THE UNSPOKEN ACCUSATION
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.
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.
"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."
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.
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 naively, "if there were a better reason which you must not expect
me to confess."
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.
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.
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:
"An ordinary case--no cause for worry at all--don't think about it."
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.
"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."
The Vicar shook his head at the compliment and declared that it would
never suit the Earl.
"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."
The Vicar's wife, on her part, declared the situation to be exceedingly
distressing.
"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."
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.
Dr. Philips was in the room when she entered it; but his belief that
this was an _affaire de coeur_ 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.
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"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.
"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----"
"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."
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:
"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."
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.
"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."
"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."
"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."
He turned a swift keen glance upon her--far from a pleasant glance.
"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."
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.
"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."
"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."
Dr. Philips looked at both of them and smiled.
"You must speak to the Earl about that," he exclaimed. "Why, there is
his carriage. I must go and break the news to him."