Collected works of j s f.., p.835
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 835
“Can’t see her yet, sir,” he said. “But she can’t be long. Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I’m in no hurry. You’re not a Yorkshireman, I think?”
“Londoner, sir,” he answered. “Mr. Martenroyde brought me up here when he bought this car at the show at Olympia, two years ago.”
“Like these people?” I asked.
He smiled at the question.
“They’re all right, sir — when you get to know them,” he answered. “Bit queer, sir — to us southerners, at first. Couldn’t understand their lingo when I first came here, but I know it pretty well now. Here’s Mrs. John, sir.”
I turned — to see a tall, finely built woman, warmly wrapped in a magnificent fur coat, bearing down upon us. In the glow of light from the street lamps and from the naphtha flares which hung above the stalls, I had a good view of her as she came up. She was apparently between fifty and sixty years of age, still uncommonly good-looking and with much of the fire of youth still shining from her dark, keen eyes; and from the sharp, questioning look which she gave me, taking me all in as she drew near, I saw that she was a woman of perception and character.
“Good evening,” she said, as I drew aside from the open door of the car and raised my hat. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Orris,” she continued, turning to the chauffeur, “just stop at Simpson’s, top of the market place, and go in and ask for a parcel for Mrs. John Martenroyde — you can put it in the front seat. And that’s all.”
She stepped into the car, and I followed; Orris spread the rugs over our knees, and we moved off. At the top of the square Orris pulled up again and vanished into a dry-goods shop; presently he came out carrying a bulky parcel. Mrs. John Martenroyde leaned forward and watched its disposal on the front seat. Then as we set off again, she settled herself in her corner and tucked her share of the big fur-lined rug round her plump person.
“A cold evening,” she remarked. “You’ll no doubt feel it. You’ll be from London, I expect? Orris, he said there was a gentleman from London expected.”
“I am from London — yes,” I assented. “But it was very cold in London this morning.”
She received this news in silence, as if slightly incredulous of it.
“I never was in London but once in all my life,” she said after a pause. “Me and my husband, John Martenroyde, once went there, for a week, not so long after we were wed. But eh, I was glad to get home again! — I couldn’t stand the crowds in the streets and the noise of the traffic. I was rare and pleased to see Todmanhawe again, Mister — I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Camberwell, Mrs. Martenroyde,” I said. “I heard yours from the chauffeur.”
“Mrs. John Martenroyde,” she remarked. “My husband — dead some years now, Mr. Camberwell — being younger brother to Mr. James Martenroyde that you’re going to see. And very quiet you’ll find it, our way, after London.”
“Todmanhawe is a quiet place, then?” I suggested.
“Last place God ever made, some of them say that lives in it,” she answered. “Out of the world, you see. Of course it isn’t so bad, what there is of it. There’s five hundred people employed at my brother-in-law’s mill, and there’s others in the place, and there’s a few private residents, and there’s Todmanhawe Grange, where James lives, and the Mill House, where me and my two sons live, so it isn’t a desert. But, of course, one of my sons, Mr. Sugden Martenroyde, he’s not at home now — he’s his uncle’s manager, or representative, as they term it, in London — perhaps you know him?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t that pleasure, Mrs. Martenroyde.”
“Well, of course London’s a big place, and there’s a deal of people in it,” she said. “You couldn’t be expected to know everybody, same as you do here. But Sugden, he’s been in London two years now, and he likes it — I expect there’s things in London that appeal to young people. However, he’s just been home for a fortnight — gone back this afternoon. I like him to come home now and then — it’s not right for young men to forget their home-tree. Now, my other son, Mr. Ramsden Martenroyde, he’s always at home, always has been. He’s a real home-bird, Ramsden. But then, you see, Ramsden’s work is at home — he’s manager of his uncle’s mill. A good, steady business man, is Ramsden — I often say that I don’t know what James Martenroyde and Todmanhawe Mill would do without him.”
“Is Mr. James Martenroyde married?” I ventured to ask. “Shall I find a Mrs. Martenroyde at Todmanhawe Grange?”
It seemed to me that my companion stiffened. She drew herself up in her corner, and when she replied, there was a new note in her tone.
“Nay, you won’t!” she said. “James Martenroyde is a single man yet. But if you’d come a bit later on in the year, you’d have found a Mrs. Martenroyde there — if you understand what I mean, Mr. Camberwell.”
“Oh!” I said. “Mr. Martenroyde’s going to be married?”
“That’s what’s arranged,” she answered. “Of course, a wilful man must have his own way. They say us women are wilful, but I consider men far worse.”
“You — you don’t approve of Mr. James Martenroyde’s marriage?” I suggested.
She gave me a look full of meaning and shook her head.
“No need to say aught,” she answered. “But I don’t approve of elderly men marrying girls young enough to be their grand-daughters.”
I allowed myself to laugh — quietly.
“Well, as you say, Mrs. Martenroyde, we men are very wilful,” I said. “I suppose Mr. Martenroyde must have his way.”
“Oh, he’ll have that, mister, don’t you make any mistake,” she said. “There’s nobody has ever crossed James Martenroyde in aught he wanted to do, I can tell you. A masterful man — that’s what James is. But of course you know him?”
This was a question which I had rather not have answered. But Mrs. Martenroyde was not the sort of person one can put off with silence or evasion.
“I can’t say that I do — yet,” I replied. “Mr. Martenroyde sent for me on a matter of business — I’ve never met him before.”
“Eh, well,” she remarked, “you’ll meet a fine man, as far as looks go. I’ll say that for James — he’s a good man to set your eyes on. But you know, Mr. Camberwell, a man of sixty years of age didn’t ought to wed a young girl of two-and-twenty! Why, Lord bless us, when she’s at her best he’ll be a doddering old fellow of eighty, if he’s alive. Nay, in my view of things, like should wed with like, mister — I never could bring myself to approve of old men marrying young women!”
I was saved from offering an opinion on this thorny subject by the sudden turning of the car from the shadow of a thick belt of trees into a clearer space from which I got an equally sudden view of a great building, lying in a valley, far down below us, its long ranges of windows blazing with light. Behind it I made out against the darkening sky the irregular lines of a ridge of high hills, on the sides of which, dotted here and there, were other lights, betokening the presence of farmsteads or cottages. But the great mill was the conspicuous object in this suddenly revealed panorama, and as we drew nearer I saw that it was a building of six storeys and that lights shone in the windows of each.
“Yon’s Todmanhawe Mill,” remarked Mrs. John Martenroyde complacently. “The electric light makes a good show, doesn’t it, mister? — lights all Scarthdale up.”
“This, then, that we see before us is Scarthdale, is it?” I inquired.
“Scarthdale it is,” she answered. “Yon’s Scarth Fell at the back — when you see it tomorrow morning, you’ll find that it’s covered with snow. And, as I say, that’s Todmanhawe Mill, or if you look up the hillside where there’s a big house lighted up, that’s Todmanhawe Grange, where you’re going — the river runs between the grange and the mill, deep down in the valley. My house is near the mill, on this side of the river; I can see a light in one of its windows, but you won’t — it’s a small place compared with the grange. We’re going down into the valley now, Mr. Camberwell, and I hope this young fellow will be careful — it’s a one-in-three business hereabouts, my son Ramsden tells me, and there’s two of these hairpin bends before you get to the bottom.”
Orris took us safely down a winding road which, dark as it was by that time, I realized to be of a precipitous sort. The great mill and its blaze of light drew nearer and nearer; finally, having reached the level of the river, the car stopped at a house which stood at the angle of a narrow lane leading to the mill, and Mrs. John Martenroyde announced that she was safely home. She bade me a polite good-night, hoped she had not incommoded me by her presence, and, Orris carrying her parcels for her, made for her door.
As I waited for the chauffeur to return, I became aware of three distinct sounds. Somewhere, close by, I heard the swish of water. Somewhere, farther off, there was the roar of water rushing over rocks. And as an accompaniment to these sounds I heard the steady throb of machinery. I gathered from all this that we were now close to the river Scarth, that somewhere not far away the river ran through a defile or over a weir — the hum of machinery, of course, came from the big mill whose lighted windows were now high above my head.
Orris came back; again we moved forward and were presently crossing a long bridge of stone — so long that I reckoned it must be of seven or eight arches. Then we began to climb again. Cottages and small houses appeared on either side of the road; this I took to be Todmanhawe, or a part of it. Still we were climbing and continued to climb until the cottages were left behind. Then came a turn to the right into a narrower road, and then presently into a carriage drive, bordered by trees and shrubs. The car pulled up before the front door of a big house, and dismounting from it, I found myself standing on a terrace that overlooked the valley. Once more the great mill and its long ranges of lighted windows lay far below me.
The door of the house opened and a blaze of light and breath of warm air greeted me. So, too, did an elderly, cheery-looking woman who held the door wide open and motioned me to enter.
“Come your ways in, sir,” she cried. “Mr. Camberwell, isn’t it? I’m Mrs. Haines, Mr. Martenroyde’s housekeeper, sir. Mr. Martenroyde, sir, his compliments, and will you excuse his not being here to welcome you? — he’ll be kept down at the mill till six o’clock or so. But I can look after you, sir. Now, perhaps you’d like to take something after your cold ride? — a drop of whisky, now, or maybe a cup of tea — dinner won’t be till seven o’clock, sir?”
She had bustled me into the hall as she talked, and through an open door I had a glimpse of a big, inviting dining-room, with bottles and decanters on its sideboard, a centre table already laid for dinner, and in the wide fireplace a great fire of logs. Towards these comforts the good woman stretched a hospitable hand.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Haines — not at present,” I said. “What I want more than anything is a good wash — I’d tea on the train, just before I left it.”
“Then I’ll take you up to your room, sir,” she said. “There’s a grand fire up there, for I saw to it myself. Orris, you bring Mr. Camberwell’s luggage up — you know which room he’s in. This way, sir.”
She led me up a thickly carpeted stair, the walls of which were covered with old engravings, and presently inducted me into a big bedroom wherein a fire was piled half-way up the grate. And there, after pointing out various features of the room and telling me that there was a bathroom next door, she left me. Evidently Mr. James Martenroyde believed in having his guests well looked after!
I went to one of the four windows of the room and, drawing the heavy curtain, looked out, to find that I was facing the valley and that the big mill and its rows of lighted windows lay almost in front, deep down beyond the river, stretches of which I could see glittering in the shafts of light from the mill. Somehow, that mill and its blazing lights fascinated me — I imagined the hundreds of workers there, finishing their day’s toil amidst the hum of the machinery. I opened the window and leaned out, thinking to hear that steady, monotonous hum myself. But all I heard was a rising wind among the trees and shrubberies of Mr. Martenroyde’s gardens, and through that the rushing of the river over its rocky bed.
I made my toilet and went downstairs again, and into the room in which I had seen the cheery fire. It was a big room filled with old-fashioned furniture, and there were old pictures on the walls, and in an alcove on one side of the fireplace two or three shelves of old books. Something in its atmosphere suggested the old bachelor, and I was wondering what sort of man I should find Mr. Martenroyde to be when I heard the front door opened and closed, a firm, heavy step in the hall, a loud voice demanding Mrs. Haines’s presence; and, a few moments later, I found myself confronting the man who had commissioned my services.
CHAPTER II. THE MILL-OWNER
IT WAS A big, burly man, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned, active in movement, alert of eye, who came striding into the room, gave me a quick, all-embracing glance, and held out a strong, firm hand, with a smile which denoted a genuine desire to make me welcome to his hearth.
“Mr. Camberwell?” he said. “How do you do, sir? I must ask your pardon for not being on the spot when you arrived, but us poor mill-owners, you know, we have to keep our eyes on things in these hard times — it’s all we can do to make a living, Mr. Camberwell, nowadays. However,” he went on, with a sly glance which developed into an unmistakable wink of his right eyelid, “there’s still bite and sup to be had — what’ll you take after that long, cold journey and before your dinner? I’ve some rare fine old brown sherry here — or perhaps you’d prefer a drop of whisky? These newfangled cocktail drinks I know nothing about, nor even how to mix ’em. Say the word, sir.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Sherry, please.”
He turned to the sideboard, found the decanter he wanted, and filled two glasses. Pressing one into my hand, he lifted the other.
“Here’s your very good health, sir,” he said. “Nay, we’ll put it in Yorkshire talk — you may never have heard this before— ‘Here’s to thee and to me and to all on us, and may we never want nowt, noän on us!’ A fine sentiment, Mr. Camberwell! But sit you down till dinner’s ready. Have you ever been in this part of the country before?”
“Not quite hereabouts, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “But I’ve been within a few miles of you, to the northeast, in the next dale.”
He gave me a comprehending look and nodded.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I remember now — it was you that was in that Middlesmoor murder case. Ay — just so! Well, I don’t want to introduce you to any job of that sort, not I! — mine’s a private business affair. But we’ll leave it be till we’ve had our dinners. Never talk business on an empty stomach — that’s one of my mottoes, Mr. Camberwell. My chauffeur brought you home all right and comfortable?”
“I’ve never travelled in greater luxury, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s a magnificent car of yours.”
“Ay, it’s a good car,” he said, almost indifferently, “but I shall be getting a better very soon — I’ve had that two year. And you see” — he half-paused, giving me a half-shy, half-sly glance “ — you see, I’m going to what they call alter my condition — I’m going to be wed!”
“I congratulate you, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said.
“You’ll congratulate me again when you see the lady,” he answered, with a confident nod of his head. “A lass in a thousand, she is, sir! But there — if I can’t show her in the flesh, I can show you her picture. I hope you’re a good judge, Mr. Camberwell?”
“Expert, Mr. Martenroyde!” I answered, entering into his humour. “You can trust my judgment.”
He laughed at that, and going over to a desk in one of the alcoves, unlocked a drawer and took out a portfolio. Coming back to me at the fireside, he handed me a large photograph — the work of a fashionable Bond Street photographer.
“There!” he said. “What do you think of that? Full-face, that is.”
The photograph was that of a young woman whose charm lay not so much in absolute beauty as in the signs of intelligence manifested in her large expressive eyes and firm, well-cut lips: good sense and good temper were there in all the lines and contours. Before I could express an opinion, he handed me another portrait.
“Side-face,” he remarked. “And this” — giving me another— “full-length. Now you’ve got her at all angles, as one might say.”
The full-length view showed the young lady to be tall, well developed, a typical out-of-doors girl — well matched with the big man lingering at my elbow.
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Martenroyde!” I said. “A very handsome young lady. May one know her name?”
“You may,” he answered. “Mary Houston’s the name. She’s the only daughter — only child, as a fact — of my friend Colonel Houston. He comes here every year fishing and always brings Mary with him, so you see she and I are old pals. And last year — well, we fixed things up. A grand lass, sir!”
“And the happy event, Mr. Martenroyde? — when’s that to be?” I asked.
“First week in March — in London,” he answered. “They live in London — Bayswater. You shall have an invitation to the wedding if you’d care to come.”
“I should be delighted,” I replied. “And I shall congratulate the bride as heartily as I congratulate you.”
He laughed as he took the photographs from my hands and put them back in the desk. Then he shook his head and made a grimace.
“Ay, well,” he said, “I’ve a right to please myself, and it’s nobody’s concern but mine, but there’s always folks who criticize, and I’ve relations that are none so pleased that I should wed at what they call my time of life. Time of life! — I’m at my best!”
“I shouldn’t think there’s much doubt of that, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said. “You look uncommonly fit.”
