SHOWING THE REAL STRENGTH OF AN ILLUSION
Armathwaite went straight to Farmer Burt's house. He reasoned that Burt
would be a likely possessor of a smart cob, and that among the farm
hands would exist at least one boy of sufficient intelligence to carry
through a simple commission without error. He was lucky in finding the
farmer at home, watering his stock before completing the hay-making
operations. In the bleak North the agriculturist wastes no time when the
weather is propitious. If need be, Burt and his men would work till
nearly midnight, and feel well pleased if thereby the last rick of dry,
sweet-smelling hay was covered with a tarpaulin.
Explanation, backed by ample payment, produced both the boy and the cob.
In the result, the following telegram was handed in at Bellerby
post-office ten minutes before the closing hour of eight:
"Postmaster, York,--Kindly give this telegram and accompanying ten
pounds to proprietor of principal garage in York. I want to hire
powerful and reliable car with experienced chauffeur for one week
at least. Will pay full rates on condition that car reaches me by
noon to-morrow, Friday. Chauffeur should bring ample supply of
petrol, as none available here. I send ten pounds as guarantee for
order, and will remit balance of first week's charge in accordance
with instructions conveyed by chauffeur. Owner of car will oblige
by telegraphing acceptance of offer, with name and address, early
to-morrow, paying porterage, which will be refunded.--ARMATHWAITE,
The Grange, Elmdale, via Bellerby."
It was a singular fact that the really effective means of burking
inquiry by the local authorities only occurred to Armathwaite's
perplexed brain as he was hurrying back to the Grange. When all was said
and done, who in Elmdale actually knew that the erstwhile Stephen Garth
was living? His daughter and Percy Whittaker! He, Armathwaite, could not
even be certain that Whittaker had ever seen the man. Well, then,
Marguerite had only to vow that her earlier statement was a sheer
invention, a species of joke inspired by the worst possible taste--and
Stephen Garth would rest quietly in his grave! The pretense left the
mystery insoluble as ever where the girl herself was concerned, but
that phase of the difficulty might be dealt with in the privacy of her
own home. The chief draw-back--an official inquiry, with its
far-reaching developments--would be surmounted. The Jacksons might be
trusted to forget everything they had heard that day. There remained
James Walker. Well, his evidence was discredited at the outset.
Armathwaite himself would be a most convincing witness against Walker.
It would be easy to show that the pushful and amorous youth who had
bluffed his way into the house in order to insult a lady who would have
nothing to do with him, and was forcibly ejected by the new tenant, had
fallen into a singular and most amazing blunder when he said that
Marguerite Garth had told him that her father was still alive.
The more Armathwaite reviewed this possible way out of a really
threatening situation the more he liked it. The surprising thing was
that he had not thought of it sooner. Even Percy Whittaker's confounded
impertinence in telegraphing to his sister was robbed of its sting.
Suppose the police got wind of the message, they would make little of
it. How did it run? "Meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death
which occurred in Grange two years ago." It was awkwardly phrased,
perhaps, but was capable of explanation. She was "disturbed" by the
"rumors." What rumors? Not that her father was not dead, but that some
other man had died and been buried in his place! Who had spread the
rumors? Why, Walker himself! Had he not jeered at Marguerite, and
endeavored to palliate his offense by repeating the absurd tittle-tattle
to the man who had kicked him out of the house? Thin ice, this; but it
might bear if not pressed unduly. By rare luck Whittaker had asked his
sister to communicate with the girl's mother. There was no reference to
her father. In effect, a friend of long standing had recognized the fact
that she had only one parent left.
Armathwaite was bothered by no scruples in this matter. He had promised
Marguerite Ogilvey his help in her efforts to safeguard the father whom
she held so dear, and he would fulfill his bond to the letter.
Personally, he ran no risk. His acquaintance with Elmdale and its
strange tragedy was only a day old. As for Marguerite herself, no jury
in the land would punish a daughter who lied to protect her own father.
There remained Percy Whittaker. What crooked line would that
curiously-constituted youth take? He could be bribed into acquiescence;
but what terms would he exact? Armathwaite felt a certain tightening of
his lips when he answered his own question. At any rate, the vitally
important thing now was to gain time, and he was confident that a bold
front would carry a most attractive and winsome girl past the dangers of
the morrow.
Oddly enough, as he neared the Grange, the old house itself seemed to
smile at him in a friendly and encouraging way. The setting sun lent
warmth to its gray walls and glinted cheerfully from its windows. One
pane of glass in particular--probably because it had a slightly convex
surface--a pane in one of the windows of Meg's bedroom, winked
continuously as his body swayed with each onward stride. It might have
been saying:
"Leave it to me! Leave it to me! I've watched ten generations of men and
women passing beneath, and I know how gently Time deals with humanity's
sorrows."
The idea so obsessed him that he loitered inside the gate, and glanced
up to see if, by any chance, Marguerite might be in the room and have
noticed his approach. Yes, she was there! She threw open the window,
which, in view of what happened within the next half-minute, moved
upward with a noiseless ease that was absolutely uncanny.
"Dinner is just coming in," she said. "Betty has put some hot water in
your bedroom, the one opposite this, and you must hurry over your
toilet."
"I also have good news," he answered gayly. "I've hit on a plan that
should rout the enemy."
"Which enemy?" she asked in a lower tone.
"The powers that be," and he waved a comprehensive arm to indicate the
world at large. "By putting back the clock twenty-four hours we defeat
every sort of combination that can take the field against us. I'll
propound the scheme at dinner, so prepare to feast with a light heart."
With expressive pantomime she inquired if Percy Whittaker was to share
their council, and he replied with a nod. He was loth to deprive his
eyes of the perfect picture she offered there, with her elbows resting
on the window-sill, her head and shoulders set, as it were, in a frame,
and the last rays of the sun brightening her pallid cheeks and weaving
strands of spun gold in her brown hair. But the summons from the kitchen
was not to be flouted, so he made for the door.
It will be remembered that the hall was lighted directly from the upper
part of the front door, and the stained-glass window on the half-landing
of the stairs. Indirectly, its gloom could be dissipated by any one of
three interior doors, but all of them happened to be closed. Thus, when
Armathwaite's tall figure appeared in the porch, it effectually withdrew
the light gained through the glass in the front door until the door
itself was opened.
He had his hand on the handle when he heard a most weird groaning and
shrieking caused by the closing of the bedroom window. Practically in
the same instant he caught an affrighted yell from inside the house, and
some one shot violently down the stairs and into the hall, falling in a
huddled heap on the floor. Armathwaite had the door open in a second,
and found Percy Whittaker lying at the foot of the stairs, while
Marguerite's voice came in a cry of alarm:
"What is it? What has happened? Percy, is that you?"
By that time Armathwaite had partly raised the fallen man, who did not
seem to have an atom of breath left in his body. Mrs. Jackson, too, came
from the kitchen with a lamp, and Marguerite appeared on the stairs.
"What's the matter?" she cried again. "Did Percy fall? Is he hurt?"
"I imagine he missed his footing on the stairs," said Armathwaite
coolly. "At any rate, he struck the floor with such a thump that he is
winded.... Now, old chap, pull yourself together! Can't you stand?
Shall I carry you to a chair?"
In a dazed way Whittaker endeavored to stand upright. At once he uttered
a croak of agony, and would have collapsed once more if Armathwaite were
not supporting him.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the other, "I'm afraid he is more damaged than I
thought. Show a light here, Mrs. Jackson. Now, go ahead, and open the
door of Mr. Whittaker's room if it is closed. I'll take him there, and
find out the extent of the mischief."
Even in the confusion of the moment Armathwaite noticed that Percy was
gazing at the wall near the clock with the distended eyes of fear. Mrs.
Jackson saw it, too, and with the outspokenness of her class, did not
hesitate to put her thought into words.
"Eh, my, but t' poor young man'll hae seen t' ghost," she cried.
"I--I saw some spook," muttered Whittaker weakly. "Where is it? What was
it? I'm sure I saw something."
"Go upstairs," Armathwaite commanded Mrs. Jackson angrily. "Or, better
still, hand the lamp to Miss Meg, and stop talking nonsense."
Quickly he had Whittaker stretched on a bed, and soon ascertained that
the trouble, whatever it might be, lay in the right ankle. The sufferer
had taken off the patent-leather boots, and was wearing felt slippers,
so examination of his injury was no difficult matter. Armathwaite,
evidently no novice in such emergencies, shook his head when Whittaker
flinched or cried aloud in pain if a tendon was touched or an effort
made to twist the foot slightly.
"Put that lamp down," he said to Mrs. Jackson, "and bring me a basin of
cold water. You, Meg," he went on, "might tear a sheet, or any piece of
strong linen, into strips about three inches wide. Be as quick as you
can, please! Every minute saved now may mean a week afterwards."
"What's gone wrong?" whispered Whittaker, when the women had flown. "Is
it a smash?"
"No, thank goodness! You'd not get over a broken ankle in a hurry. But
you've collected a very nasty sprain, and possibly lacerated some
ligaments as well. Fortunately, I know what to do before the joint has
time to swell. How in the world did you contrive to pitch downstairs?
The steps are broad, and the grade less than the average."
"I--I didn't fall. That is, I mean I didn't trip or stumble over
anything. I saw that thing--the ghost--and simply crumpled up. I think I
must have nearly fainted."
"But, my dear fellow, what you took for a ghost was merely the
reflection of a painted figure in a stained-glass window."
"It was more than that. I'm not quite a fool. I never saw anything so
ghastly in my life. Didn't you say that the man was found hanging in the
hall near the clock? Well, I saw him, I tell you. I had turned the
corner of the stairs when suddenly the beastly thing loomed up right in
front of my eyes. Then it groaned most horribly. I couldn't be mistaken.
I was thinking of nothing of the sort. In fact, I was wondering whether
Meg would take a sensible view of things, and agree that I did right in
getting Edie to send for her mater. Then that cursed vision appeared. If
I didn't see it I'm going dotty. Why, I felt my hair rising, and I
dropped as though I'd been shot."
"Of course, I can't convince you now," said Armathwaite, "but when you
are able to get about again I'll show you just what happened."
"Get about again? You don't mean to say I'm crocked for any length of
time?"
"For a day or two, at least," came the diplomatic assurance. "As soon as
I've tied a rough bandage we'll send for a doctor, and he will be able
to give you a definite opinion."
Whittaker groaned, and his eyelids closed wearily over the gray-green
eyes.
"Oh, d----n this house!" he muttered. "It's bewitched! Why the devil did
I ever come here?"
Armathwaite bound the injured limb tightly, and enjoined on Whittaker
the necessity of remaining prone till a doctor arrived. There was little
call for any such insistence. The unfortunate Percy was suffering enough
pain already without adding to it by movement. He was persuaded to drink
some milk, but the mere raising of his head to put a glass to his lips
caused exquisite torture. Then Armathwaite left him, meaning to appeal
to Farmer Burt for further assistance. Dinner was not to be thought of
until a messenger was sent to Dr. Scaife, at Bellerby, and Meg and Mrs.
Jackson remained with Whittaker in the meantime.
While descending the stairs, Armathwaite gave special heed to the shadow
cast by the window. It was dimly visible, but it seemed almost
unbelievable that any person of ordinary intelligence could mistake it
for a ghostly manifestation. Suddenly a thought struck him, and he
summoned Betty Jackson.
"Would you mind walking to the front door and standing close to it, so
as to block the light which enters through the upper portion?" he said
when she came.
Wondering what he was driving at, she obeyed. Then the true cause of
Whittaker's fright was revealed. The natural light through the plain
glass of the door nearly overcame the weaker rays which filtered through
the colored panes, but, as soon as the doorway was blocked, the figure
of the Black Prince leaped into a prominence that was almost astounding,
even to one who looked for some such development. The artist who had
fashioned the window had followed the canons of medieval art. The
armored knight, whose face gleamed palely through a raised visor, was
poised as though standing on tip-toe, and a rib of the window rose
straightly above his head. Thus, the reflection on the wall bore a most
striking resemblance to a man hanging from the hook in the china shelf,
while the sinister shadow deepened markedly when light was excluded from
the only other source. The discovery of this simple fact not only
explained the apparition which had sent Percy Whittaker headlong down
the stairs, but also showed why gaping rustics could terrify themselves
at will. The closer they peered the more visible became the "ghost."
Even Betty understood what was happening, though she had not heard the
orchestral effect of the complaining window-sash.
"Mercy on us!" she whispered in a scared way. "Who'd ever ha' thought of
the like of that? You must have bin comin' in, sir, the very minnit the
poor young gentleman put foot on the second flight o' steps, an' that
thing just lepped at him."
"Between us, at any rate, we have laid the ghost, Betty," said
Armathwaite. "If Mr. Whittaker complains of increased pain while I am
out, tell your mother or Miss Meg to pour cold water over the bandage.
That will give him relief. Perhaps, later, warm fomentations may be
required, but he is all right now till the doctor sees him."
As he walked a second time to Burt's farm-house, his mind dwelt on the
singular coincidence that produced the shadow on the wall about the very
anniversary of the suicide--or murder--which had vexed the peace of
Elmdale two years ago. To one who was wont to relieve the long nights of
duty in an Indian frontier station by a good deal of varied scientific
reading, the mystery of the vision in the Grange was dissipated as soon
as it was understood. Its occurrence was possible only during a few
evenings before and after the summer solstice, when the sun had traveled
farthest north in the northern hemisphere. Its duration was limited to
ten minutes at the utmost, because the sun sinks rapidly when nearing
the horizon, and the specter's visits were further curtailed by clouds,
since strong sunlight and a clear sky were indispensable conditions to
its appearance.
But, without posing as an authority on stained glass, Armathwaite was
convinced that the window which had produced this disturbing phenomenon
was not modern. The elder Walker had spoken of the Grange as a
"seventeenth-century dwelling," and there was every likelihood that the
painted effigy of the hero of Crecy had been installed by the original
builder, who might have cherished the belief that he was a descendant of
the gallant Edward and the Fair Maid of Kent.
If that was so, the "ghost" has existed, not two Junes, but nearer three
hundred, and must have been observed and commented upon countless times.
It was odd that Marguerite Ogilvey had not mentioned the fact
specifically. It was still more odd that a man should have been found
hanged in that exact spot. Somehow, Armathwaite thrilled with a sense of
discovery when that phase of the problem dawned on him. He was still
turning it over in his thoughts when he reached Burt's farm.
Here he was again fortunate. Some chance had kept the farmer at home,
and, although the latter had neither man nor horse to spare for a second
journey to Bellerby, he dispatched a messenger to a laborer in the
village who owned a bicycle, and was always ready to ride the six miles
for half a crown.
Armathwaite, of course, had told Burt of the accident, and the farmer
shook his head sapiently when he heard its cause.
"Ay!" he said. "If I owned yon place I'd rive that window out by t'
roots. It's done a fair share of mischief in its time--it has, an' all!"
"Do you mean that it has been responsible for other mishaps?" was the
natural query.
"Yes, sir; three in my time, an' I'm the right side o' sixty yet."
"What were they?"
"I don't remember t' first, because I was nobbut a little 'un, but I've
heerd my faither tell on 't. Some folk o' t' neam o' Faulkner lived
there then, an' one o' their gells, who'd married a man called Ogilvey,
I think, kem yam (came home) to have her first bairn where her mother
could look after her. This Mrs. Ogilvey must h' known t' hoos an' its
ways well enough, but yon spook gev her a bad start one evenin', for all
that, an' her bairn was born afore time, and she nearly lost her life."
"Are you sure the name was Ogilvey?" broke in Armathwaite.
"Oh, ay! I mind it well, because I've got a dictionary in t' hoose by a
man o't same neam."
"What became of this Mrs. Ogilvey?"
"By gum, she cleared off as soon as she and t' youngster could get into
a carriage, an' never showed her nose i' Elmdale again. Owd Faulkner
took te drink in his last years, an' had a notion that he and the Black
Prince could finish a bottle of wine together. One night he was suppin'
his share as usual on t' stairs, an' he fell backwards over, an' bruk
his neck. Then there was poor Mr. Garth's case, which ye'll hae heerd
aboot, mebbe?"
"Yes, I've heard of it," said Armathwaite. "How did Mr. Garth come into
the property?"
"I don't rightly ken, but folk said it was through yan (one) o'
Faulkner's married daughters. Gosh! He might ha' bin yon bairn. But, no!
his neam 'ud be Ogilvey then."
"Were you ever told why the window should be erected in memory of the
Black Prince?"
"Ay; the story is that the man who dug the first sod out o' the
foundations broke ground on the fifteenth o' June, an' some larned owd
codger said the fifteenth was t' Black Prince's birthday."
"It seems to be rather a slight excuse for such an elaborate window."
Burt looked around cautiously, lest he should be overheard.
"There was queer folk livin' when that hoos was built," he muttered.
"Happen there's more 'n one sort o' Black Prince. I'm thinking meself
that mebbe some rascal of a pirate had Owd Nick in his mind when he
planned yon article."
Armathwaite laughed. He was aware that a belief in witchcraft still
lingered in these remote Yorkshire dales, but he was not prepared to
find traces of devil-worship so far afield.
"It's a very interesting matter," he said, "and, when I've got the
invalid off my hands, I'll inquire further into the historical side of
it. You see, the style of coloring and craftsmanship should enable an
expert to date the window within very few years of its actual period.
Ah, here's your man! I hope he found the bicyclist at home?"
Assurance on that head was soon forthcoming. Armathwaite returned to the
Grange, and, while going to Whittaker's room, he glanced curiously at
the wall near the clock. Though a sufficiency of light still came
through the window, and the mellow colors in a vignette border were
surprisingly bright, there was not the slightest semblance of an
apparition in the hall.
But, such was the force of suggestion, after Burt's hint at bygone
practice of the black arts within those ancient walls, he found now that
the face framed in the open visor was cadaverous in the extreme, and had
a sinister and repellent aspect.
Cynic though he was in some respects, as he mounted the creaking stairs,
he wondered.