"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.

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.

"And what will Mr. Izard say?" she asked herself blankly; "what will they all say?"

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.

CHAPTER VII

THE NONAGENARIAN

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.

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.

"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?"

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.

"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!"

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 pa.s.sionately, 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.

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.

"And please to stop at a telegraph office on the way," she said.

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.

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.

"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.

There was a train to Derby at half-past eight. Etta took a seat in the corner of a first-cla.s.s 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.

"What you say--what--what--" the old fellow cried, exerting a surprising amount of strength for a nonagenarian, "not go in here, _accidente_!"

"Higher up, grandfather," said the merry porter. "Saffron Hill goes forward--no parley Inglesh, eh--well, that's not my fault, is it?"

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-cla.s.s carriage at the forward end of the train.

"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."

Etta laughed at this idea, but, a sudden remembrance coming to her, she asked:

"What time do we arrive at Derby, porter?"

"You should arrive at a quarter to twelve, miss."

"A quarter to twelve--oh, my poor little me, whatever will you do?"

"Not meaning to say that you've forgotten to ask them to meet you, miss?"

"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?"

"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."

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.

"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."

They bundled the old man into a carriage; the engine whistled, the train steamed majestically from the station.

"Good-by, London!" said Etta, sinking back upon the cushions with tears in her eyes.

But the far from docile old gentleman, who had been treated so unceremoniously, did not weep at all.

"She's going to Melbourne Hall," he kept repeating with a chuckle; "if the telegrams mean anything, they mean that."

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.

CHAPTER VIII

LADY EVELYN RETURNS

Mr. Griggs, the butler at Melbourne Hall, had just fallen asleep after a second gla.s.s 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.

"For you, sir, and the boy's a-waitin' for a hanswer."

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' gla.s.ses were true b.u.mpers) of ancient port may provoke.

"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?"

"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----"

Griggs looked a little sheepishly at the bottle before him, and prudently offered James a gla.s.s.