The House 'Round the Corner Part 29

She had three sons by her first husband, an' one of 'em kem to this part o' Yorksheer. As was the way in them days, he set a church alongside his castle, and was that proud of his step-father, who would ha' bin King of England had he lived, that he had that painted gla.s.s window med in his memory. In later times, when there was a cry about images, the owner of Holand Castle had the window taken out an' hidden. Then, to please somebody or another, he set fire to t' church. After that, things went badly with him, an' the castle was deserted, because it had the plague, though I'm thinking the only plague was bad drainage. Anyhow, nigh on two hundred year ago, a man named Faulkner settled i' this quiet spot--you can guess what it was like, sir, when there was no railways, an' the nearest main road ran through Leyburn on t' other side o' t'

moor. This Faulkner had gathered his bra.s.s in no good way, robbin' s.h.i.+ps an' killin' folk on the high seas, it was said. He used to import hogsheads o' wine all the way from Whitby, an' rare good wood was in 'em, because I saw the last of 'em used as a rain barrel, an' I'm not seventy yet. The story goes that one night, in his cups, he was annoyed by the way the Black Prince looked at him, hard an' condemning like a judge. He got a pair o' big pistols, an' fired one at the Prince's face.

He shot the eyes out, an' then aimed the second one at the mouth, but that burst, and blew his own right hand off, an' he bled to death afore they could plug the veins. His son, who was a chip o' t' owd block, hired a drunken artist to paint another face. This man knew nowt about stained gla.s.s, but he was a rare hand at drawin' terrible things, so he planned yon devil's phiz on oiled paper, an' stuck it between two thin plates o' gla.s.s, an' it was leaded in. If you was to climb on a ladder you'd find the difference at once between that part o' t' window an' all t' remainder. Many's the time I've seen it when nailin' up the wistaria, an', if I'd dared, would have put the hammer-head through it. But Mr.

Garth refused to have it touched. He called it an antiquarian curiosity. All the same, he wouldn't have Miss Meg told about it, because it might have frightened her but he was always careful to see that the blind was not drawn across the front door on June evenings.

Mebbe, you'll have heerd of a ghost, sir?"

A window was raised, and both men looked up. Marguerite was leaning out, her face aglow with pleasure.

"Why, if it isn't my own dear Smith!" she cried. "What lucky wind brought _you_ here? Mr. Armathwaite, is this _your_ doing? Smith, I'll be down in a jiffy. Mind you don't skedaddle before I come!"

Thus it befell that when Betty Jackson brought an early breakfast to Percy Whittaker, and she was asked where Miss Meg was, she answered:

"Out in the garden with Mr. Armathwaite. They're talkin' to Begonia Smith."

"Ah, I heard the voices. And who, pray, is Begonia Smith?" demanded Percy.

"The old gardener," said Betty. "He was here years an' years."

"Does Mr. Armathwaite mean to have the grounds attended to?"

"Looks like it, sir. He an' Miss Meg are measurin' bits, an' Smith's stickin' in pieces of wood. It'll be nice to have the place kept spick an' span again."

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Meg's glimpse of her friend from the bedroom window should have brought her downstairs pell-mell without even a tap on Whittaker's door to inquire as to his well-being. It was perhaps, equally unfortunate that, when she remembered her remissness, she should have hurried to his room while her cheeks were flushed with the strong moorland air and her eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement.

"How are you, Percy dear?" she said, entering in response to his surly "Come in!" "I ought to have looked in on you sooner, but I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Mr. Armathwaite in the garden with Smith, our own old gardener, whom I've known ever since I was a baby."

"Why has Armathwaite brought Smith here?" said Whittaker, peering at her fixedly, yet veiling those gray-green eyes under lowered lids.

"He didn't. Smith just came. But isn't it fortunate? He couldn't have found a better man, especially as Smith won't have any of the hard work on his hands. Mr. Armathwaite is giving him all the help he needs."

"To put the place in order?"

"Yes, of course. Smith promises marvels by to-morrow evening. But you haven't told me yet how your poor ankle feels."

"Never mind my poor ankle, Meg. I understood that the house was only let for three months?"

"Oh, much longer, I believe. Mr. Armathwaite----

"Confound Mr. Armathwaite! The devil fly away with Mr. Armathwaite! I'm sick of his name: I spit on him!" He literally writhed in a paroxysm of anger.

"Percy!"

He had chosen an unhappy word when he spoke of spitting on his rival. He reminded her of a toad, and she hated toads.

With a desperate effort he sat bolt upright in the bed.

"It's high time you and I had a few straight words, Meg," he said, and his voice lost its drawl, and the blase manner was dropped. "You haven't forgotten, I suppose, that I've asked you to marry me?"

"No. Perhaps, if you rack your memory, you'll remember my answer," she said indignantly, for she felt the innuendo, and was resolved to resent it with vigor.

"No, oh, no! You said you didn't mean to marry anybody. That is a maidenly sentiment which is right and proper, and I agreed with it at the time. But the position has altered considerably during the past couple of days. As matters stand now, Meg, you may change your mind, and I beg to inform you that when you do marry, you'll marry me."

"It is hardly fair to take advantage of your accident," she said, with a quiet scorn that only served to infuriate him the more.

"What do you mean?" he said thickly.

"You are not usually so dense. If you were not ill you would never dare speak to me in that fas.h.i.+on."

"Never mind my illness. That will soon pa.s.s. And the density you complain of is not so one-sided as you imagine. I pointed out that the position had changed. Two days ago you were free to say 'Yes' or 'No' to my proposal. To-day you are not. You've got to marry me now, Meg. You'll be my wife by fair means or foul. Need I explain myself further?"

"It--it would be as well."

"All right. You've asked for it, and you'll get it. Unless I have your promise here and now that our marriage will take place as soon as I can stand on my feet again, I'll have your father arrested for murder."

"Percy, you must be mad even to think of such a dreadful thing!"

"No, not mad, but sane, very sane and wide-eyed. That fellow, Armathwaite, wants you, and he'll snap you up while I'm lying in this infernal house unless I strike now, and strike hard. I mean exactly what I say. I've thought it all out here, though I'm suffering pain enough to drive me crazy. But the mind can conquer the body, and my mind is not only clear, but fixed. Tell me you'll marry me, and I'll be patient as a saint. I'll take your word for it. I don't want you to sit by my side and hold my hand, as some sniveling fools would wish. You can plan your gardens with Armathwaite, and smile at him and talk with him as much as you please. But you've got to be my wife. Refuse, and the only way you can save your father from arrest is by getting Armathwaite to commit another murder."

"You brute!" she almost whispered. Her lips were quivering pitifully, but the fount of tears was dried, and her eyes blazed with an intensity that conquered Whittaker for the moment.

He lay back on the pillows again, with a smile that was twisted into a rictus of agony as a twinge wrung the injured limb.

"Call me any hard names you like," he muttered, closing his eyes under the intolerable contempt and loathing of Marguerite's steadfast scrutiny. "I've said what I had to say, and I'll not depart from a syllable of it. You'd have married me one of these days if you hadn't met Armathwaite. He has turned your pretty little head with his knight-errant airs and cavalry officer appearance. So I've determined to pull you back by force--see? You'll get over it in time. You and I will be as good chums as ever when this gale has blown itself out. Don't think I shall hold you less dear because your father placed himself in danger of the law. He escaped neatly before, and can escape again. I'll even tell you how. No one here knows--"

He opened his eyes again, to ascertain if some dawning interest in the project he was about to reveal--which was precisely that already set forth by Armathwaite--had driven the horror from her drawn features; but Marguerite had vanished. He listened for her footsteps, and could hear no sound. He shouted loudly, and tugged frenziedly at a bell. Betty came running, thinking he had fallen out of bed, and needed a.s.sistance.

"Why, whatever is the matter?" she cried, with true Yorks.h.i.+re abruptness, when she found him lying as she had left him a few minutes earlier.

"Where is Miss Meg?" he raged. "Tell her she must come here--at once!

Tell her that! Use those very words--come at once!"

"My! What a to-do about nowt! I was sure the house was on fire!"

"Confound you, will you go!" he shouted.

"Yes, I'll go! For goodness' sake, keep quiet. You're doing yourself no good by gettin' that excited. Oh, you needn't bawl at me! I'll find her. It isn't such a big place that she can be lost for more'n a minnit or two."

Grumbling audibly at the funny ways some folk had, to be sure, Betty went downstairs. She looked into the drawing-room, dining-room, and library, but Marguerite was in none of those places. Then she pa.s.sed out into the garden; through the open window Whittaker could hear her asking Armathwaite if he knew where Miss Meg was. He caught the answer, too.

"Yes. She left me to visit Mr. Whittaker."

"She's not there, sir, and he has just sent me for her in an awful hurry," said Betty.

"Is it anything I can do for him?"

"No, sir. He wants Miss Meg."

"Well, she can't be far away. She may be in her bedroom. Go and look there. If I see her, I'll hand on your message."

Soon, when Betty had ransacked the house, she came to the conclusion that Marguerite had gone into the village. For some reason, on hearing this, Whittaker appeared to be calmer, and only growled an order that he was to be informed instantly of Miss Garth's return. Betty retreated to the kitchen. When the door was safely closed she said to her mother: