DEUS EX MACHINA
After a while, Betty came to Armathwaite again.
"If you please, sir, breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it in, or will
you wait for Miss Meg?" she said.
That a second inquiry as to Marguerite's whereabouts should be necessary
seemed to surprise him.
"You were looking for Miss Garth a few minutes ago. Didn't you find
her?" he inquired.
"No, sir. She's not in the house."
"But what can have become of her?"
"I thought, sir, she might ha' gone into t' village."
"Why?"
"She knows everybody i' t' place. She said last night that now she was
makin' a bit of a stay she'd be seein' some o' t' folk."
"I think I should have noticed her if she had gone out by the gate," he
said, weighing the point. "Smith!" he called, "has Miss Meg left the
house recently--within the past ten minutes, I mean?"
"Not that I know of, sir," said Smith; "but I'm that worritted by the
state of some o' these here beds that ammost owt (almost anything) might
ha' happened without me givin' it heed."
"Bang that gong at the front door," said Armathwaite to Betty. "It
should be heard in every house in Elmdale, and she will understand."
The gong was duly banged, and its effect on Elmdale was immediately
perceptible. Old Mrs. Bolland vowed afterwards that she would sit
permanently at the back bedroom window, because, being rheumaticky, she
couldn't get upstairs quickly enough, and there was summat to see
nowadays at t' Grange.
But the tocsin failed to reach the one ear for which it was intended.
The village produced every live inhabitant except Marguerite Ogilvey.
"Was Miss Meg friendly with the Burts?" inquired Armathwaite, when he
and Betty realized it was useless to gaze expectantly either at the
corner of the roadway visible from the porch, or at such small
cross-sections of the village "street" as could be seen at irregular
intervals between the houses.
"Yes, sir. She'd often walk over there," said the girl, gazing at once
in the direction of the Castle Farm, which was the name of the holding.
"She would know that breakfast was on the way?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I axed her meself when I brought her a cup of tea. She
said that nine o'clock would suit."
Betty turned involuntarily to consult the grandfather's clock in the
hall. The hands stood at ten minutes past nine; but, in the same moment,
she remembered that the clock was not going. Armathwaite followed her
glance, and looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes past nine," he answered, with a laugh. "The old clock is
right to a tick. Was it in use while the Sheffield lady remained in the
house?"
"No, sir. It stopped at that time when the old man died."
Then she giggled. There is hardly a man or woman in Yorkshire who does
not know that the words of a famous song were suggested by the behavior
of a clock which is still exhibited in an inn on the south side of the
Tees at Pierce Bridge, and the girl had unconsciously repeated the tag
of verses and chorus.
Armathwaite had yet to learn of this treasured possession of the county
of broad acres, so he eyed Betty rather disapprovingly. Moved by an
impulse which he regarded as nothing more than a desire to check such
undue levity, he strode into the hall, found a key resting on a ledge
of the clock's canopy, wound up the heavy weights, and started the
pendulum.
"Perhaps our ancient friend may be more accurate than you, Betty," he
said. "You mean, I suppose, that it stopped at that time because it was
not wound. How do _you_ know the hour, or even the day, anyone died
here?"
"Well, I don't, sir, an' that's a fact," she admitted. "But what about
breakfast?"
"Attend to Mr. Whittaker--I'll wait!"
He went out again, and saw Smith hobbling down the bye-road.
"Hi!" he cried, "if you're going into the village you might ask if
anyone has seen Miss Meg!"
Smith replied with a hand wave. He was thinking mainly of begonias,
planning a magician's stroke, because his new master had told him to
spare no expense. Within ten minutes he returned, but not alone. Four
able-bodied rustics came with him, each carrying a spade or a garden
fork. But he had not forgotten Armathwaite's request.
"Miss Meg hasn't gone that way, sir," he said. "Plenty of folk saw her
in t' garden, an' they couldn't ha' missed her had she been in t'
street. But she'll be comin' i' now. No fear o' her bein' lost, stolen,
or strayed i' Elmdale. These chaps are good for a day's diggin' at four
shillin' an' two quarts o' beer each. Is that right, sir?"
"Make it five shillings and no beer," said Armathwaite.
The laborers grinned.
"No beer is even to be bought during working hours," he added sharply.
"You can work harder and longer on tea. You may have all the tea, milk,
bread and cheese you want, but not a drop of beer, this day or any other
day, while at work here. I know what I am talking about. I am no
teetotal fanatic, but I've proved the truth of that statement during
many a day of more trying labor than digging soft earth."
The terms were agreed to without a murmur. The incident, slight as it
was, had its bearing on the day's history. Smith was leading his cohort
to the attack, when one of the men, apparently bethinking himself,
approached Armathwaite and touched his cap.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but was ye axin' about Miss Meg?"
"Yes."
"Well, I seed her goin' up t' moor road nigh on half an hour sen"
(since).
The Grange itself was the only house on the moor road for many a mile,
and it was most unlikely that Marguerite would take a protracted stroll
in that direction at such an hour. Somehow, Armathwaite was aware of a
chill in the air which he had not felt earlier. It was his habit to
disregard those strange glimpses of coming events, generally of
misfortune, which men call premonitions. When confronted by accomplished
facts, he acted as honor and experience dictated; for the rest, he said,
with Milton--
"I argue not
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart and hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward."
But this all-sufficing rule of conduct had availed him little from the
moment he crossed the threshold of the Grange. Right well had it served
him in the strenuous years of vigilant governance now so remote; since
his coming to Elmdale he seemed ever to be striving against shapeless
phantoms. He had sought quiet and content in that peaceful-looking
village; he had found only care and gnawing foreboding, brightened, it
is true, by a day-dream, which itself left bitter communing when it
waned. For he was his own severest censor. He regarded himself as one
already in the sere and yellow leaf. Fortune had called him to the high
places only to cast him forth discredited, if not humbled. That he, a
man who believed he had done with the great world, should think of
allying his shattered life with the sweet and winsome creature whose
feminine charm was enhanced by a frank girlishness, was a tantalizing
prospect which, like the mirage in a desert, merged with the arid wastes
when subjected to close scrutiny. With Marguerite near, reason fled, and
all things seemed possible; when the thrall of her presence was
withdrawn, cold judgment warned him that gratitude for help rendered
should not be mistaken for love.
He felt now that another crisis had arisen, yet the past yielded no ray
of guidance. He glared at the poor laborer who, all unconsciously, was
fate's herald in this new adversity, for he was instantly aware, without
other spoken word, that Marguerite Ogilvey had fled. The man's troubled
face showed that he feared he had done wrong.
"I'm main sorry, sir," said he, "if I've said owt te vex ye, but,
hearin' the talk of Miss Meg, I thought----"
Armathwaite's drawn features relaxed, and he placed a friendly hand on
the villager's shoulder.
"You've done right," he said. "I am very much obliged to you. I have a
stupid habit of allowing my mind to wander. Just then I was thinking of
something wholly unconnected with Miss Garth's disappearance, which will
arouse Mrs. Jackson's wrath because of bacon and eggs frizzled to a
cinder. I must go and condole with her."
He was turning to re-enter the house, mainly to set at rest any
suspicion that Marguerite's absence arose from other cause than sheer
forgetfulness, when the clang of the gate stayed him. A youth had
dismounted from a bicycle, and was hastening up the path with an air of
brisk importance.
"Telegrams for Garth and Whittaker," he said. "Any answer, sir?"
Armathwaite took the two buff envelopes which the lad produced from a
leather pouch.
"Have you come from Bellerby?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, wait a few minutes. There may be some reply."
He went into the dining-room. So sure was he that Marguerite had gone
away that he had not the slightest hesitation about opening the telegram
addressed to "Garth, The Grange, Elmdale." As he anticipated, it was
from Mrs. Ogilvey. It had been dispatched at seven o'clock from
Tavistock, and read:
"Arriving to-night if possible. Don't take any action until I am
with you.--MOTHER."
The early hour at which it had been sent off--from a town, too, which
he rightly estimated as a good many miles distant from Warleggan, showed
that Mrs. Suarez had contrived to get a telegram through to Cornwall the
previous night, so Percy Whittaker's mischievous interference had proved
quite successful.
Then, with lightning clarity came the belief that Percy Whittaker was
responsible for Marguerite's flight. Armathwaite scouted the notion that
she had such a thing in her mind when she came to him in the garden. Her
nature was incapable of guile. Had she formed some fantastic scheme
during the watches of the night she would never have put her troubles
aside to share in his light-hearted planning of a new and glorified
garden. In fact, he recalled her sudden dismay because of her seeming
neglect of the invalid, and now he knew that he had not seen her since
she went upstairs, whereas Whittaker himself had sent more than one
urgent summons for her subsequently.
Stifling his fury as best he might, Armathwaite hurried to Whittaker's
room.
"A telegram has just come for you," he said, and watched the younger
man's face as he read. It was a long screed, and evidently bored its
recipient.
"Oh, it's only from my sister," came the languid explanation. "By the
way, where's Miss Garth?"
"Gone, I think."
"Gone!" Whittaker rose on an elbow and glowered at Armathwaite. "What
the devil do you mean by 'gone'? Where has she gone to?" he cried.
"I want you to answer that question," and Armathwaite's voice was
strangely harsh and threatening. "She came to you half an hour ago. Did
you say anything likely to distress her? Tell me the truth, or I'll
pound your face to a jelly."
His aspect had suddenly become so menacing that Whittaker wilted; his
head sank back to the pillow, and his eyelids twitched with fright.
"That's no way to talk----" he began, but the other seized him by the
shoulder with his left hand and clenched his right fist suggestively.
"You think I ought not to threaten you with violence because you are
lying there helpless," was the savage interruption; "but, if you have
not forgotten the ways of Ind, you must know that a poisonous snake is
never so venomous as when disabled. Speak, now, and speak truthfully,
or, as sure as God is in heaven, I'll strike!"
There was no withstanding the set purpose revealed by those blazing
eyes, and Whittaker was so alarmed that he dared not attempt to lie.
"I--I've asked Meg--half a dozen times--to marry me," he stuttered, "and
this morning--I told her--she'd have to consent--now."
"Why now?" and the fierce grip tightened, drawing the livid face nearer.
"Because--she must."
"Explain yourself, you dog!"
"I--I was afraid of your influence, so I warned her--that if--she wanted
to save her father.... Ah! Let go! Curse you, let go! You're breaking my
bones!"
That eldritch scream restored Armathwaite's senses. It startled the men
in the garden. It brought Mrs. Jackson and Betty running from the
kitchen. Happily, Armathwaite struck no blow. He flung off Whittaker's
limp body as though he were, indeed, one of the vicious reptiles to
which he had compared him.
"You _sug_!" he breathed, using the bitterest term of contempt known to
the East, for the Persian word means all that the Anglo-Saxon implies
when he likens a fellow-creature to a dog, with the added force of an
epithet which signifies "dog" in that despicable sense, and in none
other.
Striding down the stairs, his fire-laden glance met the ghastly smile of
the painted figure. With an active bound, he was on the window ledge,
and the clenched fist which had ached to scatter some of the hapless
Percy's features fell heavily on the scowling face in the window. The
glass, which proved exceedingly thin and brittle, shivered into
countless fragments within and without, and the inner sheet of
transparent paper was so dry and tense that it shriveled instantly when
exposed to the air. Indeed, Armathwaite, despite his rage, was aware of
a peculiar sensation. It seemed as though he had struck at something
impalpable as air. His hand was not cut. It appeared to have touched
nothing. He thrust straight and hard, and the only evidence of his
destroying zeal was a quantity of powdered glass on the landing, some
curled wisps of paper adhering to the leaden frame, and an oval of blue
sky shining through the visor.
As he leaped to the floor again, Mrs. Jackson reached the center of the
hall. She screeched frantically, thinking that the Black Prince himself
was springing from the window. But she was a stout-hearted old woman,
and quickly recovered her wits when she saw what Armathwaite had done.
"They've long wanted a man i' this house!" she cried, in a voice that
cracked with excitement, "and it's glad I am te see they've gotten yan
at last! Eh, sir, ye med me jump! Ye did an' all! But ye'll never rue
t' day when ye punched a hole in t' feace o' that image of Owd Nick!"
By this time Smith and his helpers, aware that something unusual was
going on inside the house, were gathered at the front door, which had
remained wide open since the early morning.
"Listen, all of you!" said Armathwaite, addressing the two women and
five men as though they were an army and he their emperor. "I am master
here, and I expect you to obey my orders. I am going out now, and I may
be away some hours, possibly all day. You, Smith, must put a padlock and
chain on the gate and refuse to open it for anyone except Dr. Scaife and
a nurse. You, Mrs. Jackson, must keep the doors locked while I am gone,
and let no one enter, excepting, as I have told Smith, Dr. Scaife and
the nurse who will accompany him. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you, Smith?"
"Yes, sir."
"Betty, put some thin slices of bread and meat between two small plates,
and tie them in a napkin. Fill a bottle with milk. Quick! I have no time
to lose."
He turned to the gaping boy who had brought the telegrams from
Bellerby.
"Did you ride here on your own bicycle?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Is it a strong machine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lend it to me for the day, and I'll give you a sovereign."
"Right you are, sir!" came the hearty response. "Is there anything to go
back to the post office?"
"Nothing. Raise the saddle of your bicycle, and see that the tires are
in good order. Here's your money."
In an incredibly short time Armathwaite was pushing the bicycle up the
steep road to the moor. He walked with long, swinging strides, and was
soon lost to sight, because the trees behind the Grange hid the highway
from any part of the house or grounds, and no one dared risk his wrath
by going out into the road to watch him.
He climbed swiftly yet steadily, and conquered the worst part of the
hill in fifteen minutes. Then he mounted the bicycle, and got over the
ground rapidly. Thus, within less than an hour after Marguerite Ogilvey
had escaped from the Grange--in the first instance by taking refuge in
her bedroom, and, while Betty was talking to Whittaker, by slipping
downstairs and climbing through a window in the library--Armathwaite
saw her--a lonely figure in that far-flung moorland, walking in the
direction of Leyburn.
Apparently, she had grabbed her hat and mackintosh coat when passing
through the hall, and was carrying them, because the sun was glinting in
her coils of brown hair. No stranger who met her would take her for
other than a summer visitor. Certainly, no one would guess the storm of
grief and terror that raged in her heart.
The bicycle sped along with a silent speed that soon lessened the
distance between the two. Armathwaite did not wish to startle her by a
too sudden appearance, so he rang the bell when yet fifty yards in the
rear.
She turned instantly. When she saw who the pursuer was, she stopped.
Neither spoke until Armathwaite had alighted, and the two had exchanged
a long and questioning look.
Then she said:
"I'm going to my father. My place is with him. He must be hidden
somewhere. I dare not wait until my mother came or wrote. I'm sorry,
Bob. I could not even explain, though I should have telegraphed from
York. Please don't ask me to say any more, or try to detain me."
"Any explanation is unnecessary," he said, smiling gravely into the
sweet face with its aspect of unutterable pain. "I squeezed the facts
out of Percy Whittaker. I'm afraid I hurt him, but that is immaterial."
"You made him tell you what he said to me?" and the brown eyes
momentarily lost their wistfulness in a whirl of surprise and maidenly
dismay.
"Yes."
"Everything--even his threat?"
"Everything."
"Oh, Bob! What am I to do? I must go to dad!"
"Undoubtedly; but I don't see why you should walk fourteen miles
practically without food. I've brought some breakfast--of a sort. We'll
go shares--half the sandwiches and half the milk. Then you'll ride on
the step of the bike when the road permits, and trudge the remainder,
and we'll be in Leyburn in half the time it would take you to walk. Here
are the eatables, and this is just the place for a picnic."
He spoke and behaved in such a matter-of-fact way that he almost
persuaded the bewildered girl that her conduct, and his, and Percy
Whittaker's was ruled and regulated by every-day conditions. Placing the
bicycle by the roadside, he produced the package prepared by Betty, and
was uncorking the milk when a strangled sob caught his ear.
Marguerite had turned to hide her face, for a rush of emotion had proved
too much for her self-control. Laying the bottle on a bank of turf, he
caught the girl's shoulder, and turned her gently until her swimming
eyes met his.
"There's nothing to be gained by hailing trouble half way, Meg," he
said. "I don't wish to hide my belief that you are faced with conditions
of a most extraordinary nature, but I am convinced that they will shape
themselves differently to any forecast we can arrive at now. I followed
you for two reasons. I wanted you to begin a long journey better
prepared than was possible after flight on a moment's notice, and I did
not want you to go away thinking I was in ignorance of your motives. I
can tell you here and now that you will save your father, if his
position is such that he needs safe-guarding; further, you will never be
compelled to marry Percy Whittaker."
"Bob," she whispered brokenly. "I would rather die!"
Then Armathwaite flung restraint to the winds. He gathered her in his
arms, and lifted the tear-stained face to his.
"Sweetheart," he said, "in the midst of such madness, let you and me be
sane. I love you! You are the only woman I have ever loved. If I am
allowed by Providence to begin life once more, you are the only woman I
shall ever love. You were brought to me by a kindly fate, and I refuse
to let you go now without telling you that you carry my heart with you.
I ask for no answer at this moment. Some day in the future, when the
clouds have lifted from your young life, I'll come to you--"
But Marguerite gave him her answer then. Lifting herself on tip-toe, she
kissed him on the lips.
"Bob," she said tremulously, "I think I knew you were my chosen mate, if
God willed it, when we parted on that first night in the Grange."
That first night! It was hardly thirty-six hours ago, yet these two had
crowded into that brief space more tribulation than many lovers undergo
in a lifetime; and sorrow knits hearts more closely and lastingly than
joy.
Armathwaite could hardly credit the evidence of his senses. He had come
to regard himself as so immeasurably older than this delightful girl
that it seemed wildly improbable that she could return the almost
hopeless love which had sprung into sudden and fierce activity in his
breast. Yet, here she was, lying snug in his embrace, and gazing up at
him with glistening eyes, her lips distended, her arms clasping him, her
heart beating tumultuously in the first transports of passion.
He kissed her again and again, and could have held her there seemingly
forever; but they were driven apart by a curious humming sound which
bore a singular resemblance to the purr of a powerful automobile
climbing a steep hill.
Marguerite disengaged herself from her lover's embrace with a flushing
self-consciousness that was, in itself, vastly attractive.
"Bob," she murmured, stooping to pick up a fallen hat and mackintosh,
"miracles are happening. Here are you and I forgetting a world in which
evil things find a place, and here is a motor-car crossing Elmdale moor
for the first time in history."
"It would not surprise me in the least if the visitant proved to be a
flying-machine," he laughed, finding it hard to withdraw his ardent gaze
from those flushed cheeks and that tangled mass of brown hair.
But the insistent drumming of an engine grew ever louder, and soon a
long, low-built touring car swept into view over the last undulation.
Apparently, it was untenanted save by a chauffeur, and Armathwaite's
brain, recovering its balance after a whirl of delirium, was beginning
to guess at a possible explanation of this strange occurrence, when the
car slowed as it neared them, and finally halted.
"Are you Mr. Armathwaite, sir?" inquired the chauffeur.
"Yes."
The man lifted his cap.
"This is the car you ordered from York last night, sir."
"How thoughtful of you to follow!" cried Armathwaite, overjoyed by this
quite unexpected bit of good fortune. He had not only forgotten that the
car was on order--an impulse of the moment when he realized how tied he
and all others were to the house if anything in the nature of a sudden
and rapid journey came on the _tapis_--but, in any event, he had not
looked for its arrival before mid-day, and the hour was yet barely ten
o'clock.
"Your servants thought you might need me, sir," explained the man, "so I
came after you. It's a scorcher of a road for the first mile, but the
rest isn't so bad, if it keeps in the same condition."
Now, what had actually happened was this. The chauffeur had reached the
Grange about twenty minutes after Armathwaite's departure. At that
moment Smith was chaining and padlocking the gate, but Betty heard the
snorting of the car, and came to find out its cause.
When the chauffeur told her that he was there in response to an order,
the quick-witted girl told him to hurry up the moor road. He looked at
it, and grinned.
"What! Take a valuable machine over a track like that! Not me!" he said.
"Can't it go there?" she inquired.
"It can go anywhere, for that matter."
"Are you afraid, then?"
"Afraid of what? D'ye think I want to twist an axle or smash a wheel?"
Then one of the laboring men joined in.
"I reckon you don't know t' maister," he said. "He wouldn't care a pin
if you smashed yourself, but you've got to obey orders. He's one of the
sort who has his own way. Good pay, no beer, an' hard work is _his_
motter. It is, an' all."
Between maid and man, the chauffeur decided to risk it. When all was
said and done, it would be a bad beginning in a new job if the servants
reported his refusal to follow on.
"Is he far ahead?" he inquired.
"Mebbe a mile over t' top."
Starting the engine on the switch, he put the car at the hill, and, like
many another difficulty, it was not insurmountable when tackled boldly.
So, behold! A comfortable and easy way was opened to Leyburn, at any
rate, and Armathwaite laughed gayly.
"Now we'll breakfast, and discuss," said he. "The gods have sent us a
chariot!"