The House 'Round the Corner

  CHAPTER VIII

  WHEREIN PERCY WHITTAKER PROVES HIMSELF A MAN OF ACTION

  The rather bizarre question startled the girl out of her melancholythoughts. She looked at Whittaker as though she had completely forgottenhis presence.

  "The post," she repeated. "There is no post out of Elmdale this evening.Miggles passed through the village hours ago."

  "Miggles?"

  "He's the postman. We either see him ourselves or leave letters atThompson's, the grocer's, before four o'clock."

  "Then neither letter nor telegram can be dispatched to-night?"

  "Yes. If you care to pay mileage to Bellerby, and the message is handedin before eight, Thompson will send a boy with a telegram."

  Whittaker glanced at his watch. The hour was half-past six.

  "How far is Bellerby?" he said. "Tell me in terms of the clock, not inmiles, which, as a method of reckoning in Yorkshire, conveys a sense ofinfinity."

  "A boy can bicycle there in half an hour."

  "Then, footsore as I am, I shall hie me to Thompson's."

  "Why not write your telegram here, and Betty will take it."

  "No, thanks. I'll see to it myself. Then, if it doesn't reach Edieto-night, I can place a hand on my heart and vow I did all man could do,and failed."

  "You are not forgetting that I have written to her?"

  "No. Don't you see? A letter from you complicates matters even more. Ifshe hears from Meg, and not a word is said about Percy, she'll wonderwhat has become of little me. I suppose Thompson's shop is not 'a nicebit' removed from the village?"

  "It is opposite the Fox and Hounds Inn. You can walk there in twominutes."

  Armathwaite, who had risen, and was staring through the window duringthis brief colloquy, was struck by the quietly pertinacious note inWhittaker's voice. Moreover, he was listening carefully, since there wassome faint trace of an accent which had a familiar sound in his ears. Hewaited, until the younger man had gone out and was walking gingerly downthe garden path; progress downhill must have been a torture to soretoes, yet Whittaker was strangely determined to send that unnecessarytelegram in person--unnecessary, that is, in view of the fact that amessage dispatched next morning would have served the same purpose. Why?Armathwaite found that life bristled with interrogatives just then.

  Turning to look at Marguerite, he said:

  "Your friend doesn't like me."

  She did not attempt to fence with him. Somehow, when her eyes met his, anew strength leaped in her heart.

  "Percy flatters himself on the ease with which he follows the line ofleast resistance, but in reality he is a somewhat shallow andtransparent person," she answered.

  "There is a transparency of shallowness which occasionally hides acertain depth of mud."

  "Oh, he means no harm! His widowed sister, Mrs. Suarez, is a greatstickler for the conventions, and she has infected him with her notions.She is the 'Edie' he speaks of. _My_ chum is a younger sister,Christabel."

  "Suarez? An unusual name in England."

  "She married a Calcutta merchant. The Whittakers are Anglo-Indians."

  Armathwaite smiled. He knew now whence came that slightly sibilantaccent. Whittaker was a blonde Eurasian, a species so rare that it wasnot surprising that even a close observer should have failed to detectthe "touch of the tar-brush" at first sight. From that instantArmathwaite regarded him from an entirely new view-point. The Briton whohas lived many years in the East holds firmly to the dogmatic principlethat in the blend of two races the Eurasian is dowered with the virtuesof neither and the vices of both. More than ever did he regret thequalms of the conventional Mrs. Suarez which had brought Percy Whittakerto Elmdale that day.

  "I'm sorry he deems it advisable to distrust me," he went on. "How longhave you been acquainted with the family?"

  "Ever since I went to school with Christabel at Brighton. She often camehere during the summer holidays; and I used to visit her atWhitsuntide."

  "They are aware of your change of name, of course?"

  "Yes. How could it be otherwise?"

  "A thoughtless question indeed. The notion was flitting through my mindthat no one in Elmdale knew of it, or the fact was bound to have beenmade public at the inquest. The doctor who gave evidence--was he yourregular medical attendant?"

  "He was an intimate friend rather than a doctor. He knew dad so wellthat he would scout the idea of suicide. Perhaps that explains hishesitating statement to the coroner. Oh, Mr. Armathwaite, what does itall mean? Was ever girl plunged into such a sea of trouble? What _am_ Ito do?"

  "Don't you think you ought to send for your mother?"

  "If she were here now she could only say what I am saying--that myfather is alive and in the best of health."

  "Forgive me if I seem to be cross-examining you, but I am gropingblindly towards some theory which shall satisfy two conditions whollyirreconcilable at present. Your mother and you went away from Elmdale,leaving your father here. Do you remember the exact reason given foryour departure?"

  "One day dad asked me to read some passages from a French treatise onBasque songs. It was rather technical stuff, and I stumbled over thetranslation, so he said I was losing my French, and that mother and Ishould go to Paris for a few weeks, and do a round of theaters. Ofcourse, I was delighted--what girl wouldn't be? I couldn't pack quicklyenough. When Paris emptied, towards the end of June, we went to Quimper,in Brittany. And there was another excuse, too. About that time wereceived news of the legacy, and dad thought we should get accustomedto the change of name more readily in a foreign country."

  "How long did you remain abroad?"

  "Nearly three months. But dad joined us within a fortnight of ourdeparture from England. He only remained at home to finish a book andclear up the lawyer's business about the money."

  "After your return, what happened?"

  "We had a month in London. Then my people took a house in Cornwall, nearthe village of Warleggan, a place tucked in beneath the moors, just asElmdale is. Dad explained that he wanted to study the miracle plays atfirst hand, because the remnants of the language possessed by the oldinhabitants were more helpful than grammars and Oxford translations."

  "Your mother raised no difficulties about the change of residence?"

  "Not the least. In a way, it was rather agreeable, both to mother andme. Here we saw very few people. In Warleggan, where dad's pen-name, nowhis own legally, gave him some social standing, the county familiescalled. We were richer, too, and could afford to entertain, which wenever did while in Elmdale."

  Armathwaite passed a hand over his mouth and chin in a gesture of sheerbewilderment.

  "I still hold strongly to the opinion that you should send for Mrs.Ogilvey," he said, striving to cloak the motive underlying thesuggestion, since he was assured now that the half-forgotten tragedy ofthe Grange would speedily burst into a new and sinister prominence infar-off Warleggan. "If she were here she could direct my efforts tochoke off inquirers. We may be acting quite mistakenly. She knowseverything--I am convinced of that--and her appearance would, in itself,serve to put matters on a more normal basis."

  Marguerite sprang to her feet. Her fine eyes blazed with uncontrollableexcitement, and her voice held a ring of defiance.

  "If my mother ought to come, why not my father?" she cried vehemently."I know what you are thinking, but dare not say. You believe my fatheris a murderer? Is that it? You imagine that a man who would not wilfullyharm a fly is capable of committing a dreadful crime and shieldinghimself under the assumption that he took his own life?"

  "Isn't that rather unjust of you?" said Armathwaite.

  "I'm not considering the justice or injustice of my words now. I amdefending one whom I love. I----"

  She choked, and buried her face in her hands. Bitterly aware that he wasonly adding to her woes, he nerved himself for the ungracious task.

  "You are trying, like myself, to explain a set of extraordinarycircumstances," he said. "Woman-like, you do not scruple to place on my
shoulders the burden of your own vague suspicions. I am not so greatlyconcerned as you seem to imagine because of the possibility that yourfather may have killed someone. Unhappily, I myself have killed severalmen, in fair fight, and in the service of my country, but there is noblood-guiltiness on my conscience. Before I venture to describe any manas a murderer, I want to know whom he killed, and why."

  He made this amazing statement with the calm air of a sportsmancontrasting the "bags" of rival grouse moors. Even in her bitterdistress the girl was constrained to gaze at him in wonderment.

  "You think that the taking of human life may be justifiable?" shegasped.

  "Naturally. If not, why do we honor great soldiers with pensions andpeerages?"

  "But that is in warfare, when nations are struggling for what theyconceive to be their rights."

  "Sometimes. The hardest tussle I was ever engaged in dealt with no moresacred trust than the safe-guarding of half a dozen bullocks. Certainfierce-whiskered scoundrels swore by the Prophet that they would rievethose cattle, and perhaps a rifle or two, with a collection of women'sornaments as a side line, while I was equally resolved that the lawfulpossessors thereof should not be harried. Fifteen men died in fiveminutes before the matter was settled in accordance with my wishes, andI accounted for three of them. I am not boasting of the achievement. Itwas a disagreeable necessity. I tell you of it now merely to dissipateany notion you may have formed as to my squeamishness in lookingunpleasant facts squarely in the face. A man died here two years ago,and it would be sheer folly to pretend that your father knew nothingabout it. I believe you will find that the dead man not only wore Mr.Garth's clothes, but bore such a close facial and physical resemblanceto him that people who had known him half a lifetime were deceived.Then, there is the letter read by the coroner. I take it for grantedthat it was in your father's handwriting. If these things are true, andcommon sense tells me that we ought to go on that assumption, and on noother, Mr. Garth will surely be called upon to explain why he endeavoredto hoodwink the authorities. If he comes here within the next few dayshe will certainly be arrested. That is why I ask you to send for yourmother. Everything points to the belief that she knows why you leftElmdale. I reject the legacy theory _in toto_. By a strange coincidence,your parents may have had some money left to them by will about thattime. If so, they merely took advantage of the fortunate chance whichenabled them to explain the change of name without any violent wrenchingof the probabilities. One word more to define my own position in thismatter. I don't care tuppence whether or not your father killed anyone,or why. My sole concern is for you. I am responsible for the wholewretched muddle. Had I not gratified an impish taste for ferreting outmysteries, I would have allowed Betty Jackson to smuggle you out of thehouse yesterday. Had I obeyed the conventions--those shackles on thewayward-minded devised by generations of careful mammas--I would havebundled you off last night, or, if common charity forbade, sent you awayat daybreak. Then, nothing would have happened, except that I should beburdened with a secret, no new thing in _my_ life. Now, will you sendfor Mrs. Ogilvey?"

  "No," came the instant reply.

  "Despite Mr. Percy Whittaker's warning, will you trust me so far as toexplain your reason for refusing?"

  "What do you mean by 'Percy Whittaker's warning'? I have told younothing of what he said."

  "I understand the type of man. He could no more refrain from suggestingthat I was actuated by some underhanded motive than a flea-ridden dogfrom scratching."

  "Please, don't pick a quarrel with Percy on my account," she pleadedtearfully.

  "On your account I shall suffer Percy, even though he bray me in amortar."

  "Well, then, I'm--I'm sorry if I turned on you a little while ago. Iapologize. You are really the only one I can appeal to for help at thismoment. It was just because I felt the truth of all that you have saidthat I tried to force the same confession from you. Heaven help me, I amcompelled to believe that my poor father got himself involved in somedreadful crime. It will all come out now. If the police get hold of himhe will be put in prison. I must save him. Never did daughter love afather more than I love mine, and I'll sacrifice everything, reputation,happiness, even life itself, for his sake. And that is why my mothermust not come here. I shall remain, and she will stay in Cornwall so asto safeguard him, if need be. You have no idea what an innocent he is inworldly affairs. If--if he had to escape--to get away from some foreigncountry--he could never manage it without her assistance. Don't you see,the decision must rest with me? I'll write to mother, and tell her whatwe know, and arrange some plan with her whereby dad will be able toavoid arrest. Oh, I can't make things clearer, but you are so kind andnice that you will understand--and help! Say you'll help, and I'll notcry any more--but be brave--and confident!"

  While uttering that broken appeal she had come near, and a timid handnow rested on his shoulder. He looked down into her swimming eyes andsaw there the perfect faith of a child. Never was man more tempted totake a woman in his arms and kiss away her fears than was RobertArmathwaite at that instant, but he recoiled from the notion as though asnake had reared its basilisk head from out of a bed of sweet-scentedflowers. Nevertheless, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and now hisleft arm was entwined with her right arm, and they stood there inunconsciously lover-like pose.

  "I'm glad you said that, little girl," he said quietly. "I shall notdisappoint you, depend on that. If we have to break every statutetherein made and provided, we'll save your father from the consequencesof his own blundering or wrong-doing. Now, leave everything to me. Ifstrangers, other than the police, ask you questions, refer them to your'cousin.' Remember, you know nothing and can tell nothing as to bygoneevents, while you can say, if a demand is made for your father's presentaddress, that I have advised you not to supply it. We must not appear tobe actually defying the authorities. Our role is one of blank ignorance,combined with a pardonable curiosity to discover what all the fuss isabout. I must not figure as a hindrance to inquiry, but merely as adistant relative who objects to your being bothered by a matter of whichyou, at least, have no knowledge. Now, one thing more--I want to seeyour father's handwriting. Will you give me the envelope which containedhis letter?"

  "Better still," said Marguerite, drying her eyes with a scrap of lacewhich was supposed to be a pocket-handkerchief, "I'll give you theletter itself. You'll find it a highly incriminating document."

  To reach the letter, which she had tucked into a waistbelt, she had towithdraw the other hand from Armathwaite's shoulder. He had no excuse tohold her any longer in that protecting way, and his own hands fell.Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he became aware that PercyWhittaker was gazing at them through the window.

  His first impulse was to tell his companion of this covert espionage,for it was nothing less. The two were talking in the drawing-room, soWhittaker had purposely walked past the porch in order to look in atthem. Then he decided that the girl had worries in plenty withoutembroiling her with one who was admittedly an admirer, so he indulged ina little bit of acting on his own account.

  When she produced the letter, he turned his back on the window,ostensibly to obtain a better light, and, at the same time, drewslightly to one side. The handwriting was scholarly but curiouslylegible, betraying the habit of a dabbler in strange words who printedrather than wrote, lest some playful compositor should invent a new andconfounding philology.

  The text certainly afforded a weird commentary on the circumstanceswhich laid at the writer's door responsibility for an audacious crime.It ran:

  "MY DARLING MEG,--Chester has been a bookish city since the days of Julius Caesar. I have small doubt, if one dug deep in its foundations, one would come across an original manuscript in J. C.'s own fist. I would impose a lighter task, however. Rummage one or two old bookshops, and get me Wentworth Webster's 'Basque Legends,' published in London in 1877 and 1879. I am hungering for it. Find it quickly, and come home. I need your sharp eyes.--Yours ever,

/>   "Dad."

  Marguerite watched Armathwaite's face while he read.

  "Enough to hang anybody, isn't it?" she cried, with dolorous effort tospeak in lighter vein.

  "May I retain this? I shall take good care of it."

  "Keep it as a souvenir. The identical book is lying on the librarytable."

  Yet her mobile face clouded again, since it could not be denied that herfather knew well that the book was in the Elmdale house, and wasdeliberately ignoring its existence there.

  Armathwaite affected to look through the window.

  "Hullo!" he said. "Whittaker has come back."

  Whittaker, standing sideways, seemingly discovered them simultaneously.He came in.

  "Thompson speaks a language of his own," he drawled; "but the dispatchof a boy on a bicycle, and the resultant charge of three shillings, gavecolor to my belief that he understood the meaning of 'telegram.'Otherwise, his remarks were gibberish."

  "Percy," said Marguerite gravely, "Mr. Armathwaite and I have had aserious talk while you were out. He advised me to send for my mother,but, for various reasons, I have decided to fight this battle myself,with your aid, and Mr. Armathwaite's, of course."

  Whittaker hesitated perceptibly before he spoke again. Like allneurotics, he had to flog himself into decision.

  "I fully expected something of the sort, Meg," he said at last. "As Idon't approve of the present state of affairs, I took it on myself toask Edie to wire Mrs. Ogilvey, bidding her travel north by the nexttrain."

  "You didn't dare!" breathed the girl, whose very lips whitened withconsternation.

  "Oh, yes, I dared all right! A fellow must assert himself occasionally,you know. I can see plainly that you intend remaining in Elmdale tillthe mystery you have tumbled into is cleared up. In that case, yourmother is the right person to take hold of the situation. You'll bevexed with me, no doubt, and tell me that I had no business tointerfere, but I've thought this thing out, and I'm backing my judgmentagainst yours. In a week, or less, you'll thank me. See if you don't."

  "I shall never forgive you while I have breath in my body," she said,speaking with a slow laboriousness that revealed the tension of herfeelings far more than the mere words.

  "I was sure you'd say that, and must put up with it for the time being.Anyhow, the thing is beyond our control now, and you know Edie wellenough to guess that she'll do as I tell her."

  "What did you tell her? I have a right to ask."

  "I kept a copy of the message," he said with seeming nonchalance. "I'llread it: 'Meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death whichoccurred in Grange two years ago. Telegraph her mother at once, andrecommend immediate journey to Elmdale.' Unless I'm greatly mistaken,that will bring Mrs. Ogilvey here without delay, especially when Edieadds her own comments."

  Marguerite sank into a chair. Her sky had fallen. She was too unnervednow to find relief even in tears. She continued to glower at Whittakeras though he had become some fearsome and abhorrent object. Evidently,however, he had steeled himself against some such attitude on her part.

  "Don't forget there's two to one in this argument, Meg," he said,sitting down and producing a cigarette. "Since Mr. Armathwaite haselected to be your champion after a very brief acquaintance, I mustpoint out that, by your own admission, he recommended the same thing.The only difference is that while he talked I acted."

  For a little time there was silence. Whittaker, brazening the thing out,lighted the cigarette. Armathwaite, unable to indulge the impulse whichsuggested the one effective way in which this decadent half-breed couldbe restrained from future interference, could not trust himself tospeak. As for the girl, she seemed to be tongue-tied, but her laboringbreath gave eloquent testimony of surcharged emotions.

  Finally, wishing to ease the strain, Armathwaite glanced at his watch.The time was a few minutes after seven.

  "I'm going into the village," he said. "I believe the dinner hour is7:30, but I may not return till much later, so you might kindly tellBetty that I shall forage for myself when I come in."

  "Don't leave me, Bob," came the despairing cry. "I can't bear to be leftalone to-night."

  "Very well," he said, yielding instantly to that heart-felt appeal."I'll entrust my business to a deputy. Look for me in ten minutes."

  He went out. The two in the room heard the front door close, andfollowed his firm tread as he strode to the gate. Then Marguerite rose,and flung wide a window, and her sorrow-laden eyes dwelt unseeing on thefar horizon. She stood there, motionless, until Whittaker stirredfretfully.

  "Look here, Meg," he began, but was promptly stricken into silenceagain. Starting at the sound of his voice as though she had heard aserpent's hiss, the girl hurried away without a word, obviously makingfor the solitude of her own apartment.

  He lighted another cigarette.

  "By gad!" he cackled to himself, apparently extracting amusement from asituation in which the majority of men would have found small cause forhumor, "I've stopped those two from billing and cooing, or my name ain'tPercy. I can't stomach that big chap, and that's a fact. He's just thesort of fellow a girl might lose her head over, but I've put a spoke inhis wheel by bringing ma on the scene. Now I must sit tight, and playnaughty little boy in the corner till she arrives. After that, I'll makeit my business to shunt pa into some climate better suited for hisparticular complaint. Maybe I shan't figure so badly in Meg's estimationwhen she realizes that I did some hard thinking while the other johnnywas making eyes at her. I've been looking for some sort of an explosionin this quarter ever since I read of the suicide of Stephen Garth at theGrange, Elmdale. I thought then there was something fishy going on, andI was jolly well not mistaken. If I hadn't been such a dashed fool as totramp over that confounded moor I'd have been here hours sooner. Butall's well that ends well, and this affair shan't slip out of my grip ifI can help it."

  He had chosen a strange way in which to woo a maid, but there is noaccounting for the vagaries of a warped mind, and Percy Whittaker was atrue degenerate, one of those physically weak and mentally pervertedbeings

  "In whose cold blood no spark of honor bides."

  Yet, even his sluggish pulses could be stirred. The house which hadwitnessed strange scenes played by stronger actors might be trusted todeal sternly with this popinjay. He got his first taste of its qualitybefore he was an hour older.