The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Christoph W. Kluge, RodCrawford, Dave Morgan and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note

  Obvious typographical and printer's errors have been corrected. Punctuation marks where missing have silently been supplied. Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been retained as in the original except where noted otherwise.

  A complete list of corrections can be found at the end of this e-text.

  THE YELLOW HOUSE]

  THE YELLOW HOUSE

  MASTER OF MEN

  BY

  E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

  AUTHOR OF

  "THE MISCHIEF-MAKER" "BERENICE" "HAVOC" "THE LOST LEADER" "THE MALEFACTOR"

 

  VOLUME ONE

  NEW YORK P. F. COLLIER & SON

  Copyright 1908 By C. H. Doscher & Co.

  Copyright 1912 By P. F. Collier & Son

  THE YELLOW HOUSE

  CHAPTER I

  THE YELLOW HOUSE

  Positively every one, with two unimportant exceptions, had calledupon us. The Countess had driven over from Sysington Hall, twelvemiles away, with two anaemic-looking daughters, who had gushedover our late roses and the cedar trees which shaded the lawn. TheHolgates of Holgate Brand and Lady Naselton of Naselton had presentedthemselves on the same afternoon. Many others had come in their train,for what these very great people did the neighborhood was boundto endorse. There was a little veiled anxiety, a few elaboratelycareless questions as to the spelling of our name; but when my fatherhad mentioned the second "f," and made a casual allusion to theWarwickshire Ffolliots--with whom we were not indeed on speakingterms, but who were certainly our cousins--a distinct breath ofrelief was followed by a gush of mild cordiality. There were wrongFfolliots and right Ffolliots. We belonged to the latter. No onehad made a mistake or compromised themselves in any way by leavingtheir cards upon a small country vicar and his daughters. And earliercallers went away and spread a favorable report. Those who werehesitating, hesitated no longer. Our little carriage drive, verysteep and very hard to turn in, was cut up with the wheels of manychariots. The whole county within a reasonable distance came, with twoexceptions. And those two exceptions were Mr. Bruce Deville of DevilleCourt, on the borders of whose domain our little church and vicaragelay, and the woman who dwelt in the "Yellow House."

  I asked Lady Naselton about both of them one afternoon. Her ladyship,by the way, had been one of our earliest visitors, and had evincedfrom the first a strong desire to become my sponsor in Northshiresociety. She was middle-aged, bright, and modern--a thorough littlecosmopolitan, with a marked absence in her deportment and mannerismsof anything bucolic or rural. I enjoyed talking to her, and this washer third visit. We were sitting out upon the lawn, drinking afternoontea, and making the best of a brilliant October afternoon. A yellowgleam from the front of that oddly-shaped little house, flashingthrough the dark pine trees, brought it into my mind. It was only fromone particular point in our garden that any part of it was visible atall. It chanced that I occupied that particular spot, and during alull in the conversation it occurred to me to ask a question.

  "By the by," I remarked, "our nearest neighbors have not yet been tosee us?"

  "Your nearest neighbors!" Lady Naselton repeated. "Whom do you mean?There are a heap of us who live close together."

  "I mean the woman who lives at that little shanty through theplantation," I answered, inclining my head towards it. "It is a womanwho lives there, isn't it? I fancy that some one told me so, althoughI have not seen anything of her. Perhaps I was mistaken."

  Lady Naselton lifted both her hands. There was positive relish in hertone when she spoke. The symptoms were unmistakable. Why do the nicestwomen enjoy shocking and being shocked?

  I could see that she was experiencing positive pleasure from myquestion.

  "My dear Miss Ffolliot!" she exclaimed. "My dear girl, don't youreally know anything about her? Hasn't anybody told you anything?"

  I stifled an imaginary yawn in faint protest against her unbecomingexhilaration. I have not many weaknesses, but I hate scandal andscandal-mongering. All the same I was interested, although I did notcare to gratify Lady Naselton by showing it.

  "Remember, that I have only been here a week or two," I remarked;"certainly not long enough to have mastered the annals of theneighborhood. I have not asked any one before. No one has evermentioned her name. Is there really anything worth hearing?"

  Lady Naselton looked down and brushed some crumbs from her lapwith a delicately gloved hand. She was evidently an epicure instory-telling. She was trying to make it last out as long as possible.

  "Well, my dear girl, I should not like to tell you all that peoplesay," she began, slowly. "At the same time, as you are a stranger tothe neighborhood, and, of course, know nothing about anybody, it isonly my duty to put you on your guard. I do not know the particularsmyself. I have never inquired. But she is not considered to be at alla proper person. There is something very dubious about her record."

  "How deliciously vague!" I remarked, with involuntary irony. "Don'tyou know anything more definite?"

  "I find no pleasure in inquiring into such matters," Lady Naseltonreplied a little stiffly. "The opinion of those who are better able tojudge is sufficient for me."

  "One must inquire, or one cannot, or should not, judge," I said. "Isuppose that there's something which she does, or does not, do?"

  "It is something connected with her past life, I believe," LadyNaselton remarked.

  "Her past life? Isn't it supposed to be rather interesting nowadays tohave a past?"

  I began to doubt whether, after all, I was going to be much of afavorite with Lady Naselton. She set her tea cup down, and looked atme with distinct disapproval in her face.

  "Amongst a certain class of people it may be," she answered, severely;"not"--with emphasis--"in Northshire society; not in any part ofit with which I am acquainted, I am glad to say. You must allow meto add, Miss Ffolliot, that I am somewhat surprised to hear you, aclergyman's daughter, express yourself so."

  A clergyman's daughter. I was continually forgetting that. And, afterall, it is much more comfortable to keep one's self in accord withone's environment. I pulled myself together, and explained with muchsurprise--

  "I only asked a question, Lady Naselton. I wasn't expressing myown views. I think that women with a past are very horrid. One isso utterly tired of them in fiction that one does not want to meetthem in real life. We won't talk of this at all. I'm not reallyinterested. Tell me about Mr. Deville instead."

  Now this was a little unkind of me, for I knew quite well that LadyNaselton was brimming with eagerness to tell me a good deal about thisundesirable neighbor of ours. As it happened, however, my questionafforded her a fresh opportunity, of which she took advantage.

  "To tell you of one, unfortunately, is to tell you of the other," shesaid, significantly.

  I decided to humor her, and raised my eyebrows in the most approvedfashion.

  "How shocking!" I exclaimed.

  I was received in favor again. My reception of the innuendo had beenall that could be desired.

  "We consider it a most flagrant case," she continued, leaning overtowards me confidentially. "I am thankful to say that of the two BruceDeville is the least blamed."

  "Isn't that generally the case?" I murmured. "It is the woman who hasto bear the burden."

  "And it is generally the woman who deserves it," Lady Naseltonanswered, promptly. "It is my e
xperience, at any rate, and I haveseen a good deal more of life than you. In the present case therecan be no doubt about it. The woman actually followed him down here,and took up her quarters almost at his gates whilst he was away. Shewas there with scarcely a stick of furniture in the house for nearlya month. When he came back, would you believe it, the house wasfurnished from top to bottom with things from the Court. The cartswere going backwards and forwards for days. She even went up andselected some of the furniture herself. I saw it all going on with myown eyes. Oh! it was the most barefaced thing!"

  "Tell me about Mr. Deville," I interrupted hastily. "I have not seenhim yet. What is he like?"

  "Bruce Deville," she murmured to herself, thoughtfully. Then she wassilent for a moment. Something that was almost like a gleam of sorrowpassed across her face. Her whole expression was changed.

  "Bruce Deville is my godson," she said, slowly. "I suppose that is whyI feel his failure the more keenly."

  "He is a failure, then?" I asked. "Some one was talking about himyesterday, but I only heard fragments here and there. Isn't he veryquixotic, and very poor?"

  "Poor!" She repeated the word with peculiar emphasis. Then she rosefrom her chair, and walked a step or two towards the low fence whichenclosed our lawn.

  "Come here, child."

  I stood by her side looking across the sunlit stretch of meadows andundulating land. A very pretty landscape it was. The farm houses, withtheir grey fronts and red-tiled roofs, and snug rickyards close athand, had a particularly prosperous and picturesque appearance. Theland was mostly arable and well-cultivated; field after field ofdeep golden stubble, and rich, dark soil stretched away to the dimhorizon. She held out her hand.

  "You see!" she exclaimed. "Does that look like a poor man'spossessions?"

  I shook my head.

  "Every village there from east to west, every stone and acrebelongs to Bruce Deville, and has belonged to the Devilles forcenturies. There is no other land owner on that side of thecountry. He is lord of the Manor of a dozen parishes!"

  I was puzzled.

  "Then why do people call him so miserably poor?" I asked. "They saythat the Court is virtually closed, and that he lives the life of ahermit, almost without servants even."

  "He either is or says he is as poor as Job," Lady Naselton continued,resuming her seat. "He is a most extraordinary man. He was away fromthe country altogether for twelve years, wandering about, without anyregular scheme of travel, all over the world. People met him or heardof him in all manner of queer and out-of-the-way places. Then he livedin London for a time, and spent a fortune--I don't know that I oughtto say anything about that to you--on Marie Leparte, the singer. Oneday he came back suddenly to the Court, which had been shut up allthis time, and took up his quarters there in a single room with an oldservant. He gave out that he was ruined, and that he desired neitherto visit nor to be visited. He behaved in such an extraordinary mannerto those who did go to see him, that they are not likely to repeat theattempt."

  "How long has he been living there?" I asked.

  "About four years."

  "I suppose that you see him sometimes?"

  She shook her head sadly.

  "Very seldom. Not oftener than I can help. He is changed sodreadfully."

  "Tell me what he is like."

  "Like! Do you mean personally? He is ugly--hideously ugly--especiallynow that he takes so little care of himself. He goes about in clothesmy coachman would decline to wear, and he slouches. I think a man whoslouches is detestable."

  "So do I," I assented. "What a very unpleasant neighbor to have!"

  "Oh, that isn't the worst," she continued. "He is impossible in everyway. He has a brutal temper and a brutal manner. No one could possiblytake him for a gentleman. He is cruel and reckless, and he doesnothing but loaf. There are things said about him which I should notdare to repeat to you. I feel it deeply; but it is no use disguisingthe fact. He is an utter and miserable failure."

  "On the whole," I remarked, resuming my chair, "it is perhaps wellthat he has not called. I might not like him."

  Lady Naselton's hard little laugh rang out upon the afternoonstillness. The idea seemed to afford her infinite but bitteramusement.

  "Like him, my dear! Why, he would frighten you to death. Fancy anyone liking Bruce Deville! Wait until you've seen him. He is the mostperfect prototype of degeneration in a great family I have ever comein contact with. The worst of it, too, that he was such a charmingboy. Why, isn't that Mr. Ffolliot coming?" she added, in an altogetherdifferent tone. "I am so glad that I am going to meet him at last."

  I looked up and followed her smiling gaze. My father was comingnoiselessly across the smooth, green turf towards us. We both ofus watched him for a moment, Lady Naselton with a faint look ofsurprise in her scrutiny. My father was not in the least of the typeof the ordinary country clergyman. He was tall and slim, and carriedhimself with an air of calm distinction. His clean-shaven face wasdistinctly of the intellectual cast. His hair was only slightly grey,was parted in the middle and vigorously mobile and benevolent. Hisperson in every way was faultless and immaculate, from the tips ofhis long fingers to the spotless white cravat which alone redeemedthe sombreness of his clerical attire. I murmured a few words ofintroduction, and he bowed over Lady Naselton's hand with a smilewhich women generally found entrancing.

  "I am very glad to meet Lady Naselton," he said, courteously. "Mydaughter has told me so much of your kindness to her."

  Lady Naselton made some pleasing and conventional reply. My fatherturned to me.

  "Have you some tea, Kate?" he asked. "I have been making a long roundof calls, and it is a little exhausting."

  "I have some, but it is not fit to drink," I answered, striking thegong. "Mary shall make some fresh. It will only take a minute or two."

  My father acquiesced silently. He was fastidious in small things, andI knew better than to offer him cold tea. He drew up a basket-chair tous and sat down with a little sigh of relief.

  "You have commenced your work here early," Lady Naselton remarked. "Doyou think that you are going to like these parts?"

  "The country is delightful," my father answered readily. "As to thework--well, I scarcely know. Rural existence is such a change afterthe nervous life of a great city."

  "You had a large parish at Belchester, had you not?" Lady Naseltonasked.

  "A very large one," he answered. "I am fond of work. I have alwaysbeen used to large parishes."

  And two curates, I reflected silently. Lady Naselton was lookingsympathetic.

  "You will find plenty to do here, I believe," she remarked. "Theschools are in a most backward condition. My husband says that unlessthere is a great change in them very soon we shall be having theSchool Board."

  "We must try and prevent that," my father said, gravely. "Of courseI have to remember that I am only curate-in-charge here, but still Ishall do what I can. My youngest daughter Alice is a great assistanceto me in such matters. By the by, where is Alice?" he added, turningto me.

  "She is in the village somewhere," I answered. "She will not be homefor tea. She has gone to see an old woman--to read to her, I think."

  My father sighed gently. "Alice is a good girl," he said.

  I bore the implied reproof complacently. My father sipped his tea fora moment or two, and then asked a question.

  "You were speaking of some one when I crossed the lawn?" heremarked. "Some one not altogether a desirable neighbor I shouldimagine from Lady Naselton's tone. Would it be a breach ofconfidence----"

  "Oh, no," I interrupted. "Lady Naselton was telling me all about theman that lives at the Court--our neighbor, Mr. Bruce Deville."

  My father set his cup down abruptly. His long walk had evidently tiredhim. He was more than ordinarily pale. He moved his basket-chair a fewfeet further back into the deep, cool shade of the cedar tree. For asecond or two his eyes were half closed and his eyelids quivered.

  "Mr. Bruce Deville," he repeated, softly--"Bruce Devill
e! It issomewhat an uncommon name."

  "And somewhat an uncommon man!" Lady Naselton remarked, dryly. "Aterrible black sheep he is, Mr. Ffolliot. If you really want toachieve a triumph you should attempt his conversion. You should tryand get him to come to church. Fancy Bruce Deville in church! Thewalls would crack and the windows fall in!"

  "My predecessor was perhaps not on good terms with him," my fathersuggested, softly. "I have known so many unfortunate cases in whichthe squire of the parish and the vicar have not been able to hit itoff."

  Lady Naselton shook her head. She had risen to her feet, and washolding out a delicately gloved hand.

  "No, it is not that," she said. "No one could hit it off withBruce Deville. I was fond of him once; but I am afraid that he isa very bad lot. I should advise you to give him as wide a berth aspossible. Listen. Was that actually six o'clock? I must go thissecond. Come over and see me soon, won't you, Miss Ffolliot, and bringyour father? I will send a carriage for you any day you like. It issuch an awful pull up to Naselton. Goodbye."

  She was gone with a good deal of silken rustle, and a faint emissionof perfume from her trailing skirt. Notwithstanding his fatigue, myfather accompanied her across the lawn, and handed her into her ponycarriage. He remained several minutes talking to her earnestly aftershe had taken her seat and gathered up the reins, and it seemed to methat he had dropped his voice almost to a whisper. Although I was buta few paces off I could hear nothing of what they were saying. When atlast the carriage drove off and he came back to me, he was thoughtful,and there was a dark shade upon his face. He sat quite still forseveral moments without speaking. Then he looked up at me abruptly.

  "If Lady Naselton's description of our neighbor is at all correct," heremarked, "he must be a perfect ogre."

  I nodded.

  "One would imagine so. He is her godson, but she can find nothing butevil to say of him."

  "Under which circumstances it would be as well for us--for you girlsespecially--to carefully avoid him," my father continued, keeping hisclear, grey eyes steadily fixed upon my face. "Don't you agree withme?"

  "Most decidedly I do," I answered.

  But, curiously enough, notwithstanding his evil reputation--perhapsbecause of it--I was already beginning to feel a certain amount ofunaccountable interest in Mr. Bruce Deville.