STRANGERS IN THE HOUSE
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?
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.
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.
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 matinees
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.
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.
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.
"Go into the room," said a voice. "I must be alone here."
Another said, "Hush, that's her step!"
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.
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.
"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----'"
Etta interrupted him with a dignity he had not looked for.
"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!"
She tried to go by, but he still forbade her, smiling the while and
seemingly quite sure of himself.
"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."
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.
"Do you know my father, Count?" she asked presently--in a voice which
could not conceal her apprehension.
"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."
"Then he was not aware of your intended visit?"
"Quite unaware of it."
"You did not write to him?"
"How should I write when I do not know the house in which he live?"
"Then why do you say that he is not in London?"
He looked at her with the triumphant eyes of a man who puts a master
card upon the table.
"I say that he is not in England because you are alone, Miss Romney."
Etta bit her lips, but gave no other expression to her emotion.
"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."
He drew aside instantly.
"Izard would never forgive me," he said; "let it be to-morrow as you
wish--shall we say at twelve o'clock?"
"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.