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

the man inquiringly.

When we went into Bates’ room on our tour of the

house, Larry scanned the books on a little shelf with

something more than a casual eye. There were exactly

four volumes—Shakespeare’s Comedies, The Faerie

Queen, Sterne’s Sentimental Journey and Yeats’ Land

of Heart’s Desire.

 

“A queer customer, Larry. Nobody but my grandfather

could ever have discovered him—he found him

up in Vermont.”

 

“I suppose his being a bloomin’ Yankee naturally accounts

for this,” remarked Larry, taking from under the

pillow of the narrow iron bed a copy of the Dublin

Freeman’s Journal.

 

“It is a little odd,” I said. “But if you found a Yiddish

newspaper or an Egyptian papyrus under his pillow

I should not be surprised.”

 

“Nor I,” said Larry. “I’ll wager that not another

shelf in this part of the world contains exactly that collection

of books, and nothing else. You will notice that

there was once a book-plate in each of these volumes and

that it’s been scratched out with care.”

 

On a small table were pen and ink and a curious

much-worn portfolio.

 

“He always gets the mail first, doesn’t he?” asked

Larry.

 

“Yes, I believe he does.”

 

“I thought so; and I’ll swear he never got a letter

from Vermont in his life.”

 

When we went down Bates was limping about the

library, endeavoring to restore order.

 

“Bates,” I said to him, “you are a very curious person.

I have had a thousand and one opinions about you

since I came here, and I still don’t make you out.”

 

He turned from the shelves, a defaced volume in his

hands.

 

“Yes, sir. It was a good deal that way with your lamented

grandfather. He always said I puzzled him.”

 

Larry, safe behind the fellow’s back, made no attempt

to conceal a smile.

 

“I want to thank you for your heroic efforts to protect

the house last night. You acted nobly, and I must

confess, Bates, that I didn’t think it was in you. You’ve

got the right stuff in you; I’m only sorry that there are

black pages in your record that I can’t reconcile with

your manly conduct of last night. But we’ve got to

come to an understanding.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“The most outrageous attacks have been made on me

since I came here. You know what I mean well enough.

Mr. Glenarm never intended that I should sit down in

his house and be killed or robbed. He was the gentlest

being that ever lived, and I’m going to fight for his

memory and to protect his property from the scoundrels

who have plotted against me. I hope you follow me.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Glenarm.” He was regarding me attentively.

His lips quavered, perhaps from weakness, for

he certainly looked ill.

 

“Now I offer you your choice—either to stand loyally

by me and my grandfather’s house or to join these

scoundrels Arthur Pickering has hired to drive me out.

I’m not going to bribe you—I don’t offer you a cent for

standing by me, but I won’t have a traitor in the house,

and if you don’t like me or my terms I want you to go

and go now.”

 

He straightened quickly—his eyes lighted and the

color crept into his face. I had never before seen him

appear so like a human being.

 

“Mr. Glenarm, you have been hard on me; there have

been times when you have been very unjust—”

 

“Unjust—my God, what do you expect me to

take from you! Haven’t I known that you were in

league with Pickering? I’m not as dull as I look, and

after your interview with Pickering in the chapel porch

you can’t convince me that you were faithful to my interests

at that time.”

 

He started and gazed at me wonderingly. I had had

no intention of using the chapel porch interview at this

time, but it leaped out of me uncontrollably.

 

“I suppose, sir,” he began brokenly, “that I can hardly

persuade you that I meant no wrong on that occasion.”

 

“You certainly can not—and it’s safer for you not

to try. But I’m willing to let all that go as a reward

for your work last night. Make your choice now; stay

here and stop your spying or clear out of Annandale

within an hour.”

 

He took a step toward me; the table was between us

and he drew quite near but stood clear of it, erect until

there was something almost soldierly and commanding

in his figure.

 

“By God, I will stand by you, John Glenarm!” he

said, and struck the table smartly with his clenched

hand.

 

He flushed instantly, and I felt the blood mounting

into my own face as we gazed at each other—he, Bates,

the servant, and I, his master! He had always addressed

me so punctiliously with the “sir” of respect that his

declaration of fealty, spoken with so sincere and vigorous

an air of independence, and with the bold emphasis

of the oath, held me spellbound, staring at him. The

silence was broken by Larry, who sprang forward and

grasped Bates’ hand.

 

“I, too, Bates,” I said, feeling my heart leap with

liking, even with admiration for the real manhood that

seemed to transfigure this hireling—this fellow whom I

had charged with most infamous treachery, this servant

who had cared for my needs in so humble a spirit of

subjection.

 

The knocker on the front door sounded peremptorily,

and Bates turned away without another word, and admitted

Stoddard, who came in hurriedly.

 

“Merry Christmas!” in his big hearty tones was

hardly consonant with the troubled look on his face. I

introduced him to Larry and asked him to sit down.

 

“Pray excuse our disorder—we didn’t do it for fun;

it was one of Santa Claus’ tricks.”

 

He stared about wonderingly.

 

“So you caught it, too, did you?”

 

“To be sure. You don’t mean to say that they raided

the chapel?”

 

“That’s exactly what I mean to say. When I went

into the church for my early service I found that some

one had ripped off the wainscoting in a half a dozen

places and even pried up the altar. It’s the most outrageous

thing I ever knew. You’ve heard of the proverbial

poverty of the church mouse—what do you suppose

anybody could want to raid a simple little country

chapel for? And more curious yet, the church plate

was untouched, though the closet where it’s kept was

upset, as though the miscreants had been looking for

something they didn’t find.”

 

Stoddard was greatly disturbed, and gazed about the

topsy-turvy library with growing indignation.

 

We drew together for a council of war. Here was an

opportunity to enlist a new recruit on my side. I already

felt stronger by reason of Larry’s accession; as to

Bates, my mind was still numb and bewildered.

 

“Larry, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t join forces

with Mr. Stoddard, as he seems to be affected by this

struggle. We owe it to him and the school to put him

on guard, particularly since we know that Ferguson’s

with the enemy.”

 

“Yes, certainly,” said Larry.

 

He always liked or disliked new people unequivocally,

and I was glad to see that he surveyed the big clergyman

with approval.

 

“I’ll begin at the beginning,” I said, “and tell you

the whole story.”

 

He listened quietly to the end while I told him of my

experience with Morgan, of the tunnel into the chapel

crypt, and finally of the affair in the night and our interview

with Bates.

 

“I feel like rubbing my eyes and accusing you of

reading penny-horrors,” he said. “That doesn’t sound

like the twentieth century in Indiana.”

 

“But Ferguson—you’d better have a care in his direction.

Sister Theresa—”

 

“Bless your heart! Ferguson’s gone—without notice.

He got his traps and skipped without saying a word to

any one.”

 

“We’ll hear from him again, no doubt. Now, gentlemen,

I believe we understand one another. I don’t like

to draw you, either one of you, into my private affairs—”

 

The big chaplain laughed.

 

“Glenarm,”—prefixes went out of commission quickly

that morning—“if you hadn’t let me in on this I

should never have got over it. Why, this is a page out

of the good old times! Bless me! I never appreciated

your grandfather! I must run—I have another service.

But I hope you gentlemen will call on me, day or night,

for anything I can do to help you. Please don’t forget

me. I had the record once for putting the shot.”

 

“Why not give our friend escort through the tunnel?”

asked Larry. “I’ll not hesitate to say that I’m dying

to see it.”

 

“To be sure!” We went down into the cellar, and

poked over the lantern and candlestick collections, and

I pointed out the exact spot where Morgan and I had

indulged in our revolver duel. It was fortunate that

the plastered walls of the cellar showed clearly the cuts

and scars of the pistol-balls or I fear my story would

have fallen on incredulous ears.

 

The debris I had piled upon the false block of stone

in the cellar lay as I had left it, but the three of us

quickly freed the trap. The humor of the thing took

strong hold of my new allies, and while I was getting a

lantern to light us through the passage Larry sat on the

edge of the trap and howled a few bars of a wild Irish

jig. We set forth at once and found the passage unchanged.

When the cold air blew in upon us I paused.

 

“Have you gentlemen the slightest idea of where

you are?”

 

“We must be under the school-grounds, I should say,”

replied Stoddard.

 

“We’re exactly under the stone wall. Those tall posts

at the gate are a scheme for keeping fresh air in the

passage.”

 

“You certainly have all the modern improvements,”

observed Larry, and I heard him chuckling all the way

to the crypt door.

 

When I pushed the panel open and we stepped out

into the crypt Stoddard whistled and Larry swore

softly.

 

“It must be for something!” exclaimed the chaplain.

“You don’t suppose Mr. Glenarm built a secret passage

just for the fun of it, do you? He must have had some

purpose. Why, I sleep out here within forty yards of

where we stand and I never had the slightest idea of

this.”

 

“But other people seem to know of it,” observed

Larry.

 

“To be sure; the curiosity of the whole countryside

was undoubtedly piqued by the building of Glenarm

House. The fact that workmen were brought from a

distance was in itself enough to arouse interest. Morgan

seems to have discovered the passage without any

trouble.”

 

“More likely it was Ferguson. He was the sexton of

the church and had a chance to investigate,” said Stoddard.

“And now, gentlemen, I must go to my service.

I’ll see you again before the day is over.”

 

“And we make no confidences!” I admonished.

 

“‘Sdeath!—I believe that is the proper expression under

all the circumstances.” And the Reverend Paul

Stoddard laughed, clasped my hand and went up into

the chapel vestry.

 

I closed the door in the wainscoting and hung the

map back in place.

 

We went up into the little chapel and found a small

company of worshipers assembled—a few people from

the surrounding farms, half a dozen Sisters sitting somberly

near the chancel and the school servants.

 

Stoddard came out into the chancel, lighted the altar

tapers and began the Anglican communion office. I had

forgotten what a church service was like;