The House 'Round the Corner Part 11

"Ah! My cousin thought you were under the impression that you recognized her. But you are mistaken. The lady you saw is Miss Marguerite Ogilvey."

"Is she now? Well, that takes it! I could ha' sworn--Miss who, sir?"

Armathwaite repeated the name, and Tom Bland scratched his head. He was elderly, and weather-tanned as the Nuttonby porter, but his occupation had quickened his wits; there are times when one should not reiterate an opinion.

"You'll not have tried the beck yet, sir?" he said, twisting the conversation rather obviously. "I had a turn in the Swale meself last evenin'--this water runs into it, ye ken, an' the troot were risin'

fine."

"What flies did you use?"

"Two March browns an' a black gnat. There's nowt like a March brown, to my thinkin'."

"Can you tell me who owns the land in that direction?" and Armathwaite pointed to the wooded gill which cut into the moorland to the eastward.

Bland gave some names, which Armathwaite entered in a notebook. He was wondering whether or not he should ask the man not to mention that he had seen a second occupant of the house, but decided that gossip would be stilled more quickly if the topic were left severely alone. He knew that Walker had told the carrier certain facts about himself. Possibly there would be some talk when next the two met, but, by that time, the Grange would have lost its highly interesting visitor, and Armathwaite smiled at the notion of the dapper young auctioneer trying to extract information from him.

The boxes, too, permitted of no waste of breath. When the third was dumped in the hall Bland was gasping, and Armathwaite's rather sallow face wore a heightened color.

"That was a stiff haul for your horse. How much?" said the owner of these solid trunks.

"It's eight miles----" began Bland. Despite a fixed tariff he could not forego an opportunity for bargaining, and Yorkshire will never give a direct answer if it can be avoided.

"Sixteen, really," broke in Armathwaite. "Will sixteen shillings meet the case?"

But Bland drew the line at downright extortion.

"Nay, nay!" he said. "I had a few calls on the way, an' there's some empties to go back from the Fox and Hounds. Take off the six, sir, an'

I'll be very content."

Armathwaite paid him and added a florin "for a drink." As it happened, Betty Jackson crossed the hall, and nodded a greeting. This was fortunate. The girl's presence lent a needed touch of domesticity.

"Ye'll hae gotten Betty an' her mother to do for you?" commented the carrier.

"Yes. I was lucky to find them available."

"Ay, they're all right. They'll mak' ye comfortable. They will, an' all.

I've known Mrs. Jackson these fot-ty year. Good mornin', sir. If you want owt frae Nuttonby just tell the postman. I come this way Tuesdays, Thursdays an' Sat.u.r.days."

With the departure of the carrier Armathwaite fancied that the irksomeness of life would lessen. The "cousin" of recent adoption had evidently withdrawn to the farther part of the dining-room, because Bland, despite many attempts, had not set eyes on her again. She, of course, was aware when he mounted into the cart and rumbled out of sight around the corner of the cottage. She came out. Armathwaite was unstrapping the boxes. One was already open, revealing books in layers.

"Sorry I'm such a nuisance," she said quietly. "Of course, it was thoughtless of me to nod to Tom Bland, but he took me by surprise.

Naturally, you don't wish people to know I am in Elmdale. Will you confer one last favor? Take your rods and pannier, and go for a couple of hours' fishing. I shall scoot before you return. I'll select the few things I require, and Betty will pack them, and hand them over to Bland on Sat.u.r.day."

He was on his knees and looked up at her.

"By 'scooting' do you mean that you are going to walk across that moor again?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"If that is the only possible way of escape, I'll go with you."

"Walk twenty-eight miles? Ridiculous!"

"You're not going alone."

"I am." This with a little stamp of one of the brown brogues, mighty fetching.

"I shall not force my company on you, if that is what you fear."

"But how absurd! Do you intend following me?"

"Yes--until you are within easy range of the railway."

"Mr. Armathwaite, I'm perfectly well able to take care of myself."

"I'm sure of it, Meg. But a cousin should be cousinly. Our relationship will not be close. Say, a distance of two hundred yards."

He smiled into her eyes; his stern face softened wonderfully when he smiled.

"I couldn't think of permitting it," she pouted, eyeing him with a new interest.

He sat back on his heels, and affected a resigned att.i.tude.

"Let's argue the point for two hours," he said. "I can't go fishing, because I shall be trespa.s.sing until I have acquired some rights.

Moreover, nothing short of violence will stop me from escorting you over the moor. In this weather, moors contain tramps."

"I know. I met two yesterday."

"Did they speak to you?"

"One did. I didn't mind him. The second one turned and looked. I was ready to run, but he only stared."

"May I ask what costume you intend wearing for to-day's outing?"

"I haven't quite decided. It may be a blue Shantung or a white pique, but it won't be gray flannel, if that's what you're hinting at."

He rose, and felt in his pockets.

"I think we can get through those two hours comfortably. May I smoke?"

he said.

"Yes, please do. Then you won't be so grumpy. Walk twenty-eight miles on my account! The idea!"

"I've walked forty before to-day, and stood a very reasonable chance of being potted every inch of the way. You won't fire at me, at any rate, so twenty-eight is a mere stroll. In fact, if you are gracious, it can be a pleasant one, too."

"Potted! Were you in the army?"

"No. Soldiers like that sort of thing! I didn't so I gave it up. Sure you don't mind a pipe?"