CHAPTER VI
THE STORM BREAKS
Armathwaite's face, as he strode through Elmdale, was hardly that of aman who had found there the quiet and solitude he had stipulated forwhen in treaty with Walker & Son. Its stern and harassed aspect was seenand commented on by a score of people. Though most of the inhabitantswere busy in the fields, there were watchers in plenty peering from eachfarm and cottage. Already the village held in common the scanty stock ofinformation possessed by the Jacksons concerning the Grange's newtenant, because mother and daughter were far too shrewd to provokediscussion by withholding the facts stated by the house agent. They knewthat every urchin who could toddle had peeped through gate and hedgesthat morning; they were more alive than Armathwaite himself to the riskMiss Meg ran of being seen if she went outside the house, front or back,for ten seconds. The best way to disarm gossip was to answer as bestthey might the four questions put by every inquirer: Who is he? Wheredoes he come from? Is he married? How long will he stop?
Singularly enough, in a land of variable weather, Elmdale at this timewas bathed in brilliant sunshine from morn till eve. The ripening crops,the green uplands, the moor, with its gorse just fading and its heathershowing the first faint flush of purple, were steeped in the "greatpeacefulness of light" so dear to Ruskin. If one searched the earth itwould be hard to find a nook where sorrow and evil were less likely todree their weird; yet, Armathwaite expected to meet those grim sistersstalking through the ancient house when he saw an empty dog-cart and anopen door; he seldom erred in such forecasts, and his divination was notat fault now.
As he entered the hall, he heard the girl's voice, clear and crisp andscornful.
"How dare you say such things to me! How dare you! My father is aliveand well. If he were here now----"
James Walker chuckled.
"Tell that to the Marines," he began. The remainder of the sentence diedon his lips when Armathwaite's tall form appeared in the doorway.
"You here, Mr. Walker?" said the Anglo-Indian calmly. Then, notingMarguerite Ogilvey's white face and distraught eyes, he assumed amystified air, and cried:
"Hullo, Meg, what's gone wrong?"
She flew to him instantly, clasping his arm, and the confident touch ofher fingers thrilled him to the core.
"Oh, Bob, I'm so glad you've come back," she almost sobbed. "That--thatnasty little man has been telling such horrid fibs. He says--hesays--Oh, Bob, won't you send him away?"
At that moment the mental equilibrium of James Walker, junior (hisfather was also James) was badly shaken. It oscillated violently in onedirection when he noted the manner of address these two adopted the oneto the other. It swung to another extreme on hearing himself describedas "a nasty little man" by a girl for whom a long-dormant calf love hadquickened in his veins when Tom Bland announced that "Meg Garth, or herghost," was at the Grange that day. It positively wobbled whenArmathwaite threw a protecting arm round the desired one's shoulders. Sohe listened, open-mouthed, when Armathwaite spoke.
"Sorry I wasn't at home, Meg, dear, when Mr. Walker arrived--or hewouldn't have troubled you," the mysterious stranger was saying. Therewas an unpleasant glint in the steely glance that accompanied the nextwords:
"Now, Mr. Walker, come outside, and explain your business."
But Walker was no country bumpkin, to be overawed and silenced by a manof superior social status. He was puzzled, and stung, stung beyond hopeof cure. Yet he was not afraid. Certain qualities of sharpness andcuteness warned him that if he controlled his temper, and did notbluster, he held the whip hand in a situation of which the trueinwardness was still hidden.
"My business is not with you, Mr. Armathwaite," he said, with the utmostcivility his tongue was capable of. "I heard of Miss Garth's arrival,and came to see her. It's not my fault if she's vexed at what I've said.I meant no offense. I only told the truth."
"I have reason to believe that you forced yourself into Miss Garth'spresence;" and, in repeating the name, Armathwaite pressed the girl'sshoulder gently as an intimation that no good purpose would be served byany correction in that respect. "Again, and for the last time, I requestyou to leave her."
"There's no last time about it," said Walker, who was watchingMarguerite's wan and terror-stricken face. "I had a perfect right tocall on Meg Garth. She daren't pretend she doesn't know me, and a falsename can't humbug me, or Tom Bland, for that matter."
"I know you only too well," broke in the girl with a vehemence thatbrought a momentary rush of color to her cheeks. "You annoyed me for twoyears, and I'm sorry now I didn't complain to my father about yourridiculous oglings and shilling boxes of chocolates, which I gave to thevillage children."
She struck harder than she knew. Walker bridled like an annoyedturkey-cock. Armathwaite pressed Marguerite's shoulder a second time,and withdrew his hand.
"If your ungracious admirer won't leave you, Meg, you had better leavehim," he said, smiling into her woebegone face. "Go into thedrawing-room, or join Mrs. Jackson. _I'll_ deal with Mr. Walker."
He held the door open, purposely blotting Walker out of sight, and thegirl obeyed. She went out bravely enough, but he caught a smothered sobas she passed towards the kitchen. There also, he was bitterly aware,danger lurked in other guise, though the two well-disposed women mightperchance have the wit to discredit Walker's revelations, whatever theywere.
Closing the door, which swung half open again without his knowledge, heturned an inquiring and most unfriendly eye on the unwanted visitor.
"I hope you are ashamed of yourself," he said quietly.
If Walker had understood mankind better, he would not havemisinterpreted that suave utterance by imagining, as he did, that itbetokened fear of exposure. Unhappily, he strutted, and slapped agaitered leg with a switch he carried in place of a whip.
"Ashamed of nothing," he answered truculently. "I admit being sweet onthe girl. What is there to be ashamed of in that, I'd like to know?"
"It's distinctly to your credit, in some ways," said Armathwaite. "Ishould have expected your tastes to run rather to barmaids, with anultimate vote in favor of the daughter of a well-to-do butcher. Idislike class distinctions, Walker. Too often they savor of snobbery;but, in this instance, I am obliged to remind you that my cousin is alady."
"Oh, is that it? Cousins, are you? I wish you'd told me sooner."
"Why?"
"It might have saved this bit of bother, anyhow."
"I don't think that any well-meant explanations on my part could cureyou of an impertinent nature, Walker."
"Dash it all, Mr. Armathwaite, why couldn't I visit Meg? I've seen andspoken to her scores of times."
"But, even in Nuttonby, one does not thrust one's presence on a ladyuninvited."
Walker laughed. He could stand any amount of reproof as to his manners,because he rather prided himself on a swaggering disregard of otherpeople's feelings.
"We don't stand on ceremony in Yorkshire," he said jauntily. "I openedthe door, and actually heard her voice. There was no sense in BettyJackson sayin' Miss Garth wasn't here, and I told her so pretty plainly.Then, out she came. What would you have done, in my shoes? Now, I askyou, sir, as man to man."
"I would have striven not to insult her so grossly that she should bemoved to tears."
"But I didn't. Don't you believe it. I was pleasant as could be. Shebehaved like a regular little spit-fire. Turned on me as though she'dbeen waitin' for the chance. I can stand a lot, but I'm jiggered if I'dlet her tell me she'd complain to her father, and have him take away theagency of the property from our firm, when her father is buried thesetwo years in Bellerby churchyard. Why, she must think I'm dotty."
Armathwaite moistened his lips with his tongue.
"You enlightened her ignorance, I presume?" he inquired blandly.
"I didn't know what she was gettin' at, but I asked her plump and plainwho the 'Stephen Garth' was who hanged himself in this very house, andhas his name and the date of his death on the stone over his grave....It strike
s me that even you don't know the facts, Mr. Armathwaite. Ifher father is alive, who was the man who committed suicide?... And, byjing, _did_ he commit suicide?"
James Walker's theorizing ended suddenly.
"You poisonous little rat!" murmured Armathwaite, and seized him. Walkerwas young and active, and by no means a weakling or cowardly, but heresembled a jackal in the grip of a tiger when the hands closed on himwhich had choked the life out of Nas'r-ulla Khan, chief cut-throat ofthe Usman Khel. There was no struggle. He was flung face downwards onthe table until the door was thrown wide. Then he was bundled neck andcrop out of the house, and kicked along the twenty yards of curving pathto the gate.
There Armathwaite released him, a limp and profane object.
"Now, go to Nuttonby, and stop there!" was the parting injunction hereceived. His bitterest humiliation lay in the knowledge that MargueriteGarth and Betty Jackson, hearing the racket, had rushed to hall anddoor, and were gloating over his discomfiture. A drop of bitterest gallwas added by his assailant's subsequent behavior, for Armathwaite turnedhis back on him, and sauntered slowly to the house, seemingly quiteassured that there would be no counter-attack. And, indeed, James Walkerretained sufficient sense in his frenzied brain to realize that he hadno earthly chance in a physical struggle with this demon of a man. So heclimbed into the dog-cart, though not with his wonted agility, and droveaway to Nuttonby without ever a backward glance.
But he vowed vengeance, vowed it with all the intensity of a mean andstubborn nature. He had visions, at first, of a successful action forassault and battery; but, as his rage moderated, he saw certaindifficulties in the way. His only witnesses would be hostile, and it waseven questionable if a bench of magistrates would convict Armathwaitewhen it was shown that he, Walker, had virtually forced an entry intothe house, and refused to leave when requested.
But he could strike more subtly and vindictively through theauthorities. Marguerite Garth had said that Stephen Garth was living,and Robert Armathwaite--that compound of iron knuckles and whip-cordmuscles--had tacitly endorsed the statement. If that was true, who wasthe man buried in Stephen Garth's name and identity in the churchyard atBellerby? He had a vague recollection of some difference of opinionbetween the coroner and a doctor at the inquest. He must refresh hismemory by consulting a file of the _Nuttonby Gazette_. In any event, hecould stir a hornets' nest into furious activity and search theinnermost recesses of the Grange with anguish-laden darts. Curse MegGarth and her cousin! He'd teach both of 'em, that he would! If theythought that James Walker was done with because he had been flouted andill-used, they were jolly well mistaken, see if they weren't!
Marguerite Ogilvey was as tender-hearted a girl as ever breathed, but itneeded super-human qualities--qualities that no woman could possiblypossess and have red blood in her veins--to restrain the fierce joywhich thrilled her being when she saw her persecutor driven forth withcontumely. Betty Jackson, the village maid, was delighted but shocked;Marguerite, the educated and well-bred young lady, rejoiced candidly.
"You've done just what I would have done if I were a strong man likeyou!" she cried tremulously, when Armathwaite faced her at the door.There was a light in her eyes which he gave no heed to at themoment--the light which comes into the eyes of woman when she isdefended by her chosen mate--but he attributed it to excitement, andhastened to calm her.
"I may have acted rashly," he said; "but I couldn't help it. Sometimes,one has to take the law into one's own hands. Surely, this is one of theoccasions."
"He'll keep clear of Elmdale for a bit," chortled Betty. "P'raps hethinks no one saw you kickin' him except ourselves. He's wrong! Half thevillage knows it! Old Mrs. Bolland nearly fell out of an upstairs windowwith cranin' her neck to see what was goin' on, an' there's littleJohnnie Headlam runnin' down the ten-acre field now to tell Mr. Burt an'his men all about it."
The girl had thoughtlessly blurted out a fact of far-reaching import.Armathwaite swung on his heel, and found gaping faces at every cottagebackwindow, and above every hedge. Sleepy Elmdale had waked. Its usuallydeserted street was pullulating with child life. The sharp Walkers weresomewhat too sharp on the land agency side of their business, and werecordially hated in consequence. The bouncing of Walker, junior, had notmade him popular; his trouncing would provide a joyous epic for many aday. As for Marguerite Ogilvey's presence in the house, it was known farand wide already. She had been recognized by dozens of people. Elmdale,which might have figured as Goldsmith's deserted village five minutesearlier, was now a thriving place, all eyes and cackling tongues.
Armathwaite had lost sight of that highly probable outcome of hisaction, nor did it trouble him greatly. The major happening, which hehad striven so valiantly to avert, had come about through no fault ofhis; these minor issues were trivial and might be disregarded. In anearthquake the crumbling of a few bricks more or less is a matter ofsmall account. He knew that when Marguerite Ogilvey had almost forgottenthe downfall of Walker she would remember its immediate cause the morepoignantly.
"Hadn't we better go indoors till the weather is cooler?" he said, andthe sound of his calm voice, no less than the smile he managed to summonin aid, relaxed the tension.
"Please, miss, shall I make a fresh pot of tea?" inquired Betty when thedoor was closed. There spoke the true Yorkshire breed. Let the heavensfall, but don't miss a meal.
"No," said Marguerite, holding her open hands pressed close to eyes andcheeks.
"Yes," said Armathwaite--"that is, if Miss Meg has not had her tea."
Betty nodded, and hastened into the drawing-room, where, it appeared,tea was awaiting Armathwaite's return when Walker arrived on the scene.She emerged, carrying a tea-pot, and went to the kitchen. Marguerite wasnow crying silently. When the man caught her arm, meaning to lead hergently into the drawing-room, she broke into a very tempest of weeping,just as a child yields to an abandonment of grief when most assured ofsympathy and protection.
He took her to a chair, but did not attempt to pacify her. For onething, he had a man's belief that a woman's hyper-sensitive nervoussystem may find benefit in what is known as "a good cry;" for another,he was not sorry to have a brief respite during which to collect andcriticize his own ideas. He did not even try to conceal from himself theugly fact that James Walker had put into one or two sentences ofconcentrated venom all that was known to him (Armathwaite) concerningthe death in the house, and even a little more, because he had notlearnt previously that Stephen Garth was buried at Bellerby. Nor did hepermit himself to under-rate Marguerite's intelligence. Her heedlessvivacity, and the occasional use of school-girl slang in her speech,were the mere externals of a thoughtful and well-stored mind. There wasnot the least chance that she would miss any phase of the tragedy whichhad puzzled and almost bewildered him by its vagueness and mystery. Shewould recall his own perplexed questions of the previous night. In alllikelihood the Jacksons, mother and daughter, had said things whichfuller knowledge would clothe with sinister significance. Walker'sopen-mouthed brutality had left nothing to the imagination. WhenMarguerite Ogilvey spoke, Armathwaite felt that he would be called on todeal with the most difficult problem he had ever tackled.
When Betty came with a replenished tea-pot she would have attempted tosoothe the girl's convulsive sobbing had not Armathwaite intervened.
"Leave Miss Meg to me," he said. "She's going to stop crying in aminute, and vow that she looks a perfect fright, and must really go toher room and bathe her eyes. And I'm going to tell her that ahandkerchief dipped in a teaspoonful of milk and dabbed on red eyes ismore refreshing and healing than a bucketful of cold water. Then we'llhave tea, and eke a stroll on the moor, and perchance Providence willsend us a quiet hour in which to look at facts squarely in the face,whereupon some of us will know just where we are, and the world will notbe quite so topsy-turvy as it appears at this moment."
Betty gathered that the "master's" harangue was not meant for her, andwithdrew, whereupon Marguerite dropped her hands and lifted her swimmingeyes to Arm
athwaite's grave and kindly face.
"Is that milk recipe of yours really intended for use?" she inquired,with a piteous attempt at a smile.
"The whole program has been carefully planned on the most up-to-date andutilitarian lines," he answered.
"Did you hurt Walker?" was her next rather unexpected question, whilepouring some milk into a saucer.
"Yes."
"I'm glad."
"How many boxes of chocolates did he send you?"
"About half a dozen."
"Then I kicked him at least once for each box--gave good measure, too."
"It's horrid and un-Christian--still, I'm glad. Do you take sugar andcream?"
"Of course."
"Why of course? Some people don't."
"I'm an emphatic person in my likes and dislikes, so I talk that way."
"I don't know what I should have done if you were not here."
"You are too charitable. It is my being here that has caused all theworry."
"No, I cannot take that view. There are happenings in life which, at thehour, seem to be the outcome of mere chance, but one realizes later thatthey were inevitable as autumn after spring."
"What a libel on our English climate," he laughed. "Is there no summer,then? What about this present glorious revel of sunshine? Charles theSecond, who never said a foolish thing and never did a wise one,remarked one day that, in his opinion, England possessed the bestclimate in the world, because no day was too hot or too cold to preventa man from going out of doors. I've seen more of the world,geographically speaking, than his kingship, yet I agree with him."
"My father----" she began, but choked suddenly.
"Tell me this, Meg: how long is it since you last saw your father?" hedemanded, well knowing the futility of any attempt to divert her mindfrom a topic which must surely occupy it to the exclusion of all else.
"Just a week ago," she faltered.
"Good! I need not insist, then, that our young friend in the redwaistcoat is mistaken when he says that your father occupies a grave inBellerby churchyard! Of course, I'm not pretending that you and I arenot faced with a strange problem. With your permission, I propose thatwe solve it together. I'll keep nothing back. You, on your part, mustanswer such questions as I think necessary--unless, that is, you feel Iam trespassing unduly into the private affairs of your family. I'm notwell posted in the turns and twists of English country life, but I amquite certain of two things--first, the mystery attached to this housemust be dissipated now, because the police authorities will insist onit; second, if they beat me, and you suffer, they'll have achievedsomething that no set of officials has succeeded in doing hitherto. Now,I want you to believe that, and to act in the assumption that God is inheaven, and all is well with the world."
The girl smiled through her tears, and strove gallantly to eat one ofthe cheese-cakes for which Mrs. Jackson was renowned.
"Bob," she said, after a little while, "will you tell me why you came toElmdale?"
"I wanted peace and solitude, plus some trout-fishing."
"Yet you speak of engaging in some terrible combat against the law on myaccount."
"Aren't you rather jumping at conclusions? Circumstances have conspiredto build a bogey. A ghost which all Elmdale has seen in the hallresolves itself, on inquiry, into a shadow cast by a stained-glasswindow. Certain murderous-sounding thumps which I heard last nightmaterialize into a charming young lady. Why shouldn't a death which tookplace in this house two years since prove equally susceptible of asimple explanation? No, we're not going to convert ourselves into acommittee of two until you have taken one more cup of tea, one morecake, or two slices of bread and butter. Then you'll put on a hat, andI'll light a pipe, and we'll climb up to the moor. On the way I'llimpart every scrap of information I've gathered thus far, and, when youhave considered the situation in such light as I am able to cast on it,you will decide whether or not you are justified in telling me somethingof your recent history. Is it a bargain?"
Armathwaite was only talking for the sake of keeping the girl's mindfrom brooding on the extraordinary facts thrust on her by Walker. He wassure she would treat a phenomenal set of affairs more rationally if sheheard the story from his own lips. He would have liked, if possible, tohave glanced over the report of the inquest in the newspaper promised byBetty, but decided that Marguerite Ogilvey must not be left to her ownthoughts one instant longer than was absolutely necessary.
Examination of the newspaper was deferred, therefore. When the girl randownstairs to join him she had tied some scrap of blue veil over her hatin such wise that her face was screened in profile, so, as they breastedthe hill together, he could hardly judge of the effect of the curiousstory he had to relate. He omitted nothing, minimized no detail. Fromthe moment of his entry into the office of Walker & Son, at Nuttonby, hegave a full and lucid narrative. Rather losing sight of his own altruismin his eagerness to show how essential it was that they should meetattack with the confidence engendered by being prepared for all possibledevelopments, he was not aware of the wondering glances which Margueriteshot at him with increasing frequency.
At last, he made an end. They had walked a mile or more, he talkingsteadily and the girl listening, only interposing a word now and againto show that she followed what he was saying, when he saw a man seatedby the roadside at a little distance. The road dipped sharply at thispoint. They had crossed the first of a series of undulations whichformed the great plateau of the moor, and Elmdale and its pastures werecompletely hidden.
"Shall we turn back?" he said. "This fellow in front looks like a wearytourist, but I fancy you don't want to meet anyone just now, and Ihaven't noticed a branch path through the heather."
Marguerite was gazing curiously at the bent figure. Her eyes held theexpression of one who sees something familiar while the other sensesrefuse to be convinced. Armathwaite, by reason of the veil, could notsee that half-startled, wholly skeptical look, but her attitude wasenough.
"Do you think you know that chap?" he said.
Perhaps, in that quiet moorland, his voice carried farther than heimagined. Be that as it may, the tired one raised his drooping head, andlooked their way.
"Why, it is--it must be!" cried Marguerite excitedly, though no mancould guess whether she was pleased or annoyed.
"There can be no doubt about it," agreed Armathwaite.
"But, don't you see, he's waving to us? It's Percy Whittaker! Has hedropped from the skies?"
"With a bump, I should guess," said Armathwaite.
But inwardly he raged. Were these complications never to cease? Thatdejected figure was eloquent of fate. Somehow, its worn and nervelessaspect was menacing.
Yet, he laughed, being one who flaunted fortune in that way.
"If it really is Percy, let's go and cheer him up," he said. "He looksas though he needed comforting."