CHAPTER V
GATHERING CLOUDS
The Nuttonby carrier took the new tenant of the Grange into his circleof acquaintances with the ready camaraderie of his class.
"Fine morning, sir," said he.
"An excellent morning," said Armathwaite. "Have you brought my boxes?"
"Yes, sir. They be rare an' heavy, an' all."
"You and I can manage them between us, I have no doubt," and Armathwaiteled the way to the gate. As they passed the dining-room, Bland staredcandidly through the window, but the girl was not visible.
"I didn't reckon on seein' Miss Meg to-day, sir," he said.
"Miss Meg? Who's Miss Meg?" smiled the other.
"Why, poor Mr. Garth's lass, to be sure."
"Ah! My cousin thought you were under the impression that you recognizedher. But you are mistaken. The lady you saw is Miss Marguerite Ogilvey."
"Is she now? Well, that takes it! I could ha' sworn--Miss who, sir?"
Armathwaite repeated the name, and Tom Bland scratched his head. He waselderly, and weather-tanned as the Nuttonby porter, but his occupationhad quickened his wits; there are times when one should not reiterate anopinion.
"You'll not have tried the beck yet, sir?" he said, twisting theconversation rather obviously. "I had a turn in the Swale meself lastevenin'--this water runs into it, ye ken, an' the troot were risin'fine."
"What flies did you use?"
"Two March browns an' a black gnat. There's nowt like a March brown, tomy thinkin'."
"Can you tell me who owns the land in that direction?" and Armathwaitepointed to the wooded gill which cut into the moorland to the eastward.
Bland gave some names, which Armathwaite entered in a notebook. He waswondering whether or not he should ask the man not to mention that hehad seen a second occupant of the house, but decided that gossip wouldbe stilled more quickly if the topic were left severely alone. He knewthat Walker had told the carrier certain facts about himself. Possiblythere would be some talk when next the two met, but, by that time, theGrange would have lost its highly interesting visitor, and Armathwaitesmiled at the notion of the dapper young auctioneer trying to extractinformation from him.
The boxes, too, permitted of no waste of breath. When the third wasdumped in the hall Bland was gasping, and Armathwaite's rather sallowface wore a heightened color.
"That was a stiff haul for your horse. How much?" said the owner ofthese solid trunks.
"It's eight miles----" began Bland. Despite a fixed tariff he could notforego an opportunity for bargaining, and Yorkshire will never give adirect answer if it can be avoided.
"Sixteen, really," broke in Armathwaite. "Will sixteen shillings meetthe case?"
But Bland drew the line at downright extortion.
"Nay, nay!" he said. "I had a few calls on the way, an' there's someempties to go back from the Fox and Hounds. Take off the six, sir, an'I'll be very content."
Armathwaite paid him and added a florin "for a drink." As it happened,Betty Jackson crossed the hall, and nodded a greeting. This wasfortunate. The girl's presence lent a needed touch of domesticity.
"Ye'll hae gotten Betty an' her mother to do for you?" commented thecarrier.
"Yes. I was lucky to find them available."
"Ay, they're all right. They'll mak' ye comfortable. They will, an' all.I've known Mrs. Jackson these fot-ty year. Good mornin', sir. If youwant owt frae Nuttonby just tell the postman. I come this way Tuesdays,Thursdays an' Saturdays."
With the departure of the carrier Armathwaite fancied that theirksomeness of life would lessen. The "cousin" of recent adoption hadevidently withdrawn to the farther part of the dining-room, becauseBland, despite many attempts, had not set eyes on her again. She, ofcourse, was aware when he mounted into the cart and rumbled out of sightaround the corner of the cottage. She came out. Armathwaite wasunstrapping the boxes. One was already open, revealing books in layers.
"Sorry I'm such a nuisance," she said quietly. "Of course, it wasthoughtless of me to nod to Tom Bland, but he took me by surprise.Naturally, you don't wish people to know I am in Elmdale. Will youconfer one last favor? Take your rods and pannier, and go for a coupleof hours' fishing. I shall scoot before you return. I'll select the fewthings I require, and Betty will pack them, and hand them over to Blandon Saturday."
He was on his knees and looked up at her.
"By 'scooting' do you mean that you are going to walk across that mooragain?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"If that is the only possible way of escape, I'll go with you."
"Walk twenty-eight miles? Ridiculous!"
"You're not going alone."
"I am." This with a little stamp of one of the brown brogues, mightyfetching.
"I shall not force my company on you, if that is what you fear."
"But how absurd! Do you intend following me?"
"Yes--until you are within easy range of the railway."
"Mr. Armathwaite, I'm perfectly well able to take care of myself."
"I'm sure of it, Meg. But a cousin should be cousinly. Our relationshipwill not be close. Say, a distance of two hundred yards."
He smiled into her eyes; his stern face softened wonderfully when hesmiled.
"I couldn't think of permitting it," she pouted, eyeing him with a newinterest.
He sat back on his heels, and affected a resigned attitude.
"Let's argue the point for two hours," he said. "I can't go fishing,because I shall be trespassing until I have acquired some rights.Moreover, nothing short of violence will stop me from escorting youover the moor. In this weather, moors contain tramps."
"I know. I met two yesterday."
"Did they speak to you?"
"One did. I didn't mind him. The second one turned and looked. I wasready to run, but he only stared."
"May I ask what costume you intend wearing for to-day's outing?"
"I haven't quite decided. It may be a blue Shantung or a white pique,but it won't be gray flannel, if that's what you're hinting at."
He rose, and felt in his pockets.
"I think we can get through those two hours comfortably. May I smoke?"he said.
"Yes, please do. Then you won't be so grumpy. Walk twenty-eight miles onmy account! The idea!"
"I've walked forty before to-day, and stood a very reasonable chance ofbeing potted every inch of the way. You won't fire at me, at any rate,so twenty-eight is a mere stroll. In fact, if you are gracious, it canbe a pleasant one, too."
"Potted! Were you in the army?"
"No. Soldiers like that sort of thing! I didn't so I gave it up. Sureyou don't mind a pipe?"
"I love it. I often fill and light dad's for him when he's busy. Youought to see him when he's tracking some Norse legend to its lair, orclearing up a point left doubtful by Frazer in the _Golden Bough_. Haveyou ever read Frazer? I know him and Mannhardt almost by heart. I helpdad a lot in my own little way. Have you ever played cat's cradle?"
"With a piece of string?"
"Yes. Well, games and folk-lore go together, and cat's cradle has beenplayed since the ancient Britons wore--whatever ancient Britons didwear. Now, you're laughing at me."
"Indeed, I'm not. I was marveling at our kindred tastes. Have you heardof the Jatakas and Panchatantras of India?"
"I know that there are such things."
"I'll jot down two or three, with a translation."
"Oh, wouldn't dad love to meet you! He often growls because he can'tread Sanskrit."
"Tell me where you live, and I'll look you up some day."
"Our permanent address is----Oh, my! Somebody's coming, and I don't wantyou to be cross with me again."
She fled into the kitchen. The door had hardly closed when a shadowdarkened the porch. Armathwaite, lighting his pipe, gazed through acloud of smoke at a red-faced policeman.
"Hello!" he said. "Who have _you_ come for?"
The policeman grinned, and saluted.
"There's not much do
ing in Elmdale in my line, sir," he said. "I wastold the Grange had a new tenant, so I just looked in. I come this wayThursday mornings and Monday nights, as a rule. I'm stationed atBellerby, nearly three miles from here. Last time I was in thishall----"
Armathwaite was too quick for him. Residence in Mr. Walker's "house'round the corner" had proved so rife in surprises that the long arm ofcoincidence might be expected to play its part at any moment. So hecountered deftly.
"Sorry I can't be more hospitable," he broke in, advancing, anddeliberately causing the constable to step back into the porch."Everything is at sixes and sevens. I only arrived yesterday, and myboxes, as you see, are not yet unpacked."
He closed the door, feeling certain that his judgment had not erred. Itwas soon justified.
"Next time you're passing, give me a call," he went on. "I'll be able tooffer you a whisky and soda or a bottle of beer. Are you the man whowas brought here by a Mr. Benson on a certain occasion?"
"I am, sir, and it was a nasty job, too. I'm glad someone has taken theplace. It's a nice property, but the garden has gone to wrack and ruinsince poor Mr. Garth went. Just look at them dandelions, growin' wherethere used to be a bed of the finest begonias I've ever seen! 'BegoniaSmith' was the gardener's nickname for miles around. And convolvulusinstead of sweet peas! It's a sin, that's what it is!"
The policeman, clearly an enthusiast, took off his helmet, and wiped hisforehead with a purple pocket-handkerchief.
"You knew Mr. Garth, I suppose?" said Armathwaite, strolling towards thedandelions, whose vigorous growth was so offensive to the horticulturaleye. The other went with him, little thinking he was being headed off ascent which might lead to a greater tragedy than the devastation of aonce well-kept garden.
"Knew him well, sir. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman he was, an' all. Ibrought him a party of plow stots one day--men who dance in the villagesat Martinmas, sir--and he was as pleased as Punch because they sang someold verses he'd never heard before. The last man in the world I'd everhave thought of to kill himself."
"There was no doubt that he committed suicide?"
"No, sir, that there wasn't. He'd been dead two days when I cut himdown. Well, no need to talk of it now, but even the doctor was rattled,though the weather was very hot that June."
Armathwaite felt as if he had been conjured by some spiteful necromancerout of a smiling and sunlit English countryside into a realm of ghoulsand poison-growths. A minute ago a charming and sweet-spoken girl hadbeen chatting glibly about her father's wanderings in the by-ways offolk-lore, and now this stolid policeman was hinting at the gruesomenessof his task when called on to release the lifeless body of that same manfrom its dolorous perch beside the clock.
For an instant he lost himself, and fixed such a penetrating glance onthe constable that the latter grew uneasy, lest he had said something heought not to have said. Armathwaite realized the mistake at once, anddropped those searching eyes from the other's anxious face to somescraps of ribbon sewn on the left breast of the dark blue tunic.
"You have the Tirah medal, I see," he said. "Were you at Dargai?"
The question achieved the immediate effect counted on.
"I was, an' all, sir," and the ex-soldier squared his shoulders. "Thoughno Scottie, I was in the Gordon Highlanders. Were you there, sir?"
"I--er--yes, but as a non-combatant. I was in the Politicals--quite ayoungster in those days, and I was fool enough to envy you that rushacross the plateau."
"It was warm work while it lasted, sir."
"There have been few things to equal it in warfare. What time do youpass through the village on Monday?"
"Shortly after eleven, sir."
"If you see a light, come in. If not, look me up next Thursday. If I'mfishing, I'll leave word with Mrs. Jackson that you're to have arefresher should you be that way inclined."
"Thank you, sir. My name's Leadbitter, if ever you should want me."
"And a jolly good name, too, for a man who fought against the Afridis.By the way, can you tell me what time the post leaves here?"
"A rural postman calls at Thompson's shop for letters about half-pastfour, sir."
A cigar changed hands, and P. C. Leadbitter strode off, holding his headhigh. It was a red-letter day. He had met one who knew what the stormingof the Dargai Pass meant. Even the memories of Stephen Garth pendantfrom a hook beneath the china shelf faded into the mists of a countrypoliceman's humdrum routine. He was halfway to Bellerby when heremembered that he had not done the one thing he meant doing--he had notasked Mr. Armathwaite's intentions with regard to the garden. BegoniaSmith had retired to a village lying between Bellerby and Nuttonby.Though too old to take a new situation, he would jump at the chance ofsetting his beloved Grange garden in order again, and, of course, he wasjust the man for the job. Leadbitter believed in doing a good turn whenopportunity offered. After tea, he went in search of Smith of the orderBegoniaceae. To save half a mile of a three miles' tramp by road, hepassed through the estate of Sir Berkeley Hutton, and met thatredoubtable baronet himself strolling forth to see how the partridgeswere coming on.
"Ha!" cried Hutton, knowing that his land was not in the policeman'sdistrict, "has that rascally herd of mine been gettin' full again?"
"No, Sir Berkeley, Jim's keepin' steady these days," was the answer."There's a new tenant at the Grange, Elmdale; he'll be wantin' agardener, I'm thinkin', so I'm going to put Begonia Smith on histrack."
"A new tenant! You don't tell me. What's his name?"
"A Mr. Robert Armathwaite, Sir Berkeley. A very nice gentleman, too.Been in India, in the Politicals, he said. I didn't quite know what hemeant----"
"But I do, by Jove, and a decent lot of chaps they are. Picked men, allof 'em. I must look him up. I haven't met anyone of that name, but we'resure to own scores of friends in common. Glad I met you, Leadbitter.I'll drive over there some day soon. Armathwaite, you say? Sounds likean old Yorkshire name, but it's new to me. The coveys are strong on thewing this year, eh?"
So, all unwittingly so far as Armathwaite was concerned, his recognitionof an Indian Frontier ribbon had set in motion strange forces, as apebble falling from an Alpine summit can start an avalanche. In truth,he had not yet grasped the essential fact that residents in a secludeddistrict of Yorkshire, or in any similar section of the United Kingdom,were close knit throughout astonishingly large areas. He had belonged toa ruling caste among an inferior race during so many active years thathe still retained the habits of thought generated by knowledge of localconditions in India, where a town like Nuttonby would have little incommon with a hamlet like Elmdale, whereas, in Yorkshire, Nuttonby knewthe affairs of Elmdale almost as intimately as its own.
But enlightenment on this point, and on many others, was comingspeedily. He received the first sharp lesson within a few hours.
Marguerite Ogilvey might be a most industrious young lady whencircumstances were favorable, but she had so many questions to put, andso much local news to absorb from Mrs. Jackson and Betty, that themorning slipped by without any material progress being made in theavowed object of her visit.
Armathwaite, piling rows of books on the library floor, noticed that thecollection of seven, ranging from a Sheffield cake-basket to a Baxterprint, had not been added to. The girl wanted to know, of course, whyLeadbitter came, and was told, though his references to the disheveledstate of the garden were suppressed. Then she volunteered to help indisposing of the new lot of books, but her services were peremptorilydeclined.
"You're a grumpy sort of cousin at times, Bob," she cried, and betookherself to the scullery and more entertaining company. She had beenchatting there an hour, or longer, when she wheeled round on Mrs.Jackson with an astonished cry.
"I've been here all the morning, and you've never said a word about myfather and mother," she declared. "They're quite well, thank you; butyou might have inquired."
"Well, there!" stammered Mrs. Jackson, "It was on the tip of me tonguehalf a dozen times, an' something drove i
t away again. An' how are they,Miss Meg?"
"I've just told you. I do wish they'd come back to the Grange, but theyseem to hate the very mention of it. I wonder why?"
"Elmdale's a long way frae Lunnon," said Betty, catching at a straw inthis sudden whirlpool.
"We're just as far from London in Cornwall," laughed the girl.
"Oh, is that where you've gone?" put in Mrs. Jackson incautiously.
"Yes. Didn't you know? Hadn't you the address for letters?"
"No, miss. Miggles said"--Miggles was the peripatetic postman--"that allletters had to be sent to Holloway & Dobb, in Nuttonby."
Marguerite looked rather puzzled, because her recollection randifferently; she dropped the subject, thinking, doubtless, that herparents' behests had some good reason behind them, and ought to berespected.
"Anyhow," she went on, "now that I've broken the ice by coming here, mypeople may be willing to return. I don't suppose Mr. Armathwaite willstay beyond the summer."
"Mr. Walker tole me he thought of takin' the place for a year," saidMrs. Jackson.
"Indeed. I'll ask him at lunch. I've wasted the morning, so I'll stayanother night, and start early to-morrow. You'll find me a bed in thecottage, won't you, Mrs. Jackson?"
"Mebbe, Mr. Armathwaite will be vexed," said Betty, making ahalf-hearted effort to carry out the compact between herself and heremployer.
"Leave Mr. Armathwaite to me," laughed Marguerite. "He's a bear, and hegrowls, but he has no claws, not for women, at any rate. No one could benicer than he last night. I felt an awful fool, and looked it, too; buthe didn't say a single word to cause me any embarrassment. Moreover, heintends crossing the moor with me, and I can't let him get lost in thedark. Men have died who were lost on that moor."
"Oh, but that's in the winter, miss, when the snow's deep," said Betty.
"Why, I do believe you want to get rid of me!" cried the other.
Betty flushed guiltily. She was floundering in deep waters, and struckout blindly.
"Oh, no, miss," she vowed. "You know me better than that. P'raps you'llbe gettin' married one of these days, an' then you can please yourself,an' live here."
"Married! Me get married, and leave dad and mums! Oh, dear no! One youngman has asked me already, and I--"
"Betty," said a voice from the doorway leading to the hall, "can yougive me a duster?"
The conclave started apart, like so many disturbed sparrows; butArmathwaite could make a shrewd guess as to the name of the "one youngman," since he had Marguerite Ogilvey's own testimony for it that PercyWhittaker would "do anything" to oblige her, and what more likely thanthat such devotion should lead to matrimony?
At luncheon he received with frigidity the girl's statement that sheplanned remaining in Elmdale till the morrow.
"There's really no reason to hurry," she said airily. "The Whittakersknow where I am, and I'll send a postcard saying I'll be with themFriday evening."
"I must remind you that every hour you prolong your visit you add to therisk of discovery," he said.
"Discovery of what, or by whom?" she demanded.
"I am only endeavoring to fall in with your own wishes. You came heresecretly. You took pains to prevent anyone from recognizing you. Haveyou changed your mind?"
"I--I think I have. You see, your being here makes a heap ofdifference."
"Precisely. You ought to get away all the sooner."
"First Betty--now you! I must indeed be an unwelcome guest in myfather's house. Of course, I can't possibly stay now. There's a trainfrom Leyburn at seven o'clock. I can catch it by leaving here at three,but I shan't start unless I go alone."
She looked prettier than ever when her brown eyes sparkled with anger,but Armathwaite hardened his heart because of the grim shadow which shecould not see but which was hourly becoming more visible to him.
"Is Leyburn the station on the other side of the moor?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will remain here three weary months, Meg."
"I don't pretend to understand," she cried wrathfully.
"I've paid three months' rent, and here I shall stay if a regiment ofgirls and a whole army of Percy Whittakers try to eject me. As I amequally resolved not to allow you to cross the moor unaccompanied, youwill readily perceive the only logical outcome of your own decision."
The brown eyes lost their fire, but acquired another sort of sheen.
"What has happened that you should speak so unkindly?" she quavered."Last night and this morning you--you--didn't order me out. And I don'tsee why you should drag in Percy Whittaker. I only borrowed his togs."
Many times in the history of this gray old world have woman's tearspierced armor and sapped fortresses. This hapless man yielded at once.
"Confound it, Miss Ogilvey, I'd keep you here during the remainder of mydays if I could arrange matters to my own liking and yours," he blurtedout.
She recovered her self-possession with amazing readiness.
"Now, Bob, you're talking nonsense," she tittered. "Aren't we makingmountains out of molehills? I have lots to do, and hate being rushed. Ican stay with Mrs. Jackson to-night, and you and I will set out forLeyburn early to-morrow. Then, if you don't care to face the returnjourney, you shall take train to Nuttonby and drive here. Isn't that agood plan?"
"We must adopt it, at any rate," he said grudgingly. "But you promiseto remain hidden all day?"
"Yes, even that. Now, let's stop squabbling, and eat. Tell me somethingabout India. It must be an awfully jolly place. If I went there, shouldI be a mem-sahib?"
"It is highly probable."
"What a funny way to put it! Aren't all English ladies in Indiamem-sahibs?"
"The married ones are. The spinsters are miss-sahibs."
She laughed delightedly, and without any sense of awkwardness because ofher own blunder.
"Naturally they would be. That's rather neat when you come to think ofit," she cried.
Old jokes are ever new in someone's ears, or no comic paper could livebeyond a year. When Betty came in with a gooseberry tart and cream, sheheard the two calling each other "Bob" and "Meg," and reported thereonin the kitchen.
"It seems to me she's larnt summat (something) i' Cornwall," commentedMrs. Jackson.
"And him old enough to be her father!" marveled Betty.
"Fiddlesticks! It's the life he's led that's aged him. He's not a daymore'n thirty-five."
Mrs. Jackson was no bad judge. Her employer was in his thirty-sixthyear.
After luncheon, Marguerite Ogilvey collected her treasures, and, withBetty's help, packed them in boxes obtained at the village shop. Beforetea, she wrote a letter, which Armathwaite took to the post. Whilethere, he inquired about the fishing, and the grocer pointed out a verytall and stoutly-built man stacking hay at the bottom of a long field.
"That's Mr. Burt," he said. "He owns a mile or more of the best water.If you were to go an' see him now, sir, you could settle things straightoff."
"But I want to have a word with Miggles."
"He'll be here in ten minutes, sir, an' I'll tell him to give you ahail. The Nuttonby road passes the end of that field."
Matters seemed to be arranged conveniently; as, indeed, they were, ifsprites were laying snares for Robert Armathwaite's feet.
He met Farmer Burt, and was given all fishing facilities at once. Nay,more, if this weather lasted, as was likely, and all the hay was savedby sunset, Burt himself would call next day, and reveal the lie of theland.
"Make it Saturday," said Armathwaite, mindful of another fixture.
"Right you are, sir!"
Someone shouted. It was Miggles, breast-high beyond a hedge. At thatinstant Armathwaite caught sight of a dog-cart swinging into Elmdale. Agallant figure at the reins seemed somehow familiar. Therefore, insteadof describing the kind of bath he wished Tom Bland to bring from anironmonger's, he said sharply to the postman:
"Who is that in the dog-cart?"
"Young Mr. Walker, o' Nuttonby, sir," was
the answer.
James Walker! The man whom Marguerite Ogilvey said she hated, and such aphrase on a girl's lips with reference to a man like Walker almostinvariably means that she has been pestered by his attentions. TheGrange was nearly a mile distant, and Walker was now dashing through thevillage street.
"Damn!" said Armathwaite, making off at top speed.
Miggles gazed after him.
"Rum houses draws rum coves," he said, trudging away on his daily round."Not that he's the first who's damned young Jimmy Walker, not by a jollylong way!"
Evidently, an Aristotelian postman.