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  Obvious typographical and printer's errors have been corrected.
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[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 anaemic-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
cent