The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER III

  MR. BRUCE DEVILLE

  My father's first sermon was a great success. As usual, it waspolished, eloquent, and simple, and withal original. He preachedwithout manuscript, almost without notes, and he took particularpains to keep within the comprehension of his tiny congregation. LadyNaselton, who waited for me in the aisle, whispered her warm approval.

  "Whatever induced your father to come to such an out-of-the-wayhole as this?" she exclaimed, as we passed through the porch intothe fresh, sunlit air. "Why, he is an orator! He should preach atcathedrals! I never heard any one whose style I like better. But allthe same it is a pity to think of such a sermon being preached to sucha congregation. Don't you think so yourself?"

  I agreed with her heartily.

  "I wonder that you girls let him come here and bury himself, with histalents," she continued.

  "I had not much to do with it," I reminded her. "You forget that Ihave lived abroad all my life; I really have only been home for abouteight or nine months."

  "Well, I should have thought that your sister would have been moreambitious for him," she declared. "However, it's not my business,of course. Since you are here, I shall insist, positively insist,upon coming every Sunday. My husband says that it is such a dragfor the horses. Men have such ridiculous ideas where horses areconcerned. I am sure that they take more care of them than they do oftheir wives. Come and have tea with me to-morrow, will you?"

  "If I can," I promised. "It all depends upon what Providence has instore for me in the shape of callers."

  "There is no one left to call," Lady Naselton declared, with her footupon the carriage step. "I looked through your card plate the otherday whilst I was waiting for you. You will be left in peace for alittle while now."

  "You forget our neighbor," I answered, laughing. "He has not calledyet, and I mean him to."

  Lady Naselton leaned back amongst the soft cushions of her barouche,and smiled a pitying smile at me.

  "You need not wait for him, at any rate," she said. "If you do youwill suffer for the want of fresh air."

  The carriage drove off, and I skirted the church yard, and made myway round to the Vicarage gate. Away across the park I could see ahuge knickerbockered figure leaning over a gate, with his back tome, smoking a pipe. It was not a graceful attitude, nor was it aparticularly reputable way of spending a Sunday morning.

  I was reminded of him again as I walked up the path towards thehouse. A few yards from our dining room window a dog was lying upon aflower bed edge. As I approached, it limped up, whining, and looked atme with piteous brown eyes. I recognized the breed at once. It was abeagle--one of Mr. Deville's without a doubt. It lay at my feet withits front paw stretched out, and when I stooped down to pat it, itwagged its tail feebly, but made no effort to rise. Evidently its legwas broken.

  I fetched some lint from the house, and commenced to bind up the limbas carefully as possible. The dog lay quite still, whining and lickingmy hand every now and then. Just as I was finishing off the bandageI became conscious that some one was approaching the garden--a firm,heavy tread was crossing the lane. In a moment or two a gruff voicesounded almost at my elbow.

  "I beg pardon, but I think one of my dogs is here."

  The words were civil enough, but the tone was brusque and repellant. Ilooked round without removing my hands from the lint. Our neighbor'sappearance was certainly not encouraging. His great frame wascarelessly clad in a very old shooting suit, which once mighthave been of good cut and style, but was now only fit for the ragdealer. He wore a grey flannel shirt with a turn-down collar of thesame material. His face, whatever its natural expression might havebeen, was disfigured just then with a dark, almost a ferocious,scowl. His hand was raised, as though unwillingly, to his cap, and apair of piercing grey eyes were flashing down upon me from beneath hisheavily marked eyebrows. He stood frowning down from his great height,a singularly powerful and forbidding object.

  I resumed my task.

  "No doubt it is your dog!" I said, calmly. "But you must wait untilI have finished the bandage. You should take better care of youranimals! Perhaps you don't know that its leg is broken."

  He got down on his knees at once without glancing at me again. Heseemed to have forgotten my very existence.

  "Lawless," he exclaimed, softly--"little lady, little lady, what haveyou been up to? Oh, you silly little woman!"

  The animal, with the rank ingratitude of its kind, wriggledfrantically out of my grasp and fawned about its master in a paroxysmof delight. I was so completely forgotten that I was able to observehim at my ease. His face and voice had changed like magic. Then I sawthat his features, though irregular, were powerful and not ill-shaped,and that his ugly flannel shirt was at any rate clean. He continuedto ignore my presence, and, taking the dog up into his arms, tenderlyexamined the fracture.

  "Poor little lady!" he murmured. "Poor little Lawless. One of thosedamned traps of Harrison's, I suppose. I shall kill that fellow someday!" he added, savagely, under his breath.

  I rose to my feet and shook out my skirts. There are limits to one'stolerance.

  "You are perfectly welcome," I remarked, quietly.

  There was no doubt as to his having forgotten my presence. He lookedup with darkened face. Lady Naselton was perfectly right. He was avery ugly man.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "I had quite forgotten that you werehere. In fact, I thought that you had gone away. Thank you forattending to the dog. That will do very nicely until I get it home,"he added, touching the bandage.

  "Until you get it home!" I repeated. "Thank you! Do you think that youcan bandage better than that?"

  I looked down with some scorn at his large, clumsy hands. After all,were they so very clumsy, though? They were large and brown, but theywere not without a certain shapeliness. They looked strong, too. Hebore the glance with perfect equanimity, and, taking the two ends ofthe line into his hands, commenced to draw them tighter.

  "Well, you see, I shall set the bone properly when I get back," hesaid. "This is fairly done, though, for an amateur. Thank you--andgood morning."

  He was turning brusquely away with the dog under his arm, but Istopped him.

  "Who is Harrison?" I asked, "and why does he set traps?"

  He frowned, evidently annoyed at having to stay and answer questions.

  "Harrison is a small tenant farmer who objects to my crossing hisland."

  "Objects to you crossing his land?" I repeated, vaguely.

  "Yes, yes. I take these dogs after hares, you know--beagling, we callit. Sometimes I am forced to cross his farm if a hare is running,although I never go there for one. He objects, and so he sets traps."

  "Is he your tenant?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "Why don't you get rid of him, then? I wouldn't have a man who wouldset traps on my land."

  He frowned, and his tone was distinctly impatient. He was evidentlyweary of the discussion.

  "I cannot. He has a long lease. Good morning."

  "Good morning, Mr. Deville."

  He looked over his shoulder.

  "You know my name!"

  "Certainly. Don't you know mine?"

  "No."

  "Let me introduce myself, then. I am Miss Ffolliot--the pale-facedchit, you know!" I added, maliciously. "My father is the new vicar."

  I was standing up before him with my hands clasped behind my back, andalmost felt the flash of his dark, fiery eyes as they swept over me. Icould not look away from him.

  There was a distinct change in his whole appearance. At last he waslooking at me with genuine interest. The lines of his mouth had cometogether sharply, and his face was as black as thunder.

  "Ffolliot?" he repeated, slowly--"Ffolliot? How do you spell it?"

  "Anyhow, so long as you remember the two F's!" I answered,suavely. "Generally, double F, O, double L, I, O, T. Rather apretty name, we think, although I am afraid that you don't seem tolike it. Oh! here's my father coming. Won't you stay, and make
hisacquaintance?"

  My father, returning from the church, with his surplice under his arm,had been attracted by the sight of a strange man talking to me on thelawn, and was coming slowly over towards us. Mr. Deville turned roundrather abruptly. The two men met face to face, my father dignified,correct, severe, Bruce Deville untidy, ill-clad, with sullen, darkenedface, lit by the fire which flashed from his eyes. Yet there wasa certain dignity about his bearing, and he met my father's eyesresolutely. The onus of speech seemed to rest with him, and heaccepted it.

  "I need no introduction to Mr. Ffolliot," he said, sternly. "I amafraid that I can offer you no welcome to Northshire. This is asurprise."

  My father looked him up and down with stony severity.

  "So far as I am concerned, sir," he said, "I desire no welcome fromyou. Had I known that you were to be amongst my near neighbors, Ishould not have taken up my abode here for however short a time."

  "The sentiment," remarked Mr. Deville, "is altogether mutual. At anyrate, we can see as little of each other as possible. I wish you agood morning."

  He raised his cap presumably to me, although he did not glance in mydirection, and went off across the lawn, taking huge strides, andcrossing our flower beds with reckless unconcern. My father watchedhim go with a dark shadow resting upon his face. He laid his fingersupon my arm, and their touch through my thin gown was like the touchof fire. I looked into his still, calm face, and I wondered. It wasmarvellous that a man should wear such a mask.

  "You have known him?" I murmured. "Where? Who is he?"

  My father drew a long, inward breath through his clenched teeth.

  "That man," he said, slowly, with his eyes still fixed upon the nowdistant figure, "was closely, very closely, associated with the mostunhappy chapter of my life. It was all over and done with before youwere old enough to understand. It is many, many years ago, but I feltin his presence as though it were but yesterday. It is many yearsago--but it hurts still--like a knife it hurts."

  He held his hand pressed convulsively to his side, and stood watchingthe grey, stalwart figure now almost out of sight. His face waswhite and strained--some symptoms of yesterday's faintness seemedto be suggested by those wan cheeks and over bright eyes. Even I,naturally unsympathetic and callous, was moved. I laid my hand uponhis shoulders.

  "It is over and finished, you say, this dark chapter," I whispered,softly. "I would not think of it."

  He looked at me for a moment in silence. The grey pallor stilllingered in his thin, sunken cheeks, and his eyes were like coldfires. It was a face which might well guard its own secrets. I lookedinto it, and felt a vague sense of trouble stirring within me. Wasthat chapter of his life turned over and done with forever? Was thatsecret at which he had hinted, and the knowledge of which lay betweenthese two, wholly of the past, or was it a live thing? I could nottell. My father was fast becoming the enigma of my life.

  "I cannot cease to think about it," he said, slowly. "I shall nevercease to think about it until--until----"

  "Until when?" I whispered.

  "Until the end," he cried, hoarsely--"until the end, and God grantthat it may not be long."