Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Christoph W. Kluge, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriberâs Note Obvious typographical and printerâs errors have been corrected. Punctuation marks where missing have silently been supplied. Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been retained as in the original except where noted otherwise. A complete list of corrections can be found at the end of this e-text. [Illustration: THE YELLOW HOUSE] THE YELLOW HOUSE MASTER OF MEN BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM AUTHOR OF âTHE MISCHIEF-MAKERâ âBERENICEâ âHAVOCâ âTHE LOST LEADERâ âTHE MALEFACTORâ [Illustration] VOLUME ONE NEW YORK P. F. COLLIER & SON Copyright 1908 By C. H. Doscher & Co. Copyright 1912 By P. F. Collier & Son THE YELLOW HOUSE CHAPTER I THE YELLOW HOUSE Positively every one, with two unimportant exceptions, had called upon us. The Countess had driven over from Sysington Hall, twelve miles away, with two anÃ¦mic-looking daughters, who had gushed over our late roses and the cedar trees which shaded the lawn. The Holgates of Holgate Brand and Lady Naselton of Naselton had presented themselves on the same afternoon. Many others had come in their train, for what these very great people did the neighborhood was bound to endorse. There was a little veiled anxiety, a few elaborately careless questions as to the spelling of our name; but when my father had mentioned the second âf,â and made a casual allusion to the Warwickshire Ffolliots--with whom we were not indeed on speaking terms, but who were certainly our cousins--a distinct breath of relief was followed by a gush of mild cordiality. There were wrong Ffolliots and right Ffolliots. We belonged to the latter. No one had made a mistake or compromised themselves in any way by leaving their cards upon a small country vicar and his daughters. And earlier callers went away and spread a favorable report. Those who were hesitating, hesitated no longer. Our little carriage drive, very steep and very hard to turn in, was cut up with the wheels of many chariots. The whole county within a reasonable distance came, with two exceptions. And those two exceptions were Mr. Bruce Deville of Deville Court, on the borders of whose domain our little church and vicarage lay, and the woman who dwelt in the âYellow House.â I asked Lady Naselton about both of them one afternoon. Her ladyship, by the way, had been one of our earliest visitors, and had evinced from the first a strong desire to become my sponsor in Northshire society. She was middle-aged, bright, and modern--a thorough little cosmopolitan, with a marked absence in her deportment and mannerisms of anything bucolic or rural. I enjoyed talking to her, and this was her third visit. We were sitting out upon the lawn, drinking afternoon tea, and making the best of a brilliant October afternoon. A yellow gleam from the front of that oddly-shaped little house, flashing through the dark pine trees, brought it into my mind. It was only from one particular point in our garden that any part of it was visible at all. It chanced that I occupied that particular spot, and during a lull in the conversation it occurred to me to ask a question. âBy the by,â I remarked, âour nearest neighbors have not yet been to see us?â âYour nearest neighbors!â Lady Naselton repeated. âWhom do you mean? There are a heap of us who live close together.â âI mean the woman who lives at that little shanty through the plantation,â I answered, inclining my head towards it. âIt is a woman who lives there, isnât it? I fancy that some one told me so, although I have not seen anything of her. Perhaps I was mistaken.â Lady Naselton lifted both her hands. There was positive relish in her tone when she spoke. The symptoms were unmistakable. Why do the nicest women enjoy shocking and being shocked? I could see that she was experiencing positive pleasure from my question. âMy dear Miss Ffolliot!â she exclaimed. âMy dear girl, donât you really know anything about her? Hasnât anybody told you anything?â I stifled an imaginary yawn in faint protest against her unbecoming exhilaration. I have not many weaknesses, but I hate scandal and scandal-mongering. All the same I was interested, although I did not care to gratify Lady Naselton by showing it. âRemember, that I have only been here a week or two,â I remarked; âcertainly not long enough to have mastered the annals of the neighborhood. I have not asked any one before. No one has ever mentioned her name. Is there really anything worth hearing?â Lady Naselton looked down and brushed some crumbs from her lap with a delicately gloved hand. She was evidently an epicure in story-telling. She was trying to make it last out as long as possible. âWell, my dear girl, I should not like to tell you all that people say,â she began, slowly. âAt the same time, as you are a stranger to the neighborhood, and, of course, know nothing about anybody, it is only my duty to put you on your guard. I do not know the particulars myself. I have never inquired. But she is not considered to be at all a proper person. There is something very dubious about her record.â âHow deliciously vague!â I remarked, with involuntary irony. âDonât you know anything more definite?â âI find no pleasure in inquiring into such matters,â Lady Naselton replied a little stiffly. âThe opinion of those who are better able to judge is sufficient for me.â âOne must inquire, or one cannot, or should not, judge,â I said. âI suppose that thereâs something which she does, or does not, do?â âIt is something connected with her past life, I believe,â Lady Naselton remarked. âHer past life? Isnât it supposed to be rather interesting nowadays to have a past?â I began to doubt whether, after all, I was going to be much of a favorite with Lady Naselton. She set her tea cup down, and looked at me with distinct disapproval in her face. âAmongst a certain class of people it may be,â she answered, severely; ânotâ--with emphasis--âin Northshire society; not in any part of it with which I am acquainted, I am glad to say. You must allow me to add, Miss Ffolliot, that I am somewhat surprised to hear you, a clergymanâs daughter, express yourself so.â A clergymanâs daughter. I was continually forgetting that. And, after all, it is much more comfortable to keep oneâs self in accord with oneâs environment. I pulled myself together, and explained with much surprise-- âI only asked a question, Lady Naselton. I wasnât expressing my own views. I think that women with a past are very horrid. One is so utterly tired of them in fiction that one does not want to meet them in real life. We wonât talk of this at all. Iâm not really interested. Tell me about Mr. Deville instead.â Now this was a little unkind of me, for I knew quite well that Lady Naselton was brimming with eagerness to tell me a good deal about this undesirable neighbor of ours. As it happened, however, my question afforded her a fresh opportunity, of which she took advantage. âTo tell you of one, unfortunately, is to tell you of the other,â she said, significantly. I decided to humor her, and raised my eyebrows in the most approved fashion. âHow shocking!â I exclaimed. I was received in favor again. My reception of the innuendo had been all that could be desired. âWe consider it a most flagrant case,â she continued, leaning over towards me confidentially. âI am thankful to say that of the two Bruce Deville is the least blamed.â âIsnât that generally the case?â I murmured. âIt is the woman who has to bear the burden.â âAnd it is generally the woman who deserves it,â Lady Naselton answered, promptly. âIt is my experience, at any rate, and I have seen a good deal more of life than you. In the present case there can be no doubt about it. The woman actually followed him down here, and took up her quarters almost at his gates whilst he was away. She was there with scarcely a stick of furniture in the house for nearly a month. When he came back, would you believe it, the house was furnished from top to bottom with things from the Court. The carts were going backwards and forwards for days. She even went up and selected some of the furniture herself. I saw it all going on with my own eyes. Oh! it was the most barefaced thing!â âTell me about Mr. Deville,â I interrupted hastily. âI have not seen him yet. What is he like?â âBruce Deville,â she murmured to herself, thoughtfully. Then she was silent for a moment. Something that was almost like a gleam of sorrow passed across her face. Her whole expression was changed. âBruce Deville is my godson,â she said, slowly. âI suppose that is why I feel his failure the more keenly.â âHe is a failure, then?â I asked. âSome one was talking about him yesterday, but I only heard fragments here and there. Isnât he very quixotic, and very poor?â âPoor!â She repeated the word with peculiar emphasis. Then she rose from her chair, and walked a step or two towards the low fence which enclosed our lawn. âCome here, child.â I stood by her side looking across the sunlit stretch of meadows and undulating land. A very pretty landscape it was. The farm houses, with their grey fronts and red-tiled roofs, and snug rickyards close at hand, had a particularly prosperous and picturesque appearance. The land was mostly arable and well-cultivated; field after field of deep golden stubble, and rich, dark soil stretched away to the dim horizon. She held out her hand. âYou see!â she exclaimed. âDoes that look like a poor manâs possessions?â I shook my head. âEvery village there from east to west, every stone and acre belongs to Bruce Deville, and has belonged to the Devilles for centuries. There is no other land owner on that side of the country. He is lord of the Manor of a dozen parishes!â I was puzzled. âThen why do people call him so miserably poor?â I asked. âThey say that the Court is virtually closed, and that he lives the life of a hermit, almost without servants even.â âHe either is or says he is as poor as Job,â Lady Naselton continued, resuming her seat. âHe is a most extraordinary man. He was away from the country altogether for twelve years, wandering about, without any regular scheme of travel, all over the world. People met him or heard of him in all manner of queer and out-of-the-way places. Then he lived in London for a time, and spent a fortune--I donât know that I ought to say anything about that to you--on Marie Leparte, the singer. One day he came back suddenly to the Court, which had been shut up all this time, and took up his quarters there in a single room with an old servant. He gave out that he was ruined, and that he desired neither to visit nor to be visited. He behaved in such an extraordinary manner to those who did go to see him, that they are not likely to repeat the attempt.â âHow long has he been living there?â I asked. âAbout four years.â âI suppose that you see him sometimes?â She shook her head sadly. âVery seldom. Not oftener than I can help. He is changed so dreadfully.â âTell me what he is like.â âLike! Do you mean personally? He is ugly--hideously ugly--especially now that he takes so little care of himself. He goes about in clothes my coachman would decline to wear, and he slouches. I think a man who slouches is detestable.â âSo do I,â I assented. âWhat a very unpleasant neighbor to have!â âOh, that isnât the worst,â she continued. âHe is impossible in every way. He has a brutal temper and a brutal manner. No one could possibly take him for a gentleman. He is cruel and reckless, and he does nothing but loaf. There are things said about him which I should not dare to repeat to you. I feel it deeply; but it is no use disguising the fact. He is an utter and miserable failure.â âOn the whole,â I remarked, resuming my chair, âit is perhaps well that he has not called. I might not like him.â Lady Naseltonâs hard little laugh rang out upon the afternoon stillness. The idea seemed to afford her infinite but bitter amusement. âLike him, my dear! Why, he would frighten you to death. Fancy any one liking Bruce Deville! Wait until youâve seen him. He is the most perfect prototype of degeneration in a great family I have ever come in contact with. The worst of it, too, that he was such a charming boy. Why, isnât that Mr. Ffolliot coming?â she added, in an altogether different tone. âI am so glad that I am going to meet him at last.â I looked up and followed her smiling gaze. My father was coming noiselessly across the smooth, green turf towards us. We both of us watched him for a moment, Lady Naselton with a faint look of surprise in her scrutiny. My father was not in the least of the type of the ordinary country clergyman. He was tall and slim, and carried himself with an air of calm distinction. His clean-shaven face was distinctly of the intellectual cast. His hair was only slightly grey, was parted in the middle and vigorously mobile and benevolent. His person in every way was faultless and immaculate, from the tips of his long fingers to the spotless white cravat which alone redeemed the sombreness of his clerical attire. I murmured a few words of introduction, and he bowed over Lady Naseltonâs hand with a smile which women generally found entrancing. âI am very glad to meet Lady Naselton,â he said, courteously. âMy daughter has told me so much of your kindness to her.â Lady Naselton made some pleasing and conventional reply. My father turned to me. âHave you some tea, Kate?â he asked. âI have been making a long round of calls, and it is a little exhausting.â âI have some, but it is not fit to drink,â I answered, striking the gong. âMary shall make some fresh. It will only take a minute or two.â My father acquiesced silently. He was fastidious in small things, and I knew better than to offer him cold tea. He drew up a basket-chair to us and sat down with a little sigh of relief. âYou have commenced your work here early,â Lady Naselton remarked. âDo you think that you are going to like these parts?â âThe country is delightful,â my father answered readily. âAs to the work--well, I scarcely know. Rural existence is such a change after the nervous life of a great city.â âYou had a large parish at Belchester, had you not?â Lady Naselton asked. âA very large one,â he answered. âI am fond of work. I have always been used to large parishes.â And two curates, I reflected silently. Lady Naselton was looking sympathetic. âYou will find plenty to do here, I believe,â she remarked. âThe schools are in a most backward condition. My husband says that unless there is a great change in them very soon we shall be having the School Board.â âWe must try and prevent that,â my father said, gravely. âOf course I have to remember that I am only curate-in-charge here, but still I shall do what I can. My youngest daughter Alice is a great assistance to me in such matters. By the by, where is Alice?â he added, turning to me. âShe is in the village somewhere,â I answered. âShe will not be home for tea. She has gone to see an old woman--to read to her, I think.â My father sighed gently. âAlice is a good girl,â he said. I bore the implied reproof complacently. My father sipped his tea for a moment or two, and then asked a question. âYou were speaking of some one when I crossed the lawn?â he remarked. âSome one not altogether a desirable neighbor I should imagine from Lady Naseltonâs tone. Would it be a breach of confidence----â âOh, no,â I interrupted. âLady Naselton was telling me all about the man that lives at the Court--our neighbor, Mr. Bruce Deville.â My father set his cup down abruptly. His long walk had evidently tired him. He was more than ordinarily pale. He moved his basket-chair a few feet further back into the deep, cool shade of the cedar tree. For a second or two his eyes were half closed and his eyelids quivered. âMr. Bruce Deville,â he repeated, softly--âBruce Deville! It is somewhat an uncommon name.â âAnd somewhat an uncommon man!â Lady Naselton remarked, dryly. âA terrible black sheep he is, Mr. Ffolliot. If you really want to achieve a triumph you should attempt his conversion. You should try and get him to come to church. Fancy Bruce Deville in church! The walls would crack and the windows fall in!â âMy predecessor was perhaps not on good terms with him,â my father suggested, softly. âI have known so many unfortunate cases in which the squire of the parish and the vicar have not been able to hit it off.â Lady Naselton shook her head. She had risen to her feet, and was holding out a delicately gloved hand. âNo, it is not that,â she said. âNo one could hit it off with Bruce Deville. I was fond of him once; but I am afraid that he is a very bad lot. I should advise you to give him as wide a berth as possible. Listen. Was that actually six oâclock? I must go this second. Come over and see me soon, wonât you, Miss Ffolliot, and bring your father? I will send a carriage for you any day you like. It is such an awful pull up to Naselton. Goodbye.â She was gone with a good deal of silken rustle, and a faint emission of perfume from her trailing skirt. Notwithstanding his fatigue, my father accompanied her across the lawn, and handed her into her pony carriage. He remained several minutes talking to her earnestly after she had taken her seat and gathered up the reins, and it seemed to me that he had dropped his voice almost to a whisper. Although I was but a few paces off I could hear nothing of what they were saying. When at last the carriage drove off and he came back to me, he was thoughtful, and there was a dark shade upon his face. He sat quite still for several moments without speaking. Then he looked up at me abruptly. âIf Lady Naseltonâs description of our neighbor is at all correct,â he remarked, âhe must be a perfect ogre.â I nodded. âOne would imagine so. He is her godson, but she can find nothing but evil to say of him.â âUnder which circumstances it would be as well for us--for you girls especially--to carefully avoid him,â my father continued, keeping his clear, grey eyes steadily fixed upon my face. âDonât you agree with me?â âMost decidedly I do,â I answered. But, curiously enough, notwithstanding his evil reputation--perhaps because of it--I was already beginning to feel a certain amount of unaccountable interest in Mr. Bruce Deville. CHAPTER II ON THE MOOR After tea my father went to his study, for it was late in the week, and he was a most conscientious writer of sermons. I read for an hour, and then, tired alike of my book and my own company, I strolled up and down the drive. This restlessness was one of my greatest troubles. When the fit came I could neither work nor read nor think connectedly. It was a phase of incipient dissatisfaction with life, morbid, but inevitable. At the end of the drive nearest the road, I met Alice, my youngest sister, walking briskly with a book under her arm, and a quiet smile upon her homely face. I watched her coming towards me, and I almost envied her. What a comfort to be blessed with a placid disposition and an optimistic frame of mind! âWell, you look as though you had been enjoying yourself,â I remarked, placing myself in her way. âSo I have--after a fashion,â she answered, good humoredly. âAre you wise to be without a hat, Kate? To look at your airy attire one would imagine that it was summer instead of autumn. Come back into the house with me.â I laughed at her in contempt. There was a difference indeed between my muslin gown and the plain black skirt and jacket, powdered with dust, which was Aliceâs usual costume. âHave you ever known me to catch cold through wearing thin clothes or going without a hat?â I asked. âI am tired of being indoors. There have been people here all the afternoon. I wonder that your conscience allows you to shirk your part of the duty and leave all the tiresome entertaining to be done by me!â She looked at me with wide-opened eyes and a concerned face. Alice was always so painfully literal. âWhy, I thought that you liked it!â she exclaimed. I was in an evil mood, and I determined to shock her. It was never a difficult task. âSo I do sometimes,â I answered; âbut to-day my callers have been all women, winding up with an hour and a half of Lady Naselton. One gets so tired of oneâs own sex! Not a single man all the afternoon. Somebody elseâs husband to pass the bread and butter would have been a godsend!â Alice pursed up her lips, and turned her head away with a look of displeasure. âI am surprised to hear you talk like that, Kate,â she said, quietly. âDo you think that it is quite good taste?â âBe off, you little goose!â I called after her as she passed on towards the house with quickened step and rigid head. The little sober figure turned the bend and disappeared without looking around. She was the perfect type of a clergymanâs daughter--studiously conventional, unremittingly proper, inevitably a little priggish. She was the right person in the right place. She had the supreme good fortune to be in accord with her environment. As for me, I was a veritable black sheep. I looked after her and sighed. I had no desire to go in; on the other hand, there was nothing to stay out for. I hesitated for a moment, and then strolled on to the end of the avenue. A change in the weather seemed imminent. A grey, murky twilight had followed the afternoon of brilliant sunshine, and a low south wind was moaning amongst the Norwegian firs. I leaned over the gate with my face turned towards the great indistinct front of Deville Court. There was nothing to look at. The trees had taken to themselves fantastic shapes, little wreaths of white mist were rising from the hollows of the park. The landscape was grey, colorless, monotonous. My whole life was like that, I thought, with a sudden despondent chill. The lives of most girls must be unless they are domestic. In our little family Alice absorbed the domesticity. There was not one shred of it in my disposition. I realized with a start that I was becoming morbid, and turned from the gate towards the house. Suddenly I heard an unexpected sound--the sound of voices close at hand. I stopped short and half turned round. A deep voice rang out upon the still, damp air-- âGet over, Madam! Get over, Marvel!â There was the sound of the cracking of a whip and the soft patter of dogsâ feet as they came along the lane below--a narrow thoroughfare which was bounded on one side by our wall and on the other by the open stretch of park at the head of which stood Deville Court. There must have been quite twenty of them, all of the same breed--beagles--and amongst them two people were walking, a man and a woman. The man was nearest to me, and I could see him more distinctly. He was tall and very broad, with a ragged beard and long hair. He wore no collar, and there was a great rent in his shabby shooting coat. Of his features I could see nothing. He wore knickerbockers, and stockings, and thick shoes. He was by no means an ordinary looking person, but he was certainly not prepossessing. The most favorable thing about him was his carriage, which was upright and easy, but even that was in a measure spoiled by a distinct suggestion of surliness. The woman by his side I could only see very indistinctly. She was slim, and wore some sort of a plain tailor gown, but she did not appear to be young. As they came nearer to me, I slipped from the drive on to the verge of the shrubbery, standing for a moment in the shadow of a tall laurel bush. I was not seen, but I could hear their voices. The woman was speaking. âA new vicar, or curate-in-charge, here, isnât there, Bruce? I fancy I heard that one was expected.â A sullen, impatient growl came from her side. âAy, some fellow with a daughter, Morris was telling me. The parson was bound to come, I suppose, but what the mischief does he want with a daughter?â A little laugh from the woman--a pleasant, musical laugh. âDaughters, I believe--I heard some one say that there were two. What a misogynist you are getting! Why shouldnât the man have daughters if he likes? I really believe that there are two of them.â There was a contemptuous snort, and a momentâs silence. They were exactly opposite to me now, but the hedge and the shadow of the laurels beneath which I was standing completely shielded me from observation. The manâs huge form stood out with almost startling distinctness against the grey sky. He was lashing the thistles by the side of the road with his long whip. âMaybe!â he growled. âIâve seen but one--a pale-faced, black-haired chit.â I smothered a laugh. I was the pale-faced, black-haired chit, but it was scarcely a polite way of alluding to me, Mr. Bruce Deville. When they had gone by I leaned over the gate again, and watched them vanish amongst the shadows. The sound of their voices came to me indistinctly; but I could hear the deep bass of the man as he slung some scornful exclamation out upon the moist air. His great figure, looming unnaturally large through the misty twilight, was the last to vanish. It was my first glimpse of Mr. Bruce Deville of Deville Court. I turned round with a terrified start. Almost at my side some heavy body had fallen to the ground with a faint groan. A single step, and I was bending over the prostrate form of a man. I caught his hand and gazed into his face with horrified eyes. It was my father. He must have been within a yard of me when he fell. His eyes were half closed, and his hands were cold. Gathering up my skirts in my hand, I ran swiftly across the lawn into the house. I met Alice in the hall. âGet some brandy!â I cried, breathlessly. âFather is ill--out in the garden! Quick!â She brought it in a moment. Together we hurried back to where I had left him. He had not moved. His cheeks were ghastly pale, and his eyes were still closed. I felt his pulse and his heart, and unfastened his collar. âThere is nothing serious the matter--at least I think not,â I whispered to Alice. âIt is only a fainting fit.â I rubbed his hands, and we forced some brandy between his lips. Presently he opened his eyes, and raised his head a little, looking half fearfully around. âIt was her voice,â he whispered, hoarsely. âIt came to me through the shadows! Where is she? What have you done with her? There was a rustling of the leaves--and then I heard her speak!â âThere is no one here but Alice and myself,â I said, bending over him. âYou must have been fancying things. Are you better?â âBetter!â He looked up at both of us, and the light came back into his face. âAh! I see! I must have fainted!â he exclaimed. âI remember the study was close, and I came to get cool. Yet, I thought--I thought----â I held out my arm, and he staggered up. He was still white and shaken, but evidently his memory was returning. âI remember it was close in the study,â he said--âvery close; I was tired too. I must have walked too far. I donât like it though. I must see a doctor; I must certainly see a doctor!â Alice bent over him full of sympathy, and he took her arm. I walked behind him in silence. A curious thought had taken possession of me. I could not get rid of the impression of my fatherâs first words, and his white, terrified face. Was it indeed a wild fancy of his, or had he really heard this voice which had stirred him so deeply? I tried to laugh at the idea. I could not. His cry was so natural, his terror so apparent! He had heard a voice. He had been stricken with a sudden terror. Whose was the voice--whence his fear of it? I watched him leaning slightly upon Aliceâs arm, and walking on slowly in front of me towards the house. Already he was better. His features had reassumed their customary air of delicate and reserved strength. I looked at him with new and curious eyes. For the first time I wondered whether there might be another world, or the ashes of an old one beneath that grey, impenetrable mask. CHAPTER III MR. BRUCE DEVILLE My fatherâs first sermon was a great success. As usual, it was polished, eloquent, and simple, and withal original. He preached without manuscript, almost without notes, and he took particular pains to keep within the comprehension of his tiny congregation. Lady Naselton, who waited for me in the aisle, whispered her warm approval. âWhatever induced your father to come to such an out-of-the-way hole as this?â she exclaimed, as we passed through the porch into the fresh, sunlit air. âWhy, he is an orator! He should preach at cathedrals! I never heard any one whose style I like better. But all the same it is a pity to think of such a sermon being preached to such a congregation. Donât you think so yourself?â I agreed with her heartily. âI wonder that you girls let him come here and bury himself, with his talents,â she continued. âI had not much to do with it,â I reminded her. âYou forget that I have lived abroad all my life; I really have only been home for about eight or nine months.â âWell, I should have thought that your sister would have been more ambitious for him,â she declared. âHowever, itâs not my business, of course. Since you are here, I shall insist, positively insist, upon coming every Sunday. My husband says that it is such a drag for the horses. Men have such ridiculous ideas where horses are concerned. I am sure that they take more care of them than they do of their wives. Come and have tea with me to-morrow, will you?â âIf I can,â I promised. âIt all depends upon what Providence has in store for me in the shape of callers.â âThere is no one left to call,â Lady Naselton declared, with her foot upon the carriage step. âI looked through your card plate the other day whilst I was waiting for you. You will be left in peace for a little while now.â âYou forget our neighbor,â I answered, laughing. âHe has not called yet, and I mean him to.â Lady Naselton leaned back amongst the soft cushions of her barouche, and smiled a pitying smile at me. âYou need not wait for him, at any rate,â she said. âIf you do you will suffer for the want of fresh air.â The carriage drove off, and I skirted the church yard, and made my way round to the Vicarage gate. Away across the park I could see a huge knickerbockered figure leaning over a gate, with his back to me, smoking a pipe. It was not a graceful attitude, nor was it a particularly reputable way of spending a Sunday morning. I was reminded of him again as I walked up the path towards the house. A few yards from our dining room window a dog was lying upon a flower bed edge. As I approached, it limped up, whining, and looked at me with piteous brown eyes. I recognized the breed at once. It was a beagle--one of Mr. Devilleâs without a doubt. It lay at my feet with its front paw stretched out, and when I stooped down to pat it, it wagged its tail feebly, but made no effort to rise. Evidently its leg was broken. I fetched some lint from the house, and commenced to bind up the limb as carefully as possible. The dog lay quite still, whining and licking my hand every now and then. Just as I was finishing off the bandage I became conscious that some one was approaching the garden--a firm, heavy tread was crossing the lane. In a moment or two a gruff voice sounded almost at my elbow. âI beg pardon, but I think one of my dogs is here.â The words were civil enough, but the tone was brusque and repellant. I looked round without removing my hands from the lint. Our neighborâs appearance was certainly not encouraging. His great frame was carelessly clad in a very old shooting suit, which once might have been of good cut and style, but was now only fit for the rag dealer. He wore a grey flannel shirt with a turn-down collar of the same material. His face, whatever its natural expression might have been, was disfigured just then with a dark, almost a ferocious, scowl. His hand was raised, as though unwillingly, to his cap, and a pair of piercing grey eyes were flashing down upon me from beneath his heavily marked eyebrows. He stood frowning down from his great height, a singularly powerful and forbidding object. I resumed my task. âNo doubt it is your dog!â I said, calmly. âBut you must wait until I have finished the bandage. You should take better care of your animals! Perhaps you donât know that its leg is broken.â He got down on his knees at once without glancing at me again. He seemed to have forgotten my very existence. âLawless,â he exclaimed, softly--âlittle lady, little lady, what have you been up to? Oh, you silly little woman!â The animal, with the rank ingratitude of its kind, wriggled frantically out of my grasp and fawned about its master in a paroxysm of delight. I was so completely forgotten that I was able to observe him at my ease. His face and voice had changed like magic. Then I saw that his features, though irregular, were powerful and not ill-shaped, and that his ugly flannel shirt was at any rate clean. He continued to ignore my presence, and, taking the dog up into his arms, tenderly examined the fracture. âPoor little lady!â he murmured. âPoor little Lawless. One of those damned traps of Harrisonâs, I suppose. I shall kill that fellow some day!â he added, savagely, under his breath. I rose to my feet and shook out my skirts. There are limits to oneâs tolerance. âYou are perfectly welcome,â I remarked, quietly. There was no doubt as to his having forgotten my presence. He looked up with darkened face. Lady Naselton was perfectly right. He was a very ugly man. âI beg your pardon,â he said. âI had quite forgotten that you were here. In fact, I thought that you had gone away. Thank you for attending to the dog. That will do very nicely until I get it home,â he added, touching the bandage. âUntil you get it home!â I repeated. âThank you! Do you think that you can bandage better than that?â I looked down with some scorn at his large, clumsy hands. After all, were they so very clumsy, though? They were large and brown, but they were not without a certain shapeliness. They looked strong, too. He bore the glance with perfect equanimity, and, taking the two ends of the line into his hands, commenced to draw them tighter. âWell, you see, I shall set the bone properly when I get back,â he said. âThis is fairly done, though, for an amateur. Thank you--and good morning.â He was turning brusquely away with the dog under his arm, but I stopped him. âWho is Harrison?â I asked, âand why does he set traps?â He frowned, evidently annoyed at having to stay and answer questions. âHarrison is a small tenant farmer who objects to my crossing his land.â âObjects to you crossing his land?â I repeated, vaguely. âYes, yes. I take these dogs after hares, you know--beagling, we call it. Sometimes I am forced to cross his farm if a hare is running, although I never go there for one. He objects, and so he sets traps.â âIs he your tenant?â I asked. âYes.â âWhy donât you get rid of him, then? I wouldnât have a man who would set traps on my land.â He frowned, and his tone was distinctly impatient. He was evidently weary of the discussion. âI cannot. He has a long lease. Good morning.â âGood morning, Mr. Deville.â He looked over his shoulder. âYou know my name!â âCertainly. Donât you know mine?â âNo.â âLet me introduce myself, then. I am Miss Ffolliot--the pale-faced chit, you know!â I added, maliciously. âMy father is the new vicar.â I was standing up before him with my hands clasped behind my back, and almost felt the flash of his dark, fiery eyes as they swept over me. I could not look away from him. There was a distinct change in his whole appearance. At last he was looking at me with genuine interest. The lines of his mouth had come together sharply, and his face was as black as thunder. âFfolliot?â he repeated, slowly--âFfolliot? How do you spell it?â âAnyhow, so long as you remember the two Fâs!â I answered, suavely. âGenerally, double F, O, double L, I, O, T. Rather a pretty name, we think, although I am afraid that you donât seem to like it. Oh! hereâs my father coming. Wonât you stay, and make his acquaintance?â My father, returning from the church, with his surplice under his arm, had been attracted by the sight of a strange man talking to me on the lawn, and was coming slowly over towards us. Mr. Deville turned round rather abruptly. The two men met face to face, my father dignified, correct, severe, Bruce Deville untidy, ill-clad, with sullen, darkened face, lit by the fire which flashed from his eyes. Yet there was a certain dignity about his bearing, and he met my fatherâs eyes resolutely. The onus of speech seemed to rest with him, and he accepted it. âI need no introduction to Mr. Ffolliot,â he said, sternly. âI am afraid that I can offer you no welcome to Northshire. This is a surprise.â My father looked him up and down with stony severity. âSo far as I am concerned, sir,â he said, âI desire no welcome from you. Had I known that you were to be amongst my near neighbors, I should not have taken up my abode here for however short a time.â âThe sentiment,â remarked Mr. Deville, âis altogether mutual. At any rate, we can see as little of each other as possible. I wish you a good morning.â He raised his cap presumably to me, although he did not glance in my direction, and went off across the lawn, taking huge strides, and crossing our flower beds with reckless unconcern. My father watched him go with a dark shadow resting upon his face. He laid his fingers upon my arm, and their touch through my thin gown was like the touch of fire. I looked into his still, calm face, and I wondered. It was marvellous that a man should wear such a mask. âYou have known him?â I murmured. âWhere? Who is he?â My father drew a long, inward breath through his clenched teeth. âThat man,â he said, slowly, with his eyes still fixed upon the now distant figure, âwas closely, very closely, associated with the most unhappy chapter of my life. It was all over and done with before you were old enough to understand. It is many, many years ago, but I felt in his presence as though it were but yesterday. It is many years ago--but it hurts still--like a knife it hurts.â He held his hand pressed convulsively to his side, and stood watching the grey, stalwart figure now almost out of sight. His face was white and strained--some symptoms of yesterdayâs faintness seemed to be suggested by those wan cheeks and over bright eyes. Even I, naturally unsympathetic and callous, was moved. I laid my hand upon his shoulders. âIt is over and finished, you say, this dark chapter,â I whispered, softly. âI would not think of it.â He looked at me for a moment in silence. The grey pallor still lingered in his thin, sunken cheeks, and his eyes were like cold fires. It was a face which might well guard its own secrets. I looked into it, and felt a vague sense of trouble stirring within me. Was that chapter of his life turned over and done with forever? Was that secret at which he had hinted, and the knowledge of which lay between these two, wholly of the past, or was it a live thing? I could not tell. My father was fast becoming the enigma of my life. âI cannot cease to think about it,â he said, slowly. âI shall never cease to think about it until--until----â âUntil when?â I whispered. âUntil the end,â he cried, hoarsely--âuntil the end, and God grant that it may not be long.â CHAPTER IV OUR MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBORS This was a faithful and exact account of my meeting with the first of those two of our neighbors who seemed, according to Lady Naseltonâs report, to remain entirely outside the ordinary society of the place. Curiously enough, my meeting with the second one occurred on the very next afternoon. We came face to face at a turning in the wood within a few yards of her odd little house, and the surprise of it almost took my breath away. Could this be the woman condemned to isolation by a whole neighborhood--the woman on whose shoulders lay the burden of Bruce Devilleâs profligacy? I looked into the clear, dark eyes which met mine without any shadow of embarrassment--returning in some measure the keen interest of my own scrutiny--and the thing seemed impossible. She spoke to me graciously, and as though to do so were quite a matter of course. Her voice completed my subjugation. One may so often be deceived by faces, but the voice seems an infallible test. âThere is going to be a terrible storm,â she said. âWonât you come in for a few minutes? You will scarcely be able to get home, and these trees are not safe.â Even while she was speaking the big rain drops began to fall. I gathered up my skirts, and hurried along by her side. âIt is very good of you,â I said, breathlessly. âI am dreadfully afraid of a thunderstorm.â We crossed the trim little lawn, and in a moment I had passed the portals of the Yellow House. The front door opened into a low, square hall, hung with old-fashioned engravings against a background of dark oak. There were rugs upon the polished floor, and several easy chairs and lounges. By the side of one was a box from Mudieâs, evidently just arrived, and a small wood fire was burning in the open grate. She laid her hand on the back of a low rocking chair. âShall we sit here?â she suggested. âWe can keep the door open and watch the storm. Or perhaps you would rather see as little of it as possible?â I took the easy chair opposite to her. âI donât mind watching it from inside,â I answered. âI am not really nervous, but those trees look horribly unsafe. One wants to be on the moor to enjoy a thunderstorm.â She looked at me with a faint smile, kindly but critically. âNo, you donât look particularly nervous,â she said. âI wonder----â A crash of thunder drowned the rest of her sentence. In the silence which followed I found her studying my features intently. For some reason or other she seemed suddenly to have developed a new and strong interest in me. Her eyes were fastened upon my face. I began to feel almost uncomfortable. She suddenly realized it, and broke into a little laugh. âForgive my staring at you so outrageously,â she exclaimed. âYou must think me a very rude person. It is odd to meet any one in the woods about here, you know; and I donât think that I have ever seen you before, have I?â I shook my head. âProbably not; unless you were at church yesterday,â I said. âThen I certainly have not, for I do not attend church,â she answered. âBut you donât live in church, do you?â I laughed. âOh, no; but we have only been here a week or so,â I told her. âMy name is Kate Ffolliot. I am the daughter of the new vicar, or, rather, curate-in-charge.â Once more the hall was filled with white light. There was a momentâs breathless silence, and then the thunder came crashing over our heads. When it was over she was leaning forward with her face buried in her hands. She did not look up immediately. âThe thunder is awful!â I remarked. âI never heard it more directly overhead. I am afraid it is making you uncomfortable, is it not?â She did not move her hands or answer me. I rose to my feet, frightened. âWhat is the matter?â I cried. âAre you ill? Shall I call any one?â She raised her head and looked at me, motioning me to sit down with a little wave of her hand. Evidently the storm had affected her nerves. Her face was paler than ever save where her clenched fingers seemed to have cut into her cheeks and left red livid marks on either side. Her dark eyes were unnaturally bright and dry. She had lost that dignified serenity of manner which had first impressed me. âNo; please sit down,â she said, softly. âI am all right--only very foolish. That last crash was too awful. It was silly of me to mind, though. I have seen worse storms. It is a sign of advancing age, I suppose.â I laughed. She was still regarding me fixedly. âSo we are neighbors, Miss Ffolliot?â she remarked. âClose ones,â I answered. âThere is only a little belt of trees between us.â âI might have guessed who you were,â she said. âFor the moment, though, it did not occur to me. You are not,â she said, with a faint smile, âat all what one looks for in a country clergymanâs daughter.â âI have lived abroad nearly all my life,â I said. âI was at school in Berlin and Heidelberg. My sister has always been my fatherâs helper. I am afraid that parish work does not appeal to me at all.â âI am not surprised at that,â she answered. âOne needs a special disposition to interest oneâs self in those things, and, without being a physiognomist, I can tell you that you have not got it.â âPeople in the country are so stupid, and they take so much for granted,â I remarked. âIf I were a philanthropist, I should certainly choose to work in a city.â âYou are quite right,â she answered, absently. âWork amongst people who have learned to think a little for themselves is more inspiring.â We were silent for a moment or two. She was evidently not interested in the discussion, so I did not attempt to carry it on. I turned a little in my chair to watch the storm outside, conscious all the time that her eyes scarcely left my face. âI had grown so used,â she said, presently, âto the rectory
{'title': 'The Yellow House; Master of Men by E. Phillips Oppenheim', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}