WHEREIN PERCY WHITTAKER PROVES HIMSELF A MAN OF ACTION
The rather bizarre question startled the girl out of her melancholy
thoughts. She looked at Whittaker as though she had completely forgotten
his presence.
"The post," she repeated. "There is no post out of Elmdale this evening.
Miggles passed through the village hours ago."
"Miggles?"
"He's the postman. We either see him ourselves or leave letters at
Thompson's, the grocer's, before four o'clock."
"Then neither letter nor telegram can be dispatched to-night?"
"Yes. If you care to pay mileage to Bellerby, and the message is handed
in before eight, Thompson will send a boy with a telegram."
Whittaker glanced at his watch. The hour was half-past six.
"How far is Bellerby?" he said. "Tell me in terms of the clock, not in
miles, which, as a method of reckoning in Yorkshire, conveys a sense of
infinity."
"A boy can bicycle there in half an hour."
"Then, footsore as I am, I shall hie me to Thompson's."
"Why not write your telegram here, and Betty will take it."
"No, thanks. I'll see to it myself. Then, if it doesn't reach Edie
to-night, I can place a hand on my heart and vow I did all man could do,
and failed."
"You are not forgetting that I have written to her?"
"No. Don't you see? A letter from you complicates matters even more. If
she hears from Meg, and not a word is said about Percy, she'll wonder
what has become of little me. I suppose Thompson's shop is not 'a nice
bit' removed from the village?"
"It is opposite the Fox and Hounds Inn. You can walk there in two
minutes."
Armathwaite, who had risen, and was staring through the window during
this brief colloquy, was struck by the quietly pertinacious note in
Whittaker's voice. Moreover, he was listening carefully, since there was
some faint trace of an accent which had a familiar sound in his ears. He
waited, until the younger man had gone out and was walking gingerly down
the garden path; progress downhill must have been a torture to sore
toes, yet Whittaker was strangely determined to send that unnecessary
telegram in person--unnecessary, that is, in view of the fact that a
message dispatched next morning would have served the same purpose. Why?
Armathwaite found that life bristled with interrogatives just then.
Turning to look at Marguerite, he said:
"Your friend doesn't like me."
She did not attempt to fence with him. Somehow, when her eyes met his, a
new strength leaped in her heart.
"Percy flatters himself on the ease with which he follows the line of
least resistance, but in reality he is a somewhat shallow and
transparent person," she answered.
"There is a transparency of shallowness which occasionally hides a
certain depth of mud."
"Oh, he means no harm! His widowed sister, Mrs. Suarez, is a great
stickler for the conventions, and she has infected him with her notions.
She is the 'Edie' he speaks of. _My_ chum is a younger sister,
Christabel."
"Suarez? An unusual name in England."
"She married a Calcutta merchant. The Whittakers are Anglo-Indians."
Armathwaite smiled. He knew now whence came that slightly sibilant
accent. Whittaker was a blonde Eurasian, a species so rare that it was
not surprising that even a close observer should have failed to detect
the "touch of the tar-brush" at first sight. From that instant
Armathwaite regarded him from an entirely new view-point. The Briton who
has lived many years in the East holds firmly to the dogmatic principle
that in the blend of two races the Eurasian is dowered with the virtues
of neither and the vices of both. More than ever did he regret the
qualms of the conventional Mrs. Suarez which had brought Percy Whittaker
to Elmdale that day.
"I'm sorry he deems it advisable to distrust me," he went on. "How long
have you been acquainted with the family?"
"Ever since I went to school with Christabel at Brighton. She often came
here during the summer holidays; and I used to visit her at
Whitsuntide."
"They are aware of your change of name, of course?"
"Yes. How could it be otherwise?"
"A thoughtless question indeed. The notion was flitting through my mind
that no one in Elmdale knew of it, or the fact was bound to have been
made public at the inquest. The doctor who gave evidence--was he your
regular medical attendant?"
"He was an intimate friend rather than a doctor. He knew dad so well
that he would scout the idea of suicide. Perhaps that explains his
hesitating statement to the coroner. Oh, Mr. Armathwaite, what does it
all mean? Was ever girl plunged into such a sea of trouble? What _am_ I
to do?"
"Don't you think you ought to send for your mother?"
"If she were here now she could only say what I am saying--that my
father is alive and in the best of health."
"Forgive me if I seem to be cross-examining you, but I am groping
blindly towards some theory which shall satisfy two conditions wholly
irreconcilable at present. Your mother and you went away from Elmdale,
leaving your father here. Do you remember the exact reason given for
your departure?"
"One day dad asked me to read some passages from a French treatise on
Basque songs. It was rather technical stuff, and I stumbled over the
translation, so he said I was losing my French, and that mother and I
should go to Paris for a few weeks, and do a round of theaters. Of
course, I was delighted--what girl wouldn't be? I couldn't pack quickly
enough. When Paris emptied, towards the end of June, we went to Quimper,
in Brittany. And there was another excuse, too. About that time we
received news of the legacy, and dad thought we should get accustomed
to the change of name more readily in a foreign country."
"How long did you remain abroad?"
"Nearly three months. But dad joined us within a fortnight of our
departure from England. He only remained at home to finish a book and
clear up the lawyer's business about the money."
"After your return, what happened?"
"We had a month in London. Then my people took a house in Cornwall, near
the village of Warleggan, a place tucked in beneath the moors, just as
Elmdale is. Dad explained that he wanted to study the miracle plays at
first hand, because the remnants of the language possessed by the old
inhabitants were more helpful than grammars and Oxford translations."
"Your mother raised no difficulties about the change of residence?"
"Not the least. In a way, it was rather agreeable, both to mother and
me. Here we saw very few people. In Warleggan, where dad's pen-name, now
his own legally, gave him some social standing, the county families
called. We were richer, too, and could afford to entertain, which we
never did while in Elmdale."
Armathwaite passed a hand over his mouth and chin in a gesture of sheer
bewilderment.
"I still hold strongly to the opinion that you should send for Mrs.
Ogilvey," he said, striving to cloak the motive underlying the
suggestion, since he was assured now that the half-forgotten tragedy of
the Grange would speedily burst into a new and sinister prominence in
far-off Warleggan. "If she were here she could direct my efforts to
choke off inquirers. We may be acting quite mistakenly. She knows
everything--I am convinced of that--and her appearance would, in itself,
serve to put matters on a more normal basis."
Marguerite sprang to her feet. Her fine eyes blazed with uncontrollable
excitement, and her voice held a ring of defiance.
"If my mother ought to come, why not my father?" she cried vehemently.
"I know what you are thinking, but dare not say. You believe my father
is a murderer? Is that it? You imagine that a man who would not wilfully
harm a fly is capable of committing a dreadful crime and shielding
himself under the assumption that he took his own life?"
"Isn't that rather unjust of you?" said Armathwaite.
"I'm not considering the justice or injustice of my words now. I am
defending one whom I love. I----"
She choked, and buried her face in her hands. Bitterly aware that he was
only adding to her woes, he nerved himself for the ungracious task.
"You are trying, like myself, to explain a set of extraordinary
circumstances," he said. "Woman-like, you do not scruple to place on my
shoulders the burden of your own vague suspicions. I am not so greatly
concerned as you seem to imagine because of the possibility that your
father may have killed someone. Unhappily, I myself have killed several
men, in fair fight, and in the service of my country, but there is no
blood-guiltiness on my conscience. Before I venture to describe any man
as a murderer, I want to know whom he killed, and why."
He made this amazing statement with the calm air of a sportsman
contrasting the "bags" of rival grouse moors. Even in her bitter
distress the girl was constrained to gaze at him in wonderment.
"You think that the taking of human life may be justifiable?" she
gasped.
"Naturally. If not, why do we honor great soldiers with pensions and
peerages?"
"But that is in warfare, when nations are struggling for what they
conceive to be their rights."
"Sometimes. The hardest tussle I was ever engaged in dealt with no more
sacred trust than the safe-guarding of half a dozen bullocks. Certain
fierce-whiskered scoundrels swore by the Prophet that they would rieve
those cattle, and perhaps a rifle or two, with a collection of women's
ornaments as a side line, while I was equally resolved that the lawful
possessors thereof should not be harried. Fifteen men died in five
minutes before the matter was settled in accordance with my wishes, and
I accounted for three of them. I am not boasting of the achievement. It
was a disagreeable necessity. I tell you of it now merely to dissipate
any notion you may have formed as to my squeamishness in looking
unpleasant facts squarely in the face. A man died here two years ago,
and it would be sheer folly to pretend that your father knew nothing
about it. I believe you will find that the dead man not only wore Mr.
Garth's clothes, but bore such a close facial and physical resemblance
to him that people who had known him half a lifetime were deceived.
Then, there is the letter read by the coroner. I take it for granted
that it was in your father's handwriting. If these things are true, and
common sense tells me that we ought to go on that assumption, and on no
other, Mr. Garth will surely be called upon to explain why he endeavored
to hoodwink the authorities. If he comes here within the next few days
he will certainly be arrested. That is why I ask you to send for your
mother. Everything points to the belief that she knows why you left
Elmdale. I reject the legacy theory _in toto_. By a strange coincidence,
your parents may have had some money left to them by will about that
time. If so, they merely took advantage of the fortunate chance which
enabled them to explain the change of name without any violent wrenching
of the probabilities. One word more to define my own position in this
matter. I don't care tuppence whether or not your father killed anyone,
or why. My sole concern is for you. I am responsible for the whole
wretched muddle. Had I not gratified an impish taste for ferreting out
mysteries, I would have allowed Betty Jackson to smuggle you out of the
house yesterday. Had I obeyed the conventions--those shackles on the
wayward-minded devised by generations of careful mammas--I would have
bundled you off last night, or, if common charity forbade, sent you away
at daybreak. Then, nothing would have happened, except that I should be
burdened with a secret, no new thing in _my_ life. Now, will you send
for Mrs. Ogilvey?"
"No," came the instant reply.
"Despite Mr. Percy Whittaker's warning, will you trust me so far as to
explain your reason for refusing?"
"What do you mean by 'Percy Whittaker's warning'? I have told you
nothing of what he said."
"I understand the type of man. He could no more refrain from suggesting
that I was actuated by some underhanded motive than a flea-ridden dog
from scratching."
"Please, don't pick a quarrel with Percy on my account," she pleaded
tearfully.
"On your account I shall suffer Percy, even though he bray me in a
mortar."
"Well, then, I'm--I'm sorry if I turned on you a little while ago. I
apologize. You are really the only one I can appeal to for help at this
moment. It was just because I felt the truth of all that you have said
that I tried to force the same confession from you. Heaven help me, I am
compelled to believe that my poor father got himself involved in some
dreadful crime. It will all come out now. If the police get hold of him
he will be put in prison. I must save him. Never did daughter love a
father more than I love mine, and I'll sacrifice everything, reputation,
happiness, even life itself, for his sake. And that is why my mother
must not come here. I shall remain, and she will stay in Cornwall so as
to safeguard him, if need be. You have no idea what an innocent he is in
worldly affairs. If--if he had to escape--to get away from some foreign
country--he could never manage it without her assistance. Don't you see,
the decision must rest with me? I'll write to mother, and tell her what
we know, and arrange some plan with her whereby dad will be able to
avoid arrest. Oh, I can't make things clearer, but you are so kind and
nice that you will understand--and help! Say you'll help, and I'll not
cry any more--but be brave--and confident!"
While uttering that broken appeal she had come near, and a timid hand
now rested on his shoulder. He looked down into her swimming eyes and
saw there the perfect faith of a child. Never was man more tempted to
take a woman in his arms and kiss away her fears than was Robert
Armathwaite at that instant, but he recoiled from the notion as though a
snake had reared its basilisk head from out of a bed of sweet-scented
flowers. Nevertheless, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and now his
left arm was entwined with her right arm, and they stood there in
unconsciously lover-like pose.
"I'm glad you said that, little girl," he said quietly. "I shall not
disappoint you, depend on that. If we have to break every statute
therein made and provided, we'll save your father from the consequences
of his own blundering or wrong-doing. Now, leave everything to me. If
strangers, other than the police, ask you questions, refer them to your
'cousin.' Remember, you know nothing and can tell nothing as to bygone
events, while you can say, if a demand is made for your father's present
address, that I have advised you not to supply it. We must not appear to
be actually defying the authorities. Our role is one of blank ignorance,
combined with a pardonable curiosity to discover what all the fuss is
about. I must not figure as a hindrance to inquiry, but merely as a
distant relative who objects to your being bothered by a matter of which
you, at least, have no knowledge. Now, one thing more--I want to see
your father's handwriting. Will you give me the envelope which contained
his letter?"
"Better still," said Marguerite, drying her eyes with a scrap of lace
which was supposed to be a pocket-handkerchief, "I'll give you the
letter itself. You'll find it a highly incriminating document."
To reach the letter, which she had tucked into a waistbelt, she had to
withdraw the other hand from Armathwaite's shoulder. He had no excuse to
hold her any longer in that protecting way, and his own hands fell.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he became aware that Percy
Whittaker was gazing at them through the window.
His first impulse was to tell his companion of this covert espionage,
for it was nothing less. The two were talking in the drawing-room, so
Whittaker had purposely walked past the porch in order to look in at
them. Then he decided that the girl had worries in plenty without
embroiling her with one who was admittedly an admirer, so he indulged in
a little bit of acting on his own account.
When she produced the letter, he turned his back on the window,
ostensibly to obtain a better light, and, at the same time, drew
slightly to one side. The handwriting was scholarly but curiously
legible, betraying the habit of a dabbler in strange words who printed
rather than wrote, lest some playful compositor should invent a new and
confounding philology.
The text certainly afforded a weird commentary on the circumstances
which laid at the writer's door responsibility for an audacious crime.
It ran:
"MY DARLING MEG,--Chester has been a bookish city since the days of
Julius Caesar. I have small doubt, if one dug deep in its
foundations, one would come across an original manuscript in J.
C.'s own fist. I would impose a lighter task, however. Rummage one
or two old bookshops, and get me Wentworth Webster's 'Basque
Legends,' published in London in 1877 and 1879. I am hungering for
it. Find it quickly, and come home. I need your sharp eyes.--Yours
ever,
"Dad."
Marguerite watched Armathwaite's face while he read.
"Enough to hang anybody, isn't it?" she cried, with dolorous effort to
speak in lighter vein.
"May I retain this? I shall take good care of it."
"Keep it as a souvenir. The identical book is lying on the library
table."
Yet her mobile face clouded again, since it could not be denied that her
father knew well that the book was in the Elmdale house, and was
deliberately ignoring its existence there.
Armathwaite affected to look through the window.
"Hullo!" he said. "Whittaker has come back."
Whittaker, standing sideways, seemingly discovered them simultaneously.
He came in.
"Thompson speaks a language of his own," he drawled; "but the dispatch
of a boy on a bicycle, and the resultant charge of three shillings, gave
color to my belief that he understood the meaning of 'telegram.'
Otherwise, his remarks were gibberish."
"Percy," said Marguerite gravely, "Mr. Armathwaite and I have had a
serious talk while you were out. He advised me to send for my mother,
but, for various reasons, I have decided to fight this battle myself,
with your aid, and Mr. Armathwaite's, of course."
Whittaker hesitated perceptibly before he spoke again. Like all
neurotics, he had to flog himself into decision.
"I fully expected something of the sort, Meg," he said at last. "As I
don't approve of the present state of affairs, I took it on myself to
ask Edie to wire Mrs. Ogilvey, bidding her travel north by the next
train."
"You didn't dare!" breathed the girl, whose very lips whitened with
consternation.
"Oh, yes, I dared all right! A fellow must assert himself occasionally,
you know. I can see plainly that you intend remaining in Elmdale till
the mystery you have tumbled into is cleared up. In that case, your
mother is the right person to take hold of the situation. You'll be
vexed with me, no doubt, and tell me that I had no business to
interfere, but I've thought this thing out, and I'm backing my judgment
against yours. In a week, or less, you'll thank me. See if you don't."
"I shall never forgive you while I have breath in my body," she said,
speaking with a slow laboriousness that revealed the tension of her
feelings far more than the mere words.
"I was sure you'd say that, and must put up with it for the time being.
Anyhow, the thing is beyond our control now, and you know Edie well
enough to guess that she'll do as I tell her."
"What did you tell her? I have a right to ask."
"I kept a copy of the message," he said with seeming nonchalance. "I'll
read it: 'Meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death which
occurred in Grange two years ago. Telegraph her mother at once, and
recommend immediate journey to Elmdale.' Unless I'm greatly mistaken,
that will bring Mrs. Ogilvey here without delay, especially when Edie
adds her own comments."
Marguerite sank into a chair. Her sky had fallen. She was too unnerved
now to find relief even in tears. She continued to glower at Whittaker
as though he had become some fearsome and abhorrent object. Evidently,
however, he had steeled himself against some such attitude on her part.
"Don't forget there's two to one in this argument, Meg," he said,
sitting down and producing a cigarette. "Since Mr. Armathwaite has
elected to be your champion after a very brief acquaintance, I must
point out that, by your own admission, he recommended the same thing.
The only difference is that while he talked I acted."
For a little time there was silence. Whittaker, brazening the thing out,
lighted the cigarette. Armathwaite, unable to indulge the impulse which
suggested the one effective way in which this decadent half-breed could
be restrained from future interference, could not trust himself to
speak. As for the girl, she seemed to be tongue-tied, but her laboring
breath gave eloquent testimony of surcharged emotions.
Finally, wishing to ease the strain, Armathwaite glanced at his watch.
The time was a few minutes after seven.
"I'm going into the village," he said. "I believe the dinner hour is
7:30, but I may not return till much later, so you might kindly tell
Betty that I shall forage for myself when I come in."
"Don't leave me, Bob," came the despairing cry. "I can't bear to be left
alone to-night."
"Very well," he said, yielding instantly to that heart-felt appeal.
"I'll entrust my business to a deputy. Look for me in ten minutes."
He went out. The two in the room heard the front door close, and
followed his firm tread as he strode to the gate. Then Marguerite rose,
and flung wide a window, and her sorrow-laden eyes dwelt unseeing on the
far horizon. She stood there, motionless, until Whittaker stirred
fretfully.
"Look here, Meg," he began, but was promptly stricken into silence
again. Starting at the sound of his voice as though she had heard a
serpent's hiss, the girl hurried away without a word, obviously making
for the solitude of her own apartment.
He lighted another cigarette.
"By gad!" he cackled to himself, apparently extracting amusement from a
situation in which the majority of men would have found small cause for
humor, "I've stopped those two from billing and cooing, or my name ain't
Percy. I can't stomach that big chap, and that's a fact. He's just the
sort of fellow a girl might lose her head over, but I've put a spoke in
his wheel by bringing ma on the scene. Now I must sit tight, and play
naughty little boy in the corner till she arrives. After that, I'll make
it my business to shunt pa into some climate better suited for his
particular complaint. Maybe I shan't figure so badly in Meg's estimation
when she realizes that I did some hard thinking while the other johnny
was making eyes at her. I've been looking for some sort of an explosion
in this quarter ever since I read of the suicide of Stephen Garth at the
Grange, Elmdale. I thought then there was something fishy going on, and
I was jolly well not mistaken. If I hadn't been such a dashed fool as to
tramp over that confounded moor I'd have been here hours sooner. But
all's well that ends well, and this affair shan't slip out of my grip if
I can help it."
He had chosen a strange way in which to woo a maid, but there is no
accounting for the vagaries of a warped mind, and Percy Whittaker was a
true degenerate, one of those physically weak and mentally perverted
beings
"In whose cold blood no spark of honor bides."
Yet, even his sluggish pulses could be stirred. The house which had
witnessed strange scenes played by stronger actors might be trusted to
deal sternly with this popinjay. He got his first taste of its quality
before he was an hour older.