The Yellow House; Master of Men
Page 16
CHAPTER XVI
"IT WAS MY FATHER"
The two women were standing face to face. Bruce Deville and I hadfallen back. There was a moment or two's breathless silence. ThenAdelaide Fortress, with perfect composure, moved over to the girl'sside, and glanced over her shoulder.
"That," she said, quietly, "is the photograph of a man who has beendead twenty years. His name was not Maltabar."
"That," repeated the girl, unshaken, "is the photograph of PhilipMaltabar."
I stepped forward to look at it, but, as if divining my purpose,Adelaide Fortress touched the spring and the aperture was hidden.
"That photograph," she repeated, coldly, "is the likeness of an oldand dear friend of mine who is dead. I do not feel called upon to tellyou his name. It was not Maltabar."
"I do not believe you," she said, steadily. "I believe that you areall in a conspiracy against me. I am sorry I ever told you my story. Iam sorry I ever sat down under your roof. I believe that PhilipMaltabar lives and that he is not far away. We shall see!"
She moved to the door. Mr. Deville stood there ready to open it. Shelooked up at him--as a woman can look sometimes.
"You at least are not against me," she murmured. "Say that you arenot! Say that you will be my friend once more!"
He bent down and said something to her very quietly, which we didnot hear, and when she left the room he followed her. We heard thehall door slam. Through the window we could see them walking down thegravel path side by side. She was talking eagerly, flashing quicklittle glances up at him, and her fingers lay upon his coat sleeve. Hewas listening gravely with downcast head.
Adelaide Fortress looked from them to me with a peculiar smile. Whatshe said seemed a little irrelevant.
"How she will bore him!"
"Oh! I don't know," I answered, with an irritation whose virulencesurprised me. "Men like that sort of thing."
"Not Mr. Deville," she said. "He will hate it."
I was not sure about it. I watched them disappear. He was stoopingdown so as to catch every word she said. Obviously he was doing hisbest to adapt himself and to be properly sympathetic. I was angry withmyself and ignorant of the cause of my anger.
"Never mind about them," I said, abruptly. "There is somethingelse--more important--Mrs. Fortress."
"Yes."
"I want to see that photograph--the photograph of the man whom shecalled Philip Maltabar."
She shook her head. Was it my fancy, or was she indeed a shade paler?
"Don't ask me that," she said, slowly. "I would rather not show it toany one."
"But I have asked you, and I ask again!" I exclaimed. "There arealready too many things around me which I do not understand. I am nota child, and I am weary of all this mystery. I insist upon seeing thatphotograph."
She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and looked up into my face.
"Child," she said, slowly, "it were better for you not to see thatphotograph. Can't you believe me when I tell you so. It will be betterfor you and better for all of us. Don't ask me to show it to you."
"I would take you at your word," I answered, "only I have already someidea. I caught a fugitive glimpse of it just now, before you touchedthe spring. To know even the worst is better than to be continuallydreading it."
She crossed the room in silence, and bending over the cabinet touchedthe spring. The picture smiled out upon me. It was the likeness ofa young man--gay, supercilious, debonair--yet I knew it--knew itat once. The forehead and the mouth, even the pose of the head wasunchanged. It was my father.
"He called himself once, then, Philip Maltabar?" I cried, hoarsely.
She nodded.
"It was long ago."
"It is for him the girl is searching. It is he who was her brother'senemy; it is----"
She held my hand and looked around her fearfully.
"Be careful," she said, softly. "The girl may have returned. It isnot a thing to be even whispered about. Be silent, and keep your owncounsel."
Then I covered my face with my hands, and my throat was chokedwith hard, dry sobs. The thing which I had most feared had come topass. The scene in the church rose up again before my eyes. I saw thefierce gestures of a dying man, the froth on his lips, as he struggledwith the words of denunciation, the partial utterance of which hadkilled him. With a little shiver I recognized how narrow had been myfather's escape. For I could no longer have any real doubts. It was myfather who had killed Stephen Berdenstein.