The Lady Evelyn Part 30

"Yes, yes, you were in Derbys.h.i.+re at my father's house. When did you leave there, child?"

"A month ago, excellency. My brother came to London. We had little money and were poor. The Count would follow us, he said. So we waited, but there was no message. Excellency, he should not have treated us so ill, for he was my lover and owes it to me. He should have come to us, excellency ... and then I would not have told them.

G.o.d help him now, for my brother will kill him. Yes, I followed him here, but none knew of it. And to-night I told them the truth.

Excellency, had you not come here I never would have told them ... but I have loved him and he has forgotten, and I must go back to my own country alone and ashamed."

She spoke in such a low tone, the childish eyes were so wide open, the heart beating so rapidly beneath the fine lace which covered her breast, that one who knew nothing of her Eastern birth or of all that the love of a man meant to her, might well have believed her story an hysterical fiction and turned from it with just impatience. To Evelyn, however, it spoke of danger as no other word of all that evil night had done. The peril of the house, the vengeance which might fall upon it--the price of the betrayal, her own silence when a word might save a man from the penalty of his sins--this all flashed through her troubled brain and left her with a new sense of helplessness and surpa.s.sing dismay.

"How did you come here; how did you enter this room?" she asked quickly.

"Molines, my uncle, who brought you here--he keeps the keys, excellency."

"Then he let you in--he knows of your being here?"

"He knows, excellency, and is afraid. We must save the English lady, he said. That is why he sent me to you."

"I must see your uncle at once, Djala.... I must tell the Count. What you speak of is a great crime. Let us make them hear us. Oh, my G.o.d, we cannot be silent."

The doubt and suspense of it all became overwhelming, and she stood groping in the dim light for the doorway and beating upon it with both her hands. No one, however, answered her. The little gypsy crouching by the fire seemed afraid to move or to speak. The silence of the house remained unbroken. Evelyn turned away in such despair as seemed to her scarcely human.

"When is your brother coming here?" she asked the child.

Djala answered without looking up.

"I do not know, but he will come, excellency ... and he will speak for me to the Count. Yes, and then----"

The words were stilled upon her lips and she sat up to listen. A sound of men's voices suddenly made itself audible in the room below. The gypsy heard it first and spoke no more of her vengeance.

"That is my brother's voice," she said--and then, realizing what she had done, she caught at Evelyn's dress with both her hands and implored her pity.

"Save him, excellency, for Christ's dear sake, save the man I love,"

she implored.

"I cannot save him, Djala--am I not as helpless as you? ... I cannot save him."

They waited together, hand in hand, listening to the story which the voices told them. Now it would be to the voice of argument, then to that of entreaty, ultimately to the swift interchange of phrase which spoke of anger. When the duologue ceased, the silence had greater terrors of doubt than any they had yet suffered. What had happened, then? Why did none come to them? They could but hope that reason had prevailed.

"Let us light a lamp, excellency; I am afraid of the dark."

"I cannot do it, Djala.... I cannot find the switch."

"Let us try together, excellency--how your hands tremble! And mine are cold, so cold. Let us try to find the light."

They felt along the wall, gathering courage from their occupation. The main switch was upon the landing outside the door, but they found the plug of the bedside lamp and managed to fix it, getting for their reward a little aureole of light upon the bed and greater shadows upon the further walls. That, however, which pleased them better was a green silken bell-rope hanging down by the bedside and revealed now by the lamp. Evelyn took the cord in both her hands and pulled it thrice.

But no bell rang.

"It is broken, Djala; they did not mean us to ring it--hush--listen--they are talking again--that is the Count's voice..."

She caught the child's hand impulsively and drew her to the door as though it would help them to hear the voices more plainly. The controversy below had been resumed suddenly and with a bare preface of civil words. Loud above the other the Count's voice could be heard in threatening expostulation. It ceased upon a haunting cry--lingering, horrible, and to be heard by the imagination long after it had died away.

Djala did not speak when she heard the cry; she seemed as one transfixed by terror, unable to move from the place and afraid to learn the truth. Presently low sobs escaped her; she became hysterical and sank at Evelyn's feet, moaning and trembling.

"They have killed him, excellency ... oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d!"

Evelyn could answer nothing. Stooping, she lifted the fainting girl and laid her upon the bed. While she was not less afraid or distressed than the gypsy, this nearer danger had quickened her faculties and awakened her to action. Once more, though the act seemed folly, she caught at the silken bell-rope and pulled it with all her strength.

The answer was a jarring tintinabulation heard clearly in the silence.

She stood to listen and knew that footsteps were approaching the landing. Then the key turned in the lock and a man, whom she had seen before, a Tzigany beyond all question, entered without ceremony.

"Lady," he said in broken English, "come with me--you must leave this house."

"I will not go until I know the truth; I cannot leave the child," she said, pointing to Djala.

"There are those who will care for her. As for the truth ... it is a man's quarrel. They will be friends to-morrow, lady. Obey me and go quickly."

"I will not leave the child," she protested--not knowing whether his story were false or true and fearing greatly.

For answer, he took her by the arm menacingly and drew her toward the door.

"Go before ill befall you. The child is our daughter. Are we of the people who do not care for their own children? Go, lest worse follow!

The man will live--I, Molines, say it."

The words found her without argument. This child had been with the gypsies at the Manor. What harm would befall her if she remained with them here? And it was no time for woman's pity. The story of the house lay upon her as a heavy shadow. She had the desire to flee far from it; to blot it out of her dreams; to forget its humiliations; to escape its darkness. A voice called her to the way of salvation and she went with the gypsy.

"The carriage will take you as you came," he said; "ask no questions, lady; do not betray us if you value your life and that of another.

That which has happened in this house to-night will never be known to the world. Seek not the story, for it is not yours to seek."

She had no rejoinder for him. There were lamps still alight in the hall as they descended the staircase and the door of a room upon the right hand side was a little way open. Evelyn half-believed that she saw the body of a man lying upon the table there as she pa.s.sed swiftly by; but the door closed immediately and the gypsy hurried her from the house.

"Remember," he said, "be silent ... it is your only hope, lady."

She shuddered and drew away from him. The electric brougham which had carried her from the theatre now rolled slowly up the drive. She entered it without a word and so was driven swiftly away.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

THE SHADOW OF THE RIVER

It wanted an hour of dawn when Evelyn quitted the lonely house. She had given no instructions to the driver, nor did he appear to expect any. In truth, his orders were very far from being in accordance with the old gypsy's promise. A deed of blood had been done and the daylight would discover it. The woman who could tell something of the story would tell it at once if liberty were given her. So said those who entrapped her ... and, desiring to withhold liberty as long as might be, they sent the carriage westward, away toward Harrow and the villages.

Evelyn herself did not suspect this; nor would it have alarmed her had she done so. As one awakened from a dream of death, she tried to shut the picture of the house from her heavy eyes, to drown the cries she had heard, to forget the humiliations. Dark and lonely as the way was, the black shapes of the trees seemed emblems of her liberty; the silent houses so many tokens of the world regained. She cared not where or why, so long as she might breathe the sweet air and tell herself that G.o.d's mercy had saved her. For Gavin would she live--her whole life should be spent in quest of the man she loved; of one who seemed to call her even from the darkness. And of Gavin were her thoughts when the carriage stopped at last and the driver bade her descend.

She perceived him to be an African, of pleasant face and starlike eyes.

To all her questions, however, he did but shake his head and show grinning teeth which would as well become a snarl as laughter, she thought. It was dawn then, and there were gray mists drifting above the hedges. They had stopped in a lane and nothing human was in sight.

"Very sorry, missy--go back now. No far to go, master says so."

"Where are we, where have you brought me?" she asked, obeying him in some fear.