"Restrain yourself, please," broke in the solicitor, speaking with cold dignity. "What kind of 'good turn' is it that rakes up bygone troubles, and spreads scandalous gossip?"
"You've missed my point entirely, Mr. Dobb," protested Walker. "I thought that you, being a friend of the Garths, could drop a quiet hint to Miss Meg not to talk about her dead-and-gone father as though he might arrive here by the next train—that's all."
"But it is not all. If it were, your attitude would be understandable, even praiseworthy. What you are saying indirectly is that Mr. Stephen Garth is alive, and that some unknown person lies in Bellerby churchyard."
Thus cornered, Walker floundered badly.
"I'm not able to argue with you, sir, and that's the truth," he said. "Neither do I want to be drawn into a squabble of this sort. Of course, I know nothing of any second marriage; but, even if I did, Miss Meg isn't a little girl, who might have forgotten her real father. Look here! I stick to my notion, and that's the long and the short of it. There's a mystery at Elmdale, and it's bound to come out, no matter what difference of opinion there may be between you and me."
A parlormaid entered with a telegram.
"Excuse me one moment," said Mr. Dobb; "that is, unless you wish to go!" he added.
Walker was constrained to put on a bold front before the servant.
"I can wait another couple of minutes," he said off-handedly. The lawyer smiled; but, for his own purposes, he did not wish to quarrel outright with his visitor. He opened the buff envelope, and read, and not even the experience of a lifetime served to mask the incredulous dismay which leaped to his face.
For the message ran:
"Have reason to believe that a gentleman passing under the name of Robert Armathwaite is in or near Nuttonby. Kindly make guarded inquiries and wire result.—Sigmatic."
"Have reason to believe that a gentleman passing under the name of Robert Armathwaite is in or near Nuttonby. Kindly make guarded inquiries and wire result.—Sigmatic."
Now, "Sigmatic" was the code address of a department of the India Office in which Mr. Dobb's eldest son held a responsible position. That phrase, "passing under the name of," suggested many possibilities to the legal mind. Moreover, the fact that a Government department was interested, and that the ordinary official channel for investigation was not employed, gave him furiously to think. In any event, he had been saved from the exceeding unwisdom of treating James Walker too cavalierly.
"I'll just answer this, as the messenger is waiting," he said pleasantly. "If you're not in a hurry, Mr. Walker, sit down again. I'll send in a decanter of sherry and some cigarettes. Help yourself, will you?"
He went out. James Walker grinned, and plunged his clenched fists into his trousers pockets.
"That telegram knocked old Dobb into a cocked hat," he mused. "Wonder what was in it? Something to do with the Garths, I'll bet! Keep a steady hand on the reins, Jimmy, my boy, and you'll finish with the best of 'em yet!"
There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of the Grange, all nearly of equal size, and remarkably spacious, since they corresponded in area with the rooms beneath. Percy Whittaker occupied the westerly front room, Marguérite had pre-empted the easterly one, and Armathwaite's room lay in the north-east angle. Thus, he was early aroused by the morning sun, and was up and about long before Mrs. Jackson or Betty put in an appearance. For lack of the bath which he had been prevented from ordering through Tom Bland, he splashed in an old-fashioned shallow zinc contrivance which reminded him of former days in Baluchistan. Crossing the landing afterwards, meaning to look in on Percy Whittaker, he glanced at the now oddly familiar black figure in the stained-glass window.
At the moment his thoughts were not dwelling on the topic which had occupied them, well nigh to the exclusion of all else, since he had first set eyes on Elmdale, yet, by some occult influence, no sooner did he meet the cold, unseeing glare of the painted effigy than his brain began to calculate the significance of certain dates. TheNuttonby Gazettedated Saturday, June 22nd, of two years ago, had stated that the inquest on Stephen Garth was held at the Fox and Hounds Inn, Elmdale, "to-day" (so the enterprising Banks had evidently brought out a special edition). Mrs. Jackson and Police Constable Leadbitter had deposed to the finding of the body on "Friday evening," which would be the 21st. Mrs. Jackson and Betty had last seen Garth alive on the Wednesday. Certain post-mortem indications showed that the death had taken place that night, the 19th. To-day, Friday, two years later, was the 19th! Armathwaite was not a nervous subject, but he was aware once more of a creepy sensation when he realized that this sunlit morning probably heralded in the fatal anniversary.
Seen in a clear and penetrating light, and closely examined at an hour when each line stood out boldly, the face of the figure revealed certain peculiarities. Artists in stained glass seldom attempt to convey subtleties in flesh tints. At best, their craft is mainly decorative, and effects are obtained by judicious grouping of colors, each of a distinct tone value, rather than by the skilled merging of light into shadow, which is the painter's chief aim. But, in this instance, a deliberate attempt had been made to depict features of a truly malevolent cast. The oval formed by the open visor of the helmet gave scope for the use of an almost invisible casing of lead, which also provided the larger outline of the helmet itself, and of an enormous raven, with outstretched wings, perched on the crest.
Yet, instead of the youthful and noble countenance which tradition would surely ascribe to a gallant prince, the face which peered from the casque was that of an evil-minded ascetic. Indeed, the longer Armathwaite looked, the more he was convinced that the artist had tried to suggest a mere skull covered with dead skin. The nose was pinched, and the nostrils were unpleasantly prominent. The lips were mere seams of dried parchment, and the cavernous eyes were really two empty sockets.
This sinister and ghoul-like visage was totally at variance with the remainder of the work. The armor was correct from helm to sollerets, with hauberk and corselet, greaves and jambards, while the gauntleted hands were crossed, in true warrior fashion, on the hilt of a long, straight sword. The vignette border of tendrils and vine-leaves was charming in design and rich in well-blended color, and an observer of critical taste could not fail to compare the gross offense of the portrait with the quiet beauty of its setting. To some minds, there is an element in art which denies a true sense of harmony to a distorted imagination, and the notion was suddenly borne in on Armathwaite that the same hand had never limned that demoniac face and the remainder of the window. The one might have been the product of some debauchee steeped in the worst excesses of a libidinous society, while the other breathed the calm serenity of the Renaissance. Armathwaite had in full measure the hunter's instinct which incites mankind to seek out and destroy ferocious beasts. If he had a weapon in his hands at the moment he would have smashed that diabolical mask out of existence.
The unaccountable spasm passed, and he entered Whittaker's room, to find that disconsolate youth lying on his back, wide awake, and staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Hullo!" he said cheerily. "Had a good night's rest?"
"Pretty fair," muttered the invalid, turning his eyes dully on the other. "That doctor chap doped me, I expect. Anyhow I slept till I heard you splashin' in the bath."
"How's the ankle?"
"Rotten. Look here, Mr. Armathwaite, you seem to understand this sort of thing. Bar jokes, how long must I remain here?"
"In bed, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"A week, at least. After that, you may be able to hop about on one leg."
"Ifyouwere in my place, would you stop in bed a week?"
"What else could I do? Even walking with a crutch is impossible because of the strain on the ligaments."
Whittaker moved involuntarily, and was given a sharp reminder that his informant was not exaggerating his disability.
"All right," he said sullenly. "What time is it?"
"About six o'clock. Betty will bring you some tea and an egg before seven."
"Miss Ogilvey isn't up yet?"
"No."
Half unconsciously, Armathwaite resented the studied formality of that "Miss Ogilvey." He fully appreciated its intent. He was a stranger and must be kept at arm's length. Moreover, the crippled Percy held him at a disadvantage. The younger man might be as insolent as he chose—Armathwaite was muzzled.
"Can I do anything for you," he said.
"In what way?"
"Well, if the pain is very bad, an extra bandage, soaked in cold water, will relieve the burning sensation."
"No, thanks. I'll wait till the doctor comes."
"He is bringing a nurse, by the way. You'll need proper attention for the next few days."
"Right. Don't let me keep you. I think I can sleep another hour or so."
Armathwaite was at no loss to understand why the cub wished to be rid of him. Whittaker was not only torturing himself with the knowledge that his host would be free to enjoy Marguérite Ogilvey's company without let or hindrance, but he also felt a grudge against the fates which had snatched him out of active participation in the day's events. Neither dreamed that the accident would precipitate the crisis each wished to avoid. In fact, in view of what did actually happen, it would be interesting to speculate on the probable outcome if, by chance, Armathwaite had been disabled instead of Whittaker. But history, whether dealing with men or nations, recks little of "what might have been." It is far too busily occupied in fashioning the present and concealing the past, for, let students dig and delve ever so industriously, they seldom obtain a true record of occurrences which have shaken the world, while, in the lives of the few people with whom this chronicle deals, there were then at work certain minor influences which no one of them ever discerned in their entirety. There was nothing surprising in this. A crystal-minded woman like Marguérite Ogilvey could never adjust her perceptive faculties to the plane of a decadent Percy, while Robert Armathwaite was too impatient of ignoble minds that he should ever seek to uncover the mole-burrowings of James Walker.
Certain developments took place which affected each and all in relative degrees, and each acted according to his or her bent. Beyond that, analysis of cause and effect can hardly be other than sheer guesswork.
Armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the morning.
He was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man approached. Though twisted with rheumatism—the painful tribute which Mother Earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her chief treasures—this man quickened into a new life when he saw Armathwaite. He cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant.
"Good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was devoid of any semblance of servility. "Things are in a nice mess, aren't they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed sacred to begonias.
"They are, indeed!" agreed Armathwaite, wondering what white-haired philosopher had come on the scene.
"You'll be Mr. Armathwaite, I'm thinkin'?" went on the other.
"Yes."
"My name's Smith, sir. Mr. Leadbitter, the policeman, told me you had taken on the Grange. Mebbe you'll be wantin' a gardener."
A light broke in on Armathwaite.
"Oh! Begonia Smith!" he cried. "Come back to the old love—is that it?"
"That's it, sir. She looks as if she wanted someone to look after her."
"Very well. Take charge. It's too late in the year to grow flowers or vegetables, but you can tidy things up a bit."
"A man who has his heart in the job, sir, can grow flowers at any time of the year. If I was to drop a line to the Nuttonby carrier to-night, I'd have a fair show of geraniums, calceolarias, lobelia, an' marguerite daisies in the front here by to-morrow evenin'."
Armathwaite was not one to check enthusiasm. Moreover, the notion of brightening the surroundings appealed to him.
"That would be sharp work," he said, eyeing the jungle.
Smith, with the suspiciousness of an old man eager to show that he was as good as some of the young ones, misunderstood that critical survey.
"Before Tom Bland brings the plants from the nursery I'll have a canny bit o' soil ready for 'em," he vowed.
"I'm sure of it," said Armathwaite, quickly alive to the aged gardener's repudiation of any doubt cast on his powers. "But surely you can be better employed than in mere digging. Are there laborers to be hired in the village?"
Smith swept the bare meadow-land with the appraising eyes of knowledge.
"Plenty of 'em, sir. The hay is in, an' they'll be slack enough now for another month."
"Very well. Send your order to Bland, including such implements as you may need. Hire three or four men, and get them busy. By the way, have you heard that Miss Meg is here?"
"Miss Meg! Our Miss Meg?"
Smith's astonishment was not feigned. He was slightly dazzled already by the way in which his new employer had received suggestions for the regeneration of the garden; now, he was thoroughly bewildered.
"Yes," said Armathwaite, watching him narrowly. "She may join us any minute. Of course, if she expresses any preference for a particular method of laying out the flower-beds, you will adopt it without question."
"Why, sir," said the old man simply, "if it's the same Miss Meg as I hev' in mind I'll not charge you a penny for what little I can do about the place. It'll be enough for me to see her bonnie face again an' hear her voice."
"I'll tell her that," laughed Armathwaite. "But we don't trade on those terms. You were happy here, I suppose, before Mr. Garth died?"
"No man could ha' worked for nicer people, sir. It bruk me all to pieces when t' maister tellt me to go. An' I never rightly understood it, until—until the sad thing happened you'll hev' heerd of. Mr. Garth was just as much cut up about me goin' as I was meself—that was the queer part of it.... Sir, tell me this, D'you mean to live here any length o' time?"
"I hope so."
"Well, it's a bold thing to say, afore I've known ye five minnits, so to speak, an' there may be nowt in it other than owd wives' blether, but, if you ain't such a great lover o' stained glass, I advise ye to hev' yon staircase window riven out by t' roots."
"Now, why in the world do you say that?"
"I can't put it into plain words, sir, an' that's a fact, but I'd be glad to see the house shut o' that grinnin' death's head. I well remember my own father tellin' me there was a curse in it, an' many's the time Mr. Garth laughed at me when I spoke on't. But t' owd man's prophecy kem yam (came home) to roost at last. It did, an' all."
"What reason did your father give for his belief?"
"It's a strange story, sir, but I know bits of it are true, so mebbe the rest isn't so far out. D'you see yon farm?" and Begonia Smith pointed to the Burt homestead.
"Yes," said Armathwaite. "I met Mr. Burt yesterday."
"It's built on the ruins o' Holand Castle, sir. It's barely ten years ago since Mr. Burt used the last o' t' stones for his new barn. These Holands were descended from a lady who married Edward, the Black Prince. She had three sons by her first husband, an' one of 'em kem to this part o' Yorksheer. As was the way in them days, he set a church alongside his castle, and was that proud of his step-father, who would ha' bin King of England had he lived, that he had that painted glass window med in his memory. In later times, when there was a cry about images, the owner of Holand Castle had the window taken out an' hidden. Then, to please somebody or another, he set fire to t' church. After that, things went badly with him, an' the castle was deserted, because it had the plague, though I'm thinking the only plague was bad drainage. Anyhow, nigh on two hundred year ago, a man named Faulkner settled i' this quiet spot—you can guess what it was like, sir, when there was no railways, an' the nearest main road ran through Leyburn on t' other side o' t' moor. This Faulkner had gathered his brass in no good way, robbin' ships an' killin' folk on the high seas, it was said. He used to import hogsheads o' wine all the way from Whitby, an' rare good wood was in 'em, because I saw the last of 'em used as a rain barrel, an' I'm not seventy yet. The story goes that one night, in his cups, he was annoyed by the way the Black Prince looked at him, hard an' condemning like a judge. He got a pair o' big pistols, an' fired one at the Prince's face. He shot the eyes out, an' then aimed the second one at the mouth, but that burst, and blew his own right hand off, an' he bled to death afore they could plug the veins. His son, who was a chip o' t' owd block, hired a drunken artist to paint another face. This man knew nowt about stained glass, but he was a rare hand at drawin' terrible things, so he planned yon devil's phiz on oiled paper, an' stuck it between two thin plates o' glass, an' it was leaded in. If you was to climb on a ladder you'd find the difference at once between that part o' t' window an' all t' remainder. Many's the time I've seen it when nailin' up the wistaria, an', if I'd dared, would have put the hammer-head through it. But Mr. Garth refused to have it touched. He called it an antiquarian curiosity. All the same, he wouldn't have Miss Meg told about it, because it might have frightened her but he was always careful to see that the blind was not drawn across the front door on June evenings. Mebbe, you'll have heerd of a ghost, sir?"
A window was raised, and both men looked up. Marguérite was leaning out, her face aglow with pleasure.
"Why, if it isn't my own dear Smith!" she cried. "What lucky wind broughtyouhere? Mr. Armathwaite, is thisyourdoing? Smith, I'll be down in a jiffy. Mind you don't skedaddle before I come!"
Thus it befell that when Betty Jackson brought an early breakfast to Percy Whittaker, and she was asked where Miss Meg was, she answered:
"Out in the garden with Mr. Armathwaite. They're talkin' to Begonia Smith."
"Ah, I heard the voices. And who, pray, is Begonia Smith?" demanded Percy.
"The old gardener," said Betty. "He was here years an' years."
"Does Mr. Armathwaite mean to have the grounds attended to?"
"Looks like it, sir. He an' Miss Meg are measurin' bits, an' Smith's stickin' in pieces of wood. It'll be nice to have the place kept spick an' span again."
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Meg's glimpse of her friend from the bedroom window should have brought her downstairs pell-mell without even a tap on Whittaker's door to inquire as to his well-being. It was perhaps, equally unfortunate that, when she remembered her remissness, she should have hurried to his room while her cheeks were flushed with the strong moorland air and her eyes shining with excitement.
"How are you, Percy dear?" she said, entering in response to his surly "Come in!" "I ought to have looked in on you sooner, but I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Mr. Armathwaite in the garden with Smith, our own old gardener, whom I've known ever since I was a baby."
"Why has Armathwaite brought Smith here?" said Whittaker, peering at her fixedly, yet veiling those gray-green eyes under lowered lids.
"He didn't. Smith just came. But isn't it fortunate? He couldn't have found a better man, especially as Smith won't have any of the hard work on his hands. Mr. Armathwaite is giving him all the help he needs."
"To put the place in order?"
"Yes, of course. Smith promises marvels by to-morrow evening. But you haven't told me yet how your poor ankle feels."
"Never mind my poor ankle, Meg. I understood that the house was only let for three months?"
"Oh, much longer, I believe. Mr. Armathwaite——
"Confound Mr. Armathwaite! The devil fly away with Mr. Armathwaite! I'm sick of his name: I spit on him!" He literally writhed in a paroxysm of anger.
"Percy!"
He had chosen an unhappy word when he spoke of spitting on his rival. He reminded her of a toad, and she hated toads.
With a desperate effort he sat bolt upright in the bed.
"It's high time you and I had a few straight words, Meg," he said, and his voice lost its drawl, and the blasé manner was dropped. "You haven't forgotten, I suppose, that I've asked you to marry me?"
"No. Perhaps, if you rack your memory, you'll remember my answer," she said indignantly, for she felt the innuendo, and was resolved to resent it with vigor.
"No, oh, no! You said you didn't mean to marry anybody. That is a maidenly sentiment which is right and proper, and I agreed with it at the time. But the position has altered considerably during the past couple of days. As matters stand now, Meg, you may change your mind, and I beg to inform you that when you do marry, you'll marry me."
"It is hardly fair to take advantage of your accident," she said, with a quiet scorn that only served to infuriate him the more.
"What do you mean?" he said thickly.
"You are not usually so dense. If you were not ill you would never dare speak to me in that fashion."
"Never mind my illness. That will soon pass. And the density you complain of is not so one-sided as you imagine. I pointed out that the position had changed. Two days ago you were free to say 'Yes' or 'No' to my proposal. To-day you are not. You've got to marry me now, Meg. You'll be my wife by fair means or foul. Need I explain myself further?"
"It—it would be as well."
"All right. You've asked for it, and you'll get it. Unless I have your promise here and now that our marriage will take place as soon as I can stand on my feet again, I'll have your father arrested for murder."
"Percy, you must be mad even to think of such a dreadful thing!"
"No, not mad, but sane, very sane and wide-eyed. That fellow, Armathwaite, wants you, and he'll snap you up while I'm lying in this infernal house unless I strike now, and strike hard. I mean exactly what I say. I've thought it all out here, though I'm suffering pain enough to drive me crazy. But the mind can conquer the body, and my mind is not only clear, but fixed. Tell me you'll marry me, and I'll be patient as a saint. I'll take your word for it. I don't want you to sit by my side and hold my hand, as some sniveling fools would wish. You can plan your gardens with Armathwaite, and smile at him and talk with him as much as you please. But you've got to be my wife. Refuse, and the only way you can save your father from arrest is by getting Armathwaite to commit another murder."
"You brute!" she almost whispered. Her lips were quivering pitifully, but the fount of tears was dried, and her eyes blazed with an intensity that conquered Whittaker for the moment.
He lay back on the pillows again, with a smile that was twisted into a rictus of agony as a twinge wrung the injured limb.
"Call me any hard names you like," he muttered, closing his eyes under the intolerable contempt and loathing of Marguérite's steadfast scrutiny. "I've said what I had to say, and I'll not depart from a syllable of it. You'd have married me one of these days if you hadn't met Armathwaite. He has turned your pretty little head with his knight-errant airs and cavalry officer appearance. So I've determined to pull you back by force—see? You'll get over it in time. You and I will be as good chums as ever when this gale has blown itself out. Don't think I shall hold you less dear because your father placed himself in danger of the law. He escaped neatly before, and can escape again. I'll even tell you how. No one here knows—"
He opened his eyes again, to ascertain if some dawning interest in the project he was about to reveal—which was precisely that already set forth by Armathwaite—had driven the horror from her drawn features; but Marguérite had vanished. He listened for her footsteps, and could hear no sound. He shouted loudly, and tugged frenziedly at a bell. Betty came running, thinking he had fallen out of bed, and needed assistance.
"Why, whatever is the matter?" she cried, with true Yorkshire abruptness, when she found him lying as she had left him a few minutes earlier.
"Where is Miss Meg?" he raged. "Tell her she must come here—at once! Tell her that! Use those very words—come at once!"
"My! What a to-do about nowt! I was sure the house was on fire!"
"Confound you, will you go!" he shouted.
"Yes, I'll go! For goodness' sake, keep quiet. You're doing yourself no good by gettin' that excited. Oh, you needn't bawl at me! I'll find her. It isn't such a big place that she can be lost for more'n a minnit or two."
Grumbling audibly at the funny ways some folk had, to be sure, Betty went downstairs. She looked into the drawing-room, dining-room, and library, but Marguérite was in none of those places. Then she passed out into the garden; through the open window Whittaker could hear her asking Armathwaite if he knew where Miss Meg was. He caught the answer, too.
"Yes. She left me to visit Mr. Whittaker."
"She's not there, sir, and he has just sent me for her in an awful hurry," said Betty.
"Is it anything I can do for him?"
"No, sir. He wants Miss Meg."
"Well, she can't be far away. She may be in her bedroom. Go and look there. If I see her, I'll hand on your message."
Soon, when Betty had ransacked the house, she came to the conclusion that Marguérite had gone into the village. For some reason, on hearing this, Whittaker appeared to be calmer, and only growled an order that he was to be informed instantly of Miss Garth's return. Betty retreated to the kitchen. When the door was safely closed she said to her mother:
"That Percy Whittaker is daft, an' it's easy to see what ails him. If I was Miss Meg I wouldn't have him if he was hung with diamonds."
"You're nobbut a fond lass," commented Mrs. Jackson, cracking an egg on the side of a basin preparatory to emptying its contents into a frying-pan. "Always thinkin' of young men, like the rest of 'em. Poor Meg Garth has other things to bother her. If you hadn't lost a good father when you were too little to ken owt about it, you'd know what she's goin' through now."
"But she says her father is livin'," said Betty.
"Tell me summat fresh," retorted her mother. "Wouldn't it be better for her if he wasn't? You mark my words. There'll be a bonny row i' this house afore we're much older. Now, hurry up with t' toast. No matter what else happens, folk mun eat."
After a while, Betty came to Armathwaite again.
"If you please, sir, breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it in, or will you wait for Miss Meg?" she said.
That a second inquiry as to Marguérite's whereabouts should be necessary seemed to surprise him.
"You were looking for Miss Garth a few minutes ago. Didn't you find her?" he inquired.
"No, sir. She's not in the house."
"But what can have become of her?"
"I thought, sir, she might ha' gone into t' village."
"Why?"
"She knows everybody i' t' place. She said last night that now she was makin' a bit of a stay she'd be seein' some o' t' folk."
"I think I should have noticed her if she had gone out by the gate," he said, weighing the point. "Smith!" he called, "has Miss Meg left the house recently—within the past ten minutes, I mean?"
"Not that I know of, sir," said Smith; "but I'm that worritted by the state of some o' these here beds that ammost owt (almost anything) might ha' happened without me givin' it heed."
"Bang that gong at the front door," said Armathwaite to Betty. "It should be heard in every house in Elmdale, and she will understand."
The gong was duly banged, and its effect on Elmdale was immediately perceptible. Old Mrs. Bolland vowed afterwards that she would sit permanently at the back bedroom window, because, being rheumaticky, she couldn't get upstairs quickly enough, and there was summat to see nowadays at t' Grange.
But the tocsin failed to reach the one ear for which it was intended. The village produced every live inhabitant except Marguérite Ogilvey.
"Was Miss Meg friendly with the Burts?" inquired Armathwaite, when he and Betty realized it was useless to gaze expectantly either at the corner of the roadway visible from the porch, or at such small cross-sections of the village "street" as could be seen at irregular intervals between the houses.
"Yes, sir. She'd often walk over there," said the girl, gazing at once in the direction of the Castle Farm, which was the name of the holding.
"She would know that breakfast was on the way?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I axed her meself when I brought her a cup of tea. She said that nine o'clock would suit."
Betty turned involuntarily to consult the grandfather's clock in the hall. The hands stood at ten minutes past nine; but, in the same moment, she remembered that the clock was not going. Armathwaite followed her glance, and looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes past nine," he answered, with a laugh. "The old clock is right to a tick. Was it in use while the Sheffield lady remained in the house?"
"No, sir. It stopped at that time when the old man died."
Then she giggled. There is hardly a man or woman in Yorkshire who does not know that the words of a famous song were suggested by the behavior of a clock which is still exhibited in an inn on the south side of the Tees at Pierce Bridge, and the girl had unconsciously repeated the tag of verses and chorus.
Armathwaite had yet to learn of this treasured possession of the county of broad acres, so he eyed Betty rather disapprovingly. Moved by an impulse which he regarded as nothing more than a desire to check such undue levity, he strode into the hall, found a key resting on a ledge of the clock's canopy, wound up the heavy weights, and started the pendulum.
"Perhaps our ancient friend may be more accurate than you, Betty," he said. "You mean, I suppose, that it stopped at that time because it was not wound. How doyouknow the hour, or even the day, anyone died here?"
"Well, I don't, sir, an' that's a fact," she admitted. "But what about breakfast?"
"Attend to Mr. Whittaker—I'll wait!"
He went out again, and saw Smith hobbling down the bye-road.
"Hi!" he cried, "if you're going into the village you might ask if anyone has seen Miss Meg!"
Smith replied with a hand wave. He was thinking mainly of begonias, planning a magician's stroke, because his new master had told him to spare no expense. Within ten minutes he returned, but not alone. Four able-bodied rustics came with him, each carrying a spade or a garden fork. But he had not forgotten Armathwaite's request.
"Miss Meg hasn't gone that way, sir," he said. "Plenty of folk saw her in t' garden, an' they couldn't ha' missed her had she been in t' street. But she'll be comin' i' now. No fear o' her bein' lost, stolen, or strayed i' Elmdale. These chaps are good for a day's diggin' at four shillin' an' two quarts o' beer each. Is that right, sir?"
"Make it five shillings and no beer," said Armathwaite.
The laborers grinned.
"No beer is even to be bought during working hours," he added sharply. "You can work harder and longer on tea. You may have all the tea, milk, bread and cheese you want, but not a drop of beer, this day or any other day, while at work here. I know what I am talking about. I am no teetotal fanatic, but I've proved the truth of that statement during many a day of more trying labor than digging soft earth."
The terms were agreed to without a murmur. The incident, slight as it was, had its bearing on the day's history. Smith was leading his cohort to the attack, when one of the men, apparently bethinking himself, approached Armathwaite and touched his cap.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but was ye axin' about Miss Meg?"
"Yes."
"Well, I seed her goin' up t' moor road nigh on half an hour sen" (since).
The Grange itself was the only house on the moor road for many a mile, and it was most unlikely that Marguérite would take a protracted stroll in that direction at such an hour. Somehow, Armathwaite was aware of a chill in the air which he had not felt earlier. It was his habit to disregard those strange glimpses of coming events, generally of misfortune, which men call premonitions. When confronted by accomplished facts, he acted as honor and experience dictated; for the rest, he said, with Milton—
"I argue notAgainst Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jotOf heart and hope; but still bear up and steerRight onward."
"I argue notAgainst Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jotOf heart and hope; but still bear up and steerRight onward."
But this all-sufficing rule of conduct had availed him little from the moment he crossed the threshold of the Grange. Right well had it served him in the strenuous years of vigilant governance now so remote; since his coming to Elmdale he seemed ever to be striving against shapeless phantoms. He had sought quiet and content in that peaceful-looking village; he had found only care and gnawing foreboding, brightened, it is true, by a day-dream, which itself left bitter communing when it waned. For he was his own severest censor. He regarded himself as one already in the sere and yellow leaf. Fortune had called him to the high places only to cast him forth discredited, if not humbled. That he, a man who believed he had done with the great world, should think of allying his shattered life with the sweet and winsome creature whose feminine charm was enhanced by a frank girlishness, was a tantalizing prospect which, like the mirage in a desert, merged with the arid wastes when subjected to close scrutiny. With Marguérite near, reason fled, and all things seemed possible; when the thrall of her presence was withdrawn, cold judgment warned him that gratitude for help rendered should not be mistaken for love.
He felt now that another crisis had arisen, yet the past yielded no ray of guidance. He glared at the poor laborer who, all unconsciously, was fate's herald in this new adversity, for he was instantly aware, without other spoken word, that Marguérite Ogilvey had fled. The man's troubled face showed that he feared he had done wrong.
"I'm main sorry, sir," said he, "if I've said owt te vex ye, but, hearin' the talk of Miss Meg, I thought——"
Armathwaite's drawn features relaxed, and he placed a friendly hand on the villager's shoulder.
"You've done right," he said. "I am very much obliged to you. I have a stupid habit of allowing my mind to wander. Just then I was thinking of something wholly unconnected with Miss Garth's disappearance, which will arouse Mrs. Jackson's wrath because of bacon and eggs frizzled to a cinder. I must go and condole with her."
He was turning to re-enter the house, mainly to set at rest any suspicion that Marguérite's absence arose from other cause than sheer forgetfulness, when the clang of the gate stayed him. A youth had dismounted from a bicycle, and was hastening up the path with an air of brisk importance.
"Telegrams for Garth and Whittaker," he said. "Any answer, sir?"
Armathwaite took the two buff envelopes which the lad produced from a leather pouch.
"Have you come from Bellerby?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, wait a few minutes. There may be some reply."
He went into the dining-room. So sure was he that Marguérite had gone away that he had not the slightest hesitation about opening the telegram addressed to "Garth, The Grange, Elmdale." As he anticipated, it was from Mrs. Ogilvey. It had been dispatched at seven o'clock from Tavistock, and read:
"Arriving to-night if possible. Don't take any action until I am with you.—Mother."
"Arriving to-night if possible. Don't take any action until I am with you.—Mother."
The early hour at which it had been sent off—from a town, too, which he rightly estimated as a good many miles distant from Warleggan, showed that Mrs. Suarez had contrived to get a telegram through to Cornwall the previous night, so Percy Whittaker's mischievous interference had proved quite successful.
Then, with lightning clarity came the belief that Percy Whittaker was responsible for Marguérite's flight. Armathwaite scouted the notion that she had such a thing in her mind when she came to him in the garden. Her nature was incapable of guile. Had she formed some fantastic scheme during the watches of the night she would never have put her troubles aside to share in his light-hearted planning of a new and glorified garden. In fact, he recalled her sudden dismay because of her seeming neglect of the invalid, and now he knew that he had not seen her since she went upstairs, whereas Whittaker himself had sent more than one urgent summons for her subsequently.
Stifling his fury as best he might, Armathwaite hurried to Whittaker's room.
"A telegram has just come for you," he said, and watched the younger man's face as he read. It was a long screed, and evidently bored its recipient.
"Oh, it's only from my sister," came the languid explanation. "By the way, where's Miss Garth?"
"Gone, I think."
"Gone!" Whittaker rose on an elbow and glowered at Armathwaite. "What the devil do you mean by 'gone'? Where has she gone to?" he cried.
"I want you to answer that question," and Armathwaite's voice was strangely harsh and threatening. "She came to you half an hour ago. Did you say anything likely to distress her? Tell me the truth, or I'll pound your face to a jelly."
His aspect had suddenly become so menacing that Whittaker wilted; his head sank back to the pillow, and his eyelids twitched with fright.
"That's no way to talk——" he began, but the other seized him by the shoulder with his left hand and clenched his right fist suggestively.
"You think I ought not to threaten you with violence because you are lying there helpless," was the savage interruption; "but, if you have not forgotten the ways of Ind, you must know that a poisonous snake is never so venomous as when disabled. Speak, now, and speak truthfully, or, as sure as God is in heaven, I'll strike!"
There was no withstanding the set purpose revealed by those blazing eyes, and Whittaker was so alarmed that he dared not attempt to lie.
"I—I've asked Meg—half a dozen times—to marry me," he stuttered, "and this morning—I told her—she'd have to consent—now."
"Why now?" and the fierce grip tightened, drawing the livid face nearer.
"Because—she must."
"Explain yourself, you dog!"
"I—I was afraid of your influence, so I warned her—that if—she wanted to save her father.... Ah! Let go! Curse you, let go! You're breaking my bones!"
That eldritch scream restored Armathwaite's senses. It startled the men in the garden. It brought Mrs. Jackson and Betty running from the kitchen. Happily, Armathwaite struck no blow. He flung off Whittaker's limp body as though he were, indeed, one of the vicious reptiles to which he had compared him.
"Yousug!" he breathed, using the bitterest term of contempt known to the East, for the Persian word means all that the Anglo-Saxon implies when he likens a fellow-creature to a dog, with the added force of an epithet which signifies "dog" in that despicable sense, and in none other.
Striding down the stairs, his fire-laden glance met the ghastly smile of the painted figure. With an active bound, he was on the window ledge, and the clenched fist which had ached to scatter some of the hapless Percy's features fell heavily on the scowling face in the window. The glass, which proved exceedingly thin and brittle, shivered into countless fragments within and without, and the inner sheet of transparent paper was so dry and tense that it shriveled instantly when exposed to the air. Indeed, Armathwaite, despite his rage, was aware of a peculiar sensation. It seemed as though he had struck at something impalpable as air. His hand was not cut. It appeared to have touched nothing. He thrust straight and hard, and the only evidence of his destroying zeal was a quantity of powdered glass on the landing, some curled wisps of paper adhering to the leaden frame, and an oval of blue sky shining through the visor.
As he leaped to the floor again, Mrs. Jackson reached the center of the hall. She screeched frantically, thinking that the Black Prince himself was springing from the window. But she was a stout-hearted old woman, and quickly recovered her wits when she saw what Armathwaite had done.
"They've long wanted a man i' this house!" she cried, in a voice that cracked with excitement, "and it's glad I am te see they've gotten yan at last! Eh, sir, ye med me jump! Ye did an' all! But ye'll never rue t' day when ye punched a hole in t' fëace o' that image of Owd Nick!"
By this time Smith and his helpers, aware that something unusual was going on inside the house, were gathered at the front door, which had remained wide open since the early morning.
"Listen, all of you!" said Armathwaite, addressing the two women and five men as though they were an army and he their emperor. "I am master here, and I expect you to obey my orders. I am going out now, and I may be away some hours, possibly all day. You, Smith, must put a padlock and chain on the gate and refuse to open it for anyone except Dr. Scaife and a nurse. You, Mrs. Jackson, must keep the doors locked while I am gone, and let no one enter, excepting, as I have told Smith, Dr. Scaife and the nurse who will accompany him. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you, Smith?"
"Yes, sir."
"Betty, put some thin slices of bread and meat between two small plates, and tie them in a napkin. Fill a bottle with milk. Quick! I have no time to lose."
He turned to the gaping boy who had brought the telegrams from Bellerby.
"Did you ride here on your own bicycle?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Is it a strong machine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lend it to me for the day, and I'll give you a sovereign."
"Right you are, sir!" came the hearty response. "Is there anything to go back to the post office?"
"Nothing. Raise the saddle of your bicycle, and see that the tires are in good order. Here's your money."
In an incredibly short time Armathwaite was pushing the bicycle up the steep road to the moor. He walked with long, swinging strides, and was soon lost to sight, because the trees behind the Grange hid the highway from any part of the house or grounds, and no one dared risk his wrath by going out into the road to watch him.
He climbed swiftly yet steadily, and conquered the worst part of the hill in fifteen minutes. Then he mounted the bicycle, and got over the ground rapidly. Thus, within less than an hour after Marguérite Ogilvey had escaped from the Grange—in the first instance by taking refuge in her bedroom, and, while Betty was talking to Whittaker, by slipping downstairs and climbing through a window in the library—Armathwaite saw her—a lonely figure in that far-flung moorland, walking in the direction of Leyburn.
Apparently, she had grabbed her hat and mackintosh coat when passing through the hall, and was carrying them, because the sun was glinting in her coils of brown hair. No stranger who met her would take her for other than a summer visitor. Certainly, no one would guess the storm of grief and terror that raged in her heart.
The bicycle sped along with a silent speed that soon lessened the distance between the two. Armathwaite did not wish to startle her by a too sudden appearance, so he rang the bell when yet fifty yards in the rear.
She turned instantly. When she saw who the pursuer was, she stopped. Neither spoke until Armathwaite had alighted, and the two had exchanged a long and questioning look.
Then she said:
"I'm going to my father. My place is with him. He must be hidden somewhere. I dare not wait until my mother came or wrote. I'm sorry, Bob. I could not even explain, though I should have telegraphed from York. Please don't ask me to say any more, or try to detain me."
"Any explanation is unnecessary," he said, smiling gravely into the sweet face with its aspect of unutterable pain. "I squeezed the facts out of Percy Whittaker. I'm afraid I hurt him, but that is immaterial."
"You made him tell you what he said to me?" and the brown eyes momentarily lost their wistfulness in a whirl of surprise and maidenly dismay.
"Yes."
"Everything—even his threat?"
"Everything."
"Oh, Bob! What am I to do? I must go to dad!"
"Undoubtedly; but I don't see why you should walk fourteen miles practically without food. I've brought some breakfast—of a sort. We'll go shares—half the sandwiches and half the milk. Then you'll ride on the step of the bike when the road permits, and trudge the remainder, and we'll be in Leyburn in half the time it would take you to walk. Here are the eatables, and this is just the place for a picnic."
He spoke and behaved in such a matter-of-fact way that he almost persuaded the bewildered girl that her conduct, and his, and Percy Whittaker's was ruled and regulated by every-day conditions. Placing the bicycle by the roadside, he produced the package prepared by Betty, and was uncorking the milk when a strangled sob caught his ear.
Marguérite had turned to hide her face, for a rush of emotion had proved too much for her self-control. Laying the bottle on a bank of turf, he caught the girl's shoulder, and turned her gently until her swimming eyes met his.
"There's nothing to be gained by hailing trouble half way, Meg," he said. "I don't wish to hide my belief that you are faced with conditions of a most extraordinary nature, but I am convinced that they will shape themselves differently to any forecast we can arrive at now. I followed you for two reasons. I wanted you to begin a long journey better prepared than was possible after flight on a moment's notice, and I did not want you to go away thinking I was in ignorance of your motives. I can tell you here and now that you will save your father, if his position is such that he needs safe-guarding; further, you will never be compelled to marry Percy Whittaker."
"Bob," she whispered brokenly. "I would rather die!"
Then Armathwaite flung restraint to the winds. He gathered her in his arms, and lifted the tear-stained face to his.
"Sweetheart," he said, "in the midst of such madness, let you and me be sane. I love you! You are the only woman I have ever loved. If I am allowed by Providence to begin life once more, you are the only woman I shall ever love. You were brought to me by a kindly fate, and I refuse to let you go now without telling you that you carry my heart with you. I ask for no answer at this moment. Some day in the future, when the clouds have lifted from your young life, I'll come to you—"
But Marguérite gave him her answer then. Lifting herself on tip-toe, she kissed him on the lips.
"Bob," she said tremulously, "I think I knew you were my chosen mate, if God willed it, when we parted on that first night in the Grange."
That first night! It was hardly thirty-six hours ago, yet these two had crowded into that brief space more tribulation than many lovers undergo in a lifetime; and sorrow knits hearts more closely and lastingly than joy.
Armathwaite could hardly credit the evidence of his senses. He had come to regard himself as so immeasurably older than this delightful girl that it seemed wildly improbable that she could return the almost hopeless love which had sprung into sudden and fierce activity in his breast. Yet, here she was, lying snug in his embrace, and gazing up at him with glistening eyes, her lips distended, her arms clasping him, her heart beating tumultuously in the first transports of passion.
He kissed her again and again, and could have held her there seemingly forever; but they were driven apart by a curious humming sound which bore a singular resemblance to the purr of a powerful automobile climbing a steep hill.
Marguérite disengaged herself from her lover's embrace with a flushing self-consciousness that was, in itself, vastly attractive.
"Bob," she murmured, stooping to pick up a fallen hat and mackintosh, "miracles are happening. Here are you and I forgetting a world in which evil things find a place, and here is a motor-car crossing Elmdale moor for the first time in history."
"It would not surprise me in the least if the visitant proved to be a flying-machine," he laughed, finding it hard to withdraw his ardent gaze from those flushed cheeks and that tangled mass of brown hair.
But the insistent drumming of an engine grew ever louder, and soon a long, low-built touring car swept into view over the last undulation. Apparently, it was untenanted save by a chauffeur, and Armathwaite's brain, recovering its balance after a whirl of delirium, was beginning to guess at a possible explanation of this strange occurrence, when the car slowed as it neared them, and finally halted.
"Are you Mr. Armathwaite, sir?" inquired the chauffeur.
"Yes."
The man lifted his cap.
"This is the car you ordered from York last night, sir."
"How thoughtful of you to follow!" cried Armathwaite, overjoyed by this quite unexpected bit of good fortune. He had not only forgotten that the car was on order—an impulse of the moment when he realized how tied he and all others were to the house if anything in the nature of a sudden and rapid journey came on thetapis—but, in any event, he had not looked for its arrival before mid-day, and the hour was yet barely ten o'clock.
"Your servants thought you might need me, sir," explained the man, "so I came after you. It's a scorcher of a road for the first mile, but the rest isn't so bad, if it keeps in the same condition."
Now, what had actually happened was this. The chauffeur had reached the Grange about twenty minutes after Armathwaite's departure. At that moment Smith was chaining and padlocking the gate, but Betty heard the snorting of the car, and came to find out its cause.
When the chauffeur told her that he was there in response to an order, the quick-witted girl told him to hurry up the moor road. He looked at it, and grinned.
"What! Take a valuable machine over a track like that! Not me!" he said.
"Can't it go there?" she inquired.
"It can go anywhere, for that matter."
"Are you afraid, then?"
"Afraid of what? D'ye think I want to twist an axle or smash a wheel?"
Then one of the laboring men joined in.
"I reckon you don't know t' maister," he said. "He wouldn't care a pin if you smashed yourself, but you've got to obey orders. He's one of the sort who has his own way. Good pay, no beer, an' hard work ishismotter. It is, an' all."
Between maid and man, the chauffeur decided to risk it. When all was said and done, it would be a bad beginning in a new job if the servants reported his refusal to follow on.
"Is he far ahead?" he inquired.
"Mebbe a mile over t' top."
Starting the engine on the switch, he put the car at the hill, and, like many another difficulty, it was not insurmountable when tackled boldly. So, behold! A comfortable and easy way was opened to Leyburn, at any rate, and Armathwaite laughed gayly.
"Now we'll breakfast, and discuss," said he. "The gods have sent us a chariot!"
If any critic, on perusing this chronicle, is moved to peevish condemnation of Armathwaite's amazing conduct that morning, the man himself would be the last to protest. He might urge that he was dazzled by the new and entrancing realm whose bright waters and fair meads he could discern beyond the present rough and dangerous ground. He might plead the literal truth—that when he went in pursuit of Marguérite Ogilvey he had no more intention of declaring his love than of hastening to Dover and endeavoring forthwith to swim the English Channel. But, making every allowance for a confirmed celibate who had suddenly become a devout lover, and to whose arms the lady of his choice had committed herself without any pretense of restraint, it must still be admitted that he was guilty of a most singular omission in failing to make known to her his very identity!
He remembered the phenomenal lapse when too late. Even to that practical side of his character which reproached the emotional side with a ridiculous forgetfulness, he could only say, in mitigation of sentence, that the sudden appearance of the car brought about such a novel situation that all else yielded to the need for prompt and skillful judgment in deciding Marguérite's immediate future.
It was all the more difficult to think logically and act decisively when Marguérite herself, ever and anon, was lifting adorably shy eyes to his while the two were making the best of the unusual meal he had provided. There, nevertheless, within a few feet, stood the obedient giant whose stout mechanism rendered many things possible that were hitherto impossible. The chauffeur, who gave his name as Storr, had taken off the bonnet for a critical glance at the six cylinders which had forced nearly two tons of metal and wood up the stony and rutted surface of one of the worst moorland tracks in Yorkshire. He seemed to be more than satisfied. The water in the radiator had got rather excited, but that was only to be expected. A close eye was given to other essentials, and the tire covers were examined, but every part of the car had withstood the strain of a fearsome hill splendidly.
Storr had never doubted, but, like a prudent general, he reviewed his forces after the engagement, and found them not only intact, but ready for mightier deeds. Then, merely to gratify the sense of touch, as a horseman strokes a willing and well-groomed steed, he fingered a tap or two, shut off the engine, and asked Armathwaite if he might smoke a cigarette while awaiting further orders.
His employer thanked him for the word. It recalled the motive of Marguérite's flight. Some plan of action must be arrived at, and without delay.
"Smoke, by all means," he said, summing up the man at a glance as a bluff and honest sort of follow who would be thoroughly dependable if properly handled. "How long did the run from York to Elmdale take?"
"A little more than two hours, sir. I started at half-past seven. Your telegram said I was to arrive by noon, but our people thought they'd please a new customer by bein' a bit afore time. They didn't wire, because the car would be to hand almost as quick as a telegram."
"Can you go from Leyburn to York in two hours?"
"Easily, sir."
"Very well. Just pull your machine a few yards ahead, and Miss Ogilvey and I will discuss the day's program."
Storr obeyed, and Armathwaite outlined to a willing listener the project he had already formed.
"First," he said, "here is a telegram from your mother. I opened it. I thought it was best——"
"Why, of course, Bob dear; why shouldn't you?"
Bob dear! It was very pleasant to hear the phrase on Marguérite's lips, yet it rendered doubly distasteful the suggestion he had in mind; since where is the lover who will bring himself willingly to the task of telling his lady-love that they must part? But it had to be done. Marguérite must go—not quite so far as Cornwall, it is true, but much too far to please him, and he must return to the Grange, where, a sure instinct warned him, weighty matters would be settled that day.
A cry of dismay from the girl gave him the cue he wanted.
"Oh, she has started already!" she almost sobbed. "While I was flying to Warleggan she is traveling North. We shall pass each other on the way!"
"No," he said, "that must not happen. You are going to be a good little sweetheart, and do as I tell you. This most excellent and comfortable car will take you to York. There you will ascertain from an obliging station-master what time Mrs. Ogilvey can arrive from Tavistock, assuming she left there at or about the hour stated in the message, and you'll meet her. At a rough guess, Mrs. Ogilvey should be in York about six o'clock. You'll escort her to the station hotel, give her something to eat, and calmly discuss the whole affair while the same luxurious automobile is bringing you back to Elmdale."
"But, what of the danger dad may be in?"
"I am coming to that. I believe, somehow, that your mother will relieve your mind in that respect. Remember, I have always held, since the main features of this extraordinary affair became clear, that your father has acted throughout with his wife's cognizance, if not with her complete approval. Now, if that is so, she is the one person who can decide whether you return with her to Elmdale or hasten through the night to Warleggan. Again hazarding a guess, I don't think you could reach your father to-night, even though you caught the first available train from York. Cornwall is a long way from Yorkshire. By starting this minute, you might be in York by one o'clock. Allowing eleven hours for the journey, an estimate I am doubtful about, you would arrive at Tavistock at midnight, whereas it is highly probable there is no such train, nor one so rapid. By the way, why, do you think, did Mrs. Ogilvey telegraph from Tavistock?"
"She would drive there—some twelve miles. No telegram could be dispatched from Warleggan before the post office opened at eight."
"She may have had an even more powerful reason. The message is sent to 'Garth,' not to 'Ogilvey.' Isn't it quite rational to suppose that she hopes no one in Elmdale knows about the change of name?"
"Yes," said Meg, trying to look calmly judicial. "That sounds reasonable."
"Then every consideration points to the wisdom of awaiting your mother at York."
"But, Bob dear, have you thought of the awful result if Percy carries out his threat?"
"Percy will not do anything dramatic to-day, I promise you. I have scared him badly already, and I'm going back now with the full intent that he shall cause no more mischief until I hear from, or see, Mrs. Ogilvey and yourself, or one of you. Perhaps, to relieve my anxiety, you will send a message from York announcing your decision?"
"Yes; I'll do that. You are really convinced that I ought to meet mother?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Then you can trust me. I'll do as you say. You needn't have any fear that between here and York I'll change my mind. Bob, you believe me, don't you, when I tell you that I ran away this morning because I dared not take you into my confidence? I could not bring myself to explain the true meaning of Percy's horrid insinuations."
"Please, forget Percy. I'll deal with him."
"But you won't be too angry with him? It is hard to endure, I know, that he should play on his defenseless state, but, if he were quite well and uninjured, he could offer you no resistance."
He laughed. The notion of Percy Whittaker and himself engaging in a desperate conflict for physical supremacy was intensely amusing.
"If you mean that I am not to assault him, I promise that with all my heart," he said. "I gripped him rather strenuously an hour ago, I admit, but then I was angry with him. Now I feel that I owe him a deep debt of gratitude, because he has brought to pass something which I hardly dared dream of. Don't you see, dearest, that if Percy hadn't behaved meanly to you I shouldn't now be calling you dearest, and wishing that our sharp-eyed chauffeur were anywhere else in the wide world but where he is. Now, no more words, but deeds! Off you go to York! What money have you?"
"Plenty."
"What do you call plenty?"
"Dad gave me fifteen pounds when I left home, and I've spent less than five."
"Well, then, sweetheart, it is good-by till this evening."
"Oh, Bob darling, I shall pray that it may be so!"
Storr received his orders without lifting an eyelid, which was highly creditable to him, having regard to the peculiar conditions under which he had met his employer. Of course, he was ignorant of the state of affairs at the Grange. He imagined that Mr. Armathwaite was escorting a young lady over the moor to Leyburn, which was a funny way to reach York, when Nuttonby lay on a better road, which was also the more direct route. But there was nothing unusual in the fact that he should be taking Miss Ogilvey to meet her mother, while the car would make light of the three journeys.
"You'd better have this, sir, and see if it's right," he said, giving Armathwaite a note. A glance showed that it dealt with terms for the hire of the car.
"Tell your people it is quite satisfactory," said Armathwaite, and, after a farewell pressure of Meg's hand, and a look from the brown eyes which remained with him like a blessing, the car started. He watched until it had vanished over a long undulation of the road, and saw the last flutter of Meg's handkerchief ere she crossed the sky-line. Then he mounted the bicycle, and rode swiftly back to the tiny hamlet in which, during two short days, he had passed through so many and so much varied experiences.
Looking down from the crest of the hill at the sunlit panorama of farm and field, woodland and furze-grown common, with Elmdale's cluster of homesteads nestling close beneath the moor, and the spire of Bellerby Church (near which lay the mortal remains of "Stephen Garth") rising above a cluster of elms in the middle distance, it seemed to be a fantastic and unreal notion that so many of life's evils, so much of its beauty and happiness, could have found full scope for their expression in that tiny and remote place.
As the hill was too dangerous in parts to ride, he dismounted twice. He was about to coast down the last straight slope to the house when a thought struck him with such blinding force that he nearly lost control of the bicycle. Fool that he was, his first care should have been to tell Marguérite that his name was not Armathwaite; that he had adopted an incognito simply to avoid the prying eyes and inquisitive tongues of those with whom he might be brought in contact; that, in marrying him, she was stepping forth from the seclusion of a student's retreat into the full glare of public life. Oh, the deuce take all complications and worries! He had won Marguérite by extraordinary means—he must do his wooing in more orthodox manner, and in his true colors.
He was traveling at a rate which kept pace with the tornado in his mind, but the second nature brought into being by an adventurous career bent a watchful eye on the inequalities of the road, so that he was actually slowing up somewhat short of the gate leading to the Grange garden when he became aware of an unusual concourse of people gathered in the roadway. A motor-car and two dog-carts were halted near the gable of Mrs. Jackson's cottage, and a number of men—among them two in police uniform—who seemed to have collected into a chatting group, dissolved into units when he approached.
He recognized a groom at a horse's head as Dr. Scaife's man; all the others were total strangers.
But not for long.
Sir Berkeley Hutton, brought to Elmdale by a neighborly curiosity strengthened by the call of the East, appeared to be overwhelmed with surprise at sight of Armathwaite. But the worthy baronet did not lose the faculty of speech. No conceivable catastrophe, short of instant death, could deprive him of that.
"God bless my soul!" he cried, advancing with outstretched hand. "Baluchi Bob! The last man breathing I ever expected to see in Elmdale! Did the monsoon break earlier than usual this year, or what wind of heaven blewyouhere?"
"Hullo, Barker!" cried Armathwaite, hailing him with manifest pleasure. "I didn't know you had pitched your tent in these parts!"
"Yes, but, dash it all, Bob, what's the game? They told me someone name of Armathwaite, in the Politicals, had taken the Grange."
"Quite true. But you know I came a cropper in India, and I was a bit tired of thesturm und drangof existence, so I hied me to cover under my mother's maiden name. I suppose I have a sort of right to it, though it doesn't seem to have proved altogether successful as a cloak."
"By gad! I can hardly agree with you there. I felt as though I'd come a purler over wire when I saw Baluchi Bob dropping off that bicycle. Great Scott! You on a bike! How have the mighty fallen! But I'll lend you a hack till you collect a few useful screws, unless you're bitten by this new craze for rushing about the country in a gastank. And won't Mollie be glad to see you! It was only the other day she was talkin' about the Pup, and sayin' that if it hadn't been for you——"
"Oh, tell Mollie to forget that old tale, or she'll make me nervous!"
Each word exchanged between the two was heard distinctly by the others, and, such is the queer way in which the affairs of life sometimes take an unexpected twist, there was a marked and instant change of attitude on the part of three men, at least, who had come to Elmdale that day prepared to treat the Grange's new tenant as a potential criminal. Banks, mouthpiece of theNuttonby Gazette, who had bicycled thither in the hope of securing another batch of readable copy for a special Saturday edition, suddenly found himself reviewing, with a sinking heart, one or two rather ticklish paragraphs in the screed already published anent "The Elmdale mystery." As for the superintendent and inspector of police from Nuttonby, they forthwith recanted certain opinions formed after hearing Banks's story and reading the current issue of his newspaper.
For Sir Berkeley Hutton was a county magnate, chairman of the Nuttonby bench, an alderman of the County Council, a Deputy Lieutenant, and goodness knows what else of a power in civic and social circles, and here was he hailing this stranger as an intimate friend, being himself greeted by the nickname earned by a loud and strident utterance which never failed, speaking of Lady Hutton as "Mollie," of his eldest son as "the Pup." County police and country editors must be chary of accepting the evidence of James Walkers and Tom Blands against the guarantee of such a man, or they may get their corns trodden on most painfully!
All at once, Sir Berkeley Hutton seemed to recollect the talk which had been going on outside the locked and barred gate, for Begonia Smith and his henchmen had refused to pass anyone but the doctor and nurse, who were with their patient at that moment.
"I say, Bob," he went on, in a thunderous whisper quite as audible as his ordinary voice, "I'm devilish glad it's you—I am, 'pon my soul!—because some of these chaps have been spinnin' the queerest sort of yarn, in which a murder, a suicide, a ghost, and a pretty girl are mixed up in fine style. Just tell 'em all to go to blazes, will you?—except Dobb. Dobb's a decent fellow, and he acted for the people who used to live here—Hi! Dobb. This is——" Then it dawned on him that his friend might wish still to preserve his anonymity save in the sacred circle of the elect, so he broke off into "Come along, Dobb! I want you to meet one of the best fellows who ever wore shoe-leather!"