The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  EASTMINSTER

  The days that followed were, in a sense, like the calm before thethreatened storm. As the date of my father's promised return toEastminster drew near, every day I expected to hear from Alice that hehad abandoned his purpose, and that Northshire would see him no more.But no such letter came. On the contrary, when news did come it wasnews which astonished me.

  "You will be glad to hear," Alice wrote, "that father came back lastnight looking better, although rather thin. He did not seem to haveunderstood that you were already with Mrs. Fortress, and I think hewas disappointed not to see you. At the same time, considering thatyou have acted without consulting him in any way, and that there iscertainly some room for doubt as to the wisdom of the step you havetaken, I think that he takes your absence very well. He wants you tocome down in a week for a day or two. No doubt you will be able tomanage this. You must stay for a Sunday. Father preached lastevening, and there was quite a sensation. Lady Bolton has been sokind. She says that the Bishop is continually congratulating himselfupon having found father in the diocese. I have not seen eitherMr. Deville or Miss Berdenstein since I left the Vicarage. As you canimagine I have been terribly busy. The house here is simplydelightful. The old oak is priceless, and there are such quaintlittle nooks and corners everywhere. Do come at once. Ever yourloving sister, Alice."

  I passed the letter across to my mother, and when she had finished itshe looked with a smile into my still troubled face.

  "That proves finally that you were wrong," she remarked, quietly. "Isuppose you have no more doubts about it?"

  I shook my head. I did not commit myself to speech.

  "I suppose I must have been mistaken," I said. "It was a wonderfullikeness."

  "He wants to see you," she continued, looking wistfully across atme. "You know what that means?"

  "Yes," I answered. "I think I know what that means."

  "He will try to make you leave me," she went on. "Perhaps he will beright. At any rate, he will think that he is right. It will be astruggle for you, child. He has a strong will."

  "I know it," I answered; "but I have made up my mind. Nothing willinduce me to change it--nothing, at any rate, that my father will beable to say. Another month like the last would kill me. Besides, I donot think that I was meant for a clergyman's daughter--I am toorestless. I want a different sort of life. No, you need not fear. Ishall come back to you."

  "If I thought that you would not," she said, "I should be veryunhappy. I have made so many plans for the future--our future."

  I crossed the room to the side of her chair and threw myself down uponmy knees, with my head in her lap. She passed her arms around me, andI had no need to say a single word. She understood.

  I think as I walked down the little main street of Eastminster thatsunny morning I knew that the crisis in these strange events was fastdrawing near. The calm of the last few days had been toocomplete. Almost I could have persuaded myself that the events of thelast month or two had been a dream. No one could possibly haveimagined that the thunderclouds of tragedy were hovering over thatold-fashioned, almost cloistral, dwelling house lying in the veryshadows of the cathedral. My father was, beyond a doubt, perfectly athis ease, calm and dignified, and wearing his new honors with awonderful grace and dignity. Alice was perfectly happy in the newatmosphere of a cathedral town. To all appearance they were a modelfather and daughter, settling down for a very happy and uneventfullife. But to me there was something unnatural alike in my father'sapparent freedom from all anxiety and in Alice's complacentignorance. I could not breathe freely in the room whilst they talkedwith interest about their new surroundings and the increasedpossibilities of their new life. But what troubled me most perhaps wasthat my father absolutely declined to discuss with me anythingconnected with the past. On every occasion when I sought to lead up toit he had at once checked me peremptorily. Nor would he suffer me toallude in any way to my new life. Once, when I opened my lips to framesome suggestive sentence, I caught a light in his eyes before which Iwas dumb. Gradually I began to realize what it meant. By leaving himfor my mother, I had virtually declared myself on her side. All that Ihad been before went for nothing. In his eyes I was no longer hisdaughter. Whatever fears he had he kept them from me. I should nolonger have even those tragic glimpses into his inner life. Myanxieties, indeed, were to be lessened as my knowledge was to beless. Yet that was a thought which brought me little consolation. Ifelt as though I had deserted a brave man.

  I had come for a walk to escape from it, and at the end of the littleline of shops issuing from the broad archway of the old-fashionedhotel I came face to face with Bruce Deville. He was carefully, evenimmaculately, dressed in riding clothes, and he was carrying himselfwith a new ease and dignity. Directly he saw me he stopped short andheld out his hand.

  "What fortune!" he exclaimed, forgetting for the moment, or appearingto forget, to release my hand. "I heard that you were down, and I wasgoing to call. It is much pleasanter to meet you though!"

  I was miserably and unaccountably nervous. Our old relative positionsseemed suddenly to have become reversed.

  "We will go back, then," I said; "it is only a moment's walk to theclose."

  He laid his hand upon the sleeve of my jacket and checked me.

  "No! it is you whom I wanted to see. I may not be able to talk to youalone at your house, and, besides, your father might not allow me toenter it. Will you come for a short walk with me? There is a waythrough the fields a little higher up. I have something to say toyou."

  I suffered myself to be easily persuaded. There was somethingpositively masterful about the firm ring of his voice, the strongtouch of his fingers, the level, yet anxious glance of his keen, greyeyes. Anyhow I went with him. He appeared to know the wayperfectly. Soon we were walking slowly along a country road, andEastminster lay in the valley behind us.

  "Where is Miss Berdenstein?" I asked him.

  He looked at me with a gleam of something in his eyes which puzzledme. It was half kindly, half humorous. Then in an instant Iunderstood. The girl had told him. Something decided had happenedthen between them. Perhaps she had told him everything.

  "I believe," he answered, "that Miss Berdenstein has gone toLondon. Don't you feel that you owe me a very humble plea forforgiveness?"

  I looked at him cautiously.

  "Why?"

  His lips relaxed a little. He was half smiling.

  "Did you not make a deliberate plot against me in conjunction withMiss Berdenstein?"

  "I am not sure that I understand you," I answered. "I certainly didnot originate any plot against you."

  "Nay, but you fell in with it. I know all about it, so you may just aswell confess. Miss Berdenstein was to leave off making inconvenientinquiries about Philip Maltabar, and you were to be as rude to me asyou could. Wasn't that something like the arrangement? You see I knowall about it. I have had the benefit of a full confession."

  "If you know," I remarked, "you do not need to ask me."

  "That is quite true," he answered, opening a gate and motioning me toprecede him. "But at the same time I thought that it would berather--well, piquant to hear the details from you."

  "You are very ungenerous," I said, coldly.

  "I hope not," he answered. "Do you know I only discovered thisdiabolical affair yesterday, and----"

  "Mr. Deville!"

  He turned round and looked at me. I was standing in the middle of thepath, and I daresay I looked as angry as I felt.

  "I will tell you the truth," I said. "Afterwards, if you allude to thematter at all I shall go away at once. The girl has it in her power,as you know, to do us terrible harm. She, of her own accord, offeredto forego that power forever--although she is quite ignorant of itsextent--if I would not see or talk with you. She was a little fool tomake the offer, of course, but I should have been more foolish stillif I had not accepted it. She imagined that our relative positionswere different. However, that is of no consequence,
of course. I madethe bargain, and I kept my part of it. I avoided you, and I left theneighborhood. You have reminded me that I am not keeping to the letterof my agreement in being here with you. I should prefer your leavingme, as I can find my way home quite well alone."

  "It is unnecessary," he said. "The agreement is off. Miss Berdensteinand I have had an understanding."

  "You are engaged, then?" I faltered.

  "Well, no," he said, coolly, "I should perhaps have said amisunderstanding."

  "Tell me the truth at once," I demanded.

  "I am most anxious to do so," he answered. "She was, as you remarked,a little fool. She became sentimental, and I laughed at her. Shebecame worse, and I put her right. That was last night. She was sillyenough to get into a passion, and from her incoherencies I gatheredthe reason why you were so unapproachable those last few days at theVicarage. That is why I got up at six o'clock this morning and rodeinto Eastminster."

  "Have you come here this morning?" I asked.

  "Yes, it's only thirty miles," he answered, coolly. "I wanted to seeyou."

  I was silent for a few moments. This was news indeed. What might comeof it I scarcely dared to think. A whole torrent of surmises cameflooding in upon me.

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "In London, I should think, by this time," he answered.

  I drew a long breath of relief. To be rid of her for a time would behappiness.

  "I believe," he continued, "that she intends to return to Paris."

  After all it was perhaps the best thing that could happen; if she hadbeen in earnest--and I knew that she had been in earnest--she wouldhate England now. At any rate she would not want to come back againjust yet. My face cleared. After all it was good news.

  "She has gone--out of our lives, I hope," he said, quietly, "and inher hysterics she left one little legacy behind for me--and that ishope. I know that I am not half good enough for you," he said, withan odd little tremble in his tone, "but you have only seen the worstof me. Do you think that you could care for me a little? Would youtry?"

  Then when I should have been strong I was pitiably weak. I struggledfor words in despair. He was so calm, so strong, so confident. Howwas I to stand against him?

  "It is impossible," I said; "you know who I am. I shall never marry."

  He laughed at me scornfully.

  "If that is all," he said, taking my hands suddenly into his, "youshall not leave me until you have promised."

  "But--I----"

  Then he was very bold, and I should have been very angry, but wasnot. He looked coolly round, and finding that there was no one insight, he drew me to him and kissed me. His arms were like steel barsaround me, I could not possibly escape. After that there were no wordswhich I could say. I was amazed at myself, but I was very happy. Thetwilight was falling upon the city when we walked once more throughthe little streets, and my veil was closely drawn to hide my wet eyes.

  My lover--I dared to call him that at last--was coming home with me,and for a few brief moments my footsteps seemed to be falling uponair.

  I allowed myself the luxury of forgetfulness; the load of anxietywhich had seemed crushing had suddenly rolled away. But at theentrance to the close a little dark figure met us face to face, and myblood ran cold in my veins, for she lifted her veil, and my dream ofhappiness vanished into thin air. Her face was like the face of anevil spirit, yet she would have passed me without a word, but that Iheld out my hand and stopped her.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. "What do you want?"

  She smiled at me with the malice of a fiend.

  "It was a little call," she said, "which I was paying upon yourfather. He was unfortunately not at home. No matter, I shall callagain; I shall call again and again until I see him. I am in no hurryto leave. Eastminster is such an interesting place!"

  Then my heart died away within me, and the light of my suddenhappiness grew dim. She looked from one to the other of us, and hereyes were lit with a new fury. Some subtle instinct seemed to guideher to the truth.

  "May I congratulate you both?" she asked, with a sneer in her tone. "Alittle sudden, isn't it?"

  We did not answer. I had no words, and Bruce remained grimly andcontemptuously silent. She gathered up her skirts, and her eyesflashed an evil light upon us.

  "After all," she exclaimed, "it is an admirable arrangement! How happyyou both look! Don't let me keep you! I shall call later on thisevening."

  She flitted away like a dark shadow and passed underneath the stonearchway out of the close. I covered my face with my hands andmoaned. It had come at last, then. All that I had done had beenuseless. I was face to face with despair.