothing of the +girl and that she was altogether beyond his experience. Her stately +manners frightened him. When he called her, "my dear," as all women +are called in the theatre, the words would sometimes halt upon his lips +and he would hurriedly correct them and say, "Miss," instead. The +first guess that he had made at her identity would have it that she was +a country parson's daughter, or perhaps a relative of the agent or the +steward of a Derbyshire estate. Now, however, he found himself of +another opinion altogether, and there came to him the uneasy conviction +that some great mystery lay behind his good fortune and would stand +eventually between him and his hopes. +</P> + +<P> +Now many of Mr. Charles Izard's friends visited his supper-table from +time to time, and of these one or two were languid young men in quest +of introductions. These stared at Etta, open-mouthed and rudely; but +her host made short work of them and they ambled away, seeking whom +they might devour elsewhere, but never with any ardor. Supper was +almost done, indeed before anyone of sufficient importance to engage +the great Charles Izard's attention made his appearance. At last, +however, he hailed a stranger with some enthusiasm, and this at a +moment when Etta was actually listening to a piteous narrative of Mrs. +Charles' domestic achievements. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Count, what good fortune tossed you out of the blanket? Come and +sit right here. You know my wife, of course?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Izard and Etta turned their heads together to see a somewhat pale +youth with dark chestnut hair and wonderfully plaintive eyes—a youth +whose dark skin and slightly eccentric dress proclaimed him +unmistakably to be a foreigner; but one who was quite at home in any +society in which he might find himself. The face was pleasing; the +manners those of a man who has travelled far and has yet to learn the +meaning of the word embarrassment. To Mr. Izard he extended a +well-shaped hand upon which a ruby ring shone a little vulgarly, but to +Etta he spoke with something of real cordiality in his tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Miss Romney," he exclaimed, his accent betraying a considerable +acquaintance with Western America, "why, Miss Romney, we are no +strangers surely?" +</P> + +<P> +Etta colored visibly; but fearing a misconception of her momentary +confusion, she said to Mrs. Izard: +</P> + +<P> +"The Count and I ran into each other in the Strand the other day. I +fear I was very clumsy." +</P> + +<P> +"So little," said the Count, "that never shall I call a cab in London +again without remembering my good fortune." +</P> + +<P> +He drew a chair to Etta's side and sat so near to her that even the +great man remarked the circumstance. +</P> + +<P> +"That's how I'd like to see 'em sit down in my comedies," he remarked +with real feeling. "The young men I meet can't take a chair, let alone +fix themselves straight on it. You come along to me, Count, and I'll +pay you a hundred dollars a week to be master of the ceremonies. Our +stage manager used to do stunts on a bicycle. He thinks people should +do the same on chairs." +</P> + +<P> +Count Odin looked at the speaker a little contemptuously with the look +of a man who never forgets his birthright or jests about it. To Etta +he said with an evident intention of explaining his position: +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Izard crossed over with me the last time I have come from America. +I remember that he had the difficulty with his chair on that occasion." +And then he asked her—"Of course you have been across, Miss Romney; +you know America, I will be sure?" +</P> + +<P> +Etta answered him with simple candor, that she had travelled but little. +</P> + +<P> +"I was educated in a convent. You may imagine what our travels were. +Once every year we had a picnic on the Seine at Les Andlays. That's +where I got my knowledge of the world," she said with a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Then your ideas are of the French?" He put it to her with an object +she could not divine, though she answered as quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"They are entirely English both in my preferences and my friendships," +was her reply, nor could she have told anyone why she put this affront +upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"She's going to make friends enough out yonder in the Fall," said +Izard, whose quick ear caught the tone of their conversation. "I shall +take this company over in September if we play to any money this side. +Miss Romney goes with me, and I promise her a good time any way. +America's the country for her talent. You've too many played-out +actors over here. Most of them think themselves beautiful, and that's +why their theatres close up." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed a flattering tribute to his own cleverness, as much as to +say—"My theatres never close up." Count Odin on his part smiled a +little dryly as though he might yet have something to say to the +proposed arrangement. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you looking forward to the journey, Miss Romney?" he asked Etta in +a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not thinking at all about it," she said very truthfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Then perhaps you are looking backward," he suggested, but in such a +low tone that even Izard did not hear him. +</P> + +<P> +When Etta turned her startled eyes upon him, he was already addressing +some commonplace remark to his hostess, while Mr. Charles Izard amused +himself by diligently checking the total of the bill. +</P> + +<P> +"I could keep a steam yacht on what I pay for wine in this hotel," he +remarked jovially, addressing himself so directly to the ladies that +even his good dame protested. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Charles," she exclaimed, "you are not suggesting that I have +drunk it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I hope some one has," was the affable retort. "Let's go and +smoke. It's suffocating in here." +</P> + +<P> +Etta had been greatly alarmed by the Count's remark, though she was +very far from believing that it could bear the sinister interpretation +which her first alarm had put upon it. This fear of discovery had +dogged her steps since she quitted her home to embark upon as wild an +adventure as a young girl ever set her hand to; but if discovery came, +she reflected, it would not be at the bidding of a foreigner whom she +had seen for the first time in her life but a few days ago. Such +wisdom permitted her quickly to recover her composure, and she pleaded +the lateness of the hour and her own fatigue as the best of reasons for +leaving the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad you were pleased," she said to Izard, holding out her hand +directly they entered the hall. "Of course it has all been very +dreadful to me and I'm still in a dream about it. The newspapers will +tell me the truth to-morrow, I feel sure of it." +</P> + +<P> +He shook her hand and held it while he answered her. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you go thinking too much about the newspapers," he said, with a +splendid sense of his own importance. "When Charles Izard says that a +play's got to go, it's going, my dear, though the great William +Shakespeare himself got out of his grave to write it down. You've done +very well to-night and you'll do better when you know your way about +the stage. Go home and sleep on that, and let the critics spread +themselves as much as they please." +</P> + +<P> +As before, when she had first come to the hotel, Mrs. Izard defied the +warning glances thrown toward her by the man of business and repeated +her honest praise of Etta's performance. +</P> + +<P> +"It's years since I heard such enthusiasm in a theatre," she admitted; +"why, Charles was quite beside himself. I do believe you made him cry, +my dear." +</P> + +<P> +The mere suggestion that the great man could shed tears under any +circumstances whatever appealed irresistibly to Count Odin's sense of +humor. +</P> + +<P> +"Put that in the advertisement and you shall have all the town at your +theatre. An impressario's tears! They should be gathered in cups of +jasper and of gold. But I imagine that they will be," he added gayly +before wishing Etta a last good-night. +</P> + +<P> +"We shall meet again," he said to her a little way apart. "I am the +true believer in the accident of destiny. Let us say <I>au revoir</I> +rather than good-night." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +Etta looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Good-night." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +TWO PERSONALITIES +</H4> + +<P> +Etta Romney was very early awake upon the following morning; and not +for the first time since she had come to London did her environment so +perplex her that some minutes passed before she could recall the +circumstances which had brought her to that square room and made her a +stranger in a house of strangers. +</P> + +<P> +Leaping up with a young girl's agility, she drew the blind aside and +looked out upon deserted Bedford Square, as beautiful in that early +light of morning as Bedford Square could ever be. +</P> + +<P> +How still it all was! Not a footfall anywhere. No milk carts yet to +rattle by and suggest the busy day. Nothing but a soft sunshine upon +the drawn blinds, a lonely patch of grass beneath lonely trees, and +great gaunt houses side by side and so close together that each +appeared to be elbowing its neighbor for room in which to stand upright. +</P> + +<P> +Etta returned to her bed and crouched upon it like a pretty wild +animal, half afraid of the day. A whole troop of fears and hopes +rushed upon her excited brain. What had she done? Of what madness had +she not been guilty? To-day the newspapers would tell her. If they +told her father also—her father whom she believed to be snug in +distant Tuscany—what then, and with what consequences to herself! A +fearful dread of this came upon her when she thought of it. She hid +her eyes from the light and could hear her own heart beating beneath +the bed-clothes. +</P> + +<P> +She was not Etta now, but knew herself by another name, the name of +Evelyn, which in this mood of repentance became her better, she +thought. True, she had been Etta when she appeared before the people +last night, the wild mad Etta, given to feverish dreams in her old +Derbyshire home and trying to realize them here amid the garish scenes +of London's dramatic life. But arrayed in the white garb of momentary +penitence, she was Evelyn, the good nun's pupil; the docile gentle +Evelyn awaiting the redemption of her father's promise that the gates +of the world should not be shut forever upon her youth, but should open +some day to the galleries of a young girl's pleasure. It was the Etta +in her which made her impatient and unable to await the appointed time; +the Etta which broke out in this mad escapade, ever trembling upon the +brink of discovery and fearful in its possibilities of reproach and +remorse. But the Evelyn reckoned up the consequences and was afraid of +them. +</P> + +<P> +She could not sleep again although it was then but six o'clock of the +morning, and she lay for more than an hour listening to those growing +sounds which are the overture of a London day. Workmen discussing +politics, amiably, if in strident tones, went by with heavy tread upon +their way to shop or factory. Milk carts appeared with their far from +musical accompaniment of doleful cries and rattling cans. An amorous +policeman conducted flirtations dexterously with various cooks, and +passed thence with sad step. Then came the postman with his cheery +rat-tat at nearly every house; the newsboy with the welcome cry of +"piper"; the first of the cabs, the market carts, the railway vans, +each contributing something to that voice of tumult without which the +metropolis would seem to be a dead city. +</P> + +<P> +Etta sat up in her bed once more when she heard the newsboy in the +square. The papers! Was it possible that they would tell the public +all about last night's performance; that her name would figure in them; +that she would be praised or blamed according to the critics' judgment? +The thought made her heart beat. She had been warned by that great +man, Mr. Charles Izard, not to pay too much attention to what the +papers said; but how could she help doing so? A woman is rarely as +vain as a man, but in curiosity she far surpasses him. Etta was just +dying of curiosity to read what the critics said about her when old +Mrs. Wegg, her landlady, appeared with her morning tea; and this good +dame she implored to bring up the newspapers at once. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't wait a minute, Mrs. Wegg," she said, for, of course, the old +lady knew that she was a "theatrical." "Do please send Emma up at +once—it's absolute torture." +</P> + +<P> +The excellent Mrs. Wegg, who had her own ideas of newspaper reading, +expressed her sympathy in motherly language: +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, I feel that way myself about the stories in 'Snippets,'" she said. +"I assure you, my dear, that when the Duke of Rochester ran away with +the hospital nurse, I couldn't sleep in my bed at night for wanting to +know what had become of her. I'll send Emma up this minute—the lazy, +good-for-nothin', gossipin' girl she is, to be sure. Now, you drink up +your tea and don't worrit about it. I've known them that can't act a +bit praised up to the sky by the crickets. I'm sure they'll say +something nice about you." +</P> + +<P> +She waddled from the room leaving Etta to intolerable moments of +suspense. When the newspapers came, a very bundle which she had +ordered yesterday, she grabbed them at hazard, and catching up one of +the morning halfpenny papers immediately read the disastrous headline, +"Poor Play at the Carlton." So it was failure after all, then! Her +heart beat wildly; she hardly had the courage to proceed. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +POOR PLAY AT THE CARLTON<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BUT<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A PERSONAL TRIUMPH FOR MISS ROMNEY<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +———<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +The Old Story of Haddon Hall Again<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +———<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +The Star Which Did Not Fail To Shine<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Etta read now without taking her eyes from the paper. The notice would +be described by Mr. Izard later in the day as a "streaky one"—layers +of praise and layers of blame following one another as a rare tribute +to the discretion of the writer, who had been far from sure if the play +would be a success or a failure. In sporting language, the gentleman +had "hedged" at every line, but his praise of Etta Romney was unstinted. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"Here," he said, "is one of the most natural actresses recently +discovered upon the English stage. Miss Romney has sincerity, a +charming presence, a feeling for this old world comedy which it is +impossible to overpraise. We undertake to say that experience will +make of her a great actress. She has flashed upon our horizon as one +or two others have done to instantly win the favor of the public and +the praise of the critic." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Etta put the paper aside and took up a notice in a very different +strain. This was from the stately pages of "The Thunderer." Herein +you had a dissertation upon Haddon Hall, the Elizabethan Drama, the +Comedie Française, the weather, and the tragedies of Æschylus. The +writer thought the play a good specimen of its kind. He, too, admitted +that in Miss Etta Romney there was the making of a great actress: +</P> + +>BR? + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"But she is not English," he protested, "we refuse to believe it. An +<I>artiste</I> who can recreate the atmosphere of a mediæval age and win a +verdict of conviction has not learnt her art in Jermyn Street. We look +for the biographer to help us. Has the Porte St. Martin nothing to say +to this story? Has Paris no share in it? We await the answer with +some expectation. Here is a comedy of which the Third Act should be +memorable. But whoever designed the scene in the chapel is <I>capable de +tout</I>...." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +So to the end did this amiable appreciation applaud the player and +tolerate the play for her sake. Etta understood that it must mean much +to her; but she was too feverishly impatient to dwell upon it, and she +turned to the "Daily Shuffler" wishing that she had eyes to read all +the papers at once. The "Daily Shuffler" was very cruel: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"Miss Etta Romney," it said, "is worthy of better things. As a whole, +the performance was beneath contempt. At the same time, we are not +unprepared to hear that an ignorant public is ready to patronize it." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Had Etta known that the author of this screed was a youth of eighteen, +who had asked for two stalls and been allotted but one, she might have +been less crestfallen than she was when her fingers discovered this +considerable thorn upon her rose-bush. But she knew little of the +drama and less than nothing of its criticism; and there were tears in +her eyes when she put the papers down. +</P> + +<P> +"How cruel," she said, "how could people write of others like that!" +She did not believe that she could have the heart to read more, and +might not have done so had not little Dulcie Holmes flung herself into +the room at that very moment and positively screamed an expression of +her rapture. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you dear," she cried, "oh, you splendid Etta! Have you read them! +Have you seen them? Now isn't it lovely? Aren't you proud of them, +Etta? Aren't you just crying for joy?" +</P> + +<P> +Lucy Grey, who had climbed the stairs in a more stately fashion and was +very much out of breath at the top of them, came in upon the climax to +tell Dulcie not to carry on so dreadfully and to assure Etta that the +notices were very nice. She, however, soon joined a shrill voice to +her friend's, and the two, sitting upon the bed, began to read the +papers together with such a running babble of comment, interjections, +cries, and good-natured expressions of envy, that the neighbors might +well have believed the house to be on fire. +</P> + +<P> +"The curtain fell to rapturous—oh, Etta—now, Lucy, do keep quiet—her +acting in the Gallery Scene—I say that I began it first—her acting in +the Gallery Scene—she has a grace so subtle, a manner so +winning—isn't that lovely!—now, Lucy, be quiet—we began to think +after the Second Act—oh, bother the Second Act—now, there you go +again—she is indeed the embodiment of that picture romance has painted +for us and history destroyed—oh, Etta—!" and so on, and so on. +</P> + +<P> +Etta admitted upon this that they had some good excuse for +congratulating her. In the theatre she found it quite natural to +listen to the girls' pleasant chatter and to put herself upon their +level both as to Bohemian habits of life and odd views of the world. +Away from the theatre, however, the Evelyn in her would assert itself. +Despite her affectionate nature, she found herself not a little +repelled by that very freedom of speech and act which seemed to her so +delightful a thing upon the stage. She was too kind-hearted to show +it, but her distaste would break out at intervals, especially in those +quiet morning hours when the freshness of the day reproached the +memories of the night with its garish scenes and its jingling melodies. +To-day, especially, she would have given much to be alone to think upon +it all and try to understand both what she had done and what the +consequences might be. But the girls gave her no opportunity even for +a moment's leisure. +</P> + +<P> +"You said we'd lunch at the Savoy, Etta——" +</P> + +<P> +"And you'd drive us in the Park afterwards——" +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't you really very rich, Etta? You must be, I'm sure. Do you +know I have only got three shillings in the world and that must last me +until salaries are paid." +</P> + +<P> +"I've worn this dress seven months," said Lucy, "and look at it. +Who'll write nice things about me with my petticoat in rags? Well, I +suppose what is to be is to be. I'm going to the Vaudeville in the +Autumn and perhaps my ship will come in." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear children," said Etta kindly, "you know that I will always help +you when I can, and you must let me help you to-day when I am happy—so +happy," she added almost to herself, "that I do not believe it is real +even now." +</P> + +<P> +They laughed at her quaint ideas and would have read the notices over +again to her but for her emphatic protest. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she said, "we have so much to do; so much to think of. After +all, what does it matter while the sun is shining?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE LETTER +</H4> + +<P> +The sunny day, indeed, passed all too quickly. A splendid telegram, +fifty words long, from the splendid Mr. Charles Izard set the seal of +that great man's approval upon the verdict of the newspapers. +</P> + +<P> +"You have got right there," he wired, "the business follows. See me at +four o'clock without fail...." +</P> + +<P> +"That means a long engagement," said the shrewd Dulcie, when she read +the telegram. +</P> + +<P> +Lucy, prudent always, thought that Etta should have a gentleman to +advise her. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't go to the theatre-lawyers," she said; "they always make love to +you. If you had a gentleman friend, it would be nice to speak to him +about it. Mr. Izard knows what he's got in his lucky bag. Now, don't +you go to signing anything just because he asks you, dear. Many's the +poor girl who's engaged herself when half the managers in London wanted +her. I should hold my head very high if it were me. That's the only +way with such people." +</P> + +<P> +Etta promised to do so, and having taken them to lunch, as she +promised, she found herself, at four o'clock of the afternoon, in the +elegant office wherein the great Charles Izard did his business. Then +she remembered with what awe and trepidation she had entered that +sanctum upon her first business visit to London. How different it was +to-day, and yet how unreal still! The little man had the morning and +evening papers properly displayed upon his immense writing table; and, +when Etta came in, he wheeled up a chair for her with all the ceremony +with which he was capable. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, now," he said, "what did I tell you? Afraid of the newspapers, +eh? Well, there they are, my dear. Don't tell me you haven't read +'em, for I shouldn't believe you." +</P> + +<P> +Etta admitted that she might have glanced at them. +</P> + +<P> +"Every one seems very kind to me," she said. "I wish they had spoken +as well of the play; but I suppose they must find fault with something. +I know so little about these things, Mr. Izard." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll soon learn, my dear. As for what they say about the play, +that don't matter two cents while the business keeps up. We'll take +$9,000 this week or I know nothing about it. Let the newspapers enjoy +themselves while they can. They've been kind enough to you; but you're +clever enough to understand the advantages my name gives you. Produce +that play at any other house and let any other man bill it and they'd +have the notices up in a fortnight. But they'll take just what I give +'em, because I know just what they want and how they want it. That's +how we're going to do business together. You can earn good money with +me and I can find you the plays. My cards are all on the table; I'll +sign a three years' engagement here and now and pay you a hundred +dollars a week—that's £20 sterling, English money. If you want to +think it over, take your own time. You've a good deal of talent for +the stage, and my theatre is going to make you—that's what you've to +say to yourself, 'Charles Izard will produce me and his name spells +money.' As I say, take your own time to think it over. And don't +forget you are the first woman in all my life to whom I have offered a +hundred dollars a week on a first engagement." +</P> + +<P> +Etta listened a little timidly to these frank and business-like +proposals. Such a situation as this had never occurred to her when she +left her home in Derbyshire and set out upon this mad escapade. She +had asked for a hearing from a man who made it his boast that he saw +and heard every one who cared to approach him. The tone of her letter, +the restraint of it, the fact that she had known Haddon Hall all her +life, that every bit of that splendid ruin, every tree in the old park, +every glade in the gardens were familiar to her, struck a note of +assent in the great American's imagination and compelled him to send +for her. He believed that at the outset she would serve for a "walking +on" part. When he saw her, he asked her to read a scene from "Haddon +Hall" and heard her on the stage. Then he said, "Here is a born +actress, and not only that but an aristocrat besides." The secrecy +which had attended her application whetted his desire to engage her. +"I will play for a month for nothing," she had said. Even Charles +Izard did not feel disposed to offer her a smaller sum. +</P> + +<P> +And here he was talking of agreements for a term of three years and of +£20 a week! +</P> + +<P> +How to answer him Etta did not know. +</P> + +<P> +She was perfectly well aware that her weeks in London must be few. Any +day might bring a letter from her father in which he would speak of a +return to Derbyshire. The mythical visit to Aunt Anne, which had been +her excuse to the servants at home, would be exploded in a moment +should her father return. None the less, the situation had its humors. +"If only I dare tell Mr. Izard," she had said to herself, knowing well +that, she would not tell him unless it were as a last resource. +</P> + +<P> +"You are as kind to me as the critics," she exclaimed upon a pause, +which greatly alarmed that shrewd man of business—he had expected her +to jump down his throat at the offer. "You are very kind to me, Mr. +Izard, and you will not misunderstand me when I hesitate. I have +already told you that money is nothing to me. Perhaps I am tired of +the stage already; I do not know. I feel quite unable to say anything +about it to-day. It is all so new to me. I want to be quite sure that +I am a success before I accept any one's money." +</P> + +<P> +Her reply astonished Izard very much, though he tried to conceal his +annoyance. Shuffling his papers with a fat hand, upon which a great +diamond ring sparkled, he breathed a little heavily and then asked +almost under his breath: +</P> + +<P> +"Any one else been round?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to ask me have I any other offers?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's so." +</P> + +<P> +"As frankly, none—at present." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her shrewdly. +</P> + +<P> +"Expecting them, I suppose?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have never thought of it," she said, greatly amused at the turn +affairs were taking. "Of course, I know that successful people do get +offers——" +</P> + +<P> +"But not twice from Charles Izard," he exclaimed very meaningly—then +turning round in his chair he looked her straight in the face and said, +"Suppose I make it one hundred and fifty dollars?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she rejoined, "it really is not a question of money, Mr. +Izard——" +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said savagely, "it's that—Belinger. Been seeing you, hasn't +he—talking of what he could do? Well, you know your own business +best. That man will be waiting on my doorstep by and by, and he'll +have to wait patiently. Think it over when you're tossing us both in +the blanket. He's a back number; I'm a dozen editions." +</P> + +<P> +Etta was seriously tempted to smile at this frightened earnestness and +at the great man's idea of her shrewdness. She could not forget, +however, that he had given her the opportunity she had so greatly +longed for to put the dreams of her girlhood to the proof. And for +that she would remain lastingly grateful. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Mr. Izard," she said, "I fear you don't understand me at all. +Who Mr. Belinger may be I don't know; but he certainly has not made me +any offers. And just as certainly should I refuse them if he did so. +You have been generous enough to give me my chance. If I remain on the +stage, it will be with you." +</P> + +<P> +Izard opened his dull eyes very wide. +</P> + +<P> +"If you remain upon the stage! Good God, you don't mean to say that +you have any doubt of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have every doubt." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you read the papers?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, but you told me not to pay any attention to them——" +</P> + +<P> +"That's from the front of the house point of view. Don't you know that +they say you are as great as Réjane?" +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot possibly believe that." +</P> + +<P> +"It won't be so difficult when you try. Go home and read them again +and come to me to-morrow morning to sign agreements." +</P> + +<P> +He was pleased at her promise to continue at his theatre and clever +enough to understand her reticence. +</P> + +<P> +"She's a genius," he said to himself, "and she's more than that, she's +a woman of business. Well, I like her sort. When Belinger goes round, +he'll get some dry bread. As for her leaving the stage—pooh! she +couldn't do it." +</P> + +<P> +Had he known what Etta was saying at that very moment, his +self-satisfaction assuredly had been less. For when she returned to +her rooms in Bedford Square she found the expected letter from her +father awaiting her there and in it she read these words: "I shall be +returning to England on the 29th of June." +</P> + +<P> +She had a short month, then, to live this Bohemian life which so +fascinated her! And when that month was over Etta Romney would cease +to be, and the stately Lady Evelyn must return. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +STRANGERS IN THE HOUSE +</H4> + +<P> +The news in the letter alarmed Etta not a little; but when she +reflected upon it, she remembered that it was just such news as she had +been expecting all along. Her adventure had been for a day. She had +never hoped that it would be more. The desire to appear upon the stage +of a theatre had haunted her since her childhood. Now she had +gratified it. Why, then, should she complain? +</P> + +<P> +True, the glamour of the stage no longer deceived her. All the gilt +edge of her dreams had vanished at rehearsal. She no longer believed +the theatre to be a paradise on earth. It was a somewhat gloomy, +business-like, and sordid arena of which the excitements were purely +personal, and concerned chiefly with individual success and +achievement. These she had now experienced and found them +unsatisfying. A morbid craving for something she could not express or +define remained her legacy. The "Etta" in her had not been blotted out +by triumph. Had she known it, she would have understood that nothing +but tragedy would efface it. +</P> + +<P> +This, naturally, she did not know. Believing her time to be brief, she +desired to see as much of Bohemia as the numbered weeks would permit; +and she refused no invitation, however imprudent it seemed, nor denied +herself any experience by which her knowledge might profit. A perfect +mistress of herself, she did not fear whatever adventure might bring +her. Her desire had been to do exactly what the ordinary stage girl +did—to live in lodgings, to tramp about the London streets, to spend +little sums of money as though they had been riches, to give a girlish +vanity free rein. Sometimes she almost wished that a man would make +love to her. The homage of men, she had read, always attended success +upon the stage. Etta would have been delighted to evade her pursuers, +to see their flowers upon her table, to read their ridiculous letters. +</P> + +<P> +For the moment, however, her dramatic experiences appeared likely to be +somewhat prosaic. She had answered Mr. Charles Izard with the +intimation that she would give him a definite reply within a week, and +with that, perforce, he had to be content. The early promise of +success for "Haddon Hall" was amply justified. The business done at +the Carlton Theatre proved beyond experience. There were two matinées +a week, and splendid houses to boot. Etta delighted in the triumphs of +these more than words could tell. The thunderous applause, the ringing +cheers, the frequent calls, animated her whole being and awoke in her +the finest instincts of her inheritance. She knew that she had been +born an actress, and that nothing would change her destiny. All the +frivolous life of the theatre could show her made their instant appeal +to her senses and were enjoyed with a child's zest. Her gestures were +quick and excited, and, as little Dulcie Holmes would say, "so French." +She could behave like a schoolgirl sometimes—a schoolgirl freed from +bondage and ready for any tomboy's play. +</P> + +<P> +This was her mood on the afternoon of the seventh day after the first +production of "Haddon Hall" at the Carlton Theatre. The exceedingly +"genteel" Lucy Grey had invited a few friends to tea upon that +occasion; and an artist, known to all the halfpenny comic papers as +"Billy," a lodger in the same house as Lucy, kindly put his studio at +the disposal of the company. Here for a time gentility reigned supreme +over the tea-cups. The theatrical ladies found themselves awe-struck +in the presence of Etta Romney, and remained so until the amiable +painter volunteered to do a cake-walk if Dulcie Holmes would accompany +him. This set the ball rolling; and although gentility suffered a snub +when a lady from the Vaudeville remarked that she always "gorged" +currant loaves, nevertheless merriment prevailed and some striking +performances were achieved. Etta had not laughed so much since she +left the convent school—and she could not help reflecting, as she +returned to Bedford Square, upon the vast capacity for innocent +enjoyment these merry girls possessed and the compensations it afforded +them in lives which were by no means without their troubles. +</P> + +<P> +It was a quarter to six when she reached her lodgings. She had time +upon her hands, for seven o'clock would be quite early enough to set +out for the theatre. The weather promised to become a little overcast +as she stood upon her doorstep; and she was conscious of that sudden +depression with which an approaching storm will often afflict nervous +and highly sensitive people. Opening the front door slowly, with her +eyes still watching the creeping clouds above, she became aware that +there were strangers in the hall beyond, and she stood for an instant +to hear rapid words in the German tongue—a language her father had +always advised her to study and had insisted upon the good nuns +teaching her. To-night it served her well, for by it she became aware +instantly that the strangers were speaking of her—indeed, that they +awaited her coming. +</P> + +<P> +"Go into the room," said a voice. "I must be alone here." +</P> + +<P> +Another said, "Hush, that's her step!" +</P> + +<P> +Etta turned as pale as the marguerites in the flower boxes when she +heard these words; though, for the life of her, she could not say why +she was alarmed. Perhaps the constant fear of discovery which had +attended her escapade from the beginning asserted itself at the moment +to say that these strangers knew the truth and had come to profit by +it. If this were so, the idea passed instantly to give place to that +more sober voice of reason which asked, "How should a stranger know of +it, and what is my secret to him?" Such an argument immediately +reassured her; and, entering the hall boldly, she found herself face to +face with no other than the Roumanian, Count Odin, who had been +presented to her eight days ago at the Carlton Hotel. +</P> + +<P> +Now, here was the last man in all London whom Etta had expected to see +in Bedford Square, and her astonishment and distaste were so plainly +visible in her wide-open eyes that the victim of them could not +possibly remain under any delusion whatever. Plainly, however, he was +quite ready for such a welcome as she intended to give him, for he +barred her passage up the hall and, holding out his hand, greeted her +with that accepted familiarity so characteristic of the idlers who +lounge about stage-doors. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady," he said, "do not put the displeasure upon me. I come +here because my friend, Mr. Izard, recommend me when I ask him where I +shall find a lodging. 'Miss Romney is at Bedford Square,' that's what +he says; 'go right there and you will find an apartment in the same +street.' Now, isn't it wonderful! I arrive at your house by accident +and here is your landlady who has the dining-room to let. You shall +forgive me for that when I say that my friend, Horowitz, is with me and +his sister. Why, Miss Romney, we'll be just a happy family together; +and that's what Charles Izard was thinking of when he sent me here. +'Tell her I wish it,' he said; 'she's too much alone in London, and it +doesn't do——'" +</P> + +<P> +Etta interrupted him with a dignity he had not looked for. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Izard would not be so impertinent," she exclaimed hotly. "Your +coming or going really does not interest me, Count. I have to be at +the theatre immediately. Please let me pass!" +</P> + +<P> +She tried to go by, but he still forbade her, smiling the while and +seemingly quite sure of himself. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady," he said, "you do not go to the theatre until half-past +seven. This amiable person of the house has told me as much. If I am +rude, forgive me. I wish to ask you to see my pictures of Roumania, a +country your father once knew very well, Miss Romney, though he has not +been there for many years. Say that you will come and see them +to-morrow and I will ask Mademoiselle Carlotta to help me to show them +to you. Now, dear lady, will you not name the hour? I shall have much +to show you, much for you to tell your amiable father about when you +see him again." +</P> + +<P> +Etta shivered as though with cold. Never before had she known such a +curious spell of helplessness as this man seemed able to cast upon her. +The words which he spoke amazed her beyond all experience. Roumania! +She understood vaguely that her father had lived dreadful years there +so long ago that even he almost had forgotten them. And this stranger +could speak of them, youth that he was, as though he held their secret. +Had she wished to terminate her acquaintance with him then and there, +her woman's curiosity would have forbidden her. But, more than this, +the man himself attracted her in a way she could not define—attracted +her, despite her early aversion from him and her sure knowledge that +there must be danger in the acquaintance. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know my father, Count?" she asked presently—in a voice which +could not conceal her apprehension. +</P> + +<P> +"To my family he is well known, to me not at all," was the frank reply. +"I came to England to make my misfortune good; but now that I come your +father is not here, Miss Romney." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he was not aware of your intended visit?" +</P> + +<P> +"Quite unaware of it." +</P> + +<P> +"You did not write to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"How should I write when I do not know the house in which he live?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then why do you say that he is not in London?" +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her with the triumphant eyes of a man who puts a master +card upon the table. +</P> + +<P> +"I say that he is not in England because you are alone, Miss Romney." +</P> + +<P> +Etta bit her lips, but gave no other expression to her emotion. +</P> + +<P> +"A compliment to my discretion," she exclaimed with a little laugh; and +then, as though serious, she said, "You will make me late for the +theatre after all. Do please talk of all this to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +He drew aside instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Izard would never forgive me," he said; "let it be to-morrow as you +wish—shall we say at twelve o'clock?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, by all means, at twelve o'clock to-morrow," she rejoined and upon +that she ran up the stairs, and, entering her own room, locked the door +behind her. +</P> + +<P> +Who was the man? How had he come thus into her life? She was utterly +unnerved, amazed, and without idea. But she knew that she would go to +the theatre no more. +</P> + +<P> +"And what will Mr. Izard say?" she asked herself blankly; "what will +they all say?" +</P> + +<P> +Etta was ready both to laugh and to cry at that moment. Conflicting +sentiments found her sitting upon her bed, a very picture of +irresolution and dismay. The deeper truths of the night were not as +yet understood by her, although the day for understanding could not be +far distant. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE NONAGENARIAN +</H4> + +<P> +She sat upon her bed for a little while, seemingly without purpose or +resolution. The black muslin dress with the exquisite lace and +suspicion of Cambridge blue about the neck, a dress in which she always +went to the theatre, lay ready for her spread out upon the back of a +chair. She used to say that it was the only good dress she had brought +to London with her. Her desire had been to deceive herself with the +pretty supposition that her own talent must earn luxuries or that they +must not be earned at all. +</P> + +<P> +So her riches were few. She could almost number them as she sat upon +her bed, reflecting upon this astounding encounter, the threat of it, +and its just consequences. When she left Derbyshire she had no thought +of discovery, nor imagined it to be possible. Not a soul knew her by +sight, she said. She had spent her days in a convent in France, and +after that as a very prisoner in her father's house. Why, then, should +she fear recognition? None the less did recognition stand upon the +threshold. This foreigner she believed to be already in possession of +her story. How he had gained knowledge of it, and what use he would +make of it, she felt absolutely unable to say. Sufficient that a +malign destiny had brought her face to face and called her to decide +instantly as difficult an issue as escapade ever put before a woman. +</P> + +<P> +"He knows my name; he knows my father," she argued; "if he does not +come to our house, he has some good reason for not doing so. In any +case, I must not stop here. Oh, my dear Mr. Izard, what will you say +to-night? And poor dear Di Vernon, poor dear Di Vernon, whoever will +take care of her?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed aloud at her own thoughts, and, jumping up impulsively, she +gathered her things together as though for a journey, though she had +not the remotest idea whither she would go or how she would act. A +church clock striking the hour of seven reminded her that the hours +were brief and that she must make the best use of them. Had she been a +man she might have remembered that if this intruder knew her father's +name, he would very quickly discover her father's house, his rank, and +the story of his life. But she was not even a woman, scarcely more +than a school-girl, in fact, and terror of the present became an +immediate impulse without regard to the future. She must flee the +house and the mystery without an instant's loss of time. Nothing else +must count against the prudence of this course. All the little things +she had collected in London, the clothes she had bought there, these +must be abandoned. Etta indeed, carried nothing but her light +dust-cloak and her purse when she left the house at half-past seven. +</P> + +<P> +"I must write to dear old Mrs. Wegg and make her a present," she said; +"she can send my things to St. Pancras Station to be called for. If I +don't go to the theatre, Mary Jay will play my part. Perhaps the poor +girl will make her fortune. It's an ill wind ... no, a horrid wind, +and, oh, I do wish it would blow me home again!" +</P> + +<P> +From which it will be seen that the idea of "home" crept already into +her dizzy head and attracted her strangely. There is always an +aftermath of jest, however bold that jest may be. Etta realized this +dimly, though all the impressions of the theatre, its glamour and its +triumphs, were too new to her to permit of any serious rival. She +feared discovery simply for her father's sake. To him the theatre +stood for a very pit of all that was most evil. He had, from the days +of her childhood, dreaded a day which would awaken a mother's instincts +in Etta and tell him that she had inherited her mother's genius as an +actress. For such a reason, above others, he made a recluse of her. +For such a reason, loving her passionately, he sent her to the convent +school and guarded her almost as a prisoner of his house. Etta knew +that he disliked the theatre greatly; but she never had his reasons, +and was unaware of her dead mother's story. Had she known it, this mad +escapade would never have taken place. +</P> + +<P> +She left the house in Bedford Square at half-past seven furtively and +not a little afraid. She had already determined to keep her own +secret, and to that intention she adhered resolutely. Crossing the +Square with quick steps, she stood an instant at the corner to make +sure that no one followed her. When her suspicions upon this point +were at rest, she called the first hansom cab she could see and told +the man to drive her to St. Pancras Station. +</P> + +<P> +"And please to stop at a telegraph office on the way," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The journey had been fully determined upon by this time, and she no +longer found herself irresolute. It cost her much to send Charles +Izard her farewell message; but she did it courageously, as one who +knew that it must be done. How or why Count Odin had crossed her path +she could not say; but her clever little head grappled instantly with +that turn of destiny and determined to defeat it. None could harm her +in her home in Derbyshire, she said ... and to Derbyshire she +determined to go. +</P> + +<P> +When she entered the post-office and had dispatched her telegrams, she +felt as one from whose weak shoulders a great weight had been lifted. +What a dream it had all been! The hopes, the fears, the success of it. +Her heart was a little heavy when she wrote down the words: "I am +leaving London and shall not return—pray, forgive me and forget—Etta +Romney." There would be a sensation at the theatre to-night, but what +of it if the walls of her home were about her and the gates of it had +closed upon her secret. She knew too little of Count Odin's story that +her fears of him should be enduring. +</P> + +<P> +"He has learnt something about me somewhere and wanted to satisfy his +curiosity," she thought; "perhaps he was going to make love to me," an +idea which amused her, but did not appear in quite as repugnant a light +as it might have done. Some whisper of personal vanity said that Count +Odin was a man of the world and an exceedingly good-looking one at +that. She began to see that all her fears might be mere shadows of +misunderstanding—none the less, she persisted in her intention to +return to Derbyshire. A sense of personal danger had been awakened; +she fled from discovery before discovery could do her mischief. +</P> + +<P> +There was a train to Derby at half-past eight. Etta took a seat in the +corner of a first-class compartment, which an obliging guard, bidding a +porter keep watch upon it, insisted upon reserving for her. The +porter, good fellow, drove off the besiegers, among whom were a parson +with brown paper parcels and a fussy little man who always travelled in +ladies' carriages because he could have the windows up, to say nothing +of old maids and their dogs and younger maids without dogs. To these +the man of corduroys politely pointed out the red bill upon the window; +but when a cloaked foreigner, with a hawk's beak and watery eyes, a man +who must have numbered at least ninety years, persisted in an attempt +to enter, then was the ancient dragged back by the flap of his coat +while the magic words "reserved" were shouted in his ears. +</P> + +<P> +"What you say—what—what—" the old fellow cried, exerting a +surprising amount of strength for a nonagenarian, "not go in here, +<I>accidente</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"Higher up, grandfather," said the merry porter. "Saffron Hill goes +forward—no parley Inglesh, eh—well, that's not my fault, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +He took the old fellow by the arm in a kindly way (for of the poor the +poor are ever the best friends) and led him to a third-class carriage +at the forward end of the train. +</P> + +<P> +"And a wonnerful strong old chap for his years, too, miss," he said to +Etta when he returned for his shilling; "give me a shove like a young +'un he did. I shouldn't wonder if he ain't agoing to play in a cricket +match by the looks of him. Did you want to send a telegram, perhaps? +A surprisin' lot of telegrams I do send from the station. Mostly from +gents wot has a fency for a 'oss. They takes a number horf of their +tickets and backs the first 'un they sees with the same number in the +noospipers. Not as I suppose you've any fency like that, miss—though +young ladies nowadays do send telegrams almost as frequent as other +people." +</P> + +<P> +Etta laughed at this idea, but, a sudden remembrance coming to her, she +asked: +</P> + +<P> +"What time do we arrive at Derby, porter?" +</P> + +<P> +"You should arrive at a quarter to twelve, miss." +</P> + +<P> +"A quarter to twelve—oh, my poor little me, whatever will you do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not meaning to say that you've forgotten to ask them to meet you, +miss?" +</P> + +<P> +"Meaning the very thing—please get me a form, oh, lots of them. I +must wire to Griggs. Don't let the train go until I've done it. +Whatever should I do if no one met me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll stop it if I have to hold the engine myself. Now, miss, you take +these 'ere. That's the name of a Spring 'andicap winner on one of +them—you scrat it out and write your own telegram. We ain't agoin' to +have you out in the cornfields at that time of night, I know. Just +write away and don't you flurry yourself." +</P> + +<P> +Etta needed no pressing invitation. She wrote two telegrams as fast as +her eager fingers could set down the messages—one to Fletcher, the +coachman at the Hall, one to Griggs, the butler, who would be the most +astonished man in all Derbyshire that night when he read it. These the +porter gathered up together with a liberal monetary provision to frank +them, and the train was just about to start when who should appear +again but the white-haired nonagenarian, grumbling and shuffling and +plainly seeking a carriage, despite the fact that he had been lately +seated in it. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, here's old nannygoat broke out again," cried the astonished +porter, and running after him he exclaimed: "Here, grandfather, train +goin', comprenny, inside oh, chucky walkey—now then, smart, or I'm +blowed if I don't put you in the lorst luggage horfiss." +</P> + +<P> +They bundled the old man into a carriage; the engine whistled, the +train steamed majestically from the station. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-by, London!" said Etta, sinking back upon the cushions with tears +in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +But the far from docile old gentleman, who had been treated so +unceremoniously, did not weep at all. +</P> + +<P> +"She's going to Melbourne Hall," he kept repeating with a chuckle; "if +the telegrams mean anything, they mean that." +</P> + +<P> +By which it is clear that the old scoundrel had read Etta's messages +which the ever-obliging porter carried to the telegraph office for her. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LADY EVELYN RETURNS +</H4> + +<P> +Mr. Griggs, the butler at Melbourne Hall, had just fallen asleep after +a second glass of his master's unimpeachable port, when a footman +knocked softly upon the door of his pantry and informed him that he was +the proud owner of a telegram. +</P> + +<P> +"For you, sir, and the boy's a-waitin' for a hanswer." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Griggs, who had been dreaming of a rich uncle in Australia, and of +the fortune this worthy had bequeathed to him (by which he would set up +a public-house in Moretown and acquire a masterly reputation), murmured +softly, "No jugs in the private bar," and awoke immediately in that +state of irritable stupor which even a moderate allowance (and Mr. +Griggs' glasses were true bumpers) of ancient port may provoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Whatever do you want, comin' creeping in here like a fox with the +gout?" he asked angrily; "is the 'ouse on fire or is Partigan took with +the hysterics? Whatever is it, James?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a telegrarf," replied James loftily; "perhaps you're a little +'ard of 'earing after port wine, Mr. Griggs. The boy's a-settin' on +the step whistlin' airs. I'll tell him to come in if you like——" +</P> + +<P> +Griggs looked a little sheepishly at the bottle before him, and +prudently offered James a glass. +</P> + +<P> +"Them boys is born in a hurry and that's how they'll die, James. Just +take a mouthful of that wine. I'm sampling it for the guvner. This'll +be from him, no doubt." +</P> + +<P> +To do the excellent man justice, it must be admitted that he had been +sampling that particular wine during the last twenty years, and still +found it necessary to continue his task before he could give a definite +opinion. The telegram was another matter. Mr. Griggs read it by the +aid of an immense pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and, having read it, +he uttered that exclamation he was wont to employ only upon the very +greatest occasions. +</P> + +<P> +"God bless my poor old gray hairs if her ladyship ain't returning this +very evening. Whatever can have put it into her wicked little head to +do that? Derby station at eleven-forty, and Fletcher gone haymaking to +Matlock. I shouldn't wonder if the beast had been drinking," he added +pompously. +</P> + +<P> +James, the footman, admitted that it was very embarrassing. +</P> + +<P> +"I've lived in many families, Mr. Griggs," he said, "and a deal of +human nater I've learned. But this 'ere family is wholly a +masterpiece. Your good health, sir, and I'm sure I wish you blessings." +</P> + +<P> +"It's easier to wish 'em than to bring 'em," replied the philosopher +Griggs. "Where's Partigan now and what's she doing?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's a-participatin' in the Floral fête at the Bath-Dianner in a +motor-car or something of that sort." +</P> + +<P> +"She went over with Fletcher, no doubt. That's how his lordship's +interests are served in his absence. Is Molly in the 'ouse, James?" +</P> + +<P> +"She was takin' her singin' lesson from the horganist of Moretown half +an hour ago." +</P> + +<P> +"Let her sing upstairs with the warmin' pan, and quick about it too. I +suppose the shuffer's not in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Gone to Derby to see Mr. Wilson Barrett eat up by lions——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then we'll have to send Williams, the groom, and make a tale. Lord, +what a 'ouse to look after. I feel sometimes as such responsibulness +will break me up into small coal, James. Just ring that bell and send +Molly here. I'll give her a singin' lesson as she won't soon forget." +</P> + +<P> +There never was such a ringing of bells, certainly never such a +scampering of overfed menials as the next hour witnessed at the Manor. +Hither and thither they went: Molly up the stairs to look out the +sheets, Williams, the groom, to get the single brougham ready, James to +set the boudoir straight ("with me own 'ands I done it," he said to +Partigan, the lady's maid, afterwards, as though ordinary he did it +with other people's hands, which was a true word), Griggs to put away +his decanter and enter the kitchen in mighty splendor. Not only this, +but stable-boys upon bicycles went flying off to Matlock and Derby to +bear the tidings to the absentees. +</P> + +<P> +"Her ladyship a-comin' home," said Partigan when she heard it; "well, +that do beat the best!" +</P> + +<P> +"I've always said," Griggs remarked to James, when the first moments of +agitation had passed, "I've always said the Lady Evelyn isn't ordinary. +Just look at the antics she'd be a-doin' by herself when she thought no +one was lookin' at her in the park. Carrying on like a play actress, +she was, and me hidin' behind a tree, mortal feared of her throwin' of +herself into my arms by mistake. What his lordship would say if I told +him of this 'ere, the cherubims above us only knows, James." +</P> + +<P> +"You surely ain't goin' to tell him, Mr. Griggs?" +</P> + +<P> +Griggs tapped his breast with a heavy fist that seemed to make a drum +of it. +</P> + +<P> +"A lady's secret—they'd have to cut it out of my bussum, James." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you don't think, perhaps, as she's been staying with Miss +Forrester at all?" +</P> + +<P> +This, however, was the beginning of a suggestion which the worthy +Griggs would not tolerate at all from one he styled a menial. +</P> + +<P> +"What I think is my own affair. Take my advice and hold your tongue, +James. When you get to my time of life you'll know that the less you +say about the ladies the better for your good health. Go and get the +dining-room ready. She'll be in a rare tantrum when she comes back. +They always are when they've been up in London enjoyin' of theirselves. +His lordship himself is good cayenne after a week on the Continent. +It's enough to make a man take to drink almost." +</P> + +<P> +The reservation was wise, for certainly Mr. Griggs had "almost" taken +to drink on many occasions, stopping at the second bottle on a +benevolent plea of moderation. This particular occasion, however, was +not to prove one for extreme remedies as subsequent events quickly +demonstrated. Having seen that all had been prepared, both within and +without the house, he composed himself to a comfortable nap in his +arm-chair and again had begun to dream of a rich uncle in Australia +(whose continued good health he found most provoking), when a loud +ringing of bells and a sound of voices in the quadrangle instantly +brought him to a state of recollection, and he sat bolt upright and +stared wildly at the grandfather's clock in the corner of his pantry as +though its fingers reproached his tardiness. +</P> + +<P> +"A quarter to two o'clock. God bless my poor old head. It must be her +ladyship. A quarter to two o'clock. What would her father say to it?" +</P> + +<P> +It was her ladyship, as he said—very tired, very pale, strangely +quiet, and with frightened eyes, such as neither Griggs nor anyone in +that house had looked upon before. Amazed to see her, dressed in no +way for travelling, carrying no other luggage than the purse in her +hand, the old butler simply stared as he would have stared at any bogey +of Melbourne come suddenly upon him in the witching hours. +</P> + +<P> +"I welcome your ladyship home," he stammered, looking anything but a +welcome from his inquiring eyes, and then, most inaptly, he continued: +"The trains is very late for the time of year, I must say, my lady." +</P> + +<P> +Lady Evelyn merely said: +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I am dreadfully late, Griggs. Don't let anyone be disturbed. I +could not touch anything to-night. My luggage is to be forwarded from +London. Please see that everything is locked up. I am going straight +to my room, and shall not want anything at all." +</P> + +<P> +Griggs did not really know what to make of it. +</P> + +<P> +"She was as white as a sheet," he told the kitchen afterwards, "and she +asked me to lock up the 'ouse. Now, am I in the 'abit of leavin' the +doors open or do I see 'em shut regular? Mark my words, Partigan, +there's something more than her luggage she's left in London, and the +sooner his lordship takes it out of the cloakroom the better." +</P> + +<P> +Here was something to set the servants' hall by the ears beyond +possibility of discretion. Williams, the groom, who had driven her +ladyship home, added an ingredient to the sauce of their curiosity +which proved appetizing beyond measure. +</P> + +<P> +"There was a young man at the station wot kept hopping about us just +like a 'oss about a hayrick," said he. "I could see she didn't want to +take much notice on him, but what was I to do? If he'd have opened his +lips, I could have given him something for hisself. But he didn't say +nothing to nobody and all she says was, 'Drive on at once, Williams, +and don't stop for anyone.' Be sure I made the old 'oss slip it. He +come along for all the world as though he were riding to 'ounds and me +in the first flight." +</P> + +<P> +Williams, be it observed, had not exaggerated at all. There had been a +young man at the station and Lady Evelyn had been very frightened by +him. What is more remarkable is the fact that she was perfectly well +aware of his identity and knew him beyond a shadow of doubt for the +apparent nonagenarian who had been so persistent at St. Pancras. That +white-haired old man and the youth who appeared before her suddenly at +her journey's end were certainly one and the same person. The only +conclusion possible was this, that she had been watched closely in +London and followed thence. +</P> + +<P> +"It must be Count Odin," she said to herself, and upon this she tried +to reason out a secret of which the key lay far from her possession. +Why should the man have been at such pains to follow her if he knew her +father's name, as he pretended he did? It never occurred to her +untrained mind that a foreigner recently arrived from Bukharest might +be quite unaware of the identity of Robert Forrester and altogether +ignorant of the fact that he was Robert Forrester no longer, but had +become, by a strange accident of fortune, the third Earl of Melbourne, +Baron Norton, and heaven and Burke know what besides. Here had been +the Count's difficulty. He had searched every directory in vain for +the whereabouts of a man he had now made it his life's purpose to +discover. Knowing scarcely anyone in London, and having no particular +desire to declare his presence to the Roumanian <I>chargé d'affaires</I>, +his quest had been profitless until chance brought him face to face +with the Lady Evelyn in the Strand. Instantly he had resolved never to +lose sight of her until he had discovered Robert Forrester's house, and +had asked of him that question the answer to which should tell him if +his own father were alive or dead. +</P> + +<P> +The Lady Evelyn, upon her part, had no share of the story, save that +which her own eyes and the Count's brief words had told her. He had +spoken in London of her father, it is true; but there had been no +betrayal of a warm anxiety to meet him, nor had he mentioned the name +except as a passport to Evelyn's confidence. The fact that she had +been followed from town to Derbyshire disquieted her exceedingly by the +very pains which had been taken to conceal it. No longer could she +believe that Count Odin had been fascinated by her acting and had +foolishly fallen in love with her. Something lay beyond, and her +clever brain divined it to be a thing dangerous both to her father and +to herself. +</P> + +<P> +So it was not Etta Romney but my Lady Evelyn, grave and stately, and +dreadfully afraid of her own secret and of another's, who returned to +Melbourne Hall, and, declining the attentions of her servants, went +straight up to her bedroom, but not to sleep. Whatever danger +threatened her must speedily declare itself, she thought. It was even +possible that the morrow would bring it to her doors. +</P> + +<P> +And if it came, her father would know that Etta Romney had been +"presented" by Mr. Charles Izard at a London theatre and that she was +his daughter. +</P> + +<P> +He would never forgive her, she thought. It might even be that he +would call her his daughter no more. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE THIRD EARL OF MELBOURNE +</H4> + +<P> +There is hardly a pleasanter room in all England than the old Chamber +of the Tapestries they use as a breakfast room at Melbourne Hall. +Situated in the west wing of the great quadrangle, and giving off +immediately from the famous long gallery, its tiny latticed casements +permit a view which reveals at once all the cultivated beauty of the +gardens and the wild woodland scenery of the park beyond, in a vista +which never fails to win the admiration of the stranger, as it has won +the love of many generations who have inhabited that historic mansion. +</P> + +<P> +It is not a large room, but it tells much of the story of the house, +its triumphs, its misfortunes, and its glories. Here you have the +time-stained arms of John, the first baron, whose cinquefoil azure upon +a crimson banner had been carried high at Agincourt; here were the +crosslets fitchée of the House of Mar, whose feminine representative +had come south to wed the third baron in the days of good King Hal. +Fair fingers had worked these tapestries long ago, waiting, perchance, +for news of husband or lover whom the wars had claimed, or fighting for +a King whose son would laugh at their story of fidelity. It had been +my lady's bower then, and knights and squires had doffed their caps as +they passed its doors. To-day they gave it no nobler name than +breakfast room, and therein, at half-past eight every morning, the Earl +of Melbourne, more punctual than the clock itself, sat down to +breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +Now, here was a man who had been an adventurer all his life, a man of +the field, the forest, and the sea; a bluff bearded man, not unrefined +in face and feature, but utterly unsuited by the disposition of his +will to the dignity which accident had thrust upon him, and resenting +it every hour that he lived. +</P> + +<P> +"What are we but slaves of our birth?" he would ask his daughter +passionately. "Why am I cooped up in this old house when I might be on +the deck of a good ship or under canvas in the Alleghany Mountains? +You say that nothing forbids my doing it. You know it isn't true. The +world would cry out on me if I cut myself adrift. And you yourself +would be the first to complain of it. We owe it to society, Evelyn, to +make ourselves miserable for the rest of our lives. They call it +'station' in the prayer-book, but the man who wrote that had never shot +big game on the Zambesi or he'd have sung to a different tune." +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes when Evelyn protested that society would really remain +indifferent whatever they did, he would reply, a little brutally, that +when she had found a husband it would be another matter. +</P> + +<P> +"There will be two of you then to stand for the cinquefoil," he +observed cynically. "I shall shake the handcuffs off and get back to +the East. A man lives in the sunshine. Here he scarcely vegetates. +When they inquire, in ten years' time, where the Earl of Melbourne is, +you'll send them to the Himalayas to begin with, and there they can ask +again. Don't lose time about it, Evelyn. You know that young John +Hall is head over ears in love with you." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn's face would flush at this; and there had been an occasion when +she answered him with the amazing intimation that she would sooner +marry Williams, the groom, than the young baronet he spoke of. This +frightened the old Earl exceedingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Her mother's blood runs in her veins," he said to himself. "By +heaven, she'd marry a stable-boy if I thwarted her." +</P> + +<P> +Here was the spectre which haunted him continually. He feared to read +the story of his own youth and marriage in the youth and marriage of +his daughter. Notwithstanding his jests, his love for her was +passionate and dominated every other instinct of his life. "You are +all that I have in the world, my little Evelyn," he would confess in +gentler moods. He desired her affection in like measure, but had never +wholly won it. Perhaps instinctively she understood that some barrier +of the past interposed itself between them. Her father's defects of +character could not be absolutely hidden from her. She feared she knew +not what. +</P> + +<P> +And if this were her normal mood, what of the Evelyn who had gone to +London at the bidding of a mad desire; who had become Etta Romney +there; who had returned at the dead of night and awaited her father's +home-coming with that tremulous expectation which at once could dread +exposure and yet delight in the peril of it? When her first alarm had +passed and quiet days had led her to believe that she dreamed the story +of espionage, Evelyn could await the issue with no little confidence. +After all, why should Count Odin betray her, even if he had her secret? +He was a man of the world and had nothing to gain by dealing +treacherously with a woman. Her father went to London so rarely that +she might well deride the danger of his visits. Nothing but a clumsy +accident could write that story so that the Earl might read it, she +thought. And so she welcomed him home with all her habitual composure, +and upon the morning of the second day of July she found herself seated +opposite to him in my lady's bower, listening to his stories of Italy +and his plans for the summer and the autumn months to come. +</P> + +<P> +"We ought to give some parties, I suppose," he said; "the servants +expect it, and we must not disappoint them. Ask all the people who +don't want to come and get rid of them as quickly as you can. I have +written to Colchester about the yacht and we ought to get her in +commission in August. You always loved the sea, Evelyn, and this will +be a change for you. We can put into Trouville and Étretat and see +what the Frenchwomen are wearing. I shall steam down to the +Mediterranean later on; but that won't be until December. We have the +birds to kill first and plenty of them. Of course, I know you wanted +to be in London this Spring, and it is not my fault if you did not go. +This copper mine in Tuscany is going to make me as rich as Vanderbilt. +I could not neglect it just because a lot of fools were driving mail +phaetons in Bond Street." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn smiled a little coldly. +</P> + +<P> +"Men do not drive mail phaetons nowadays," she said, "they drive +motor-cars. Of course, it is very necessary for us to keep the wolf +from the door—we are so poor, father." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl had grown accustomed to remarks such as these, and had become +skilful in evading them. He understood perfectly well that Evelyn +expressed her own disappointment and that she meant to remind him of +his broken promises to take a house in Mayfair for the season and to +sacrifice his own pleasures at least for a few brief weeks. +</P> + +<P> +"I am poor enough," he said, "to want all the money I can get. This +old place costs a fortune to keep up. I mean to do big things here by +and by, and twenty thousand won't be too much when they are done. +Besides, it is not money that we men run after, but the gratification +of our own vanity in getting it. The claims on this estate are heavy +and they have to be met quickly if it is to be cleared. I backed my +own opinion about this mine against the biggest house in Germany and I +am coming out top all the time. If it put fifty thousand a year into +my pocket, who'll benefit by it but you? Think of that when you talk +about the little crowd of paupers you want to see in London. Money's +money. And precious glad some of them would be to see the color of it." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn did not contradict him. She was too weary of the subject to +wish to revive it. Imitating others, whose youth had been one of far +from splendid poverty, the Earl permitted money to become the guiding +principle of his life in the exact ratio of its acquisition. An +exceedingly rich man when he inherited the bankrupt estates of the +Melbournes, each year found a waning of his natural generosity, a +growth of unaccustomed meanness, and a diligence in the quest of +fortune which the circumstances made almost pathetic. On her part, +Evelyn was perfectly well aware that he would give no parties at the +Hall this year, would not take her to Trouville, nor visit the +Mediterranean in the winter. Each season found its own excuses for +delay. The wretched mine in Tuscany was a very godsend when +postponements of any kind troubled the Earl for a good excuse. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad you are going to do something to the Hall," she said +evasively; "at least there will be the painters' society to enjoy. +After that I suppose I may go to Dieppe, as Aunt Anne wishes. It will +be quite a dissipation—under the circumstances." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her rather sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"So you went to London after all?" he said. "I thought you meant to +put it off?" +</P> + +<P> +"To put it off! That would have been a familiar task. I live to put +things off. There is no one in all Derbyshire who has so many excuses +to make as I have." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Evelyn, you know perfectly well why I dislike all this kind of +thing." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, I know nothing, except that you dislike it. This is the third +year that you promised to take me to London and have disappointed me. +If there is any reason that keeps us prisoners when others are free, +would you not wish me to know of it? I am your daughter, and surely, +father, you can speak to me of this." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear little Evelyn," he said, hiding his embarrassment as well as +might be, "you are talking the greatest nonsense in the world. If you +want to go to London, you shall go to-morrow. Take a house, a flat, an +hotel, anything you like—only don't ask me to go with you. I am past +all that sort of thing. A city stifles me; the fools I find in it make +me angry. If you like them, go and see them. I have been alone enough +in my life not to mind very much being alone again." +</P> + +<P> +This quasi-appeal to her pity was his invariable argument. He would +have been embarrassed had she accepted his proposals; but he knew full +well that she would not accept them. And so he made them with a +generosity which cost him nothing but a momentary tremor of doubt lest +her answer should disappoint him. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she said, rising from the table and going to the window to look +across the park, "I am satiated with gayety—and Aunt Anne is a very +paragon of giddiness. We went to bed every night at half-past nine and +got up at six; and, of course, Richmond is quite Mayfair when you learn +to know it." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl, rising also, would have laughed it off, despite the +ridiculous nature of the effort. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor old Anne is not as young as she was," he exclaimed lightly. "I +dare say you found her a little tiresome. Well, I suppose you came +home when you were tired of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Evelyn, without turning round, "I came home when I was +tired of it." +</P> + +<P> +He could not see the deep blush upon her cheeks, nor would he have +understood it had he done so. Indeed, she was truthful so far as the +letter of the truth went. A visit to Richmond had been the excuse +which carried her from Melbourne Hall. Three dreary days she had spent +in a prim house overlooking the Thames. The home of the skittish Aunt +Anne, whose sixty years did not forbid her still to look out, like +Sister Mary, for an heroic "Him" upon her horizon. From Richmond, +Evelyn had gone to the Carlton Theatre; and now, for an instant, even +here in her own home, the Etta Romney could return to delight in her +adventure. +</P> + +<P> +What a sensation had attended her disappearance from London? Safely +guarded in her jewel-case upstairs were cuttings from the newspapers of +the days succeeding that mad flight. Be sure that the great Charles +Izard made the most of his misfortune. He had believed that Etta +Romney left him at the bidding of caprice and at the voice of caprice +would return to him again. His shrewd mind instantly perceived that +the truth would best serve him on this occasion; and though he was not +on very good terms with truth, the quarrel was soon patched up. To all +the reporters he told the full story of this captivating romance. +</P> + +<P> +"The girl came to me from nowhere," he said frankly, "and where she has +gone God knows. I gave her a hearing because she wrote me the +cleverest letter I have read for many a long day. Her home was in +Derbyshire, and this was a Derbyshire play. I saw her act one scene in +my theatre and said that she was 'bully.' She had the best send off I +can remember. Then comes the night when I am strung up on my own hook. +She expresses her trunks and quits. About that I know as much as you +do. Her traps were left at St. Pancras station, and a letter says that +she has given up the theatre. Well, I don't believe it. A girl who +can act like that will never give up the theatre. In one month or six +she'll be starring in my plays. She cannot help herself; she's got to +do it." +</P> + +<P> +Nothing whets the public's appetite so surely as curiosity; and all +London had grown curious about Etta Romney. Discerning men, who had +but half-praised her when she first appeared, hastened to declare that +her loss was irreparable. Less responsible journals gave coherent +accounts of the whole business, written in the back office by gentlemen +who knew nothing whatever about it. The affair, at first but a nine +days' wonder, became a standing headline when the editor of a popular +newspaper boldly offered a hundred guineas for the discovery of Etta +Romney's whereabouts. +</P> + +<P> +Etta read all about this in the brief days that intervened between her +own return and her father's. While the woman in her rejoiced at the +success they spoke of, the child failed to perceive the danger of this +undue publicity or to guard in any way against it. It is true that she +had been very much alarmed upon the night she fled from London; but as +the weeks went by and neither word nor message reached her from Count +Odin, or indeed from any of the friends she had made at the theatre, a +new sense of security came to her and compelled her to delight in what +appeared to be the final success of her escapade. Surely now her +father would remain in ignorance of it to the end, she argued. She +believed that it would be so, though whether the Etta Romney within her +were really dead, she did not dare to say. +</P> + +<P> +The spirit of her mad desire; the passionate longing for liberty and +triumph before the world; the knowledge of the rare gifts she possessed +and of the future they might win for her, were these to be forever shut +behind the gates of her silent house, however beautiful that house +might be? She knew not. The future alone could tell her whither the +voice of her destiny would call her. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE ACCIDENT UPON THE ROAD +</H4> + +<P> +Was Etta Romney dead or would the months recreate her? +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn believed that they would. The intolerable <I>ennui</I> of her life +at Melbourne festered the atmosphere in which such dreams as hers were +born and reared. She had that in her blood which no make-believe could +prison. Had the whole truth been told, it would have set her down for +a gypsy of gypsies—a true child of the roadside and the caves. But +the truth was just the one thing her father hid from her. +</P> + +<P> +"I met your mother at Vienna," he had told her once when an illness had +moved him to that affectionate confidence which weakness is apt to +provoke. "She was Dora d'Istran, the most beautiful woman in the city +and one most run after. You are like her sometimes, Evelyn; you have +her eyes and hair, and just such a manner. She understood me as no one +else in the world has ever done, not even my little daughter. I +married her in the face of my family and never regretted the day. She +died when you were eleven months old. I live again through that hour +which took her from me every day of my life." +</P> + +<P> +Here was no weak confession. Throughout his life this man had been +seeking a good woman's love. Knowing in his heart that he had done +things unworthy of it, he sought it yet more ardently for that very +reason. One woman, his wife, had understood him and given him of her +whole soul generously. Her death left him a vagrant once more. In +vain he, a miser to others, lavished generous gifts upon Evelyn, his +child. "She would love me if she could," he told himself, "but there +is a chord in her nature I cannot strike." A keen observer of +intuitive faculty would have said that the man's nature, not the +woman's, in Evelyn Forrester forbade her to respond to his affection. +</P> + +<P> +Of this Evelyn herself remained quite unconscious. Fret as she might +against her father's unjust and inexplicable treatment of her, she +would have resented hotly the suggestion that she had not a daughter's +love for him. Her very obedience, she thought, must be sufficient +witness to that. Though he made a prisoner of her, she rarely uttered +a complaint. His varying moods, now of doting affection, now of +irritation and temper, found her patient and silent. When he did a +mean thing she shuddered, but rarely spoke of it, because she knew that +words would not help her. Her own life had been lived so far apart +from his. She wished with all her heart that it had not been so; but +she could not justly blame herself for circumstances she was in no way +able to control. +</P> + +<P> +This had been her attitude before her great escapade in London; it +remained her attitude upon her return to Derbyshire. She met her +father each morning at the breakfast table; dined with him in solemn +state at night—occasionally received visits from their neighbors, and +was some times the guest of the vicar of the parish, a pleasant old +Cambridge Don, by name Harry Fillimore. But in the main Evelyn lived +alone, in the wild glades of the beautiful park, down by the silent +pool of the river—just as she had lived and dreamed in the old days of +the longing for the world, its glamour and its glories. And now she +had a great secret to take to the green woods with her. Day by day, as +some sylph of the thickets, the true Romany child reacted the thrilling +scenes of the brief weeks of triumph in London. Her hair wild about +her shoulders, her eyes reflecting the dreams, she would crouch by the +river's bank and play Narcissus to the reeds. +</P> + +<P> +"It was I, Etta ... yes, yes ... just the little Etta looking up from +the waters—I went to London—I played at the theatre—they said I was +a success—they offered me money—to Etta Romney, just little Etta +Romney. And now it's all over. Etta is dead, and Evelyn has come +back. I shall never go to London again—I shall die, perhaps, down +there among the reeds in the river. Oh, if some one only would love +me, some one understand me. And it's for ever in this lonely +place—for ever—for ever." +</P> + +<P> +Such regrets were neither hysterical nor unusual. She knew that there +was some great void in her life, some desire ungratified, which must +haunt her to the end; and this knowledge drove her day by day along +those paths of solitude which her father wished her to tread, though +never would he have confessed as much. His lavish gifts to her +scarcely won a word of thanks. When she rode a horse, it was madly, +defying convention, helter-skelter across the grass lands like a +Mexican flying over the prairie. She bathed in the deepest, most +dangerous pools; went shooting but shot little, because her will +revolted from the purposes of slaughter; would picnic in the darkest +thickets and had even set up a tent and slept in it, far from house or +cottage, at the height of the summer glory. +</P> + +<P> +"A little madcap," the bland vicar said when he heard of it, "a regular +brick of a girl, though who'd believe it when he saw her at her +father's dinner table. Why, last night, sir, she sat in the +drawing-room just for all the world a paragon of propriety with ten +generations of grand dames to her name. I didn't dare to take a second +glass of port for fear I should be jocular. And to-day I saw her +flying toward Derby in the new car at thirty miles an hour. Away went +my straw hat just like a cricket ball. Now, what are you to make of a +young lady like that?" +</P> + +<P> +Doctor Philips, the person addressed upon this occasion, confessed that +you might make many things of her. +</P> + +<P> +"She could earn a good living at steeplechasing, and I would pay her +five pounds a week to be my <I>chauffeur</I>," he said quite seriously, "and +please don't forget the ball she drives at golf. Why, vicar, she'd +give the pair of us a half. It's no ordinary woman could do that." +</P> + +<P> +They agreed that it could not be, and having discussed the Lady Evelyn +at great length were about to sit down to lunch together, individuals +aware of their own humility in the face of a superior intellect, when +Williams, the groom, came flying over from the Hall and demanded to see +the Doctor instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"There's bin a haccident on the road, sir," he cried breathlessly, +"please come over at once—the gentleman's up at the house and the Earl +away." +</P> + +<P> +The doctor, wasting no words, set out with a sigh and a backward glance +at the inviting table. +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar said: +</P> + +<P> +"Thank God—I thought that <I>she</I> had come to grief." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A RACE FOR LIFE +</H4> + +<P> +The Vicar declared that he met Evelyn upon the road to Derby, "going +like a volcano at thirty miles an hour;" but this was a mere figure of +speech, for her little car, being of no more than ten horse-power could +not possibly accomplish such speeds; nor would the winding roads about +the Hall have permitted them to a larger motor. A reckless driver, if +recklessness were love of the delight of fast travel, Evelyn loved +horses too well to frighten them; and rarely did a coachman complain or +such wayfarers as she met upon her journey do anything but applaud her. +Indeed, Derbyshire had no more enchanting picture than that of this +dark-haired girl, superbly gowned, as she sat at the wheel of her +crimson car; while Bates, the proud <I>chauffeur</I>, gazed disdainfully, +from the dicky behind, upon all the world, as though to say, "You can't +beat her." And this was the more noble on Bates' part because Evelyn +had twice deposited him in the ditch since the car came home. "The +horrid thing will go round the corners so fast" had been her lament +after these mishaps. Bates added the pious prayer that he might go +round with the car on the next occasion. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes, of course, it would be Etta Romney who drove and not my Lady +Evelyn at all. These were mad, wild moods and came mostly at twilight +when the gloom of day crept upon the fields and the sun went down in +crimson splendor. Then the wild, mad dash down tempting hills would +scare the loiterers and send the jogging laborer to the shelter of the +hedges. Then a cloud of dust enveloped the flying car, and the figure +at the wheel might have stood for Melpomene with vine leaves in her +hair. "A rare 'un she be," the countrymen would say; "went by me like +a railway engine, dang 'un, her did." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn had been into Derby on the day the Vicar narrated the +misfortunes of his straw hat. Having done a little shopping, she set +out for the Hall a few minutes after the hour of twelve, by which time +the day had turned gloriously fine with a light wind from the east and +a bank of white clouds high beneath the azure, which promised welcome +interludes of shade. She had a journey of twenty-three miles before +her (for Melbourne Hall lies far from the little town of that name and +knows it not), and leisure enough in which to do it. Business, she +knew not of what nature, had carried her father to London nearly a week +ago. She would be alone until to-morrow, her own jailer, she said with +a pout, the mistress of hours by which she could profit so little. Her +mood, indeed, had become one of cynical indifference, tempered by the +reflection that this was the first visit the Earl had paid to London +since her escapade. What, she asked, if a word of that story came to +his ears even now? The weeks of safety inspired a sense of security +which circumstance hardly justified. She paled and trembled when she +asked herself what such a passionate man as her father would do if the +truth were discovered by him. +</P> + +<P> +Here, truly, was no impulse to the delights of speed or to that +recklessness which the Vicar chided. Evelyn drove slowly, her thoughts +vagrant and wayward, her attitude that of one who has not pleasure +awaiting her at her journey's end. She had traversed over twenty miles +of the distance and was just looking out for that well-known landmark, +the spire of the village church, when a startled cry from the usually +phlegmatic Bates aroused her attention and called upon a +self-possession which rarely failed her. +</P> + +<P> +"A horse and carriage—bolting behind us, your ladyship—put her on the +fourth—my God, he's coming right on top of us—quick, your ladyship—a +horse bolting——" +</P> + +<P> +He stood up in the dicky and waved his arms and continued to cry, "A +horse bolting!" as though by repetition alone he would bring her to a +sense of danger. Evelyn, upon her part, cast one startled glance +behind her and instantly became aware of the situation. For down the +road, which sloped slightly toward them, a horse bolted madly in their +direction, swinging a light brougham from footpath to footpath and +leaving a dense cloud of dust to bear witness to the speed. So mad was +the gallop that the frightened beast, seen first at a distance perhaps +of six hundred yards, was no more than three hundred yards from them +when Evelyn opened the throttle of her car to the full and sent it +racing down the incline as it had never raced before. Fifteen, twenty, +twenty-five miles an hour the speed indicator registered, and still the +car appeared to be gaining speed. Behind, as though in vain pursuit, +the thundering sound of hoofs waxed louder; and once or twice in the +interludes of sounds, a man's voice could be heard crying to the horse +and to those in the car incoherent words in an unknown tongue. +</P> + +<P> +"Let her go for God's sake, your ladyship—let her go—he's coming +up—keep to the right—don't mind the corner—we'll do it yet—" These +and many another exclamation fell from Bates' volcanic lips as he clung +to the dicky for dear life and tried to drive the mad horse into the +hedge by the wild waving of a spasmodic arm. His appeal to her to keep +to the right showed that he, at any rate, had not lost his head. +Instinctive habit sent the animal flying to the left-hand side of the +road as he would naturally be sent by any coachman. Though the +brougham lurched wildly, the terrified horse returned to his accustomed +place again and again, taking the corners in wide sweeps and increasing +his speed with his terror. A great raw bony brute that had been ridden +to hounds the previous winter, his gallop was that of a thoroughbred +over good grass lands. Even the ten horse-power car could not keep its +lead. Evelyn knew that he was overtaking her. The shadow of +catastrophe seemed to creep over her very shoulders. "Is he far off +now?" she would ask Bates despairingly. +</P> + +<P> +The answer, many times repeated, began to be monotonous. +</P> + +<P> +"Keep to the right, milady—don't mind the corner—I'll blow the horn +for you—now you're gaining a bit—oh, that's fine—let her go—we'll +do it yet, milady." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn, it may be, realized her own peril less than that of those in +the brougham. A man's cry, whatever reading of character might be +placed upon it, seemed to her an evidence of grave danger and piteous +fear. But for this, her own courage would have almost delighted in the +rare sensations of speed and flight and all the doubt of the ultimate +issue. Guiding her car with a brave hand, she was conscious of a +rushing wind upon her face; of hedges, fields, trees approaching, +disappearing, during that ominous race; of a voice speaking to her; of +a question many times repeated—"How will it end? Will they be +killed?" And yet the speed of it both excited and sustained her. She +swung round the corners as an arm upon a pivot; hugged a difficult path +with the skill of an old <I>mécanicien</I>, nursed her engine perfectly, was +never flurried, never hesitating, never fearful. That which she +dreaded was the long incline leading up to the gates of Melbourne Hall. +The mad horse would beat the car upon that, she thought. The +threatened thunder of his hoofs seemed so near to her now. She could +hear the man's voice plainly, and the tongue he spoke had a more +familiar sound. +</P> + +<P> +The moment was critical enough. A gentle hill lay before her. She +knew that a horse galloping blindly would make nothing of it, but that +the little car must be slowed down sufficiently to render escape out of +the question. Had there been a footpath, she would have mounted it and +dared the consequences; but of path there was none. A man in her place +might have bethought him of slacking speed gradually and blocking the +road to the flying carriage. But Bates, her <I>chauffeur</I>, had never +been upon a horse in his life. He thought only of himself and the car. +</P> + +<P> +"I could feel his nose down my back," he told the Servants' Hall +afterwards—to which the cook replied "Lor', Mr. Bates, how you must +have suffered!" He admitted that he had done so. +</P> + +<P> +"She turned into the field better than Théry himself could have done," +he declared, speaking of the driver of the Gordon Bennet car. "Just +when I was asking myself who'd come in for my Sunday clothes, round she +goes like a top and the carriage went flying by us at a jiffy." +</P> + +<P> +The kitchen listened in awe. +</P> + +<P> +"I always said as she was a thoroughbred," Williams, the groom, +remarked; and this opinion appeared to be general. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn had saved her car just as the excellent Bates described it. +Losing ground steadily upon the hill, the end of it all seemed at hand, +when she espied the open gate of a hay-field upon her right hand; and +taking her courage and the wheel in both her hands, she just touched +the car with the foot-brake and then swung it boldly through the +opening. A terrible lurch, a great bump over wagon-ruts and they were +at a standstill in grass growing to the height of their axles. The +bolting horse meanwhile went by like a shot from a bow, straight up the +hill which leads to the Hall. A turn of the road hid him from their +sight. They heard a loud crash and then all was still. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn sat, very pale and frightened, and trembling visibly at the +thought of that which must have happened on the hillside above them. +The engine of her car had stopped as they ran into the field and the +imperturbable Bates immediately leaped down from the dicky and made a +wild attempt to restart it. +</P> + +<P> +"There wasn't a driver on the box, milady," he said, as though it were +the most natural remark in the world to make. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn answered by ordering him, almost angrily, to start the engine. +</P> + +<P> +"We must go to them," she said, her heart beating fast as she spoke. +"I am sure there has been a dreadful accident. Be quick, Bates! Why +are you so foolish? Please start the engine at once." +</P> + +<P> +"I was thinking of you, milady," the man said a little sullenly. +"There was two gents in the carriage. You mightn't like to see what +somebody will see when they go up there." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't talk nonsense," she said firmly. "I am not a child, Bates. You +would make a coward of me. Let us go at once!" +</P> + +<P> +Bates said no more but started the engine at once. Evelyn backed the +car from the field and drove slowly up the hill. She was greatly +excited and afraid, but her resolution to proceed remained unshaken. +</P> + +<P> +Who had been in the carriage? What harm had befallen him or them? The +turn of the road answered her immediately. For there, white and +insensible by the side of the shattered brougham, lay Count Odin, the +Roumanian, and by him there knelt young Felix Horowitz, his friend, +ready to tell everyone that the Count was dead. Evelyn, however, knew +that he was not dead. +</P> + +<P> +And tragedy, she said, had followed her even to the gates of Melbourne +Hall. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE UNSPOKEN ACCUSATION +</H4> + +<P> +Count Odin had been three days at Melbourne Hall when the Earl +returned. For thirty hours he did not recover consciousness; the +second day found him restless and but dimly aware of the circumstances +of his accident; the third day, however, recorded such an improvement +that, as the evening drew on, he sent the maid, Partigan, to my Lady +Evelyn begging that she would come to him. +</P> + +<P> +There had been wild excitement in the house, to be sure. Tragedy is +ever the delight of the servants' hall; nor was it less delightful +because memorable days were few at the Manor. History has recorded +that Partigan, the maid, shed tears when she heard that the young man +upstairs was a foreigner and exceedingly handsome. Mr. Griggs, the +butler, felt it necessary to sample divers vintages of wine and to ask +repeatedly what the Earl would think of it. The maids whispered +together in corners; the grooms discussed the erring horse with straws +protruding from the corners of their mouths. To these worthies and to +others the daily bulletin, which the shrewd, side-whiskered Dr. Philips +delivered each morning as he climbed into his motor-car, became as the +tidings of a horse-race or of a royal wedding. Rumor had said that the +young Count was dead when they carried him to the house. Dr. Philips +declared that he would have him dancing before the month was done. +</P> + +<P> +"Fracture, pshaw!" exclaimed that knowing practitioner; "they might +tell you that in Harley Street, but in Derbyshire we know better. He +has a skull as thick as a water-butt. Con-cuss-ion, sir, that is the +matter. You may tell her ladyship so with my compliments. +Con-cuss-ion is what Dr. Philips says, and if there is anyone who +disputes his word, he'd like to see the man." +</P> + +<P> +They carried the news to Evelyn, who had scarcely left her room since +this amazing adventure befell her. A brief account of the accident +obtained from the lips of young Felix Horowitz, Count Odin's friend, +narrated the simple circumstance that they had been driving from +Moretown to Melbourne Hall and had collided upon the way with a +hay-cart, whose driver, as the drivers of hay-carts so frequently will, +had been taking his siesta during the heat of the day. Thrown from the +box into the gutter, the coachman dislocated his shoulder and had many +bruises to show; while his horse, terrified at the absence of control, +instantly bolted in one of those blind panics which may overtake even +the most docile of animals. +</P> + +<P> +Such a story Felix Horowitz had told, but more he could not tell. +Evelyn's anxious question as to the purport of Count Odin's visit +remained unanswered. It was possible, the youth said, that the Count +drove out to see Lord Melbourne. "But I should not be surprised," he +added naïvely, "if there were a better reason which you must not expect +me to confess." +</P> + +<P> +She was afraid to press the point, nor dare she, at present, invite the +confidence of one who was so great a stranger to her. Sooner or later +it would be necessary to abase herself before this man who had thrust +himself unluckily into her life and made such quick use of his +advantages. Evelyn perceived immediately that she must go to Count +Odin and say, "My father does not know that I am Etta Romney. Please +do not tell him." And this was far from being the whole penalty of the +accident. A glimmer of the truth could come to her already as a +spectre which henceforth must haunt her life. She knew that her father +had spent some years in Roumania, and that nothing would induce him to +revisit that country wherein he had married Dora d'Istran. In the same +breath, she told herself that this man was a Roumanian and acquainted +with her father's story. +</P> + +<P> +Had she been entirely honest with herself she would have gone on to +admit a certain fascination in the mystery which she could neither +account for nor take arms against. Count Odin was like no other man +she had known. She had tried to deceive herself in London with the +imagined belief that she never wished to see him again. Many times, +however, since she had returned to Derbyshire this very desire would +assert itself. She found herself, against her will and reason, +covertly hoping that she might hear his story from his own lips. A +psychologist would have held that there was a certain affinity between +the two, and that she had become the victim of it unconsciously. Her +fear was of a splendid fascination she had become aware of and could +not resist. She imagined that she would obey this man if he commanded +her, despite her resolute will and almost eccentric originality. And +this she feared even more than her own secret. +</P> + +<P> +It is to be imagined how the suspense of Count Odin's illness tried +nerves as high strung as those of Evelyn, and with what expectation she +awaited the hour when he would recover consciousness. Her desire had +become that of knowing the worst as speedily as might be; and the worst +she certainly would not know until consciousness returned and some good +excuse might admit her to the sick man's room. Hourly, almost, she +asked the news of Dr. Philips and received the strictly professional +answer: +</P> + +<P> +"An ordinary case—no cause for worry at all—don't think about it." +</P> + +<P> +To the Doctor's inquiry what she knew of Count Odin she merely said +that she had heard of him in London and believed that his father had +been the Earl's friend many years ago. This did not in any way +disguise her unrest, and the Doctor would have been more than human had +he not put his own construction upon it. +</P> + +<P> +"Head over ears in love with him," he told the Vicar that night; "why, +sir, she would not deceive a blind man. She's met this fellow in +London and bagged him like a wounded pheasant. I shouldn't wonder if +it hadn't been all arranged between them—bolting horse and all. There +he is, in the chaplain's room, rambling away in a tongue a Hottentot +would be ashamed of, and she's waiting for me always on the stairs just +ready to hug me for a good word. What do you make of it? You've +married a few and ought to be an expert." +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar shook his head at the compliment and declared that it would +never suit the Earl. +</P> + +<P> +"He hopes that she will never marry," he said; "he has told me so +himself more than once. If she does marry, he has great ambitions. +After all, she may only be naturally anxious. I dare say she's asking +herself whether her own car did not do some of the mischief." +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar's wife, on her part, declared the situation to be exceedingly +distressing. +</P> + +<P> +"There's no other lady in the house," she said aghast. "I think the +Earl should be advised to return. It is so very unusual." +</P> + +<P> +As a matter of fact, the Earl came home on the evening of the third +day, exactly one hour after Evelyn had been sent for to see Count Odin +for the first time since the tragedy. The meeting took place at the +Count's request, as it has been said. Returning consciousness brought +with it a full remembrance of the circumstances of the accident and a +desire to thank his hostess for that which had been done. So Evelyn +went to him, determined to throw herself upon his pity. No other +possible course lay before her. +</P> + +<P> +Dr. Philips was in the room when she entered it; but his belief that +this was an <I>affaire de coeur</I> remained obdurate, and he withdrew into +an alcove, when the first introductions were over, and made a great +business there of discussing the patient's condition with the nurse who +had come over from Derby. Thus Evelyn found her opportunity to speak +freely to the young Count. Each felt, however, that the need of words +between them was small. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady," he began, "how shall I apologize for what has happened +to me? Three days in your house and not a word of regret that I +intrude upon you. Ah, that clownish fellow of a coachman and the other +who was asleep upon the imperial. Well, I shall long remember your +English horses, and, dear lady, I am not ungrateful to them." +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hand and Evelyn could not withhold her own, which he +clasped with warm fingers as though to draw her nearer still toward him. +</P> + +<P> +"It is impossible to speak of gratitude under such circumstances," she +said in a low voice. "My father will approve of all that has been +done, Count. He is returning to-night from London." +</P> + +<P> +She paused and looked round the room, anxious that Dr. Philips should +not hear her. The Count, in his turn, smiled a little maliciously as +though fully aware of her thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive me," he said again. "I came to see your father, but I did not +know that he was the Earl of Melbourne. Will you not sit down, dear +lady? You make me unhappy while you stand." +</P> + +<P> +He touched her hand again and indicated a low chair facing his bed. +Evelyn, whose heart beat quickly, sat without protest. The minutes +were brief; she had so much to tell him. +</P> + +<P> +"You knew my father in Roumania, did you not?" she asked in a tone that +could not hide her curiosity. The Count answered her with a kindly +smile. +</P> + +<P> +"He was my father's friend," he exclaimed, raising himself a little +upon the pillow; "that would be more than twenty years ago. So much +has happened since then, Lady Evelyn. Twenty years in a man's life and +a woman's—ah, if we could recall even a few of them——" +</P> + +<P> +"Even the weeks," she said meaningly, "when we were not ourselves, but +another whom we wish to forget. Our friends can help us to recall +those weeks, Count." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn had not understood the difficulty of confession until this +moment. Her visit to London had been so entirely of her own planning, +she had locked the dreams of her life so surely in the secret chambers +of her heart, that this man was the first human being with whom she had +shared so much as a single word of them. Secret actions and secret +thoughts alike shame us when we speak of them aloud. Nothing but a +dire dread of discovery would have induced her to face the humiliations +of this avowal had it not been that silence must have meant discovery +and discovery might mean disaster beyond any she could imagine. Count +Odin, a trained man of the world, had perception sufficient to read her +story instantly and to understand its full significance. Here was a +woman who put herself into his power without a single thought of the +consequences. He rejoiced beyond words at the circumstance, but had +the wit to conceal his pleasure when he replied with an apparent +generosity which earned her gratitude: +</P> + +<P> +"Those are the weeks when our friends should be blind, Lady Evelyn. I +am glad that you tell me this. Frankly, I, too, am an artist, and can +understand your father's objection to the theatre. Let us forget that +the most charming Etta Romney has existed. She came from nowhere and +has gone away as she came. We shall be so ungallant that we go to +forget her name and the theatre and all her cleverness. Please to +speak no more of it. I am your servant, and my memory is at your +command. If we have met in London, so shall it be. If we are +strangers when your father is come back, that also I will be ready to +remember. Command my silence or my words as you think for the best." +</P> + +<P> +He accompanied the words with a gesture which would have made light of +the whole affair—as though to say, "This is a little thing, let us +speak of something more important. The act, however, did not deceive +Evelyn. Her former distrust of this man returned with new force. She +felt instinctively that she must pay a price for his silence; though +she knew not, nor could she imagine, what that price must be. And, +more than this, she rebelled already against the penalties of +deception. The net in whose meshes her daring had caught her was a net +of equivocation which must degrade while it endured. +</P> + +<P> +"It is for my father's sake," she said quietly, believing it at the +moment really to be so. "He knows little of the theatre and dislikes +it in consequence. Of course, Count, I had no intention of remaining +in London. If you have any love for the stage yourself, you will +understand why I went." +</P> + +<P> +"No one so sympathetically, dear lady. You were born an artiste; you +will die one, though you never again shall go upon the stage. Here is +our friend, Dr. Philips, coming with the medicine to make us happy. Is +it that we have met in London or are we to be strangers? Speak and I +obey you, now and always." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no necessity to say anything about it," she exclaimed, +flushing as she stood up. "I do not suppose my father will ask the +question. Your visit to Derbyshire was in his interests, I understand, +Count." +</P> + +<P> +He turned a swift keen glance upon her—far from a pleasant glance. +</P> + +<P> +"I came to ask a question of him, lady. I came that he shall tell me +whether my own father is a free man or a prisoner. He will not answer +that question willingly. But until it is answered, I remain the guest +of your house. Silence, if you please. This also is my secret and +to-day is not the time to speak of it." +</P> + +<P> +He raised a hand warningly and Evelyn turned about to find Dr. Philips +at her side. The little man seemed more amused than ever. His idea +that this was a lover's meeting, brought about by the laborious device +of a bolting horse and a smashed carriage, could not be put aside. +</P> + +<P> +"Doing capitally, I perceive," he remarked in that professional tone of +voice which no human ill, whatever it may be, appears able to modulate +or alter. "Out in a bath-chair to-morrow and steeplechasing the next +day. Well, well, if we could only put youth into our bottles, what +magicians we should be! Now, sir, if I had been in the carriage, the +Lady Evelyn, here, would have been asking herself what she would wear +at the funeral to-morrow. But I am an old man and you are a young one, +and there is nothing like youth in all the world." +</P> + +<P> +"A most excellent sentiment," said the Count, "and one I take to mean +that I may return to London before the end of the week if the Lady +Evelyn will graciously permit me to go." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. Philips looked at both of them and smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"You must speak to the Earl about that," he exclaimed. "Why, there is +his carriage. I must go and break the news to him." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE INTERVIEW +</H4> + +<P> +Premonition is an odd thing enough and no distant relative of that +sister art of prophecy which the ancients so justly esteemed. Evelyn +knew no reason whatever why her father should be offended by the +presence of Count Odin at the Manor, but none the less premonition +warned her that the meeting would not be unattended by consequences of +some import. In this fear she had quitted the Count's room directly +Dr. Philips warned her that the Earl's carriage was in the courtyard; +and going out to the head of that short flight of stairs by which you +reach the banqueting hall, she waited there in no little expectation, +afraid she knew not of what, and yet quite sure that she had good +reason to be afraid. Down below, in the great hall itself, she heard a +sound of voices—for the Doctor had already begun his tale—and she +tried to catch the sense of it, listening particularly for any mention +of Count Odin's name, which must, she believed, be the key to this +strange riddle of her adventure. When her father approached her, +smiling and not ill-pleased, she was quite sure that the Count's name +had not been mentioned; nor was her surmise in any way incorrect. +</P> + +<P> +The Earl came up the stairs with the air of a man who is glad to get +home again and has heard a good jest upon the very threshold of his +house. He wore a dark tweed suit and his bronzed face, if slightly +drawn by the fatigues of travel, wore, none the less, that benevolent +air of content which invariably attended the assurance that all was +well at Melbourne Hall. Stooping to kiss Evelyn, he told her in a word +that he was aware of the adventure and found it amusing enough. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, the Doctor has told me," he began; "a man and a horse and a +flying machine! My dear girl, you must be careful. What will the +county say if we go on like this—the second spill in a couple of +months. Why, I'll have to endow an hospital for your victims! Evelyn, +my dear——" +</P> + +<P> +She interrupted him almost hotly. +</P> + +<P> +"Doctor Philips should write books," she said quickly. "We had nothing +whatever to do with it. The horse bolted from Moretown and raced up +behind us. I turned into a field and saved the car. What nonsense to +say that it was our fault! Ask the Count's friend how it happened. He +has been to London, but he will return to-morrow. He can tell you all +about it, father. I was too frightened at the time to know exactly +what did happen." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl, still believing that the Doctor's incoherent jargon must have +some truth in it, paused, nevertheless, at the word "Count." +</P> + +<P> +"Is the man a foreigner?" he asked quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"He will tell you for himself," she replied evasively. "We have given +him the Chaplain's Room. Please go there and ask him how it was. Dr. +Philips has been romancing as usual." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor came up to them while they spoke and looked foolish enough +at overhearing her words. He certainly was a poor hand at a narrative, +and his incoherent account of the tragedy had left the Earl with no +other idea than that of Evelyn's recklessness and the consequences +which had attended it. +</P> + +<P> +"It's just like me," he exclaimed meekly, "always putting my foot in it +somewhere. And a great big flat foot too, my dear. What did I tell +him now? I said you were returning from Derby and the horse bolted and +your car ran into a field. That's it, wasn't it now? Dear me, how +very foolish!" +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn did not hear him. They had strolled together down the corridor +and witnessed the Earl enter the sick man's room, and now a sharp sound +of voices almost in anger came up to them. On his part, Dr. Philips +remained convinced that the Count had come into Derbyshire to see +Evelyn and that the Earl had some knowledge of the circumstances. +Evelyn's abstracted manner seemed to bear him out in this ridiculous +idea. Pale and silent and agitated, she waited for the result of that +momentous interview. What had the two men to say to each other? How +much she would have given to be able to answer that question! +</P> + +<P> +"Your father knows something of the Count, I think?" the Doctor +ventured at a hazard while they waited. +</P> + +<P> +She answered that she was unaware of the circumstance. +</P> + +<P> +"I have only seen this man twice in my life," she exclaimed with +growing impatience. "If you are writing his biography, Doctor, I +really am worse than useless." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her amazed. "This man." Surely there was nothing +romantic about that. +</P> + +<P> +"Writing his biography. My dear Lady Evelyn, what an idea! I quite +thought he was an old friend of yours. But everyone we know is an old +friend of ours nowadays," he said somewhat solemnly, as though grieved +that his anticipations should thus be disappointed. "I know absolutely +nothing of the Count," he went on, "except that he is a Roumanian, a +country, I believe, in the south-east of Europe, with Bukharest for its +capital. I remember that from my schooldays. The Roumanians shoot the +Bulgarians on half-holidays, and the Bulgarians burn the Roumanians +alive after they have been to church on Sundays. Evidently a country +to which one should send their relatives—the elderly ones who have +made their wills satisfactorily." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn was too kind to embarrass him by the declaration that her mother +had been a daughter of the country he esteemed so lightly. His +readiness to apologize upon every occasion was typical of a kindly man +who believed that all the world was ready to find fault with him. His +livelihood depended upon his recognition of the fact that illness +itself is sometimes little better than a vanity—and that when an +obstinate man tells you that he is an invalid, his pride is hurt if you +tell him that he is not. +</P> + +<P> +"My father spent many years in Roumania when he was a young man," +Evelyn said, in answer to the Doctor's tirade. "Those are years he +does not often speak of. I can't tell you why, Doctor, but he dislikes +anyone even to remind him that he was once an <I>attaché</I> at Bukharest. +Perhaps he will not welcome Count Odin here. I imagine it may be so." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm quite certain of it," said the Doctor with a dry smile. "People +who are glad to see each other do not talk like that—of course we must +not listen," he added, drawing her away toward the Long Gallery; "we +are not supposed to be present at all." +</P> + +<P> +A sound of voices raised almost as though in anger warned him that this +was no common affair. Every doctor is curious, and Dr. Philips had no +merits above the common in this respect. He knew that he would narrate +the whole circumstance to the Vicar later on in the evening, and that +two wise heads would be shaken together over this amazing discovery. +For the moment he watched Evelyn narrowly and, perceiving her +agitation, found himself asking how much of her story was true. Had +she, indeed, met this intruder but once in London; and was she in +ignorance of the Earl's past, so far as Roumania had written it? He +doubted the possibility—it seemed to him prudent, however, not to +remain longer at the Hall. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall run over in the morning," he said blandly; "you can tell me +anything I ought to know then. There is nothing much the matter with +the man, and a bump may have knocked some good sense into his head. +Don't allow him to worry the Earl—I don't want another patient in the +house, and your father has not looked very well lately. Send for me +again if you have any trouble, and I'll be back as soon as the +messenger." +</P> + +<P> +He would much have liked to stop, but that, he realized, was out of the +question. Here was some private page from the life-story of a man +whose actions had ever mystified both his friends and neighbors. An +old woman in his love of a scandal, Dr. Philips had the Earl's +displeasure to set in the other pan of the social balance; and that was +something not to be lightly weighed. Taking leave of Evelyn at the +western door of the Long Gallery, he left her with many protestations +of his interest, and the repeated assurance that his morning visit +should be an early one. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll look in first thing," he exclaimed; "don't let that man worry the +Earl, my dear. There's a hang-dog look about him I never liked. Keep +your eyes on him—and take my advice, the advice of an old friend—get +rid of him." +</P> + +<P> +Anxious as she was, she could not but smile at this <I>volteface</I>. An +hour ago, believing that Count Odin had come to Melbourne because he +was her lover, the Doctor was ready to declare him a very Adonis, a +prodigy of charm and valor and all the graces. Now he had become "that +man," a term human nature is ready enough to apply to strangers. +Evelyn, left alone in the gallery, fell to wondering which was the +truer estimate. Why, she asked, had she any interest in this stranger +at all? Did the appeal he made to her speak to Etta Romney or to +Evelyn, my lord of Melbourne's daughter? Was there not a subtle idea +that this man could speak for the glamour and the stir of that world +she craved for and was denied. Even at this early stage, she did not +believe that the influence was for good, though she forbore to name it +as utterly evil. Agitation, indeed, and a curiosity more potent than +any she had ever submitted to, now dominated her to the exclusion of +all other thoughts. Why did her father delay? Of what sometime +forgotten day of the dead years were the two men now speaking in a tone +which declared their anger? She could not even hazard an answer. The +gong for dressing sounded and still the Earl did not leave the Count's +room. Dinner was served—he did not appear at the table. Greatly +distressed and afraid, Evelyn waited until nine o'clock, when a message +came down to tell her that he had gone to his room and would dine alone. +</P> + +<P> +"I must go up, Griggs," she said firmly; "my father cannot be well." +</P> + +<P> +"My lady," he said, "the Earl was firm on that. He will see no one, +not even you to-night." +</P> + +<P> +The intimation astounded her, and yet had been expected. Destiny spoke +to her plainly since the day the Count had come to Melbourne Hall. For +what else had it been but Destiny which brought her face to face with +this man in London, sent her almost into his arms and revealed her name +to him! But for that chance encounter, her secret might have remained +her own to the end. She did not fear her secret now, but a great +mystery, the story of her father's life (she knew not what it might +be), told abroad to the world, to his shame and her own. Not in vain +had she lived these years of a close intimacy with one who could not so +much as bear the word "youth" mentioned in his presence. There had +been a past in the Earl's life, of that she was convinced—and this +man, she said, had come to the Manor to accuse him. It remained for +her to take up arms against him—she, my Lady Evelyn, the recluse, the +captive of a selfish idea. +</P> + +<P> +And that was in her mind already—the personal issue between herself +and the Count. She would not shrink from it, although she realized its +perils. +</P> + +<P> +"Not Evelyn, but Etta," she said, "yes, yes, and that is Destiny also. +And now the world is all before me and I am alone." +</P> + +<P> +Alone! Truly so, for my Lady Evelyn knew not one in all the world to +whom she might speak in that hour of awakening. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +INHERITANCE +</H4> + +<P> +Alone in his own room, high up in the northern tower of Melbourne Hall, +the Earl locked the door and turned up the lights with the air of a man +who has a considerable task before him and must make the most of the +hours of grace remaining. +</P> + +<P> +He was very pale and greatly changed since he had returned from London +three hours ago. Some would have perceived in his manner, not the +evidences of fear but of displeasure, and such displeasure as events +bordering upon tragedy alone could provoke. Uttering but one harsh +instruction to the servant who answered his bell, he sat at his writing +table and for a full hour turned over the pages of a diary which had +not seen the light for twenty years or more. +</P> + +<P> +Georges Odin! How the very name could seize upon his mind to the +exclusion of all other thoughts. Sitting there with the time-stained +papers before him, the Earl was no longer in Derbyshire but out upon +the Carpathians, a youth of the West craving for the excitements of the +East; a hunter upon a brave horse, the friend of brigands and of +outlaws—drinking deep of the intoxicating draughts of freedom and +debauch. Well and truly had this young Count, whom Fate had sent to +his door, reminded him of these scenes he had made it his life's +purpose to forget. +</P> + +<P> +"Zallony, my lord," he had said, "Zallony still lives and you were one +of Zallony's band. They tell of your crimes to this day. The mad +Englishman who carried the village girls to the hills—the mad +Englishman who drank when no other could lift the cup—the mad +Englishman who rode out of Bukharest in a bandit's cloak and lived the +Bohemian days of which the very gypsies were ashamed. Shall I tell you +his name? It would be that of my father's murderer." +</P> + +<P> +And the answer had been a cringing evasion. +</P> + +<P> +"I met Georges Odin in fair fight. He was the better man. I could +show the scars his sword left to this day. Of what do you accuse me? +They sent him to prison—well, I did not make their laws. He died +there, a convict laborer in the salt mines. Was it my doing? Ask +those at the Ministry. We moved heaven and earth to save him. The +Government's reason was a political one. They sent your father to the +mines because the Russian Government—then all powerful at +Bukharest—believed him to be its most dangerous enemy. His affair +with me was the excuse. What had I to do with it?" +</P> + +<P> +But the Count persisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Your influence would have saved him. You preferred to keep silent, my +lord. And I will tell you more. It was at your instigation that the +Roumanian Government arrested my father in the first place. You wished +for revenge—I think it was more than that. You were afraid that the +woman you married would find you out if Georges Odin regained his +liberty. You were not sure that Dora d'Istran did not love him. And +so—you left Roumania and took her with you—luckily for you both—to +die before she had read her own heart truly. That's what I have come +this long way to tell you. To Robert Forrester—I said. How should I +know that in England they would make a lord of such a man! I did not +know it; but that to me is the same. You shall answer my question or +pay the price. My lord, I have brains of my own and I can use them. +You shall pay me what you owe—you will be wise to do so." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl did not wince at the threat, nor did his habitual self-control +desert him. His insight would have been shallow indeed if he had not +perceived that he was face to face with a dangerous enemy, and one with +whom he might not trifle. +</P> + +<P> +"Put your question to me and I will answer it," he said doggedly. +"Remember that we are not in Roumania, Count. A word from me and my +men would set you where questions would help you little. Speak freely +while I have the patience to hear you." +</P> + +<P> +"As freely as you could desire, my lord. A wise man would not utter a +threat at such a time. Do you think that I, Georges Odin's son, do you +think that I come to England alone? Ah, my lord, how little you know +me! Open one of your windows and listen for the message my friends +will deliver to you. I come to you with white gloves upon my hands. +It is to ask you, my lord, in what prison my poor father is lying at +this moment. Tell me that, help me to open the gates for him, and we +are friends. It will be time to utter threats when you refuse." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl's face blanched at the words, but he did not immediately reply +to them. The story which the young man told was too astonishing that +he should easily understand it. +</P> + +<P> +"You father died in the fortress of Krajova," he said at length. "I +remember that it was in the month of November in the year 1874. Why do +you speak of the gates of his prison! It is incredible that you should +bring such a story to me." +</P> + +<P> +"As little incredible as your own ignorance, my lord. I thought as you +did until the day, five years ago, which released Zallony's brother +from Krajova. He brought the news to us. My father lives. But he is +at Krajova no longer. The Russian Government never forgets, my lord. +It remembers the day when Georges Odin was its enemy. My own people +fear that my father's liberty would awaken old affairs that had better +sleep. He is the victim of them. Yours is the one hand in all Europe +that could set him free. My lord, the world must know his story and +you shall write it. And if not you—then my Lady Evelyn, your +daughter. Do you think I am so blind that I do not read the truth? +The blood that ran in the mother's veins runs in the daughter's. Open +the doors of this house to her and she will go to the hills as her +mother went. The desire of life throbs in her veins. When I speak to +her, I witness the struggle between the old and the new; faith and joy; +the convent and the theatre; love and the prison. Your pride, your +fear, have made a captive of her—but I, my lord, may yet cut her +pretty bonds. As God is in heaven, I will not spare her one hour of +shame if you do not give my father back to me. Think of that before +you answer me. The girl or the man. Your shame or her freedom. My +lord, you have not many hours in which to choose." +</P> + +<P> +Such an alternative the Earl carried with him to his own room; such an +alternative spoke to him from every page of the diaries his hand turned +so painfully. It was as though the dead had risen to accuse him. +Yonder, in a great clamped drawer of the bureau, were the letters he +had received from his dead wife in the days when he contended with +Georges Odin for the love of that mad, wild girl of the Carpathians. +How ardently he had loved her! What mad hours they had lived amid the +gypsy children of Roumania! And yet in heart and will she was +another's. He had long known she loved the prisoner at Krajova. And +the one supremely cowardly thing he had done in the course of his life +had been done at the dictation of an uncontrollable passion which would +sacrifice even honor for her sake. Georges Odin, the Count's father, +had met him in fair fight—the better swordsman had won. Never would +he forget the day—the snow-capped hills, the white glen in which they +fought; the keen sword lightly engaging his own; then the swift attack, +the masterly <I>reposte</I> and that sensation as of red-hot iron passing to +his very heart. No shame here, it is true; but there were days of +shame afterward when the story came out and King Charles himself asked +the question, was it so? A word from Robert Forrester would have saved +his enemy from the mines. He never spoke it. The man disappeared from +his ken, and he believed that he was dead. He could scarcely deny the +justice of the retribution which now overtook him. +</P> + +<P> +Georges Odin alive and a prisoner still in some unknown fortress +citadel. How the very name could awaken forgotten sensations! It +seemed to the Earl as though the madness of his youth struggled once +more for mastery with the finer impulses and desires which a later day +had inspired. Yesterday he had been a country gentleman, seeking to +cast behind finally that cloak of unconventionally he had worn with +such pleasure in his youth. He had meant to whitewash the sepulchre; +to take his seat in the Lords; to equip himself for the great honors +thrust upon him; to marry Evelyn sedately to a son of a noble house and +then, as it were, to convince himself that the abnormal had been purged +out of him and would afflict him no more. These ambitions, however, +were powerless now to combat the more natural instincts which the story +of his youth could recreate for him. Once more in imagination he rode +the hills of Roumania as a free adventurer, submitting to the laws +neither of God nor of man. Once more the sensuous voluptuousness of +the Earl dominated him, and the spirit within him rebelled at its +captivity. He must escape convention, he thought, become a wanderer +once more. And Evelyn! Had he not feared to read in her acts this +very inheritance his own nature cried out for. He shuddered when he +thought of Evelyn. Who would save her in the hour of cataclysm? +</P> + +<P> +Such were the thoughts of that night long drawn and terrible. In +moments of revulsion against those who had thus brought him to bay, +there were mad whisperings which reminded him that Georges Odin's son +was the prisoner of his house and that, as he would, he might readily +be detained there until some understanding had been come to. This was +a thought the Earl could recall again and again. The man was alone and +helpless in his hands. It would be folly to open the doors and to say, +"Go out and tell the story to the world." Melbourne Hall had harbored +greater secrets before that day, and might witness them again. Why +should he stand irresolute; what forbade him to save Evelyn from all +that revelation must mean to her? He knew not—it remained for the +house to answer him, silently and finally, with the answer of one who +has set out upon no idle mission but is well aware of the danger he +must face. +</P> + +<P> +This was at the hour of dawn. Unable to sleep, the Earl sat by his +open window watching the chill gray light creeping over the dew-laden +grass and disclosing the trees one by one as though an unseen hand drew +back the curtain of the night from the stately branches. A thrush with +a sweet note heralded the day—the deer began to browse beneath the +great avenue of yews. Anon, a sweet fresh air, invigorating as a very +draught of life itself, came down from the hills and sent the ripples +leaping and splashing beneath the arches of the old bridge, as though +the river also had awakened from a lover's dreams. And now all stood +revealed as in a picture of a forest land; the vast spaces of ripe +green grass, delicious vistas of wood and thicket; home scenes, and +scenes of Nature untrammelled. Upon other days, often at such an hour +as this, the Earl had looked down upon them and said, "Mine—mine ... +all these are mine." To-day he viewed them with heavy eyes. Something +unfamiliar in the landscape attracted his attention and roused him from +his musings. +</P> + +<P> +A loom of heavy white smoke floating upward from the glen! Nothing but +that. A drift of smoke and anon the figure of a man seen between the +trees! Another would hardly have remarked the circumstances, but +Robert Forrester became awake in an instant and as vigilant as one who +dreads that which his eyes discover. +</P> + +<P> +"They are gypsies, by——" he said, "and they have come at this man's +bidding." +</P> + +<P> +He knew the meaning of their presence without words to tell him. They +had come to demand the freedom of their old master, Georges Odin, whose +son had carried them across the seas with him. +</P> + +<P> +"I must answer them," the Earl said, "and if I answer them, what then! +Will the other be silent?" +</P> + +<P> +He turned away and shut the window violently, as though to shut the +spectre out. +</P> + +<P> +"He would kill me," he said; "the world is not big enough to hide me +from Georges Odin." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE PRICE OF SALVATION +</H4> + +<P> +Evelyn met her father at the breakfast table on the following morning; +but their brief conversation in no way enlightened her. The Earl, +indeed, appeared to be entirely wrapped up in his own thoughts, and the +few questions he put to her were far from being helpful. +</P> + +<P> +"You have seen my friend, Count Odin," he remarked abruptly, "what is +your opinion of him?" +</P> + +<P> +"He interests me, but I do not like him," she replied as frankly. +</P> + +<P> +"A first impression," the Earl continued with a note of annoyance but +ill-concealed. "You will get to know him better. His father was my +oldest friend." +</P> + +<P> +"In which case the son is sometimes an embarrassment," she said +naturally, and with no idea of the meaning of her words. +</P> + +<P> +The Earl looked up quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Has he told you anything," he asked with little cleverness, "spoken of +Bukharest, perhaps? You must have been a good deal together while I +was away. What did he say to you? A man like that is never one to +hold his tongue." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled at the suggestion. +</P> + +<P> +"He was unconscious for thirty hours. My store of small talk did not +come up to that. Why do you ask me, father? Don't you wish me to talk +to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear child, I wish you to like him if you can. His father was my +friend. We must show him hospitality just for his father's sake." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'll take him in the park and flirt with him if you wish it. The +nuns did not teach me how—I suppose flirtation was an extra." +</P> + +<P> +Again he looked at her closely. This flippancy veiled some humor he +could not fathom. Was it possible that the girl had been fascinated +already by a man well schooled in the arts of pleasing women. And what +solution of his trouble would that be? If he gave Evelyn to the son of +Georges Odin—a coward's temptation from which he shrank immediately, +but not so far away that he put the thought entirely from him. +</P> + +<P> +"I mean nothing so foolish," he exclaimed sharply; "the Count is our +guest and must be treated as such. I understand that he is allowed to +go out to-day. If you have any wish to accompany him in the car, he +will consider it a courtesy." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," she said in a hard voice, "I should really be frightened +of the Vicar's wife." +</P> + +<P> +Her raillery closed the conversation. The Earl went upstairs to his +guest. Evelyn, at a later hour, caught up a straw hat and ran off by +herself to the little boat-house by the river. She was a skilful +canoeist and there was just water enough for the dainty canoe her +father had bought in Canada for her. Never was she so much alone as +when lying, book in hand, beneath the shelter of some umbrageous +willow; and to-day she welcomed solitude as she had never welcomed it +since first they came to Melbourne Hall. One refuge there was above +others—Di Vernon's Arbor, they called it, where the willows spread +their trailing branches upon the very waters; where the banks were so +many couches of verdant grass, the iris generous in its abundant +beauty, the river but a pool of the deepest, most entrancing blue +water—this refuge she had named the Lake of Dreams, and to this to-day +she steered her frail craft, and there found that solitude she prized +so greatly. +</P> + +<P> +What did her father mean by wishing her to be gracious to Count Odin? +Had he so changed in a night that he would sacrifice his only daughter +to atone for some wrong committed in his own boyhood? Her passionate +nature could resent the mere idea as one too shameful to contemplate. +But what did it mean then, and how would she stand if the Count +presumed upon her father's acquiescence? The fascination which this +stranger exercised did not deceive her; she knew it for the spell of +evil, to be resisted with all her heart and soul. Was she strong +enough, had she character enough to resist it? She would be alone +against them both if the worst befell, she remembered, and would fight +her battle unaided. Others might have been dismayed, but not Evelyn, +the daughter of Dora d'Istran. She was grateful perhaps that her +father had declared his preference so openly. A veiled hostility +toward their guest might have provoked her to show him civilities which +were asked of her no longer. As it was, she understood her position +and could prepare for it. +</P> + +<P> +To this point her reverie had carried her when she became aware that +she was no longer alone. A rustling of leaves, a twig snapping upon +the bank, brought her instantly to a recognition of the fact that some +one watched her hiding-place behind the willows of the pool. Whoever +the intruder might be, he withdrew when she looked up, and his face +remained undiscovered. Evelyn resented this intrusion greatly, and was +about to move away when some one, hidden by the trees, began to play a +zither very sweetly, and to this the music of a guitar and a fiddle +were added presently, and then the pleasing notes of a human voice. +Pushing her canoe out into the stream, Evelyn could just espy a red +scarf flashing between the trees and, from time to time, the dark face +of a true son of Egypt. Who these men were or why they thus defied her +privacy, she could not so much as hazard; nor did she any longer resent +their temerity. The weird, wild music made a strange appeal to her. +It awakened impulses and ideas she had striven to subdue; inspired her +imagination to old ideals—excited and troubled her as no music she had +heard before. The same mad courage which sent her to London to play +upon the stage of a theatre returned to her and filled her with an +inexplicable ecstasy. She had all the desire to trample down the +conventions which stifled her liberty and to let the world think as it +would. Etta Romney came back to life and being in that moment—Etta +speaking to Evelyn and saying, "This is a message of the joy of life, +listen, for it is the voice of Destiny." +</P> + +<P> +The music ceased upon a weird chord in a minor key; and, when it had +died away, Evelyn became aware that the men were talking in a strange +tongue and secretly, and that they still had no intention of declaring +their presence. With the passing of the spell of sweet sounds, she +found herself not without a little alarmed curiosity to learn who they +were and by whom they had been permitted to wander abroad in the park, +apparently unquestioned and unknown. Disquiet, indeed, would have sent +her to the house again, but for the appearance of no other than Count +Odin himself, who came without warning to the water's edge and laughed +at her evident perplexity. +</P> + +<P> +"My fellows annoy you, dear lady," he said. "Pray let me make the +excuses for them. You do not like their music—is it not so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all, I like it very much," she said, not weighing her words. +"It is the maddest music I ever heard in all my life." +</P> + +<P> +"Then come and tell young Zallony so. I brought him to England, Lady +Evelyn. I mean to make his fortune. Come and see him and tell him if +London will not like him when he scrapes the fiddle in a lady's ear. +It would be gracious of you to do that—these poor fellows would die if +you English ladies did not clap the hands for them. Come and be good +to young Zallony and he will never forget." +</P> + +<P> +He helped her ashore with his left hand, for his right he carried in a +silken scarf, the last remaining witness to his accident. His dress +was a well-fitting suit of gray flannels, with a faint blue stripe upon +them. He had the air and manner of a man who denied himself no luxury +and was perfectly well aware of the fascination he exercised upon the +majority of women he met, whatever their nationality. Had Evelyn been +questioned she would have said that his eyes were the best gift with +which Nature had dowered him. Of the darkest gray, soft and +languishing in a common way, they could, when passion dominated them, +look into the very soul of the chosen victim and leave it almost +helpless before their steadfast gaze. To this a soldier's carriage was +to be added; the grand air of a man born in the East and accustomed to +be obeyed. +</P> + +<P> +"This is Zallony," he said with a tinge of pride in his voice, "also +the son of a man with whom your father was very well acquainted in his +younger days. Command him and he will fiddle for you. There are a +hundred ladies in Bukharest who are, at all times, ready to die for +him. He comes to England and spares their lives. Admit his +generosity, dear lady. He will be very kind to you for my sake." +</P> + +<P> +Zallony was a Romany of Romanies: a tall, dark-eyed gypsy, slim and +graceful, and a musician in every thought and act of his life. He wore +a dark suit of serge, a broad-brimmed hat, and a bright blue scarf +about his waist. With him were three others; one a very old man +dressed in a bizarre fashion of the East, and at no pains to adapt it +to the conventions of the West; the rest, dark-visaged, far from +amiable-looking fellows, who might never have smiled in all their +lives. Zallony remained a prince among them. He bowed low to Evelyn +and instantly struck up a lively air, which the others took up with +that verve and spirit so characteristic of Eastern musicians. When +they had finished, Evelyn found herself thanking them warmly. They had +no English, and could only answer her with repeated smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"How did these people come here?" she asked the Count, as they began to +walk slowly toward the woods. +</P> + +<P> +His reply found him once more telling the truth and astounded, perhaps, +at the ease of a strange employment. +</P> + +<P> +"By the railway and the sea, Lady Evelyn. They are my watch-dogs—you +would call them that in England. Oh, yes, I am a timid traveller. I +like to hear these fellows barking in the woods. So much they love me +that if I were in prison they would pull down the walls to get me out. +Your father, my lord, does not forbid them to pitch their tents in his +park. Why should he? I am his guest and shall be a long time in this +country, perhaps. These fellows are not accustomed to live in houses. +Dig them a cave and they will make themselves happy—they are sons of +tents and the hills; men who know how to live and how to die. The +story of Roumania has written the name of Zallony's father in golden +letters. He fought for our country against the Russians who would have +stolen our liberty from us. To this day the Ministry at Petersburg +would hang his son if he was so very foolish as to visit that +unfortunate country. Truly, Zallony has many who love him not—he is +fortunate, Lady Evelyn, that your father is not among the number." +</P> + +<P> +He meant her to ask him a question and she did not flinch from it. +</P> + +<P> +"Why should my father have any opinions upon the matter? Are these +people known to him also?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady, in Roumania, twenty years ago, the bravest men, the +biggest hearts, were at Zallony's command. His regiment of hussars was +the finest that the world has ever seen. Bukharest made it a fashion +to send young men secretly to its ranks. The name of Zallony stood for +a brotherhood of men, not soldiers only, but those sworn to fidelity +upon the Cross; to serve each other faithfully, to hold all things in +common—the poor devils, how little they had to hold!—such were +Zallony's hussars. Lady, your father and my father served together in +the ranks; they took a common oath—they rode the hills, lived wild +nights on desolate mountains, shared good fortune and ill, until an +unlucky day when a woman came between them and brotherhood was no more. +I was such a little fellow then that I could not lift the sword they +put into my hands; but they filled my body up with wine and I rode my +pony after them, many a day that shall never be forgotten. This is to +tell you that my mother, a little wild girl of the Carpathians, died +the year I was born. Her I do not remember—a thing to be regretted, +for who may say what a mother's memory may not do for that man who will +let it be his guiding star. I did not know her, Lady Evelyn. When +they carried my father to prison, the priests took charge of me and +filled my head with their stories of peace and good-will—the head of +one who had ridden with Zallony on the hills and heard the call to arms +as soon as he could hear anything at all. They told me that my father +was dead—five years ago I learned that he lived. Lady Evelyn, he is a +prisoner, and I have come to England to give him liberty." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her, waiting for a second question, nor did she disappoint +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Can my father help you to do that, Count?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady, consider his position. An English noble, bearing his +honored name; the master of great riches—what cannot he do if he will? +Let him say but one word to my Government and the affair is done. I +shall see my dear father again—the world will be a new world for me. +My lord has but to speak." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it possible that he could hesitate?" +</P> + +<P> +"All things are possible where human folly is concerned." +</P> + +<P> +"Then there would be a reason, Count?" +</P> + +<P> +"And a consequence, Lady Evelyn." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she said quickly, "you are not frank with me even now." +</P> + +<P> +"So frank that I speak to you as I never spoke to another in all my +life. You are the only person in England who can help me and help your +father to do well. I have asked him for the liberty of a man who never +did him a wrong. He has refused to answer me, yes or no. Why should I +tell you that delay is dangerous? If I am silent a little while, do +you not guess that it is for your sake that I am silent? These things +are rarely hidden from clever women. Say that Count Odin has learned +to be a lover and you will question me no more." +</P> + +<P> +They were in a lonely glade, dark with the shade of beeches, when he +made this apparently honest declaration; and he stood before her +forbidding her to advance further or to avoid his entreaty. Her +confusion, natural to her womanhood, he interpreted in its true light. +"She does not love me, but there is that in her blood which will give +me command over her," he said. And this was the precise truth. Evelyn +had, from the first, been fully aware of the strange spell this man +could put upon her. His presence seemed to her as that of the figure +of evil beckoning her to wild pleasures and forbidden gardens of +delight. Strong as her will was, this she could not combat. And she +shrank from him, helpless, and yet aware of his power. +</P> + +<P> +"You are speaking to me of grave things," she said quietly. "My own +feelings must not enter into them. If my father owes this debt to you, +he shall pay it. I will be no part of the price, Count Odin." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Cara mia</I>," he said, taking both her hands and trying to draw her +close to him, "I care not how it is if you shall say you love me. Do +not hide the truth from yourself. Your father is in great danger. You +can save him from the penalties of wrong. Will you refuse to do so +because I love you—love you as I have never believed a man could love; +love you as my father loved your mother so many years ago—with the +love of a race that has fought for women and died for them; a race +which is deaf when a women says no, which follows her, <I>cara mia</I>, to +the end of the earth and has eyes for nothing else but the house which +shelters her? Will you do this when your heart can command me as you +will—saying, speak or be silent, forget or remember? I know you +better; you love me, Evelyn; you are afraid to tell me, but you love +me. That is why I remain a prisoner of this house—because you love +me, and I shall make you my wife. Ah, <I>cara mia</I>, say it but once—I +love you, Georges, the son of my father's friend—I love you and will +not forbid your words." +</P> + +<P> +A strange thrill ran through Evelyn's veins as she listened to this +passionate declaration. The frenzied words of love did not deceive +her. This man, she thought, would so speak to many a woman in the +years to come. A better wit would have concealed his purpose and +rendered him less frank. "He would sell his father's liberty at my +bidding," she said, and the thought set her struggling in his arms, +flushed with anger and with shame. +</P> + +<P> +"I will not hear you, Count," she cried again and again. "I cannot +love you—you are not of my people. If my father has done wrong, he +shall repay. He is not so helpless that he cannot save me from this. +Oh, please let me go; your hands hurt me. I can never be your wife, +never, never!" +</P> + +<A NAME="img-145"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-145.jpg" ALT=""Oh please let me go; your hands hurt me. I can never be your wife, never, never!"" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center"> +"Oh please let me go; your hands hurt me. I can never be your wife, never, never!" +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +He released her reluctantly, for his quick ear had caught the sound of +a horse galloping upon the open grass beyond the thicket. +</P> + +<P> +"You will answer me differently another day," he said smilingly; +"meanwhile, <I>cara mia</I>, there are two secrets to keep—yours and mine. +If the charming Lady Evelyn will not hear me, I must remember Etta +Romney, a young lady of my acquaintance—ah, you know her too; and that +is well for her. Let us return to the house. My lord will have much +to say to me and I to him." +</P> + +<P> +They went up to the Hall together in silence. Evelyn knew how much she +was in his power and how idle her veiled threats had been. +</P> + +<P> +She could save her father from this man—truly. But at what a price! +</P> + +<P> +"Etta Romney would marry him," she said bitterly; "but I—Evelyn—God +help me to be true to myself!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A GAME OF GOLF +</H4> + +<P> +Golf at Moretown is "by favor of the Lord of the Manor" played across a +corner of the home park, so remote from Melbourne Hall that you have a +vista of that fine old house but rarely from the trees, and nowhere at +all if you be an ardent player. +</P> + +<P> +Such a description could in all sincerity have been applied to either +of our old friends Dr. Philips and the Rev. Harry Fillimore, the vicar +of the parish. They played the game as though all their worldly hope +depended upon it. The best of friends at common times, difficulty +could provoke them to such violent hostilities that they did not speak +a word to each other until the after-luncheon glass of port had been +slowly sipped. Intimate in their knowledge each of the other, the +Vicar knew exactly when to cough that the Doctor's forcible +exclamations might not be overheard by the caddies. The Doctor, upon +his part, sympathized very cordially with the Vicar when that worthy +found himself in a bunker. "Harry, my dear boy, pray remember where +you are," he would say, and to give him his due, the Vicar rarely +forgot the number of strokes necessary to extract himself from one of +these many vales of tears which abounded at Moretown. +</P> + +<P> +Other moments, it should be observed, were those of mutual admiration. +</P> + +<P> +"If you could only putt as well as you can drive, you might play +Vardon," the Vicar would tell the Doctor. +</P> + +<P> +To which the reply would be: +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Harry, Taylor could not play a better approach than that. +You'll be down to scratch if you go on improving in this way." +</P> + +<P> +Needless to say, such enthusiasm demanded complete absorption in the +game and tolerated no liberties. If anyone had told the Doctor of the +fall of Port Arthur at the moment of his playing an approach, that man +assuredly would have deserved any fate that overtook him. When the +stove in the vestry set fire to the chancel roof and did five hundred +pounds worth of damage to Moretown Church, no one had the courage to +tell the Vicar until he had holed out on the eighteenth, green. "Words +won't put the roof on again," the sexton wisely said, "and a precious +lot of words you'll get from 'ee while 'ee's playin' with his ball." +So the doleful news was reserved for the Club House. "I really fear I +ought not to play a second round," the Vicar exclaimed when he heard +it; "most vexing, I must say." +</P> + +<P> +These being the circumstances of the weekly duel <I>à outrance</I>, it +certainly was astonishing to discover the Vicar and the Doctor talking +of any other subject but golf on a day of July some three weeks after +Count Odin's arrival at Melbourne Hall. Strange to say, however, they +discussed neither the merits of the cut nor the doubtful wisdom of +running up approach; but playing their strokes with some indifference +as to the attending consequences, they spoke of my lord of Melbourne +and of the turn affairs at the Hall were taking. To be entirely +candid, the Vicar left the main part of the talk to the Doctor; for the +secret which he carried he had as yet no courage to tell to anyone. +</P> + +<P> +"Most extraordinary—not the same man, sir, by twenty years. If he +were a woman, I would call it neurasthenia and back my opinion for a +Haskell. What do you think of a sane human being letting a lot of +dirty gypsies have the free run of the Hall; in and out like rabbits in +a warren—drinking his best wines and riding his horses, and lots more +besides that the servants hint at but won't talk about? Why, they tell +me that he's up half the night with the scum sometimes, as wild as the +rest of them when they fiddle and caper in the Long Gallery. What's +common sense to make of it? What do you make of it, leaving common +sense out of the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar looked somewhat askance at the dubious compliment; nor did it +encourage him to tell of the strange sights he had seen in Melbourne +Park some twelve hours before this epoch-making encounter. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear the men are Roumanians," he said, taking a brussie from his bag +and making an atrocious shot with it. "Of course the Earl—this is +miserable—the Earl was in Roumania as a young man. Perhaps he is +returning some courtesy these wild fellows showed to him. You play the +odd, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"Odd or the like, I don't care a—that is to say, it is most +extraordinary. Why, they're bandits, Harry—bandits, I tell you, and, +unless Mrs. Fillimore looks out, they'll carry her off to Matlock Tor +and hold her out to ransom—perhaps while we're on the links. A pretty +advertisement you'd get if that came off. A Vicar's wife stolen by +brigands. The Reverend Gentleman on the Q. Tee. Think of it in the +evening papers! How some of them would chaff you!" +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar played an approach shot and said, "This is really +deplorable." He would have preferred to talk golf; but the Doctor gave +him no rest, and so he said presently: +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder what Lady Evelyn thinks of it all? She went by me in the car +yesterday and Bates was driving her. Now, I've never seen that +before.... God bless me, what a shocking stroke!" +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head as the ball went skimming over the ground into the +deepest and most terrible bunker on Moretown Links—the Doctor +following it with that sympathetic if hypocritical gaze we turn upon an +enemy's misfortunes. Impossible not to better such a miserable +exhibition, he thought. Unhappy man, game of delight, the two were +playing from the bunker together before a minute had passed! +</P> + +<P> +"You and I would certainly do better at the mangle if this goes on," +the Doctor exclaimed with honest conviction; "the third bunker I've +found to-day. A man cannot be well who does that." +</P> + +<P> +"Rheumatism, undoubtedly," the Vicar said slyly. +</P> + +<P> +A boyish laugh greeted the thrust. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall we call it curiosity? Hang the game! What does it matter? You +put a bit of india-rubber into a flower-pot and think you are a better +man than I am. But you're not. I'd play you any day for the poor-box. +Let's talk of something else—Lady Evelyn, for instance." +</P> + +<P> +"Will she marry him, Frederick?" +</P> + +<P> +"Him—the sandy-haired foreigner with the gypsy friends?" +</P> + +<P> +"Is there any other concerned?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, don't ask me. Do I keep her pocket-book?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you did, my dear fellow. From every point of view, this +marriage would be deplorable." +</P> + +<P> +"From every point of view but that of the two people concerned, +perhaps. She is a girl with a will of her own—do you think she would +marry him if she didn't like him?" +</P> + +<P> +"She might, from spite. There are better reasons, perhaps worse. You +told me at their first meeting that you believed her to be in love with +him." +</P> + +<P> +"I was an idiot. Let's finish the round. The man will probably live +to be hanged—what does it matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if it doesn't matter to you, it matters to nobody. I'll tell +you something queer—a thing I saw last night. It's been in my head +all day. I'll tell you as we go to the next green." +</P> + +<P> +They drove a couple of good balls and set out from the tee with lighter +hearts. As they went, the Vicar unburdened himself of that secret +which golf alone could have prevented him disclosing an hour ago. +</P> + +<P> +"I told you that I dined with Sir John Hall last night," he said in a +low voice; "well, young John drove me home, and, of course, he went +through the Park. Poor boy, his case is quite hopeless. He drives his +horse to death round and round the house on the off chance of seeing +the flash of her gown between the trees. Well, he drove me home and +just as we entered the Park, what do you think—why, three or four men +passed us at the gallop—soldiers, I say, in white uniforms with gold +sashes and gold sword-hilts. I saw them as plainly as I see you +now—the Earl was one of them—the young Count another. Now, what do +you think of it? Are they mad, or is some great jest being played? I +give it up. This sort of thing is beyond my experience—it should be a +case for you, Frederick, though if you can make anything of it, I'm a +Dutchman." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor shook his head. He did not doubt the truth of the Vicar's +story, but he made believe to doubt it. +</P> + +<P> +"You dined with John Hall, Harry?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have told you so." +</P> + +<P> +"Sixty-three port, I suppose, on the top of champagne?" +</P> + +<P> +"That is mere foolishness, Frederick." +</P> + +<P> +"Admittedly, forgive me—I can be serious and am. Here's an affair +which a man might write about in text-books. This grown man puts on a +coat he may have worn in his youth and rides like a steeplechaser +through the Park. Why does he do it? What's he after? I'll tell you, +his lost youth, that's what he's after. Trying to catch up Time and +give the fellow the go-by. I've seen that disease in many shapes, but +this is a new one. Try to think it out. This young Count comes over +from Roumania; he brings these gypsy rascals with him. Their tongue, +their dress, their music, speak to the Earl as his youth used to speak +to him. He's living for a moment a life he lived thirty years ago. I +can see him grasping at the straws of youth every time I go up to the +Hall. These midnight carousals are so much midnight madness. The man +is saying to Age, you shall not have me. Ten years of respectability +go at one fell swoop. He'd sell those he loved best on earth to win +back one year of the days which have been. That's my diagnosis. The +bacillus, <I>La Jeunesse</I>! And that's a bacillus you cannot cure, Harry." +</P> + +<P> +He was in deadly earnest and the Vicar looked grave enough. In his dim +way, he understood the Doctor and believed him to be speaking the +truth. Lord Melbourne had been an enigma to him from the first; an +aristocrat and not an aristocrat; one of the Melbournes and yet an +alien; a man whose mask of reservation the keenest eyes could not +pierce; a silent man when one asked for that key by which alone the +secret chambers of his mind could be entered. Of such a one any fable +might be told and believed. The Vicar understood that he had come face +to face with some mystery; but of its witnesses he could make nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"I do believe you are right," he said at length; "there have been tales +as strange in the story of the house—generally concerning a lady, I +fear At least Evelyn can know nothing of this," he added a little +thoughtfully; "it would be a great misfortune for her." +</P> + +<P> +"Heritage has little regard for the fortunes of others," said the +Doctor. "I don't suppose she would have married an Englishman—she's +not the girl to do it. That comes of educating them abroad—I would +sooner send a daughter of mine to fight the Russians than to a school +in Paris. Make Englishwomen of them, I say, and leave the fal-de-lals +alone. What's it worth to a girl if she can jabber French and has lost +her English heart! No, my dear Vicar, England for me and English roses +for my home. Evelyn will marry this man because France taught her to +think well of foreigners. If she had gone to a Derbyshire school, he +might as well have proposed to Cleopatra's monument on the Thames +Embankment. I'm sorry for her, truly, but words won't change the +thing, and that's the end of it. Let's go and lunch. We have done +nothing ill for one morning, any way." +</P> + +<P> +They went to lunch and afterward to the business of a common day. As +it fell out, they did not meet again until after church upon the +following Sunday, when the Vicar, still wearing his surplice as he +crossed from the vestry to the parsonage, found the Doctor waiting for +him with the air of one who has important tidings and must impart them +quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"No bad news from the Hall?" he exclaimed, so much was that great house +now in his mind. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor, however, drew him aside and told him in a word. +</P> + +<P> +"The Count's gone," he said quickly. "He comes back in October. The +Earl told me so himself. She's to marry him in the winter, and that's +the end of it, Harry." +</P> + +<P> +The Vicar shook his head gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"The beginning of it, Frederick, the beginning," he said wisely. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK II +</H2> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE ENGLISHMAN +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +GAVIN ORD BEGINS HIS WORK +</H4> + +<P> +In what manner Gavin Ord arrived at Melbourne Hall and took up his +residence there has already been recorded in the early pages of this +narrative. +</P> + +<P> +He came upon a night in August, three weeks precisely after the +departure of Count Odin for Bukharest. Of the people of the Hall he +knew little save that which common gossip and the tittle-tattle of the +newspapers had taught him; nor was his the temperament to be troubled +over-much by the strange hallucination which had attended his journey +from Moretown to the Manor. That which some people would have called +an apparition, he attributed to fatigue and the hour of the night; and +while an uneasy feeling that this simple account of it might not +ultimately satisfy him was not to be lightly dismissed, the +hospitalities of the great house and the work to which he had been +called there quickly dispelled the impression of it, and left him with +some shame that he had been such an easy victim to a vulgar delusion. +For the rest, curiosity remained the only intruder between him and the +work he had been summoned to do. +</P> + +<P> +The Lady Evelyn! Where had he seen her before? How came it that her +face was so familiar to him? +</P> + +<P> +Every hour that he lived at the Hall quickened this impression of +familiarity. Her very voice could make him start, as though one whom +he knew well were speaking to him. Her stately movements, her +gestures, tormented his memory as though inciting it to recall +forgotten scenes for him. At the luncheon table, upon the second day, +he made bold to tell her of his immovable idea. +</P> + +<P> +"We have met somewhere, Lady Evelyn," he said, "I cannot tell where; +but it was in some such house as this—in the gardens of such a house. +And that is odd, for to my knowledge I was never in a Tudor house +before. Now, say that I am dreaming it; that it is just one of those +foolish ideas which come to one in sleep and are remembered when +waking. It could hardly be anything else, of course." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn flushed crimson while he was speaking; but she retained her +composure sufficiently to declare that she had no recollection of such +an occasion. +</P> + +<P> +"We rarely go from here," she said evasively. "I cannot recollect +visiting any Tudor house in England—you see so many, Mr. Ord. It +would be natural to have such an idea, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, perfectly and perhaps foolish. Our brains play us strange tricks, +and, often enough, the wildest of them have the least meaning. I know +a man in Paris who dreamed three nights running that he would be thrown +out of a motorcar on his way to Monte Carlo. He put off the visit in +consequence and was knocked down next day by a cab in the Rue Quatre +Septembre. I don't mean to say that he was killed, but he had a nasty +fall, and that was the price he paid for dreaming. I try to dismiss +these things as soon as they come to me. Here's a case in point. You +and I clearly have never met—unless it were in London," he added, with +another keen glance at her. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn could not suppress the high color in her cheeks, and they were +crimson when she found her father's eyes watching her curiously as +though some train of thought had been set in motion by the argument. +Perfectly well did she know that Gavin Ord had seen her in London, on +the stage of the Carlton Theatre; and that discovery had looked her in +the face twice in as many months. This time, however, she feared it +less; for she had come to believe by this time that she would presently +be compelled to tell her story to all the world before many weeks had +passed. +</P> + +<P> +"We are not often in London," the Earl said dryly; "with such a house +as this, why should we be? Lady Evelyn cares nothing for society. I +regard it as the refuge of the mentally destitute. If I travel, it is +from one solitude to another. A man is never so much master of himself +and of the world as when he is alone. Can we consider the modern life +as anything but a glorification of the aggregate and not of the +individual? Your profession is the best friend you have, Mr. Ord. +Those who follow noble ends establish nobility in their own characters. +That's a creed I wish I had known twenty years ago. You are a young +man and should recite it every day while your youth remains to you." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin replied that a man was neither older nor younger than his ideas; +and the drift of the conversation being changed, to Evelyn's evident +relief, they fell again to their plans for the restoration of the Hall +and that which must be done before the wet weather set in. Until this +time, Evelyn had scarcely noticed Gavin or taken any interest in his +coming to the Manor. The truce between her father and herself left her +in a dream-world from which there appeared to be no gate of escape +whatever. She had neither counsellor nor friend. To Count Odin she +had said, "You shall have my answer in three months' time." Her +father's almost passionate desire for this marriage, which his own +youth had contrived, won from her no promise more definite than that +which she had given to the Count. The time had passed for any but the +frankest expressions upon either side. In the plainest words, the Earl +told her that this Roumanian had crossed Europe to demand the liberty +of a man who had long been but a number in a prison upon the shores of +the Black Sea. +</P> + +<P> +"Let Georges Odin be released," he had said, "and unless you are his +son's wife, he will kill me." +</P> + +<P> +Lady Evelyn knew this to be no chimera of weakness or fear. The +vengeance of the mountains would follow Robert Forrester even to the +glades of Derbyshire. Witnesses to the truth still pitched their tents +beneath the giant yews—the smoke of the gypsy camp drifted day by day, +blue and lingering over the waters of the river. From these there was +no escape, for they were the sentinels of the absent Count's honor, and +they dogged the Earl's footsteps wherever he turned. When Gavin Ord +appeared at the Manor, their suspicions were instantly aroused. They +hid from him, and yet watched him every hour. Who was he; whence had +he come? And was he also the enemy of the man who had been Zallony's +friend? This they made it their purpose to discover, entering even +Gavin's bedroom for that purpose. +</P> + +<P> +He was very far from being a timid man or the episode referred to would +quickly have driven him from Derbyshire, despite the engrossing +interest of the work to which he had been called there. This was the +third day of his residence at the Hall. Being left to himself +immediately after dinner, he continued to draw for an hour and to read +for another before courting sleep in the great black bed which +tradition, loving the slumbers of kings, had allotted in its accustomed +way to that very wakeful person, James II. His bedroom was high up in +the northern tower of the house; a low-pitched spacious apartment with +some fine Chippendale chairs in it and a dressing-table for which any +Bond Street dealer would cheerfully have paid a thousand pounds. Gavin +delighted in these things because he was an artist; while the attendant +luxury, the service of man and valet, the superb fittings of the +bathroom adjoining his bedroom, the fruit, the cigarettes, the books +which decorated the apartment, seemed in some way to be the reward of +his own labors, not to speak of the attainments of long-cherished +ambitions. +</P> + +<P> +To this historic chamber he retired on the evening of the third day, +and having added a little to his plans, read some pages of a county +history and smoked a final and contemplative pipe, he undressed and got +into bed, and for an hour or more slept that refreshing sleep which +attends judicious success and a mind little given to trivialities. +From this, against all habit, he passed to dreams, at first welcome and +pleasing; dreams of broad acres and sheltering trees and a land of +plenty—then to visions more disturbing, and to one, chiefly of a storm +passing over the woods and his own spirit abroad in the storm and +unable to find harborage. As a weary bird that can reach no shelter +and is buffeted by every wind, so did he, in his dream, appear to be +cast out from the world and unable to return to his home and kindred; a +wanderer through a tempestuous night, beyond whose horizon, far beyond +it but ever growing more distant, there arose the crimson light of day +and the dawning beams of the hidden sun. Strive as he would he could +not cast the darkness from him or shut out the sounds of wild winds +blowing in his ears. Unseen hands held him back; voices mocked him; he +heard the rustling of wings and was conscious of the movements of +unknown figures. And then he awoke to find a light shining full in his +face and to see two black eyes peering down at him beyond it. But for +an instant he saw them; then the light was blown out swiftly and utter +darkness fell. He knew that he was not alone; but feared nothing, he +knew not why. +</P> + +<P> +Some man had entered his room while he slept and stood, he imagined, +even at that moment so close to his bedside that he had but to put out +a hand to touch him. Who the man was or what his errand might be, +Gavin did not attempt even to guess. More by force of habit than from +any other reason, he asked aloud, "Who is there, what do you +want?"—but he did not expect to be answered, nor did any sound follow +his question. Lying quite still upon the bed and beginning to be a +little alarmed as his senses came back to him, he listened intently for +an echo of footsteps across the polished floor, arguing that the +unknown man would wear no boots and must turn the handle of a door to +go. This was no burglar, he felt sure; and he was half willing to +believe that he had dreamed the whole episode when a footfall made +itself plainly audible, and was followed by a deep breath as of one who +until that time had been afraid to breathe at all. Again Gavin asked, +"What is it, what do you want?" The silence continued unbroken, and +the fear of things unknown robbed him for the moment of the voice to +repeat the question. This he set down afterward to the traditions of +Melbourne Hall and his intimate knowledge of them. He would not have +been afraid in any other house. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin stretched out his hand and tried to switch on the electric light. +A clumsy effort in an unfamiliar room found him passing his fingers +idly over a wainscoted wall; and when he felt for the reading lamp by +his bedside, he overturned it with his elbow and could not replace the +plug which his maladroitness had detached. Alarmed now as he never +believed that any situation could alarm him, he sprang from his bed and +felt with both hands extended for the figure which the room concealed. +Hither, thither, with an oath upon his clumsiness, he sought the +unknown, his hands touching unfamiliar objects, the darkness seeming +almost to mock him. That the unknown man was still in the room he had +no doubt whatever; for the interludes repeated the sound of quick +breathing and he heard a garment rustling just as he had heard it in +his sleep. Once, indeed, he felt the warm breath upon his cheek and +struck savagely at an enemy of sounds, who still uttered no word nor +would acknowledge his presence. Had he been calmer, he might have +known that the darkness also deceived the intruder and that he too was +at a loss to escape; but this Gavin did not discover until the door +opened suddenly and a flash of light from the corridor struck across +the room like a sunbeam suddenly admitted by a lifted blind. Then he +saw the face of the escaping man for the second time and stood amazed +at its familiarity. +</P> + +<P> +"The old gypsy I saw in the park yesterday walking with the Earl," he +said, astounded, and then, "What in the devil's name is he doing here?" +</P> + +<P> +That should not have been a difficult question to answer, and Gavin +instantly determined to make no mention of it until the morning. The +fellow was probably a thief, who had the run of the house and had taken +advantage of its master's forbearance. It would be sufficient to name +the circumstance at the breakfast table and to leave the rest to the +Earl, who could act in the matter as he pleased. None the less, Gavin +found his nerves much shaken and sleep for the remainder of the night +was out of the question. Switching on every lamp in his room, and +locking and bolting the heavy door, he sat by the open window and asked +himself into what house of mysteries he had stumbled and what secrets +it was about to reveal to him. But chiefly he asked where he had met +the Lady Evelyn before ... and memory befriending him suddenly, as +memory will at a crisis, he exclaimed aloud: +</P> + +<P> +"The Carlton Theatre—Haddon Hall—Etta Romney, by all that's amazing!" +</P> + +<P> +Was the thought also a chimera of the night? He knew not what to +think. The dawn found him still at his window debating it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A DUEL OVER THE TEA-CUPS +</H4> + +<P> +Gavin had always been an early riser and one who flouted the modern +idea that the world should be aired before men went abroad. Faithful +to his habit, the following morning found him riding in the park a +little after seven o'clock; and not until the sweet cold air of the +highlands had recompensed him for a waking night did he return to the +Hall and the generous breakfast table there spread for him. A +professed disciple of the simple life, Gavin confessed that the Earl's +lavish hospitalities were altogether too much for his philosophy; and +he ate and drank with the hearty relish of one to whom these unending +luxuries were both a revelation in the art of living and a satire upon +the habits of the rich. +</P> + +<P> +What vast quantities of food were heaped upon that priceless +sideboard—in dishes of shining silver, each warmed by the clear flame +of a silver lamp beneath. Lift a lid of one of those granaries and +there you would espy an omelet which none but a man from Paris could +cook. Peep into another and there are eggs prepared so cunningly that +they would melt the heart of Master Fastidity himself. Fish and fowl +and flesh, great red joints upon the buffet, exquisite peaches from the +hothouses, bunches of grapes that would have taken prizes in any +show—how ironical to remember the class of man who usually sat to such +a table, his ennui, his distaste, and the abstinence cure the +physicians compelled him to practise. Gavin was just a hearty +Englishman, fit and strenuous and needing no "waters" to make life +endurable. He took what came to him and made no bones about it. Had +he been a rich man himself, he would have done the same, he thought. +Humbug was no part of his creed, and he never mistook necessity for +self-sacrifice. +</P> + +<P> +The Earl had not come down when he entered the famous breakfast-room, +and, not a little to his satisfaction, he found himself alone with Lady +Evelyn for the first time since his arrival at the Manor. A student of +faces always, he studied this face to-day with a curiosity which he set +down to his own delusions rather than to an absolute interest in the +personality of a stranger. A beautiful woman he had admitted her to be +when first he saw her by her father's side upon the night which carried +him to the Hall. But now his scrutiny went deeper, and, so far as +opportunity served, he looked at her as one seeking a woman's secret, +and seeking it with a man's desire to help her. +</P> + +<P> +And first he said that it was an English face in repose, and yet not an +English face when the repose was lost. The masses of jet black hair +would have excited no surprise upon the Corso at Rome or shining in an +aureole cast out from a Florentine window. Here, in England, the +tresses spoke of the South and its suns—and yet, in flat +contradiction, the perfect skin, smooth and silky as the leaf of a pink +white rose, could tell of English lanes and sunless days and the kinder +climate of the North. Character he read in the firm contour of her +chin—romance and passion in the deep blue of her eyes and the +modulations of a voice whose music had not been lost in the roaring +Saturnalia of the modern <I>salon</I>. That he himself had so far failed to +attract her notice was a fact which neither wounded his vanity nor +abated his interest. It had been the first maxim of his life to hasten +slowly, and to no pursuit was this maxim more necessary than to that of +friendship. +</P> + +<P> +This, then, was the estimate which one strong personality formed of +another; the man saying to himself, "I would read this woman's heart!" +the woman asking herself if she must talk architecture until the Earl +came to her assistance. Breaking the ice with a common observation, +she remarked that she had seen him galloping across the park and +regretted the dilatory habit which kept her in bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Getting up is a foreign art," she said. "It lives in kitchens and +places where they scrub. The doctors positively forbid it nowadays. +And, of course, life is too short to disobey the doctors." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin looked at her with the air of a man who has too much common sense +to deal in frivolities and rarely troubled to say the thing which was +not. +</P> + +<P> +"They talk nonsense," he said quietly; "the profession is becoming far +too commercial. It lives and thrives upon the credulity of fools. +Just consider—man is the only animal which does not glory in the +Creator's gift, the dawning day and all its wonders. For what do we +change it! For the electric light and the champagne which disagrees +with us? We borrow of the night and then grumble because we have +nothing to offer the day. If men could get up at five o'clock and go +to bed at ten, they would begin to understand the realities of living." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn, much amused at his earnestness and quite understanding that +some pleasant originality of character dictated the outburst, looked at +him a little mischievously from beneath her long lashes while she said: +</P> + +<P> +"In winter—surely not five o'clock then, Mr. Ord?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all," was the quick reply; "we are expected to use our common +sense in the matter. A winter's dawn is distinctly unpleasant; have +nothing to do with it. A true benefactor of mankind would help us to +hibernate. Imagine how splendid it would be to sleep from the +twenty-sixth day of December until the first day of April. Those are +the months of the income tax—of no interest to you, Lady Evelyn, but +of great importance to poor people who are unable to help the +Government to throw hay into the sea from the shores of South Africa. +Blot out the winter, by all means; but leave us the summer, and do not +expect us to spend the best hours of it in bed." +</P> + +<P> +"Am I, then, personally guilty in the matter? Frankly, you will never +convert me. I am hateful before ten o'clock, and if I go riding before +that time, the very horses tremble. Consider what going to bed at ten +o'clock would mean to us in the season?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have considered it often. We should be spared a large number of +very indifferent plays; a great many falsehoods would not be told to +our acquaintances; old gentlemen would not, under such circumstances, +need to go to Carlsbad to be scrubbed. You would save vast quantities +of good food; learn what the country is to those who really know it; +and, perhaps, discover that strange personality, yourself. Why should +we be so frightened of such an excellent companion? Men and women tell +you that they do not like to be alone. Is not that to say that they +desire to keep self at a distance. The fellow would be troublesome, +ask questions, and that sort of thing. But let others always be +shouting in our ears (and modern society has excellent lungs), then we +keep the stranger out and are glad to be quit of him. Some achieve the +same end by work. I am one of them. When my work gets hold of me I +cannot answer a common question decently. Sometimes I wake up suddenly +and say, 'My dear Gavin, how are you getting on and what have you been +doing all this time?' I become solicitous for the fellow and want to +peep into his private books. That is often at dawn, Lady Evelyn, just +when the sun is shooting up over the horizon. Then a man may not be +ashamed to meet himself. For the rest of the time he is often +play-acting." +</P> + +<P> +A faint blush came to her cheeks and she turned away her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not if play-acting amuses us? Perhaps we are not all contented +with that amiable stranger, ourselves. Some other figure of the +present or the past may seem more desirable as a friend. Is there any +law of Nature which compels us to take one personality rather than +another? Cannot you imagine a man or a woman living years of +make-believe—play-acting always, if by play-acting they can discover a +world more desirable than the one they live in? We speak of +imagination as a rare gift. I doubt if it is so. Even little children +have their dream-worlds, and they are more remarkable than any books. +I would say that your outlook is too limited. You see one side of +life, Mr. Ord, and quarrel with those who can look tolerantly upon +both." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin was honest enough to admit that it might be so. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, "I grant you that the world is sometimes better for +make-believe. If we did not deceive ourselves, some of us would commit +suicide. The age is to blame for the necessity. We have not color +enough in our lives, and even our devotions are often entirely selfish. +Witness the case of a modern millionaire who is proud of being called +'a hustler.' This rogue tells his friends that he has no time for +ordinary social intercourse. My answer is that he ought to be hanged +out of hand. Such a fellow never comes face to face with himself once +in twenty years. Men envy him and yet despise him. Take the meanest +hero of mediæval fiction and place him side by side with a Gould or a +Vanderbilt. What a very monarch he becomes! Total up the riches of a +trust and remember Mozart died of starvation. Vulgarity +everywhere—none of us is free from it. Our very ambitions are +advertised." +</P> + +<P> +"And we have not even the courage to hide ourselves in nunneries." +</P> + +<P> +"They would come here with cameras and photograph our habits. No, we +must accept the position frankly and make the best of it. That carries +me round the circle. By getting up with the sun we see something of +ourselves sometimes. Our work is not then the whole occupation of the +day." +</P> + +<P> +"But yours, surely, is not work you despise, Mr. Ord?" +</P> + +<P> +"So little that I fear it on that very account. Just imagine how this +house is going to make a captive of me. I shall know every stone of it +before a month has passed. I will tell you then all its truths and all +its fables. The dead will become my intimate friends. I shall +reconstruct from the beginning. I must do it, for how shall I dare to +touch the hallowed walls unless something of the builder's secret is +known to me. In six months' time I will show the harvest of dreams. +In six months' time——" +</P> + +<P> +"In six months' time! What an age to wait! I may not be in England +then." +</P> + +<P> +"You will return to be my critic." +</P> + +<P> +"I may never return." +</P> + +<P> +"Never return! my dear lady, you could not possibly desert Melbourne +Hall. The very stones would cry out upon you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she said, looking straight into his face; "my husband may not +like England, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"I will believe it when he has the courage to tell me so." +</P> + +<P> +"Men are generally courageous when it is a question of telling a woman +what they do not like. I am to live in Bukharest, be it known. My +summers will be spent in the Carpathians. I shall become a child of +the primitive colors—the red, the blue, and the orange—which Menie +Muriel Dowie tells us are an eternal delight to the eyes. I am +promised glorious weeks on the Black Sea, and more glorious weeks on +seas which are not black. The sun is always shining there—why should +one want to come back to England?" +</P> + +<P> +Had anyone asked Evelyn why she spoke in this way to a stranger, a man +of whose existence she had hardly been aware yesterday, she would +certainly have been unable to give a satisfactory answer. To no other +in all her life had she spoken so openly and so readily as to this +fair-haired, blue-eyed Englishman, who did not appear to have one grain +of humbug in all his body. Her surprise was not greater than her +pleasure; she would not deny that it pleased her thus to confess +intimate thoughts which she had not shared even with her own father. +Gavin, upon his part, a servant of candor always, observed nothing +unusual in her freedom; but he could ask himself already if she were in +love with the man to whom her future was pledged. +</P> + +<P> +"We are forgetting how to be serious," he rejoined; "that is also one +of the vices of the age. People chatter away as though words were +enough and the truth of words nothing at all. You do not mean anything +you say, and you expect me to listen to you in the same spirit. I +decline to do so. If you go to Bukharest, you will come back again +before the year is out. As for the blue, red and orange, well, I could +as soon imagine you buying an early Victorian sideboard. That is my +frank opinion. You must forgive me if it offends?" +</P> + +<P> +He looked straight into her eyes and she did not turn away. Gavin Ord +was unlike any man she had known—not by mere cleverness alone, but by +that strength of will and character which could not fail to assert +itself in any company, whatever its nature. Here sat one whom, were he +to command her, she would certainly obey. Such a possibility of +docility astonished Evelyn beyond measure—but it also encouraged her +to put a question to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Frank opinions need no forgiveness," she said. "I am longing for +more, Mr. Ord. You told me last night that you believed you had met me +in London. Please tell me where it was." +</P> + +<P> +She asked the question with some pretty pretence of indifference which +did not deceive him for an instant. It is better, he thought, that I +should tell her, and so he said, without any affectation whatever: +</P> + +<P> +"I am quite wrong, of course; but when I thought the matter over I +remembered that a young actress, who made a great sensation at the +Carlton Theatre in May, might have been named for your own sister. +That is what gave me the idea that I had seen you before." +</P> + +<P> +"How strange! Do you also remember the lady's name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perfectly. All London went mad over her. She called herself Etta +Romney, and the play showed just such a house as this. It was the old +story of Di Vernon retold, Lady Evelyn." +</P> + +<P> +"You were much taken with the play, it appears?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not with the play at all. But I thought Etta Romney one of the +cleverest women I have ever seen on the stage." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she playing still, may I ask?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know that she is not, Lady Evelyn." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it—are you serious?" +</P> + +<P> +"So serious that I shall forget the subject until you choose to speak +of it again." +</P> + +<P> +"But it interests me greatly," she pleaded, with that insistence which +often attends the discussion of things better avoided. "If I am really +so like somebody else, ought I not to be curious? You say——" +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, I say nothing," he exclaimed quickly, and then in a lower +voice—"at least until the Earl has breakfasted." +</P> + +<P> +She did not reply. The Earl entered the room and began at once to +speak of Gavin's work and the arrangements which must be made for it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +FROM THE BELFRY TOWER +</H4> + +<P> +Gavin's little band of workmen ran up a light scaffold of ladders and +boards for him against the belfry tower, and had it finished upon the +morning of the conversation with the Lady Evelyn. To this height he +climbed early in the day, when began an examination of the decaying +fabric and set down the first lines of the report he had to make to the +Earl. The old building was in a shocking state certainly; the +plumb-line declared surprising departures from that stately grace of +perpendicularity the text-books had taught him to esteem. Gavin should +have taken the greatest interest in all this, but he did not. Had you +spoken to him yesterday, he would have been ready to declare that +nothing on earth could be more fascinating than the very task he now +pretended to be engaged upon; but his habitual candor came to his +rescue to-day and he now pronounced the work to be almost distasteful. +For, in truth, he had discovered a secret as old as man, and the +delight of that new knowledge surpassed the worker's dreams by far. +</P> + +<P> +He stood upon a dizzy height, but custom had staled the peril of his +employment, and, in this aspect, fear was unknown to him. A high +trembling ladder permitted him to climb up to a couple of boards +suspended from the parapet above by frail ropes cunningly wound about +the embrasures of the battlements. He stood with his back to a mossy +wall; beneath him lay the fair domain of Melbourne Hall; its ancient +trees so many children's fretted toys; its grass lands supremely green; +pool and lake and river ablaze with the golden light of an Autumn sun. +But more to Gavin than these was the figure of the Lady Evelyn herself, +clearly to be seen in the glade where the gypsies had pitched their +camp—the figure of an English girl divinely tall, of one whom the +splendid woods might well choose for their divinity. +</P> + +<P> +She rode through the glade and by her side their walked a rough fellow, +who, Gavin thought, would have been much better in Derby jail than +idling in the home park at Melbourne. Some chance observations which +had fallen from servants' lips had made him acquainted with the +circumstances under which these apparent vagrants had come to +Derbyshire; and he was quick enough to perceive the connection between +the Earl's younger days and this odd visitation. +</P> + +<P> +"He knew these fellows in Roumania and they have come here to blackmail +him," was the unspoken comment. "Their master is a shady Roumanian +Count—one of the long-haired brand, who ogle the women. I take it +that she had promised to marry this man, not altogether at her father's +bidding, but just because he is romantic liar enough to appeal to one +side of her imagination. That's what sent her to London play-acting. +She had to escape from this monotony or it would have killed her. +Well, I think I know the temperament—a very dangerous temperament +which has sent many a woman the wrong way and will send many more +before the world is done with." +</P> + +<P> +He turned again to the crumbling stone work and passed his hand idly +over it. This old house, how many women's hearts had it not imprisoned +and stilled! What stories of woman's love and passion could it not +unfold if these rotting stones might speak? Many a Di Vernon had gone +forth from secret doors to meet her lover; many a one had lived and +died with her girlish secret unspoken. Study in those records and the +true story of Evelyn, my Lord of Melbourne's daughter, would be read. +A brave girl, a lonely girl, full of the stuff of which dreams are +made, such he believed her to be. And she had come suddenly into his +life, bidding him turn from his work to gaze after her, impotently as a +man may look upon a precious thing he may never possess. For even if +she loved him, what right had he to speak to her; what position or name +had he to give her? He was a worker in clay. Bricks and mortar were +not the tokens in which a woman's imagination deals. +</P> + +<P> +"If I built a cathedral," he said to himself ironically, "she would +merely say, 'How draughty!' It is necessary to be a brigand or a +musician to reach the heart of her desires." +</P> + +<P> +So the work went on a little savagely. He had the scaffold shifted to +the tower of the chapel where the clock face records the deeds of that +Lord of Melbourne who fell with Picton's troop at Waterloo. "Time +passed above his head but will turn to look at him..." the inscription +went. Gavin was cleaning the dust of the century from it when he heard +a voice upon the parapet above, and looking up he perceived my Lady +Evelyn there, standing by the battlement and watching him curiously. +</P> + +<P> +"Is not that dreadfully dangerous?" she asked him, indicating the frail +scaffold upon which he stood. +</P> + +<P> +He answered at once by another question. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you refer to Time? If so, yes, it is always dangerous. Time never +sleeps, remember." +</P> + +<P> +She laughed and leaned over, a little afraid of the height, but +desiring, she knew not why, to hear him talk. +</P> + +<P> +"You will not look Time in the face, then?" she said; "or does the bell +of Time speak to you? I know people in France who always cross +themselves when the clock chimes the hour." +</P> + +<P> +"The bells chime eternity—oh, yes. Time rarely laughs if it is not +ironically. Here's a clock which tries to tell all the world how a +brave man died. Time passed him by, but returns twice a day to have a +look at him. The dirt of nearly a hundred years is cast upon his +monument by Time. The ages used to be cleaner, Lady Evelyn. Nowadays +we trample mud on every tomb. There is always an 'if' for the best of +our friends." +</P> + +<P> +"Meaning that some disappointment has made a cynic of you, Mr. Ord?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps, I cannot tell you. What is the good of ideals in this +twentieth century? We have learned to scoff at simple things, faith, +honesty, even courage. Rich men try to believe that they were never +poor and the poor believe that they are rich—and go through the +Bankruptcy Court accordingly. I could do great work in the world, but +my enemy is an estimate. A man no longer builds a temple to the glory +of God; he builds it to the memory of John Snooks, hog-merchant. Most +of our ailments are the penalty of soullessness. If we lived and +strived toward an end, the mind would not smart so often as the body. +That saps our courage as well. I can work upon a scaffold like this +because I have the past all round about me. But directly I cease to +work I become a coward. Time is dangerous because Time is truth; one +of the few truths our modern life permits us to recognize." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you do really believe that the old glory of achievement lingers +somewhere?" +</P> + +<P> +"In the imagination of men who would be artists but remain the servants +of Mammon. Let me interrupt you to beg a favor. Your arm is shifting +the rope and if it gave way——" +</P> + +<P> +"The rope—the one I am leaning against? Does that go down to your +scaffolding? I never noticed it." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no damage done," he said quietly; "please pull it down over +the stone-work. No, hardly that way. Let me come up and show you." +</P> + +<P> +A short ladder led up from the scaffold to the roof of the clock tower. +The foothold of planks was held up by stout ropes wound about the +embrasures of the parapets. Unconsciously as she talked to him, Evelyn +had shifted the right-hand rope from its place and Gavin's heart leaped +when he perceived that in another instant boards and man and ladder +must go headlong to the stone terrace below. In truth, the climax came +while the light words were still upon his lips, and the rope, slipping +away from the girl's weak hand, the scaffold swung out in an instant +and Gavin was left above the abyss, his fingers twined about the second +rope and his feet vainly seeking a hold against the time-worn stone. +</P> + +<P> +Men fight for their lives in many ways—the cowards desperately and +without reason, brave men with a quick apprehension of the +circumstances and a bold course from which fear does not divert them. +Desperate as Gavin's situation had become, he realized the whole truth +of it in an instant. Forty feet below him was the square flagged +pavement built about the belfry door. Above him a single rope swayed +and strained against the stone of the parapet, here bulging outward and +difficult to climb. If the rope held, Gavin believed that he might +touch the parapet, but to mount it would be an acrobat's task. Other +help seemed impossible to bring. His assistants had gone down to the +outer stables to load up the permanent scaffold. His quick eye could +not detect the presence of a single human being in the vicinity of the +gardens. Evelyn herself stood as one petrified by the battlements, +afraid for the instant to lift a hand or utter a word lest the spell of +his momentary safety would be broken. She had never possessed that +particular courage which stands upon a height unflinchingly, and this +dreadful accident found all her nervous impulse paralyzed and +shattered. She listened, as in a trance of terror beyond all words to +describe, for the broken cry which would speak of death; for the sound +of a body falling upon the flags below. Infinitely beyond Gavin Ord's, +her imagination added its darkest picture to her handiwork. She +clinched her hands, fearing their clumsiness, and with eyes half-closed +drew back from the battlements. Never until this day had she seen a +man die; never had she been asked to take an instantaneous resolution +wherein the measure of her own peril might be the measure of another +man's safety. If for the briefest instant she failed to answer the +call, cowardice had no part in her irresolution. Few would have acted +otherwise. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin climbed the rope almost inch by inch, seeking as he did so a +foothold upon the rotting stone and careful always to bring no sudden +jerk upon the trembling cord. It seemed an eternity before he reached +the forbidding parapet where the graver danger must be faced; but when +he did so and tried to put an arm over the bulging stone, then he +understood that if none came to his assistance, he was most certainly +doomed. Beneath him, the crumbling cornice became so much powdered +dust whenever his feet touched it—he could find no foothold there, nor +so much as feel a single projection upon the buttress by which he might +pull himself up to safety. And his wrists now ached with a pain which +threatened to become intolerable, the rope cut his hands until drops of +blood trickled from them to his face. Salvation depended upon that +which he could do while a man might count twenty, and with death +looking up at him exultingly, he made a last effort to surmount the +bulging parapet and in the same instant told himself that it was +impossible. +</P> + +<P> +"My God," he cried aloud; "I cannot do it—I cannot do it!" +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps he no longer feared death. There is this merit of exhaustion +in danger that it blinds the imagination and leaves indifference to the +ultimate issue. Gavin was just at that point when a man is incapable +of further effort, even in the cause of his own safety, when, looking +up, he perceived Evelyn at the balustrade, her face deathly white, her +eyes shining terror; but her acts were as cool and collected as they +had been when first he met her in the long gallery of Melbourne Hall. +Waked from the trance of fear by the words he had spoken, she cast one +quick glance at the figure swaying upon the rope; then turned about her +and, stooping, she picked up the long rope which her own maladroitness +had displaced from the battlements. Methodically and without a +blunder, she made a noose in this and passed it over the parapet. +</P> + +<P> +"Slip your arm over it," she said, in a voice that betrayed no emotion +whatever. "I will tie it to the weather-vane—please, please try. I +can help you—I am very strong, Mr. Ord. Yes, that is the way—now +take my hand—don't be afraid to hurt me—yes, yes, like that." +</P> + +<P> +He slipped one arm over the noose and changing hands cleverly upon the +other rope and digging his feet deep into the rotting stone, he drew +the noose around his body while she caught up the slack of the cord and +bound it round and round the great iron pillar of the weather-vane +which crowns the Belfry Tower of Melbourne Hall. His position was such +in this instant that he hung out clear above the abyss with his face +upon a level with the parapet and his body backward to the flags below. +All depended upon the iron pillar of the weather-vane and the stuff of +which the rope was made. Gavin had no alternative but to trust to it, +and he swung himself out fearlessly with one earnest prayer for safety +upon his lips. So near to him that he wondered that his arms could not +touch her was the figure of Evelyn, seeming to beckon him to salvation. +He felt the noose draw tight about his body, and for some instants he +swung to and fro almost with the content of one who has waged a good +fight and would sleep. Then her voice came welcomely to his ears once +more, bidding him make an effort; and at this he pulled himself up +almost with superhuman will and touched the round of the stone-work +with his hands laid flat upon it and his knees bent upon the +balustrade. Would he fall back once more or had she the strength to +save him? Her little hands had caught him by the wrists now; and, +kneeling, she exerted a strength she had never known herself to +possess. Must they go crashing together to the flags shining in the +sunlight below? In vain he supplicated her to release her hold and +leave him to do battle for himself. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall pull you over," he cried madly. "For God's sake, leave me to +myself!" +</P> + +<P> +She scarcely heard him; her eyes were closed, her lips were hard set; +she had thrown her whole weight backward from the hips and with every +muscle straining, every danger forgotten, but that of the man whose +safety she had imperilled, she drew him to her side and fell fainting +before him. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin was dizzy and sick from fear. His hands were cut and bleeding; +his clothes torn to ribbons; he could hear the heavy pulsation of his +heart when he bent to lift Evelyn in his strong arms as one who, +henceforth, had some right to do so. +</P> + +<P> +"The worst may become the best," he said to himself quietly; "she will +tell me her story now." +</P> + +<P> +And so he carried her down to the Long Gallery and Melbourne Hall heard +of the accident for the first time. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LOVERS +</H4> + +<P> +Gavin's belief that Evelyn would now make a confidant of him rested +largely upon a knowledge of human nature, which the great and +successful school of endeavor had revealed to him. Nor was he in any +way mistaken. The intimacy of a peril, mutually dared and overcome, +brought the man and the woman together as years of social intercourse +could not have done. That very night they walked in the Italian +Gardens of Melbourne Hall and spoke as freely as brother and sister +might have done. +</P> + +<P> +"I like your guest," Gavin began—and he referred to a young solicitor +by name Gilbert Ray, who had come down from London by the afternoon +train—"I like your guest. The fact that he is losing his hair is a +point in his favor. When you think how much the head of a prosperous +lawyer must carry, it is a wonder that there is room for any of the +commoner emotions at all. Not a month ago, Sir Francis Button told me +that he could lock up half the great people in town, politicians +included, by one turn of a little key in his safe. My fingers would be +itching all day to open that safe if I were he. Just think of the +blessings I should confer upon the halfpenny papers. A Cabinet +Minister in the police court. They would leave the war out altogether +next day. After all, the world takes nothing very seriously nowadays." +</P> + +<P> +"Not even itself," said Evelyn, almost as one speaking with regret. +"We are growing too cynical even to deceive ourselves, and that used to +be the most pleasant of all amusements. But I agree with you about Mr. +Ray. His face is an honest one. I wonder if it is any drawback to him +in his business." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin laughed, wondering perhaps at the flippancy of their talk and +their mutual desire to avoid any reference to that which had befallen +them earlier in the day. By common consent they would not speak of the +accident; each believed that some self-applause must attend the recital +of it, and, save for a few brief words when Evelyn had recovered that +morning, their resolution of silence remained unshaken. Out here upon +the open lawns with the deep crimson shades of the dining-room making a +fairy scene behind them; out here where the night breeze was like a +breath of a tired sleeper and the river below droned a lullaby, it was +difficult enough to realize that death had been so recently their +neighbor. Nor had they the desire to do so. This new intimacy of +association was a gracious gift to them both; and Evelyn, not less than +he, understood that it might yet influence the years to come. +</P> + +<P> +"Honesty is always a drawback in certain professions," Gavin said, as +they wandered away from the open windows to the darker shades beneath +the yews; "an honest doctor would be in danger of starving, while an +honest photographer would certainly go to the workhouse. Mr. Ray, at +least, was honest in his desire to get rid of us. His remarks upon the +beauty of the evening I found quite superfluous." +</P> + +<P> +"My father is very anxious to talk to him," Evelyn said quickly. "I am +sure you have remarked his abstracted manner since you came here. A +stranger would notice such things at once. He is not well, and I fear +is in great trouble, Mr. Ord. Perhaps he will tell Mr. Ray. I hope +sincerely that he will do so." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he has said nothing to you, Lady Evelyn?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has said that which I find great difficulty in understanding. I +wish it were otherwise. A woman is never able to estimate a man's +danger correctly. There are so many things of which she takes no +account." +</P> + +<P> +"When she will not permit a man to help her. I am asking you to tell +me the story, you see. It has been in my mind to do so for some hours +past. Of course, I have known that there is a story. I should never +regret coming to Melbourne Hall if I could be of the slightest use to +you, Lady Evelyn. Will you not make me your friend?" +</P> + +<P> +He drew her still farther apart, down to that very bridge he had +crossed the night he came to the Hall; that night of weird +hallucination and childish phantoms. Standing by the low balustrade +(she half-sitting upon it and watching the eddies in the pool below), +she spoke of Etta Romney and of a young girl whose dreams had sent her +to London. +</P> + +<P> +"I have always delighted to live in a world of my own making," she said +frankly. "There are days together when I believe myself to be some one +else and act and do that which I believe they would have acted and +done. The theatre stood to me for a very heaven of self-deceptions. I +read of it in books, dreamed of it in my sleep, tried to picture it as +it must be. Oh, yes, I have spoken my own plays aloud beneath the +trees of this Park so many days. I was Di Vernon, my Lady Beatrice, +Viola, Desdemona, all the young girls you can name in the books. +Sometimes I had the idea to run away and hide myself from everyone in +that great picture land my visions showed to me. No one here could +share my thoughts. My father adored me, but has never understood me. +To him, I am the child of the woman he loved beyond anything on earth. +He guards me as though some change would come upon me if he ceased his +vigilance. Then irony appears and says it is my father who is +changing. I have been aware of it ever since Count Odin visited us. +These wild men have brought misfortune to our house and God knows where +we are drifting. I thought at one time that if I married the Count +that would be the end of everything. I can believe it no longer. My +father is tempted to sacrifice me; but he would regret it all his life +if he did so. Can you blame me if I think of London again—seriously +and forever!" +</P> + +<P> +Gavin answered her with difficulty. He knew so few of the facts of her +story as yet that his common sense warned him to speak guardedly. +</P> + +<P> +"I should be the last to blame you," he said slowly; "but surely there +is an alternative? We take a desperate step when other and wiser roads +are closed to us. Let me try to understand it better. Count Odin, you +say, has some hold upon your father——" +</P> + +<P> +"I did not say so, surely——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then I imagine as much. He has some hold upon your father, obtained +by that which happened in Bukharest many years ago. Do you know +precisely what his claim is?" +</P> + +<P> +"His father's liberty. The old Chevalier Georges Odin is a prisoner in +one of the mines on the borders of the Black Sea. The Count declares +that this is my father's work. I cannot tell you if it be true or +false. If it is true, I will see that we leave no stone unturned to +set Georges Odin free. I wish I could be so sure that his liberty will +bring no peril upon my father." +</P> + +<P> +"The men were enemies, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have understood as much. They were rivals for my dead mother's +hand." +</P> + +<P> +"And your father profited by his enemy's political misfortune?" +</P> + +<P> +"I must believe it, since he is afraid to give this man his liberty." +</P> + +<P> +"A natural fear—in Roumania; not, I think, in England. Will you let +me ask how your marriage with the young Count would help your father in +his difficulty?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know, unless it is assumed that as Georges Odin's +daughter-in-law, I should pay the debt my father owes." +</P> + +<P> +"And save him from a purely imaginary danger?" +</P> + +<P> +"Would you think it purely imaginary when you remember the guests we +entertain in our Park?" +</P> + +<P> +"The gypsies—could the police say nothing to them? Remember we are +living in England, where all the fine sentiments preached in Southern +Europe are so many heroics to be laughed at. If a Roumanian were to +challenge me to avenge the honor of my ancestors by cutting his throat +in the Carpathians, I should put his letter among my curiosities. +Vendettas and secret societies and such absurdities have no place among +us outside the theatre. That's why I say that this matter should be +dealt with in an English way. If your father has done any man a wrong, +he, as an English gentleman, will do his best to put it right. All the +rest is merely tall talk. It should not even be taken into account, +and would not be, I think, unless there are circumstances of which I +know nothing. That is why I speak with reservation. I know so little +of your father, and he is one of the most difficult men to know that I +have met." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Every man is difficult to know and every woman," he said +philosophically; "those who seem most superficial are often the people +we understand least. Here am I talking to you as I have never talked +to anyone in all my life, and yet you know nothing about me whatever." +</P> + +<P> +"I differ from that entirely." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, it is true. If it were not, you would not have asked me why I +let them say that I am going to marry Count Odin." +</P> + +<P> +"You let them say it because it is too foolish to contradict." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing of the kind. I let them say it because my mother would have +married his father had her wishes been consulted. Oh, I know that so +well. Every day my inheritance speaks to me. I am afraid of him, and +yet am drawn toward him. I detest him and yet go to him. Do you +wonder that London seems my only way of escape—the theatre where Etta +Romney can come to life again and Evelyn be forgotten?" +</P> + +<P> +She spoke with some excitement as she always did when the silent voice +within told her again of those triumphs awaiting her upon the stage in +London whenever she had the mind to seek them. Gavin thought that he +understood her; but her confession troubled him none the less. Almost +formal as their conversation had been, there was that in the timbre of +their voices, in their steps, their gestures, their looks, which +declared the pleasure of their intimacy and would have betrayed the +mutual secret to any who might have overheard them. Love, indeed, +laughed aside at the prim phrases and the mock sophistries—and none +realized this more surely than Gavin. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope it would be as a last resource," said Gavin presently, still +thinking of her threat to return to the theatre. "You must not forget +that your friends may have something to say in the matter." +</P> + +<P> +"My friends! Who are my friends?" she exclaimed hotly. "The +chattering doctor, who is always looking for an excuse to feel my +pulse. The vicar, who is so dreadfully afraid of his wife hearing the +nonsense he talks to me. Young John Hall, who can speak of nothing +else but Yorkshire cricket scores. I have no friends—unless it be the +dogs." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin drew a little nearer to her, and confronting her suddenly, he +said: +</P> + +<P> +"Then here is a new breed of hound and one that will be faithful." +</P> + +<P> +She turned away her head, forgetting that the darkness hid her crimson +cheeks from him. +</P> + +<P> +"I must not listen to you—I, who am to be Count Odin's wife," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"You will never be Count Odin's wife," he rejoined. "I forbid it, you +have given me the right. Listen to me, Evelyn. The night I came to +Melbourne Hall, I heard a voice calling to me as I crossed this very +bridge. It was your voice. I looked over and I saw a face down there +in the river and it was your face. That night I did not know why +Destiny had sent me to this house. But I know it now, and it makes me +say to you, 'I love you—I love you, Evelyn, and my love will save +you.' When you tell me that you must not hear me, it is not yourself +speaking but another. I love you, and, before God, I will not rest day +or night until I have saved your father and you from this shadow which +has come upon your lives. It is yours to give me the right to do +so—here and now, the right your heart bids you give me and you will +not deny." +</P> + +<P> +He took her hands in both of his and drew her toward him. She resisted +him a brief moment; then suddenly, as though disguise were idle, she +lifted her lips to his and kissed him. +</P> + +<P> +"From myself," she said; "save me from myself." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ZALLONY'S SON +</H4> + +<P> +Gavin permitted her to escape his arms when he heard the Earl calling +to them from the Italian garden above the river. A sense of +exultation, of ecstasy no words could measure, possessed him as he +watched the slim white-clad figure, here disappearing, there showing +itself again between the ramparts of the splendid trees. She was his, +henceforth and forever. All her beauty, her charm, her intellect, +every grace of speech and manner had passed to his possession. +</P> + +<P> +This stately girl of whom the countryside spoke as of some wondrous +divinity, she had promised to become his wife; for him the warm kisses +of her lips, the declared secrets of her eloquent eyes, the passionate +ardor of her embraces. Yesterday he would have called himself a madman +to have dared the meanest of the hopes which now might be regarded with +equanimity. To-night he could recall them with that kind incredulity +which even attends the first hours of such an avowal as this. What act +or purpose of his life had brought him such a reward; why had she +deemed him worthy? he asked himself. He was neither a vain man nor a +fool. If he contemplated his good fortune with a just trepidation, +none the less he believed himself to merit it. She loved him, and +henceforth might claim his life. This was the whole lesson of the +first brief moments of delight. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin was far too excited to think of returning to the Castle; nor had +he any wish to speak to the Earl until his own story presented itself +to him in some reasonably plausible shape. Under other circumstances, +he could have understood the anger and the impatience which such a +declaration might bring upon him; but these he did not expect at +Melbourne Hall. Robert Forrester seemed to him rather an aristocrat by +accident than by birth. He, himself, would not in any case consider +the dignity of his own life and calling as beneath that of one whose +ancestors had been the jest of London in the days of the Stuarts. He +had the right of an honored name, of considerable achievement, and of +his youth; and by these he claimed her. Moreover, the secrets of the +Hall were now his own; and he understood that the forgotten years +stalked as ghosts through the splendid chambers, speaking of passions +outlived and of the aftermath to be garnered from their fields. Father +and daughter alike were reaping that which had been sown in Bukharest +more than twenty years ago. From his just judgment, from her +birthright, it lay upon the stranger to save them. Gavin determined to +begin his work that very night. +</P> + +<P> +He had lighted a pipe when Evelyn left him, and with this glowing in +the darkness, he set out, with no definite purpose in his mind, toward +the gypsy encampment down in the hollow by the river. Behind him, +Melbourne Hall stood up as a glittering palace of a wonder-world, its +windows casting out their brilliant jets to make blacker darkness in +the gardens, and many a picture revealed to speak of ancient centuries +and the momentous history of the house. Ahead of him lay the moonlit +park, the giant yews and elms, the matchless oaks, glades and dells, +where from the elves should come unsurpassable avenues and all the +beauty of the forest scene. Gavin walked on, however, oblivious of the +night or its wonders. He had a vague idea that he might learn +something from the rogues and vagabonds who had followed Count Odin to +Melbourne Hall; and, with this idea indicating his path, he came +presently to the thicket beyond which the encampment lay. There a +sound of voices arrested his attention. Plainly, he said, a woman was +speaking; and while the surprise of this discovery was still upon him, +the music of a violin, weird and echoing, began to accompany the +speaker in a song so plaintive that the very spirit of sorrow appeared +to breathe in every note of it. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin listened to the music spell-bound, and yet a little ashamed of +his position. No possible advantage to himself or others would have +induced him to play an eavesdropper's part at Melbourne or elsewhere. +If he lingered in the shadow of the thicket, it was because the music +compelled him and he could not escape its fascinations. When the sound +of the voice died away, he turned about to come at the encampment by +another road; and then he became aware for the first time that he did +not stand there alone. A pair of black eyes, shining like a cat's in +the darkness, looked up at him as it were from his very shoulder. +Returning their gaze, but not without a quickening pulse and some +apprehension of danger, he could, at length, outline the figure of a +man, slim and agile, and yet not without a certain grace to be +perceived even in such a light. That this fellow was one of the +gypsies he had no doubt at all. The clear moonlit night revealed the +oval face, the restless eyes, the long, tapering hands of a Romany. +Gavin remarked the hands particularly, for one of them was thrust into +the bosom of a spotlessly white and clinging shirt—and that hand, he +said, covered the hilt of a gypsy's knife. So it was to be a hazardous +encounter after all. He understood too well that if he moved so much +as a foot, this gypsy would stab him. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you watch us, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +The English was execrable but the meaning quite plain. Gavin answered +as abruptly: +</P> + +<P> +"I am listening to your music." +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy, utterly lost in his attempts to continue in a tongue of +which he knew so little, stammered for an instant and then asked curtly: +</P> + +<P> +"Do you speak German, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Possibly as well as you do; I have been three years in that excellent +country." +</P> + +<P> +"Please to tell me who you are, then, and why you come to his +Excellency's house?" +</P> + +<P> +Gavin laughed at the impertinence of it. Speaking in fluent German, he +said: +</P> + +<P> +"I might very well put that question to you. Shall I say, then, that I +am not here to answer your questions. Come, we had better be frank +with each other. I may be able to help you." +</P> + +<P> +This was a new idea to the gypsy and one that caused him some +perplexity. A little reflection convinced him that the stranger was +right. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," he said, "we will talk about it. Come to my tent and +Djala shall make us coffee. Why not be friends? Yes, we might help +each other, as you say. Let us talk first and then we can quarrel." +</P> + +<P> +He led the way through a path of the dell, powdering the ground with +the golden dust of wild flowers as he went. The encampment had been +enlarged considerably since Evelyn discovered it on the gypsies first +coming to Moretown. There were no less than seven tents; and the +biggest of these, the one to which Gavin's guide now conducted him, had +been furnished with lavish generosity. Old silver lamps from the Hall +cast a warm, soft light upon the couches and rugs about; there were old +tapestries hung against the canvas; tables glittering with silver +ornaments; a buffet laden with bottles and silver boxes. But the chief +ornament was Djala, a little Hungarian girl, and such a perfect picture +of wild beauty that Gavin stared at her amazed. +</P> + +<P> +"Here is Djala," the guide said, with a gesture of his hand toward her. +"I am known as Zallony's son. His Excellency may have spoken of me." +</P> + +<P> +"I know nothing," said Gavin simply. "Permit me to tell the young lady +that she has a charming voice. I have never heard music that +fascinated me so much." +</P> + +<P> +"It is the music of a nation of musicians, sir. Please to sit down. +Djala will serve us cigarettes and coffee." +</P> + +<P> +The girl laughed pleasantly, showing a row of shining white teeth and +evidently understanding that a compliment had been paid her by the +stranger. When she had served the coffee and cigarettes, she ran away +with a coquette's step and they heard her singing outside to the soft +accompaniment of a zither. Zallony's son smoked meanwhile with the +contemplative silence of the Oriental; and Gavin, waiting for him, +would not be the first to break the truce. +</P> + +<P> +"So you have been in Germany, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was there three years," said Gavin. +</P> + +<P> +"You know Bukharest, it may be?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all, though a lady's book was on the point of sending me to the +Carpathians." +</P> + +<P> +"You should go and see my country; it is the finest in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"I will take care to do so on the earliest opportunity." +</P> + +<P> +"Make friends with my people and they will be your friends. We never +forget, sir. That is why I am here in this English country, because we +never forget." +</P> + +<P> +"The best of qualities.... They tell me that your father was his +Excellency's friend in Roumania many years ago." +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy looked at him questioningly. +</P> + +<P> +"It is as you say, sir. They were brothers of the hills. When the +houses burned and the women ran from the soldiers, then men said it is +Zallony and the English lord. There was another with them. He is in +prison now—he who was my father's friend. Sir, I come to England to +give him liberty." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin was greatly interested. He drained the little cup of coffee, +and, filling a pipe slowly, he said: +</P> + +<P> +"What forbids your success?" +</P> + +<P> +Zallony's son looked him straight in the face. +</P> + +<P> +"A lady known to us—she may forbid it, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot mean the Lady Evelyn?" +</P> + +<P> +"We will not speak of names. You have her confidence. Say to her that +when she is false to my friend, Count Odin, I will kill her." +</P> + +<P> +"But that is nonsense. What has she to do with it? Your affair is +with the Earl, her father. Why do you speak of her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because there is only one door by which my father's friend can win his +liberty. Let Georges Odin's son marry an Englishwoman and my +Government will release him." +</P> + +<P> +"That is your view. Do you forget his Excellency's influence? Why +should he not petition the Government at Bukharest for this man's +liberty?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because, in that case, his own life would be in danger. We are a +people that never forgets. I have told you so. If Georges Odin were +at liberty, he would cross the world to find his enemy. That is our +nature. We love and hate as an Eastern people should. The man who +does us a wrong must repay, whoever he is. It would be different if +the young Count had an English wife. That is why I wish it." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin smiled almost imperceptibly. +</P> + +<P> +"It is quite clear that you know little of England," he said. "This +language suits your own country very well. Permit me to say that it is +ridiculous in ours. If Lord Melbourne had any hand in your friend's +imprisonment, which I doubt, he is hardly likely to be influenced by +threats. I should say that you are going the wrong way to work. As to +the Lady Evelyn, I will tell you that she will never be the wife of one +of your countrymen. If you ask a reason, it is a personal one, and +before you now. She is going to marry me. It is just as well that we +should understand as much at once." +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy heard the news as one who had expected to hear it. He smoked +for a little while in silence. Then he said: +</P> + +<P> +"I appreciate the courtesy of your admission. That which I thought it +necessary to tell you at first, I must now repeat ... this lady is the +betrothed of my friend, Count Odin. I remain in England as the +guardian of his honor. If you are wise, you will leave the house +without further warning. My friend is absent, and until he is here I +must speak for him. We do not know you and wish you no harm. Let this +affair end as it began. You would be foolish to do otherwise." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin heard the threat without any sign of resentment whatever. +</P> + +<P> +"You are talking the language of the Carpathians, not of London," he +said, with a new note of determination in his tone. "I will answer you +in my English way. I have asked Lady Evelyn to marry me, and she will +do so before the year is out. That is final. For the rest, I remind +you again that you are not in Bukharest." +</P> + +<P> +He rose, laughing, and offered his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-night," he said. "They will be anxious about me at the Castle." +</P> + +<P> +It was the gypsy's turn to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"I have dealt fairly with you," he said; "for that which is now to +come, do not blame me when it comes." +</P> + +<P> +"Too late is often never," replied Gavin lightly; and with that he left +him. +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy girl, Djala, had ceased to sing as he quitted the tent and +the rest of the encampment was in darkness. But as he crossed the home +park, a burly figure upon a black horse loomed up suddenly from the +shadows and there was still moonlight enough for him to recognize the +Earl. +</P> + +<P> +"He is going to his gypsy friends," Gavin said to himself. "Then he +knows that this brigand's son has spoken to me—ah, I wonder!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A SPY FROM BUKHAREST +</H4> + +<P> +It is an English characteristic to deride the Europe code of social +ethics and especially those fine heroics which attended the vindication +of what is so often miscalled "honor." Whatever else Gavin Ord lacked, +sound common sense he had abundantly; and that came to his aid when he +returned from the gypsy's tent to the Manor and debated the odd +interview which he had so abruptly terminated. These men, he said, +were mere bravadoes; but they might be dangerous none the less. Of +Count Odin he knew nothing; but his antipathy to all counts was +ineradicable, and he had come to number them together as so many +impostors, valiants, and bankrupts. This habit of thinking first led +him to the supposition that Lord Melbourne, his host, had been the +victim of a little band of swindlers and was about to be blackmailed by +them as few even of the most unfortunate degenerates are blackmailed, +even in this age of accomplished roguery. +</P> + +<P> +"It is a hundred to one old Georges Odin is dead," he argued; "this son +of his got the story somehow and came over here to make what he could +by it. The Earl has lost his nerve, and his love for Evelyn is +betraying him into cowardice. I shall see him and tell him the truth. +If they fire off pistols at me, I must take my luck in my hand. There +may be a deeper story—if so, I shall find it out when the time comes. +I am now to act for Evelyn's sake and think of no consequences which do +not concern her. Very well, I will begin to-morrow and the Earl is my +first step. He shall hear everything. When he has done so, I shall +know what to do." +</P> + +<P> +He slept upon this, but it was a broken sleep whose interludes found +him sitting up in bed listening for any sounds in the house, and +repeating in spite of himself the gypsy threats. He could not forget +that some one had watched him in his sleep when first he came to +Melbourne Hall; and this unforgotten figure his imagination showed to +him again, telling him that it crossed the room with cat-like steps or +breathed upon his face whenever his eyes were closed. His natural +courage made nothing of the darkness; but the suggestion of unknown and +undisclosed danger became intolerable as the night advanced; and at the +very first call of dawn, he drew the curtains back and waited with a +child's longing for the day. When this at length broke above the +night's mists floating up from the river, Gavin rose and put on his +dressing-gown, being quite sure that sleep had, for the time being, +deserted him. True, his odd hallucination that some one was in the +room with him no longer troubled him; but certain facts disquieted him +none the less; and of these, the belief that his wallet and his papers +had been ransacked during the night was not the least alarming. He +felt sure that he could not be mistaken. A man of method, he +remembered clearly how he had placed his papers and in what order he +had left them. Whoever had played the spy's part had done so clumsily, +forgetting to reclasp the wallet and leaving the dressing-table in some +disorder. This troubled Gavin less than the knowledge that some one +had, after all, watched him while he slept and that his dream had not +deceived him. "They take me for a spy from Bukharest," he said ... and +he could laugh at the delusion. +</P> + +<P> +It would have been about five o'clock of the morning by this time; a +glorious hour, full of the sweet breath of day and of that sense of +life and being which is the daydawn's gift. Gavin knew little of the +habits of grooms, save that they were the people who were supposed to +rise with the sun; but when an hour had passed he went out impatiently +to the stables, and there the excellent William found him a "rare ould +divil of a hoss" and one that "came just short of winnin' the National, +to be sure he did." This raw-boned cantankerous brute carried him at a +sound gallop twice round the home park; and, greatly refreshed, he +returned to the Hall and asked the apologetic Griggs if the Earl were +yet down. The answer that "his lordship was awaiting him in the Long +Gallery," hardly surprised him. He felt sure that the recognition last +night had been mutual. +</P> + +<P> +"Zallony's son has told him," he said; "very well, I will go and ask +him to give me Evelyn." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +The Earl sat at a little table placed in one of the embrasures of the +Gallery. He had aged greatly these last few weeks, and there were +lines upon his face that had not been there when Gavin first came to +Moretown. A close observer would have said that the habit of sleep had +long deserted him. This his eyes betrayed, being glassy in their +abstracted gaze and rarely resting upon any object as though to observe +it for more than an instant. When Gavin entered, a tremulous hand +indicated a chair drawn up near by the table. The Earl was the first +to speak and he did so with averted gaze and in a loud voice which +failed to conceal the hesitation of his words. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear of your unfortunate accident for the first time, Mr. Ord," he +said slowly. "Let me implore you to run no more risks of the kind. +The Belfry Tower is too old to write new histories." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin replied with an immediate admission of that which he owed to +Evelyn's bravery. +</P> + +<P> +"But for your daughter, my lord," he said, "I should not be here this +morning to speak to you of very grave things. Please do not think me +insensible of your kindness if I mention that at once. I have asked +Lady Evelyn to be my wife and she has given her consent. Naturally I +tell you of this upon the first possible occasion. You know something +of my story, or you would not have paid me the compliment of asking me +here. I have an assured income of some two thousand a year, and, with +your friendship, I should double it in as many years. That is a vulgar +statement, but necessary. My father was Lord Justice Ord, as you +possibly knew; my dear mother is the daughter of Sir Francis +Winnington, of Audley Court, Suffolk. These things, I know, must be +talked about at such times, so please bear with me. I am sure that +Evelyn would wish me to continue in the profession I have chosen; and, +with your consent, I shall do so. There is nothing else I can tell you +if it is not to say how very deeply I love your daughter and that I +believe her love for me is not less." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl heard him without remark. When he had finished he made no +immediate response, seeming to lack words rather than decision. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Ord," he said at length, "you had every right to speak to Evelyn. +I make no complaint of it. But she cannot be your wife, for if she is +not already the betrothed of another, there is at least an honorable +understanding that she will make no marriage until he has been heard +again. This affair must begin and end to-day. If I am no longer able +to ask you to remain my guest here, you will understand my difficulty. +I cannot answer you in any other way. For your sake I wish indeed that +I could." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin had fully expected this; but it did not disconcert him in any +way. The battle which he must wage for Evelyn's sake had but begun. +Settling himself in his chair and looking the Earl full in his face, he +said: +</P> + +<P> +"Does Lady Evelyn know of this, my lord? Is this the answer she wishes +you to give me?" +</P> + +<P> +"In no sense. But I speak as one who consults her interests before all +things." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin smiled perceptibly. +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive me, Lord Melbourne," he said; "but all this is so very +characteristic of your house and its history. A hundred years ago it +would have sounded well enough and I should have called a coach +obediently as any gentleman of those days would have felt obliged to +do. But we live in the twentieth century, my lord, when men and women +have learned the meaning of the word liberty ... when the desires and +schemes of other people——" +</P> + +<P> +"Schemes, Mr. Ord——" +</P> + +<P> +"No other word is possible. You do not desire the marriage for purely +selfish reasons. I am not impertinent enough to inquire into them, but +Evelyn has told me something, and the rest I deduce from the answer you +have just given me. To save yourself, my lord, you would marry your +daughter to a scoundrel, who is known for such in his own country and +ours; and, when you did it, some false logic would try to tell you that +it was for the sake of your home and name; while all the time it is +done to save you some inconvenience, some penalty you should in justice +pay to the past. I am not so blind that I cannot see the things which +are happening all around me. Evelyn's consent to my proposal gives me +this right to speak plainly to you, in her interests and my own. Would +you not be wiser, my lord, to deal with me as I am dealing with you—to +tell me in a word why this stranger can coerce you when an Englishman +is answered in a word? I think that you would. I think it would be +well if you said, 'Here is a man who wishes to be my friend and will be +so regardless of the consequences.'" +</P> + +<P> +The boldness of his utterance found the Earl altogether unarmed. Under +other circumstances he would have wrung the bell and ordered a carriage +for Mr. Gavin Ord; but the whole problem was too full of perplexities +for that. It may be that Lord Melbourne was fully alive both to the +truths and falsehoods of his position. He had done a man a great wrong +and that man's son had crossed Europe to bid him right the wrong and +act justly. How easy would it all have been if Evelyn had loved this +son and married him! No story then to delight a scandal-loving +multitude; no fear, growing upon weak nerves, that the man who had +suffered might avenge his wrong. Yes, Evelyn could save him ... and +here was a stranger who forbade her to do so. +</P> + +<P> +"You speak very freely," he said to Gavin presently. "I will do you +the justice to believe that you also speak honestly. If Evelyn has +told you anything, it will be that Count Odin is the son of one of my +oldest friends." +</P> + +<P> +"I have learned that from two sources," said Gavin. "Will you let me +add, my lord, that you are probably speaking of a man who is dead?" +</P> + +<P> +The Earl started and looked up quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you any knowledge of that?" +</P> + +<P> +"None whatever, but I have heard of Count Odin's story." +</P> + +<P> +"He is as other young men, I suppose; neither better nor worse——" +</P> + +<P> +"While, for the daughter you love, you would have chosen just such a +man. Is that so, my lord?" +</P> + +<P> +Here was a shrewd hit, going straight to the heart of one who, for +fifteen long years, had striven to shield his daughter from that which +her dead mother's genius had bequeathed to her—the life and passion of +the East; the nomad's craving for change and excitement; the gilt and +tinsel of the theatre. Yes, truly, they had been years of +self-sacrifice and of ceaseless vigil—to end in this spectre of youth +reborn and of vengeance awake. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Ord," he said, "I perceive that my story is known to you. Your +judgment of me is what the world's judgment would be if half the truth +were known—and, remember, it is rarely more than half a truth that the +world comes to possess. I am acting, you say, not from a desire to do +the best for my daughter, but to shield myself. It may be so, for men +are blind enough when their own salvation is at stake. At the same +time, there are reasons other than these, and such that you will hardly +discover. I believe it is very necessary to Evelyn's happiness that +this story shall be hushed up, for the time being at any rate. But I +have made no promise to Count Odin other than those you know. If his +father is still a prisoner in the mines at Yoliska, then I will do my +best to obtain his liberty when I have assurances that such liberty +will not be used to my disadvantage or to Evelyn's. I tell you upon my +word as an Englishman that I am guiltless of such knowledge. When he +fought with me in Bukharest, more than twenty years ago, I met him as a +man of honor and nearly paid with my life for the folly. They now +assert that my friends laid the complaint which induced the Roumanian +Government to arrest him. I do not believe it to be true. Georges +Odin, the records say, died in the fortress prison of Krajova nearly +ten years ago. Prince Charles' Government arrested him, I admit, on +the score of the duel he fought with me; but they had been trying to +arrest him for many years, and that was their excuse. Of the rest I +knew nothing. If he is dead——" +</P> + +<P> +"My lord, have you taken no steps to ascertain the truth of his death?" +</P> + +<P> +"My solicitors are now making all inquiries at Bukharest and Krajova." +</P> + +<P> +"I should have thought that solicitors were scarcely the people to +employ." +</P> + +<P> +"Who else is to be trusted with such a story as this?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am, Lord Melbourne." +</P> + +<P> +"You—but you are a stranger to me and my house." +</P> + +<P> +"A stranger who is willing to become a friend. Say that you will put +no opposition in my way and I will begin my task at once." +</P> + +<P> +"I appreciate your offer, but must decline it. Acceptance would imply +an obligation I am unwilling to recognize." +</P> + +<P> +"I ask for no recognition. To-night, my lord, I leave London for +Bukharest. In a month or less I will return to tell you whether +Georges Odin is alive or dead." +</P> + +<P> +The Earl stared at him amazed. +</P> + +<P> +"Bring me news of Georges Odin's death," he said, "and you shall marry +my daughter." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin rose and offered him his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I will start directly I have seen the Lady Evelyn," he said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK III +</H2> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE LIGHT +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BUKHAREST +</H4> + +<P> +"In America, my dear Gavin, they would certainly name you for a very +prince of hustlers." +</P> + +<P> +The speaker, a lad of twenty-two years of age, leaned back indolently +in his chair and sipped a tiny cup of Turkish coffee with lazy +satisfaction. Gifted with brown curly hair, ridiculously blue eyes, +and a beardless chin, Cambridge had named him ironically "the Lamb." +His name was Arthur Kenyon, and there had been no prettier athlete in +all London when he was there, precisely ten days ago. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he went on, "you lure me to this place, which might be half a +mile at the most from the infernal regions, and promise me a ripping +holiday. I come like a sheep to the shearing and what is my reward? +Hours of self-contemplation—long musings upon an innocent past, and +the thermometer at 112° Fahrenheit in the shade. Ye gods, what a thing +to be a travelling Englishman!" +</P> + +<P> +They sat in the restaurant of the Hotel Moskowa at Bukharest, justly +famous, as the English boy had said, for its historic prices and +ancient meats, long matured. Gavin Ord, grown a little older since he +left Derbyshire some fifteen days ago, had a map of Roumania before him +and all his intentions appeared to be concentrated upon this. The +restaurant, despite the season of the year, could show a fair array of +pretty women in Vienna gowns and of little gold-laced officers who +chaperoned them. The heat of the night had become intense and a great +block of ice upon a marble pedestal melted visibly as though despairing +of the effort to exist. Energy might have been deemed a forgotten art +but for the frantic exertions of a typical gypsy band which fiddled as +though its very salvation depended upon the marvels of its presto. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Arthur," said Gavin at length, folding up his map and lighting +a cigarette with the air of one who is thinking of anything but a +smoker's pleasure, "I am a beast, certainly. Exit, then, I am a +successful beast." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to say that you have found him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Good Master Indiscretion—I have found the house which Cook built and +I am going to visit it to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, of course, that ancient and interesting Roman building ... +well, I always wanted to see Roumania, and, of course, we shall do +Buda-Pesth going back. By the way, do you notice that acrobat playing +the 'cello over there? Don't turn round yet. He's been watching you +ever since we sat down just as though he loved you dearly." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin smoked for a little while without shifting his position in any +way. Presently he said: +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know why he should. Unless they watched me from London, which +is not improbable, they are hardly likely to know of my arrival yet. +When you have drunk your coffee, we'll go and take a turn on the Corso. +The 'cellist certainly likes me. I see what you mean." +</P> + +<P> +Half Bukharest seemed to have flocked to the Corso, or public park, by +the time they arrived there. Even the innumerable gaming tables, which +are the chief fame of the pretentious city, were deserted upon such a +night as this; while the open-air cafes were so many illuminated +ice-houses, thronged by perspiring civilians and equally perspiring +soldiers, whose talk began and ended with an anathema upon the heat. +Gavin Ord had travelled but little; his one real friend, Arthur Kenyon, +had already been half across the world and back; but for both the +interests of this strange scene, with its babble of excited tongues, +its Hungarians, Servians, Bulgarians, Roumanians, and by no means least +numerous, its sallow-faced Turks, were beyond any within their +experience. +</P> + +<P> +"No wonder the people at the Ministry tell you to be careful," said +Kenyon amiably, as he pointed to a great Bashi-Bazouk whose very +mustache might have been inflammable. "I would sooner meet a Chinese +mandarin than that fellow anywhere. And there are plenty more of the +kind, you see. All sorts, shapes and sizes, ready to cut your throat +for a golden coin any day you may be wanting the job done." +</P> + +<P> +"All sham, my dear Arthur. Knives made in Birmingham and pistols in +Germany! Don't worry your head about them. We start for Okna at seven +o'clock to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you've found out where it is, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to tell you before dinner, but these fellows were listening. +Cecil Chesny was at the Ministry to-day and he could not have done more +for me. Okna means a stiff ride into the mountains and some hunting +when we get there. If the old man, Georges Odin, is alive, he is at +Okna. Our task is to persuade him that London is a healthier place——" +</P> + +<P> +"And the son, this man they call the Count, what of him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can learn little. He has evidently been living on his wits for a +long time. He was here a fortnight ago throwing promises to his +creditors right and left. The local papers announce his engagement to +Lord Melbourne's daughter—they spell it, "Sir Lord Milbawn," and +declares that he is going up to buy the old Castle at Gravitza. I +don't believe he is in Bukharest to-day—if he is, well, I must look +out for myself, and you must help to look out for me. The rest depends +upon his father. I could go back to England to-night and tell the Earl +that Georges Odin was released four years ago from the mines at +Prahova, but that would not help me. The Count would go back and +blackmail them again on the score of what his friends, the gypsies, +meant to do. No, I shall bring the father if he is to be brought, and +carry my purchase back to England. That's my plan, Arthur. Time will +prove whether it's clever or foolish." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur Kenyon listened as one listens to the tale of an Eastern +romance. Gavin had told him the whole story before they left London; +but here in Bukharest it seemed so much easier to comprehend, amid a +people careless of life and little unacquainted with death. All the +gauds of passion, of love, and hatred were known to this mean city. +Here, at least, it did not appear difficult to understand how Count +Odin, the adventurer, having heard the history of Robert Forrester's +youth and of his present wealth, had set out for England determined to +profit by his knowledge. +</P> + +<P> +"We have no color in our roguery in London," Arthur said presently. +"It's all just one drab tint—the same color as the yellow press that +delights in it. Here one begins to understand why the fittest survive. +You are a pretty plucky chap, Gavin, or you would not take it so +easily——" +</P> + +<P> +"Not for a woman's sake, Arthur!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, I suppose if one is sufficiently in love, one would hack at +Cerberus for a woman's sake. I am less fettered. Here in Bukharest I +begin to wonder whether I shall die for the charming Lucy or the +equally beautiful Lucinda. You have no doubts. My dear old fellow, +I'm afraid you're in deadly earnest." +</P> + +<P> +"So much in earnest, Arthur, that if I cannot go back to make Evelyn my +wife, I will never go back at all." +</P> + +<P> +"Eros living in a dirty Roumanian hotel on ancient meats! No, by all +the gods. But, tell me, does your friend Chesny think you are unwise +to go to Okna?" +</P> + +<P> +"He says I am mad. I told him as much as I had the right to tell. +Odin, the son, is a swindler; but his gypsy friends are honest. They +believe that an Englishman shut up one of their heroes for twenty +years; and if they can find the man who did it, they will kill him. +There's the Count's chance. I am going one better by offering to take +his father to England to meet the man who wronged him and say that the +vendetta is at an end. A mad scheme! Yes. Well, possibly, mad +schemes are better than the others sometimes, and this may be the +particular instance. I will tell you when we get to Okna, if ever we +get there." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you are plainly not an optimist." +</P> + +<P> +"Hush—there's your old friend the 'cellist, going home it appears. A +gypsy to the finger tips, Arthur. Let us talk of the weather!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIV. +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE PRICE OF WISDOM +</H4> + +<P> +An Eastern sun, monstrous and molten and blinking tears of fire, dwelt +an instant in the West ere it sank beneath the rim of the mountains, +beyond which lies the river Danube. Instantly, as though by a wizard's +enchantment, the heat spell passed from the face of the withered land +and the sweetness of the night came down. All the woods were alive +now, as though the voice of Even had bidden them rejoice. Birds +appeared, flitting from the swaying boughs of oak and elm and sycamore. +Springs bubbled over as though rejoicing that their enemy slept. Life +that had been dormant but ten minutes ago answered to the reveille of +twilight and added a note musical to the song. Men breathed a full +breath of the soft breezes and said that it was good to live. The very +landscape, revealing new beauties in the mellow light, might have been +sensible of the hour and its meaning. +</P> + +<P> +It was the evening of the second day after Gavin Ord and his friend +Arthur Kenyon had dined together in the Hotel Moskowa at Bukharest. A +railway and twelve hours' abuse of its tardiness had carried them a +stage upon this journey. Willing Hungarian ponies, mules, in whose +eyes the negative virtues might be read, brought them to the foot of +the mountains and left them there to camp with what luxury they might. +Attended by a sleek Turk they had discovered in the Capital, their +escort boasted no less than four heroes of the line—for this had been +Cecil Chesny's unalterable determination, that they should not go to +the mountains alone. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a fool's errand and may be dangerous," said he; "these soldiers +are thieves, but they will see that no one else robs you. I will ask +the Ministry to pick out as good specimens as he can. Don't complain +when you see them. They are much less harmless than they look." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin did not like the business at all, but as Chesny's good-will was +necessary to the expedition, he put up with it, and the four shabby +soldiers accompanied him from Bukharest. They were ill-mannered +fellows enough, raw-boned, high-cheeked, sallow-faced ruffians, whose +"paradise enow" could be found wherever good comely, plump girls and +bad tobacco might be found. Their energy at meal-times became truly +prodigious. They were as ravenous wolves, seeking what they might +devour; and, as Arthur Kenyon remarked, they would have eaten his boots +if he had taken them off. +</P> + +<P> +Now, this pretty company, Englishmen, Roumanians, a Greek and a Turk, +encamped in the woods together upon the evening of the second day, and +found what comfort they could beneath the sheltering leaves of a +spacious beech. It had been Gavin's intention to put up at a +guest-house named by the guide-book he had purchased in Vienna; but +when they came to the place where the inn should have stood, they +discovered nothing but charred ruins and cinerous relics; and, "by all +the gods," said Arthur Kenyon, "the red cock has crowed here before +us." A romantic ear would have listened greedily at such a time to the +guide's tales of border pleasantries—girls carried shrieking to the +mountains, roofs blazing, priests burned in their holy oils, babes +hoist on bayonets—for such they would have made a simple affair in +which a drunken herdsman and a paraffin lamp had figured notably; but +Gavin was in no mood for narratives, and he sent them to the right +about, one for wood, another for water, a third to hunt a cot or +homestead, if such were to be discovered. +</P> + +<P> +"The Hotel of the Belle Étoile after all," he said gloomily; "well, it +might have been worse, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +"Just so. If I had not stocked your larder at Slavitesti, you would +now be doing what the amiable Foulon advised the French people to do a +hundred years ago—eating hay with relish, my dear boy. Well, there's +red wine strong enough to poison White Bull, and maize bread tough +enough for a guinea set of ready-made grinders, to say nothing of +cheese, sausage, and biscuits. Fall on, Macduff, and damned be he who +eats enough!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care twopence about the food," said Gavin savagely; "it's the +delay I fret over. We may be within riding distance of the place for +all I know. They could have told us at this inn." +</P> + +<P> +"The boy on the burning deck grown eloquent. We might have put out the +fire for them or comforted some of the ladies. Are you really in such +a hurry, Gavin?" +</P> + +<P> +"Judge for yourself. From the Castle at Okna I can write to Evelyn and +tell her the truth. Until it is told, she will be the daily victim of +a rogue's plausible suggestions. Why, the man may have returned to +Derbyshire by this time—all that is possible and more." +</P> + +<P> +"And there was a great square moon in the sky and thereon the people +read the story of the Jaberwock. Tell me frankly, would Evelyn listen +to the man now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Evelyn would not, but Etta Romney might. Enigmas—I shall not explain +them. Let us go to supper. The day will come after the centuries." +</P> + +<P> +"Gavin, my dear fellow—this is the ancient fever. I bow to it. Pass +the wine and I'll drink to your enigma. We are people of importance +and our escort is a royal one. It is also musical. That song suggests +Seigfried or is it the 'Belle of New York'? My musical education was +completed at Magdalen College within Cambridge and is incomplete." +</P> + +<P> +He frivolled on as young men will, not without purpose, for Gavin's +anxiety was potent to all about him. It had seemed an easy thing in +England to visit the near East and learn for himself the simple truth +of Georges Odin's fate. Here on the slopes of the mountains he began +to understand his difficulties, perhaps the danger, of his pursuit. +For this, he remembered, had been the scene of Robert Forrester's +youth, this the home of Zallony, the revolutionary brigand upon whose +head three countries had set a price. Time had not changed the +disposition of the mountain people, nor had civilization influenced its +social creeds. Beware of Zallony's gypsies, they had said to him at +Bukharest. This night had brought him within a post of his goal. It +would be hard enough if any mischance should send him back to England +empty-handed; to say to Evelyn, "I have failed; I can tell you nothing." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur Kenyon, for his part, had begun to enjoy the whole adventure +amazingly. Especially he liked the four merry soldiers who ate and +drank as though they had been fasting and athirst for a week, and lay +down afterwards to fall instantly to sleep. In this the Greek muleteer +and the Turkish robber of all trades imitated them without loss of +time; so that by nine o'clock nothing but the red glow of two English +pipes and the sonorous nasal thank-offerings of the sleepers would have +betrayed the camp or its occupants. Such conversation as passed +between Gavin and Arthur was in fitful whispers, the talk of men +thoroughly fatigued and wistful for the day. They, too, dropped to +sleep over it at last, and when they awoke it was to such a scene as +neither would ever forget, however long he might live. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin slept without dreaming, the first night he had done so since he +left England. He could remember afterwards that his friend's voice +awoke him from his heavy slumber; and that, when he sat up and stared +about him, Arthur Kenyon was the first person his eyes rested upon. +Instantaneously, as one sees a picture in a vision, the scene of the +camp presented itself to his view—the great trunks of the oaks and +beeches, the hollow, wherein the horses were tethered, the tangle of +grass and undergrowth. Just as he had seen it when he fell asleep, so +the reddening embers of the camp-fire showed it to him now—unchanged, +and yet how different! He was, for this brief instant, as a sleeper +who wakes in a familiar room and wonders why he has been awakened. +Then, just as rapidly, the scales fell from his eyes and he knew. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur Kenyon stood with his back against the trunk of a beech, his +revolver drawn and about him such a motley crowd that only a comic +opera could have reproduced it. Gypsies chiefly, the fire-light +flashed upon sallow faces which a man might see in an evil dream; upon +arms that a mediæval age should have forged; upon limbs that forest +labor had trained to hardiness. Crying together in not unmusical +exclamations, the raiders appeared in no way desirous of injuring their +man, but only of disarming him. One of their number lay prone already, +hugging a wounded thigh and muttering imprecations which should have +brought the heavens upon his head—a second had the Englishman by the +legs and would not be beaten off; while of the rest, the foremost aimed +heavy blows at the extended pistol and demanded its delivery in +sonorous German. Such was the scene which the picture presented to +Gavin as he awoke. He was on his feet before the full meaning of it +could be comprehended. +</P> + +<P> +"Halt!" he cried, for lack of any other word to serve. His tone, his +manner, drew all eyes toward him. "What do you want?" he continued, +with the same air of authority. Twenty voices answered him, but he +could make nothing of their reply. He was about to speak for the third +time when rough hands pinioned his arms and feet from behind and +instantly deprived him of the power to move a step from the place where +he stood. +</P> + +<P> +"To conduct your excellency to the Castle of Okna—we have come for +that, excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"You are aware that I am an Englishman?" +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy pointed smilingly to his wounded friend. +</P> + +<P> +"We are perfectly aware of it, excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you know the consequences of that which you are doing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon, excellency—there are no consequences in the mountains. Let +your friend be wise and put up his pistol. We shall shoot him if he +does not." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin, doubting the nature of the situation no longer, shrugged his +shoulders and invited Kenyon by a gesture to put up his pistol. +</P> + +<P> +"We can do nothing, Arthur, let them have their way." +</P> + +<P> +"I beg your pardon, Gavin; I could make holes in two or three of them." +</P> + +<P> +"It would not help us. They are evidently only agents. Let's hear +what the principal has to say." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, if you think so. It's poor fun, though—almost like +shooting sheep in the Highlands. But, of course, I bow to wisdom." +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hands to the gypsy who bound them immediately with a +leather thong taken from the saddle-bow of the excellent pony he had +ridden. Silently and methodically now, the men secured their prisoners +and produced their gyves of heavy rope. To resist would have been just +that madness which Gavin named it—and but for Evelyn the scene had +been one to jest at. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you treat all your guests at the Castle of Okna in this way?" he +asked the leader of the men suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +The reply was delivered with a suavity delightful to hear. +</P> + +<P> +"When they come to us with soldiers and Turks, then we speak plainly to +them, excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"True, I had forgotten the soldiers. Where are those noble men now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Half-way back to Slavitesti, excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"And the muleteer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my friends are warming his feet for him. We are not fond of +Greeks, here in the mountains, excellency." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin started as the man spoke, for a wild shriek broke upon his ears +and becoming louder until it sounded like some supreme cry of human +agony, ended at last in a fearful sobbing, as it were the weeping of a +child in pain. When he dared to look, he saw the gypsies had dragged +the wretched Greek to the camp-fire and pouring oil from a can upon his +bare feet, they thrust them into the flames and held them there with +that utter indifference to human suffering which, above all others, is +the characteristic of the people of the Balkans. Worming in their +embrace, his eyes starting from his head, his voice paralyzed by the +fearful cries he raised, the wretched man suddenly fainted and lay +inanimate in the flame. Then, and not until then, they drew him back +and left him quivering upon the green grass. +</P> + +<P> +"He was warned," the gypsy leader muttered sullenly; "he should have +known better." +</P> + +<P> +But Arthur, showing Gavin his bleeding wrists, said with a shrug. +</P> + +<P> +"I think very little of wisdom, Gavin." +</P> + +<P> +The rope had cut the flesh almost to the bone in his efforts to go to +the help of the wretched Greek. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOUSE ABOVE THE TORRENT +</H4> + +<P> +Some one upon the outskirts of the wood whistled softly and the gypsies +stood with ears intent listening, alarmed, to the signal. When it had +been twice repeated, they appeared to become more confident, and, +untethering their ponies, or calling, with low, whining voices, those +that grazed, they turned to their prisoners and bade them prepare to +march. +</P> + +<P> +"To the Castle of Okna, excellency——" +</P> + +<P> +A shout of laughter greeted the saying, and Gavin, had he been +credulous until this time, would have remained credulous no more. A +philosopher always, he shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the ropes +which bound him. +</P> + +<P> +"I am no acrobat," he said; "I cannot ride with a rope about my legs." +</P> + +<P> +"We are about to remove it, excellency. Be careful what you do—my men +are hasty. If you are wise, you will be followed by so many laughing +angels. If, however, we should find you obstinate, then, +excellency——" +</P> + +<P> +He touched the handle of a great knife at his girdle significantly, and +some of the others, as though understanding him, closed about the pony +significantly while Gavin mounted. A similar attention being paid to +Arthur Kenyon was not received so kindly; for no sooner did they +attempt to lift him roughly to the saddle than he turned about and +dealt the first of them a rousing blow which stretched the fellow full +length upon the grass and left him insensible there. The act was +within an ace of costing him his life. Knives sprung from sheathes, +antique pistols were flourished—there were cries and counter-cries; +and then, as though miraculously, a louder voice from some one hidden +in the wood commanding them to silence. In that moment, the gypsy +chief flung himself before Kenyon and protected him with hands uplifted +and curses on his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Dogs and carrion—do you forget whom you obey?" he almost shrieked, +and then to the Englishman, "You are mad, <I>mein herr</I>—be wise or I +will kill you." +</P> + +<P> +Kenyon, strangely nonchalant through it all, shrugged his shoulders and +clambered upon the back of the pony. Gavin turned deadly pale in spite +of himself, breathed a full breath again, and desired nothing more of +fate than that they should quit the cursed wood without further loss of +time. As though enough evil had not come to him there, he espied, as +they rode from the place, the dead body of his servant, the Turk, face +downwards with the knife that killed him still protruding from his +shoulders. And he doubted if the wretched Greek, so brutally maimed in +the fire, still lived or must be numbered a second victim of the night. +</P> + +<P> +Had he been a fool to leave England upon such an errand at all, or did +the circumstances of his visit justify him? Of this he did not believe +that he was the best judge. That which he had done had been done for +the sake of one whose sweet voice seemed to speak of courage even at +such an hour—Evelyn, the woman who first had taught him what man's +love could be; whose fair image went with him as he rode, the stately +figure of his dreams, the gentle Evelyn for whom the supreme adoration +and pity of his life were reserved. If ignominy were his ultimate +reward, he cared nothing—no danger, no peril of the way, must be set +against the happiness, nay, the very soul's salvation, of her who had +said to him, "I love you!" +</P> + +<P> +This had been the whole spirit of his journey, and it did not desert +him now when the gypsies set out upon the mountain road and he +understood that he was a helpless hostage in their hands. As for +Arthur Kenyon, he, with English stolidity, still chose to regard the +whole scene as a jest and to comment upon it from such a standpoint. +To him the picturesque environment of height and valley, forests of +pine and sleeping pastures, were less than nothing at all. He did not +care a blade of grass for the first roseate glow of dawn in the Eastern +sky; for the shimmer of gold upon the majestic landscape, or the jewels +sprayed by the stream below them. He had met an adventure and he +gloried in it. Begging a cigarette from the nearest gypsy, he thanked +the fellow for a light, and so fell to the thirty words of German +bequeathed to him by that splendid foundation of one William at +Winchester. There were "havenzie's" and "Ich Wimsche's" enough to have +served a threepenny manual of traveller's talk here. Neither +understood the other and each was happy. +</P> + +<P> +"The man's a born idiot," Arthur said to Gavin at last. "I ask him +where the road leads to and he says 'half-an-hour.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Meaning we are half-an-hour from our destination." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why the deuce can't he say so in plain English?" +</P> + +<P> +"He might ask you why the deuce you can't ask him in plain Hungarian." +</P> + +<P> +"That's so—but how these fellows don't break their jaws over this +gabble, I can't make out. Well, I suppose we shall get breakfast +somewhere, Gavin." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you hungry, Arthur?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not much; I'm thinking of that poor devil of a Greek." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, they are brutes enough. What could we do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I knew that! What I am hoping is that they will get it hot after +we have told the tale at Bukharest. The authorities——" +</P> + +<P> +"Authorities, in the Balkans, Arthur! Do you forget our escort?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, those blackguards. They ought to enter for the mile championship +at the L.A.C. In the matter of running, they are a glory to their +country." +</P> + +<P> +"They will tell some cock-and-bull story and make it out that we +dismissed them. Chesny told me not to put too much reliance upon them. +Well, they're no loss. We can see it through without them." +</P> + +<P> +"Good old pronoun. Would you define that 'it' for my benefit?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, there I'm beaten. We are going up a mountain and may go down +again. That's evident. Two Jacks and no Jills to speak of. There's a +house also, I perceive—across the torrent yonder. That must have been +built when the witches were young. The flat tiles speak of Julius +Caesar, don't they? I wonder if they know we're coming?" +</P> + +<P> +"We might have cabled 'coffee and the nearest approach to cold grouse.' +Do you like cold grouse for breakfast, Gavin? There's nothing to beat +it on the list, to my way of thinking. Cold grouse and nice, crisp, +hot toast. Some Cambridge squash afterwards, and then a great big +round pipe. That's what you think of when you've been ten hours in the +saddle and can't find an inn. I wish I could discern it now, as the +curate says." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin smiled, but his gaze was set upon the ancient ruin his quick eye +had observed upon a height of the green mountain above them. He +wondered if the path would carry them by it, or pierce the hills and +leave the castle, for such it plainly had been, upon their left hands. +But for the circumstances in which he approached it, the scene had been +wild and strange enough to have awakened all an artist's dormant +capacities for admiration. They were well above the pine woods by this +time and could look back upon a fertile valley, exquisitely green, and +bordered by shining rivers. Villages, churches, farms were so many +dolls' houses planted upon mighty fields while midget beasts awakened +to the day. The bridle-track itself wound about a considerable +mountain whose slopes were glorious with heather and mountain ash; +there were other peaks beyond, rising in a crescendo of grandeur to the +distant vista of the eternal snows, where the gods of solitude had been +enthroned and melancholy uplifted an icy sceptre. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin could not but be sensible of the majesty of this scene; nor did +he find the old castle out of harmony with its beauties. The building, +which he now perceived that they were approaching, had been built in a +cleft of the hills, at a point where the torrent fell in a thunder of +silver spray to a deep blue pool far down in the valley below. +Clinging, as it were, to the very face of a precipitous cliff, a +drawbridge spanned the torrent and gave access to the mountain road +upon the further side of the pass; but so narrow was the river and so +perpendicular the rocks that it seemed as though men might clasp hands +across the abyss or a good horse take it in the stride of a gallop. +For the rest, the black frowning walls, the iron-sheathed doors, the +pint-houses, the barbicon, the quaint turrets thrust out here and there +above the chasm, spoke of many centuries and many arts—here of +Saracen, there of Turk, of the reign of the rounded arch, and even of +glorious Gothic. A building to study, Gavin said, to scan with +well-schooled eyes from some opposing height, whence every phase of its +changing wonders might be justly estimated by him who would learn and +imitate. Even his own predicament was forgotten when his guides +stopped upon its threshold and demanded in loud tones that the +drawbridge should be let down. +</P> + +<P> +"This is the place, by Mahomet," said Arthur dryly ... and he added, +"What a devil of a house for a week-end!" +</P> + +<P> +Gavin bade him listen. A voice across the chasm replied to the gypsy +hail. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you recognize that?" he asked; "it's the voice we heard in the +wood." +</P> + +<P> +"When this crowd desired to agitate my heirs, executors and assigns? +You're right for a ransom. I wonder if they'll introduce us." +</P> + +<P> +"We shall soon know. Here's the bridge coming down. What have you +done with your armor, Arthur?" +</P> + +<P> +"Left it in the cab, perhaps—don't speak, that ancient person yonder +engrosses me. I wonder what Tree would pay for the loan of his +make-up." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll put the question when I return. This evidently is where we get +down. Well, I'm glad of that anyhow." +</P> + +<P> +It was as he said. The cavalcade had come to its journey's end; and +there, picturesquely grouped upon the narrow road, were men and mules +and mountain ponies, giving more than a welcome splash of color to the +neighboring monotony of rock and shrub, and right glad all to be once +more at their ease. It now became plain that none but the gypsy leader +was to enter the Castle with the prisoners; and he, when he had +addressed some loud words to the others (for the roar of the torrent +compelled him to shout), passed first across the bridge, leading +Kenyon's pony and calling to the other to follow him. Just a glance +the men could turn upon raging waters, here of the deepest blue, there +a sour green, or again but a boiling, tumbling mass of writhing +foam—just this and the vista of the sheer, cruel rocks and the +infernal abyss; then they passed over and the bridge was drawn up and +they stood within the courtyard, as securely caged as though the +oubliettes prisoned them and gyves of steel were about their wrists. +</P> + +<P> +"Excellents, my master, the Chevalier, would speak with you." +</P> + +<P> +Thus said the guide—and, as he said it, Gavin understood that he had +come to the house of Count Odin's father, the man who had loved Dora +d'Istran, and for love of her had paid nearly twenty years of his +precious liberty. +</P> + +<P> +"And this is the Castle of Okna?" he exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +The guide smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"No, excellency," he said, "the Castle of Okna lies many miles from +here. You must speak to our master of that. That is his step, +excellency!" +</P> + +<P> +They listened and heard the tapping of a stick upon a stone pavement. +It approached them laboriously; and after that which seemed an +interminable interval, an old white-haired man appeared at one of the +doors of the quadrangle and raising his voice bade them welcome. The +voice was the one they recognized as that of the wood; but the face of +the speaker sent a shudder through Gavin's veins which left him +unashamed. +</P> + +<P> +"Blind," he muttered, amazed—"the man is blind." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap26"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THROUGH A WOMAN'S HEART +</H4> + +<P> +The blind man felt his way down a short flight of stairs, and, standing +before the prisoners, he said in a voice indescribably harsh and +grating: +</P> + +<P> +"Gentlemen, welcome to Setchevo," and so he told them the name of the +place to which their journey had carried them. +</P> + +<P> +A man of middle stature, slightly bent, his face pitted and scarred +revoltingly, his fine white hair combed down with scrupulous vanity +upon his shoulders, the eyes, nevertheless, remained supreme in their +power to repel and to dominate. Sightless, they seemed to search the +very heart of him who braved them. Look where they might, the +Englishmen's gaze came back at last to those unforgettable eyes. The +horror of them was indescribable. +</P> + +<P> +"Welcome to Setchevo, gentlemen. I am the Chevalier Georges Odin. +Yes, I have heard of you and am glad to see you. Please to say which +of you is Mr. Gavin Ord." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin stepped forward and answered in a loud, courageous voice, "I am +he." The blind man, passing trembling claws over the hands and faces +of the two, smiled when he heard the voice and drew still nearer to +them. +</P> + +<P> +"You came from England to see me," he said; "you bring me news from my +son and his English wife." +</P> + +<P> +This was a thing to startle them. Did he, then, believe that Count +Odin, his son, had already married the Lady Evelyn, or was it but a +<I>coup de theatre</I> to invite them to an indiscretion. Gavin, shrewd and +watchful, decided in an instant upon the course he would take. +</P> + +<P> +"I bring no message from your son; nor has he, to my knowledge, an +English wife. Permit me an interview where we can be alone and I will +state my business freely. Your method of bringing us here, Chevalier, +may be characteristic of the Balkans; but I do not think it will be +understood by my English friends in Bukharest. You will be wise to +remember that at the outset." +</P> + +<P> +Here was a threat and a wise threat; but the old man heard it with +disdain, his tongue licking his lips and a smile, vicious and cruel, +upon his scarred face. +</P> + +<P> +"My friend," he said, "at the donjon of Setchevo we think nothing of +English opinion at Bukharest, as you will learn in good time. I thank +you, however, for reminding me that you are my guests and fasting. Be +good enough to follow me. The English, I remember, are eaters of flesh +at dawn, being thus but one step removed from the cannibals. This +house shall gratify you—please to follow me, I say." +</P> + +<P> +Laboriously as he had descended the stairs, he climbed them again, the +baffling smile still upon his face and the stick tapping weirdly upon +the broken stone. The house within did not belie the house as it +appeared from without. Arched corridors, cracked groins, moulded +frescoes, great bare apartments with dismal furniture of brown oak, the +whole building breathed a breath both chilling and pestilential. If +there were a redeeming feature, Gavin found it in the so-called +Banqueting Hall, a fine room gracefully panelled with a barrel vault +and some antique mouldings original enough to awaken an artist's +curiosity. The great buffet of this boasted plate was of considerable +value and no little merit of design; and such a breakfast as the +Chevalier's servants had prepared was served upon a mighty oak table +which had been a table when the second Mohammed ravaged Bosnia. +</P> + +<P> +The men were hungry enough and they ate and drank with good appetite. +Perhaps it was with some relief that they discovered a greater leniency +within the house than they had found without. Discomfort is often the +ally of fear; and whatever were the demerits of the House at Setchevo, +the discomforts were relatively trifling. As for the old blind +Chevalier, he sat at the head of the table just as though he had eyes +to watch their every movement and to judge them thereby. Not until +they had made a good meal of delicious coffee and fine white bread, +with eggs and a dish of Kolesha in a stiff square lump from the +pan—not until then did he intrude with a word, or appear in any way +anxious to question them. +</P> + +<P> +"You pay a tribute to our mountain air," he exclaimed at last, speaking +a little to their astonishment in their own tongue; "that is your +English virtue, you can eat at any time." +</P> + +<P> +"And some of us are equally useful in the matter of drinking," rejoined +Arthur Kenyon, who had begun to enjoy himself again, and was delighted +to hear the English language. +</P> + +<P> +The Chevalier, however, believed this to be some reflection upon his +hospitality, and he said at once: +</P> + +<P> +"I compliment you upon your frankness, <I>mein herr</I>—my servants shall +bring wine." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, indeed, no, I referred to a very bad habit," exclaimed Kenyon +quickly and then rising, he added, "With your permission, sir, I will +leave you with my friend. I am sure you have both much to say to each +other." +</P> + +<P> +He did not wait for a reply but strolled off to the other end of the +hall and thence out to the courtyard, no man saying him nay. Alone +together, the Chevalier and Gavin sat a few moments in awkward silence, +each debating the phrase with which he should open the argument. +Meanwhile, a Turkish servant brought cigarettes, and the old man +lighted one but immediately cast it from him. +</P> + +<P> +"The blind cannot smoke," he said irritably; "that is one of the +compensations of life which imagination cannot give us. Well, I am too +old to complain—my world lies within these walls. It is wide enough +for me." +</P> + +<P> +"I am indeed sorry," said Gavin, for suffering could always arouse his +sympathies wherever he found it. "Is there no hope at all of any +relief?" +</P> + +<P> +"None whatever. The nerves have perished. So much I owe to my English +friendship—the last gift it bestowed upon me. Shall I tell you by +what means I became blind, <I>mein herr</I>? Go down to the salt mines at +Okna and when they blast the rock there, you will say, 'Georges Odin, +the Englishman's friend, lost his eyesight in that mine.' It is true +before God. And the man who put this calamity upon me—what of him? A +rich man, <I>mein herr</I>, honored by the world, a great noble in his own +country, a leader of the people, the possessor of much land and many +houses. He sent me to Okna. We were boys together on the hills. If +he shamed me in the race for all that young men seek of life, I +suffered it because of my friendship. Then the night fell upon me—you +know the story. He took from me the woman I loved. We met as men of +honor should. I avenged the wrong—my God, what a vengeance with the +Russian hounds upon my track and the fortress prison already garnished +for me! <I>Mein herr</I>, you knew of this story or you would not have come +to my house. Tell me what I shall add to it, for I listen patiently." +</P> + +<P> +He was a fine old actor and the melodramatic gesture with which he +accompanied the recital would have made a deep impression upon one less +given to cool analysis and reticent common sense than Gavin Ord. +Gavin, indeed, had thought upon this strange history almost night and +day since Lord Melbourne had first related it. If he had come to have +a settled opinion upon it all, nothing that had yet transpired upon his +journey from England altered that opinion or even modified it. This +blind man he believed to have been the victim of the Russian +Government. Lord Melbourne had acted treacherously in making no +attempt to release his old rival from the mines; but had he so +attempted, his efforts must have been futile—for the Russians believed +that Georges Odin was their most relentless enemy and had pursued him +with bitter and lasting animosity. So the affair stood in Gavin's +mind—nor was he influenced in any way by the forensic appeal now +addressed to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said slowly, "I know your story, Chevalier, and I am here +because of it. Let me say in a word that I come because Lord Melbourne +is anxious and ready, in so far as it is possible to do so, to atone +for any wrong he may have done you. He desires nothing so much as that +you two, who were friends in boyhood, should be reconciled now when +years must be remembered and the accidents of life be provided for. So +he sends me to Bukharest to invite you to England, there to hear him +for himself and to tell him how best he may serve you. I can add +nothing to that invitation save my own belief in his honesty, and in +the reality of those motives which now actuate him. If you decide to +accompany me to England——" +</P> + +<P> +An exclamation which was half an oath arrested him suddenly and he +became aware that he was no longer heard patiently. In truth, the +native temper of his race mastered Georges Odin in that moment and left +him with no remembrance but that of the wretchedness of his own life +and the depth of the passions which had contributed to it. +</P> + +<P> +"Money!" he cried angrily, "this man offers me money!" +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, no—he offers you friendship." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me the truth! He is afraid of me. Yes, there was always a +coward's cloak ready for him. He knew it and played his part in spite +of it. He is afraid of me and sends you here to say so. My friend, +that man shall yet fall on his knees before me. He shall beg mercy, +not for himself but for another. When his daughter—God be thanked he +has a daughter—when his daughter is my daughter—ha! we can reach many +hearts through the hearts of the women they love. As he did to me, so +will I do to this English girl he dotes upon. When she is my son's +wife!" +</P> + +<P> +His laugh had a horrid ring in it—broken, stunted teeth protruded from +his hanging lips, his hands trembled upon the stick he carried. "When +she is my son's wife!" He seemed to moisten the very words with a +tongue lustful for vengeance. And Gavin heard him with a repulsion +beyond all experience, a horror that made him dread the very touch of +such a man's fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Chevalier," he said at length, "the Lady Evelyn will never be your +son's wife." +</P> + +<P> +"Ha, a prophet? Tell me that you are her chosen husband, and I will +ask you no second question." +</P> + +<P> +"I am her chosen husband and I return to England to marry her." +</P> + +<P> +"You return! <I>Mein herr</I>, am I a madman that I should open my gates to +one who does not even know how to hold his tongue? Shall I send you +back to rob my son of the rewards of his fidelity? Return you +shall—when she is his wife. Until that time, <I>mein herr</I>, consider +yourself my guest." +</P> + +<P> +He rose defiantly, brandishing his stick. +</P> + +<P> +"Fool," he cried; "fool to dare the mountains which Zallony rules. As +you came in folly, so shall you go—when the Englishwoman is in my +son's arms." +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<A NAME="img-243"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-243.jpg" ALT=""As you came in folly, so shall you go----"" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center"> +"As you came in folly, so shall you go——" +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +He turned, a laugh which was almost a cry upon his lips, and tapped his +way from the apartment. Gavin could hear the sound of his footsteps +long afterwards, passing from corridor to corridor of the great bare +house; but the words he had spoken lingered and were echoed, as though +by a spirit of vengeance moving in the room. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap27"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ETTA ROMNEY'S RETURN +</H4> + +<P> +It would have been about half-past one upon the afternoon of a gloomy +November day, some three months after Gavin Ord set out for Roumania, +that a hansom cab was driven up to the stage-door of the Carlton +Theatre, the Lady Evelyn, wearing heavy black furs and a motor veil, +which entirely hid her face from the passers-by, alighted timidly and +offered the cabman a generous fare. Deaf to the man's effusive +assurance that he had no other ambition in life but to drive the same +fare back to the place whence she came, Evelyn entered the narrow alley +wherein the stage-door is situated and at once asked the stage-door +keeper if Mr. Charles Izard was or was not within the house? The +simple question provoked an answer that might have satisfied a +diplomatist but helped Evelyn not at all. +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe he is, maybe he ain't. It depends on who wants him. Now, you +take a word from me, miss. Say to yourself, Shall I go and have dinner +with the Prince of Wales this afternoon or shall I not? That'll answer +you and leave old Jacob Briggs to finish his pipe in peace, he being +the father of widows, likewise of orphans." +</P> + +<P> +Jacob, it was plain, had but just lunched and was more affable than +upon any less benign occasion. He sat with his back to a bill which +announced the concluding nights of that dismal play "Oliver Cromwell—a +comedy, by Rowland Wales," and he smoked a pipe with that which the +ancient Weller would have called an "uncommon power of suction." Here, +said he, is another of 'em, meaning thereby another candidate for +histrionic honors which twenty-five shillings a week should reward. +Jacob knew how to deal with them; "but," said he, "when I've got my +dinner in me then I'm a blessed lamb." So he addressed Evelyn +"humorous-like" and did not lose his patience even when she would not +go away. +</P> + +<P> +"I must see Mr. Izard to-day. I am sure he will wish to see me. If +you would take my name into the theatre——" +</P> + +<P> +Jacob Briggs, pulling the pipe to the right side of his mouth, ate a +smile as though it were good butter. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps he was agoing to send a carriage and pair for yer, miss, or a +motor kar. That's wot he does ordinary to such young ladies as you. +Now, I shouldn't wonder if you don't think as you can play Miss Fay's +part better'n she herself. I've seed a many and most of 'em do. But, +lord, I'm too good-natured to take much notice on it. Tryin's tryin', +says I, and if you ask for a sufferin (sovereign), who knows as you +mayn't get a shilling. Wot you've got to do, miss, is to go round to +the horfiss. They'll soon turn you out of that, and better for you in +the long run——" +</P> + +<P> +"And yet you used not to think so when I was playing Di Vernon, Mr. +Briggs." +</P> + +<P> +The smile left Jacob's face as though some one had hit him. He slipped +down the board until he came near to sitting on the pavement. Speech +did not immediately assist him, and he could mutter nothing else but +the mystic and entirely irrelevant phrase, "D—n my uncle!" which he +continued to repeat until he had scrambled to his feet and doffed his +carpenter's cap. +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord, Miss Romney, if you'd have said so, why, I'd have pulled +the theatre down for ye, and willing. Mr. Izard now—he won't be glad +neither. 'Briggs,' says he to me, 'she'll come back some day just as +sure as Mrs. Briggs'—but that's neither here nor there, miss. He's +over at the tavern now and Mr. Lacombe with him. Let me say the word +and he'll come back in a fire-engine——" +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn protested that she did not desire the word to be said; but would +wait in the auditorium and announce herself to the great man. +Understanding that the "tavern" really meant the Carlton Hotel and that +there was a rehearsal of a new and modern play at two o'clock, she +entered the theatre and sat, her veil undrawn, in the wings, whereby +from time to time the acquaintances of old time must pass her. So dark +was it that she feared no recognition. Those who came in and out, +pinched girls who had lunched off a sponge-cake and a cup of cocoa; +heavy-jowled men whose mid-day refreshment had been distilled from +juniper; sleek youths with a new rendering of Hamlet in their +pockets—the success, the fortunes, the hopes, the disappointments of +each chained his tongue and directed his eyes to that man or woman +alone who had the patience and the good-nature to hear a recital of +them. None paid attention to Evelyn, or as much as remarked her +presence in the sombre light. Even little Dulcie Holmes passed her by +unnoticed; and as for the melancholy Lucy Grey, she was too full of her +own troubles so much as to think of anyone else's. "I wish I were +dead," she had just said to Dulcie—and this was as much as to say, "I +have no part in the new play, and God knows how I shall pay for my +lodging." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn had a little difficulty in restraining herself from declaring +her identity to the girls; but an incurable love of dramatic effect +came to her aid and, perhaps, the vain desire to be discovered more +worthily by that great man, Mr. Charles Izard. Aware that she was +waiting there as the humblest suppliant for the theatre's favors, she +perceived presently that the iron door between stage and auditorium +stood open; and, slipping through, she entered a stage-box and there +waited in better security. One by one now the "stars" entered the +theatre and took up their positions upon the dimly-lighted stage. A +chatter of conversation arose, amidst which the stage-manager's voice +could be heard in heated argument with a lady whose part had been cut. +All waited for the great man; and when he appeared a hush fell as +though upon a transformation scene in a country pantomime. Lo, he had +come—fresh from a long cigar and a bottle of what he called +"noots"—meaning the excellent wine of Burgundy known as Nints. What +bustle, what activity upon the part of the underlings now! How busy +the principals appear to be! How white in the gloom are the faces of +the girls, who lately spoke of fortune and furs and a furore of +applause! +</P> + +<P> +The new play was also a new entertainment. It appeared to Evelyn to be +a hash-up of drama and ballet, with a comedy scene in each act, +introduced for the sole purpose of exploiting a lady who could imitate +wild animals. That it might succeed in an age which has almost +forgotten the bombastics of the ancient drama, and cares not a straw +what an entertainment may be called so long as it is amusing and +provokes a rhythmical nodding of heads, was very probable. Mr. Izard, +at least, had few doubts about the success of it; and yet he could have +wished it otherwise. "They ask me to elevate the people," he would +remark in confidential moments—"why, sir, the people that want +elevating had better go up in elevators. I'm here to run a theatre, +not a Tower of Babel, and that's so. Just walk round to some of these +fine-mouthed folk and ask them what they will pay down in dollars for +the good of humanity and the British stage. If you can buy a ten-cent +collar with the proceeds of that hat-box, I'll set a stone up to your +memory. No, sir, the world's too tired to think. Give 'em a great +actress and they don't have to think. That's what I'm looking for, +like a man who's dropped a thousand-dollar scarf-pin on the beach at +Atlantic City. Since Etta Romney walked out—but what's the good of +talking about that? When she comes back I'll begin to think about the +people's good health again. Sir, she made the rest of them look like +thirty cents, and that's gospel truth." +</P> + +<P> +The confession would end with a sigh and a new application to the +business of tragic-burlesque-comedy. Smarting from the pink lash of a +half-penny evening paper, which had, in a leading article that +afternoon, cast italicized reflections upon "the porcine Paladius of +the people's palaces," the great man was in no very pleasant mood; and +this he made manifest directly rehearsal began. Scarcely a dozen lines +had been repeated before the leading lady was in tears and the old +stock actor sulking at a public-house round the corner. Ladies at +twenty-three shillings a week heard themselves addressed in terms which +implied their fitness for the position of dummies in a side-show. The +stage-manager would infallibly have been visited with blindness if the +great man's appeals to unknown powers had been heard. When calm fell, +Izard settled himself frettingly in a stall and there simmered a long +while in silence. Not for half an hour did an exclamation escape him, +and then it came almost involuntarily. He seemed to be waging a battle +between his contempt for the leading lady and his fear that she would +walk out of the house; and the latter being worsted, he cried aloud, +almost like one in despair: +</P> + +<P> +"Etta Romney—Etta Romney—what, in God's name, keeps you out of my +theatre!" +</P> + +<P> +A dead silence fell. Everyone was awed by the real pathos of this +regret, drawn from a man who had never been the servant of a sentiment. +And when a musical voice answered him from the stage-box, opposite +prompt, then, indeed, did Charles Izard come as near to collapsing as +ever he had done in his unemotional life. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing keeps me, Mr. Izard. I am here." +</P> + +<P> +"Etta Romney, by God!" he exclaimed, and in the same breath he told +them that the rehearsal was over. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap28"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE IMPRESARIO'S PRAYER +</H4> + +<P> +So the Lady Evelyn had become Etta Romney once more, the child of the +theatre, the daughter of a mystery which London was upon the eve of +solving. The events which brought her to this resolution are briefly +outlined in a letter which she wrote to her father upon the morning +after her interview with the great Charles Izard at the Carlton +Theatre. No longer ashamed of her resolution, she took up her +residence boldly at the Savoy Hotel and entered her own name in the +visitors' book, afraid of none. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="salutation"> +SAVOY HOTEL,<BR> + <I>Thursday.</I><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="salutation"> +<I>My dear Father:</I> +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I am here in London, according to my determination already announced to +you. I shall live a little while at this hotel, and afterwards where +my profession may make it necessary. Believe me, my dear father, that +this life alone is best for me, and best for you at this moment. I +could live no longer in a house where, rightly or wrongly, I have +always felt a stranger—and my love for Gavin forbids me to hear those +things which I must hear every day in my old home. Now that I am +mistress of my own actions, you will be able to find an answer in my +independence to those who are not to be answered in any other way. +Should Count Odin follow me to London, he will learn that I am neither +without friends nor resources; and I shall not hesitate to call upon +both for my protection. It is my intention to establish myself here +until such time as news of Gavin's welfare may come to me or that I +may, myself, go to seek it. That he has been the victim of foul play I +am sure; and I will not rest until the truth is known. Dear father, if +you must suffer because of me, forgive and forget, and be sure always +of my love for you and my desire for your happiness. We are outcasts +of fortune both, and while the world is enjoying our position, we know +that it is false, that we are but intruders by accident, and that our +past is rising up every day to laugh our ambitions to scorn. Happier +far when we were wanderers and poor, with days of love and hope to live +and no debt to pay to a great and insupportable heritage. Dear father, +you will next hear of me as Etta Romney, the actress—but never forget +that Evelyn will return to you if you have need of her; and that her +love for you is imperishable. Willingly would she take your burdens +upon her own shoulders, and give you those years of rest and peace +which are your heart's desire. But, for the time being, she must live +alone for the sake of the man who has befriended her and to whom she +has given her love. +</P> + +<P CLASS="salutation"> +Dearest Father,<BR> + Your loving EVELYN always.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +From which it is clear that the month of November found Gavin Ord still +in Roumania and Count Odin again in Derbyshire. The latter had +returned from Bukharest early in the month of September, and, +dismissing his friends, the gypsies, had settled down at Melbourne Hall +as one who, at no distant date, would be its master. That the Earl +acquiesced in this assurance convinced Evelyn finally that she did not +possess the whole of her father's story. Either he was a coward (and +this she would never believe), or some mystery of her own past or his +abetted the Count's pretensions. No other explanation of the matter +was possible; nor could she foresee a day which would rid her of the +presence of a man who ever spoke to her of the heritage her mother's +country had bequeathed to her and its penalties. +</P> + +<P> +She had always feared Count Odin, and she feared him now when the true +meaning of a man's love had been made known to her and her daily prayer +was for Gavin's safety. Not that she doubted herself or the truth of +her love, but that she feared that something in her blood which might +bring her to the Count's arms and mock for all time her faith in her +own womanhood and her spoken word that she would be Gavin's wife upon +his return. So greatly did this fear haunt her that the days of +waiting became almost insupportable. She would rise with the sun each +morning and say, "to-day his letter will come." The nights found her +brooding and restless and fighting ever against the insidious advances +of a man who made love to her with a Southern tongue—and when he was +repulsed had no shame to threaten her. +</P> + +<P> +"Your English friend was a fool to go to the mountains," he would say; +"we cannot protect him there—my Government is helpless. The prison in +which my father lies, sent there by the man who should have been his +friend, will not open to an Englishman's knock. If I could have helped +your friend, I would have done so because he was your friend. You say +that he loves you. I will believe it when the sun shines in England. +My dear lady, your heart is in the South with the vine and the +pomegranates. All your life has not made an Englishwoman of you. You +are like a flower that cries for the sun all day and withers because +there is no sun. I will take you to a land of roses and set your feet +upon golden sands. We will visit the East together—the color, the +life, the music of it, shall enthrall us. There they will teach you +how to love. In England your hearts are ice—but you have not an +English heart." +</P> + +<P> +Day by day these vehement protests would be made; day by day he +whispered them in her ear, following her at home and abroad, in the +galleries of Melbourne Hall, and to the glades and the thickets of the +park. And her father abetted him, not openly by word but silently by +impotent consent he acquiesced in her persecution, protesting that +Georges Odin's son had a claim of hospitality upon him, and that he +could not shut the gates of the house in his face. In plain truth, +Robert Forrester sinned not of his will but of despair. He did not +dare to tell Evelyn that, by the English law, Dora d'Istran might not +be recognized as his wife at all and that she, his daughter, had +therefore but a dubious claim to that dignity which the accidents of +fortune had thrust upon him. He loved her, understood every whim of +that strange, romantic mind, and believed, it may be, that the young +Count would not be an unworthy husband for her. But the fear that she +would charge him with the shame prevailed above other thoughts. He +would not that she should pay the price for the follies and the amours +of his youth. +</P> + +<P> +And what of Evelyn herself, meanwhile? She was as one to whom the +heaven of life has been suddenly revealed after long years of darkness +and doubt. If she understood the meaning of womanhood, that of manhood +was not hidden from her. In Gavin Ord she had, for the first time, met +and known intimately an Englishman; understood the nobility of man, the +resolution, the courage of those reticent personalities by which the +nation has been made great and its children sent out to rule the new +countries of the world. Such a knowledge uplifted her and revealed +truths which had been hidden during her childhood. By Gavin's love +would her soul be re-born; by faith in him would the victory over her +heritage be won. This had become her credo, sustaining her in the +conflict, and sending her to London with a brave heart and an +unconquerable determination to win independence and freedom. More than +this, she believed that the great city would give her friends; and that +these friends would tell her how to find Gavin, and, if need be, to +save him. No longer could she hide it from herself that something +beyond the quest for Georges Odin kept her English friend in Roumania. +She had received but two letters from him, and these had been written +during the early days of his journey. The rest was silence and a +dreadful doubt creeping upon her as a shadow; the doubt which said, "he +may have given his life for you; he may never return." +</P> + +<P> +We have said that Evelyn took up her residence at the Savoy Hotel, +fearing no longer the disclosure of her identity. Thither upon the +second morning came little Dulcie Holmes and the melancholy Lucy Grey, +entering her splendid room with timid steps and altogether abashed by +the changed circumstances under which they found their friend. Their +introduction of themselves was characteristic. Dulcie, unable to +restrain her impulse, threw herself into Evelyn's arms and waited to +apologize until she had kissed her. Lucy Grey stood bolt upright and +rebuked her friend with almost tearful melancholy. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, how can you, Dulcie ... and it's all in the papers too." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care a bit," rejoined the unabashed Dulcie. "I must kiss her +if she'll kill me for it." And then to Evelyn she said: "Oh, you +darling Lady Etta, oh, I am glad; I can't believe it's really true. +But I've always said you'd come and I've told Mr. Izard so—and there's +the gold watch you sent me, round my neck where it's always been since +the day it came—and, oh, Etta, what times we will have again—what +times!" +</P> + +<P> +Lucy Gray appeared altogether dumbfounded by the familiarity. +</P> + +<P> +"You forget yourself, Dulcie," she protested again and again, "after it +being in the papers too—you certainly forget yourself. How can you +say such things—to her ladyship as we all know after what's in the +papers. I'm sure, miss, your ladyship won't think any the worse of +Dulcie for this. It's her bringing up, that's what it is." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn was very much amused; but she hastened to reassure them, and, +insisting upon their relating all their personal troubles (which they +did with many exclamations and minute particulars), she ventured to +asked them what the papers really had said and why it should make a +difference to them. To this they answered in a breath that the Carlton +would reopen in a fortnight with "Haddon Hall" and Miss Etta Romney in +the title-rôle. +</P> + +<P> +"And it says you're a Duchess, and Mr. Izard wouldn't say so before +though he knew it all the time." Dulcie added with considerable +enthusiasm, "Oh, Etta, how you kept it from us all, just as though you +had been no different to anybody else. But I knew you were; I said you +were no ordinary human being, and Lucy knew it. My life's never been +the same since you went away, Etta. You won't leave us again, will +you?" +</P> + +<P> +They rambled on alternately in confusion and delight while Evelyn sent +for the morning papers and read the news they spoke of. There, sure +enough, was the story written for all to read. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"Many will hear with pleasure," said the "Daily Shuffler," "that one of +the most capable and finished of our younger actresses is about to +return to the stage. Some months ago, all dramatic London was not +ashamed to be curious concerning the Romney Mystery. A new play +presented to us an artiste of no common order. Scarcely had we settled +down to admire her when she disappeared from our ken, and, while we do +not doubt that certain of her friends were in the secret, this was well +kept and remained undiscovered by the public. Now we know that Etta +Romney is the <I>nom de theatre</I> of Lord Melbourne's daughter, the Lady +Evelyn. Mr. Charles Izard informs us that he is about to present her +in the rôle already familiar to us and sure of a wide welcome. Etta +Romney, assuredly, will establish the success of the Carlton Theatre as +no other actress of our time could do. We offer our cordial greetings +upon her return to the stage, and congratulate all concerned upon the +clever advertisement achieved." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Evelyn cringed when she read the last words; but her sense of humor +proved greater than her annoyance. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you believe, does anyone really believe, that I went away to +advertise myself?" she asked the girls. +</P> + +<P> +They answered in a breath that all the world believed it. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, what else should it have been for? They say you and Mr. Izard +did it, just as he lost Elsie Barton's jewels last year and had Billie +Dan photographed in a motor-car accident. People love anything like +that—they think it's so clever. There'll be such a scene when we +open, Etta, as never was known. Shall I call you Etta, though, or +should it be your ladyship?" +</P> + +<P> +Etta was about to answer her as well as her amusement would let her +when a man-servant opened the door and announced a visitor. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Charles Izard," he said, and the girls stood up abashed. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Izard here, however shall I look him in the face!" cried Lucy in +an extremity of terror. +</P> + +<P> +"I could drop through the ceiling for my nerves," said Dulcie, but she +did nothing of the sort; merely standing and giggling nervously while +the great man came panting in; and he, who had "presented" so many, now +presented himself with the air of a Rajah just dismounted from an +elephant, or a monarch about to address an assembly of barons. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," he said to Evelyn, "I've come to pay my respects to you, and +that's what I do to few of 'em. You've got London by the throat and +we'll both be rich before you let go. Didn't I say you'd come back to +me? Why, when I think how we've fooled the populace, I could shout +'bully' until my tongue's tied. Now, let these girls go their way and +we'll talk business. I've come to offer you a five years' engagement +certain, and there's no one in London is going to better my terms. +Three words and we settle it. Let 'em be spoken and we're friends for +life." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Izard," said Etta quickly, "I will play at your theatre for three +months. Then I am going away. If I return, I will come to you again. +But I may never return, and so I cannot engage myself to do so. Should +my present determination be altered——" +</P> + +<P> +Izard laughed hardly and almost impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"At coming or going, my dear, you have no equal in Europe," he admitted +gloomily ... and then quickly, fearing to offend her, he added, "Well, +have your own way. Take a fortune or leave one, Charles Izard will +always be your friend." +</P> + +<P> +It was a great admission, honestly meant, though uttered with the +regret of one who saw a golden vision falling from his view. To +himself, the great man said: "There is a man and he is not in England. +The Lord send him a handsome funeral before the mischief is done." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap29"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE PRISONERS AT SETCHEVO +</H4> + +<P> +Gavin heard the tap of the blind man's stick as the old Chevalier felt +his way from the bare vaulted room in which a scanty supper had been +served to them; and a fit of despondency coming upon him, more bitter +than ordinary, he buried his face in his hands and uttered his +heart-stricken complaint aloud. +</P> + +<P> +"What are they all doing, then—why has Chesny broken his promise. +Good God, Arthur, have we no friends at all? Is there no one who has +interested himself in our story? I can't believe it. It isn't the +English way. They must find out sooner or later. It can't be for all +time." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur, whose arm and shoulder were bound up in a garment that might +have been a Moorish bernouse, smoked his pipe quietly and did not for a +little while know what to say. Bitterly as he had paid for that which +he called a "little trot to the Balkans," the English spirit forbade +the utterance of any reproach, or even a word that his friend might +take amiss. +</P> + +<P> +"My people never trouble about me," he said. "They know me too well. +You see, I've only a couple of uncles and a maiden aunt to go into +hysterics; and my lawyers won't advertise while they can bank my +dividends. It's different with you, Gavin. I'll bet your people were +on the scent long ago; and that's to say nothing about Evelyn. Of +course, she has not held her tongue. No woman does when she's in love +with a man; and sometimes she can be eloquent when she is not. Oh, +yes, I'll go nap on Evelyn all the time. She must know that we +shouldn't stay in this cursed country for three months if we had the +train fare to get out. Of course, she'll cry out about it—and if she +cries loudly enough the Government will act. Not that I believe much +in Governments—they generally weigh in when the corpse is buried." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin smiled but did not raise his head. A fire of logs burned in the +grate before them and filled the room with a haze of heavy smoke; the +tapping of a man's stick had ceased, and the house was without sounds +and void. In the hills above them a wild wind scoured the clefts and +sent whirling clouds of snow to cover all living things below. The +torrent beneath the drawbridge had become a monstrous scala of icy +steps, a ladder with glistening rungs which none but the eagle dared. +</P> + +<P> +"Three months—is it really three months?" Gavin exclaimed in a tone of +unspeakable weariness; "three months in this awful den. Three months +listening to that blind devil and his insults. God, I would never have +believed that a man could go through so much and live. And you, +Arthur—not a word from you since the beginning. That's what hits me. +If you'd only speak out and tell me what I ought to hear, it would be +easier." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur laughed and stooped to light his pipe by the fire again. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the good of talking. A pal asks you to come and you go. Is it +his fault if a wheel comes off the coach? Let me have five minutes +alone with that blind scoundrel and I'll be eloquent enough. Otherwise +I intend to make myself as comfortable as I can under the +circumstances. There's no fun in boxing scimitars—as we both of us +have discovered." +</P> + +<P> +They had discovered it, indeed. From the first day of their captivity +in the mountains, insult, foul, oft-repeated, revolting insult had been +their daily punishment. Coarse food, filthy rooms ... these they could +have suffered; but the blind man's tongue, the lash of the whip his +servants wielded, might have driven braver men to that last resource +which faith in God alone can question or deny. The very wound which +Arthur Kenyon made light of had been the first fruits of their English +temper. A gypsy had lashed him across the shoulder with a riding whip +and he had answered with an English left, straight and unerring. But +the blow had scarcely been struck before a wild horde filled the room, +its knives unsheathed, murder in its eyes—and from murder the terrible +voice of the blind man alone withheld it. So the two comrades spoke of +fighting scimitars, that was no jest at all. +</P> + +<P> +"You are a friend in a hundred thousand," Gavin exclaimed as one who +spoke from his very heart. "I'm not going to thank you, Arthur. What +is the good of words between you and me? Here we are, worse than dead, +by God ... and not a ray of light, not a speck anywhere. How will it +end? How can it end? You heard him tell me this morning that Evelyn +will marry his rascally son in ten days' time. Well, to-night I'm just +in that humor which says, it may be true, he may have tired her out, +lied to her, promised her God knows what, my liberty perhaps and her +father's happiness afterwards. It might be that, Arthur. I try to put +it fairly, and yet I must say that it might be so——" +</P> + +<P> +"There are a hundred things that might be so, old man. This house +might fall down the hill and the eagles carry you and me to the +tree-tops. We might have <I>pâté de foie gras</I> for supper and +eighty-four champagne to wash it down with. There's no greater rot +than the might-be-so. Tell me how to get out of this cursed den and +I'll listen with both ears. As for Lady Evelyn—she's too much a woman +to do any of the things you talk about. For all you know some sham +tale has been told her—telegrams sent in our name, or something to +lull her suspicions. When a man is travelling a thousand miles from +home, people don't get alarmed about him for a month or two. But this +I'll stake my existence upon, that once Evelyn guesses it's not all +right with us, she'll move heaven and earth to know the reason why. +That's what keeps me sane. I should kill this old man and myself +afterwards if it were not that I believe in my friends. Doing so, I +just sit down and wait like the Spaniards for to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin heard him in silence. This great room had become their +prison-house; refectory by day and dormitory by night. For an hour +each morning, they were permitted to go out into the court, where a +vista of the sky spoke to them of liberty and the massive portcullis of +the drawbridge mocked the idle word. "Until the Englishwoman is my +son's wife," had been the sentence pronounced by the old Chevalier; and +he repeated it day by day, tapping his way to their great bare cell, +striking at them with his stick, cursing them—a very fiend incarnate, +mad with the lust of money and the desire of revenge. And against such +an enemy they were doubly powerless—not only by reason of his +blindness, but by the knowledge that unseen eyes followed him to their +room and that his allies, the gypsies, hidden in the house of Setchevo, +were ready to do his bidding did he but raise his voice to call them. +</P> + +<P> +Brave men, who do not know fear in a common way, may bend and break +before such torture as this ... the torture of impotence and of unseen +presences about them. Gavin had come to declare that he would sooner a +man had burned his hand in a flame than compelled him to listen each +day at dawn for the tapping of that stick upon the floor and the coming +of that terrible sightless figure. Even in his sleep the old Chevalier +would visit him, approaching with his claw-like hands extended and his +eyes seeming to shine as live coals in the darkness. Never had he +imagined that so much malignity, cunning, and vermin could be the +fruits of imagined wrong or be united in one personality. And all his +fine notions of retribution and reconciliation, of the old man's visit +to England and the Earl's reception of him there—how vainglorious they +had been and how childish, he said. Justly had such folly been +overtaken and punished. He realized that his knowledge of human nature +was pitifully small. +</P> + +<P> +"Evelyn will help us if she can," he said at length, poking the fire +restlessly and listening as of habit for the dreaded beat of the blind +man's stick upon the stone floor without; "she will help us if she can, +but what can a woman do? Let's regard that view of it as out of the +question. What I would ask—what you have been asking—is just +this—why does Chesny do nothing? He must know that if all had been +well, we should have written and let him hear it. His Government could +have these rats out in five minutes. Why does he do nothing? He's an +old Winchester boy and could see us through if he knew. I can't think +that such a man as Chesny would sit on his back and just ask what's +happened. He's moving somewhere—pity it isn't on the road to +Setchevo." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it is, and they've lost the road," rejoined Kenyon with a +sarcasm he could not conceal. "Don't you see, Gavin, that these devils +will have been clever enough to have taken care of themselves. Of +course, they will. They give it out that we are making for the Castle +of Okna which may be any number of miles you like from Setchevo. The +escort—God save the mark!—knows better than to blab. Likely enough +Chesny has heard that we crossed the frontier into Servia. Those poor +devils who were killed are unlikely to be important enough to be +searched for. Life is cheap hereabouts—and what is a Turk more or +less? Chesny says we are all right and goes picnicking. Evelyn waits +for our letters and doesn't a bit understand why they don't come. We +must be patient, old chap—patient and brave. Nothing else will save +us." +</P> + +<P> +Gavin assented, though he could admit to himself that the common +heroics of the nursery were the poorest food for a man in his +situation. His days of waiting, patience, and bravery were so many +hours of exquisite torture, like none he had imagined a man might +suffer and live through. Evelyn, what of her, he asked himself waking +and sleeping. Would the heritage in her blood deliver her to the +bondage prepared for her; or had she, in his absence, the will to +conquer it? He knew not what to think; his brain wearied of conjecture +and wakened only when, as now, the blind man's stick tapped the bare +stones and the sightless eyes looked into his own. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear him, Arthur; he's coming to say Good-night to us." +</P> + +<P> +"I hear, old chap—my God, if the man could only see——" +</P> + +<P> +"Better blind—you would have killed him but for that, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +"It's true, Gavin, I would have killed him." +</P> + +<P> +"And then—his friends. Better blind, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur said "Hush," for the sound of footsteps drew very near; and now +they could hear the old Chevalier panting and shuffling and plainly +approaching them. When he entered the room they perceived that +something had occurred beyond the ordinary. The hand upon the stick +quivered and trembled—the muscles of the forehead were twitching; +there were drops of sweat upon the man's forehead, and his voice echoed +the tumult of passion which shook him. +</P> + +<P> +"One of you has written a letter to Bukharest," he cried hoarsely; "by +whose hand was that?" +</P> + +<P> +The two men looked at each other amazed. Neither had written such a +letter nor knew aught of it. +</P> + +<P> +"By whose hand?" the Chevalier continued, his anger growing as he +spoke; "silence will not serve you, gentlemen. By whose hand was that +letter written?" +</P> + +<P> +Gavin now laughed aloud with a laugh that expressed both contempt and +defiance. +</P> + +<P> +"Had I written it, I would not have answered you," said he; "as I have +not, your question merely arouses my curiosity." +</P> + +<P> +Arthur did not answer at all; but he stood up as though fearing attack +and his hand rested upon the back of the heavy oak chair—one of the +few ornaments of that dismal room. His silence provoked Georges Odin +as no words could have done. +</P> + +<P> +"Let your friend speak," he cried, advancing with stick upraised. "I +will know the truth; my servants shall flog it out of you—do you hear, +I will have you whipped—answer me, who wrote that letter?" +</P> + +<P> +Kenyon said not a word; and now the old man struck at him with his +stick wildly and blindly, in a paroxysm of anger. One heavy blow fell +upon Gavin's shoulder and he stepped back with an oath; but the young +man's temper could not brook the new insult and he flung himself +heavily upon the Chevalier and they fell to the ground together. +</P> + +<P> +"Arthur—for God's sake——" cried Gavin. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all right, Gavin; I won't hurt him, but I must have that stick." +</P> + +<P> +He staggered to his feet, the bludgeon in his hand; but the blind man +did not move. Fearing he knew not what, dreading the sudden apparition +of the gypsies who spied upon their every movement, Gavin snatched a +log from the fire, and, stooping, he held it up that he might look upon +the old man's face. +</P> + +<P> +"He is dead," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Arthur did not speak. The log blazed and crackled and ebbed to +darkness and still the two men did not move. Without, in the +courtyard, not a sound could be heard. The House of Setchevo might +have been a tomb of the living. +</P> + +<P> +But the Englishmen knew that it concealed their hidden enemies and that +the dawn would bring them to the room to avenge the man who had been +their patron and their friend. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap30"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THERE IS NO NEWS OF GAVIN ORD +</H4> + +<P> +London, which loves a duchess or even personages of slightly less +degree, when it discovers them in the arena where all the world may +stretch out a finger to touch the noble pedestals, this London liked +the story of the Lady Evelyn and flocked to the Carlton Theatre to see +her and to criticise. The great Charles Izard, who measured all human +greatness by the box-office, did not hesitate to declare that business +to the extent of nineteen hundred pounds a week spoke more eloquently +than any critic ... and he would add triumphantly, "Why, I discovered +her, and she makes the rest of them look like thirty cents." By this +time he implied a general inferiority of other actresses who were not +filling their theatres to the extent of nineteen hundred pounds a week; +and, regardless of the plain fact that mere curiosity had become his +best friend, he continued to declare that he was the greatest and the +wisest of men and that Etta Romney would have been a dismal failure +under other management. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn certainly was a great success. No dinner party failed to +discuss her charm or to admit it. You heard of her every day in +theatrical clubs; a common question when people met was, "Have you seen +Etta Romney?" Returning to their first judgments, the critics recanted +nothing, though more than one really discerning writer perceived a +change in her. The splendid Watley, with some nice asides upon +Sophocles, Plautus, Judic, and Voltaire, admitted a difference: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"This is not the Di Vernon of the Spring," he wrote; "here is a newer +conception, something of Rejane, a voice of sincerity matured; +introspective comedy and the drama of pathos...." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The "Daily Shuffler," in plainer terms, said: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="quote"> +"Miss Romney does not let herself go—she appears to take poor Di's +troubles too greatly to heart. We confess to certain watery tributes +to her touching earnestness scintillating upon our manly cornea ... but +we would remind this charming young actress that we go to the theatre +to laugh as well as to cry ... and she has forgotten that. Perhaps the +November fogs have something to do with it. She came to us in the +Spring ... and with the Spring her lightness of heart may be given back +to her. One of her audience, at least, hopes that it will be so...." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +No one was more conscious of this change than Evelyn herself. That +wild, almost uncontrollable passion of art, had left her. She liked to +think that she had conquered it, and became a new Etta, for the sake of +a man who loved her and had saved her from herself. Here she was, +lauded to the skies by critical London; asked to every house, fawned +upon, coveted, proclaimed a success beyond knowledge; and yet as far +from knowing the secrets of such success as ever she had been in all +her life. Anxiety for Gavin's safety attended every hour of her busy +day. Confident at first that his dogged perseverance, his stubborn +resolution, and his manifest prudence would be weapons enough for the +work he had to do in Roumania, she had paid but little heed to his +silence; for that she understood to be a wild country and one which +would not expedite his letters. When he ceased to write, she said that +he would have gone to the mountains. A longer spell of silence and the +first whisper of her alarms began to make itself heard. How if he +could not write to her because of accident or illness or even +conspiracy? Terrified by the phantoms of imagination which now crowded +upon her, she compelled her father to warn the Ministry at Bukharest, +the Foreign Office, the Consulate. The letters were answered by +promises as meaningless as they were futile. Gavin's few relatives in +England bestirred themselves with little result—while Bukharest +answered that the Englishmen had crossed the mountains into Servia and +that nothing further of them was known. +</P> + +<P> +So Evelyn had come to London to save the man she loved, if her new +independence and her love might save him. She cared no longer that her +father should know of this determination; for she doubted both his will +to help her and the honesty of the declaration that he would do so. In +truth, Robert Forrester had been unable to give battle to those forces +which the years and his own youth had raged against him. To one who +had loved the wild life of an adventurer, who had sown tares in many +lands, the harvest time of age could support no pretentious dignity nor +long maintain those greater ambitions which had momentarily attended +his succession to the earldom. +</P> + +<P> +He sank beneath the mental burdens; became an old man when he should +still have been in his prime; could utter but a senile assent to every +rogue who tricked him. Deep down in his heart lay hunger for the old +life. An evil cynicism laughed at the restraints which place and power +put upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"Better a night on the hills with Zallony," he could tell himself, +"than a life's dominion in the realms of social fatuity." It would +have been so easy for him had Evelyn married Georges Odin's son. What +it might have meant to her he had hardly considered. +</P> + +<P> +And yet possibly his love for Evelyn was the truest emotion of his +life. When her letter reached him and he could bring himself to +understand it, the blow fell with a stunning force which seemed to +shatter every remaining idol of his life. His beloved daughter! The +mistress of his house! Capering about upon a stage for the guineas of +a man he, Robert Forrester, could have bought up twenty times over. +Here was a debacle beyond any he had imagined. The humiliation of it, +the cruelty of it—more than that, the malice of her destiny! Was she +not Dora d'Istran's daughter, and had not this blood of rebellion run +in her veins since her childhood? What else could he have looked for, +he asked himself ... and in the same breath he set the logic of it +aside and sat down to write to her. +</P> + +<P> +It was a pitiful letter, full of the tenderest expressions and the +bitterest reproach. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Do you owe nothing to my name?" he asked her, and in the same sentence +could protest his love for her. "I am an old man and am alone and must +look to the newspapers for news of the daughter who is all to me. Is +this fame so much above a father's affection, then; so dear a thing +that his home must be a home no longer because of it? The people say +you are a great actress; some day you will ask yourself, Evelyn, if it +was worth being that to wound one who has had no greater desire than +the happiness of his only child...." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Just in such a strain had he delivered himself at home, and, now as +then, the words earned but a cold response. "There is some secret of +my father's life which is hidden from me," Evelyn said. What it could +be, why it should affect her, she knew not. When he spoke of his +failing health, the letter found her more sympathetic. She would have +gone to him at any cost had she understood that he was really ill; but +the general terms he used seemed to imply no immediate necessity ... +and was there not Gavin to be considered? +</P> + +<P> +Indeed, this priceless gift of love now influenced every act and deed +of her life. She counted the hours which should bring her news of +Gavin, worshipped her own image of him upon the stage at night; +wrestled unceasingly with the voices which would speak of the Etta +Romney that had been; the child of passionate dreamings and of an +Eastern heritage no longer. +</P> + +<P> +And her prayer was this, for Gavin's safety and her own salvation in +his love. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap31"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOUSE AT HAMPSTEAD +</H4> + +<P> +Evelyn had played Di Vernon's part for thirty nights exactly when just +as she was going on the stage, on the evening of the thirty-first day, +a call-boy put a telegram into her hand and she had scarcely opened it +when she discovered that it was from her father. +</P> + +<P> +"I am passing through London upon my way to Paris," it said; "perhaps I +shall be in the theatre. If not, come to me afterwards to De Kyser's +Hotel. I will engage a room for you there." +</P> + +<P> +She told the boy that there was no answer to the message and +immediately passed to the garden scene she had played so often and +always with such sweetness and light. The thought that her father +might be in the house excited her strangely. Difficult as it is for a +player upon the stage to identify those in the stalls, she peered +intently, nevertheless, at the serried ranks before her and was +conscious of a sense of disappointment when her search was vain. A +second thought suggested that her father might be hidden by the +curtains of a private box; and with this in her mind she found herself +playing, not, as it were, to an audience of strangers, but to one who +loved her and had never understood her. Surely her father would read +something of her own story, of her loyalty to her old home, and the +depth of feeling which had sent her from it when he listened to Di +Vernon and her sweet sincerity. This was her hope, though she knew not +whether the Earl were present or no. To her anxious questions during +the <I>entractes</I>, old Jacobs, the stage-door keeper, declared that no +one "hadn't come round from the front not since he'd drunk his supper +beer"—a vague answer, insomuch as the beer in question made its +appearance at six o'clock and continued to do so at short intervals +until eleven. +</P> + +<P> +She must suffer her curiosity, therefore; and take what profit of it +she might. When the play was over and no news came from the front, she +concluded with a natural regret that her father had not been present; +and she was just wondering how she would get to De Kyser's Hotel and +exactly where it might be when old Jacobs himself, unable to find a +messenger, came round to tell her that a carriage stood at the door +ready for her ... and that it was a "nobby one" to boot. +</P> + +<P> +"She's footlights enough for a ballet," the old man said, with the +patronizing air of one who did not keep motor cars and thought very +little of those who did. "He says he comes from your father, but I +shouldn't wonder if it were from Buckingham Palace. Will you go, Miss, +or shall I say something civil to him?" +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn hastened to say that she would go; and, putting on her furs, she +went out to the carriage. This was waiting in the Haymarket, and the +driver appeared to be quite a boy, an open-faced, honest-looking lad, +who told her frankly that he was not to take her to De Kyser's Hotel, +but to a house at Hampstead where the Earl expected her. +</P> + +<P> +"There's a Mr. Fillimore there, Miss," he said. "I think he's a +clergyman. They said you would know, and it would be all right for you +to stop the night. The gentlemen are going away early in the morning. +I believe—at least I heard the butler saying so——" +</P> + +<P> +It was rather startling, but Evelyn suspected nothing. That old +chatter-box, the Vicar of Moretown, had relatives at Hampstead, she +knew, and nothing would be more natural than that he should have +accompanied her father to town. None the less, it was annoying to have +to go as she was; and nothing but the Earl's known intention to travel +abroad almost immediately induced her to consent. +</P> + +<P> +"Could you bring me back to-night if I wished?" she asked the lad. +</P> + +<P> +He answered: "Oh, certainly, Miss. I'm up half the night carrying +ladies about sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +She entered the carriage without further parley and they drove swiftly +through Regent Street and Portland Place. Her desire to meet her +father betrayed her unconquered affection for him. She would tell him +frankly that she would not return to him until she went as Gavin Ord's +wife; and that her life from this time would be devoted to discovering +the result of Gavin's journey and the reasons which kept him in +Roumania. This would not be to say that he had ever dealt ungenerously +with her; far from it, the whole of his immense fortune had ever been +at her command; but the advantages which his money conferred upon her +entailed corresponding duties; and she did not believe that her love +for Gavin permitted her to live under the roof which also sheltered +Georges Odin's son. For these reasons she had left her home; and to +justify herself by them she now went to Hampstead at her father's +bidding. +</P> + +<P> +There was much gray mist in the lowlands by Regent's Park; and although +the night became clearer as they climbed the height to Hampstead, it +remained dark and moonless, and rarely permitted Evelyn to say where +she was or how far they had driven. In no way concerned but very +tired, she closed her eyes and listened dreamily to the rolling sound +of wheels upon the wet road, telling herself that life was truly one +swift journey with the echo of the worldly wheels ever rolling in human +ears and saying "onward to an unknown goal; whether you will or no; +desiring to rest or zealous; still shall this coach of destiny hurry +you on by the houses of childhood, of love, and of death, to that +kingdom of mystery which all must enter." How happy had she been if +Gavin were beside her and they journeyed together to some haven of +their desires, while all the past should be written out and that peace +of understanding be truly found. Vain dream, sweet illusion—a voice +called her from it, the rush of cold air upon her face awakened her. +They had arrived at their destination and their journey was done. +</P> + +<P> +Plainly an old house. Evelyn starting up from her dream perceived an +old-fashioned stone porch with clematis thick upon it, an open door +showing a brightly lighted hall within and a blazing welcome warmth +from an open grate beyond. To the footman who helped her from the +carriage she addressed a brief question. +</P> + +<P> +"Is my father, is Mr. Fillimore here?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +The man bent his head; she understood him to be a foreigner; and, +impatient to know, she entered the hall and the great doors were +immediately closed behind her. +</P> + +<P> +"This way if you would please, ladyship," the footman continued in such +execrable English that she would have laughed at it upon any other +occasion. "The gentlemen were here." +</P> + +<P> +He opened a door upon the right-hand side of the hall and she found +herself in a small panelled boudoir; so perfect in its scheme of +decoration, so cozy, so warm, that she asked no longer why her father +had come to Hampstead. +</P> + +<P> +"Please tell the Earl that I am here," she said—and remembered as she +said it that the Vicar's relatives had been spoken of at Moretown as +very prodigies of riches. The footman, in answer to her, nodded his +head as foreigners will; and venturing no more English phrases he left +her alone. +</P> + +<P> +How cold she was! And what a picture of a room! The Japanese +panelling delighted her. The hangings in green silk delighted her. +What inexpressibly luxurious chairs! And books everywhere, books in +English, in French, in Italian—novels, biographies, picture-books. +Did a fire ever roar up a chimney with such a pleasant sound. The +warmth made the blood tingle in her veins; she bathed in it, stooped to +it, caressed it with hands outspread to the blaze. And this was her +occupation when she heard the door open behind her; and leaping up, +said, "Dear father—I am so glad." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear lady, your father has not yet arrived." +</P> + +<P> +She stood transfixed, realizing her situation and the peril of it in +one swift instant. Count Odin, the man she had fled from; Count Odin, +whose very name she had tried to forget, he was her host then. Not for +a moment would she deceive herself with the consideration of other +possibilities or likely accidents. She had been lured to the house by +a trick, and the intentions of those who brought her there could not +but be evil. So much she understood, and in understanding found her +courage. +</P> + +<P> +"My father is not here," she repeated after him, guarding her +self-control and standing before him defiantly. +</P> + +<P> +He answered her almost with humility. +</P> + +<P> +"No, he is not yet come, I am sorry to say. It is not my fault. His +reasons are his own ... and, Lady Evelyn, there are many who will say +that he is right." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him amazed. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you ask me here to justify myself?" she exclaimed, the blood +running to her cheeks and her flashing eyes. "Am I to answer, then, to +you? I will believe such an impertinence when I hear it." And turning +from him to the fire, she said, "How little you understand me—how +little you could ever know of any Englishwoman. To dare to bring me +here—to think that I should be afraid of you!" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled at her contempt and came a little nearer to her. +</P> + +<P> +"I never thought that," he said slowly. "I never accused you of want +of courage, Lady Evelyn. Perhaps I am guilty of an impertinence. You +shall tell me when you have heard my news—the news I bring you from +Roumania." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn turned about in spite of herself and looked him full in the face. +</P> + +<P> +"The news from Roumania!" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, news of your friend, Mr. Gavin Ord." +</P> + +<P> +The plot had been well contrived, and it did not fail. Curiosity, nay, +fear almost, proved stronger than Evelyn's alarm or any thought of her +own safety. Vainly she tried to suppress her emotion; while the man, +for his part, followed every movement of her graceful figure with eyes +that devoured its contour and a purpose which said, "she shall be my +wife this night." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" she cried, her heart beating wildly, her hands clinched. What +hours of anxiety, of dread, of passionate regret that one word recalled +to her. +</P> + +<P> +The Count drew a chair near the fire and motioned to her to sit. She +obeyed him with a docility which did not surprise him. He held the +master cards and would play them one by one. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he said lightly enough, "to begin with, your friend is still in +Roumania." +</P> + +<P> +"Am I unaware of that?" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, you would not be. He is still in Roumania and a prisoner." +</P> + +<P> +"A prisoner—why should he be a prisoner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because, dear lady, he is my father's enemy." +</P> + +<P> +She realized what it meant and sat resting her bowed head upon her +little hands. +</P> + +<P> +"I will go to Roumania; I will see him," she said presently. +</P> + +<P> +Odin smiled again at that. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be a hazardous journey, and I fear an unprofitable one," said +he. +</P> + +<P> +"It can be no less profitable than the silent friendship of those who +should speak. But we are talking in parables," she said quickly, "and +for once I believe that you are telling me the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"A flattering admission. I will do my best to be worthy of it. Let us +continue the story as we began. Your friend is a prisoner in the house +of my friends. They will release him upon the day I command them to do +so—not an hour before. They are my servants, Lady Evelyn—and in the +Carpathians to obey is the only commandment known to them. Should I +say to them 'this man must not return to England,' then he would never +return. I think you can understand that. It rests with me to save +your friend's life or to ... but we are a long way from coming to that +yet." +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn trembled but she did not speak. The plain issue of that duel of +sex could not be hidden from her. She was in the house of a man who +had brought her there by a trick; a scoundrel and an adventurer, and +she was alone. The price of Gavin Ord's liberty was the surrender of +her honor. She understood and was silent, and the man knew that she +understood. +</P> + +<P> +"We are a long way from that," he continued, with a new note in his +voice which spoke chiefly of his passion for her. "I hope that we +shall never come to it. When I first saw you in London, Lady Evelyn, I +said that there should never be another woman for me. I say so again +to-night. If you do not marry me, I will never marry. Yes, I love +you, and I am of a nation that learns from its childhood how women +should be loved. Consent to be my wife and I will live for nothing +else but your happiness. Your English friend shall win his liberty +to-morrow; your father shall be my father's friend. I will live where +you wish to live, serve you faithfully, have no thoughts but those you +wish me to have. Evelyn—that is what I would first say to you +to-night—that I love you—that you must love me—that I cannot live +without you." +</P> + +<P> +He bent over her and tried to touch her hand. She did not doubt that +she had become, as he said, the great hope of his life. And just as +she had said in Derbyshire, "Etta Romney would marry him," so now for +an instant did the same voice speak to her to tell her the truths of +such a passion as this and to put the spell of its great temptation +upon her. Then, white and trembling, the true Evelyn spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Count Odin," she said, "I love another man. I must answer you once +and forever—this cannot be; it is impossible." +</P> + +<P> +He heard her patiently, did not yet threaten her, and, indeed, +continued to be such a lover as he had declared the men of his nation +to be. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe nothing of the kind. This man has appeared before you as a +hero. He goes like a new Don Quixote to tilt against the windmills of +his folly. You do not love such a man—and he—he knows nothing of +what love is." +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged her shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"I do love him," she said very calmly. "I love him, and I shall marry +him." +</P> + +<P> +"When he returns from Roumania?" +</P> + +<P> +"When he returns, or when I go to him there." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed now at her earnestness. +</P> + +<P> +"We will go together—you and I," he said. "We will start for Paris +to-morrow. It is a stage upon our journey. I sent for you so—to go +to Paris with me to-morrow. Of course, your father goes. He will tell +you so when he comes here. He goes with us, and is pleased to be out +of England. Why should he not be? Here is all the town gaping at his +daughter. That pains him. I, too, dislike it, for I do not wish the +world to call my wife an actress. No, Lady Evelyn, we shall prevent +it—your father and I. In France, you will forget all this. The day +will come when you will know that we have been your friends." +</P> + +<P> +He would have had it appear that he spoke with sincerity and +earnestness; but Evelyn heard little of that which he said. The +deep-laid plot never for a moment deceived her. She knew that her +father was in no way concerned in it; she understood that she had been +brought to the house by a subterfuge and that courage alone would save +her. +</P> + +<P> +"Count Odin," she said as she rose and faced him, "when my father +wishes me to go to Paris he will tell me so. Your threats I treat with +contempt. You are one of those men whose part in life is to be woman's +enemy. I know you now, and am not even afraid of you. Let me leave +this house quietly and I will forget that I ever came here. Compel me +to stay and I will find a way to the nearest police station in spite of +you. That is my answer. I have nothing further to say." +</P> + +<P> +He listened to her as though he had expected just such an answer as +this. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear lady," he said with provoking insolence, "do you know that it is +one o'clock and that we are nearly five miles from Charing Cross?" +</P> + +<P> +"It would make no difference to me if we were fifty." +</P> + +<P> +"But your father is coming here——" +</P> + +<P> +"That is not true." +</P> + +<P> +"Come, you compel me to be angry. Understand that I have no intention +whatever of letting you go. If you persist, I must speak more frankly." +</P> + +<P> +"A new experience. Stand aside, please. I am going to leave this +house." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed brutally. +</P> + +<P> +"Go to your English friend. I will telegraph that you are coming. Go +to him—if he is still alive, dear lady." +</P> + +<P> +She shuddered but did not flinch. +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell the story where all the world may read it to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow—to-morrow, how far off is to-morrow sometimes. Beware of +to-morrow, Lady Evelyn." +</P> + +<P> +He drew aside and opened the door for her; and she, wondering greatly +at his apparent compliance, put her furs about her shoulders. Just for +one instant she stopped and with a woman's instinct would have +bargained with him for Gavin's life. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me your word of honor that no harm shall happen to Mr. Ord and I +will be silent," she said. +</P> + +<P> +He crossed the room and looked closely into her face. +</P> + +<P> +"We will speak of that to-morrow—when your father comes," he said. +</P> + +<P> +The words perplexed her. She hesitated but had nothing more to say. +Outside in the hall, the fire still burned brightly in the open grate, +and the gas lamps were lighted. Not a sound could be heard; no human +being appeared to inhabit that remote and lonely tenement. Trembling +with excitement and afraid, she knew not of what, Evelyn had reached +the front door and was stooping to unbolt it when a pair of strong arms +were clasped suddenly about her and a heavy cloak thrown over her head. +Taken utterly by surprise, overwhelmed by terror of the circumstance, +she felt herself lifted from her feet and carried swiftly from the +hall. All her strength could not fling those strong arms from her nor +put aside the cloak which stifled her cries. Inanimate, afraid as she +had never been in all her life, she lay almost senseless in the man's +arms and let him do as he would with her. +</P> + +<P> +For she knew that she was Odin's prisoner, and that no act or will of +hers could save her from the plot so subtly contrived. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap32"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A SHOT IN THE HILLS +</H4> + +<P> +The two men sat in the great bare room of the House at Setchevo and +watched the ebbing firelight as it played upon the dead man's face and +declared the horror of it. Not a sound came to them but that of their +heavy breathing. They feared almost to raise a hand lest by any +movement the living should be called to avenge the dead. Just as he +had fallen, heavily and in anger, so the old Chevalier lay, his face +upturned, the sightless eyes still open as though gazing now upon the +eternal mysteries. And none knew better than Gavin Ord that death +might be their worst enemy, loosing upon them the worst passions of +their jailers and forbidding them any longer even to hope. +</P> + +<P> +This he knew, and yet there came no profit of the knowledge. If he +feared death, it was for Evelyn's sake. Sitting there by the +firelight, waiting in tense doubt for the coming of the dead man's +friends, he could recall a picture of Evelyn as first he saw her in the +hall of the Manor. How stately she was; with what dignity she had +received him! And what an odd mental hallucination he had suffered +when he thought to hear her crying to him from the river. But was it +altogether an hallucination and did this explanation satisfy? Here, +to-night, it seemed that he must die because of his friendship for her. +How foolish, then, the call from the unseen world had been if its +meaning were so, and his own death had been the subject of the +prophecy! That he could not believe. The firm idea that he had been +chosen to love and befriend this beautiful girl remained his own even +in this momentous hour. He must suffer this to save her—how or by +what means he did not pretend to say—nor would he account death as +other than a friend if by death salvation came to one who alone among +women had taught him to say, "I love." +</P> + +<P> +A wolf howled upon the hills without and the lingering, doleful cry, +taken up by a thousand lifted throats, came upon the silence as the +dead man's requiem. Arthur Kenyon shivered when he heard it and beat +the fire down as though darkness were preferable to this aureole upon +the staring face. When Gavin said "Hush," and bade him listen, he half +turned, upon an impulse, toward the dead man as though the dead were +about to speak. The terrible strain of that suspense had become +insupportable. What mattered it since the end must be the same—sooner +or later, to-night or to-morrow, the reckoning, the vengeance? He was +young, and life might have much in store for him; but travel had taught +him to say "Kismet" and he said it unflinchingly. +</P> + +<P> +"There would be snow on the hills," he cried at last, as though his +thoughts were out there upon the lonely mountain road. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin, for answer, gripped him by the arm and forced him to listen. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you not hear!" he cried in a broken whisper; "some one is calling +the Chevalier?" +</P> + +<P> +They bent together as though to hear more keenly. In the courtyard +without, footsteps could now be heard and a voice crying, "Master, +master!" The hour had come then! Here were those who sought them. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you speak to them, Gavin?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hush for God's sake—I must think, think——" +</P> + +<P> +"That's a second footstep—can't you hear it? My God, Gavin, what +shall we do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Let me think, Arthur, let me think." +</P> + +<P> +He buried his face in his hands and could feel his temples throbbing. +For Evelyn's sake, for her—ah, if that miracle of love could but come +to pass! To open the gates, to defy the perils of the hills, to pass +as in flight by towns, rivers, cities, the abodes of men, the lonely +passes, the lights of towns, the storms of seas, to venture all for +Evelyn's sake. If it could be that? The voice of reason answered, +"Fool, the men are at the door." +</P> + +<P> +He rose excitedly from his chair and gripped his friend by the arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Tap the pavement," he said, "tap as the old Chevalier used to. I must +think, Arthur—for God's sake now tap with the stick." +</P> + +<P> +Kenyon obeyed him as a child would have done. He tapped upon the stone +floor with the stick but did not speak a word. Gavin had him by the +arm now and appeared almost as one in a trance. His eyes were +half-closed; he muttered to himself, stretching out his hand and +feeling, as it were, for a path which the darkness would disclose to +him. And the word upon his lips was "Evelyn"—oft repeated, as though +she were near and did not hear him. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you going to do, Gavin?" +</P> + +<P> +"To lead you from this house, Arthur—do not speak to me; some one is +calling us, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +He passed out into the bare stone corridor leading to the banqueting +hall. From the shadows one of the gypsies appeared with the swiftness +of an apparition. He carried a lantern in his hand and lifted it while +he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Master!" he cried, and then reeled back, the words broken upon his +lips. +</P> + +<P> +They passed him by, leaving him cowering by the wall; he did not cry +after them or raise an alarm. And Gavin went on swiftly, still toward +the gate, as though his will would open it. +</P> + +<P> +"No man could cross the hill road to-night," Kenyon said presently. He +was thinking that if they passed the gates, their allies would be the +wolves. Gavin did not answer him at all this time. He had come to the +gate by which you reach the courtyard, and, lifting the latch, he went +out unquestioned. +</P> + +<P> +"You see," he said, "that fellow has just unlocked it. I knew it must +be so, Arthur." +</P> + +<P> +"He has gone to bring the others, Gavin." +</P> + +<P> +"They will not hear him. Or if they come, they will be powerless to +harm us, Arthur. It must be so. I hear Evelyn's voice. She would not +call me if the gates were shut." +</P> + +<P> +Kenyon knew not what to say. Once or twice before he had known and +seen Gavin in such a mood as this, led by unseen hands and speaking +with another's voice. Never had he scoffed at it or misunderstood his +friend. He took it to be a force within that was beyond his own +experience. To-night, at least, it had led them out of the +death-chamber to look once more upon the heaven of stars above. +</P> + +<P> +"I will follow wherever you lead, Gavin," he said in a whisper, "only +tell me what I must do." +</P> + +<P> +"We are going to the bridge, Arthur. Tap as the old Chevalier did. I +shall cry 'Open!' when we come there. They will let us out and we +shall cross the mountains." +</P> + +<P> +The idea in his head remained there ineradicably. Despite the horde of +gypsies that was concealed somewhere in the darkened rooms of that +weird house, Gavin pushed his way toward the portcullis and demanded +that the keeper should open to him. This was the first time he had +spoken aloud since he quitted the room where the dead man lay; and +instantly at his words the courtyard became alive with the murmur of +voices and the sounds of shuffling footsteps. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick, Gavin, they are after us," Kenyon cried, holding his friend's +arm and trying to draw him aside to a place of safety. +</P> + +<P> +Gavin would not move, however. Imitating, as well as he could, the +voice he had heard so often challenging the keeper of the bridge, he +continued to shout, "Open—I wait!" None the less, he knew that armed +men were all about him and that any moment might bring them at his +throat. +</P> + +<P> +"Open—I wait!" +</P> + +<P> +The gate-keeper, awakened from a heavy sleep, came from the rude +watch-tower above the bridge and stood there with a lantern in his +hand. Raising it he looked upon the faces of the men, and drew back +with hand uplifted. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you call to me in my master's voice?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +They could not answer him. A great shouting in the courtyard behind +them warned them that the truth was known. The gypsies had discovered +the dead man's body and pell-mell they began to swarm about those they +believed to be his assassins. Haggard, in the weird light, their +figures in phantom shapes, they pressed on, searching every nook and +cranny with the naked blade of sword and scimitar, wailing their +doleful lament and encouraging one another to the pursuit. Nor had +Gavin any belief that he could escape them. Called by the peril from +the unnatural trance which had fallen upon him, he swung round upon his +heel as though to protect his friend whose life he had thus +jeopardized; but in his heart he believed that nothing could save them. +This was the moment when the uttermost penalty of folly must be paid. +It found him ready with a dogged courage, but lacking all ideas except +that supreme determination too fight for his life to the end. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me the bludgeon, Arthur—I am the stronger." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't think of that—there's something left in my locker still. Side +by side, old chap, unto the end. What luck! We'd have been across the +bridge in another ten seconds." +</P> + +<P> +"Some of them are going to remember us anyway. Stand close to me, +Arthur—it won't be long now." +</P> + +<P> +Indeed one of the gypsies discovered him as he spoke and with a loud +cry to the others made known his news. The horde swept on with the +ferocity of wolves. Knives gleaming, eyes bright in the darkness, some +voices cursing, some howling in brutish anger, they came pell-mell +toward the gate. And then, as suddenly, they halted and a silence as +of the dead of night fell upon the house. +</P> + +<P> +Some one upon the mountain road without had fired a rifle. The report +of it, echoing in the lonely hills, was like a sharp peal of thunder, +rattling from peak to peak with monstrous sounds near by and low +rumblings far away. To the gypsies it spoke a message which they alone +understood. They stood altogether, shivering and gibbering in the +darkness. Their muttered words were unintelligible to Gavin. Beyond +the sound of the rifle-shot he could hear nothing—or when the silence +was broken again, it was by the tongue of wolves indescribably haunting +and long drawn as a dirge of woe. +</P> + +<P> +"There is some one on the mountain road and they are afraid of him," he +said quickly to Kenyon. +</P> + +<P> +The idea of profit to come by the truce occurred to him in the same +breath; and, crying loudly, again he bade the doorkeeper to open. +</P> + +<P> +"Open, open!" +</P> + +<P> +Twenty voices took up the cry. The gypsies vied with each other in +shouting the summons. For they understood the signal. The rope was +about their own necks, they said. The last chance was to open the gate +to their prisoners. When the doorkeeper hesitated, trembling and +afraid, they stabbed him to the heart and he rolled headlong to the +foot of the bridge near by which his life had been lived. +</P> + +<P> +But Gavin and Arthur Kenyon passed out to the mountain road, and +looking down to the valley they perceived the flame of bivouac fires in +the wood below; and they understood immediately that cavalry had been +sent from Bukharest to their aid and that the hour of their peril had +passed. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap33"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +DJALA +</H4> + +<P> +Evelyn recovered consciousness after that which seemed a very night of +evil dreaming, but which was in reality no more than a brief half-hour +of insensibility. Greatly weakened by the struggle and the swoon +attending it, she lay for some while unable to lift herself upon the +bed where they had laid her or to take any notice of the room to which +she had been carried. When her strength returned somewhat, and a +sudden memory of the circumstances of her visit recurred to her, she +sat up immediately, a great fear at her heart and a dread upon her such +as she had never suffered before. +</P> + +<P> +What house was it? Who was its owner? What was the meaning of the +insult placed upon her? The questions raced through her brain so +quickly that she found an answer to none of them. At one time she +could almost believe that her own father was privy to the outrage and +had led to this desperate course by his detestation of the rôle she +played in London. Rejecting this immediately because of her love for +him, she was then tempted to say that Odin relied upon his threats and +believed that she would submit to him to save Gavin's life. This +appeared the more plausible story. Was not the man from the East a +Roumanian with but primitive ideas of a modern civilization and the son +of a country wherein women were still little better than the silent +victims of men's passions? Perhaps he believed that he could carry her +out of England. It might be even that. +</P> + +<P> +She was in a spacious bedroom, furnished, so far as the dim light would +permit her to see, in a modern style and with many evidences of +later-day luxury. A fresh fire, burning with a light flame in an open +grate, cast flashing rays upon darkly-papered walls and the heavy +pictures which ornamented them. A sofa had been drawn up before the +fire and showed its pattern in the fitful beams; there was an electric +chandelier above a dressing-table and a single reading lamp upon a +little table by the bedside. Afraid of the darkness in a degree +unknown to her, Evelyn tried to find the switch by which the lamp might +be lighted; but her cold hands bungled it and, despairing, she rose +from the bed and crossed the room toward the heavily-curtained window. +</P> + +<P> +Was escape to be thought of? In sober reason, no; but sober reason +says nothing to a woman driven by the supreme dread of wrong and +guarding her courage even while she is afraid. Evelyn knew in her own +mind that so shrewd and daring a schemer as Count Odin would leave her +no loophole, neglect no precaution, nor spare any insult by which his +own safety might be assured. She knew it and yet must go to the window +and draw the curtains back and touch the heavy shutters and feel her +heart sink when she came to see that they were twice barred and that no +woman's hand could open them. Despair alone could have led her to +believe that the Count would be so foolish; but despair did not mock +her twice and she left the door untried lest she should brand her own +intelligence with contempt. Let it be sufficient that she was the +prisoner of the house, far from any human aid, alone with her own +courage for her friend. She admitted it and sank down upon the sofa, +to stretch her hands to the warming blaze, and to breathe that simple +prayer to God for aid which is the supreme pathos of womanhood. +</P> + +<P> +The night was silent without the silence of mid-winter; the fire blazed +as though in enmity to the cold of the early morning hours. Evelyn had +no watch, nor did she know what hour it might be. When a distant bell +chimed, she caught a faint sound upon the still air, but it told her +nothing. And with the passing hours there came upon her a desperation +she could not master; a desire to kill this man who had so affronted +her, to brave him at whatever cost, even if it were to die at his feet. +Etta Romney lived again in this, the Etta of the East, the child of the +mountains which knew few laws but those of might. She was her mother's +daughter now; the voice of heritage spoke, and she would not still it. +</P> + +<P> +The distant church clock chimed again and she counted three strokes +upon its bells. It was three o'clock in the morning then, and another +four hours must pass before dawn came. Or would it ever come in that +shuttered and curtained room which she must call her prison? Sometimes +she could have wished that the Count would throw down the challenge to +her and that she might answer him there and then. Suspense as ever +tortured her nerves; but in her case also contributed to the victory of +reason. For Gavin's sake the evil in her heart must die, she said. +She must act not only as a brave woman but as a wise one. Moreover, +her true self, beginning to speak, reminded her that there would be an +outcry through all London to-morrow, and that such a man as Count Odin +would never face the publicity of it; his one sure weapon was his +threat against her lover. At this she cowed and knew that her heart +had grown cold again. +</P> + +<P> +Could she, indeed, save Gavin by a word? Had she believed it she would +have spoken that word, so greatly did she love. But she did not +believe it. Her faith in a brave man's resolution, in his daring and +success, remained unshaken. Gavin might even come to this house, she +thought; and dreamingly she sat very still by the fireside and listened +for the sound of his footstep. A profound silence followed upon the +foolish act. When next she moved it was with agitation and a sudden +spasm of fear she could not quell. +</P> + +<P> +She was no longer alone in the room. How she had come to believe +herself so she could not even imagine. Out of the darkness a pair of +jet black eyes were looking up to her own. The wavering firelight +becoming stronger as the coal reddened and burst into brighter flame, +showed her the huddled figure of a young girl crouching by the grate +and watching her so intently that the very glance seemed a tragedy. +</P> + +<P> +"Djala!" she cried in spite of herself—"Djala, the gypsy girl!" +</P> + +<P> +She knew it was no other and her fear passed with the knowledge. Many +a day had she seen this child with the gypsies who had followed the +Count to England. That she should be in this house at such a time was +the greater mystery. Evelyn knew not whether the omen were good or bad. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you not speak to me?" she said; "why are you silent?" +</P> + +<P> +The gypsy started up as though the sound of a voice had waked her also +from reverie. +</P> + +<P> +"Excellency," she answered, speaking in such broken English that Evelyn +caught her meaning with difficulty; "excellency, I wait for my brother +and then we will go away." +</P> + +<P> +"Who are you, child—how did you come here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am Zallony's daughter, excellency—my brother brought me across the +sea from my own country." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, you were in Derbyshire at my father's house. When did you +leave there, child?" +</P> + +<P> +"A month ago, excellency. My brother came to London. We had little +money and were poor. The Count would follow us, he said. So we +waited, but there was no message. Excellency, he should not have +treated us so ill, for he was my lover and owes it to me. He should +have come to us, excellency ... and then I would not have told them. +God help him now, for my brother will kill him. Yes, I followed him +here, but none knew of it. And to-night I told them the truth. +Excellency, had you not come here I never would have told them ... but +I have loved him and he has forgotten, and I must go back to my own +country alone and ashamed." +</P> + +<P> +She spoke in such a low tone, the childish eyes were so wide open, the +heart beating so rapidly beneath the fine lace which covered her +breast, that one who knew nothing of her Eastern birth or of all that +the love of a man meant to her, might well have believed her story an +hysterical fiction and turned from it with just impatience. To Evelyn, +however, it spoke of danger as no other word of all that evil night had +done. The peril of the house, the vengeance which might fall upon +it—the price of the betrayal, her own silence when a word might save a +man from the penalty of his sins—this all flashed through her troubled +brain and left her with a new sense of helplessness and surpassing +dismay. +</P> + +<P> +"How did you come here; how did you enter this room?" she asked quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Molines, my uncle, who brought you here—he keeps the keys, +excellency." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he let you in—he knows of your being here?" +</P> + +<P> +"He knows, excellency, and is afraid. We must save the English lady, +he said. That is why he sent me to you." +</P> + +<P> +"I must see your uncle at once, Djala.... I must tell the Count. What +you speak of is a great crime. Let us make them hear us. Oh, my God, +we cannot be silent." +</P> + +<P> +The doubt and suspense of it all became overwhelming, and she stood +groping in the dim light for the doorway and beating upon it with both +her hands. No one, however, answered her. The little gypsy crouching +by the fire seemed afraid to move or to speak. The silence of the +house remained unbroken. Evelyn turned away in such despair as seemed +to her scarcely human. +</P> + +<P> +"When is your brother coming here?" she asked the child. +</P> + +<P> +Djala answered without looking up. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know, but he will come, excellency ... and he will speak for +me to the Count. Yes, and then——" +</P> + +<P> +The words were stilled upon her lips and she sat up to listen. A sound +of men's voices suddenly made itself audible in the room below. The +gypsy heard it first and spoke no more of her vengeance. +</P> + +<P> +"That is my brother's voice," she said—and then, realizing what she +had done, she caught at Evelyn's dress with both her hands and implored +her pity. +</P> + +<P> +"Save him, excellency, for Christ's dear sake, save the man I love," +she implored. +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot save him, Djala—am I not as helpless as you? ... I cannot +save him." +</P> + +<P> +They waited together, hand in hand, listening to the story which the +voices told them. Now it would be to the voice of argument, then to +that of entreaty, ultimately to the swift interchange of phrase which +spoke of anger. When the duologue ceased, the silence had greater +terrors of doubt than any they had yet suffered. What had happened, +then? Why did none come to them? They could but hope that reason had +prevailed. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us light a lamp, excellency; I am afraid of the dark." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot do it, Djala.... I cannot find the switch." +</P> + +<P> +"Let us try together, excellency—how your hands tremble! And mine are +cold, so cold. Let us try to find the light." +</P> + +<P> +They felt along the wall, gathering courage from their occupation. The +main switch was upon the landing outside the door, but they found the +plug of the bedside lamp and managed to fix it, getting for their +reward a little aureole of light upon the bed and greater shadows upon +the further walls. That, however, which pleased them better was a +green silken bell-rope hanging down by the bedside and revealed now by +the lamp. Evelyn took the cord in both her hands and pulled it thrice. +But no bell rang. +</P> + +<P> +"It is broken, Djala; they did not mean us to ring +it—hush—listen—they are talking again—that is the Count's voice..." +</P> + +<P> +She caught the child's hand impulsively and drew her to the door as +though it would help them to hear the voices more plainly. The +controversy below had been resumed suddenly and with a bare preface of +civil words. Loud above the other the Count's voice could be heard in +threatening expostulation. It ceased upon a haunting cry—lingering, +horrible, and to be heard by the imagination long after it had died +away. +</P> + +<P> +Djala did not speak when she heard the cry; she seemed as one +transfixed by terror, unable to move from the place and afraid to learn +the truth. Presently low sobs escaped her; she became hysterical and +sank at Evelyn's feet, moaning and trembling. +</P> + +<P> +"They have killed him, excellency ... oh, my God, my God!" +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn could answer nothing. Stooping, she lifted the fainting girl +and laid her upon the bed. While she was not less afraid or distressed +than the gypsy, this nearer danger had quickened her faculties and +awakened her to action. Once more, though the act seemed folly, she +caught at the silken bell-rope and pulled it with all her strength. +The answer was a jarring tintinabulation heard clearly in the silence. +She stood to listen and knew that footsteps were approaching the +landing. Then the key turned in the lock and a man, whom she had seen +before, a Tzigany beyond all question, entered without ceremony. +</P> + +<P> +"Lady," he said in broken English, "come with me—you must leave this +house." +</P> + +<P> +"I will not go until I know the truth; I cannot leave the child," she +said, pointing to Djala. +</P> + +<P> +"There are those who will care for her. As for the truth ... it is a +man's quarrel. They will be friends to-morrow, lady. Obey me and go +quickly." +</P> + +<P> +"I will not leave the child," she protested—not knowing whether his +story were false or true and fearing greatly. +</P> + +<P> +For answer, he took her by the arm menacingly and drew her toward the +door. +</P> + +<P> +"Go before ill befall you. The child is our daughter. Are we of the +people who do not care for their own children? Go, lest worse follow! +The man will live—I, Molines, say it." +</P> + +<P> +The words found her without argument. This child had been with the +gypsies at the Manor. What harm would befall her if she remained with +them here? And it was no time for woman's pity. The story of the +house lay upon her as a heavy shadow. She had the desire to flee far +from it; to blot it out of her dreams; to forget its humiliations; to +escape its darkness. A voice called her to the way of salvation and +she went with the gypsy. +</P> + +<P> +"The carriage will take you as you came," he said; "ask no questions, +lady; do not betray us if you value your life and that of another. +That which has happened in this house to-night will never be known to +the world. Seek not the story, for it is not yours to seek." +</P> + +<P> +She had no rejoinder for him. There were lamps still alight in the +hall as they descended the staircase and the door of a room upon the +right hand side was a little way open. Evelyn half-believed that she +saw the body of a man lying upon the table there as she passed swiftly +by; but the door closed immediately and the gypsy hurried her from the +house. +</P> + +<P> +"Remember," he said, "be silent ... it is your only hope, lady." +</P> + +<P> +She shuddered and drew away from him. The electric brougham which had +carried her from the theatre now rolled slowly up the drive. She +entered it without a word and so was driven swiftly away. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap34"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE SHADOW OF THE RIVER +</H4> + +<P> +It wanted an hour of dawn when Evelyn quitted the lonely house. She +had given no instructions to the driver, nor did he appear to expect +any. In truth, his orders were very far from being in accordance with +the old gypsy's promise. A deed of blood had been done and the +daylight would discover it. The woman who could tell something of the +story would tell it at once if liberty were given her. So said those +who entrapped her ... and, desiring to withhold liberty as long as +might be, they sent the carriage westward, away toward Harrow and the +villages. +</P> + +<P> +Evelyn herself did not suspect this; nor would it have alarmed her had +she done so. As one awakened from a dream of death, she tried to shut +the picture of the house from her heavy eyes, to drown the cries she +had heard, to forget the humiliations. Dark and lonely as the way was, +the black shapes of the trees seemed emblems of her liberty; the silent +houses so many tokens of the world regained. She cared not where or +why, so long as she might breathe the sweet air and tell herself that +God's mercy had saved her. For Gavin would she live—her whole life +should be spent in quest of the man she loved; of one who seemed to +call her even from the darkness. And of Gavin were her thoughts when +the carriage stopped at last and the driver bade her descend. +</P> + +<P> +She perceived him to be an African, of pleasant face and starlike eyes. +To all her questions, however, he did but shake his head and show +grinning teeth which would as well become a snarl as laughter, she +thought. It was dawn then, and there were gray mists drifting above +the hedges. They had stopped in a lane and nothing human was in sight. +</P> + +<P> +"Very sorry, missy—go back now. No far to go, master says so." +</P> + +<P> +"Where are we, where have you brought me?" she asked, obeying him in +some fear. +</P> + +<P> +He answered her, still grinning: +</P> + +<P> +"You get back to London, quick, missee. Master says so. Dis am his +carriage. Verry sorry, missy." +</P> + +<P> +She perceived that he played a part and would contend with him no more. +Still nodding his black head and showing his white teeth, he turned the +carriage about and disappeared down the lane. When the rolling sound +of the wheels had quite died away, Evelyn began to walk along the lane +in that which she believed to be the direction of London. The mists +lifted as the sun began to warm them. She was terribly cold, chilled +to the very bone, and exhausted both bodily and mentally; but she +pushed on bravely and presently out of the mists a cottage appeared and +then another. Yet a hundred yards farther down the lane and she espied +some modern villas in the Queen Anne style and after that quite a +considerable village lying in the hollow. +</P> + +<P> +It would have been about eight o'clock of the morning by this time; and +workmen passed her with the firm tread and the cheery "Good-morning, +miss," which are still to be seen and heard within ten miles of the +metropolis. At first she scarcely had the courage to ask where she +was; for she realized how strangely the question must fall upon other +ears at such a time and under such circumstances; but plucking up her +courage presently as a lad approached her, she stopped him and learned +that this was the village of Pinner, and that it lay just thirteen +miles from London. +</P> + +<P> +"Yonder's the station, miss, just round there to the right. I suppose +you've walked over from Harrow. Lots of ladies do now they've took to +hockey. I don't like that—not me. It hurts the shins unless you've +got thick 'uns like the new girls has." +</P> + +<P> +He was quite a conversationalist, the boy, and he rambled on with a +precise account of his own intimate affairs, dating from the happy +anniversary of a present of five shillings from a gentleman in a +"broke-in-half" motor car to the recent arrival of a little sister, +with whom he expected he would shortly quarrel. One of his most +cheerful items of information was that which revealed the near +proximity of an inn, styled by him "a public"; but which, nevertheless, +brought to Evelyn such visions of hot steaming coffee and new warm +bread and a fireside whereby she might thaw her frozen hands that she +bestowed a whole shilling upon him willingly; and for that he, as a +true cavalier, conducted her immediately to the hostelry. +</P> + +<P> +"And I do hope you'll walk over from Harrow another morning, and that +I'll meet you in the lane," he said with an interested and mercenary +laugh delightful to hear. It was good after all to listen to the sound +of an honest voice. And this boy spoke in the accustomed tongue of men. +</P> + +<P> +She found the people of the inn awake and bustling. The story told for +her by the loquacious lad was a very <I>open sesame</I>. A dear old lady +with a very dirty face ushered her into a prim parlor and put out the +Sunday tea service. Workmen in the bar raised their voices for her +benefit, and one of them narrated at length how formerly he had kept a +servant at "twenty shilling a week, same as you get, Bill." The +coffee, however, could not have been better. Evelyn drank it greedily, +and, learning that there were trains to London frequently, she caught +one at ten o'clock and by a little after half-past she was in a hansom +going down to Baker Street. +</P> + +<P> +Her direction to the cabman had been "the Carlton Theatre"—why exactly +she could not say. Naturally, she felt shy for the moment of returning +to her hotel, dishevelled and weary as she was. The theatre would be +open, she knew; for a rehearsal had been called at twelve o'clock, and +the great Mr. Izard expected her there to hear of a new play which he +had already passed as "bully." Fortunately for her, she slipped by old +Jacob at the stage door so quietly that he was quite unaware of her +presence ... and then going to her own dressing-room, to her chagrin +she discovered it to be locked and remembered that her maid had the key. +</P> + +<P> +They had set a scene upon the stage, the garden scene of "Haddon Hall"; +and weird and cold and melancholy was its aspect in this morning light. +To Evelyn it seemed as an emblem of those scenes of her girlhood which +she had forever quitted. The loneliness of her life, the pity of it, +the quenched fires of ambition—thoughts of these came to her one by +one and said "there is no longer hope in the world." Etta Romney, that +daughter of passion and the soul's unrest, love had killed her, and +never would she be reborn. There stood in her place an Evelyn who +believed herself to be utterly alone, forsaken of all, even of him who +had taught her the supreme lesson of her being. For her father she had +an abiding pity. The harvest he had reaped had been of his own sowing; +but her affection for him rose above any consideration of judgment and +she accused herself because she had left him in the hour of trial. For +the rest the dreadful story of the night remained her chief burden. To +whom should she tell it; who must be her confidant? Should she run +hysterically to the police, saying, "I believe that a crime has been +committed in an unknown house at Hampstead?" To whose profit! The two +men might have met in fair fight according to the custom of their +country. And would anyone be found in the house by even the cleverest +detective after those hours had passed! She knew not which would be +the prudent course. Her own despair spoke louder than any claim of +human justice. +</P> + +<P> +The great Mr. Izard appeared at the theatre at eleven o 'clock. His +first cheery greeting to her ended abruptly when he perceived the state +of distress into which she had fallen ... her haggard eyes, her white +face, the restlessness of mood and quick changing attitudes which +betrayed her. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Romney!" he exclaimed aghast, "are you ill, my dear? ... Good +God! what has happened?" +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot play to-day," she said.... "I am going to my home, Mr. +Izard, to my father. I shall never play in your theatre again. My +acting days are done." +</P> + +<P> +He saw that she was really ill and would not trouble her with any of +the old arguments. His own carriage, he said, should take her to the +station. Her assurance that she would go down to Derbyshire alone +troubled him, for he was a big-hearted man, as most of his kind. When +Evelyn left him, she knew that she was leaving a friend ... and how few +friends has any man or woman among us! Perhaps the truth of this +helped her upon her long journey to Derbyshire. She was going to her +father, to him who had loved her ... she was going to him to tell him +every word of that story and to say to him, "Take me to Gavin, let us +go together and forget that another has ever come between us." All else +in the world, its rewards, its prizes, its teachings, seemed less to +her than this gospel of love now warming her heart to life and bidding +her look up. By it should peace come to him—to them both if Gavin +lived! +</P> + +<P> +Ah, if Gavin lived! How often by the way did that voice of doubt cry +the question in her ears? As a heavy cloud upon the garden of her +hopes so the thought recurred and would not be put away. If Gavin +lived! Evelyn heard the words wherever she turned; they were spoken to +her upon the breezes of that winter day, rolled out by the humming +wheels as the train carried her northward, uttered by unknown voices +which compelled her to listen. They followed her to Moretown; they +were with her when she dismissed the hired carriage at the gates of +Melbourne Hall and set out to walk across the park toward her home. +Her desire to enter the house without observation or effusive welcome +was in great part the fruit of her thoughts. She must be alone; she +must have the full command of herself before she told her father the +true story of yesternight. +</P> + +<P> +The sun had set upon a glorious winter's day; a day of clear skies and +bright scenes and fresh invigorating breezes. Now when eve fell the +west wind ebbed away with the hours and left a twilight deeply still +and beautiful. Not a branch of the leafless trees stirred in all that +vast park about Melbourne Hall. Wide vistas of glade and avenue might +have known no human foot since their story began. The deer browsed or +moved with step so light that the quickest ear could not detect it. To +Evelyn it mattered not whether she trod the park at dawn or dusk. +Every landmark seemed as her own possession. Here was the dell +wherein, long ago, she had played Di Vernon's part to the summer skies; +there, the arbor to which she had carried the romances upon which her +young imagination feasted. Far away, dark and gray between the trees, +stood her home, offering her so chill a welcome that her heart sank +wearily and tears came to her burning eyes. How if her father also had +left her; if she found the great house empty and the gates of it shut! +Such an end to her journey was not impossible; but the dread of it was +in itself a heavy sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +To be alone even at the gates of her home. Yes, it might be that. +Standing upon the little bridge that spanned the river; she listened to +its melancholy song and echoed it in her heart. Alone, it said—the +dream lived, love lost, the world empty. What mattered it now that +God's providence had saved her yesternight? Better, she thought in her +distress, that she lay in yonder silent pool, drifting upon the slow +eddies to rest and oblivion. For what had the world to give her? The +tears flowed fast at the remembrance of all she had hoped, all she had +suffered, all she had lost. "Gavin," she cried aloud, "save me, Gavin, +for I cannot live alone." +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +He came to her swiftly out of the darkness. But yesterday he had +returned from Bukharest and, just as she to-day, had gone to Melbourne +Hall to find it shuttered and empty. A good act of his destiny made it +known to him at Moretown station that the Lady Evelyn had returned from +London. He followed her swiftly and overtook her upon the bridge. +</P> + +<P> +And so as in the dream of the unforgotten days he took her from the +shadow of the river to his heart and, holding her close, he said: +</P> + +<P> +"Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish." +</P> + +<A NAME="img-314"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-314.jpg" ALT=""Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish."" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center"> +"Evelyn, beloved, I am here as you wish." +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap35"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +EPILOGUE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE DOCTOR DRINKS A TOAST +</H4> + +<P> +In the Spring of the year following upon Gavin Ord's return from +Bukharest, the Reverend Harry Fillimore playing, as he claimed, "the +game of his life" upon the links at Moretown, found himself to his +chagrin both oblivious of the troubles of others and utterly +unsympathetic toward his old friend Doctor Philips. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow," he would say, "what can you expect when you will take +your eye off the ball? Now do be patient. For my sake, be patient." +</P> + +<P> +The doctor, driving his ball with savage ferocity into a deep and awful +pit, treated these observations with the just scorn they merited. He +neither criticised nor contested them; but having struck the offending +ball five times with little result, he picked it up deliberately and +uttered a remark which the vulgar at any rate might have considered +appropriate. +</P> + +<P> +"She's at Gibraltar," he said without preface. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, dear fellow—now do be patient. I will not encourage strong +language; you know that I will not." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. Philips laughed such a melancholy laugh that even the good-natured +parson looked up from his beloved ball. +</P> + +<P> +"I was talking of the Lady Evelyn," he said quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry—I'd forgotten it, Fred." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, memory isn't a jewel in these cases. I had a letter from +the Earl this morning—eh, yes? He says the yacht's become a nest of +turtledoves. They're going on to Malta if the weather's not too hot. +He doesn't mean to come here at all this year, you see. That's what I +wanted to tell you. It seems that the man Odin went back to Bukharest +and is now fighting the Government for his father's property. They +confiscated it or something, according to the criminal law there. Pity +the gypsies didn't kill him at Hampstead—eh? They seem to have come +pretty near it by all accounts." +</P> + +<P> +The vicar expressed the opinion that the gypsies were the only honest +men that Bukharest would be likely to send to Moretown; but neither +spoke of Evelyn again until they were alone with their cigars after +dinner that night. Then, as a sacred confidence between them, Harry +Fillimore confessed something that had long been on his mind. +</P> + +<P> +"Father and daughter," he said, "shared the burden of a terrible +heritage. One might have said that they had been born under an Eastern +sun and had inherited Eastern passions. In all of us, as the novelist +Robert Louis Stevenson believed, there are two personalities—the good +and the evil; and our lives are lived as we conquer the one and foster +the other. Robert Forrester never made an honest effort to extirpate +those weaker traits of character which ruined his career at the +beginning. Evelyn, on her part, did not realize the meaning of her +life until Gavin Ord taught her to love him. Her escapade in London, +the craving for light and music and glitter ... there you had the East +speaking to her. But the man's voice was the voice of the West, and +she listened to it. Such a woman has found peace or none will ever +find it. Her will has saved both herself and her father. Let us +grudge her nothing of her happiness, Fred. You loved her? What man +that had not loved would not? But you'll wish a blessing on her and +lift a glass to her as I do, just because you're what you are—a great +big-hearted Englishman, who will share his joys with all, but will tell +his sorrows to none." +</P> + +<P> +The doctor turned his head away. Very slowly and deliberately he +filled his glass, and, lifting it, he said: +</P> + +<P> +"God bless her!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<HR> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap36"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Other Works by Max Pemberton +</H2> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE HUNDRED DAYS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<P> +Napoleonic history, or something near to it, will be found in Max +Pemberton's "The Hundred Days," a dashing romance with an English hero, +invincible, of course, and a French heroine of daring and +spirit.<I>—Philadelphia Public Ledger</I>. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<P> +Max Pemberton's new romance proves that the life of to-day may suggest +romance, mystery, incident, and adventure in as fascinating forms as +the life of the days of lance and armor. The novel deals with Russian +social and political intrigue, a field wherein he is fully at home. A +charming love story is carried through a stirring series of adventures +to a fortunate end.—<I>Washington Post</I>. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +DR. XAVIER +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<P> +Any story by Max Pemberton can be depended on to furnish mystery, +excitement, adventure and sensation to satisfy the most exacting +demands. His romance, "Dr. Xavier," has for its principal character a +scientist who is all but a magician, and about whom and his doings +there is something uncanny.—<I>Cleveland Plaindealer</I>. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE CHALLONERS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE QUEEN OF THE JESTERS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.25</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE GARDEN OF SWORDS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +SIGNORS OF THE NIGHT +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Goth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +FEO +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +PRO PATRIA +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +LOVE THE HARVESTER +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE GOLD WOLF +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +A DAUGHTER OF THE STATES +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +BEATRICE OF VENICE +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE GIANT'S GATE +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>Post 8vo, $1.25</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +THE IMAGE IN THE SAND +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>12mo, Cloth, $1.50</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lady Evelyn, by Max Pemberton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY EVELYN *** + +***** This file should be named 35336-h.htm or 35336-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/3/3/35336/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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