SHOWING HOW EXPLANATIONS DO NOT ALWAYS EXPLAIN
Though weary and distrait, Marguerite Garth was of too frank a
disposition to allow such an extraordinary incident to pass without
comment. She halted in the porch by Armathwaite's side, and gazed
blankly at the silent cottage.
"You spoke of a ghost," she murmured brokenly. "I'm beginning to think
myself that I am bewitched. What can have happened? Why won't Betty or
her mother let me in?"
"I'll have much pleasure in clearing up that trivial mystery about eight
o'clock in the morning," he said with due gravity, fearing lest any
attempt to relieve the situation by a joke might have the disastrous
effect often achieved by a would-be humorist when a perplexed woman on
the verge of tears is the subject of his wit. "Now, if you'll wait in
the dining-room till I collect my garments, you'll be in bed and asleep
within five minutes."
He gave her no further opportunity for argument or protestation. Closing
and locking the door, he left the key in the lock, whereas, by virtue of
the arrangement with Betty Jackson, it had reposed previously on the
hall-table. In a few seconds he bustled in with an armful of clothes and
a pair of boots. Handing over the torch, he said cheerfully:
"Now, leave everything to me, and you'll be astonished to find how all
your woes will vanish by daylight. Good-night, and sleep well!"
Then the girl did a strange thing. She held the torch close to his face,
and looked at him unflinchingly.
"I am very fortunate in having met a man like you," she said, and,
without another word, turned and mounted the stairs. He waited until the
bedroom door closed, and listened for the click of a lock, but listened
in vain.
"It would appear that I'm still able to win the confidence of children
and dogs," he muttered, smiling grimly. Then he made a pillow of his
clothes on a couch beneath the window, and, such was the force of habit,
was asleep quite soon. A glint of sunlight reflected from the glass in a
picture woke him at four o'clock. After glancing at his watch, he slept
again, and was aroused the next time by the crunch of feet on the
graveled path outside. He was at the door while Betty Jackson was yet
trying to insert the key which she had withdrawn and pocketed overnight.
He admitted her, and said good-humoredly:
"I came downstairs when you ran away from a goblin gong, leaving the
door unlocked. I don't suppose we are in danger of burglary in Elmdale,
but it is customary to take reasonable precautions."
Betty, who was carrying a jug of milk, flushed till her cheeks resembled
a ripe russet apple. Denial was useless, but she tried to wriggle.
"I didn't mean any harm, sir," she said. "I only wanted to have a look
around. The house is so upset."
"Put that milk on the dining-room table," he said.
She obeyed, glad that a dreaded ordeal seemed to have ended ere it had
well begun. Armathwaite followed, and closed the dining-room door. What
he really feared was that she might drop the jug, and that the resultant
crash would awaken his guest before Betty and he had engaged in a
heart-to-heart talk.
"Now," he said, raising the blind, and flooding the room with clear
morning light, "I take you for a sensible girl, Betty."
"I hope I am, sir," she answered shyly.
"Have you quite recovered from your fright?"
"Yes, sir."
She reddened again, thinking she knew what was coming. She could have
dealt with Walker, but glib pertness would not avail when this tall
stranger's eyes were piercing her very soul. Nevertheless, his tone was
gentle and reassuring--at first.
"I was ignorant of the real facts, you see, so I had to defend myself,"
he said. "I know the truth now. Miss Garth is upstairs and asleep. She
heard the commotion caused by the gong, and could not endure the strain
and loneliness of that dark garret any longer--"
"Was Miss Meg there--in the loft?" cried Betty, blurting out the first
vague thought that occurred to her bemused brain, because those words,
"Miss Garth is upstairs and asleep," swamped her understanding with a
veritable torrent of significance.
"Yes. She hid there when Mr. Walker and I entered the house, and, by the
merest chance, she was fastened in. She remained there twelve hours."
"Oh, poor thing! She'd be nearly clemmed to death."
In Yorkshire, "clemmed" means "starved," and "starved" means "perished
with cold." Armathwaite could follow many of the vernacular phrases, and
this one did not bother him.
"She was hungry, without doubt," he said, "but I did not send her
supperless to bed. Now, I have various questions to put before you go to
her room, and I want straightforward, honest answers. If I am told the
truth, I shall know how to act for the best in Miss Garth's interests;
and that is what _you_ wish, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I'm sure none of us had any notion of doing wrong."
"Don't speak so loudly. I want no explanations of your behavior
yesterday. It would have been wise had you trusted in me at once, but
that was hardly to be expected, seeing that I was a man fallen from the
moon.... Why didn't you let Miss Garth enter when she knocked at your
window and the door last night?"
The girl's eyes opened wide in sheer distress.
"Oh, sir!" she almost whispered; "what time did she come?"
"About midnight."
"There now! I half fancied that such a thing might happen. When I ran
home, sir, I was fair scairt, because there _has_ been talk of a ghost,
and I wasn't too keen about coming in here in the dark. But mother was
worried, and wouldn't go to bed. She would have it that Miss Meg had got
clear of the house, and was hiding in a shed at the top of the lane. So,
after a lot of talk, mother and I went there together. There was a light
in the dining-room as we passed, but it had gone out when we came back."
"Solvitur ambulando," muttered the man, smiling at the simple solution
of an occurrence which had puzzled him greatly at the time.
"What's that, sir?" demanded Betty.
"Sorry. I was thinking aloud--a bad habit. Those two Latin words mean
that your walk to the shed disposes of a difficulty. Now for the next
item, Betty. Miss Meg, as you call her, is the young lady who lived here
a good many years?"
"She was born here, sir. She and I are nearly of an age--twenty-two,
each of us."
"And her father was Mr. Stephen Garth?"
"Yes, sir."
"But isn't he dead?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Dead and buried two years this very month."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. Mother was the first who saw his dead body. She was nearly
frightened into a fit."
"Tell me the exact facts."
"Well, sir, Mrs. Garth and Miss Meg went away, all of a sudden. There
was no quarrel that we know of, and Mr. Garth himself helped a man to
carry out their boxes. They kissed on parting at the gate. I myself
heard him saying that he would join them as soon as he had finished some
book he was busy with. He was a great man for writing and studying, and
he'd walk ten miles to get some granny's tale about dales ways, and the
things people used to do in the old times. But no sooner had they left
him than he changed. We all noticed it. He paid off the gardener, and
dismissed two maids, and lived here alone. That didn't last long. I used
to bring eggs and milk and things, and he'd take them in at the door.
He'd talk pleasantly enough, but he looked awful worried. Then, one
morning, I couldn't make anybody hear, and I thought he had gone out
early. About seven o'clock that evening mother went and knocked, but
there was no answer. Next morning it was the same; but when mother and I
tried again in the evening, we noticed that the curtain, which can be
drawn across the glass top of the door, had been pulled aside. At the
inquest they wanted to know if it had been in the same position when we
were there before, but we couldn't be certain, though we thought it must
have been drawn. Anyhow, mother looked in, and ran away screaming, and I
ran after her, not knowing why. In a minute or two she was able to
speak, and said she had seen Mr. Garth hanging near the clock. Some men
went, and they saw him clearly, and one of them, Mr. Benson, rode to
Bellerby for the policeman. He came in about an hour, and broke open the
door, and cut poor Mr. Garth down. He had been dead a long time, the
doctor said, and the worst thing was that nobody could find Mrs. Garth
and Miss Meg. Not that any blame could be laid to them, because Mr.
Garth himself said so in a letter addressed 'To the Coroner,' which was
laid at the foot of the clock. We have a weekly paper in the cottage,
sir, and you can see the whole account there."
"Get that paper, and give it to me privately sometime to-day," said
Armathwaite. "Meanwhile, your story is ample for my present purpose.
Were you surprised at seeing Miss Garth yesterday?"
"Sir, you could have knocked me down with a feather. And she in a man's
clothes, and all. She came over the moor about ten o'clock--"
"Never mind the details now. Did she speak of her father?"
"In a sort of a way, sir."
"Did she give you the impression that he was still living?"
"Now that you mention it, sir, she did, but I couldn't quite understand
what she said, and thought, for sure, I was mistaken. It wasn't the kind
of thing one might ask questions about--was it, sir?"
"No, indeed. Knowing he had committed suicide, you didn't like to hurt
her feelings?"
"That's it, sir, exactly."
"You hadn't much talk, I take it?"
"No, sir. She was all of a shake with excitement, and wanted to be let
into the house before anyone else in the village could see her. I was to
leave her alone till one o'clock, she said. Then I was to bring her
something to eat, and we'd have a long chat. And that's the last I've
seen of her, sir."
It has been noted that Armathwaite was no lover of the middle way in
dealing with the hazards of existence. In fact, strength of will and
inflexibility of purpose had already driven him from place and power to
the haven of retirement, which he imagined he would find in Elmdale. He
had made up his mind overnight as to the handling of the problem set by
Marguerite Garth's presence in her father's house, and he saw no reason
now why he should depart from the decision reached then.
"You've been very candid, Betty Jackson," he said, looking steadily into
the girl's wondering eyes, "and I mean to be equally outspoken with you.
For some cause, which I cannot fathom, and may never inquire into, Miss
Garth is not only unaware of any recent death in her family, but is
convinced that her father is alive and well. There is a flaw in the
argument somewhere, but it is hardly my business, nor yours, to discover
the weak spot. Now, I propose that we let the young lady leave Elmdale
as happy in her belief, or her ignorance, as she entered it. In plain
English, I suggest that neither you, nor I, nor your mother, say one
syllable about the suicide of Mr. Stephen Garth. If his daughter
believes he is living, we should be hard put to it to convince her that
he is dead."
"He _is_ dead, sir. I saw him in his coffin," said Betty earnestly.
"I am not disputing your statement. My sole consideration, at this
moment, is the happiness of the girl now lying asleep upstairs. Suppose,
within the next hour or two, she says something about the surprise her
father will receive when he sees some of the books and other articles
she means to send to her present home, are you going to tell her that
she is utterly mistaken--that Mr. Garth has been dead and buried--that
she is talking like a lunatic?"
"Oh, no, sir! I wouldn't dream of speaking that way to Miss Meg."
"But don't you see, it has to be either one thing or the other. Either
you accept her view that her father is alive, or you are constantly
acting in a way that must arouse her suspicions. And, if once she begins
to question you, what will happen then? You'll be in a ten times more
difficult position than if you convince yourself, for the time being,
that you were dreaming when you saw some man in a coffin."
"But I wasn't," persisted Betty. "Why, sir, the whole village knows----"
"I'm not doubting your word in the least. The point at issue is this--do
you mean to perplex and worry Miss Meg by informing her that her father
hanged himself in the hall of this very house two years ago?"
"No, sir. That I don't."
"You promise that?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"I'm glad you've come to my way of thinking. Miss Garth will leave here
to-day, or to-morrow, at the latest. Till then, you must keep guard over
your tongue. Go now, and tell your mother what I have told you. Make
her understand the facts most clearly. If she agrees to help you and me
in this matter, she is to come here and take up a housekeeper's duties.
I'll pay her and you well for your services, but my instructions must be
carried out to the letter. If she refuses, or feels unable, to obey my
wishes in this matter, she is not to cross the threshold. Do you
understand that fully?"
Armathwaite could be tersely emphatic in speech and manner when he
chose. He had taken Betty Jackson into his confidence, but he had also
expressed his intentions in a way that left her in no doubt as to the
result if any lack of discretion on her part, or her mother's, led to a
crisis. He had gauged the situation to a nicety. Mrs. Jackson and her
daughter were well disposed towards Marguerite Garth, but there was no
harm in stilling their tongues through the forceful medium of
self-interest.
When the two came back together within a few minutes he knew that he had
swept immediate obstacles from the path. Mrs. Jackson was a shrewd
Yorkshire woman, and needed no blare of trumpets to inform her on which
side her bread was buttered.
"Good morning, sir," she cried cheerfully. "Betty has told me what you
said, and I think you're quite right. What time do you want breakfast,
and what'll you have cooked?"
Armathwaite nodded his satisfaction.
"We three will get along famously," he laughed. "Now, Betty, put some
water in one of the bedrooms, and, when you call Miss Garth, get my
dressing-case, which is on the table, and bring it to me. She will
answer your mother's questions about breakfast. Any hour that suits her
will suit me. And let us all look as pleasant as though there wasn't
such a thing as a ghost within a thousand miles of Elmdale."
The chance phrase reminded him of the elder Walker's words: "Elmdale is
eight miles from Nuttonby, and thousands from every other town." Yet,
remote as was this moor-edge hamlet, a sordid tragedy had been enacted
there. Someone had died in that house under circumstances which called
imperatively for a most searching inquiry. A daylight phantom had
replaced the grim specter which credulous villagers were wont to see on
a summer's eve. Was it his business to exorcise the evil spirit? He did
not know. He closed his eyes resolutely to that side of the difficulty.
Marguerite Garth must be sent on her way first; then he would make a
guarded investigation into the history of the man whom Mrs. Jackson had
seen "hanging near the clock."
When summoned to the dining-room he received a shock. Man-like, he had
pictured his unbidden guest as he had seen her the previous night. Now
he was greeted by a smiling and prepossessed young lady, who had
extracted a muslin gown from the stock in the wardrobe, and whose
piquant face was crowned by a wealth of brown hair. The presence of
woman's chief adornment naturally enhanced the girl's remarkable beauty.
In defiance, too, of certain modern laws of hygiene--or perhaps because
she couldn't help it, being built that way--she had a very slim waist.
Last night she would have passed in a crowd for a boy of slender
physique; this morning she was adorably feminine. During fifteen years
of strenuous work in the East, Armathwaite had never given a thought to
the opposite sex. He had seen little of his country-women, for the
Indian frontier is not a haven for married officers, and he personally
would have regarded a wife as a positive hindrance to his work; so it
was a singular fact that his first reflection now should be that a
certain Percy Whittaker, whom, in all probability, he would never set
eyes on, was a person to be envied. He almost scowled at the absurdity
of the notion, and the girl, extending her hand, caught the fleeting
expression.
"Aren't you pleased to see me?" she cried. "I made sure you were aching
for my appearance. Betty tells me you were up and about before she
arrived, and I have been an unconscionable time dressing; you must be
pining for breakfast."
"You shall not rob me of a chance of saying that I am glad to see you by
that unnecessary tag about breakfast," he said.
"But isn't it an awful bore to find you have a girl lodger? Poor man!
You hire a house in the country for a fishing holiday, and fate condemns
you to play host!"
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have
entertained angels unawares," he quoted.
"Is that from Proverbs?"
"No. It occurs in a certain epistle to the Hebrews."
She knitted her brows.
"I thought so," she said. "I'm rather good at Proverbs, and I don't
remember that one. If you meant to give me a nasty knock you might have
reminded me that it is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top than
with a brawling woman in a wide house.... Do you like coffee, or tea?"
"Both."
"Mixed? Mrs. Jackson didn't know your tastes, so I told her to be
extravagant."
"I'll try the coffee, please."
It was an odd sensation to find himself seated at table with such a
vivacious companion. Marguerite Garth had evidently banished her
overnight experiences into the limbo of yesterday's seven thousand
years. She could not have smiled more gayly, or been more at ease with a
friend of long standing.
"Betty and I have been exchanging impressions about you," she rattled
on. "We agree that you're not half so severe as you look. But I'm not
such a marvelous guesser as you are, so, will you tell me what I'm to
call you?"
"Bob."
"Mr. Bob?"
"I don't mean that my name rhymes with Lobb, or Dobb or Hobb. Bob is a
diminutive of Robert."
"But Robert what?"
"No, just Bob."
"Don't be silly. You must have another name."
"The name on Mr. Walker's register is such a mouthful--Armathwaite, if
you _will_ have it."
"What a queer way to put it! 'On Mr. Walker's register.' Isn't it your
real name?"
"There! I was sure you would say that. Why not be content with blunt and
honest-sounding Bob?"
"Shall we establish a sort of cousinship? You're Bob and I'm Meg."
"That would be a most excellent beginning, Meg."
She laughed delightedly.
"We're having quite an adventure!" she cried. "It sounds like a chapter
out of an exciting novel. I hope you didn't think I was rude about your
other name--the long one--Bob! You see, I used to be Meg Garth, but now
I'm Meg Ogilvey. I'm hardly accustomed to the Ogilvey yet, but I rather
like it. Don't you?"
Armathwaite's face darkened, and he swallowed a piece of bacon without
giving it even one of the twenty-nine bites recommended by dietists as a
minimum.
"Why, that makes you look at me black as thunder," she vowed. "It's a
quite simple matter. My people came into some money when we left
Elmdale, and the Ogilvey was part of the legacy. It reaches us from the
maternal side of the family, and the change was easy enough for dad,
because he always wrote under the pen-name of Stephen Ogilvey."
"Stephen Ogilvey--the man who is an authority on folk-lore?"
The genuine surprise in his voice evidently pleased his hearer.
"Yes. How thrilling that you should recognize him! That is real fame,
isn't it?--to be regarded as top-dog in your particular line. But you
seemed to be angry when I told you about it."
"I thought you were married," he said, secretly quaking at his own
temerity.
Again she knitted her brows in a rather fascinating effort to appear
sagacious.
"I don't quite see----" she began. Then she stopped suddenly.
"You think that if I were married I wouldn't be quite such a tom-boy--is
that it?" she went on.
"No. You've failed so badly in your interpretation of my thought that I
dare hardly tell you its true meaning."
"Please do. I hate to misunderstand people."
"Well, I'll try and explain. You have not forgotten, I hope, that I have
already described you as an angel?"
"Your quotation wasn't a bit more applicable than mine."
"Be that as it may, I cannot imagine an angel married. Can you?"
"Good gracious! Am I to remain single all my life?"
"Who am I that I should choose between an angel and Meg Ogilvey?"
"I wouldn't limit your choice so narrowly," she said, eluding his point
with ease. "Besides, I've been expecting every minute to hear that
there is a Mrs. Armathwaite."
"There isn't!"
"I'm sorry. I wish there was, and that she was here now. Then, if she
was nice, and you wouldn't have married her if she wasn't, she would ask
me to stay a few days. And I would say 'Yes, please.' As it is, I must
hurry over my packing, and take myself back to Cheshire."
"Yes," said he, compelling the words. "There is no doubt about that. You
cannot remain here."
"Well, you needn't hammer in the fact that you'll be glad to be rid of
me. Have some more coffee?"
A heavy step sounded on the path without. The girl, who was seated with
her back to the window, turned and looked out.
"Here's Tom Bland, the Nuttonby carrier," she cried excitedly, smiling
and nodding at some person visible only to herself. "Dear old Tom! Won't
he be surprised at seeing me!"
Armathwaite's wandering wits were suddenly and sharply recalled to the
extraordinary situation confronting him.
"You don't mean that some local man has recognized you?" he growled, and
the note of real annoyance in his voice brought a wondering glance from
the girl.
"We gazed straight at one another, at any rate," she said, with a
perceptible stiffening of manner. "Considering that Tom knows me as well
as I know him, it would be stupid to pretend that neither of us knows
the other. It would be useless where Tom is concerned, at any rate. He
grinned all over his face, so I may as well go to the door and have a
word with him."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Armathwaite, springing to his
feet, and upsetting a plate in his hurry. "If Tom Bland says he has seen
you here, I'll tell him he's several varieties of a liar. At this moment
Marguerite Garth simply doesn't exist. She's a myth. The lady in this
room is Meg Ogilvey, whom Tom Bland has never heard of before. Now,
understand, that I forbid you to move or show your face again at the
window."
"Oh, my!" pouted the girl, making believe to be very much afraid of him.
That was the hardest part of the task confronting the Grange's latest
tenant. He could awe and keep in check ten thousand turbulent and
fanatical Pathans for many a year, but a clear-eyed English girl of
twenty-two refused to be either awe-stricken or kept in restraint for as
many minutes. Yet he must bend her to his will, for her own sake. He
must force her away from Elmdale, from the hourly possibility of some
ghastly revelation which would darken and embitter her life. The
undertaking would go against the grain, but he dared not shirk it, and,
once his mind was made up, he was not one whose resolution faltered.