The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXI

  OUT OF DANGER

  I went straight to my father's room, with only a very confused senseof what I wanted to say to him floating in my mind. But to myamazement, when I had softly opened the door and stood inside theroom, he was not upon the bed, or on the couch. The room was empty. Ipassed through into the drawing room with the same result. Then Iretraced my steps down into the hall and saw that his hat was gonefrom the stand and also his overcoat.

  I called to Alice, and she came out to me from our little drawingroom.

  "Where is father?" I cried, breathlessly. "He is not upstairs!"

  She drew me into the room. Her round face was very sober, and her eyeswere grave.

  "He left for London a quarter of an hour ago," she declared,impressively.

  "Left for London!" I repeated, bewildered. "Why, he was scarcely wellenough to stand. Did he dress himself?"

  "He was very weak, but he seemed perfectly well able to take care ofhimself," she answered. "A telegram came for him about half an hourago. I took it up to his room, and he opened and read it withoutremark. He asked where you were, but I could only tell him that youwere out. Directly afterwards I heard him getting up, and I went tothe door of his room to see if I could help him. He told me that I wasto order the dog cart, and that he was going away. I was too surprisedto say a word."

  My first impulse was unmistakable. It was a sense of greatrelief. Then I began to wonder what this Berdenstein girl wouldthink. Would she connect it with her presence here? Would she thinkthat he had gone away to avoid her? There was that risk, but it wasno greater than the risk of her coming here some day and meeting himface to face. On the whole it was good news. It was a respite at anyrate.

  In the morning came a letter from him, dated simply London. He hadbeen called away, he said, on some business, the details of whichwould not interest us, but it was a call which it would not have beenhis duty to have neglected. Immediately he had concluded it, he wenton to say, he proposed to take a short vacation by the seasomewhere. Accordingly he had engaged a _locum tenens_, who was now onhis way down, and he would write us again as soon as he had definitelydecided where to go.

  Alice and I laid down the letter with varying thoughts. To her,ignorant of any reasons for conduct which was on the face of itsomewhat eccentric, it brought some concern. With me it wasdifferent. I was at once relieved and glad. I had arrived at thatacutely nervous and overwrought state when even a respite iswelcome. The explanations between us were for the present necessarilypostponed, and, at any rate, I could meet Olive Berdenstein nowwithout trembling. It was the truth which I had to tell. My father wasnot here. I did not know where he was. She could come and search forhim.

  Yet that was a time of fierce disquiet with me. To settle down to anymanner of work seemed impossible. Later in the day I went out into thegarden, and the cool touch of the soft, damp wind upon my face temptedme past the line of trees which hemmed in our little demesne out intothe muddy road and across to the broad expanse of green common whichwas really a part of the Deville home park. As I stood there,bareheaded, with the wind blowing through my hair and wrapping myskirts around me, I could see in the distance a man coming onhorseback from the Court. I stood still and watched him. There was nomistaking man or horse--Bruce Deville on his great chestnut--thoughthey were half a mile away. Then, as I stood there waiting for him, asudden darkness came into the faintly sunlit air, a poisoneddarkness--the poison of a hideous thought. I turned away and plungedinto the plantation on my left, flying along the narrow footpath asthough the thought had taken to itself the shape of some loathsomebeast and was indeed pursuing me, close on my heels. In less than fiveminutes I was standing breathless before Adelaide Fortress. She waslooking white and ill. When she came into the room she threw across atme a glance which was almost supplicatory. Her firm lips trembled alittle. Her eyes were soft and full of invisible tears.

  "Is it bad news?" she faltered. "You have been running. Sit down."

  I shook my head.

  "No. Another question, that is all. Mr. Deville?"

  She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she drew herself up and stood alittle away from me. Her firm, dark eyebrows resolved themselves intoa frown. Some subtle instinct, quick to fly backwards and forwardsbetween us two, had helped her towards the meaning of my words.

  "Mr. Bromley Deville, Mr. Deville's father, was my father's oldestfriend," she said, slowly. "Bruce and I were children together, andexcept that I, of course, was five years the elder, we were greatfriends. Mr. Bromley Deville was my father's executor, and since hisdeath Bruce has taken his place."

  A great relief had suddenly eased my heart. I drew a little breath,but she looked as if I had struck her a blow.

  "How is your father?" she asked. "Is there any news?"

  I nodded.

  "He is better; he is gone away."

  She started.

  "Gone away? Where to?" she added, quickly.

  "To London, and from there he is going to the sea," I told her. "Hedoes not say where. He is sending a _locum tenens_. I do not thinkthat he will return here at all. We want him to go straight toEastminster."

  She too seemed to share my relief, but my first thoughts were herstoo.

  "What will that girl say?"

  "I cannot tell," I answered; "she may be suspicious. At any rate wehave a reprieve."

  "You have not spoken--to him yet."

  "No; he had gone when I returned last night. I was glad of it."

  We stood face to face looking at one another in silence. The faintcolor was coming and going in her cheeks, and her hands were nervouslyclasping the back of a chair. Where she stood the few days of wintrysunlight which had found their way into the room were merciless toher. They showed up the little streaks of grey in her hair and thehollows in her cheeks. The lines of acute and bitter heartpain werewritten into her worn face. My heart grew soft for the first time. Shehad suffered. Here was a broken life indeed. Her dark, weary eyes wereraised eagerly to mine, yet I could not offer her what I knew so wellshe desired.

  I was forced to speak. Her silence was charged with eloquentquestioning.

  "Won't you--give me a little time to realize what you have told me?" Isaid, hesitatingly. "I have grown so used to think that Alice'smother was mine--that she was dead--that I cannot realize this all atonce. I don't want to be cruel, but one has instincts and feelings,and one can't always control them. I must wait."

  So I went away, and in the Vicarage lane I met Bruce Deville walkingtowards me with his horse's bridle through his arm. He was carrying afragrant bunch of violets, which he held out a little awkwardly.

  "I don't know whether you will care for these," he said; "I don't knowmuch about flowers myself. The gardener told me they were very fine,so I thought you may as well have them as----"

  "As let them spoil," I laughed. "Thank you very much,Mr. Deville. They are beautiful."

  He frowned for a moment, and then, meeting my eye, laughed.

  "I am afraid I am awfully clumsy," he said, shortly. "Let me tell youthe truth. I went all through the houses to see if I could findanything fit to bring you, and I knew you preferred violets."

  "It was very nice of you," I said; "but what about Olive Berdenstein?Doesn't she like violets?"

  He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand and stopped him; he had somuch the look of a man who is about to make a momentary lapse intoprofanity.

  "Don't say anything rude, please. Where is she this morning?"

  "I don't know," he answered, grimly. "Somewhere about, no doubt."

  "It should be a lesson to you," I remarked, smiling up at him, "not togo about indulging in romantic adventures. They generally have atiresome ending, you know. Do you always make such easy conquests, Iwonder?"

  He stopped short, and looked at me with darkened face.

  "Is there any necessity," he asked, "for you to go out of your way toirritate and annoy me?"

  I ignored him for a moment or two.

&
nbsp; "She is very rich," I remarked. "Have you seen her diamonds?"

  He rested his hand upon his horse and sprang into the saddle. From hisgreat height there he looked down upon me with a dark frown and angryeyes.

  "I will wish you good morning, Miss Ffolliot," he said. "My company isevidently distasteful to you."

  I laughed at him, and laid my hand upon his horse's bridle. "I canassure you that it isn't," I declared. "I was very glad to see youindeed. Please get down, you have too much an advantage of me upthere."

  He got down at once, but his face had not altogether cleared.

  "Look here, Miss Ffolliot," he said, looking at me steadfastly out ofhis keen, grey eyes, "I do not wish to have you talk to me in that wayabout that young woman. I do not think it is quite fair. I suppose itis what girls call chaff, but you will kindly remember that I am toostupid, if you like, always to know when you are in earnest and whenyou are not, so please don't do it. If I am with Miss Berdenstein atall please remember that it is for your sake. I hate reminding you ofit, but you make me."

  "You are quite right, Mr. Deville," I said. "Please do not think thatI am not grateful. Now let me tell you the news. My father has goneaway."

  "Gone away! Where? For how long?" he said, quickly.

  "He has gone first to London," I answered; "where he was going toafterwards he did not seem absolutely sure himself. He spoke of goingto the sea somewhere for a vacation. We are trying to arrange for himnot to come back here at all. I should like him to go straight toEastminster."

  "It is a great relief," he said, promptly; "it was the very best thinghe could do. He did not even tell you that he was going then?"

  "I had no idea of it. He went quite suddenly while I was out. We had aletter from him this morning. I wonder--what she will say?"

  "I do not think that she will trouble to go in search of him," heanswered. "I do not think that her suspicions are really aroused inconnection with your father. She is an odd, changeable sort of girl. Idaresay she will give up this quest before long."

  "I hope so," I answered. "It would be a great relief to have her goaway."

  There was a short silence between us. We were standing by the Vicaragegate, and my hand was upon the latch.

  "I wonder," he said, abruptly, "whether you would not walk a littleway with me. It is such a fine day, and you look a little pale."

  I hesitated.

  "But you are riding," I said.

  "That is nothing," he answered, briskly. "Diana follows me like alamb. We will walk along the avenue. I want you to see the elm treesat the top."

  We started off at once. There was nothing very remarkable about thatwalk, and yet I have always thought of it as a very memorable one. Itgave a distinct color to certain new ideas of mine concerning mycompanion. We talked all the time, and that morning confirmed myaltering impressions of him. Lady Naselton had spoken of him as roughand uncultured. He was neither. His lonely life and curiousbrusqueness were really only developed from mannerism into somethingmore marked by a phase of that intellectual tiredness which most menape but few feel. He had tried life, and it had disappointed him, butthere was a good deal more of the cosmopolitan than the "yokel" inhim.

  For me it was a delightful time. He talked of many books and countrieswhich had interested me with a perfectly bewildering familiarity. Theminutes flew along. I forgot all these troubles which had come sothick upon me as we walked side by side over the soft, spongy turf,sometimes knee deep amongst the bracken, sometimes skirting clumps offaded heather. But our walk was not to terminate altogether withoutincident. As we turned the corner, and came again within sight of theVicarage gate, we found ourselves face to face with Olive Berdenstein.

  She stopped short when she saw us, and her face grew dark andangry. She was a strange-looking figure as she stood there in themiddle of the lane waiting for us--a little over-dressed for Sundaymorning parade in the Park. For a country walk her toilette was onlylaughable. The white lace of her skirt was soiled, and bedraggledwith mud. One of her little French shoes had been cut through with astone, and when we came in sight she was limping painfully. Her blackeyes flashed upon us with a wicked fire. Her lips trembled. The lookshe darted upon me was full of malice. She was in a furious temper,and she had not the wit to hide it. It was to him she spoke first.

  "You said that you would call for me--that we would walk together thismorning," she said to him in a low, furious tone. "I waited for youone, two hours. Why did you not come?"

  He answered her gruffly.

  "I think that you must be mistaken," he said. "There was noarrangement. You asked me to call; I said I would if I could. As ithappened, I could not; I had something else to do."

  "Something else! Oh, yes! so I see," she answered, with a short,hysterical little laugh, and a glance of positive hatred atme. "Something more pleasant! I understand; we shall see. MissFfolliot, you are on your way home now, I presume. I will, with yourvery kind permission, accompany you. I wish to see your father. I willwait in your house until he can see me. If you deny me permission toenter, I will wait for the doctor. He shall tell me whether yourfather is not strong enough to answer me one single question, and ifthe doctor, too, be in your plot, and will not answer me reasonably, Iwill go to a magistrate at once. Oh! it will not be difficult. I willgo to a magistrate. You see I am determined. If you would like tofinish your amiable conversation, I will walk behind--or infront--whichever you like. Better in front, no doubt. Ha! ha! But Iwill come; I am determined."

  She ceased breathless, her eyes on fire, her lips curled in amalicious smile. It was I on whom she had vented her passion. It was Iwho answered her.

  "You can come with me to the Vicarage if you like," I said, coldly;"but you will not find my father. He has gone away."

  "Gone away!" she repeated, incredulously. For a moment she lookedblack.

  "Gone away! Oh, indeed! That is good; that is very clever! You havearranged that very well. Yesterday he was too ill to see me--to answerone little question. To-day he is well enough to travel--he is goneaway. Good! he has gone. I can follow."

  She pursed up her lips and nodded her head at me vigorously. She waswhite with rage.

  "You are welcome to do anything which seems reasonable to you," Ianswered, with at any rate a show of firmness. "Mr. Deville, I willsay good afternoon. It is time I was at home."

  He kept by my side with the obvious intention of seeing me to thegate; but as we passed the girl she took hold of his arm.

  "No! I say no! You shall not leave me like this! You are treating meshamefully, Mr. Deville. Am I not right? That girl is hiding herfather from me. She is helping him away that he may not tell me of theman who killed my brother! You will take my part; you have always saidthat you were sorry for me. Is every one to be my enemy? You too! Itis justice that I want! That is all!"?

  He threw her delicately gloved hand off roughly.

  "What nonsense!" he declared. "I have been sorry for you, I am sorryfor you now; but what on earth is the good of persecuting MissFfolliot in this manner? Her father has been ill, and of course he hasnot desired to be bothered by strangers. You say you wanted to ask hima question. Be reasonable; he has answered it by letter. If you sawhim, he could only repeat his answer. He has only been here for a fewmonths. I have lived here all my life, and I tell you that there is noone by the name of Maltabar in the county."

  "There was the photograph in that cabinet," she persisted--"within afew yards of the spot where he was killed. I know that Philip Maltabarhated him. I know that he would have killed him if he could."

  "But what has all this to do with Mr. Ffolliot?" he persisted.

  "Well, I begged him to see me," she urged, doggedly. "He is theclergyman of the parish, and he certainly ought to have seen me if Iwished it. I don't understand why he should not. I want advice; andthere are other things I wanted to see him about. I am sure that hewas kept away from me."

  "You are very silly indeed," Bruce Deville said, emphatically. "Surelyhis health was m
ore important than the answering a question for youwhich has already been answered by people in a much better position toknow. As to advice, mine has always been at your service. I have beenready to do anything for you in reason."

  "You have been very good," she said, with trembling lips, "but----"

  "You must excuse me now," he interrupted, "I have something to say toMiss Ffolliot."

  "I am going in," I answered. "Please do not come anyfurther. Goodbye."

  I nodded to him, the girl I ignored. If a glance could have killed me,I should have been a dead woman. I left them alone and went on up tothe house. Somehow I did not envy her Mr. Deville's society for thenext quarter of an hour.