IN WHICH THE AREA WIDENS
If any critic, on perusing this chronicle, is moved to peevish
condemnation of Armathwaite's amazing conduct that morning, the man
himself would be the last to protest. He might urge that he was dazzled
by the new and entrancing realm whose bright waters and fair meads he
could discern beyond the present rough and dangerous ground. He might
plead the literal truth--that when he went in pursuit of Marguerite
Ogilvey he had no more intention of declaring his love than of hastening
to Dover and endeavoring forthwith to swim the English Channel. But,
making every allowance for a confirmed celibate who had suddenly become
a devout lover, and to whose arms the lady of his choice had committed
herself without any pretense of restraint, it must still be admitted
that he was guilty of a most singular omission in failing to make known
to her his very identity!
He remembered the phenomenal lapse when too late. Even to that practical
side of his character which reproached the emotional side with a
ridiculous forgetfulness, he could only say, in mitigation of sentence,
that the sudden appearance of the car brought about such a novel
situation that all else yielded to the need for prompt and skillful
judgment in deciding Marguerite's immediate future.
It was all the more difficult to think logically and act decisively when
Marguerite herself, ever and anon, was lifting adorably shy eyes to his
while the two were making the best of the unusual meal he had provided.
There, nevertheless, within a few feet, stood the obedient giant whose
stout mechanism rendered many things possible that were hitherto
impossible. The chauffeur, who gave his name as Storr, had taken off the
bonnet for a critical glance at the six cylinders which had forced
nearly two tons of metal and wood up the stony and rutted surface of one
of the worst moorland tracks in Yorkshire. He seemed to be more than
satisfied. The water in the radiator had got rather excited, but that
was only to be expected. A close eye was given to other essentials, and
the tire covers were examined, but every part of the car had withstood
the strain of a fearsome hill splendidly.
Storr had never doubted, but, like a prudent general, he reviewed his
forces after the engagement, and found them not only intact, but ready
for mightier deeds. Then, merely to gratify the sense of touch, as a
horseman strokes a willing and well-groomed steed, he fingered a tap or
two, shut off the engine, and asked Armathwaite if he might smoke a
cigarette while awaiting further orders.
His employer thanked him for the word. It recalled the motive of
Marguerite's flight. Some plan of action must be arrived at, and without
delay.
"Smoke, by all means," he said, summing up the man at a glance as a
bluff and honest sort of follow who would be thoroughly dependable if
properly handled. "How long did the run from York to Elmdale take?"
"A little more than two hours, sir. I started at half-past seven. Your
telegram said I was to arrive by noon, but our people thought they'd
please a new customer by bein' a bit afore time. They didn't wire,
because the car would be to hand almost as quick as a telegram."
"Can you go from Leyburn to York in two hours?"
"Easily, sir."
"Very well. Just pull your machine a few yards ahead, and Miss Ogilvey
and I will discuss the day's program."
Storr obeyed, and Armathwaite outlined to a willing listener the
project he had already formed.
"First," he said, "here is a telegram from your mother. I opened it. I
thought it was best----"
"Why, of course, Bob dear; why shouldn't you?"
Bob dear! It was very pleasant to hear the phrase on Marguerite's lips,
yet it rendered doubly distasteful the suggestion he had in mind; since
where is the lover who will bring himself willingly to the task of
telling his lady-love that they must part? But it had to be done.
Marguerite must go--not quite so far as Cornwall, it is true, but much
too far to please him, and he must return to the Grange, where, a sure
instinct warned him, weighty matters would be settled that day.
A cry of dismay from the girl gave him the cue he wanted.
"Oh, she has started already!" she almost sobbed. "While I was flying to
Warleggan she is traveling North. We shall pass each other on the way!"
"No," he said, "that must not happen. You are going to be a good little
sweetheart, and do as I tell you. This most excellent and comfortable
car will take you to York. There you will ascertain from an obliging
station-master what time Mrs. Ogilvey can arrive from Tavistock,
assuming she left there at or about the hour stated in the message, and
you'll meet her. At a rough guess, Mrs. Ogilvey should be in York about
six o'clock. You'll escort her to the station hotel, give her something
to eat, and calmly discuss the whole affair while the same luxurious
automobile is bringing you back to Elmdale."
"But, what of the danger dad may be in?"
"I am coming to that. I believe, somehow, that your mother will relieve
your mind in that respect. Remember, I have always held, since the main
features of this extraordinary affair became clear, that your father has
acted throughout with his wife's cognizance, if not with her complete
approval. Now, if that is so, she is the one person who can decide
whether you return with her to Elmdale or hasten through the night to
Warleggan. Again hazarding a guess, I don't think you could reach your
father to-night, even though you caught the first available train from
York. Cornwall is a long way from Yorkshire. By starting this minute,
you might be in York by one o'clock. Allowing eleven hours for the
journey, an estimate I am doubtful about, you would arrive at Tavistock
at midnight, whereas it is highly probable there is no such train, nor
one so rapid. By the way, why, do you think, did Mrs. Ogilvey telegraph
from Tavistock?"
"She would drive there--some twelve miles. No telegram could be
dispatched from Warleggan before the post office opened at eight."
"She may have had an even more powerful reason. The message is sent to
'Garth,' not to 'Ogilvey.' Isn't it quite rational to suppose that she
hopes no one in Elmdale knows about the change of name?"
"Yes," said Meg, trying to look calmly judicial. "That sounds
reasonable."
"Then every consideration points to the wisdom of awaiting your mother
at York."
"But, Bob dear, have you thought of the awful result if Percy carries
out his threat?"
"Percy will not do anything dramatic to-day, I promise you. I have
scared him badly already, and I'm going back now with the full intent
that he shall cause no more mischief until I hear from, or see, Mrs.
Ogilvey and yourself, or one of you. Perhaps, to relieve my anxiety, you
will send a message from York announcing your decision?"
"Yes; I'll do that. You are really convinced that I ought to meet
mother?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Then you can trust me. I'll do as you say. You needn't have any fear
that between here and York I'll change my mind. Bob, you believe me,
don't you, when I tell you that I ran away this morning because I dared
not take you into my confidence? I could not bring myself to explain the
true meaning of Percy's horrid insinuations."
"Please, forget Percy. I'll deal with him."
"But you won't be too angry with him? It is hard to endure, I know, that
he should play on his defenseless state, but, if he were quite well and
uninjured, he could offer you no resistance."
He laughed. The notion of Percy Whittaker and himself engaging in a
desperate conflict for physical supremacy was intensely amusing.
"If you mean that I am not to assault him, I promise that with all my
heart," he said. "I gripped him rather strenuously an hour ago, I admit,
but then I was angry with him. Now I feel that I owe him a deep debt of
gratitude, because he has brought to pass something which I hardly dared
dream of. Don't you see, dearest, that if Percy hadn't behaved meanly to
you I shouldn't now be calling you dearest, and wishing that our
sharp-eyed chauffeur were anywhere else in the wide world but where he
is. Now, no more words, but deeds! Off you go to York! What money have
you?"
"Plenty."
"What do you call plenty?"
"Dad gave me fifteen pounds when I left home, and I've spent less than
five."
"Well, then, sweetheart, it is good-by till this evening."
"Oh, Bob darling, I shall pray that it may be so!"
Storr received his orders without lifting an eyelid, which was highly
creditable to him, having regard to the peculiar conditions under which
he had met his employer. Of course, he was ignorant of the state of
affairs at the Grange. He imagined that Mr. Armathwaite was escorting a
young lady over the moor to Leyburn, which was a funny way to reach
York, when Nuttonby lay on a better road, which was also the more direct
route. But there was nothing unusual in the fact that he should be
taking Miss Ogilvey to meet her mother, while the car would make light
of the three journeys.
"You'd better have this, sir, and see if it's right," he said, giving
Armathwaite a note. A glance showed that it dealt with terms for the
hire of the car.
"Tell your people it is quite satisfactory," said Armathwaite, and,
after a farewell pressure of Meg's hand, and a look from the brown eyes
which remained with him like a blessing, the car started. He watched
until it had vanished over a long undulation of the road, and saw the
last flutter of Meg's handkerchief ere she crossed the sky-line. Then he
mounted the bicycle, and rode swiftly back to the tiny hamlet in which,
during two short days, he had passed through so many and so much varied
experiences.
Looking down from the crest of the hill at the sunlit panorama of farm
and field, woodland and furze-grown common, with Elmdale's cluster of
homesteads nestling close beneath the moor, and the spire of Bellerby
Church (near which lay the mortal remains of "Stephen Garth") rising
above a cluster of elms in the middle distance, it seemed to be a
fantastic and unreal notion that so many of life's evils, so much of its
beauty and happiness, could have found full scope for their expression
in that tiny and remote place.
As the hill was too dangerous in parts to ride, he dismounted twice. He
was about to coast down the last straight slope to the house when a
thought struck him with such blinding force that he nearly lost control
of the bicycle. Fool that he was, his first care should have been to
tell Marguerite that his name was not Armathwaite; that he had adopted
an incognito simply to avoid the prying eyes and inquisitive tongues of
those with whom he might be brought in contact; that, in marrying him,
she was stepping forth from the seclusion of a student's retreat into
the full glare of public life. Oh, the deuce take all complications and
worries! He had won Marguerite by extraordinary means--he must do his
wooing in more orthodox manner, and in his true colors.
He was traveling at a rate which kept pace with the tornado in his mind,
but the second nature brought into being by an adventurous career bent a
watchful eye on the inequalities of the road, so that he was actually
slowing up somewhat short of the gate leading to the Grange garden when
he became aware of an unusual concourse of people gathered in the
roadway. A motor-car and two dog-carts were halted near the gable of
Mrs. Jackson's cottage, and a number of men--among them two in police
uniform--who seemed to have collected into a chatting group, dissolved
into units when he approached.
He recognized a groom at a horse's head as Dr. Scaife's man; all the
others were total strangers.
But not for long.
Sir Berkeley Hutton, brought to Elmdale by a neighborly curiosity
strengthened by the call of the East, appeared to be overwhelmed with
surprise at sight of Armathwaite. But the worthy baronet did not lose
the faculty of speech. No conceivable catastrophe, short of instant
death, could deprive him of that.
"God bless my soul!" he cried, advancing with outstretched hand.
"Baluchi Bob! The last man breathing I ever expected to see in Elmdale!
Did the monsoon break earlier than usual this year, or what wind of
heaven blew _you_ here?"
"Hullo, Barker!" cried Armathwaite, hailing him with manifest pleasure.
"I didn't know you had pitched your tent in these parts!"
"Yes, but, dash it all, Bob, what's the game? They told me someone name
of Armathwaite, in the Politicals, had taken the Grange."
"Quite true. But you know I came a cropper in India, and I was a bit
tired of the _sturm und drang_ of existence, so I hied me to cover under
my mother's maiden name. I suppose I have a sort of right to it, though
it doesn't seem to have proved altogether successful as a cloak."
"By gad! I can hardly agree with you there. I felt as though I'd come a
purler over wire when I saw Baluchi Bob dropping off that bicycle. Great
Scott! You on a bike! How have the mighty fallen! But I'll lend you a
hack till you collect a few useful screws, unless you're bitten by this
new craze for rushing about the country in a gastank. And won't Mollie
be glad to see you! It was only the other day she was talkin' about the
Pup, and sayin' that if it hadn't been for you----"
"Oh, tell Mollie to forget that old tale, or she'll make me nervous!"
Each word exchanged between the two was heard distinctly by the others,
and, such is the queer way in which the affairs of life sometimes take
an unexpected twist, there was a marked and instant change of attitude
on the part of three men, at least, who had come to Elmdale that day
prepared to treat the Grange's new tenant as a potential criminal.
Banks, mouthpiece of the _Nuttonby Gazette_, who had bicycled thither in
the hope of securing another batch of readable copy for a special
Saturday edition, suddenly found himself reviewing, with a sinking
heart, one or two rather ticklish paragraphs in the screed already
published anent "The Elmdale mystery." As for the superintendent and
inspector of police from Nuttonby, they forthwith recanted certain
opinions formed after hearing Banks's story and reading the current
issue of his newspaper.
For Sir Berkeley Hutton was a county magnate, chairman of the Nuttonby
bench, an alderman of the County Council, a Deputy Lieutenant, and
goodness knows what else of a power in civic and social circles, and
here was he hailing this stranger as an intimate friend, being himself
greeted by the nickname earned by a loud and strident utterance which
never failed, speaking of Lady Hutton as "Mollie," of his eldest son as
"the Pup." County police and country editors must be chary of accepting
the evidence of James Walkers and Tom Blands against the guarantee of
such a man, or they may get their corns trodden on most painfully!
All at once, Sir Berkeley Hutton seemed to recollect the talk which had
been going on outside the locked and barred gate, for Begonia Smith and
his henchmen had refused to pass anyone but the doctor and nurse, who
were with their patient at that moment.
"I say, Bob," he went on, in a thunderous whisper quite as audible as
his ordinary voice, "I'm devilish glad it's you--I am, 'pon my
soul!--because some of these chaps have been spinnin' the queerest sort
of yarn, in which a murder, a suicide, a ghost, and a pretty girl are
mixed up in fine style. Just tell 'em all to go to blazes, will
you?--except Dobb. Dobb's a decent fellow, and he acted for the people
who used to live here--Hi! Dobb. This is----" Then it dawned on him that
his friend might wish still to preserve his anonymity save in the sacred
circle of the elect, so he broke off into "Come along, Dobb! I want you
to meet one of the best fellows who ever wore shoe-leather!"
Dobb advanced. With him came a gentleman who was as unknown to Nuttonby
as Armathwaite himself. Before the solicitor could speak, his companion
said quietly:
"Sir Robert Dalrymple, I believe?"
"Yes," and Marguerite's "chosen mate" looked him very searchingly and
squarely in the eyes.
"My name is Morand," said the other. "I am sent here by the India Office
to tell you----" he glanced around in momentary hesitation.
"Pray, go on," said Dalrymple, as Armathwaite must be described
henceforth. "There is nothing that the India Office has to communicate
which I am not willing that all the world should hear."
"Happily, Sir Robert, this is a communication which all the world ought
to hear. The Maharajah of Barapur is dead. He was assassinated last
Monday while driving through the bazaar. His prime minister, Chalwar
Singh, was with him, and was mortally wounded at the same time."
"Then India is well rid of two pestilent scoundrels," said Dalrymple
unconcernedly.
"That is the view now held by the Government," was the grave answer.
"A death-bed conversion, of a sort," commented his hearer dryly.
"A death-bed confession, too," said Morand. "It was a fortunate thing
that both men lived long enough to reveal that they had concocted the
whole story of the Maharani's pearls in order to get you shelved. Your
administration was too honest. They played on your well-known
carelessness in trivial matters of detail, and bribed your native
secretary, Muncherji, to include in your correspondence the letters
which seemed to prove your complicity in a serious breach of trust.
Muncherji, by rare good chance, was not in Barapur when the Maharajah
and Chalwar Singh were riddled with bullets, so he was arrested before
he knew of the affair. He, too, has confessed. In fact, I can convey
everything in a sentence. The Government of India has reinstated you in
the High Commissionership, and you are gazetted as absent on leave. I am
the bearer of ample apologies from the India Office, which will be
tendered to you in person by my chief when he meets you in London.
Meanwhile, I am to request you to allow the announcement to be made
public that you will return to India on a named date, while the
appointment of your deputy is left open for your recommendation."
Dalrymple paled slightly, which was the only evidence he gave of the
effect such a statement was bound to produce on a proud and ambitious
nature, but Sir Berkeley Hutton was irrepressible.
"By gad!" he roared, "somebody's gold lace has been rolled in the dust
of Calcutta before the India Department climbed down like that. I never
heard anything like it--never! 'Pon me soul! Won't Mollie be pleased?"
Yet the man to whom the path of empire was again thrown open spoke no
word. It was good to have his honor cleared of the stain put on it by a
scheming Indian prince and his henchmen. It was good to find himself
standing once more in the high place he had won by self-sacrificing work
and unflinching adherence to an ideal of efficient government. But his
thoughts were with a sorrow-stricken girl speeding to a sad tryst with a
mother who might bring tidings that would blight her life for many a
year.
Morand grew anxious. He shared Dalrymple's knowledge of the tremendous
issues bound up with an affair of State of real magnitude, and he did
not want to fail in this, his first confidential mission.
"If there is anything else I can say, Sir Robert----" he began, and his
voice disrupted a dream.
"It's all right, Morand," said the other, letting a hand rest on the
shoulder of the younger man in that characteristic way of his. "I'm not
such a cur as to snarl when I have been proved right, and my traducers
are ready to admit their blunder. I didn't yelp when the blow fell. I'm
not going to kick up a bobbery now when I'm given back my spurs. Tell
your chief that I'll come to him soon, within a week, if possible. I
have business on my hands here that calls imperatively for settlement.
I'll deal first with that; then I'll come. Are you returning to town at
once?"
"By the first available train. More than that, I am to telegraph your
decision to Whitehall. Between you and me, some people are in a howling
funk lest a question should be put in the House."
"That isn't the frontier method. Men who appeal to Parliament when
things go wrong are of no value to India. But I don't want to preach."
"Won't you come in?"
"If you'll pardon me, I'll hurry back to Nuttonby. That telegram is
called for urgently. What about your deputy?"
"Collins was transferred to Oudh because he supported me. Send him to
Barapur. The natives will understand that better than a dozen
gazettes."
"Thanks. That clinches it, Sir Robert. Mr. Dobb, do you mind if we start
immediately?"
Mr. Dobb did mind. For one thing, he had not spoken a word to Sir Robert
Dalrymple yet. For another, Nuttonby loomed larger in his mind than some
wrangle in far-away Hindustan, and Nuttonby was seething with rumors
anent present and past inhabitants of the Grange.
"We, like the State of Barapur, have our little troubles," he said
guardedly. "Sir Robert has shown already that he appreciates their
gravity. My car will take you to Nuttonby, Mr. Morand, and come back for
me."
The representative of the India Office was only too pleased to get away
on any terms. He knew that a reassuring message was wanted in Whitehall.
There were wheels within wheels. A question _was_ put in the House that
night, and an Under-Secretary scoffed at the notion that Sir Robert
Dalrymple, "a trusted servant of his country, whose splendid work on the
Indus was most thoroughly appreciated by the Government of India," had
been requested to resign. As a matter of public interest, he was pleased
to inform the honorable questioner that Sir Robert Dalrymple, only that
day, had put forward the name of Mr. Mortimer Collins, I.C.S., to act
as his deputy in Barapur until he returned from short leave granted on
"urgent private affairs."
The motor was already trumpeting its way through a mob of Elmdale
urchins, who seldom saw a car, and had never before seen two in one day,
when Dalrymple found himself regretting he had not inquired how Morand
contrived to get on his track so easily. Some weeks elapsed before he
learned that the only friend in London who knew his whereabouts thought
it a duty to speak when the hue and cry went forth from the India
Office.
Dalrymple was with his friend, a retired general, in his club when the
vexed administrator announced his intention to retire from the arena and
take a well-earned rest.
"I'll assume my mother's name, Armathwaite," he had said, "and rusticate
in some place where Barapur is unknown and India never mentioned. Let's
have a look at the map!"
He glanced at a motoring road-book lying on the club table.
"Here we are!" he laughed. "Judging by the condition of the highways,
there are backwoods near Nuttonby, in Yorkshire. My postal address will
be Armathwaite, near Nuttonby, for some months. But I'll write."
So that was how it happened that Sir Robert Dalrymple came to the
Grange, and met Marguerite Ogilvey. Some part of the outcome of that
meeting was foreshadowed while Smith of the Begonias was unlocking the
gate, because a procession of three appeared in the porch.
Dr. Scaife and a nurse were carrying Percy Whittaker between them. The
doctor's distress was almost comical when he caught sight of Dalrymple.
He shouted brokenly, being rather breathless:
"For goodness' sake--Mr. Armathwaite--come and persuade this young
man--to remain here. He insists--on being taken away--at once!"