by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER VII
A FAINT-HEARTED ALLY
That moment was a vital one in the lives of those two; it influenced thelives of others in lesser degree, but to Marguerite Ogilvey and RobertArmathwaite it meant so much that the man, in calm review of eventssubsequently, saw that it stood out from minor incidents in exactly thesame dominant proportion as James Walker's hurried descent on Mrs.Jackson's cottage on the preceding day.
Had Walker remained in the dog-cart, and shouted for the keys of theGrange, Mrs. Jackson would have contrived, by hook or by crook, to delaythe examination of the house until Betty had smuggled "Miss Meg" intosafety, in which case Armathwaite would never have met her. And, now, ifthe girl had quickened her pace--in eager delight, perhaps, breakinginto a run--had she, either by voice or manner, shown that theunforeseen presence of Percy Whittaker on the moor was not only anextraordinary event in itself, but one which she hailed with unmitigatedjoy, Armathwaite would assuredly have stifled certain vague whisperingsof imagination which, ere long, might exercise a disastrous influence onthe theory he held in common with a well-known British general--namely,that empire-builders should not be married. But she stood stock still,and, without turning her head so that Armathwaite might see her face,said quietly:
"Well, it is the unexpected that happens, and the last person I dreamedof seeing to-day was Master Percy."
"Are you sure it _is_ Whittaker?" inquired Armathwaite.
He put the question merely for the sake of saying something banal andcommonplace. Not for an instant did he doubt the accuracy ofMarguerite's clear brown eyes; but, oddly enough, the behavior of thedejected figure by the roadside lent reasonable cause for the implieddoubt. Never did tired wayfarer look more weary or disconsolate. Afterthat first glance, and a listless gesture, the stranger showed no othersign of recognition. To all seeming, he had reached the limit of hisresources, physical and mental.
"Sure?" echoed the girl. "Of course, I'm sure. There's only one Percy,and it's there now, beastly fagged after a long walk on a hot day inthin patent-leather shoes. Doesn't it remind you of a plucked weeddrooping in the sunshine?"
She moved on, walking rapidly now, but a slight undertone of annoyancehad crept into her voice, tinging her humor with sarcasm. Armathwaitesaid nothing. The sun-laved landscape glowed again after a few secondsof cold brilliance--a natural phenomenon all the more remarkableinasmuch as no cloud flecked the sky.
Thus, in silence, they neared the limp individuality huddled dejectedlyon a strip of turf by the roadside. To Armathwaite's carefullysuppressed amusement, he saw that the wanderer was indeed wearing thin,patent-leather shoes.
"Percy!" cried the girl.
Percy looked up again. He drew the fore-finger of his right hand aroundthe back of his neck between collar and skin, as though his headrequired adjustment in this new position.
"Hallo, Meg!" he said, and the greeting was not only languid but bored.
"What in the world are you doing here?" she went on, halting in front ofhim.
"I dunno," he said. "I'm beastly fagged, I can tell you--"
Armathwaite smiled, but Marguerite laughed outright.
"There's nothing to grin at," came the querulous protest. "Once upon atime I labored under the impression that England was a civilizedcountry, but now I find it's habitable only in parts, and this isn't oneof the parts, not by a jolly long way. I say, Meg, you booked toLeyburn, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"But you never walked over this moor?"
"I did."
"Well, I wish I'd known as much about Yorkshire before I started as I donow--that's all."
Again he twisted his neck and freed it from the chafing contact of atight collar. After a curious peep at Armathwaite, he bent a pair ofgray-green eyes on the turf at his feet once more.
"Percy, don't be stupid, but tell me why you've come," cried Marguerite."There's no bad news from home, is there?"
"No--that's all right. Edie sent me."
"Why?"
"You said you'd wire or write. When no telegram came yesterday, and noletter this morning, she bundled me off by the next train. 'Go and seewhat has become of her?' was the order, and here I am. Where am I,please?"
"Near Elmdale. I'm awfully sorry, Percy. I--I couldn't either telegraphor write yesterday. I've written to-day--"
"Near Elmdale!" he broke in. "Is it what the natives hereabouts call 'acanny bit' away?"
"No--only a little over a mile. Poor Percy!"
"Idiotic Percy! Percy, the silly ass! Percy, the blithering idiot! D'yousee that suitcase?" and he swayed slightly, and directed a mournfulglance at a small, leather portmanteau lying by his side. "I've sentthat dashed thing, packed as it is now, by rail and parcels post scoresof times, and they generally make it out as weighing about elevenpounds. That's a bally mistake. I must have swindled the railwaycompanies and the Post Office out of a pot of money. It weighs aton--one solid ton. And I've carried it dozens of miles. Me, mind you,who hates carrying things, clung to it as if my life depended on it. Istarted out from Leyburn station hours and hours ago. I asked a chap howfar it was to Elmdale across the moor. He showed me the road, and said:'It's a gay bit, maister.' I climbed a hill at least five mileshigh--higher than any mountain in Europe I can remember readingabout--and met a man. 'Is this the way to Elmdale?' I inquired. 'Ay,' hesaid. 'How far?' said I. 'It's a nice bit, maister,' said he. Being, asI thought, on top of the hill, I imagined that all I had to do was towalk down the other side; so I left him and rambled on. After walkingmiles and miles I met another man. 'How far to Elmdale?' I said. 'It's acanny bit, maister,' was his contribution. That knocked me out. I lefthim without another word. I staggered more miles, till I got this far;but when I saw the next hill I gave in. Tell me the worst, Meg, before Ilie down and die. How far is it to Elmdale, really?"
"Mr. Armathwaite will carry your suitcase, and I'll take your arm, andyou'll be at the Grange in twenty minutes. It's all down hill after weleave this slight dip."
"Mr. Armathwaite?" inquired Percy dully, quite ignoring the other man'scourteous smile at the implied introduction.
"Yes, the new tenant of our house."
"First I've heard of any new tenant."
"Nothing surprising in that," and Marguerite's voice grew almost snappy."Get up, anyhow, unless you wish to have a mattress and a quilt broughthere."
The young man rose. He was not affecting a weariness he did not feel.Being a weedy youth, not built for feats of athleticism, the long walkin a hot sun over difficult country had taxed his physique unduly.
"How d'ye do?" he said, raising lack-luster eyes to Armathwaite's.
"I'm fit as a fiddle," said Armathwaite cheerfully, grabbing theportmanteau. "So will you be to-morrow. In fact, you'll be surprised howquickly your muscles will lose their stiffness when you sight thejourney's end."
"I've been doing that every five minutes during the past two hours," wasthe doleful answer.
Armathwaite nodded sympathetically. Percy Whittaker struck him as aflabby creature, whose conversational style was unintentionally funny.Like Falstaff, if not humorous in himself, he was "the cause of humor inothers."
Truth to tell, Armathwaite gave him slight heed. He was mainlyinterested in Marguerite Ogilvey's attitude, and she was markedlyirritated either by her friend's lackadaisical pose or because he hadappeared at all. The girl softened, however, when she saw how Percylimped. She linked an arm in his, and the trio moved off.
"How often have I told you to wear strong boots with good, stout soles?"she said. "I'm a good walker myself, but I don't tackle these moor roadsin house slippers. Isn't that so, Mr. Armathwaite? One ought to beproperly shod for trudging about the country."
"You don't seem to understand that I hate trudging anywhere; the lastthing I dreamed of when I left Chester this morning was that I shouldtramp half across Yorkshire," protested Whittaker.
"Even now, I don't see why you came."
"Couldn't help myself--Edie's orders."
&n
bsp; "But why?"
"Well--er--"
"If you mean that she knew I had gone away intending to wear a boy'sclothes you needn't spare my feelings. Mr. Armathwaite knows all aboutthat."
"Does he? In that case, I'm spared any explanation. You see, Edie wasnaturally anxious. As for me, I hardly slept a wink last night throughworrying about you. And then, a letter came for you this morning fromyour father. I recognized his handwriting, and it's marked 'Immediate.'Since there was no news from you, we were at a loss to decide on thebest course to adopt. Now, I appeal to you, Mr. Armathwaite. Suppose--"
"I agree with you entirely," broke in Armathwaite. "I think Miss Ogilveyought to be profoundly grateful for your self-sacrifice."
"There, Meg, do you hear that? Self-sacrifice! I'm literally skinned inyour service, and you only pitch into me. Now, I've done most of thetalking. It's your turn. When are you coming home?"
"To-morrow, perhaps."
"But, I say, Meg! There'll be a howling row with your people when theyfind out."
"Where is dad's letter? You've brought it, of course?"
"Yes. Edie thought that was the best plan. Here you are!"
He produced a letter from a breast pocket, and sat down instantly whenthe girl murmured an apology and opened the envelope. Armathwaiterefilled his pipe, and lit it. While doing so he became aware that PercyWhittaker was scrutinizing him with a curiously subtle underlook, andthe notion was borne in on him that the newcomer, though effete in somerespects, might be alert enough in others. For one thing, the tiredgray-green eyes had suddenly become critical; for another, a weak mouthwas balanced by a somewhat stubborn chin. For all his amusinglyplaintive air, this young man could be vindictive if he chose. At anyrate, Armathwaite realized that another barrier had been thrust in theway of Marguerite Ogilvey's untroubled departure from Elmdale. PercyWhittaker was obviously an intimate friend, and the extraordinary crisiswhich had arisen in the Ogilvey household could hardly remain hiddenfrom him. What use would he make of the knowledge? How would such aflabby youth act in circumstances which were utterly perplexing to a manten years his senior in age and immeasurably more experienced?Armathwaite could not make up his mind. He must simply bide his time andact as he deemed expedient in conditions that varied so remarkably fromhour to hour. At the moment, he was in the position of the master of aship becalmed in the tropics, surrounded by an unvexed sea and acloudless sky, yet warned by a sharp fall in the barometer that atyphoon was imminent.
His thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation from the girl.
"Just like dad!" she cried. "He writes asking me to search among the oldbookshops of Chester for one of the very volumes I am bringing from hisown library. He knows it is here, yet persists in disregarding the fact.Mr. Armathwaite, what _am_ I to think? Isn't it enough to turn one'shair gray?"
"It is a puzzling situation, certainly," said Armathwaite, quickly aliveto the fact that, in Whittaker's presence, at any rate, the cousinshiphad been dropped.
"What is?" demanded Whittaker. "Not much to make a fuss about insearching for a book, is there?"
"No. But suppose I tell you that people here declare my father is dead,that he committed suicide two years ago, that he is buried in aneighboring cemetery, that his ghost is seen o' nights in our ownhouse--what would you say then, Percy?"
"I'd say that the inhabitants are well suited to their country, and thesooner you and I are away from both, the better for the pair of us."
Meg crumpled up the letter in one hand, and hauled Whittaker to his feetwith the other.
"Come on," she said emphatically. "If you hear the whole story nowyou'll collapse. I'm glad you've arrived, though I thought at first youwere adding to my worries. You can help in clearing up a mystery. Now,don't interrupt, but listen! I'm going to give you a plain,straightforward version of events which sound like the maddest sort ofnonsense. You wouldn't believe a word I'm telling you if Mr. Armathwaitewasn't present. But he will vouch for every syllable, and, when I'vefinished, you'll agree that when I said we would leave here, 'to-morrow,perhaps,' I might just as well have substituted 'next week' or 'nextmonth' for 'to-morrow.' Isn't that so, Mr. Armathwaite?"
Armathwaite removed his pipe from between teeth that were bitingsavagely into its stem. He wished the girl had been more discreet, yet,how could he forbid these confidences?
"Yes, and no," he answered. "Yes, if you mean to constitute yourselfinto a court of inquiry; no, if you take my advice, and return toChester with Mr. Whittaker without loss of time."
"How is that possible?" she insisted, turning wondering eyes on him."You yourself said that nothing we can do now will stop the authoritiesfrom re-opening the whole affair. There is no hope of closing people'smouths, Bob! Well, I've said it, and now Percy will be wild to learn thefacts, because Meg Ogilvey doesn't run around calling by their Christiannames men whom she has known a day without very good reason. But youdon't know our local folk if you think our affairs are not being talkedof in Elmdale and Nuttonby at this moment. Bland saw me, and JamesWalker will spread the tale far and wide. What good will I do by runningaway? Don't imagine I didn't hear what Walker said. He blurted out whatyou have hinted at. Some man was found dead in our house. It wasn't myfather. Then, who was it?"
In her excitement she was hurrying Percy along at a rare pace, andArmathwaite saw, with a chill of foreboding, that the other was steppingout without protest, all an ear for impending revelations.
"From that point of view, Mr. Whittaker's presence is unquestionablyadvantageous," he said. "He is a friend in whom you can trust. He isacquainted with your relatives, I take it. His opinions willconsequently be far weightier than mine."
"That's the way Bob talks when he's grumpy," said the girl, apparentlyfor Whittaker's benefit alone. "He doesn't mean it really, but he thinkshe ought to behave like a stage uncle and prevent an impulsive youngthing from acting foolishly. Yet, all the time, he knows quite well thatwe could no more change the course of events now than hold back thetide."
"Will you kindly remember that if you were talking Greek, I'd have justabout as much grasp of what you're saying as I have at this moment?" putin Whittaker.
Thus recalled to her task, Marguerite did not deviate from it anyfurther. By the time Percy Whittaker had dropped into a chair in thedining-room, he had heard exactly what had happened since Armathwaitearrived in Elmdale. As he was hungry, a meal was improvised. He saidlittle, only interpolating a fairly shrewd question now and again whileMarguerite was amplifying some part of her recital. About this time hedeveloped a new trait. He seemed rather to shirk comments which woulddraw Armathwaite into the conversation. When the girl appealed to thelatter to verify some statement of fact, Whittaker remained silent. Evenwhen it was necessary to refer directly to Armathwaite, he did soobliquely.
"You've spun a jolly queer yarn, Meg," he said, after she had retailed,for the second time, and with evident gusto, the discomfiture of JamesWalker. "I think it would be a good notion now if we found out whatreally did occur in this house after you and your mother went away.Didn't you say there was a newspaper report of the inquest handy?"
"Betty Jackson promised to give it to Mr. Armathwaite."
"Well, couldn't we see it?"
"I'll go and ask her for it," said Armathwaite, and he left the room.
"Tell you what, Meg," drawled Percy, pouring out a third cup of tea,"you're making a howling mistake in letting that chap share yourconfidence."
Marguerite's eyebrows curved in astonishment. The very suddenness ofthis attack was disconcerting.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"It's not always easy to give reasons for one's ideas. I was justthinking that he's a complete stranger, and here he is acting as thoughhe was the head of the family. Who is he? Where does he come from? Whyis he poking his nose into your private affairs? By gad, I can see Ediesniffing at him if she was here in my place!"
Some gleam of intuition warned the girl that she must repress the sharpretort on her lips.
"Then I am glad your sister is not here," she said quietly. "You musthave woefully misunderstood every word I have uttered if you imaginethat Mr. Armathwaite has done anything but strive manfully to keep asordid story from my ken. He tried to make me go away this morning, andagain this afternoon. He would certainly send me off early to-morrow ifhe were not afraid of some terrible thing happening. Please don't beginby being prejudiced against Mr. Armathwaite. I have enough troublestaring me in the face to dispense with absurd suspicions of one who hasbeen a very real friend."
Whittaker seemed to weigh the point. Marguerite's self-control probablyangered him as greatly as any other of the amazing things which had cometo his knowledge during the past hour. He had expected her to bridle indefense of the man in whom she reposed such trust; her very calmness wasunexpected and annoying.
"What will your people say when the whole business comes out?" hegrumbled. "Dash it, Meg, I must speak plainly! It's no joke, you know,your coming here and being alone in the house with some fellow whom younever heard of before in your life."
Her face paled, and her brown eyes had a glint of fire in them; but witha splendid effort, she managed again to frame words other than thoseeager to burst forth.
"You miss the real problem that calls for solution," she saidtremulously. "The consequences of my actions, no matter how foolish theymay have been, count for nothing in comparison with the tragedy withwhich my father's name is bound up. Oh, Percy, don't you see what peoplemust think? A man committed suicide in this house, and every onebelieved it was my father. Yet you yourself, less than an hour ago,brought me a letter written by my father yesterday! Suppose I leaveElmdale this instant--suppose, which is impossible, that the presentexcitement dies down--how can I go through life with such a ghastlysecret weighing me down? It would drive me crazy!"
Armathwaite's firm tread was audible as he crossed the hall.
"Anyhow, take my tip, and don't blurt out everything you know the minuteyou're asked," muttered her counselor, and the door opened.
Armathwaite drew a chair to the window and unfolded a frayed newspaper,laying another on his knees. To all appearance, he had noted neither thesullen discontent in one face nor the white anguish in the other.
"This is a copy of the _Nuttonby Gazette_, dated June 22nd, two yearsago," he said. "It contains what appears to be a verbatim report of theopening day's inquest, which seems to have created a rare stir, judgingby the scare heads and space allotted to it. Will it distress you, MissOgilvey, if I go through it from beginning to end?"
"Yes, it will distress me very greatly, but I don't see how I can avoidhearing it. If one visits the dentist there is no use in pretending thathaving a tooth drawn doesn't hurt. Please read every word."
He obeyed without further preamble. It was a disagreeable task, but hedid not flinch from it, though well aware that the gruesome detailswould shock one of his hearers inexpressibly. Divested of theloud-sounding phrases with which a country reporter loves to clothe anyincident of a sensational character, the newspaper added nothing to thefacts already related by Betty Jackson and Police-constable Leadbitter,except a letter written and signed by the deceased man, in which hedeclared he had taken his own life because he was suffering from anincurable disease. It was only when the succeeding issue of the_Nuttonby Gazette_ was scanned, with its report of the adjournedinquest, that new light was vouchsafed.
The coroner was a Mr. Hill, a local solicitor; a Dr. Scaife, fromBellerby, who had conducted a post-mortem examination, had excited Mr.Hill's ire by his excessive caution in describing the cause of death.
"I found no symptoms of what is popularly known as 'incurable disease,'"said the doctor. "The brain, heart, liver, lungs, and internal organsgenerally were in a fairly healthy state except for ordinary post-mortemindications. Death by hanging is usually capable of clear diagnosis.There is excessive fluidity of the blood, with hyperaemia of the lungs.The right side of the heart is engorged, and the left nearly empty. Themucous membrane of the trachea is injected, and appears of acinnabar-red color. The abdominal veins are congested, and apoplexy ofthe brain is present as a secondary symptom. Contrary to common belief,the eyes do not start from the head, and the tongue seldom protrudesbeyond the teeth. Indeed, the expression of the face does not differfrom that seen in other forms of death, and, in this connection, it mustbe remembered that death, the result of disease, may present all thesigns of death by suffocation. The body showed few of these indices."
"Would you mind telling us what you are driving at, Dr. Scaife?" thecoroner had asked. "Here is a man found hanging in his house, leaving aletter addressed to me in which he states his intention beyond a doubt.Do you wish the jury to believe that his death may nevertheless havebeen a natural one?"
"No," was the reply. "I do not say that. But the absence of certainsymptoms, and the presence of others, make it essential that I shouldstate that Mr. Garth might just as well have died from apoplexy as fromstrangulation."
"Are we to understand that Mr. Garth may have died from apoplexy andafterwards hanged himself?"
"That would be nonsense," said Dr. Scaife.
"I agree, most emphatically. Do you refuse to certify as to the cause ofdeath?"
"No. I am merely fulfilling a duty by pointing out what I regard asdiscrepancies in the post-mortem conditions. I looked for signs oforganic disease. There was none."
Evidently, coroner and doctor were inclined to be testy with each other,and the newspaper report left the impression that Dr. Scaife was ahair-splitter. In the result, a verdict of "Suicide, while in a state ofunsound mind," was returned.
There followed a description of the interment in Bellerby churchyard of"the mortal remains of Stephen Garth," when the vicar read a "modifiedform of the burial service," while the "continued absence from Elmdaleof the dead man's wife and daughter," was referred to without othercomment.
When Armathwaite laid aside the second newspaper, no one spoke for aminute or more. Percy Whittaker was seemingly interested in the effortof a fly to extract nutriment from a lump of sugar; Marguerite Ogilveywas staring at vacancy with wide-open, terror-laden eyes; Armathwaitehimself appeared to be turning over the baffling problem in his mind.
At last, Whittaker stirred uneasily.
"What time does the post leave here, Meg?" he inquired. "I want to sendEdie a line. She'll have a bad fit of the jumps if she hears fromneither of us to-morrow."
