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 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.
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-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.
"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-class 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.