The House 'Round the Corner Part 28

"What else could I do? Even walking with a crutch is impossible because of the strain on the ligaments."

Whittaker moved involuntarily, and was given a sharp reminder that his informant was not exaggerating his disability.

"All right," he said sullenly. "What time is it?"

"About six o'clock. Betty will bring you some tea and an egg before seven."

"Miss Ogilvey isn't up yet?"

"No."

Half unconsciously, Armathwaite resented the studied formality of that "Miss Ogilvey." He fully appreciated its intent. He was a stranger and must be kept at arm's length. Moreover, the crippled Percy held him at a disadvantage. The younger man might be as insolent as he chose--Armathwaite was muzzled.

"Can I do anything for you," he said.

"In what way?"

"Well, if the pain is very bad, an extra bandage, soaked in cold water, will relieve the burning sensation."

"No, thanks. I'll wait till the doctor comes."

"He is bringing a nurse, by the way. You'll need proper attention for the next few days."

"Right. Don't let me keep you. I think I can sleep another hour or so."

Armathwaite was at no loss to understand why the cub wished to be rid of him. Whittaker was not only torturing himself with the knowledge that his host would be free to enjoy Marguerite Ogilvey's company without let or hindrance, but he also felt a grudge against the fates which had s.n.a.t.c.hed him out of active partic.i.p.ation in the day's events. Neither dreamed that the accident would precipitate the crisis each wished to avoid. In fact, in view of what did actually happen, it would be interesting to speculate on the probable outcome if, by chance, Armathwaite had been disabled instead of Whittaker. But history, whether dealing with men or nations, recks little of "what might have been." It is far too busily occupied in fas.h.i.+oning the present and concealing the past, for, let students dig and delve ever so industriously, they seldom obtain a true record of occurrences which have shaken the world, while, in the lives of the few people with whom this chronicle deals, there were then at work certain minor influences which no one of them ever discerned in their entirety. There was nothing surprising in this. A crystal-minded woman like Marguerite Ogilvey could never adjust her perceptive faculties to the plane of a decadent Percy, while Robert Armathwaite was too impatient of ign.o.ble minds that he should ever seek to uncover the mole-burrowings of James Walker.

Certain developments took place which affected each and all in relative degrees, and each acted according to his or her bent. Beyond that, a.n.a.lysis of cause and effect can hardly be other than sheer guesswork.

Armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the morning.

He was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man approached. Though twisted with rheumatism--the painful tribute which Mother Earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her chief treasures--this man quickened into a new life when he saw Armathwaite. He cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant.

"Good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was devoid of any semblance of servility. "Things are in a nice mess, aren't they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed sacred to begonias.

"They are, indeed!" agreed Armathwaite, wondering what white-haired philosopher had come on the scene.

"You'll be Mr. Armathwaite, I'm thinkin'?" went on the other.

"Yes."

"My name's Smith, sir. Mr. Leadbitter, the policeman, told me you had taken on the Grange. Mebbe you'll be wantin' a gardener."

A light broke in on Armathwaite.

"Oh! Begonia Smith!" he cried. "Come back to the old love--is that it?"

"That's it, sir. She looks as if she wanted someone to look after her."

"Very well. Take charge. It's too late in the year to grow flowers or vegetables, but you can tidy things up a bit."

"A man who has his heart in the job, sir, can grow flowers at any time of the year. If I was to drop a line to the Nuttonby carrier to-night, I'd have a fair show of geraniums, calceolarias, lobelia, an' marguerite daisies in the front here by to-morrow evenin'."

Armathwaite was not one to check enthusiasm. Moreover, the notion of brightening the surroundings appealed to him.

"That would be sharp work," he said, eyeing the jungle.

Smith, with the suspiciousness of an old man eager to show that he was as good as some of the young ones, misunderstood that critical survey.

"Before Tom Bland brings the plants from the nursery I'll have a canny bit o' soil ready for 'em," he vowed.

"I'm sure of it," said Armathwaite, quickly alive to the aged gardener's repudiation of any doubt cast on his powers. "But surely you can be better employed than in mere digging. Are there laborers to be hired in the village?"

Smith swept the bare meadow-land with the appraising eyes of knowledge.

"Plenty of 'em, sir. The hay is in, an' they'll be slack enough now for another month."

"Very well. Send your order to Bland, including such implements as you may need. Hire three or four men, and get them busy. By the way, have you heard that Miss Meg is here?"

"Miss Meg! Our Miss Meg?"

Smith's astonishment was not feigned. He was slightly dazzled already by the way in which his new employer had received suggestions for the regeneration of the garden; now, he was thoroughly bewildered.

"Yes," said Armathwaite, watching him narrowly. "She may join us any minute. Of course, if she expresses any preference for a particular method of laying out the flower-beds, you will adopt it without question."

"Why, sir," said the old man simply, "if it's the same Miss Meg as I hev' in mind I'll not charge you a penny for what little I can do about the place. It'll be enough for me to see her bonnie face again an' hear her voice."

"I'll tell her that," laughed Armathwaite. "But we don't trade on those terms. You were happy here, I suppose, before Mr. Garth died?"

"No man could ha' worked for nicer people, sir. It bruk me all to pieces when t' maister tellt me to go. An' I never rightly understood it, until--until the sad thing happened you'll hev' heerd of. Mr. Garth was just as much cut up about me goin' as I was meself--that was the queer part of it.... Sir, tell me this, D'you mean to live here any length o'

time?"

"I hope so."

"Well, it's a bold thing to say, afore I've known ye five minnits, so to speak, an' there may be nowt in it other than owd wives' blether, but, if you ain't such a great lover o' stained gla.s.s, I advise ye to hev'

yon staircase window riven out by t' roots."

"Now, why in the world do you say that?"

"I can't put it into plain words, sir, an' that's a fact, but I'd be glad to see the house shut o' that grinnin' death's head. I well remember my own father tellin' me there was a curse in it, an' many's the time Mr. Garth laughed at me when I spoke on't. But t' owd man's prophecy kem yam (came home) to roost at last. It did, an' all."

"What reason did your father give for his belief?"

"It's a strange story, sir, but I know bits of it are true, so mebbe the rest isn't so far out. D'you see yon farm?" and Begonia Smith pointed to the Burt homestead.

"Yes," said Armathwaite. "I met Mr. Burt yesterday."

"It's built on the ruins o' Holand Castle, sir. It's barely ten years ago since Mr. Burt used the last o' t' stones for his new barn. These Holands were descended from a lady who married Edward, the Black Prince.