The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXIII

  IN THE PLANTATION

  I was determined to keep my word with Olive Berdenstein with absolutefaithfulness. For nearly a week I stayed in the house except for ashort walk in the early morning. Three times Bruce Deville called, andmet with the same answer. Often I saw him riding slowly by andscanning the garden and looking up towards the house with an impatientlook in his eyes and a dark frown upon his strong face. Once I sawhim walking with Olive Berdenstein. She seemed to have caught him up,and found him in no very pleasant temper. His shoulders were high, andhe was walking so quickly that she had almost to run to keep up withhim. I looked away with a sigh, and yet--what a heartless hypocrite Iwas. I found myself thinking with a curious satisfaction that hisshoulders had been lower and his face very different when I had walkedwith him.

  After nearly a week of solitude with only Alice's parish talk and mildspeculations as to our future at Eastminster to break the intolerablemonotony of it, I could bear it no longer. I put on my hat one wetand windy afternoon and went down to the Yellow House. AdelaideFortress was alone, writing at her desk, and when I entered we lookedat one another for a moment without any greeting. It seemed to me thata few more grey hairs had mingled with the black--a little morewanness had crept into the delicate, intellectual face. But shegreeted me cheerfully, without any shadow of reproach in her tone,although I knew that my absence had been a trouble to her.

  "It is good of you to come and see me," she said. "Have you heard fromyour father?"

  I nodded assent.

  "We heard on Wednesday. He was leaving London that afternoon for theSouth Coast. He wrote very cheerfully, and said he felt betteralready."

  "I am glad," she said, softly.

  Then we were silent for a few moments. There was so much that wecould both have said.

  "Mr. Deville has been here inquiring for you," she said. "You havebeen invisible, he said. Have you been unwell?"

  I shook my head. I wanted much to have told her of Olive Berdenstein'svisit to me, and of my compact with her. For a moment I hesitated.She noticed it, and doubtless drew her own conclusions.

  "There has been nothing particular to keep me in," I said. "I simplyfelt that I wished to see no one. Don't you feel like that sometimes?"

  "Very often," she assented. "I think the desire for solitude is commonto all of us at times."

  Then we were silent again. I knew quite well what she was waiting forfrom me, yet I was silent and troubled. Almost I wished that I had notcome.

  "You have thought over what I told you when you were here," she said,softly. "You have thought of it, of course."

  "Yes," I answered. "How could I help it--how could I think of anythingelse?"

  "You have remembered that you are my daughter," she added, with alittle quiver in her tone.

  "Yes."

  I kept my eyes upon the carpet; she sighed.

  "You are very hard," she said--"very hard."

  "I do not think so," I answered. "I do not wish to be. It is not I whohave made myself; I cannot control my instincts. I do not wish to sayanything to you unless it comes from my heart."

  "You are my daughter," she murmured, softly.

  "It is true," I answered; "yet consider that I have only known it afew days. Do you think that I can feel--like that--towards you sosoon? It is impossible. A few weeks ago we were strangers. I cannotforget that."

  She winced a little at the word, but I repeated it.

  "It may seem an odd thing to say, but so far at any rate as I wasconcerned, we were strangers. I do feel--differently towards you nowof course. In time the rest will come, no doubt, but I should only bea hypocrite if I pretended more at present, you must see that; and," Icontinued, with a shade of bitterness in my tone, "there is theshame. One cannot forget that all at once."

  She shrank back as though I had struck her a blow across theface. Unwittingly I knew that I had wounded her deeply. But how couldI help it?

  "The shame," she repeated in a low tone--"ay, the shame. That seems anodd word for me to hear. But it is a true one. I must learn to bearit. There is the shame! Oh, God! this is my punishment."

  "You cannot deny it," I said. "How could you ever have thought of itin any other way? You deliberately chose to live with my fatherwithout marrying him. By your own admission there was not the faintestobstacle to your marriage. You had the satisfaction of living up toyour theories, I have to pay the penalty."

  She bowed her head.

  "It is true," she said.

  She covered her face with her hands and there was a long silencebetween us. The clock in the room seemed suddenly to commence a louderticking; outside, the yellow leaves came fluttering to the ground, andthe wet wind went sighing through the tree tops. The rain dashedagainst the steaming window panes. I looked away from the bowed figurebefore me out into the desolate road, and found my thoughts suddenlyslipping away from me. I wondered where Bruce Deville was, and OliveBerdenstein. Were they together and was she succeeding in herpurpose? After all what did it matter to me, a poor, nameless girl,with a shadowed past and a blank future? I sighed, and looked backinto the room. The sound of her voice broke the silence, which wasbecoming unbearable.

  "I do not wish to excuse myself," she said, softly; "nothing canexcuse me. But in those days, when I was young and enthusiastic, itseemed to me that I had but to lead and the world would follow me. Ithought that by the time my children were grown up--if I hadchildren--what is called illegitimacy would be no longer a thing tofear. You see I dwelt for a little time in a fool's elysium. Believeme that I am sharing with you the punishment--nay, mine is the greaterhalf, for I believe that my heart is broken."

  I was moved to pity then and took her hands. But as yet the veil hungbetween us.

  "I will believe that," I said, softly; "I shall try always to rememberit. I will not think hardly of you in any way. The rest must comegradually I think--no, I am sure that it will come some day."

  Her eyes were soft with gratitude. She held out her hands to me, and Igave her mine freely. We spoke no more upon that subject. But perhapswhat I went on to say was almost as interesting to her. I had beenthinking of it for some time, now it became inevitable.

  "I had a purpose in coming to see you this afternoon," I said. "I wantto talk to you about it. Do you mind?"

  She shook her head. I continued almost immediately.

  "I have come to ask for your advice," I said. "I want presently, whenthis trouble has passed over and Olive Berdenstein has gone away, toleave home, to take up some work of my own. In short, I want to beindependent, to take my life into my own hands and shape it myself."

  She looked at me with a certain wistful thoughtfulness.

  "Independent? Yes, you look like that," she said, softly.

  "In any case I have no taste for a home life," I continued. "Afterwhat has passed I should find it unbearable. I want active work, andplenty of it."

  "That," she said, with a sigh, "I can well understand. Yes, I knowwhat you feel."

  Not altogether, I thought to myself, with a little wan smile. She didnot know everything.

  "I should like to get right away from here," I continued. "I shouldlike to go to London. I don't know exactly what work I am fitted for;I should find that out in time. I took a good degree at Heidelberg,but I should hate to be a governess. I thought perhaps you might beable to suggest something."

  A sudden light had flashed into her face in the middle of my littlespeech. Evidently some thought had occurred to her which she hesitatedto confide to me. When I had finished she looked at me half nervously,half doubtfully. She seemed to be on the point of suggestingsomething, yet she hesitated.

  "If there is anything which has occurred to you," I begged her, "donot mind letting me hear it, at any rate. I am not afraid to work, andI shall not be very particular as to its exact nature so long as itdoes not altogether deprive me of my liberty."

  "I was wondering," she said, looking at me keenly, and with a faintcolor in her cheeks--"
I was wondering whether you would care to accepta post as my secretary. I am really in urgent want of one," she added,quickly; "I wrote out an advertisement to send to the _Guardian_ lastweek."

  "Your secretary?" I repeated, slowly.

  "Yes; you would have to learn typewriting, and it would be drywork. But, on the other hand, you would have a good deal of time toyourself. You would be to a very large extent your own mistress."

  I scarcely knew how to answer her, yet on the whole the idea was anattractive one to me. She saw me hesitate, but she saw also that itwas by no means in displeasure. Before I could find anything to sayshe spoke again.

  "At any rate, think of it," she suggested. "Don't decide all atonce. You would live with me, of course, and I could give you sixtypounds a year. It does not seem much, but you would scarcely get morethan that to start with at anything. Listen! Isn't that Mr. Deville?"

  I sprang up and moved towards the door.

  "I thought you told me that you were not expecting him to-day!" Iexclaimed.

  She looked at me in surprise.

  "I was not expecting him--in fact, he told me that he was going toMellborough. But does it matter? Don't you want to see him?"

  "No!" I cried, breathlessly; "he is coming across the lawn. I am goingout the other way. Goodbye."

  "Why, what has poor Bruce done to offend you?" she cried, in someconcern. "I thought you were getting such friends."

  "He has not offended me," I answered, quickly. "Only I don't want tosee him to-day. Goodbye."

  I ran down the path, leaving her standing at the front door. I justsaw the back of Bruce Deville's Norfolk coat as he entered the houseby the French windows, and I hoped that I had escaped him. But beforeI was half way through the little plantation I heard firm footstepsbehind me and then a voice--

  "Good afternoon, Miss Ffolliot!"

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Deville," I answered, without looking round.

  There was only room for one in the path. He passed me, taking a hugestride through the undergrowth, and turning round blocked the way.

  "What is the matter?" he asked, quietly. "What have I done? Why areyou trying to avoid me, like this?"

  "I do not understand you, Mr. Deville," I answered, untruthfully, andwith burning cheeks. "Be so good as to let me pass."

  "Not till you tell me how I have contrived to offend you," heanswered, bluntly. "I called three times at the Vicarage lastweek. You would not see me; you were at home. I found that out, butyou would not see me. The answer was the same each time, and now thisafternoon you have done your best to avoid me. I want to know why."

  His tone and his attitude were alike uncompromising. I looked roundin vain for some means of escape. It was not possible. After all thiswas no breach of my compact with the girl. I felt simply powerless.

  "You have not offended me--not yet, at any rate," I said, withemphasis. "If you keep me standing here against my will another minuteyou most certainly will though. Please let me pass, I am in a hurry toget home."

  "Very well, then, I will walk with you," he declared, standing on oneside.

  "There is no room," I remarked.

  "We will see about that," he answered. He moved from in front of me,and then, leaving me the whole path, came crashing through theunderwood and bracken by my side. I walked along swiftly, and he keptpace with me. After all he seemed to have nothing to say. We hadalmost reached the Rectory gate before he opened his mouth.

  "Then you will not tell me why you have avoided me the last few days,Miss Ffolliot. What have I done to lose your good opinion?"

  There was a curious earnestness in his tone. I felt my cheeksflush. I might perhaps have answered him in a different manner, butsuddenly my eyes were riveted on a moving figure coming along the roadinto which we had stepped. I looked at it steadily. It was OliveBerdenstein, plodding along through the thick mud with careful,mincing footsteps, her long, loose cape and waving hat, easilydistinguishable even at that distance. I stepped forward hastily, andbefore he could stop me, he passed through the gate.

  "Do not wait, please, Mr. Deville," I said, looking round athim. "There is a friend of yours coming round the lane. Go and meether, and do not say anything about me."

  He was very rude and very profane. He made use of an expression inconnection with Olive Berdenstein which justified me in hurrying away.

  I turned my back upon him and ran up the drive.

  "Miss Ffolliot," he cried out, "one moment; I am very sorry. Iapologize most abjectly."

  I turned round and waved my hand. Anything to get rid of him.

  "Very well! Go and meet Miss Berdenstein, please."

  I am not at all sure that he did not repeat the offence. At any rate,he turned away, and a few moments later, from my bedroom window, I sawhim greet her. They turned away together towards the path. I watchedthem with a little sigh.