THE DAWN OF A BLACK FRIDAY
There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of the
Grange, all nearly of equal size, and remarkably spacious, since they
corresponded in area with the rooms beneath. Percy Whittaker occupied
the westerly front room, Marguerite had pre-empted the easterly one, and
Armathwaite's room lay in the north-east angle. Thus, he was early
aroused by the morning sun, and was up and about long before Mrs.
Jackson or Betty put in an appearance. For lack of the bath which he had
been prevented from ordering through Tom Bland, he splashed in an
old-fashioned shallow zinc contrivance which reminded him of former days
in Baluchistan. Crossing the landing afterwards, meaning to look in on
Percy Whittaker, he glanced at the now oddly familiar black figure in
the stained-glass window.
At the moment his thoughts were not dwelling on the topic which had
occupied them, well nigh to the exclusion of all else, since he had
first set eyes on Elmdale, yet, by some occult influence, no sooner did
he meet the cold, unseeing glare of the painted effigy than his brain
began to calculate the significance of certain dates. The _Nuttonby
Gazette_ dated Saturday, June 22nd, of two years ago, had stated that
the inquest on Stephen Garth was held at the Fox and Hounds Inn,
Elmdale, "to-day" (so the enterprising Banks had evidently brought out a
special edition). Mrs. Jackson and Police Constable Leadbitter had
deposed to the finding of the body on "Friday evening," which would be
the 21st. Mrs. Jackson and Betty had last seen Garth alive on the
Wednesday. Certain post-mortem indications showed that the death had
taken place that night, the 19th. To-day, Friday, two years later, was
the 19th! Armathwaite was not a nervous subject, but he was aware once
more of a creepy sensation when he realized that this sunlit morning
probably heralded in the fatal anniversary.
Seen in a clear and penetrating light, and closely examined at an hour
when each line stood out boldly, the face of the figure revealed certain
peculiarities. Artists in stained glass seldom attempt to convey
subtleties in flesh tints. At best, their craft is mainly decorative,
and effects are obtained by judicious grouping of colors, each of a
distinct tone value, rather than by the skilled merging of light into
shadow, which is the painter's chief aim. But, in this instance, a
deliberate attempt had been made to depict features of a truly
malevolent cast. The oval formed by the open visor of the helmet gave
scope for the use of an almost invisible casing of lead, which also
provided the larger outline of the helmet itself, and of an enormous
raven, with outstretched wings, perched on the crest.
Yet, instead of the youthful and noble countenance which tradition would
surely ascribe to a gallant prince, the face which peered from the
casque was that of an evil-minded ascetic. Indeed, the longer
Armathwaite looked, the more he was convinced that the artist had tried
to suggest a mere skull covered with dead skin. The nose was pinched,
and the nostrils were unpleasantly prominent. The lips were mere seams
of dried parchment, and the cavernous eyes were really two empty
sockets.
This sinister and ghoul-like visage was totally at variance with the
remainder of the work. The armor was correct from helm to sollerets,
with hauberk and corselet, greaves and jambards, while the gauntleted
hands were crossed, in true warrior fashion, on the hilt of a long,
straight sword. The vignette border of tendrils and vine-leaves was
charming in design and rich in well-blended color, and an observer of
critical taste could not fail to compare the gross offense of the
portrait with the quiet beauty of its setting. To some minds, there is
an element in art which denies a true sense of harmony to a distorted
imagination, and the notion was suddenly borne in on Armathwaite that
the same hand had never limned that demoniac face and the remainder of
the window. The one might have been the product of some debauchee
steeped in the worst excesses of a libidinous society, while the other
breathed the calm serenity of the Renaissance. Armathwaite had in full
measure the hunter's instinct which incites mankind to seek out and
destroy ferocious beasts. If he had a weapon in his hands at the moment
he would have smashed that diabolical mask out of existence.
The unaccountable spasm passed, and he entered Whittaker's room, to find
that disconsolate youth lying on his back, wide awake, and staring
blankly at the ceiling.
"Hullo!" he said cheerily. "Had a good night's rest?"
"Pretty fair," muttered the invalid, turning his eyes dully on the
other. "That doctor chap doped me, I expect. Anyhow I slept till I heard
you splashin' in the bath."
"How's the ankle?"
"Rotten. Look here, Mr. Armathwaite, you seem to understand this sort of
thing. Bar jokes, how long must I remain here?"
"In bed, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"A week, at least. After that, you may be able to hop about on one leg."
"If _you_ were in my place, would you stop in bed a week?"
"What else could I do? Even walking with a crutch is impossible because
of the strain on the ligaments."
Whittaker moved involuntarily, and was given a sharp reminder that his
informant was not exaggerating his disability.
"All right," he said sullenly. "What time is it?"
"About six o'clock. Betty will bring you some tea and an egg before
seven."
"Miss Ogilvey isn't up yet?"
"No."
Half unconsciously, Armathwaite resented the studied formality of that
"Miss Ogilvey." He fully appreciated its intent. He was a stranger and
must be kept at arm's length. Moreover, the crippled Percy held him at a
disadvantage. The younger man might be as insolent as he
chose--Armathwaite was muzzled.
"Can I do anything for you," he said.
"In what way?"
"Well, if the pain is very bad, an extra bandage, soaked in cold water,
will relieve the burning sensation."
"No, thanks. I'll wait till the doctor comes."
"He is bringing a nurse, by the way. You'll need proper attention for
the next few days."
"Right. Don't let me keep you. I think I can sleep another hour or so."
Armathwaite was at no loss to understand why the cub wished to be rid of
him. Whittaker was not only torturing himself with the knowledge that
his host would be free to enjoy Marguerite Ogilvey's company without let
or hindrance, but he also felt a grudge against the fates which had
snatched him out of active participation in the day's events. Neither
dreamed that the accident would precipitate the crisis each wished to
avoid. In fact, in view of what did actually happen, it would be
interesting to speculate on the probable outcome if, by chance,
Armathwaite had been disabled instead of Whittaker. But history, whether
dealing with men or nations, recks little of "what might have been." It
is far too busily occupied in fashioning the present and concealing the
past, for, let students dig and delve ever so industriously, they seldom
obtain a true record of occurrences which have shaken the world, while,
in the lives of the few people with whom this chronicle deals, there
were then at work certain minor influences which no one of them ever
discerned in their entirety. There was nothing surprising in this. A
crystal-minded woman like Marguerite Ogilvey could never adjust her
perceptive faculties to the plane of a decadent Percy, while Robert
Armathwaite was too impatient of ignoble minds that he should ever seek
to uncover the mole-burrowings of James Walker.
Certain developments took place which affected each and all in relative
degrees, and each acted according to his or her bent. Beyond that,
analysis of cause and effect can hardly be other than sheer guesswork.
Armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having
thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the
morning.
He was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man
approached. Though twisted with rheumatism--the painful tribute which
Mother Earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her
chief treasures--this man quickened into a new life when he saw
Armathwaite. He cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he
came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a
pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant.
"Good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was
devoid of any semblance of servility. "Things are in a nice mess, aren't
they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed
sacred to begonias.
"They are, indeed!" agreed Armathwaite, wondering what white-haired
philosopher had come on the scene.
"You'll be Mr. Armathwaite, I'm thinkin'?" went on the other.
"Yes."
"My name's Smith, sir. Mr. Leadbitter, the policeman, told me you had
taken on the Grange. Mebbe you'll be wantin' a gardener."
A light broke in on Armathwaite.
"Oh! Begonia Smith!" he cried. "Come back to the old love--is that it?"
"That's it, sir. She looks as if she wanted someone to look after her."
"Very well. Take charge. It's too late in the year to grow flowers or
vegetables, but you can tidy things up a bit."
"A man who has his heart in the job, sir, can grow flowers at any time
of the year. If I was to drop a line to the Nuttonby carrier to-night,
I'd have a fair show of geraniums, calceolarias, lobelia, an' marguerite
daisies in the front here by to-morrow evenin'."
Armathwaite was not one to check enthusiasm. Moreover, the notion of
brightening the surroundings appealed to him.
"That would be sharp work," he said, eyeing the jungle.
Smith, with the suspiciousness of an old man eager to show that he was
as good as some of the young ones, misunderstood that critical survey.
"Before Tom Bland brings the plants from the nursery I'll have a canny
bit o' soil ready for 'em," he vowed.
"I'm sure of it," said Armathwaite, quickly alive to the aged gardener's
repudiation of any doubt cast on his powers. "But surely you can be
better employed than in mere digging. Are there laborers to be hired in
the village?"
Smith swept the bare meadow-land with the appraising eyes of knowledge.
"Plenty of 'em, sir. The hay is in, an' they'll be slack enough now for
another month."
"Very well. Send your order to Bland, including such implements as you
may need. Hire three or four men, and get them busy. By the way, have
you heard that Miss Meg is here?"
"Miss Meg! Our Miss Meg?"
Smith's astonishment was not feigned. He was slightly dazzled already by
the way in which his new employer had received suggestions for the
regeneration of the garden; now, he was thoroughly bewildered.
"Yes," said Armathwaite, watching him narrowly. "She may join us any
minute. Of course, if she expresses any preference for a particular
method of laying out the flower-beds, you will adopt it without
question."
"Why, sir," said the old man simply, "if it's the same Miss Meg as I
hev' in mind I'll not charge you a penny for what little I can do about
the place. It'll be enough for me to see her bonnie face again an' hear
her voice."
"I'll tell her that," laughed Armathwaite. "But we don't trade on those
terms. You were happy here, I suppose, before Mr. Garth died?"
"No man could ha' worked for nicer people, sir. It bruk me all to pieces
when t' maister tellt me to go. An' I never rightly understood it,
until--until the sad thing happened you'll hev' heerd of. Mr. Garth was
just as much cut up about me goin' as I was meself--that was the queer
part of it.... Sir, tell me this, D'you mean to live here any length o'
time?"
"I hope so."
"Well, it's a bold thing to say, afore I've known ye five minnits, so to
speak, an' there may be nowt in it other than owd wives' blether, but,
if you ain't such a great lover o' stained glass, I advise ye to hev'
yon staircase window riven out by t' roots."
"Now, why in the world do you say that?"
"I can't put it into plain words, sir, an' that's a fact, but I'd be
glad to see the house shut o' that grinnin' death's head. I well
remember my own father tellin' me there was a curse in it, an' many's
the time Mr. Garth laughed at me when I spoke on't. But t' owd man's
prophecy kem yam (came home) to roost at last. It did, an' all."
"What reason did your father give for his belief?"
"It's a strange story, sir, but I know bits of it are true, so mebbe the
rest isn't so far out. D'you see yon farm?" and Begonia Smith pointed to
the Burt homestead.
"Yes," said Armathwaite. "I met Mr. Burt yesterday."
"It's built on the ruins o' Holand Castle, sir. It's barely ten years
ago since Mr. Burt used the last o' t' stones for his new barn. These
Holands were descended from a lady who married Edward, the Black Prince.
She had three sons by her first husband, an' one of 'em kem to this part
o' Yorksheer. As was the way in them days, he set a church alongside his
castle, and was that proud of his step-father, who would ha' bin King of
England had he lived, that he had that painted glass window med in his
memory. In later times, when there was a cry about images, the owner of
Holand Castle had the window taken out an' hidden. Then, to please
somebody or another, he set fire to t' church. After that, things went
badly with him, an' the castle was deserted, because it had the plague,
though I'm thinking the only plague was bad drainage. Anyhow, nigh on
two hundred year ago, a man named Faulkner settled i' this quiet
spot--you can guess what it was like, sir, when there was no railways,
an' the nearest main road ran through Leyburn on t' other side o' t'
moor. This Faulkner had gathered his brass in no good way, robbin' ships
an' killin' folk on the high seas, it was said. He used to import
hogsheads o' wine all the way from Whitby, an' rare good wood was in
'em, because I saw the last of 'em used as a rain barrel, an' I'm not
seventy yet. The story goes that one night, in his cups, he was annoyed
by the way the Black Prince looked at him, hard an' condemning like a
judge. He got a pair o' big pistols, an' fired one at the Prince's face.
He shot the eyes out, an' then aimed the second one at the mouth, but
that burst, and blew his own right hand off, an' he bled to death afore
they could plug the veins. His son, who was a chip o' t' owd block,
hired a drunken artist to paint another face. This man knew nowt about
stained glass, but he was a rare hand at drawin' terrible things, so he
planned yon devil's phiz on oiled paper, an' stuck it between two thin
plates o' glass, an' it was leaded in. If you was to climb on a ladder
you'd find the difference at once between that part o' t' window an' all
t' remainder. Many's the time I've seen it when nailin' up the wistaria,
an', if I'd dared, would have put the hammer-head through it. But Mr.
Garth refused to have it touched. He called it an antiquarian
curiosity. All the same, he wouldn't have Miss Meg told about it,
because it might have frightened her but he was always careful to see
that the blind was not drawn across the front door on June evenings.
Mebbe, you'll have heerd of a ghost, sir?"
A window was raised, and both men looked up. Marguerite was leaning out,
her face aglow with pleasure.
"Why, if it isn't my own dear Smith!" she cried. "What lucky wind
brought _you_ here? Mr. Armathwaite, is this _your_ doing? Smith, I'll
be down in a jiffy. Mind you don't skedaddle before I come!"
Thus it befell that when Betty Jackson brought an early breakfast to
Percy Whittaker, and she was asked where Miss Meg was, she answered:
"Out in the garden with Mr. Armathwaite. They're talkin' to Begonia
Smith."
"Ah, I heard the voices. And who, pray, is Begonia Smith?" demanded
Percy.
"The old gardener," said Betty. "He was here years an' years."
"Does Mr. Armathwaite mean to have the grounds attended to?"
"Looks like it, sir. He an' Miss Meg are measurin' bits, an' Smith's
stickin' in pieces of wood. It'll be nice to have the place kept spick
an' span again."
It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Meg's glimpse of her friend from the
bedroom window should have brought her downstairs pell-mell without even
a tap on Whittaker's door to inquire as to his well-being. It was
perhaps, equally unfortunate that, when she remembered her remissness,
she should have hurried to his room while her cheeks were flushed with
the strong moorland air and her eyes shining with excitement.
"How are you, Percy dear?" she said, entering in response to his surly
"Come in!" "I ought to have looked in on you sooner, but I could hardly
believe my eyes when I saw Mr. Armathwaite in the garden with Smith, our
own old gardener, whom I've known ever since I was a baby."
"Why has Armathwaite brought Smith here?" said Whittaker, peering at her
fixedly, yet veiling those gray-green eyes under lowered lids.
"He didn't. Smith just came. But isn't it fortunate? He couldn't have
found a better man, especially as Smith won't have any of the hard work
on his hands. Mr. Armathwaite is giving him all the help he needs."
"To put the place in order?"
"Yes, of course. Smith promises marvels by to-morrow evening. But you
haven't told me yet how your poor ankle feels."
"Never mind my poor ankle, Meg. I understood that the house was only let
for three months?"
"Oh, much longer, I believe. Mr. Armathwaite----
"Confound Mr. Armathwaite! The devil fly away with Mr. Armathwaite! I'm
sick of his name: I spit on him!" He literally writhed in a paroxysm of
anger.
"Percy!"
He had chosen an unhappy word when he spoke of spitting on his rival. He
reminded her of a toad, and she hated toads.
With a desperate effort he sat bolt upright in the bed.
"It's high time you and I had a few straight words, Meg," he said, and
his voice lost its drawl, and the blase manner was dropped. "You haven't
forgotten, I suppose, that I've asked you to marry me?"
"No. Perhaps, if you rack your memory, you'll remember my answer," she
said indignantly, for she felt the innuendo, and was resolved to resent
it with vigor.
"No, oh, no! You said you didn't mean to marry anybody. That is a
maidenly sentiment which is right and proper, and I agreed with it at
the time. But the position has altered considerably during the past
couple of days. As matters stand now, Meg, you may change your mind,
and I beg to inform you that when you do marry, you'll marry me."
"It is hardly fair to take advantage of your accident," she said, with a
quiet scorn that only served to infuriate him the more.
"What do you mean?" he said thickly.
"You are not usually so dense. If you were not ill you would never dare
speak to me in that fashion."
"Never mind my illness. That will soon pass. And the density you
complain of is not so one-sided as you imagine. I pointed out that the
position had changed. Two days ago you were free to say 'Yes' or 'No' to
my proposal. To-day you are not. You've got to marry me now, Meg. You'll
be my wife by fair means or foul. Need I explain myself further?"
"It--it would be as well."
"All right. You've asked for it, and you'll get it. Unless I have your
promise here and now that our marriage will take place as soon as I can
stand on my feet again, I'll have your father arrested for murder."
"Percy, you must be mad even to think of such a dreadful thing!"
"No, not mad, but sane, very sane and wide-eyed. That fellow,
Armathwaite, wants you, and he'll snap you up while I'm lying in this
infernal house unless I strike now, and strike hard. I mean exactly what
I say. I've thought it all out here, though I'm suffering pain enough
to drive me crazy. But the mind can conquer the body, and my mind is not
only clear, but fixed. Tell me you'll marry me, and I'll be patient as a
saint. I'll take your word for it. I don't want you to sit by my side
and hold my hand, as some sniveling fools would wish. You can plan your
gardens with Armathwaite, and smile at him and talk with him as much as
you please. But you've got to be my wife. Refuse, and the only way you
can save your father from arrest is by getting Armathwaite to commit
another murder."
"You brute!" she almost whispered. Her lips were quivering pitifully,
but the fount of tears was dried, and her eyes blazed with an intensity
that conquered Whittaker for the moment.
He lay back on the pillows again, with a smile that was twisted into a
rictus of agony as a twinge wrung the injured limb.
"Call me any hard names you like," he muttered, closing his eyes under
the intolerable contempt and loathing of Marguerite's steadfast
scrutiny. "I've said what I had to say, and I'll not depart from a
syllable of it. You'd have married me one of these days if you hadn't
met Armathwaite. He has turned your pretty little head with his
knight-errant airs and cavalry officer appearance. So I've determined
to pull you back by force--see? You'll get over it in time. You and I
will be as good chums as ever when this gale has blown itself out. Don't
think I shall hold you less dear because your father placed himself in
danger of the law. He escaped neatly before, and can escape again. I'll
even tell you how. No one here knows--"
He opened his eyes again, to ascertain if some dawning interest in the
project he was about to reveal--which was precisely that already set
forth by Armathwaite--had driven the horror from her drawn features; but
Marguerite had vanished. He listened for her footsteps, and could hear
no sound. He shouted loudly, and tugged frenziedly at a bell. Betty came
running, thinking he had fallen out of bed, and needed assistance.
"Why, whatever is the matter?" she cried, with true Yorkshire
abruptness, when she found him lying as she had left him a few minutes
earlier.
"Where is Miss Meg?" he raged. "Tell her she must come here--at once!
Tell her that! Use those very words--come at once!"
"My! What a to-do about nowt! I was sure the house was on fire!"
"Confound you, will you go!" he shouted.
"Yes, I'll go! For goodness' sake, keep quiet. You're doing yourself no
good by gettin' that excited. Oh, you needn't bawl at me! I'll find
her. It isn't such a big place that she can be lost for more'n a minnit
or two."
Grumbling audibly at the funny ways some folk had, to be sure, Betty
went downstairs. She looked into the drawing-room, dining-room, and
library, but Marguerite was in none of those places. Then she passed out
into the garden; through the open window Whittaker could hear her asking
Armathwaite if he knew where Miss Meg was. He caught the answer, too.
"Yes. She left me to visit Mr. Whittaker."
"She's not there, sir, and he has just sent me for her in an awful
hurry," said Betty.
"Is it anything I can do for him?"
"No, sir. He wants Miss Meg."
"Well, she can't be far away. She may be in her bedroom. Go and look
there. If I see her, I'll hand on your message."
Soon, when Betty had ransacked the house, she came to the conclusion
that Marguerite had gone into the village. For some reason, on hearing
this, Whittaker appeared to be calmer, and only growled an order that he
was to be informed instantly of Miss Garth's return. Betty retreated to
the kitchen. When the door was safely closed she said to her mother:
"That Percy Whittaker is daft, an' it's easy to see what ails him. If I
was Miss Meg I wouldn't have him if he was hung with diamonds."
"You're nobbut a fond lass," commented Mrs. Jackson, cracking an egg on
the side of a basin preparatory to emptying its contents into a
frying-pan. "Always thinkin' of young men, like the rest of 'em. Poor
Meg Garth has other things to bother her. If you hadn't lost a good
father when you were too little to ken owt about it, you'd know what
she's goin' through now."
"But she says her father is livin'," said Betty.
"Tell me summat fresh," retorted her mother. "Wouldn't it be better for
her if he wasn't? You mark my words. There'll be a bonny row i' this
house afore we're much older. Now, hurry up with t' toast. No matter
what else happens, folk mun eat."