Transcriber’s Note
Obvious typographical and printer’s 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
“THE MISCHIEF-MAKER” “BERENICE” “HAVOC”
“THE LOST LEADER” “THE MALEFACTOR”
[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 anæmic-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 “f,” 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 “Yellow House.”
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.
“By the by,” I remarked, “our nearest neighbors have not yet been to
see us?”
“Your nearest neighbors!” Lady Naselton repeated. “Whom do you mean?
There are a heap of us who live close together.”
“I mean the woman who lives at that little shanty through the
plantation,” I answered, inclining my head towards it. “It is a woman
who lives there, isn’t it? I fancy that some one told me so, although
I have not seen anything of her. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
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.
“My dear Miss Ffolliot!” she exclaimed. “My dear girl, don’t you
really know anything about her? Hasn’t anybody told you anything?”
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.
“Remember, that I have only been here a week or two,” I remarked;
“certainly 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?”
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.
“Well, my dear girl, I should not like to tell you all that people
say,” she began, slowly. “At 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.”
“How deliciously vague!” I remarked, with involuntary irony. “Don’t
you know anything more definite?”
“I find no pleasure in inquiring into such matters,” Lady Naselton
replied a little stiffly. “The opinion of those who are better able to
judge is sufficient for me.”
“One must inquire, or one cannot, or should not, judge,” I said. “I
suppose that there’s something which she does, or does not, do?”
“It is something connected with her past life, I believe,” Lady
Naselton remarked.
“Her past life? Isn’t it supposed to be rather interesting nowadays to
have a past?”
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.
“Amongst a certain class of people it may be,” she answered, severely;
“not”--with emphasis--”in 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
clergyman’s daughter, express yourself so.”
A clergyman’s daughter. I was continually forgetting that. And, after
all, it is much more comfortable to keep one’s self in accord with
one’s environment. I pulled myself together, and explained with much
surprise--
“I only asked a question, Lady Naselton. I wasn’t 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 won’t talk of this at all. I’m not really
interested. Tell me about Mr. Deville instead.”
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.
“To tell you of one, unfortunately, is to tell you of the other,” she
said, significantly.
I decided to humor her, and raised my eyebrows in the most approved
fashion.
“How shocking!” I exclaimed.
I was received in favor again. My reception of the innuendo had been
all that could be desired.
“We consider it a most flagrant case,” she continued, leaning over
towards me confidentially. “I am thankful to say that of the two Bruce
Deville is the least blamed.”
“Isn’t that generally the case?” I murmured. “It is the woman who has
to bear the burden.”
“And it is generally the woman who deserves it,” Lady Naselton
answered, promptly. “It 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!”
“Tell me about Mr. Deville,” I interrupted hastily. “I have not seen
him yet. What is he like?”
“Bruce Deville,” 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.
“Bruce Deville is my godson,” she said, slowly. “I suppose that is why
I feel his failure the more keenly.”
“He is a failure, then?” I asked. “Some one was talking about him
yesterday, but I only heard fragments here and there. Isn’t he very
quixotic, and very poor?”
“Poor!” 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.
“Come here, child.”
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.
“You see!” she exclaimed. “Does that look like a poor man’s
possessions?”
I shook my head.
“Every 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!”
I was puzzled.
“Then why do people call him so miserably poor?” I asked. “They say
that the Court is virtually closed, and that he lives the life of a
hermit, almost without servants even.”
“He either is or says he is as poor as Job,” Lady Naselton continued,
resuming her seat. “He 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 don’t 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.”
“How long has he been living there?” I asked.
“About four years.”
“I suppose that you see him sometimes?”
She shook her head sadly.
“Very seldom. Not oftener than I can help. He is changed so
dreadfully.”
“Tell me what he is like.”
“Like! 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.”
“So do I,” I assented. “What a very unpleasant neighbor to have!”
“Oh, that isn’t the worst,” she continued. “He 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.”
“On the whole,” I remarked, resuming my chair, “it is perhaps well
that he has not called. I might not like him.”
Lady Naselton’s hard little laugh rang out upon the afternoon
stillness. The idea seemed to afford her infinite but bitter
amusement.
“Like him, my dear! Why, he would frighten you to death. Fancy any
one liking Bruce Deville! Wait until you’ve 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, isn’t that Mr. Ffolliot coming?” she added, in an altogether
different tone. “I am so glad that I am going to meet him at last.”
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 Naselton’s hand with a smile
which women generally found entrancing.
“I am very glad to meet Lady Naselton,” he said, courteously. “My
daughter has told me so much of your kindness to her.”
Lady Naselton made some pleasing and conventional reply. My father
turned to me.
“Have you some tea, Kate?” he asked. “I have been making a long round
of calls, and it is a little exhausting.”
“I have some, but it is not fit to drink,” I answered, striking the
gong. “Mary shall make some fresh. It will only take a minute or two.”
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.
“You have commenced your work here early,” Lady Naselton remarked. “Do
you think that you are going to like these parts?”
“The country is delightful,” my father answered readily. “As to the
work--well, I scarcely know. Rural existence is such a change after
the nervous life of a great city.”
“You had a large parish at Belchester, had you not?” Lady Naselton
asked.
“A very large one,” he answered. “I am fond of work. I have always
been used to large parishes.”
And two curates, I reflected silently. Lady Naselton was looking
sympathetic.
“You will find plenty to do here, I believe,” she remarked. “The
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.”
“We must try and prevent that,” my father said, gravely. “Of 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?” he added, turning
to me.
“She is in the village somewhere,” I answered. “She will not be home
for tea. She has gone to see an old woman--to read to her, I think.”
My father sighed gently. “Alice is a good girl,” he said.
I bore the implied reproof complacently. My father sipped his tea for
a moment or two, and then asked a question.
“You were speaking of some one when I crossed the lawn?” he
remarked. “Some one not altogether a desirable neighbor I should
imagine from Lady Naselton’s tone. Would it be a breach of
confidence----”
“Oh, no,” I interrupted. “Lady Naselton was telling me all about the
man that lives at the Court--our neighbor, Mr. Bruce Deville.”
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.
“Mr. Bruce Deville,” he repeated, softly--”Bruce Deville! It is
somewhat an uncommon name.”
“And somewhat an uncommon man!” Lady Naselton remarked, dryly. “A
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!”
“My predecessor was perhaps not on good terms with him,” my father
suggested, softly. “I have known so many unfortunate cases in which
the squire of the parish and the vicar have not been able to hit it
off.”
Lady Naselton shook her head. She had risen to her feet, and was
holding out a delicately gloved hand.
“No, it is not that,” she said. “No 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 o’clock? I must go this
second. Come over and see me soon, won’t 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.”
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.
“If Lady Naselton’s description of our neighbor is at all correct,” he
remarked, “he must be a perfect ogre.”
I nodded.
“One would imagine so. He is her godson, but she can find nothing but
evil to say of him.”
“Under which circumstances it would be as well for us--for you girls
especially--to carefully avoid him,” my father continued, keeping his
clear, grey eyes steadily fixed upon my face. “Don’t you agree with
me?”
“Most decidedly I do,” 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.