The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE COMING OF MR. BERDENSTEIN

  There are days marked in our lives with white stones. We cannever forget them. Recollections, a very easy effort of memory,seem to bring back even in some measure the very thrill, the samepulsations and emotions, as were kindled into life by certainnever-to-be-forgotten happenings. Time cannot weaken them. Whilst wehave life the memory of them is eternal. And there are other daysagainst the memory of which we have dropped a black stone. We shrinkfrom anything which may recall them. No sacrifice would seem toogreat if only we could set the seal of oblivion upon those few hatedhours. We school ourselves to close our eyes, and turn our heads awayfrom anything which might in any manner recall them to us. Yet we arepowerless. Ghosts of them steal light-footed, detested and uninvitedguests, across our fairest moments; the chill of winter shakes uson the most brilliant of midsummer days; the color steals from ourcheeks, and our blood runs to water. We are at the mercy of thosetouches of icy reminiscence. There is no escape from them. There neverwill be any escape. The Sunday which followed my father's visit toLondon is one of those hideous memories. In the calendar of my lifeit is marked with the blackest of black stones. I only pray that suchanother day as that may never find its way into my life.

  The morning passed much as usual. My father had scarcely spokento us on the previous evening. In reply to our half eager, halffrightened questions, he admitted that he had been ill. He would nothear of a doctor. His malady, he told us, was one which he himselfperfectly understood. He would be better in a few days. He ate anddrank sparingly, and then retired at once to his room. We heard himdrag himself wearily up the stairs, and Alice burst into tears, and Imyself felt a lump in my throat. Yet what could we do? He would nothave us near him. The only invalid's privilege which he permittedhimself was a fire in his bedroom, and this he asked for immediatelyhe entered the house, although the night was close and oppressive, andhe had come in with beads of perspiration standing out upon his whiteforehead.

  In the morning he preached an old sermon, preached it with weary lipsand wholly nonchalant manner. His pallid face and lustreless eyesbecame objects of remark amongst the meagre congregation. I couldhear people whispering to one another when the service was over. LadyNaselton spoke to me of it with concern as we passed down the aisle.

  "I am sorry to see your father looking so dreadfully ill dear," sheremarked. "I am particularly sorry to-day. Come outside, and I willtell you why."

  We passed out together into the sunlit air, fresh and vigorous afterthe dull vault-like gloom of the little church, with its ivy-hungwindows. Lady Naselton held my arm.

  "My dear," she said, "the Bishop is lunching with us to-day, andstaying all night. I have spoken to him about your father. Heremembers him quite well, and he is coming to service this evening onpurpose to hear him preach."

  "The Bishop," I repeated, vaguely. "Do you mean our Bishop? The Bishopof Exchester?"

  "Yea. I am not supposed, of course, to say anything about it, as hisvisit has nothing whatever to do with diocesan affairs, but I shouldbe disappointed if your father did not make an impression upon him."

  She looked around to be sure that no one was listening. It was quite aneedless precaution.

  "You see, dear, I happen to know that there are two vacant stalls atthe cathedral, and the Bishop wants a preacher badly. It is owingto what I have told him about your father that he is coming overto-day. I do hope that he will be at his best this evening."

  "I am afraid that there is very little chance of it," I answered,blankly. "He is really very ill. He will not admit it, but you can seefor yourself."

  "He must make an effort," Lady Naselton said, firmly. "Will you tellhim this from me? Say that we shall all be there, and if only he canmake a good impression--well, it is the chance of a lifetime. Ofcourse, we shall all be terribly sorry to lose you, but Exchesteris not very far off, and we really could not expect to keep a manwith your father's gifts very long. Try and rouse him up, won'tyou? Goodbye, dear."

  She drove off, and I waited at the vestry door for my father. He cameout with half-closed eyes, and seemed scarcely to see me. I walked byhis side, and repeated what Lady Naselton had told me. Contrary to myexpectations, the news was sufficient to rouse him from his apathy.

  "The Bishop here to-night!" he repeated, thoughtfully. "You are quitesure that there is no mistake? It is the Bishop of Exchester?"

  I nodded assent.

  "So Lady Naselton assured me. I have heard her say more than once thatthey knew him very well indeed. She is most anxious that you shoulddo your very best. It seems that there are two stalls vacant at thecathedral."

  The light flashed into his eyes for a moment, and then died out.

  "If only it had been a week ago," he said. "I have other things in mymind now. I am not in the mood to prepare anything worth listeningto."

  "Those other things, father," I said, softly. "Are we to remain whollyignorant of them? If there is any trouble to be faced, we are ready totake our share."

  He shook his head, and a wan smile flickered for a moment upon hispale lips. He looked at me not unkindly.

  "It may come, Kate," he said, softly. "Till then, be patient and askno questions."

  We had reached the house, and I said no more. Directly after luncheon,at which he ate scarcely anything, he went into his study. We hoped,Alice and I, that he had gone to work. But in less than half an hourhe came out. I met him in the hall.

  "My hat and stick, Kate," he said. "I am going for a walk."

  His manner forbade questions, but as he was leaving the house animpulse came to me.

  "May I come with you, father?" I asked. "I was going for a walk too."

  He hesitated for a moment, and seemed about to refuse. What made himchange his mind I could never tell. But he did change it.

  "Yes, you can come," he said, shortly. "I am starting now, though. Icannot wait for a moment."

  "I am quite ready," I answered, taking my hat and gloves from thestand. So we passed out of the house together.

  At the gate he paused for a moment, and I thought that he wasgoing to take the road which led to the Yellow House and DevilleCourt. Apparently he changed his mind, however.

  "We will take the footpath to Bromilow Downs," he said. "I have neverbeen there."

  We turned our backs upon the more familiar places, and walked slowlyalong the country which led to the Downs. We neither of us spokea word for some time. Once or twice I glanced towards him withconcern. He was moving with uncertain steps, and every now and thenhe pressed his hand to his side. Physically, I could see that he wasscarcely equal to the exertion of walking. It was mental disquietwhich had brought him out. His eyes were dry and bright, and therewas a hectic flush upon his cheeks. As we passed from the lane out onto the open Downs, he drew a little breath and removed his hat. Theautumn wind swept through his hair, and blew open his coat. He tookin a long breath of it. "This is good," he said, softly. "Let us resthere."

  We sat upon the trunk of a fallen pine tree on the verge of thecommon. Far away on the hillside rose the red chimneys of NaseltonHall. I looked at them, and of a sudden the desire to tell myfather what I knew of that man's presence there grew stronger andstronger. After all it was his right to know. It was best to tell him.

  "Father," I said, "I have something to say to you. It is somethingwhich I think you ought to know."

  He looked away from vacancy into my face. Something in my mannerseemed to attract him. He frowned, and answered me sharply.

  "What is it, child? Only mind that it is not a question."

  "It is not a question." I said. "It is something that I want to tellyou. Perhaps I ought to have told you before. One afternoon last weekI was at Lady Naselton's for tea. I met a man there--half a foreignerhe seemed to me. He had lately returned from South America. His namewas Berdenstein."

  He heard me in perfect silence. He did not utter a singleexclamation. Only I saw his head sink, and a curious marble rigiditysettle dow
n upon his features, chasing away all expression. In thesilence which followed before I spoke again I could hear his breathingsharp and low, almost like the panting of an animal in pain.

  "Don't think that I have been spying on you, father," I begged. "Itall came about so naturally. I gave you your letters the morning thatyou went away, and I could not help seeing that one of them was fromSouth America. On the envelope was written: 'In London about the15th.' Well, as you left for London at once, I considered that youwent to meet that person, whoever it was. Then at Lady Naselton'sthis man stared at me so, and he told me that he came from SouthAmerica. Some instinct seemed to suggest to me that this was the manwho had written that letter. I talked to him for awhile, and I wassure of it."

  Then my father spoke. He was like a man who had received a stroke. Hisvoice seemed to come from a great distance. His eyes were fixed uponthat break in the trees on the distant hillside beyond which wasNaselton Hall.

  "So near," he said, softly--"so very near! How did he come here? Wasit chance?"

  "He was good to Lady Naselton's son abroad," I answered. "He is veryrich, they say."

  "Ay, ay!" My father nodded his head slowly. His manner was becomingmore natural. Yet there was a look of deadly earnest in his white,set face. To look at him made me almost shudder. Something in hisexpression was like a premonition of the tragedy to come.

  "We shall meet soon, then," he said, thoughtfully. "It may beto-morrow. It may be to-day. Kate, your eyes are younger than mine. Isthat a man coming along the road there?--down in the hollow on theother side of the turn. Do you see?"

  I stood up by his side. There was a figure in sight, but as yet a longway off.

  "It is a man," I said. "He is coming towards us."

  We stood there side by side for several minutes. My father was leaningupon my shoulder. The clutch of his fingers seemed to burn their waythrough my dress into my flesh. It was as though they were tippedwith fire. He did not move or speak. He kept his eyes steadfastlyfixed upon the bend of the road. Suddenly a slight change flashedinto his face. He leaned forward; his upper lip quivered; he shadedhis eyes with his hand. I followed his rapt gaze, and in the middleof the dusty white road I could see the man now. Well within sight,I watched him draw nearer and nearer. His carriage was buoyant andun-English, and he carried a cane, with which he snapped off theheads of the thistles growing by the hedge-side. He seemed to bewhistling softly to himself, showing all the while those rows ofwhite, glistening teeth unpleasantly prominent against the yellowishtinge of his cheeks. From the first I had scarcely doubted that thiswas the man of whom we had been talking. The coincidence of his comingnever even struck me. It seemed at the time to be a perfectly naturalthing.

  He came to within a yard or two of us before he appeared to recognizeme. Then he took off his hat and made me a sweeping bow. In the middleof it he encountered my father's steady gaze. His hat slipped from hisfingers--he stood like a man turned to stone. His black eyes were fullof horror; he looked at my father as a man would look at one risenfrom the dead. And my father returned his gaze with a faint, curioussmile parting his thin lips.

  "Welcome to England once more, Stephen," my father said, grimly. "Youwere about to address my daughter. Have you lost your way?"

  The man opened his lips twice before he spoke. I could almost fancythat his teeth were chattering. His voice was very low and husky.

  "I was going to ask the way to Deville Court," he said. All the timehis eyes never left my father's face. For some reason or other theywere full of wonder; my father's presence seemed to terrify him.

  "The way to Deville Court?" my father repeated. "I am returning inthat direction. I will show it to you myself. There are several turnsbefore you get on to the straight road."

  My father descended the bank into the road. The stranger mutteredsomething inaudible, which my father ignored.

  "We had better start," he said, calmly. "It is rather a long way."

  The man whom my father had called Stephen hesitated and drew back.

  "The young lady," he suggested, faintly--"she will come with us."

  "The young lady has an engagement in another direction," he said, withhis eyes fixed on me. "I want you, Kate, to call upon Mr. Charlsworthand tell him to be sure to be at church to-night. You can tell him whyit is important."

  There was a ring in my father's tone, and a light in the glance whichhe flashed upon me which forbade any idea of remonstrance. Yet at thethought of leaving those two men together a cold chill seemed to passthrough all my veins. Something seemed to tell me that this was noordinary meeting. The man Berdenstein's look of terror as he hadrecognized my father was unmistakable. Even now he was afraid to gowith him. Yet I was powerless, I dared not disobey. Already the twomen were walking side by side. I was left alone, and the farmhouse towhich my father had bidden me go lay in altogether a differentdirection. I stood and watched them pass along the lane together. ThenI went on my errand. There was nothing else I could do.

  * * * * *

  I reached home in about an hour. Alice met me at the door.

  "Has father come in yet?" I asked her, quickly.

  She nodded.

  "About five minutes ago. The walk seemed to have done him good," sheadded. "He was quite cheerful, and had a wonderful color. Why, Kate!what have you been doing to yourself? You are as white as a ghost."

  "He was alone, I suppose?" I asked, ignoring the question.

  "Alone! Of course he was alone. Come in and have some tea at once. Youlook tired out."