The Yellow House Part 11

I should have rushed out to him, but Bruce Deville laid his hand very softly upon my shoulder. I could not have believed that any touch of his could be so gentle.

"I wish you would take my advice, Miss Ffolliot," he said. "Take the path through the plantation home, and don't let your father see you leaving here. It would be better, would it not, Adelaide?" he added.

She looked at me.

"Yes, it would be better," she said. "Do you mind? You will be at home as soon as he is."

I could not but admit that the advice was good, bearing in mind my father's words when he found me there only a few days before. Yet it galled me that it should have been offered. What was this secret shared between these three of which I was ignorant? I declared to myself that I would know as soon as my father and I were alone together. I would insist upon all these things being made clear to me. I would bear it no longer, I was resolved on that. But in the meantime I was helpless.

"Very well," I answered; "perhaps you are right, I will go by the footpath."

I left the room abruptly. Mr. Deville opened the front door for me, and hesitated with his cap in his hand. I waved him away.

"I will go alone," I said. "It is quite light."

"As you will," he answered, shortly. "Good-night."

He turned on his heel and re-entered the room. I crossed the road with soft footsteps. At the opening of the plantation I paused. My father was in the road below walking wearily and leaning upon his stick. At my sudden standstill a twig beneath my feet snapped short. A sudden change seemed to transform his face. He stopped short and turned round with the swift, eager movement of a young man. His hand fumbled for a moment in the pocket of his long clerical coat, and reappeared clutching something which flashed like steel in the dull light. He held it at arm's length, looking eagerly around, peering forward in my direction, but unable to see me owing to the dark shadows of the trees beneath which I stood. But I on the other hand could see his every movement; in the half-light his figure stood out in such marvellous distinctness against the white road and the low, grey line of sky beyond. I could see him, and I could see what it was he carried in his hand. It was a small, shining revolver.

He stood quite still like a man expecting a sudden attack. When none came and the stillness remained unbroken, the strained, eager light died slowly out of his face. He appeared rather disappointed than relieved. Reluctantly he turned around, and with the revolver still in his hand but hidden beneath the skirts of his coat, made his way up the white hill towards the Vicarage. He must have walked quickly, for although I hurried, and my way back was the shorter, he was already at our gate when I emerged from the plantation. As he stooped to adjust the fastening I heard him groan, and bending forward I caught a glimpse of his face. I must have cried out, only my lips seemed palsied as though I were but a sleeping figure in some terrible nightmare. His face was like the face of a dead man. He seemed to have aged by at least a dozen years. As he hastened up the little drive, his walk, usually so dignified and elastic, became a shamble. It seemed to me that this was but the wreck of the man who had left us only a few days before.

CHAPTER VIII

THE COMING OF MR. BERDENSTEIN

There are days marked in our lives with white stones. We can never forget them. Recollections, a very easy effort of memory, seem to bring back even in some measure the very thrill, the same pulsations and emotions, as were kindled into life by certain never-to-be-forgotten happenings. Time cannot weaken them. Whilst we have life the memory of them is eternal. And there are other days against the memory of which we have dropped a black stone. We shrink from anything which may recall them. No sacrifice would seem too great if only we could set the seal of oblivion upon those few hated hours. We school ourselves to close our eyes, and turn our heads away from anything which might in any manner recall them to us. Yet we are powerless. Ghosts of them steal light-footed, detested and uninvited guests, across our fairest moments; the chill of winter shakes us on the most brilliant of midsummer days; the color steals from our cheeks, and our blood runs to water. We are at the mercy of those touches of icy reminiscence. There is no escape from them. There never will be any escape. The Sunday which followed my father's visit to London is one of those hideous memories. In the calendar of my life it is marked with the blackest of black stones. I only pray that such another day as that may never find its way into my life.

The morning pa.s.sed much as usual. My father had scarcely spoken to us on the previous evening. In reply to our half eager, half frightened questions, he admitted that he had been ill. He would not hear of a doctor. His malady, he told us, was one which he himself perfectly understood. He would be better in a few days. He ate and drank sparingly, and then retired at once to his room. We heard him drag himself wearily up the stairs, and Alice burst into tears, and I myself felt a lump in my throat. Yet what could we do? He would not have us near him. The only invalid's privilege which he permitted himself was a fire in his bedroom, and this he asked for immediately he entered the house, although the night was close and oppressive, and he had come in with beads of perspiration standing out upon his white forehead.

In the morning he preached an old sermon, preached it with weary lips and wholly nonchalant manner. His pallid face and l.u.s.treless eyes became objects of remark amongst the meagre congregation. I could hear people whispering to one another when the service was over. Lady Naselton spoke to me of it with concern as we pa.s.sed down the aisle.

"I am sorry to see your father looking so dreadfully ill dear," she remarked. "I am particularly sorry to-day. Come outside, and I will tell you why."

We pa.s.sed out together into the sunlit air, fresh and vigorous after the dull vault-like gloom of the little church, with its ivy-hung windows. Lady Naselton held my arm.

"My dear," she said, "the Bishop is lunching with us to-day, and staying all night. I have spoken to him about your father. He remembers him quite well, and he is coming to service this evening on purpose to hear him preach."

"The Bishop," I repeated, vaguely. "Do you mean our Bishop? The Bishop of Exchester?"

"Yea. I am not supposed, of course, to say anything about it, as his visit has nothing whatever to do with diocesan affairs, but I should be disappointed if your father did not make an impression upon him."

She looked around to be sure that no one was listening. It was quite a needless precaution.

"You see, dear, I happen to know that there are two vacant stalls at the cathedral, and the Bishop wants a preacher badly. It is owing to what I have told him about your father that he is coming over to-day. I do hope that he will be at his best this evening."

"I am afraid that there is very little chance of it," I answered, blankly. "He is really very ill. He will not admit it, but you can see for yourself."

"He must make an effort," Lady Naselton said, firmly. "Will you tell him this from me? Say that we shall all be there, and if only he can make a good impression--well, it is the chance of a lifetime. Of course, we shall all be terribly sorry to lose you, but Exchester is not very far off, and we really could not expect to keep a man with your father's gifts very long. Try and rouse him up, won't you? Goodbye, dear."

She drove off, and I waited at the vestry door for my father. He came out with half-closed eyes, and seemed scarcely to see me. I walked by his side, and repeated what Lady Naselton had told me. Contrary to my expectations, the news was sufficient to rouse him from his apathy.

"The Bishop here to-night!" he repeated, thoughtfully. "You are quite sure that there is no mistake? It is the Bishop of Exchester?"

I nodded a.s.sent.

"So Lady Naselton a.s.sured me. I have heard her say more than once that they knew him very well indeed. She is most anxious that you should do your very best. It seems that there are two stalls vacant at the cathedral."

The light flashed into his eyes for a moment, and then died out.

"If only it had been a week ago," he said. "I have other things in my mind now. I am not in the mood to prepare anything worth listening to."

"Those other things, father," I said, softly. "Are we to remain wholly ignorant of them? If there is any trouble to be faced, we are ready to take our share."

He shook his head, and a wan smile flickered for a moment upon his pale lips. He looked at me not unkindly.

"It may come, Kate," he said, softly. "Till then, be patient and ask no questions."

We had reached the house, and I said no more. Directly after luncheon, at which he ate scarcely anything, he went into his study. We hoped, Alice and I, that he had gone to work. But in less than half an hour he came out. I met him in the hall.

"My hat and stick, Kate," he said. "I am going for a walk."

His manner forbade questions, but as he was leaving the house an impulse came to me.

"May I come with you, father?" I asked. "I was going for a walk too."

He hesitated for a moment, and seemed about to refuse. What made him change his mind I could never tell. But he did change it.

"Yes, you can come," he said, shortly. "I am starting now, though. I cannot wait for a moment."

"I am quite ready," I answered, taking my hat and gloves from the stand. So we pa.s.sed out of the house together.

At the gate he paused for a moment, and I thought that he was going to take the road which led to the Yellow House and Deville Court. Apparently he changed his mind, however.

"We will take the footpath to Bromilow Downs," he said. "I have never been there."

We turned our backs upon the more familiar places, and walked slowly along the country which led to the Downs. We neither of us spoke a word for some time. Once or twice I glanced towards him with concern. He was moving with uncertain steps, and every now and then he pressed his hand to his side. Physically, I could see that he was scarcely equal to the exertion of walking. It was mental disquiet which had brought him out. His eyes were dry and bright, and there was a hectic flush upon his cheeks. As we pa.s.sed from the lane out on to the open Downs, he drew a little breath and removed his hat. The autumn wind swept through his hair, and blew open his coat. He took in a long breath of it. "This is good," he said, softly. "Let us rest here."

We sat upon the trunk of a fallen pine tree on the verge of the common. Far away on the hillside rose the red chimneys of Naselton Hall. I looked at them, and of a sudden the desire to tell my father what I knew of that man's presence there grew stronger and stronger. After all it was his right to know. It was best to tell him.

"Father," I said, "I have something to say to you. It is something which I think you ought to know."

He looked away from vacancy into my face. Something in my manner seemed to attract him. He frowned, and answered me sharply.

"What is it, child? Only mind that it is not a question."