THE CAB.
That evening Beatrice’s performance had been greeted with louder
applause than usual, and, what was more gratifying to one like her, the
effective passages had been listened to with a stillness which spoke
more loudly than the loudest applause of the deep interest of the
audience.
Langhetti had almost always driven home with her, but on this occasion
he had excused himself on account of some business in the theatre which
required his attention.
On going out Beatrice could not find the cabman whom she had employed.
After looking around for him a long time she found that he had gone.
She was surprised and vexed. At the same time she could not account for
this, but thought that perhaps he had been drinking and had forgotten
all about her. On making this discovery she was on the point of going
back and telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her persistently,
promising to take her wherever she wished, and she thought that it would
be foolish to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter; so that at
length she decided to employ the persevering cabman, thinking that he
could take her to her lodgings as well as any body else.
The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and went on through street after
street, while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening’s performance.
At last it seemed to her that she had been a much longer time than
usual, and she began to fear that the cabman had lost his way. She
looked out. They were going along the upper part of Oxford Street, a
great distance from where she lived. She instantly tried to draw down
the window so as to attract the cabman’s attention, but could not move
it. She tried the other, but all were fast and would not stir. She
rapped at the glass to make him hear, but he took no notice. Then she
tried to open the door, but could not do so from the inside.
She sat down and thought. What could be the meaning of this? They were
now going at a much faster rate than is common in the streets of London,
but where she was going she could not conjecture.
She was not afraid. Her chief feeling was one of indignation. Either the
cabman was drunk--or what? Could he have been hired to carry her off to
her enemies? Was she betrayed?
This thought flashed like lightning through her mind.
She was not one who would sink down into inaction at the sudden onset of
terror. Her chief feeling now was one of indignation at the audacity of
such an attempt. Obeying the first impulse that seized her, she took the
solid roll of music which she carried with her and dashed it against the
front window so violently that she broke it in pieces. Then she caught
the driver by the sleeve and ordered him to stop.
“All right,” said the driver, and, turning a corner, he whipped up his
horses, and they galloped on faster than ever.
“If you don’t stop I’ll call for help!” cried Beatrice.
The driver’s only answer was a fresh application of the whip.
The street up which they turned was narrow, and as it had only
dwelling-houses it was not so brightly lighted as Oxford Street. There
were but few foot-passengers on the sidewalk. As it was now about
midnight, most of the lights were out, and the gas-lamps were the chief
means of illumination.
Yet there was a chance that the police might save her. With this hope
she dashed her music scroll against the windows on each side of the cab
and shivered them to atoms, calling at the top of her voice for help.
The swift rush of the cab and the sound of a woman’s voice shouting
for aid aroused the police. They started forward. But the horses were
rushing so swiftly that no one dared to touch them. The driver seemed
to them to have lost control. They thought that the horses were running
away, and that those within the cab were frightened.
Away they went through street after street, and Beatrice never ceased
to call. The excitement which was created by the runaway horses did not
abate, and at length when the driver stopped a policeman hurried up.
The house before which the cab stopped was a plain two-story one, in a
quiet-looking street. A light shone from the front-parlor window. As the
cab drew up the door opened and a man came out.
Beatrice saw the policeman.
“Help!” she cried; “I implore help. This wretch is carrying me away.”
“What’s this?” growled the policeman.
At this the man that had come out of the house hurried forward.
“Have you found her?” exclaimed a well-known voice. “Oh, my child! How
could you leave your father’s roof!”
It was John Potts.
Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made a
violent effort against her despair.
“You have no control over me,” said she, bitterly. “I am of age. And
you,” said she to the policeman, “I demand your help. I put myself under
your protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or to
let me go to my home.”
“Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts. “Will you still be relentless?”
“Help me!” cried Beatrice, and she opened the cab-door.
“The policeman can do nothing,” said Potts. “You are not of age. He will
not dare to take you from me.”
“I implore you,” cried Beatrice, “save me from this man. Take me to the
police-station--any where rather than leave me here!”
“You can not,” said Potts to the bewildered policeman. “Listen. She
is my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italian
vagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got her
back.”
“It’s false!” cried Beatrice, vehemently. “I fled from this man’s house
because I feared his violence.”
“That is an idle story,” said Potts.
“Save me!” cried Beatrice.
“I don’t know what to do--I suppose I’ve got to take you to the station,
at any rate,” said the policeman, hesitatingly.
“Well,” said Potts to Beatrice, “if you do go to the station-house
you’ll have to be handed back to me. You are under age.”
“It’s false!” cried Beatrice. “I am twenty.”
“No, you are not more than seventeen.”
“Langhetti can prove that I am twenty.”
“How? I have documents, and a father’s word will be believed before a
paramour’s.”
This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.
“As to your charge about my cruelty I can prove to the world that you
lived in splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of the servants can testify
to this. Your morose disposition made you keep by yourself. You always
treated your father with indifference, and finally ran away with a man
who unfortunately had won your affections in Hong Kong.”
“You well know the reason why I left your roof,” replied Beatrice, with
calm and severe dignity. “Your foul aspersions upon my character are
unworthy of notice.”
“And what shall I say about your aspersions on my character?” cried
Potts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertion
to brow-beat Beatrice. “Do you remember the names you called me and your
threats against me? When all this is brought out in the police court,
they will see what kind of a daughter you have been.”
“You will be the last one who will dare to let it be brought into a
police court.”
“And why? Those absurd charges of yours are worthless. Have you any
proof?” he continued, with a sneer, “or has your paramour any?”
“Take me away,” said Beatrice to the policeman.
“Wait!” exclaimed Potts; “you are going, and I will go to reclaim you.
The law will give you back to me; for I will prove that you are under
age, and I have never treated you with any thing except kindness. Now
the law can do nothing since you are mine. But as you are so young and
inexperienced I’ll tell you what will happen.
“The newspapers,” he continued, after a pause, “will be full of your
story. They will print what I shall prove to be true--that you had an
intractable disposition--that you had formed a guilty attachment for a
drum-major at Hong Kong--that you ran away with him, lived for a while
at Holby, and then went with your paramour to London. If you had only
married him you would have been out of my power; but you don’t pretend
to be married. You don’t call yourself Langhetti, but have taken another
name, which the sharp newspaper reporters will hint was given you by
some other one of your numerous favorites. They will declare that you
love every man but your own father; and you--you who played the goddess
on the stage and sang about Truth and Religion will be known all over
England and all over Europe too as the vilest of the vile.”
[Illustration: “Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts, “will you still be
relentless?”]
At this tremendous menace Beatrice’s resolution was shattered to pieces.
That this would be so she well knew. To escape from Potts was to have
herself made infamous publicly under the sanction of the law, and then,
by that same law to be handed back to him. At least whether it was so or
not, she thought so. There was no help--no friend.
“Go,” said Potts; “leave me now and you become covered with infamy. Who
would believe your story?”
Beatrice was silent, her slender frame was rent by emotion.
“O God!” she groaned--but in her deep despair she could not find
thoughts even for prayers.
“You may go, policeman,” said Potts; “my daughter will come with me.”
“Faith and I’m glad! It’s the best thing for her;” and the policeman,
much relieved, returned to his beat.
“Some of you’ll have to pay for them winders,” said the cabman.
“All right,” answered Potts, quietly.
“There is your home for to-night, at any rate,” said Potts, pointing to
the house. “I don’t think you have any chance left. You had better go
in.”
His tone was one full of bitter taunt. Scarce conscious, with her brain
reeling, and her limbs trembling, Beatrice entered the house.