The Yellow House; Master of Men. E. Phillips Oppenheim
of reference turned upon their faces. For the rest the room was a marvel of delicate coloring and refined femininity. There were plenty of cosy chairs, and three-legged tables, with their burden of dainty china, rare statuettes, and many vases of flowers, mostly clustering yellow roses. But what absorbed my attention after my rapid glance around was the fact that Mr. Bruce Deville was sitting in a very comfortable chair near the window, reading one of the loose sheets of paper which he had taken from the desk.
He rose from his feet at the sound of the opening of the door, but he did not immediately look up. He spoke to her, and I scarcely recognized his voice. His gruffness was gone! It was mellow and good-humored.
“Marcia! Marcia! Why can’t you leave poor Harris alone?” he said. “You will drive him out of his senses if you sling Greek at him like this. You women are so vindictive!”
“If you will condescend to turn round,” she answered, smiling, “I shall be glad to know how you got in here, and what are you doing with my manuscript?”
He looked up, and the sheet fluttered from his fingers. He regarded me with undiluted astonishment. “Well, I came in at the window,” he answered. “I was in a hurry to escape getting wet through. I had no idea that you had a visitor!”
I glanced towards her. She was in no way discomposed or annoyed.
“I am not inclined to walk this afternoon,” she said. “Will you come down after dinner, about nine? I want to see you, but not just now.”
He nodded, and took up his cap. At the window he looked back at me curiously. For a moment he seemed about to speak. He contented himself, however, with a parting bow, to which I responded. Directly he got outside the garden he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.
The incident did not seem to have troubled her in any way. She pointed out some of the treasures of her room, elegant little trifles, collected in many countries of the world, but I am afraid I was not very attentive.
“Is Mr. Deville a relation of yours?” I asked, rather abruptly.
She had just taken down a little Italian statuette for my inspection, and she replaced it carefully before she answered.
“No. We are friends. I have known him for a good many years.”
A tiny Burmese gong rang out from the hall. She came across the room towards me, smiling pleasantly.
“Shall we go and have some tea? I always want tea so much after a thunderstorm. I will show you some more of my Penates, if you like afterwards.”
I followed her into the hall, and took my tea from the hands of a prim little maid servant. With the Dresden cup between my fingers a sudden thought flashed into my mind. If only Lady Naselton could see me. Unconsciously my lips parted, and I laughed outright.
“Do forgive me,” I begged. “Something came into my mind. It was too funny. I could not help laughing.”
“To be able to laugh at one’s thoughts is a luxury,” she answered. “I know a man who lived through a terrible illness solely because of his sense of humor. There are so many things to laugh at in the world, if only one sees them in the right light. Let me give you some more tea.”
I set down my cup. “No more, thanks. That has been delicious. I wonder whether I might ask you a question?” I added. “I should like to if I might.”
“Well, you certainly may,” she answered, good-humoredly.
“Mr. Deville spoke of your work,” I continued; “and of course I could see you had been writing. Do you write fiction? I think it is so delightful for women to do anything for themselves—any real work, I mean. Do you mind my asking?”
“I do not write fiction as a rule,” she said, slowly. “I write for the newspapers. I was a correspondent for several years for one of the dailies. I write more now for a purpose. I am one of the ‘abhorred tribe,’ you know—a Socialist, or what people understand as a Socialist. Are you horrified?”
“Not in the least,” I answered her; “only I should like to know more about it. From what I have heard about Socialism I should never have dreamed of associating it with—well, with Dresden cups and saucers, for instance,” I laughed, motioning to her own.
Her eyes twinkled. “Poor child,” she said, “you have all the old-fashioned ideas about us and our beliefs, I suppose. I am not sure that, if you were a properly regulated young lady, you would not get up and walk out of the house.”
A shadow had fallen across the open doorway, and a familiar voice, stern, but tremulous with passion, took up her words.
“That is precisely what my daughter will do, madam! At once, and without delay! Do you hear, Kate?”
I rose to my feet dumb with amazement. My father’s tall figure, drawn to its utmost height, stood out with almost startling vividness against the sunlit space beyond. A deep red flush was on his pale cheeks. His eyes seemed on fire with anger. My hostess rose to her feet with dignity.
“Your daughter is at liberty to remain or go at any time,” she said, coolly. “I presume that I am addressing Mr. Ffolliot?”
She looked over my shoulder towards my father, and their eyes met. I looked from one to the other, conscious that something was passing outside my knowledge—something between those two. Her eyes had become like dull stones. Her face had grown strangely hard and cold. There was a brief period of intense silence, broken only by a slow, monotonous ticking of the hall clock and the flutter of the birds’ wings from amongst the elm trees outside. A breath of wind brought a shower of rain drops down on to the gravel path. A sparrow flew twittering into the hall and out again. Then it came to an end.
“Marcia!”
His single cry rang out like a pistol shot upon the intense silence. He took a quick step across the threshold. She held out both her hands in front of her, and he stopped short.
“You had better go,” she said. “You had better go quickly.”
I went out and took my father’s arm. He let me lead him away without a word; but he would have fallen several times if it had not been for my support. When we reached home he turned at once into the library.
“Go away, Kate,” he said, wearily. “I must be alone. See that I am not disturbed.”
I hesitated, but he insisted. I shut the door and left him. I, too, wanted to be alone. My brain was in a whirl. What was this past whose ghosts seemed rising up one by one to confront us? First there had been Mr. Deville, and now the woman whom my father had called Marcia. What were they to him? What had he to do with them? Where had their lives touched? I pressed my hot forehead against the window-pane, and looked across at the Yellow House. The sunlight was flashing and glistening upon its damp, rain-soaked front. In the doorway a woman was standing, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking across the park. I followed her gaze, and saw for whom she was waiting. Bruce Deville was walking swiftly towards her. I saw him leap a fence to save a few yards, and he was taking huge and rapid strides. I turned away from my window and hid my face in my hands.
CHAPTER V
A SOUTH AMERICAN LETTER
Naturally I expected that some time that night my father would have spoken to me concerning the strange meeting at the house of the woman whom he had called Marcia. In a sense I feared what he might have to say. Already I was beginning to reckon those few hours as an epoch in my life. Never had I met any one whom in so short a time had attracted me so much. I found myself thinking of her continually, and the more I thought the more I scoffed at the idea of connecting in any way with her those things at which Lady Naselton had hinted. There seemed something almost grossly incongruous in any such idea. The more I thought of her the more resolute