The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IV

  OUR MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBORS

  This was a faithful and exact account of my meeting with the first ofthose two of our neighbors who seemed, according to Lady Naselton'sreport, to remain entirely outside the ordinary society of theplace. Curiously enough, my meeting with the second one occurred onthe very next afternoon.

  We came face to face at a turning in the wood within a few yards ofher odd little house, and the surprise of it almost took my breathaway. Could this be the woman condemned to isolation by a wholeneighborhood--the woman on whose shoulders lay the burden of BruceDeville's profligacy? I looked into the clear, dark eyes which metmine without any shadow of embarrassment--returning in some measurethe keen interest of my own scrutiny--and the thing seemed impossible.

  She spoke to me graciously, and as though to do so were quite a matterof course. Her voice completed my subjugation. One may so often bedeceived by faces, but the voice seems an infallible test.

  "There is going to be a terrible storm," she said. "Won't you come infor a few minutes? You will scarcely be able to get home, and thesetrees are not safe."

  Even while she was speaking the big rain drops began to fall. Igathered up my skirts, and hurried along by her side.

  "It is very good of you," I said, breathlessly. "I am dreadfullyafraid of a thunderstorm."

  We crossed the trim little lawn, and in a moment I had passed theportals of the Yellow House. The front door opened into a low, squarehall, hung with old-fashioned engravings against a background of darkoak. There were rugs upon the polished floor, and several easy chairsand lounges. By the side of one was a box from Mudie's, evidently justarrived, and a small wood fire was burning in the open grate. She laidher hand on the back of a low rocking chair.

  "Shall we sit here?" she suggested. "We can keep the door open andwatch the storm. Or perhaps you would rather see as little of it aspossible?"

  I took the easy chair opposite to her.

  "I don't mind watching it from inside," I answered. "I am not reallynervous, but those trees look horribly unsafe. One wants to be on themoor to enjoy a thunderstorm."

  She looked at me with a faint smile, kindly but critically.

  "No, you don't look particularly nervous," she said. "I wonder----"

  A crash of thunder drowned the rest of her sentence.

  In the silence which followed I found her studying my featuresintently. For some reason or other she seemed suddenly to havedeveloped a new and strong interest in me. Her eyes were fastened uponmy face. I began to feel almost uncomfortable.

  She suddenly realized it, and broke into a little laugh.

  "Forgive my staring at you so outrageously," she exclaimed. "You mustthink me a very rude person. It is odd to meet any one in the woodsabout here, you know; and I don't think that I have ever seen youbefore, have I?"

  I shook my head.

  "Probably not; unless you were at church yesterday," I said.

  "Then I certainly have not, for I do not attend church," sheanswered. "But you don't live in church, do you?"

  I laughed.

  "Oh, no; but we have only been here a week or so," I told her. "Myname is Kate Ffolliot. I am the daughter of the new vicar, or, rather,curate-in-charge."

  Once more the hall was filled with white light.

  There was a moment's breathless silence, and then the thunder camecrashing over our heads. When it was over she was leaning forward withher face buried in her hands. She did not look up immediately.

  "The thunder is awful!" I remarked. "I never heard it more directlyoverhead. I am afraid it is making you uncomfortable, is it not?"

  She did not move her hands or answer me. I rose to my feet,frightened.

  "What is the matter?" I cried. "Are you ill? Shall I call any one?"

  She raised her head and looked at me, motioning me to sit down witha little wave of her hand. Evidently the storm had affected hernerves. Her face was paler than ever save where her clenched fingersseemed to have cut into her cheeks and left red livid marks on eitherside. Her dark eyes were unnaturally bright and dry. She had lost thatdignified serenity of manner which had first impressed me.

  "No; please sit down," she said, softly. "I am all right--only veryfoolish. That last crash was too awful. It was silly of me to mind,though. I have seen worse storms. It is a sign of advancing age, Isuppose."

  I laughed. She was still regarding me fixedly.

  "So we are neighbors, Miss Ffolliot?" she remarked.

  "Close ones," I answered. "There is only a little belt of treesbetween us."

  "I might have guessed who you were," she said. "For the moment,though, it did not occur to me. You are not," she said, with a faintsmile, "at all what one looks for in a country clergyman's daughter."

  "I have lived abroad nearly all my life," I said. "I was at school inBerlin and Heidelberg. My sister has always been my father's helper. Iam afraid that parish work does not appeal to me at all."

  "I am not surprised at that," she answered. "One needs a specialdisposition to interest one's self in those things, and, without beinga physiognomist, I can tell you that you have not got it."

  "People in the country are so stupid, and they take so much forgranted," I remarked. "If I were a philanthropist, I should certainlychoose to work in a city."

  "You are quite right," she answered, absently. "Work amongst peoplewho have learned to think a little for themselves is more inspiring."

  We were silent for a moment or two. She was evidently not interestedin the discussion, so I did not attempt to carry it on. I turned alittle in my chair to watch the storm outside, conscious all the timethat her eyes scarcely left my face.

  "I had grown so used," she said, presently, "to the rectory beingempty, that I had quite forgotten the possibility of its beingoccupied again. The vicar used to live several miles away. I wonderthat Mr. Deville did not know anything about you--that he did not knowyour name, at any rate."

  Now I was sorry that she had mentioned Mr. Deville. I was doing mybest to forget all that I had heard from Lady Naselton, and to forman independent judgment; but at her words the whole substance of itreturned to me with a rush. I leaned back in my chair, and looked ather thoughtfully. She was a woman whose age might be anything betweenthirty-five and forty. She was plainly dressed, but with a quietelegance which forbade any idea of a country dressmaker. She was toothin for her figure to be considered in any way good; but she was talland graceful in all her movements. Her thick, brown hair, touched hereand there with grey, was parted in the middle and vigorously brushedaway from a low, thoughtful forehead, over which it showed a decidedpropensity to wave. Her features were good and strongly marked, andher skin was perfect. Her eyes were bright and dark, her mouth piquantand humorous. She had no pretence to beauty, but she was certainly avery attractive and a very well-bred woman. I had never in all my lifeseen any one who suggested less those things at which Lady Naseltonhad hinted.

  Perhaps she saw the slight change in my face at Mr. Deville's name. Atany rate, she turned the conversation.

  "Have you been living in the country before you came here, or near alarge city?" she asked. "You will find it very quiet here!"

  "We came from Belchester," I answered. "My father had a church in thesuburbs there. It was very horrid; I was not there long, but I hatedit. I think the most desolate country region in the world is betterthan suburbanism."

  "I don't think that I agree with you," she smiled. "In a largecommunity at any rate you are closer to the problems of life. I was atBelchester not long ago, and I found it very interesting."

  "You were at Belchester!" I repeated in surprise.

  "Yes; I was electioneering. I came to help Mr. Densham."

  "What! The Socialist!" I cried.

  She nodded, and I could see that the corners of her mouth weretwitching with amusement.

  "Yes. I thought that Belchester was rather an enlightened place. Wepolled over four thousand votes. I think if we had another week ortwo, and a f
ew less helpers we might have got Mr. Densham in."

  "A few less helpers!" I repeated, aimlessly.

  "Yes. That is the worst of Labor and Socialist meetings. There issuch a terrible craving amongst the working classes to become stumporators. You cannot teach them to hold their tongues. They make sillyspeeches, and of course the newspapers on the other side report them,and we get the discredit of their opinions. One always suffers most atthe hands of one's friends."

  I looked at her in silent wonder. I, too, had helped at thatelection--that is to say, I had driven about in the Countess ofApplecorn's barouche with a great bunch of cornflower in my gown,and talked amiably to a lot of uninteresting people. I had a dimrecollection of a one-horse wagonette which we had passed on the waypreceded by a brass band and a lot of factory hands, and of LadyApplecorn raising her gold-rimmed eyeglass and saying something aboutthe Socialist candidate.

  "Did you make speeches--and that sort of thing?" I asked,hesitatingly.

  She laughed outright.

  "Of course I did. How else could I have helped? I am afraid that youare beginning to think that I am a very terrible person," she added,with a decided twinkle in her rich brown eyes.

  "Please don't say that!" I begged. "Only I have been brought upalways with people who shuddered at the very mention of the word bothhere and abroad, and I daresay that I have a wrong impression aboutit all. For one thing I thought it was only poor people who wereSocialists."

  For a moment she looked grave.

  "True Socialism is the most fascinating of all doctrines for therich and the poor, for all thoughtful men and women," she said,quietly. "It is a religion as well as the very core of politics. Butwe will not talk about that now. Are you interested in the newbooks? You might like to see some of these."

  She pointed at the box. "I get all the new novels, but I read very fewof them."

  I looked them over as she handed the volumes out to me. I had read agood many books in which she was interested. We began to discuss them,casually at first, and then eagerly. An hour or more must have slippedaway. At last I looked at the clock and sprang up.

  "You must have some tea," she said, with her hand on the bell. "Pleasedo not hurry away."

  I hesitated, but she seemed to take my consent for granted, and Isuffered myself to be persuaded.

  "Come and see my den while they bring it."

  She opened a door on the left hand of the hall, and I passed by herside into a large room of irregular shape, from which French windowsled out on to the trim little lawn. The walls were almost lined withbooks--my father's library did not hold so many. A writing table drawnup to the window was covered with loose sheets of paper and works ofreference turned upon their faces. For the rest the room was a marvelof delicate coloring and refined femininity. There were plenty of cosychairs, and three-legged tables, with their burden of dainty china,rare statuettes, and many vases of flowers, mostly clustering yellowroses. But what absorbed my attention after my rapid glance aroundwas the fact that Mr. Bruce Deville was sitting in a very comfortablechair near the window, reading one of the loose sheets of paper whichhe had taken from the desk.

  He rose from his feet at the sound of the opening of the door, buthe did not immediately look up. He spoke to her, and I scarcelyrecognized his voice. His gruffness was gone! It was mellow andgood-humored.

  "Marcia! Marcia! Why can't you leave poor Harris alone?" he said. "Youwill drive him out of his senses if you sling Greek at him likethis. You women are so vindictive!"

  "If you will condescend to turn round," she answered, smiling, "Ishall be glad to know how you got in here, and what are you doing withmy manuscript?"

  He looked up, and the sheet fluttered from his fingers. He regardedme with undiluted astonishment. "Well, I came in at the window," heanswered. "I was in a hurry to escape getting wet through. I had noidea that you had a visitor!"

  I glanced towards her. She was in no way discomposed or annoyed.

  "I am not inclined to walk this afternoon," she said. "Will you comedown after dinner, about nine? I want to see you, but not just now."

  He nodded, and took up his cap. At the window he looked back atme curiously. For a moment he seemed about to speak. He contentedhimself, however, with a parting bow, to which I responded. Directlyhe got outside the garden he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.

  The incident did not seem to have troubled her in any way. She pointedout some of the treasures of her room, elegant little trifles,collected in many countries of the world, but I am afraid I was notvery attentive.

  "Is Mr. Deville a relation of yours?" I asked, rather abruptly.

  She had just taken down a little Italian statuette for my inspection,and she replaced it carefully before she answered.

  "No. We are friends. I have known him for a good many years."

  A tiny Burmese gong rang out from the hall. She came across the roomtowards me, smiling pleasantly.

  "Shall we go and have some tea? I always want tea so much after athunderstorm. I will show you some more of my Penates, if you likeafterwards."

  I followed her into the hall, and took my tea from the hands of aprim little maid servant. With the Dresden cup between my fingers asudden thought flashed into my mind. If only Lady Naselton could seeme. Unconsciously my lips parted, and I laughed outright.

  "Do forgive me," I begged. "Something came into my mind. It was toofunny. I could not help laughing."

  "To be able to laugh at one's thoughts is a luxury," she answered. "Iknow a man who lived through a terrible illness solely because of hissense of humor. There are so many things to laugh at in the world, ifonly one sees them in the right light. Let me give you some more tea."

  I set down my cup. "No more, thanks. That has been delicious. I wonderwhether I might ask you a question?" I added. "I should like to if Imight."

  "Well, you certainly may," she answered, good-humoredly.

  "Mr. Deville spoke of your work," I continued; "and of course I couldsee you had been writing. Do you write fiction? I think it is sodelightful for women to do anything for themselves--any real work, Imean. Do you mind my asking?"

  "I do not write fiction as a rule," she said, slowly. "I write forthe newspapers. I was a correspondent for several years for oneof the dailies. I write more now for a purpose. I am one of the'abhorred tribe,' you know--a Socialist, or what people understand asa Socialist. Are you horrified?"

  "Not in the least," I answered her; "only I should like to know moreabout it. From what I have heard about Socialism I should never havedreamed of associating it with--well, with Dresden cups and saucers,for instance," I laughed, motioning to her own.

  Her eyes twinkled. "Poor child," she said, "you have all theold-fashioned ideas about us and our beliefs, I suppose. I am not surethat, if you were a properly regulated young lady, you would not getup and walk out of the house."

  A shadow had fallen across the open doorway, and a familiar voice,stern, but tremulous with passion, took up her words.

  "That is precisely what my daughter will do, madam! At once, andwithout delay! Do you hear, Kate?"

  I rose to my feet dumb with amazement. My father's tall figure, drawnto its utmost height, stood out with almost startling vividnessagainst the sunlit space beyond. A deep red flush was on his palecheeks. His eyes seemed on fire with anger. My hostess rose to herfeet with dignity.

  "Your daughter is at liberty to remain or go at any time," she said,coolly. "I presume that I am addressing Mr. Ffolliot?"

  She looked over my shoulder towards my father, and their eyes met. Ilooked from one to the other, conscious that something was passingoutside my knowledge--something between those two. Her eyes hadbecome like dull stones. Her face had grown strangely hard andcold. There was a brief period of intense silence, broken only by aslow, monotonous ticking of the hall clock and the flutter of thebirds' wings from amongst the elm trees outside. A breath of windbrought a shower of rain drops down on to the gravel path. A sparrowflew twittering into the hall a
nd out again. Then it came to an end.

  "Marcia!"

  His single cry rang out like a pistol shot upon the intensesilence. He took a quick step across the threshold. She held out bothher hands in front of her, and he stopped short.

  "You had better go," she said. "You had better go quickly."

  I went out and took my father's arm. He let me lead him away without aword; but he would have fallen several times if it had not been for mysupport. When we reached home he turned at once into the library.

  "Go away, Kate," he said, wearily. "I must be alone. See that I am notdisturbed."

  I hesitated, but he insisted. I shut the door and left him. I, too,wanted to be alone. My brain was in a whirl. What was this pastwhose ghosts seemed rising up one by one to confront us? First therehad been Mr. Deville, and now the woman whom my father had calledMarcia. What were they to him? What had he to do with them? Wherehad their lives touched? I pressed my hot forehead against thewindow-pane, and looked across at the Yellow House. The sunlight wasflashing and glistening upon its damp, rain-soaked front. In thedoorway a woman was standing, shading her eyes with her hand, andlooking across the park. I followed her gaze, and saw for whom shewas waiting. Bruce Deville was walking swiftly towards her. I saw himleap a fence to save a few yards, and he was taking huge and rapidstrides. I turned away from my window and hid my face in my hands.