A FAINT-HEARTED ALLY
That moment was a vital one in the lives of those two; it influenced the
lives of others in lesser degree, but to Marguerite Ogilvey and Robert
Armathwaite it meant so much that the man, in calm review of events
subsequently, saw that it stood out from minor incidents in exactly the
same 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 the
Grange, Mrs. Jackson would have contrived, by hook or by crook, to delay
the examination of the house until Betty had smuggled "Miss Meg" into
safety, in which case Armathwaite would never have met her. And, now, if
the girl had quickened her pace--in eager delight, perhaps, breaking
into a run--had she, either by voice or manner, shown that the
unforeseen presence of Percy Whittaker on the moor was not only an
extraordinary event in itself, but one which she hailed with unmitigated
joy, Armathwaite would assuredly have stifled certain vague whisperings
of imagination which, ere long, might exercise a disastrous influence on
the 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 dreamed
of 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 and
commonplace. Not for an instant did he doubt the accuracy of
Marguerite's clear brown eyes; but, oddly enough, the behavior of the
dejected figure by the roadside lent reasonable cause for the implied
doubt. Never did tired wayfarer look more weary or disconsolate. After
that first glance, and a listless gesture, the stranger showed no other
sign of recognition. To all seeming, he had reached the limit of his
resources, 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 in
thin patent-leather shoes. Doesn't it remind you of a plucked weed
drooping in the sunshine?"
She moved on, walking rapidly now, but a slight undertone of annoyance
had crept into her voice, tinging her humor with sarcasm. Armathwaite
said nothing. The sun-laved landscape glowed again after a few seconds
of cold brilliance--a natural phenomenon all the more remarkable
inasmuch as no cloud flecked the sky.
Thus, in silence, they neared the limp individuality huddled dejectedly
on a strip of turf by the roadside. To Armathwaite's carefully
suppressed 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 around
the back of his neck between collar and skin, as though his head
required 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 of
him.
"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 a
time I labored under the impression that England was a civilized
country, but now I find it's habitable only in parts, and this isn't one
of the parts, not by a jolly long way. I say, Meg, you booked to
Leyburn, 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 do
now--that's all."
Again he twisted his neck and freed it from the chafing contact of a
tight collar. After a curious peep at Armathwaite, he bent a pair of
gray-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 no
letter this morning, she bundled me off by the next train. 'Go and see
what 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 telegraph
or write yesterday. I've written to-day--"
"Near Elmdale!" he broke in. "Is it what the natives hereabouts call 'a
canny bit' away?"
"No--only a little over a mile. Poor Percy!"
"Idiotic Percy! Percy, the silly ass! Percy, the blithering idiot! D'you
see that suitcase?" and he swayed slightly, and directed a mournful
glance at a small, leather portmanteau lying by his side. "I've sent
that dashed thing, packed as it is now, by rail and parcels post scores
of times, and they generally make it out as weighing about eleven
pounds. That's a bally mistake. I must have swindled the railway
companies and the Post Office out of a pot of money. It weighs a
ton--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. I
started out from Leyburn station hours and hours ago. I asked a chap how
far 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 miles
high--higher than any mountain in Europe I can remember reading
about--and met a man. 'Is this the way to Elmdale?' I inquired. 'Ay,' he
said. 'How far?' said I. 'It's a nice bit, maister,' said he. Being, as
I thought, on top of the hill, I imagined that all I had to do was to
walk down the other side; so I left him and rambled on. After walking
miles and miles I met another man. 'How far to Elmdale?' I said. 'It's a
canny bit, maister,' was his contribution. That knocked me out. I left
him 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 I
lie down and die. How far is it to Elmdale, really?"
"Mr. Armathwaite will carry your suitcase, and I'll take your arm, and
you'll be at the Grange in twenty minutes. It's all down hill after we
leave this slight dip."
"Mr. Armathwaite?" inquired Percy dully, quite ignoring the other man's
courteous 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 brought
here."
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 walk
in 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 the
portmanteau. "So will you be to-morrow. In fact, you'll be surprised how
quickly your muscles will lose their stiffness when you sight the
journey's end."
"I've been doing that every five minutes during the past two hours," was
the doleful answer.
Armathwaite nodded sympathetically. Percy Whittaker struck him as a
flabby creature, whose conversational style was unintentionally funny.
Like Falstaff, if not humorous in himself, he was "the cause of humor in
others."
Truth to tell, Armathwaite gave him slight heed. He was mainly
interested in Marguerite Ogilvey's attitude, and she was markedly
irritated either by her friend's lackadaisical pose or because he had
appeared at all. The girl softened, however, when she saw how Percy
limped. 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 roads
in house slippers. Isn't that so, Mr. Armathwaite? One ought to be
properly shod for trudging about the country."
"You don't seem to understand that I hate trudging anywhere; the last
thing I dreamed of when I left Chester this morning was that I should
tramp half across Yorkshire," protested Whittaker.
"Even now, I don't see why you came."
"Couldn't help myself--Edie's orders."
"But why?"
"Well--er--"
"If you mean that she knew I had gone away intending to wear a boy's
clothes you needn't spare my feelings. Mr. Armathwaite knows all about
that."
"Does he? In that case, I'm spared any explanation. You see, Edie was
naturally anxious. As for me, I hardly slept a wink last night through
worrying about you. And then, a letter came for you this morning from
your 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 the
best course to adopt. Now, I appeal to you, Mr. Armathwaite. Suppose--"
"I agree with you entirely," broke in Armathwaite. "I think Miss Ogilvey
ought to be profoundly grateful for your self-sacrifice."
"There, Meg, do you hear that? Self-sacrifice! I'm literally skinned in
your service, and you only pitch into me. Now, I've done most of the
talking. 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 they
find 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 when
the girl murmured an apology and opened the envelope. Armathwaite
refilled his pipe, and lit it. While doing so he became aware that Percy
Whittaker was scrutinizing him with a curiously subtle underlook, and
the notion was borne in on him that the newcomer, though effete in some
respects, might be alert enough in others. For one thing, the tired
gray-green eyes had suddenly become critical; for another, a weak mouth
was balanced by a somewhat stubborn chin. For all his amusingly
plaintive air, this young man could be vindictive if he chose. At any
rate, Armathwaite realized that another barrier had been thrust in the
way of Marguerite Ogilvey's untroubled departure from Elmdale. Percy
Whittaker was obviously an intimate friend, and the extraordinary crisis
which had arisen in the Ogilvey household could hardly remain hidden
from him. What use would he make of the knowledge? How would such a
flabby youth act in circumstances which were utterly perplexing to a man
ten years his senior in age and immeasurably more experienced?
Armathwaite could not make up his mind. He must simply bide his time and
act as he deemed expedient in conditions that varied so remarkably from
hour to hour. At the moment, he was in the position of the master of a
ship becalmed in the tropics, surrounded by an unvexed sea and a
cloudless sky, yet warned by a sharp fall in the barometer that a
typhoon 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 old
bookshops of Chester for one of the very volumes I am bringing from his
own 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's
hair gray?"
"It is a puzzling situation, certainly," said Armathwaite, quickly alive
to the fact that, in Whittaker's presence, at any rate, the cousinship
had been dropped.
"What is?" demanded Whittaker. "Not much to make a fuss about in
searching 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 a
neighboring cemetery, that his ghost is seen o' nights in our own
house--what would you say then, Percy?"
"I'd say that the inhabitants are well suited to their country, and the
sooner 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 feet
with the other.
"Come on," she said emphatically. "If you hear the whole story now
you'll collapse. I'm glad you've arrived, though I thought at first you
were 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 of
nonsense. You wouldn't believe a word I'm telling you if Mr. Armathwaite
wasn't present. But he will vouch for every syllable, and, when I've
finished, you'll agree that when I said we would leave here, 'to-morrow,
perhaps,' I might just as well have substituted 'next week' or 'next
month' for 'to-morrow.' Isn't that so, Mr. Armathwaite?"
Armathwaite removed his pipe from between teeth that were biting
savagely 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 yourself
into a court of inquiry; no, if you take my advice, and return to
Chester 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 authorities
from re-opening the whole affair. There is no hope of closing people's
mouths, Bob! Well, I've said it, and now Percy will be wild to learn the
facts, because Meg Ogilvey doesn't run around calling by their Christian
names men whom she has known a day without very good reason. But you
don't know our local folk if you think our affairs are not being talked
of in Elmdale and Nuttonby at this moment. Bland saw me, and James
Walker will spread the tale far and wide. What good will I do by running
away? Don't imagine I didn't hear what Walker said. He blurted out what
you have hinted at. Some man was found dead in our house. It wasn't my
father. Then, who was it?"
In her excitement she was hurrying Percy along at a rare pace, and
Armathwaite saw, with a chill of foreboding, that the other was stepping
out without protest, all an ear for impending revelations.
"From that point of view, Mr. Whittaker's presence is unquestionably
advantageous," he said. "He is a friend in whom you can trust. He is
acquainted with your relatives, I take it. His opinions will
consequently be far weightier than mine."
"That's the way Bob talks when he's grumpy," said the girl, apparently
for Whittaker's benefit alone. "He doesn't mean it really, but he thinks
he ought to behave like a stage uncle and prevent an impulsive young
thing from acting foolishly. Yet, all the time, he knows quite well that
we could no more change the course of events now than hold back the
tide."
"Will you kindly remember that if you were talking Greek, I'd have just
about as much grasp of what you're saying as I have at this moment?" put
in Whittaker.
Thus recalled to her task, Marguerite did not deviate from it any
further. By the time Percy Whittaker had dropped into a chair in the
dining-room, he had heard exactly what had happened since Armathwaite
arrived in Elmdale. As he was hungry, a meal was improvised. He said
little, only interpolating a fairly shrewd question now and again while
Marguerite was amplifying some part of her recital. About this time he
developed a new trait. He seemed rather to shirk comments which would
draw Armathwaite into the conversation. When the girl appealed to the
latter to verify some statement of fact, Whittaker remained silent. Even
when it was necessary to refer directly to Armathwaite, he did so
obliquely.
"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 James
Walker. "I think it would be a good notion now if we found out what
really 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 your
confidence."
Marguerite's eyebrows curved in astonishment. The very suddenness of
this attack was disconcerting.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"It's not always easy to give reasons for one's ideas. I was just
thinking that he's a complete stranger, and here he is acting as though
he was the head of the family. Who is he? Where does he come from? Why
is he poking his nose into your private affairs? By gad, I can see Edie
sniffing at him if she was here in my place!"
Some gleam of intuition warned the girl that she must repress the sharp
retort on her lips.
"Then I am glad your sister is not here," she said quietly. "You must
have woefully misunderstood every word I have uttered if you imagine
that Mr. Armathwaite has done anything but strive manfully to keep a
sordid story from my ken. He tried to make me go away this morning, and
again this afternoon. He would certainly send me off early to-morrow if
he were not afraid of some terrible thing happening. Please don't begin
by being prejudiced against Mr. Armathwaite. I have enough trouble
staring me in the face to dispense with absurd suspicions of one who has
been a very real friend."
Whittaker seemed to weigh the point. Marguerite's self-control probably
angered him as greatly as any other of the amazing things which had come
to his knowledge during the past hour. He had expected her to bridle in
defense of the man in whom she reposed such trust; her very calmness was
unexpected and annoying.
"What will your people say when the whole business comes out?" he
grumbled. "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 you
never heard of before in your life."
Her face paled, and her brown eyes had a glint of fire in them; but with
a splendid effort, she managed again to frame words other than those
eager to burst forth.
"You miss the real problem that calls for solution," she said
tremulously. "The consequences of my actions, no matter how foolish they
may have been, count for nothing in comparison with the tragedy with
which my father's name is bound up. Oh, Percy, don't you see what people
must think? A man committed suicide in this house, and every one
believed it was my father. Yet you yourself, less than an hour ago,
brought me a letter written by my father yesterday! Suppose I leave
Elmdale this instant--suppose, which is impossible, that the present
excitement dies down--how can I go through life with such a ghastly
secret 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 minute
you'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 the
sullen discontent in one face nor the white anguish in the other.
"This is a copy of the _Nuttonby Gazette_, dated June 22nd, two years
ago," he said. "It contains what appears to be a verbatim report of the
opening day's inquest, which seems to have created a rare stir, judging
by the scare heads and space allotted to it. Will it distress you, Miss
Ogilvey, if I go through it from beginning to end?"
"Yes, it will distress me very greatly, but I don't see how I can avoid
hearing it. If one visits the dentist there is no use in pretending that
having a tooth drawn doesn't hurt. Please read every word."
He obeyed without further preamble. It was a disagreeable task, but he
did not flinch from it, though well aware that the gruesome details
would shock one of his hearers inexpressibly. Divested of the
loud-sounding phrases with which a country reporter loves to clothe any
incident of a sensational character, the newspaper added nothing to the
facts already related by Betty Jackson and Police-constable Leadbitter,
except a letter written and signed by the deceased man, in which he
declared he had taken his own life because he was suffering from an
incurable disease. It was only when the succeeding issue of the
_Nuttonby Gazette_ was scanned, with its report of the adjourned
inquest, that new light was vouchsafed.
The coroner was a Mr. Hill, a local solicitor; a Dr. Scaife, from
Bellerby, 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 organs
generally were in a fairly healthy state except for ordinary post-mortem
indications. 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. The
mucous membrane of the trachea is injected, and appears of a
cinnabar-red color. The abdominal veins are congested, and apoplexy of
the brain is present as a secondary symptom. Contrary to common belief,
the eyes do not start from the head, and the tongue seldom protrudes
beyond the teeth. Indeed, the expression of the face does not differ
from that seen in other forms of death, and, in this connection, it must
be remembered that death, the result of disease, may present all the
signs of death by suffocation. The body showed few of these indices."
"Would you mind telling us what you are driving at, Dr. Scaife?" the
coroner had asked. "Here is a man found hanging in his house, leaving a
letter addressed to me in which he states his intention beyond a doubt.
Do you wish the jury to believe that his death may nevertheless have
been a natural one?"
"No," was the reply. "I do not say that. But the absence of certain
symptoms, and the presence of others, make it essential that I should
state that Mr. Garth might just as well have died from apoplexy as from
strangulation."
"Are we to understand that Mr. Garth may have died from apoplexy and
afterwards hanged himself?"
"That would be nonsense," said Dr. Scaife.
"I agree, most emphatically. Do you refuse to certify as to the cause of
death?"
"No. I am merely fulfilling a duty by pointing out what I regard as
discrepancies in the post-mortem conditions. I looked for signs of
organic 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 a
hair-splitter. In the result, a verdict of "Suicide, while in a state of
unsound 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 "modified
form of the burial service," while the "continued absence from Elmdale
of the dead man's wife and daughter," was referred to without other
comment.
When Armathwaite laid aside the second newspaper, no one spoke for a
minute or more. Percy Whittaker was seemingly interested in the effort
of a fly to extract nutriment from a lump of sugar; Marguerite Ogilvey
was staring at vacancy with wide-open, terror-laden eyes; Armathwaite
himself 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 send
Edie a line. She'll have a bad fit of the jumps if she hears from
neither of us to-morrow."