The House of a Thousand Candles, Meredith Nicholson [13 inch ebook reader TXT] 📗

It grew warmer as we drew

southward, and the conductor was confident we should

reach Cincinnati on time. The through passengers about

me went to bed, and I was left sprawled out in my open

section, lurking on the shadowy frontier between the

known world and dreamland.

 

“We’re running into Cincinnati—ten minutes late,”

said the porter’s voice; and in a moment I was in the

vestibule and out, hurrying to a hotel. At the St.

Botolph I ordered a carriage and broke all records

changing my clothes. The time-table informed me that

the Northern express left at half-past one. There was

no reason why I should not be safe at Glenarm House

by my usual breakfast hour if all went well. To avoid

loss of time in returning to the station I paid the hotel

charge and carried my bag away with me.

 

“Doctor Armstrong’s residence? Yes, sir; I’ve already

taken one load there”

 

The carriage was soon climbing what seemed to be a

mountain to the heights above Cincinnati. To this day

I associate Ohio’s most interesting city with a lonely

carriage ride that seemed to be chiefly uphill, through

a region that was as strange to me as a trackless jungle

in the wilds of Africa. And my heart began to perform

strange tattoos on my ribs I was going to the house

of a gentleman who did not know of my existence, to

see a girl who was his guest, to whom I had never, as

the conventions go, been presented. It did not seem

half so easy, now that I was well launched upon the adventure.

 

I stopped the cabman just as he was about to enter

an iron gateway whose posts bore two great lamps.

 

“That is all right, sir. I can drive right in.”

 

“But you needn’t,” I said, jumping out. “Wait here.”

 

Doctor Armstrong’s residence was brilliantly lighted,

and the strains of a waltz stole across the lawn cheerily.

Several carriages swept past me as I followed the walk.

I was arriving at a fashionable hour—it was nearly

twelve—and just how to effect an entrance without being

thrown out as an interloper was a formidable problem,

now that I had reached the house. I must catch

my train home, and this left no margin for explanation

to an outraged host whose first impulse would very

likely be to turn me over to the police.

 

I made a detour and studied the house, seeking a

door by which I could enter without passing the unfriendly

Gibraltar of a host and hostess on guard to

welcome belated guests.

 

A long conservatory filled with tropical plants gave

me my opportunity. Promenaders went idly through

and out into another part of the house by an exit I

could not see. A handsome, spectacled gentleman

opened a glass door within a yard of where I stood,

sniffed the air, and said to his companion, as he turned

back with a shrug into the conservatory:

 

“There’s no sign of snow. It isn’t Christmas weather

at all.”

 

He strolled away through the palms, and I instantly

threw off my ulster and hat, cast them behind some

bushes, and boldly opened the door and entered.

 

The ball-room was on the third floor, but the guests

were straggling down to supper, and I took my stand

at the foot of the broad stairway and glanced up carelessly,

as though waiting for some one. It was a large

and brilliant company and many a lovely face passed

me as I stood waiting. The very size of the gathering

gave me security, and I smoothed my gloves complacently.

 

The spectacled gentleman whose breath of night air

had given me a valued hint of the open conservatory

door came now and stood beside me. He even put his

hand on my arm with intimate friendliness.

 

There was a sound of mirth and scampering feet in

the hall above and then down the steps, between the

lines of guests arrested in their descent, came a dark

laughing girl in the garb of Little Red Riding Hood,

amid general applause and laughter.

 

“It’s Olivia! She’s won the wager!” exclaimed the

spectacled gentleman, and the girl, whose dark curls

were shaken about her face, ran up to us and threw

her arms about him and kissed him. It was a charming

picture—the figures on the stairway, the pretty graceful

child, the eager, happy faces all about. I was too

much interested by this scene of the comedy to be uncomfortable.

 

Then, at the top of the stair, her height accented by

her gown of white, stood Marian Devereux, hesitating

an instant, as a bird pauses before taking wing, and then

laughingly running between the lines to where Olivia

faced her in mock abjection. To the charm of the girl

in the woodland was added now the dignity of beautiful

womanhood, and my heart leaped at the thought

that I had ever spoken to her, that I was there because

she had taunted me with the risk of coming.

 

[Illustration: At the top of the stair, her height accented by her gown of white,

stood Marian Devereux.]

 

Above, on the stair landing, a deep-toned clock began

to strike midnight and every one cried “Merry Christmas!”

and “Olivia’s won!” and there was more hand-clapping,

in which I joined with good will.

 

Some one behind me was explaining what had just

occurred. Olivia, the youngest daughter of the house,

had been denied a glimpse of the ball; Miss Devereux

had made a wager with her host that Olivia would appear

before midnight; and Olivia had defeated the plot

against her, and gained the main hall at the stroke of

Christmas.

 

“Good night! Good night!” called Olivia—the real

Olivia—in derision to the company, and turned and ran

back through the applauding, laughing throng.

 

The spectacled gentleman was Olivia’s father, and he

mockingly rebuked Marian Devereux for having encouraged

an infraction of parental discipline, while she

was twitting him upon the loss of his wager. Then her

eyes rested upon me for the first time. She smiled

slightly, but continued talking placidly to her host.

The situation did not please me; I had not traveled so

far and burglariously entered Doctor Armstrong’s house

in quest of a girl with blue eyes merely to stand by while

she talked to another man.

 

I drew nearer, impatiently; and was conscious that

four other young men in white waistcoats and gloves

quite as irreproachable as my own stood ready to claim

her the instant she was free. I did not propose to be

thwarted by the beaux of Cincinnati, so I stepped toward

Doctor Armstrong.

 

“I beg your pardon, Doctor—,” I said with an assurance

for which I blush to this hour.

 

“All right, my boy; I, too, have been in Arcady!” he

exclaimed in cheerful apology, and she put her hand

on my arm and I led her away.

 

“He called me ‘my boy,’ so I must be passing muster,”

I remarked, not daring to look at her.

 

“He’s afraid not to recognize you. His inability to

remember faces is a town joke.”

 

We reached a quiet corner of the great hall and I

found a seat for her.

 

“You don’t seem surprised to see me—you knew I

would come. I should have come across the world for

this—for just this.”

 

Her eyes were grave at once.

 

“Why did you come? I did not think you were so

foolish. This is all—so wretched—so unfortunate. You

didn’t know that Mr. Pickering—Mr. Pickering—”

 

She was greatly distressed and this name came from

her chokingly.

 

“Yes; what of him?” I laughed. “He is well on his

way to California—and without you!”

 

She spoke hurriedly, eagerly, bending toward me.

 

“No—you don’t know—you don’t understand—he’s

here; he abandoned his California trip at Chicago; he

telegraphed me to expect him—here—to-night! You

must go at once—at once!”

 

“Ah, but you can’t frighten me,” I said, trying to

realize just what a meeting with Pickering in that house

might mean.

 

“No,”—she looked anxiously about—“they were to

arrive late, he and the Taylors; they know the Armstrongs

quite well. They may come at any moment

now. Please go!”

 

“But I have only a few minutes myself—you

wouldn’t have me sit them out in the station down

town? There are some things I have come to say, and

Arthur Pickering and I are not afraid of each other!”

 

“But you must not meet him here! Think what that

would mean to me! You are very foolhardy, Mr. Glenarm.

I had no idea you would come—”

 

“But you wished to try me—you challenged me.”

 

“That wasn’t me—it was Olivia,” she laughed, more

at ease, “I thought—”

 

“Yes, what did you think?” I asked. “That I was

tied hand and foot by a dead man’s money?”

 

“No, it wasn’t that wretched fortune; but I enjoyed

playing the child before you—I really love Olivia—and

it seemed that the fairies were protecting me and that

I could play being a child to the very end of the chapter

without any real mischief coming of it. I wish

I were Olivia!” she declared, her eyes away from me.

 

“That’s rather idle. I’m not really sure yet what

your name is, and I don’t care. Let’s imagine that we

haven’t any names—I’m sure my name isn’t of any

use, and I’ll be glad to go nameless all my days if

only—”

 

“If only—” she repeated idly, opening and closing

her fan. It was a frail blue trifle, painted in golden

butterflies.

 

“There are so many ‘if onlies’ that I hesitate to

choose; but I will venture one. If only you will come

back to St. Agatha’s! Not to-morrow, or the next day,

but, say, with the first bluebirds. I believe they are

the harbingers up there.”

 

Her very ease was a balm to my spirit; she was now

a veritable daughter of repose. One arm in its long

white sheath lay quiet in her lap; her right hand held

the golden butterflies against the soft curve of her cheek.

A collar of pearls clasped her throat and accented the

clear girlish lines of her profile. I felt the appeal of

her youth and purity. It was like a cry in my heart,

and I forgot the dreary house by the lake, and Pickering

and the weeks within the stone walls of my prison.

 

“The friends who know me best never expect me to

promise to be anywhere at a given time. I can’t tell;

perhaps I shall follow the bluebirds to Indiana; but

why should I, when I can’t play being Olivia any

more?”

 

“No! I am very dull. That note of apology you

wrote from the school really fooled me. But I have

seen the real Olivia now. I don’t want you to go too

far—not where I can’t follow—this flight I shall hardly

dare repeat.”

 

Her lips closed—like a rose that had gone back to be

a bud again—and she pondered a moment, slowly freeing

and imprisoning the golden butterflies.

 

“You have risked a fortune, Mr. Glenarm, very, very

foolishly—and more—if you are found here. Why,

Olivia must have recognized you! She must have seen

you often across the wall.”

 

“But I don’t care—I’m not staying at that ruin up

there for money. My grandfather meant more to me

than that—”

 

“Yes; I believe that is so. He was a dear old gentleman;

and he liked me because I thought his jokes adorable.

My father and he had known each other. But

there was—no expectation—no wish to profit by his

friendship. My name in his will is a great embarrassment,

a source of real annoyance. The newspapers