Cord and Creese

by James De Mille

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  THE CAB.

  That evening Beatrice's performance had been greeted with louderapplause than usual, and, what was more gratifying to one like her, theeffective passages had been listened to with a stillness which spokemore loudly than the loudest applause of the deep interest of theaudience.

  Langhetti had almost always driven home with her, but on this occasionhe had excused himself on account of some business in the theatre whichrequired 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 forthis, but thought that perhaps he had been drinking and had forgottenall about her. On making this discovery she was on the point of goingback and telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her persistently,promising to take her wherever she wished, and she thought that it wouldbe foolish to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter; so that atlength she decided to employ the persevering cabman, thinking that hecould take her to her lodgings as well as any body else.

  The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and went on through street afterstreet, while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening's performance.

  At last it seemed to her that she had been a much longer time thanusual, and she began to fear that the cabman had lost his way. Shelooked out. They were going along the upper part of Oxford Street, agreat distance from where she lived. She instantly tried to draw downthe window so as to attract the cabman's attention, but could not moveit. She tried the other, but all were fast and would not stir. Sherapped at the glass to make him hear, but he took no notice. Then shetried 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 werenow 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 thecabman was drunk--or what? Could he have been hired to carry her off toher 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 ofterror. Her chief feeling now was one of indignation at the audacity ofsuch an attempt. Obeying the first impulse that seized her, she took thesolid roll of music which she carried with her and dashed it against thefront window so violently that she broke it in pieces. Then she caughtthe driver by the sleeve and ordered him to stop.

  "All right," said the driver, and, turning a corner, he whipped up hishorses, 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 onlydwelling-houses it was not so brightly lighted as Oxford Street. Therewere but few foot-passengers on the sidewalk. As it was now aboutmidnight, most of the lights were out, and the gas-lamps were the chiefmeans of illumination.

  Yet there was a chance that the police might save her. With this hopeshe dashed her music scroll against the windows on each side of the caband 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 shoutingfor aid aroused the police. They started forward. But the horses wererushing so swiftly that no one dared to touch them. The driver seemedto them to have lost control. They thought that the horses were runningaway, and that those within the cab were frightened.

  Away they went through street after street, and Beatrice never ceasedto call. The excitement which was created by the runaway horses did notabate, 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 aquiet-looking street. A light shone from the front-parlor window. As thecab 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! Howcould you leave your father's roof!"

  It was John Potts.

  Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made aviolent effort against her despair.

  "You have no control over me," said she, bitterly. "I am of age. Andyou," said she to the policeman, "I demand your help. I put myself underyour protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or tolet 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 willnot dare to take you from me."

  "I implore you," cried Beatrice, "save me from this man. Take me to thepolice-station--any where rather than leave me here!"

  "You can not," said Potts to the bewildered policeman. "Listen. Sheis my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italianvagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got herback."

  "It's false!" cried Beatrice, vehemently. "I fled from this man's housebecause 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-houseyou'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 aparamour's."

  This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.

  "As to your charge about my cruelty I can prove to the world that youlived in splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of the servants can testifyto this. Your morose disposition made you keep by yourself. You alwaystreated your father with indifference, and finally ran away with a manwho unfortunately had won your affections in Hong Kong."

  "You well know the reason why I left your roof," replied Beatrice, withcalm and severe dignity. "Your foul aspersions upon my character areunworthy of notice."

  "And what shall I say about your aspersions on my character?" criedPotts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertionto brow-beat Beatrice. "Do you remember the names you called me and yourthreats 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 apolice court."

  "And why? Those absurd charges of yours are worthless. Have you anyproof?" 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 underage, and I have never treated you with any thing except kindness. Nowthe law can do nothing since you are mine. But as you are so young andinexperienced I'll tell you what will happen.

  "The newspapers," he continued, after a pause, "will be full of yourstory. They will print what I shall prove to be true--that you had anintractable disposition--that you had formed a guilty attachment for adrum-major at Hong Kong--that you ran away with him, lived for a whileat Holby, and then went with your paramour to London. If you had onlymarried him you would have been out of my power; but you don't pretendto be married. You don't call yourself Langhetti, but have taken anothername, which the sharp newspaper reporters will hint was given you bysome other one of your numerous favorites. They will declare that youlove every man but your own father; and you--
you who played the goddesson the stage and sang about Truth and Religion will be known all overEngland and all over Europe too as the vilest of the vile."

  "Oh, my daughter!" cried Potts, "will you still berelentless?"]

  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 haveherself 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 ornot, she thought so. There was no help--no friend.

  "Go," said Potts; "leave me now and you become covered with infamy. Whowould 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 findthoughts 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 tothe house. "I don't think you have any chance left. You had better goin."

  His tone was one full of bitter taunt. Scarce conscious, with her brainreeling, and her limbs trembling, Beatrice entered the house.