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

CHAPTER XIX

I MEET AN OLD FRIEND

 

When I reached the house I found, to my astonishment,

that the window I had left open as I scrambled

out the night before was closed. I dropped my bag and

crept to the front door, thinking that if Bates had discovered

my absence it was useless to attempt any further

deception. I was amazed to find the great doors

of the main entrance flung wide, and in real alarm I

ran through the hall and back to the library.

 

The nearest door stood open, and, as I peered in, a

curious scene disclosed itself. A few of the large cathedral

candles still burned brightly in several places,

their flame rising strangely in the gray morning light.

Books had been taken from the shelves and scattered

everywhere, and sharp implements had cut ugly gashes

in the shelving. The drawers containing sketches and

photographs had been pulled out and their contents

thrown about and trampled under foot.

 

The house was as silent as a tomb, but as I stood on

the threshold trying to realize what had happened, something

stirred by the fireplace and I crept forward, listening,

until I stood by the long table beneath the great

chandelier. Again I heard a sound as of some animal

waking and stretching, followed by a moan that was

undoubtedly human. Then the hands of a man clutched

the farther edge of the table, and slowly and evidently

with infinite difficulty a figure rose and the dark face

of Bates, with eyes blurred and staring strangely, confronted

me.

 

He drew his body to its height, and leaned heavily

upon the table. I snatched a candle and bent toward

him to make sure my eyes were not tricking me.

 

“Mr. Glenarm! Mr. Glenarm!” he exclaimed in

broken whispers. “It is Bates, sir.”

 

“What have you done; what has happened?” I demanded.

 

He put his hand to his head uncertainly and gaped

as though trying to gather his wits.

 

He was evidently dazed by whatever had occurred,

and I sprang around and helped him to a couch. He

would not lie down but sat up, staring and passing his

hand over his head. It was rapidly growing lighter,

and I saw a purple and black streak across his temple

where a bludgeon of some sort had struck him.

 

“What does this mean, Bates? Who has been in the

house?”

 

“I can’t tell you, Mr. Glenarm.”

 

“Can’t tell me! You will tell me or go to jail!

There’s been mischief done here and I don’t intend to

have any nonsense about it from you. Well—?”

 

He was clearly suffering, but in my anger at the sight

of the wreck of the room I grasped his shoulder and

shook him roughly.

 

“It was early this morning,” he faltered, “about two

o’clock, I heard noises in the lower part of the house.

I came down thinking likely it was you, and remembering

that you had been sick yesterday—”

 

“Yes, go on.”

 

The thought of my truancy was no balm to my conscience

just then.

 

“As I came into the hall, I saw lights in the library.

As you weren’t down last night the room hadn’t been

lighted at all. I heard steps, and some one tapping with

a hammer—”

 

“Yes; a hammer. Go on!”

 

It was, then, the same old story! The war had been

carried openly into the house, but Bates—just why

should any one connected with the conspiracy injure

Bates, who stood so near to Pickering, its leader? The

fellow was undoubtedly hurt—there was no mistaking

the lump on his head. He spoke with a painful difficulty

that was not assumed, I felt increasingly sure, as

he went on.

 

“I saw a man pulling out the books and tapping the

inside of the shelves. He was working very fast. And

the next thing I knew he let in another man through

one of the terrace doors—the one there that still stands

a little open.”

 

He flinched as be turned slightly to indicate it, and

his face twitched with pain.

 

“Never mind that; tell the rest of your story.”

 

“Then I ran in, grabbed one of the big candelabra

from the table, and went for the nearest man. They

were about to begin on the chimney-breast there—it

was Mr. Glenarm’s pride in all the house—and that

accounts for my being there in front of the fireplace.

They rather got the best of me, sir.

 

“Clearly; I see they did. You had a hand-to-hand

fight with them, and being two to one—”

 

“No; there were two of us—don’t you understand,

two of us! There was another man who came running

in from somewhere, and he took sides with me. I

thought at first it was you. The robbers thought so,

too, for one of them yelled, ‘Great God; it’s Glenarm!’

just like that. But it wasn’t you, but quite another person.”

 

“That’s a good story so far; and then what happened?”

 

“I don’t remember much more, except that some one

soused me with water that helped my head considerably,

and the next thing I knew I was staring across the table

there at you.”

 

“Who were these men, Bates? Speak up quickly!”

 

My tone was peremptory. Here was, I felt, a crucial

moment in our relations.

 

“Well,” he began deliberately, “I dislike to make

charges against a fellow man, but I strongly suspect one

of the men of being—”

 

“Yes! Tell the whole truth or it will be the worse

for you.”

 

“I very much fear one of them was Ferguson, the

gardener over the way. I’m disappointed in him,

sir.”

 

“Very good; and now for the other one.”

 

“I didn’t get my eyes on him. I had closed with

Ferguson and we were having quite a lively time of it

when the other one came in; then the man who came to

my help mixed us all up—he was a very lively person—

and what became of Ferguson and the rest of it I don’t

know.”

 

There was food for thought in what he said. He had

taken punishment in defense of my property—the crack

on his head was undeniable—and I could not abuse

him or question his veracity with any grace; not, at

least, without time for investigation and study. However,

I ventured to ask him one question.

 

“If you were guessing, shouldn’t you think it quite

likely that Morgan was the other man?”

 

He met my gaze squarely.

 

“I think it wholly possible, Mr. Glenarm.”

 

“And the man who helped you—who in the devil was

he?”

 

“Bless me, I don’t know. He disappeared. I’d like

mightily to see him again.”

 

“Humph! Now you’d better do something for your

head. I’ll summon the village doctor if you say so.”

 

“No; thank you, sir. I’ll take care of it myself.”

 

“And now we’ll keep quiet about this. Don’t mention

it or discuss it with any one.”

 

“Certainly not, sir.”

 

He rose, and staggered a little, but crossed to the

broad mantel-shelf in the great chimney-breast, rested

his arm upon it for a moment, passed his hand over the

dark wood with a sort of caress, then bent his eyes upon

the floor littered with books and drawings and papers

torn from the cabinets and all splashed with tallow and

wax from the candles. The daylight had increased until

the havoc wrought by the night’s visitors was fully apparent.

The marauders had made a sorry mess of the

room, and I thought Bates’ lip quivered as he saw the

wreck.

 

“It would have been a blow to Mr. Glenarm; the room

was his pride—his pride, sir.”

 

He went out toward the kitchen, and I ran up stairs

to my own room. I cursed the folly that had led me to

leave my window open, for undoubtedly Morgan and

his new ally, St. Agatha’s gardener, had taken advantage

of it to enter the house. Quite likely, too, they had

observed my absence, and this would undoubtedly be

communicated to Pickering. I threw open my door

and started back with an exclamation of amazement.

 

Standing at my chiffonnier, between two windows,

was a man, clad in a bath-gown—my own, I saw with

fury—his back to me, the razor at his face, placidly

shaving himself.

 

Without turning he addressed me, quite coolly and

casually, as though his being there was the most natural

thing in the world.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Glenarm! Rather damaging

evidence, that costume. I suppose it’s the custom