The House 'Round the Corner

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER III

  A MIDNIGHT SEANCE

  Armathwaite had a foot on the upper landing when a stifled sob reachedhis ears, and a determined, almost angry, stamping or hammering shookthe trap-door. One element, then, of the mystery attached to thisreputedly ghost-ridden house was about to be dispelled. When JamesWalker shot the bolt which rendered the door as unyielding as the stoutrafters which incased it, he had unwittingly imprisoned someone in theattic loft; and the someone, tiring of imprisonment, was making louddemand for release. Moreover, Betty Jackson was in the secret. She knewof the intruder's presence, but had not learnt the particular mode ofconcealment adopted--hence her renewed efforts to gain admission, heruse of the ladder, and her somewhat daring visit during the dead hoursof the night.

  Now, Armathwaite scouted the notion of a couple of village women likeMrs. Jackson and her daughter being in league with midnight robbers, orworse. Even if some thievery was in prospect, they could not possiblyhave arranged that certain unknown miscreants should hide beneath theroof, since the arrival of Walker with an unexpected tenant wasevidently the last thing they had dreamed of.

  Therefore, smiling at the humor of the incident, he had to simulate asternness he was far from feeling when he cried:

  "Stop making that noise! Who are you, and how did you come to getyourself locked in in this way?"

  "Please let me out!" came the muffled reply. "I'll explain everything--Iwill, indeed!"

  Thereupon, Armathwaite was more surprised than ever. The appeal, thoughtearful and husky, was precisely opposite in character to that which heanticipated. He looked for gruff entreaty in the accents of the countryof broad acres. What he actually heard was a cultured voice, a voicewith a singularly soft and musical enunciation, and its note was ofcomplaint rather than petition.

  "All right!" he cried, hardly suppressing a laugh. "I'll bring a chairand draw the bolt. I suppose you can lower the ladder yourself?"

  "Of course I can--I drew it up!"

  Again, the answer did not fit in with the conditions. But Armathwaitesecured the same chair which Walker had used, pressed the button of theelectric torch, and, having forced the bolt out of its socket, raisedthe door a few inches.

  "Catch hold!" he said. "I'll show you a light."

  The door was lifted, and he glimpsed a beardless face peering from theinner void. He sprang to the floor, put the chair on one side, andawaited developments. Soon the ladder appeared, and was adjusted. Thencame two neat but strong brown brogues, with slim-ankled black stockingsto match, and the turned-up ends of a pair of gray, flannel trousers.The owner of these articles of attire sat for an instant on the edge ofthe trap, as though reluctant to descend further, and Armathwaitenoticed, to his very great bewilderment, that the black stockings wereof silk.

  "Will you kindly promise not to grab my legs as I come down?" said thevoice.

  "I have not the slightest desire to grab your legs, or your neck, forthat matter, if you behave yourself," said Armathwaite.

  "You don't understand, of course," came the curiously dignified protest;"but I am not misbehaving myself, and have no intention of so doing.This ridiculous thing would not have happened if that silly young fophad not fastened the trap-door. I can't imagine why he did it. It was nobusiness of his, at any rate. And may I ask who _you_ are?"

  "I'll answer all polite inquiries, and, it may be, put a few on my ownaccount, when you favor me with a closer view," said Armathwaite, notwithout a tinge of sarcasm in his politeness.

  "Oh, this is too stupid for words!" was the petulant reply, and thespeaker swung into sight. The ladder was tilted steeply, and the stepswere narrow. Apparently, the young gentleman in a gray flannel suit whomaterialized in this manner preferred to gaze at his rescuer rather thanadopt the safer method of descent which involved a momentary turning ofhis back. Possibly, too, he was more nervous than his remarks betokened,for he was yet some distance from the floor when the lower-most footslipped, and he fell. The toe of the other foot caught in a rung, and hewas thrown violently into Armathwaite's arms, who, to save him frompitching headlong downstairs, had to clutch him with some force,whereupon the torch dropped, and the two were enfolded by a pall ofdarkness that seemed to have an actual quality of tangibleness.

  "Oh!" shrieked the youth, now thoroughly frightened, "please don't hurtme! I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't really!"

  Armathwaite's senses were steeped in the very essence of wonderment; heknew now that he was clasping a woman to his breast, hugging her mostenergetically, too, and the knowledge was at once disconcerting andirritating. But he had acquired the faculty long ago of remainingimpassive in circumstances calling for rigid self-control, so he merelysaid, with curt reassurance:

  "If you'll not make such a row, and stand still, I'll find thatconfounded torch and shed a light on the situation."

  He stooped, and groped on the floor, being aware that the girl waspanting with ill-repressed alarm the while. Luckily, his fingers soonclosed on the nickel cylinder, and the almost overwhelming gloom wasbanished.

  "Do you think you can manage to walk downstairs without stumbling, orshall I hold your arm?" he inquired, and the somewhat taunting question,no less than his obvious disregard of his companion's terror, supplied aneeded tonic.

  "The ladder was steep and slippery," she said tremulously. "The stairsoffer no difficulty, so I can dispense with your assistance, thanks."

  Certainly this young person's way of expressing herself differed inevery essential from her distinctly agitated state. She was not yetaware of the innate chivalry of the man in refraining from thrusting thetorch close to her face and staring at her, but already her panic wassubsiding, and she turned and hurried away so quickly that Armathwaitethought she meant to escape.

  "Just one moment!" he said, though not making the least effort to detainher otherwise. "Are there any more of you up here?"

  His sheer unconcern could not fail to lessen her agitation stillfurther, and she halted on the next landing.

  "What do you mean?" she cried. Despite her qualms, she still maintaineda curious attitude of defiance, as if she, and not the house's lawfultenant, had most cause to feel aggrieved.

  "Exactly what I said. Were you alone in that attic?"

  "Of course I was. What a question!"

  "A natural one, from my point of view. I was sound asleep, when yourally, Betty Jackson, kicked up a din in the hall, and you began poundingon the trap-door."

  "Poor Betty! Is she here? Betty! Betty!"

  Leaning over the banisters, she peered into the blackness beneath. Therewas a glimmer of spectral light here, for a late-rising moon was addingto the silvery brightness of a perfect night, and some of its radiancewas piercing the stained glass. Armathwaite noted her action withincreasing bewilderment.

  "Betty fled as though she were pursued by seven devils," he said, whenno other answer came to her cry. "I guessed at some mischief beingafoot, so planned a surprise for anyone crossing the hall without myknowledge. No matter what her earlier opinions, Betty believes in thatghost now."

  "Ghost! What ghost? There is no ghost here. Do you think to scare mewith a bogey, like a naughty child?"

  They were descending the broad stairs of the lower flight together, andArmathwaite had stolen one glance at the lissom young figure. He wasminded to smile at a cunningly-hidden safety pin which kept abroad-brimmed fisherman's hat of heather mixture cloth in position sothat the girl's hair was concealed. The coat hung rather loosely onslender shoulders, but the disguise was fairly effective in otherrespects, and the masquerader moved with an easy grace that betokened agood walker.

  "I have not occupied the house many hours, but I have come to theconclusion that it harbors certain strange fantasies," he said, takingthe lead, and stopping to break a thread stretched across the foot ofthe stairs. "We'll find a lamp and matches in the dining-room," headded. "Suppose we go there and discuss matters?"

  "Isn't it rather late? Whatever time is it?" was the hesitating comment.


  "And aren't you rather hungry?" he replied, ignoring both questions.

  "I'm simply ravenous. I haven't eaten a morsel since six o'clock thismorning."

  "I can offer you bread and butter and milk. Shall I boil you some eggs?"

  "If you mention food again, I shall drop. Please, what time is it?"

  "Nearly midnight."

  "Oh, I must be going! I must, really. The Jacksons will find mesomething to eat."

  "You're going into that room, and, unless I have your promise to remainthere, you'll accompany me to the kitchen. Which is it to be--acomfortable chair, with a lamp, or a compulsory prowl through kitchenand larder?"

  "I'll sit down, please," came the slow admission. "I'm very tired, andrather done up. I walked miles and miles this morning, and the longhours up there in the dark were horrid."

  Without another word Armathwaite threw open the dining-room door, andlighted the lamp which he had left on the table. The girl sank wearilyinto an arm-chair; her action was a tacit acceptance of his terms.Somehow, he was convinced that she would not take advantage of hisabsence and slip out through the front door, which Betty Jackson hadassuredly not waited to lock.

  Among the kitchen utensils he had found a small oil-stove in workingorder. In a surprisingly short time, therefore, he was back in thedining-room with a laden tray.

  "Do you like your eggs soft-boiled, medium, or hard?" he inquired,treating an extraordinary episode with a nonchalance which betokenedeither a temperament wholly devoid of emotion or a career crowded withuncommon experiences.

  "Need I eat eggs at all?" said the girl. "I'm sure, Mrs. Jackson----"

  "Do you want to rouse the village?"

  "No; anything but that."

  "Then I must point out that the one cottage in Elmdale whose inmateswill be deaf and dumb at this moment is Mrs. Jackson's. Both mother anddaughter are quaking because of the possible consequences of an attemptto enter this house at an hour which no person could choose for alegitimate purpose. Eat and drink, therefore. We'll deal with theJacksons subsequently. No, don't begin by a long draught of milk. It istempting, but harmful if taken in that way. Try some bread and butter.Now, two eggs. Oh, dash it! I've forgotten an egg-spoon, and I don'tknow where such things are kept. I'll go and hunt for them."

  "Don't trouble. Lend me that electric lamp--how useful it is!--and I'llbring one in a minute."

  By this time Armathwaite had seen that his captive was a remarkablypretty girl. Male attire supplies the severest test of feminine beauty,since form and feature are deprived of adventitious aids; but a small,oval face, two pouting lips, a finely-modeled nose, brilliant browneyes, swept by long curved lashes, and a smooth forehead, rising abovearched and well-marked eyebrows, needed no art of milliner or dressmakerto enhance their charms. She was fairly tall, too--though dwarfed byArmathwaite's six feet and an inch of height in his slippered feet--andadmirably proportioned, if slender and lithe. Evidently, she thought hehad not penetrated her disguise, and was momentarily becoming moreself-possessed. Again, she had some explanation of her presence in thehouse which could not fail of acceptance, and did not scruple,therefore, to display a close acquaintance with its arrangements deniedto one who admittedly had taken up his abode there only that day.

  The man listened to her quick, confident steps going to the kitchen,heard the rattle of a drawer in an antique dresser which stood there,and, with an emphatic gesture, seemed to appeal to the gods ere he bentover the stove to see if the water was yet a-boil.

  The girl might be hungry, but feminine curiosity proved stronger thanthe urgent claims of an empty stomach. She went into the larder, andundoubtedly eyed the new tenant's stores. She implied as much when shere-entered the dining-room.

  "Boiled eggs require pepper and salt," she explained. "You've got somany little paper bags that I didn't dare rummage among them, so I'vesecured a cruet which was left here when my--when the people who used tolive here went away. The salt may be a bit damp, but the pepper shouldbe all right."

  Without more ado she tackled a slice of bread, breaking it into smallpieces, and buttering each piece separately before munching it.

  "Some wise person said in a newspaper the other day that one ought togive every mouthful of bread three hundred bites," she went on. "Iwonder if he ever fasted eighteen hours before practicing his ownprecept. I'm afraid I wouldn't believe him if he said he did."

  "People who study their digestion generally die young," said Armathwaitedrily.

  "Oh, I don't agree with you in that," she retorted. "My dad is great onfood theories. He knows all about proteins and carbohydrates; he cantell you to a fourth decimal the caloric value of an egg; and _he's_ aphenomenally healthy person. By the way, how are those eggs coming on?"

  "Try this one. I think the water has been boiling three minutes!"

  Armathwaite spoke calmly enough, but a stoutly-built edifice ofcircumstantial evidence had just crumbled in ruins about his ears. Hewas persuaded that, for some reason best known to herself, MissMarguerite Garth had adopted this freakish method of revisiting her oldhome. Such a thesis made all things plausible. It explained hersingularly self-contained pose, her knowledge of the house's contents,her wish to remain hidden from prying eyes, and, last but not least, itbrought the peculiar conduct of the Jackson family into a commonplacecategory, for the two women would be governed by a clannish feelingwhich is almost as powerful in rural Yorkshire as in Scotland. A girlwho had lived nearly all her life in the village would be looked on as anative. She might appeal confidently for their help and connivance insuch a matter.

  But this girl's father was alive, and Marguerite Garth's father had beenin a suicide's grave two years. Who, then, was the audacious young ladynow assuring him that he could boil eggs admirably? He was puzzled anew,almost piqued, because he flattered himself on a faculty for guessingaccurately at the contents of a good many closed pages in a humandocument after a glance at the outer cover and its endorsement. He wasspurred to fresh endeavor. He wanted to solve this riddle before itsbaffling intricacies were made plain by the all-satisfying statementwhich his companion obviously had it in mind to give.

  "Won't you remove your hat?" he said, thinking to perplex her by amischievous request.

  "No, thanks," she said blithely. "I'll just demolish this second egg.Then I'll tell you why I am here, and awaken Mrs. Jackson, no matterwhat her neighbors may think. But, why wait? I can eat and talk--put thefacts in an eggshell, so to speak. My relatives own this house. Mr.Garth has long wanted a few books and knick-knacks, and I've come to getthem. Some are collected already on the library table; the remainderI'll gather in the morning, with your permission. But I don't wish myvisit to be known to others than Mrs. Jackson and Betty, and that is whyI retreated to the loft when you and Mr. Walker arrived. It was a botherthat anyone should select this day in particular to visit the property;but I imagined you would go away in an hour or so. Even when that vainyoung person, James Walker, locked me in, I believed Betty would comeand release me after your departure. Besides, I wouldn't for worlds havelet Walker see me. I--er--dislike him too much."

  Armathwaite allowed to pass without comment her real motive for refusingto meet sharp-eyed James Walker; but again the problem of her identitycalled insistently for solution. If she was not Marguerite Garth, who onearth was she?

  "Let me understand," he began. "The owner, and former occupant, of thishouse, was Mr. Stephen Garth?"

  "Is," she corrected. "It remains his property, though he is livingelsewhere."

  Armathwaite so far forgot himself as to whistle softly between histeeth. And, indeed, such momentary impoliteness might be excused by hisbewilderment. If Stephen Garth, who had owned and occupied the Grange,was still living, who was the man whose ghost had excited Elmdale, anddriven back to prosaic Sheffield a certain Mrs. Wilkins, of nervousdisposition and excitable habit?

  "Ah!" he said judicially. "Messrs. Walker & Son, of Nuttonby, are hisagents and Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, also of Nuttonby, his s
olicitors?"

  "I suppose so," said the girl, deep in the second egg.

  "But I understood that Mr. Stephen Garth had only one child, adaughter."

  "Isn't he allowed to have a nephew, or an assorted lot of cousins?"

  "Such contingencies are permissible, but they don't meet the presentcase."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, my dear young lady, anyone with half an eye in their headcould see that you are a girl masquerading in a man's clothes. Now, whoare you? I am entitled to ask. I have certain legal rights as the tenantof this house during the forthcoming three months, and as you havebroken the law in more ways than you imagine, perhaps, I want to beenlightened before I condone your various offenses."

  The girl was holding a glass of milk to her lips, and drank slowly untilthe glass was emptied; but her eyes met Armathwaite's over the rim, andthey were dilated with apprehension, for a heedless prank was spreadinginto realms she had never dreamed of.

  "Does it really matter who I am?" she managed to say quietly, thoughthere was a pitiful flutter in her voice, and the hand which replacedthe tumbler on the table shook perceptibly.

  "Yes, it matters a great deal," he said. With a generosity that was nowbeginning to dawn on her, he averted his gaze, and scrutinized a coloredprint on the wall.

  "But why?" she persisted.

  "Because I am convinced that you are Mr. Stephen Garth's daughter."

  She drew a deep breath, and he was aware instantly that she was hoveringon the verge of candid confession. She moved uneasily, propped herelbows on the table, and concealed some part of her features by placingher clenched fists against her cheeks.

  "Well, what if I am?" she said at last, with a touch of the earlierdefiance in her voice.

  "Are you? Please answer outright."

  "Yes."

  "And your father is alive?"

  "Of course he is!"

  "Mother, too?"

  "Yes."

  "Do they know you are here?"

  "No. For some reason, they have taken a dislike to Elmdale, and hardlyever mention it, or the Grange, for that matter. Yet my poor old dad issuch a creature of habit that he is always missing something--a book, afavorite picture, a bit of china, and I schemed to come here, pack a fewof the articles he most values, and have them sent to our cottage inCornwall. Once they're there, they couldn't very well be sent back,could they? But as my people have forbidden me ever to speak of or comenear Elmdale, I didn't quite know how to manage it, until I hit on thenotion of impersonating Percy Whittaker, the brother of a friend withwhom I have been staying in Cheshire. Percy would do anything for me,but there was no sense in sending him, was there? He would be sure tobungle things awfully, so I borrowed his togs, and traveled all night toa station on the other side of the moor--and nobody--thought--I was--agirl--except you--and Betty, of course. She--knew me--at once."

  "For goodness' sake, don't cry. I believe you--every word. But did youtravel from Cheshire in that rig-out?"

  "No, oh, no! I wore a mackintosh, and a lady's hat. They're hanging inthe hall. I took them off while crossing the moor."

  "A mackintosh!"

  "Yes. Don't be horrid! I turned up my trousers, of course."

  "I'm not being horrid. I want to help you. You walked--how many miles?"

  "Fourteen."

  "And breakfasted at York?"

  "Yes. You see, Betty would have brought me some lunch. Then _you_ came."

  "The bedroom was prepared for your use, then?"

  "Yes. It's my room, really. Dad likes to sleep with his head to thewest, and that is where the door is in that room."

  "Poor girl! I would have given a good deal that this thing should nothave happened. But we must make the best of a bad job. Now, I hopeyou'll accept my advice. Let me go upstairs and remove the clothes Ishall need in the morning. Then you retire there, lock the door, andsleep well till Betty comes."

  "Oh, I can't! You are very kind, but I _must_ go to Mrs. Jackson now."

  She had blushed and paled in alternate seconds. Half rising, she sankback into the chair again; though the table was between them, thewearing of a boy's clothes was not quite so easy a matter as it hadseemed earlier. The one thing she did not guess was that thisserious-faced man was far more troubled by thoughts of a reputed ghostthan by an escapade which now loomed large in her mind.

  "I'm half inclined to make you obey me," he said angrily, gazing at hernow with fixed and troubled eyes.

  "But you've been so good and kind," she almost sobbed. "Why should yoube vexed with me now? I've told you the truth, I have, indeed."

  "That is precisely the reason why I am sure you ought not to riskarousing the village to-night."

  "But I won't. I'll tap at the window. Betty knows I'm here, somewhere,and she'll let me in at once."

  Armathwaite was at his wits end to decide on the sanest course. A manless versed than he in the complexities of life would have counseled herretreat to the cottage as the only practicable means of escape from aposition bristling with difficulties; but some subtle and intuitivesense warned him that Marguerite Garth should, if possible, leaveElmdale without the knowledge which credited that house with a veritableghost.

  "It's long after midnight," he persisted. "I'll have a snooze in achair, and meet Betty Jackson before you show up. You can trust meabsolutely to explain things to her."

  "You forget that she is worrying dreadfully about me. Please let me go!"

  "Very well," he said, driven to the half measures he had learnt todetest. "Promise me this--that you'll go straight to bed, and come herefor breakfast without any conversation with the Jacksons."

  The girl showed her relief, not unmixed with surprise at astrangely-worded stipulation.

  "I'll do that," she said, after a little pause.

  "Mind you--no talk. Just 'Good-night, I'm dead tired,' and that sort ofthing."

  "Yes," she agreed again, wonderingly.

  "And the same in the morning?"

  "I'll do my best."

  "Off with you, then! I'll come to the door, and stand there, in caseyou're challenged by anybody."

  "There's little fear of that in Elmdale at this hour," she said, with anew cheerfulness. He turned, ostensibly to pick up the electric torch.She was out in the hall instantly; when he rejoined her she was wearingthe mackintosh.

  "Good-night!" she said. "Next to dad, you're the nicest man I've evermet, and I don't even know your name."

  "I'll introduce myself at breakfast," he growled, extinguishing thetorch as he opened the door. He watched her swift run down the curvingpath to the gate, and heard her footsteps as she hurried into thevillage street. The night was so still that he knew when she turned intothe front garden of the cottage, and he caught the tapping on a window,which, beginning timidly, soon grew more emphatic, perhaps moredesperate.

  Some minutes passed. He could see the back of the cottage, and no gleamof light shone in any of its tiny windows. Then followed some decidedthumping on a door, but the tenement might have been an empty barn forall the response that was forthcoming.

  Finally, he was aware of slow feet climbing dejectedly up the hill, andthe garden gate creaked.

  "I can't make anybody hear," wailed a tearful voice.

  Armathwaite was even more surprised than the girl at this dramaticverification of his prophecy, but he availed himself of it asunscrupulously as any Delphic oracle.

  "I told you so," he said. "Now, come in and go to bed!"