THE HOUSE AT HAMPSTEAD

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.

"I am pa.s.sing 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."

She told the boy that there was no answer to the message and immediately pa.s.sed 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 _entractes_, 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.

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 "n.o.bby one" to boot.

"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?"

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.

"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----"

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.

"Could you bring me back to-night if I wished?" she asked the lad.

He answered: "Oh, certainly, Miss. I'm up half the night carrying ladies about sometimes."

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.

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.

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.

"Is my father, is Mr. Fillimore here?" she asked.

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

How cold she was! And what a picture of a room! The j.a.panese 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."

"My dear lady, your father has not yet arrived."

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.

"My father is not here," she repeated after him, guarding her self-control and standing before him defiantly.

He answered her almost with humility.

"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."

She looked at him amazed.

"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!"

He smiled at her contempt and came a little nearer to her.

"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."

Evelyn turned about in spite of herself and looked him full in the face.

"The news from Roumania!"

"Certainly, news of your friend, Mr. Gavin Ord."

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."

"Well?" she cried, her heart beating wildly, her hands clinched. What hours of anxiety, of dread, of pa.s.sionate regret that one word recalled to her.

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.

"Well," he said lightly enough, "to begin with, your friend is still in Roumania."

"Am I unaware of that?" she exclaimed.

"Of course, you would not be. He is still in Roumania and a prisoner."

"A prisoner--why should he be a prisoner?"

"Because, dear lady, he is my father's enemy."

She realized what it meant and sat resting her bowed head upon her little hands.

"I will go to Roumania; I will see him," she said presently.

Odin smiled again at that.

"It would be a hazardous journey, and I fear an unprofitable one," said he.

"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."

"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."

Evelyn trembled but she did not speak. The plain issue of that duel of s.e.x 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.

"We are a long way from that," he continued, with a new note in his voice which spoke chiefly of his pa.s.sion 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."