The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE BREAKING OF THE STORM

  It was at evensong in the great cathedral that she tasted the firstfruits of her triumph. During the earlier portion of the service theshadows had half enveloped the huge body of the building, and thewhite faces of the congregation had been only dimly visible to us fromwhere we sat in one of the high side pews. But when my father ascendedthe steps into the pulpit, and stood for a minute looking downwardswith the light from a little semi-circle of candles thrown upon hispale, delicate face, I caught the sound of a sharp, smothered cry froma seat close to ours. With a little shiver of dread I lookedaround. She had half risen from her seat, and was leaning over thefront of the pew. Her eyes were riveted upon him, and her thin, sallowface was white with sudden excitement. I saw him look up, and theireyes met for one terrible moment. He did not flinch or falter. But forthe slightly prolonged resting of his eyes upon her eager, strainedface he took no more notice of her than of any other member of thecongregation. I alone knew that her challenge had been met andanswered, and it was my hard fate to sit there and suffer in silence.

  There was no mark of nervousness or weakness of any sort in the sermonhe preached. He seemed to be speaking with a consciousness perhapsthat it might be for the last time, and with a deliberate effort thatsome part of those delicately chosen sentences might leave aneverlasting mark behind him. Already his fame as a preacher wasspreading, and many of the townspeople were there, attracted by hispresence. They listened with a rare and fervid attention. As for me,it seemed that I should never altogether lose the memory of that low,musical voice, never once raised above its ordinary pitch, yet withevery word penetrating softly and clearly into the furthermost cornerof the great building. There was a certain wistfulness in his mannerthat night, a gentle, pathetic eloquence which brought glisteningtears into the eyes of more than one of the little throng oflisteners. For he spoke of death, and of the leaving behind of allearthly things--of death, and of spiritual death--of the ties betweenman and woman and man and God. It was all so different to what isgenerally expected from a preacher with the reputation of eloquence,so devoid of the usual arts of oratory, and yet so sweetly human,aesthetically beautiful that when at last, with a few words, in a sensevaledictory he left the pulpit, and the low strains of the organ grewlouder and louder. I slipped from my seat and groped across the closewith my eyes full of blinding tears. I had a passionate convictionthat I had misjudged my father. Suddenly he seemed to loom before myeyes in a new light--the light of a martyr. My judgments concerninghim seemed harsh and foolish. Who was I to judge such a man as that?He was as far above me as the stars, and I had refused him mysympathy. He had begged for it, and I had refused it! I had left himto carry his burden alone! It seemed to me then that never whilst Ilived could I escape from the bitterness of this sudden whirlwind ofregret.

  Swiftly though I had walked from the cathedral, he was already in hisstudy when I entered the house. I opened the door timidly. He wassitting in his chair leaning back with half-closed eyes like a manovercome with sudden pain. I fell on my knees by his side and took hisfingers in mine.

  "Father!" I cried, "I have done my best to keep her away! I have doneall that I could!"

  His hand pressed mine gently. Then there was a loud ringing at thebell. I sprang up white with fear.

  "I will not let her come here!" I cried. "We will say that you areill! She must go away!"

  He shook his head.

  "It is useless," he said, quietly; "it must come sooner orlater--better now perhaps. Let us wait, I have left word that she isto be shown in here."

  There was a brief silence. Then we heard steps in the hall, therustling of a woman's gown, and the door was opened and closed. Shecame forward to the edge of the little circle of light thrown aroundus by my father's reading lamp. There she stood with a great red spotburning in her cheeks, and a fierce light in her eyes.

  "At last, then, the mystery is solved," she cried, triumphantly. "Iwas a fool or I should have guessed it long ago! Have you forgottenme, Philip Maltabar?"

  My father rose to his feet. He was serene, but grave.

  "No, I have not forgotten you, Olive Berdenstein," he said,slowly. "Yours is not a name to be forgotten by me. Say what you havecome to say, please, and go away."

  She looked at him in surprise, and laughed shortly.

  "Oh, you need not fear," she answered, "I have not come to stay. Irecognized you in the cathedral, and I should have been on my way tothe police station by now, but first I promised myself the pleasure ofthis visit. Your daughter and I are such friends, you know."

  My father took up some writing paper and dipped his pen in the ink asthough about to commence a letter.

  "I think," he said, "that you had better go now. The police stationcloses early here, and you will have to hurry as it is--that is, ifyou wish to get a warrant to-night."

  She looked at him fixedly. He certainly had no fear. My heart beatfast with the admiration one has always for a brave man. The girl wasbeing cheated of her triumph.

  "You are right," she said, "I must hurry; I am going to them and Ishall say I know now who was my brother's murderer! It was PhilipMaltabar, the man who calls himself Canon Ffolliot. But though he maybe a very holy man, I can prove him to be a murderer!"

  "This is rather a hard word," my father remarked, with a faint smileat the corners of his lips.

  "It is a true one," she cried, fiercely. "You killed him. You cannotdeny it."

  "I do not deny it," he answered, quietly. "It is quite true that Ikilled your brother--or rather that in a struggle between us I struckhim a blow from the effects of which he died."

  For a long time I had felt that it must be so. Yet to hear himconfess it so calmly, and without even the most ordinary emotion, wasa shock to me.

  "It is the same thing," she said, scornfully, "you killed him!"

  "In the eyes of the law it is not the same thing," he answered; "butlet that pass. I had warned your brother most solemnly that if he tooka certain course I should meet him as man to man, and I should showhim no mercy. Yet he persisted in that course. He came to my home! Ihad warned him not to come. Even then I forbore. His errand wasfruitless. He had only become a horror in the eyes of the woman whomhe had deceived. She would not see him, she wished never to look uponhis face again. He persisted in seeking to force his way into herpresence. On that day I met him. I argued and reasoned with him, butin vain. Then the first blow was struck, and only the merest chanceintervened, or the situation would have been reversed. Your brotherwas a coward then, Olive Berdenstein, as he had been all his life. Hestruck at me treacherously with a knife. Look here!"

  He threw open his waistcoat, and she started back with horror. Therewas a terrible wound underneath the bandage which he removed.

  "It was a blow for a blow," he said, gravely. "From my wound I shallin all likelihood die. Your brother's knife touched my lung, and I amalways in danger of internal bleeding. The blow I struck him, I struckwith his knife at my heart. That is not murder."

  "We shall see," she muttered between her lips.

  "As soon as you will," he answered. "There is one thing more which youmay as well know. My unhappy meeting with your brother on that Sundayafternoon was not our first meeting since his return to England. Onthe very night of his arrival I met him in London by appointment. Iwarned him that if he persisted in a certain course I should forget mycloth, and remember only that I was a man and that he was an enemy. Helistened in silence, and when I turned to leave he made a cowardlyattempt upon my life. He deliberately attempted to murder me. Nothingbut an accident saved my life. But I am not telling you these thingsto gain your pity. Only you have found me out, and you are hissister. It is right that you should know the truth. I have told youthe whole story. Will you go now?"

  She looked at him, and for a moment she hesitated. Then her eyes metmine, and her face hardened.

  "Yes, I will go," she declared. "I do not care whether you have toldme the truth or not
. I am going to let the world know who CanonFfolliot is."

  "You will do as seems best to you," my father said, quietly.

  He had risen to his feet, and stood with his hand at his side,breathing heavily, in an attitude now familiar to me, although I hadnever fully understood its cause. His pale lips were twitching withpain, and there were dark rims under his eyes. She looked at him andlaughed brutally.

  "Your daughter is an excellent actress," she said, looking back overher shoulder as she moved towards the door. "I have no doubt but thatthe art is inherited. We shall see!"

  Obeying my father's gesture, I rang the bell. We heard the front dooropen and close after her. Then I threw my arms around his neck in apassionate abandonment of grief.

  "It is all my fault," I sobbed--"my fault! But for me she would haveforgiven."

  My father smiled a faint, absent smile. He was smoothing my hairgently with one hand and gazing steadfastly into the fire. His facewas serene, almost happy. Yet the blow had fallen.

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE MASTER OF COLVILLE HALL

  I believe that I took off my clothes and made some pretence of goingto bed, but in my memory those long hours between the time when I leftfather in the study and the dawn seems like one interminablenightmare. Yet towards morning I must have slept, for my room was fullof sunlight when a soft knocking at the door awakened me. Our trimlittle housemaid entered with a note; the address was in my father'shandwriting. I sat up in bed and tore open the envelopeeagerly. Something seemed to tell me even before I glanced at itscontents that the thing I dreaded was coming to pass. This is what Iread:

  "Forgive me, child, if I have left you with only a writtenfarewell. The little strength I have left I have need of, and I shrankfrom seeing you again lest the sorrow of it should sap my purpose;should make me weak when I need to be strong. The girl will tell herstory, and at the best my career of usefulness here is over; so Ileave Eastminster this morning forever. I have written to Alice andto the Bishop. To him I have sent a brief memoir of my life. I do notthink that he will be a stern judge, especially as the culprit standsalready with one foot in the grave.

  "And now, child, I have a final confession to make to you. For manyyears there has been a side to my life of which you and Alice havebeen ignorant. Even now I am not going to tell you about it. The timeis too short for me to enter thoroughly into my motives and into thegradual development of what was at first only a very small thing. Butof this I am anxious to assure you, it is not a disgraceful side! Itis not anything of which I am ashamed, although there have been potentreasons for keeping all record of it within my own breast. Had I knownto what it was destined to grow I should have acted differently fromthe commencement, but of that it is purposeless now to speak. Thelittle remnant of life which is still mine I have dedicated toit. Even if my career here were not so clearly over, my consciencetells me that I am doing right in abandoning it. It is possible thatwe may never meet again. Farewell! If what you hinted at last nightcomes really to pass it is good. Bruce Deville has been no friend ofmine, but he is as worthy of you as any man could be. And above all,remember this, my fervent prayer: Forgive me the wrong which I havedone you and the trouble which I have brought into your life. Think ofme if you can only as your most affectionate father, Horace Ffolliot."

  When I had finished my father's letter I dressed in haste. There wasno doubt in my mind as to where he had gone. I would follow him atonce. I would be by his side wherever he was and in whatever conditionwhen the end came. I rang for a time-table and looked out the morningtrains for London. Then Alice knocked at my door and came to me withwhite, scared face, and an open letter in her hand. She found me allready to start.

  "Do you understand it? What does it mean, Kate?" she asked, fearfully.

  "I do not know," I answered. "He has gone to London, and he is not fitto leave his bed. I am going to follow him."

  "But you do not know whereabouts to look. You will never find him."

  "I must trust to fate," I answered, desperately. "Somehow or other Ishall find him. Goodbye. I have only a few minutes to catch thetrain."

  She came to the door with me.

  "And you?" I asked, upon the step.

  "I shall remain here," she answered, firmly. "I shall not leave untilit is perfectly certain that this is not all some hideous mistake. Ican't realize it, Kate."

  "Yes," I cried, lingering impatiently upon the step.

  "Do you think that he is mad?"

  I shook my head. "I am certain that he is not," I answered. "I willwrite to you; perhaps to-night. I may have news."

  I walked across the close, where as yet not a soul was stirring. Theground beneath my feet was hard with a white frost, and the air waskeen and bright. The sunlight was flashing upon the cathedral windows,the hoar-covered ivy front of the deanery gleamed like silver, and alittle group of tame pigeons lit at my feet and scarcely troubled toget out of the way of my hasty footsteps. A magnificent serenityreigned over the little place. It seemed as though the touch oftragedy could scarcely penetrate here. Yet as I turned into the mainstreet of the still sleeping town my heart gave a great leap and thendied away within me. A few yards ahead was the familiar fur-coatedlittle figure, also wending her way towards the station.

  She turned round at the ringing sound of my footsteps, and her lipsparted in a dark, malicious smile. She waited for me, and then walkedon by my side.

  "He has a two hours' start," she said, "so far as you are concerned;that means that you will not find him. But with me it is different. Ifound out his flight in time to wire to London. At St. Pancras adetective will meet the train. He will be followed wherever he goes,and word will be sent to me. To-night he will be in prison. CanonFfolliot, you know--your father--in prison! I wonder, will the weddingbe postponed? Eh?"

  She peered up into my face. I kept my eyes steadily fixed upon the endof the street where the station was, and ground my teeth together.The only notice I took of her was to increase my pace so that shecould scarcely keep up with me. I could hear her breath coming sharplyas she half walked, half ran along at my side. Then, at last, as wecame in sight of the station, my heart gave a great leap, and a littleexclamation of joy broke upon my lips. A man was standing under theportico with his face turned towards us. It was Bruce Deville.

  She too gave vent to a little exclamation which sounded almost like amoan. For the first time I glanced into her face. Her lips werequivering, her dark eyes, suddenly dim, were soft with despair. Shecaught at my arm and commenced talking rapidly in spasmodic littlegasps. Her tone was no longer threatening.

  "There is a chance for you," she cried. "You can save your father. Youcould take him away--to Italy, to the south of France. He wouldrecover. You would never have anything to fear from me again. I shouldbe your friend."

  I shook my head.

  "It is too late," I said. "You had your chance. I did what you asked."

  She shrank back as though I had stabbed her.

  "It is not too late," she said, feverishly. "Make it the test of hislove. It will not be forever. I am not strong. I may not live morethan a year or two. Let me have him--for that time. It is to save yourfather. Pray to him. He will consent. He does not dislike me. But,mon Dieu! I will not live without him. Oh, if you knew what it was tolove."

  I shook my head sorrowfully. Was it unnatural that I should pity her,even though she was my father's persecutor? Before I could speak toher Bruce was by our side. He had come a few steps to meet us. He heldmy hands tightly.

  "I felt sure that you would be coming by this train," he said. "I havethe tickets."

  "And you?" I asked.

  "I am coming with you, of course," he answered, turning round andwalking by my side.

  Olive Berdenstein was watching him eagerly. He had not taken theslightest notice of her. A faint flush, which had stolen into herface, faded slowly away. She became deadly white; she moved apart andentered the booking office. As she stood taking her ticket I caught abackward glance from her da
rk eyes which made me shiver.

  "Why don't you speak to her?" I whispered.

  "Why should I?" he answered, coolly. "She is doing her utmost to bringruin upon you. She is our enemy."

  "Not yours."

  "If yours, mine," he declared, smiling down upon me. "Isn't that so?"

  "Even now she is willing to make terms," I said, slowly, with my eyesfixed upon the approaching train. "She is willing----"

  "Well!"

  "To spare us, if----"

  "Well!"

  "If you will give me up."

  He laughed mockingly.

  "I thought that was all over and done with," he protested. "No one buta couple of girls could have hatched such a plot. I presumed you werenot going to make any further suggestions of the sort seriously?"

  I have never been quite sure whether I had intended to or not. At anyrate, his words and expression then convinced me of the utterhopelessness of such an attempt. The train drew up, and he placed mein an empty carriage. He spoke to the guard and then followed me in.The door was locked. Olive Berdenstein walked slowly by and lookedinto our compartment. I believe she had meant to travel to Londonwith us, but if so her design was frustrated. For the present, at anyrate, we were safe from her.

  Upon our arrival we took a hansom and drove straight to VictoriaStreet. My mother was out. We waited impatiently for severalhours. She did not return till dusk. Then I told her everything. Asshe listened to me her face grew white and anxious.

  "You know him better than any one else in the world," I cried. "Youalone can solve the mystery of his second life. In this letter hespeaks of it. Whatever it may be, he has gone back to it now. I wantto find him. I must find him. Can't you suggest something that mayhelp me? If you were not in his whole confidence, at least you musthave some idea about it."

  She shook her head sadly and doubtfully.

  "I only knew," she said, "that there was a second life. I knew that itwas there, but I had no knowledge of it. If I could help you I wouldnot hesitate for a single moment."

  Then, like an inspiration, there flashed into my mind the thought ofthat man's face whom I had met in the East End of this great city.They had persuaded me into a sort of half belief that I had beenmistaken. They were wrong, and I had been right! I remembered hisstrange apparel and his stern avoidance of me. I had no moredoubts. Somewhere in those regions lay that second life of his. Isprang to my feet.

  "I know where he is," I cried. "Come!"

  They both followed me from the house, and at my bidding Bruce calledfor a cab. On the way I told them what had become my conviction. WhenI had finished my mother looked up thoughtfully.

  "I do not know," she said. "Of course, it may be no good, but let ustry Colville Hall. It is quite close to the place where you say yousaw him."

  "Colville Hall?" I repeated. "What sort of place is that? The namesounds familiar."

  "You will see for yourself," she answered. "It is close here. I willtell the man to stop."

  We were in the thick of the East End, when the cab pulled up in frontof a large square building, brilliantly illuminated. Great placardswere posted upon the walls, and a constant stream of men and womenwere passing through the wide open doors. Bruce elbowed a way for usthrough the crowd, and we found ourselves at last wedged in amongstthem, irresistibly carried along into the interior of the greathall. We passed the threshold in a minute or two. Then we paused totake breath. I looked around me with a throb of eager curiosity.

  It was a wonderful sight. The room was packed with a huge audience,mostly of men and boys. Nearly all had pipes in their mouths, and theatmosphere of the place was blue with smoke. On a raised platform atthe further end several men were sitting, also smoking, and then, witha sudden, swift shock of surprise, I realized that our search wasindeed over. One of them was my father, coarsely and poorly dressed,and holding between his fingers a small briar pipe.

  Notwithstanding the motley assemblage, the silence in the hall wasintense. There were very few women there, and they, as well as themen, appeared to be of the lowest order. Their faces were all turnedexpectantly towards the platform. One or two of them were whisperingamongst themselves, but my father's voice--he had risen to his feetnow--sounded clear and distinct above the faint murmuring--we too,held our breath.

  "My friends," he said quietly, "I am glad to see so many of you hereto-night. I have come a long way to have my last talk withyou. Partings are always sad things, and I shall feel very strangewhen I leave this hall to-night, to know that in all human probabilityI shall never set foot in it again. But our ways are made for us, andall that we can do is to accept them cheerfully. To-night, my friends,it is for us to say farewell."

  Something of the sort seemed to have been expected, yet there were agood many concerned and startled faces; a little half-protesting,half-kindly murmur of negation.

  "Gar on! You're not a-going to leave us, gov-nor!"

  My father shook his head, smiling faintly. Notwithstanding his roughattire, the delicacy of his figure and the statuesque beauty of hiscalm, pale face were distinctly noticeable. With an irresistibleeffort of memory I seemed to see once more the great cathedral, withits dim, solemn hush, the shadows around the pillars, and thebrilliantly lit chancel, a little oasis of light shining through thegloom. The perfume of the flowers, and the soft throbbing music of thegreat organ seemed to be floating about on the thick, noxiousair. Then my father, his hand pressed to his side, and his face softwith a wonderful tenderness, commenced his farewell address to thesestrange looking people.

  Very soon I had forgotten where I was. My eyes were wet with tears,and my heart was aching with a new pain. The gentle, kindly,eloquence, the wan face, with its irresistible sweet smile, so human,so marvellously sympathetic, was a revelation to me. It was a farewellto a people with whom he must have been brought into vivid andpersonal communion, a message of farewell, too, to others of them whowere not there. It was a sermon--did they think of it as a sermon, Iwonder?--to the like of which I had certainly never listened before,which seemed to tell between the lines as though with a definitepurpose the story of his own sorrows and his own sins. In that greathall there was no sound, save those slow words vibrating with nervousforce, which seemed each one of them to leave him palpably theweaker. Some let their pipes go out, others smoked stolidly on, withtheir faces steadfastly fixed upon that thin, swaying figure. Thesecret of his long struggle with them and his tardy victory seemed tobecome revealed to us in their attitude towards him and their reverentsilence. One forgot all about their unwashed faces and miserableattire, the foul tobacco smoke, and the hard, unsexed-looking womenwho listened with bowed heads as though ashamed to display a veryunusual emotion. One remembered only that the place was holy.

  The words of farewell were spoken at last. He did not openly speak ofdeath, yet I doubt whether there was one of them who did not divineit. He stood upon the little platform holding out his hands towardsthem, and they left their places in orderly fashion, yet jealouslyeager to be amongst the first to clasp them, and somehow we three feltthat it was no place for us, and we made our way out again on to thepavement. My mother and I looked at one another with wet eyes.

  "At last, then," I murmured, "we know his secret. Would to God that wehad known before."

  "It is wonderful," my mother answered, "that he has escapedrecognition. There has been so much written about this placelately. Only last week I was asked to come here. Every one has beentalking about the marvellous influence he has gained over thesepeople."

  We waited there for him. In little groups the congregation came slowlyout and dispersed. The lights in the main body of the building wereextinguished. Still he did not come. We were on the point of seekingfor a side entrance when a man came hurriedly out of the darkenedbuilding and commenced running up the street. Something seemed to tellme the truth.

  "That man has gone for a doctor," I cried. "See, he has stopped atthe house with the red lamp. He is ill! I am going inside."

  I tried the
door. It opened at my touch and we groped our way acrossthe unlit room, bare and desolate enough now with its rows of emptyand disarranged chairs, and with little clouds of dense tobacco smokestill hanging about. In a little recess behind the platform we foundmy father. One man--a cabman he seemed to be--was holding his hand,another was supporting his head. When he saw us he smiled faintly.

  "God is very good," he murmured. "There was nothing I wished for butto see you once more."

  I dropped on my knees by his side. There was a mist before my eyes anda great lump in my throat.

  "You are worse," I cried. "Have they sent for a doctor?"

  "It is the end," he said, softly. "It will all be over very soonnow. I am ready. My work here was commenced. It is not granted to anyone to do more than to make commencements. Give--give--ah!"

  The flutter of a gown close at hand disturbed me. I followed myfather's eyes. Olive Berdenstein had glided from a dark cornerunderneath one of the galleries, and was coming like a wraith towardsus. I half rose to my feet in a fit of passionate anger. Bruce, too,had taken a hasty step towards her.

  "Can't you see you are too late?" he whispered to her hoarsely. "Goaway from here. It is no place for you."

  "Too late," she murmured, softly, and then the sound of heavyfootsteps coming up the hall made us all look round and my heart diedaway within me. Two men in plain clothes were within a few yards ofus; a policeman followed close behind. My father closed his eyes, andfrom the look of horror in his face I knew how he had dreaded thisthing. One of the men advanced to Olive Berdenstein, and touched hishat. I can hear her voice now.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Smith," she said, "I have made a mistake. This is notthe man."

  There was a dead silence for a minute or two, and then a little murmurof voices which reached me as though from a great distance. I heardthe sound of their retreating footsteps. I caught a glimpse of OliveBerdenstein's tear-stained face as she bent for a moment over myfather's prostrate figure.

  "I forgive," she whispered. "Farewell."

  Then she followed them out of the hall, and we none of us saw her anymore. But there was a light in my father's face like the light whichis kindled by a great joy. One hand I kept, the other my motherclasped. He looked up at us and smiled.

  "This," he said, "is happiness."

  * * *

  Transcriber's Note

  The following corrections have been made to the printed original:

  Page 5, "her" corrected to "hear" (surprised to hear you). Page 10, "pefect" corrected to "perfect" (most perfect prototype). Page 26, "Ig" corrected to "If" (If you do you will suffer). Page 45, "I" corrected to "It" (It was too funny.) Page 74, "haid" corrected to "said" ("My dear girl," she said). Page 84, "Berdentein" corrected to "Berdenstein" (this man, this Berdenstein). Page 157, "enchanged" corrected to "exchanged" (exchanged swift glances). Page 217, "nonense" corrected to "nonsense" ("What nonsense!" he declared.) Page 291, "whereever" corrected to "wherever" (wherever he was).