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

his men, half-crouching ready for a rush at me, hesitated;

and Pickering glanced nervously from one to the

other of us. It was the calm before the storm; in a moment

we should be at each other’s throats for the final

struggle, and yet we waited. In the wall I heard still

the sound of steps. They were clear to all of us now.

We stood there for what seemed an eternity—I suppose

the time was really not more than thirty seconds—inert,

waiting, while I felt that something must happen; the

silence, the waiting, were intolerable. I grasped my pistol

and bent low for a spring at Morgan, with the overturned

table and wreckage of the chandelier between me

and Pickering; and every man in the room was instantly

on the alert.

 

All but Bates. He remained rigid—that curious

smile on his blood-smeared face, his eyes bent toward the

end of the great fireplace back of me.

 

That look on his face held, arrested, numbed me; I

followed it. I forgot Morgan; a tacit truce held us all

again. I stepped back till my eyes fastened on the

broad paneled chimney-breast at the right of the hearth,

and it was there now that the sound of footsteps in the

wall was heard again; then it ceased utterly, the long

panel opened slowly, creaking slightly upon its hinges,

then down into the room stepped Marian Devereux.

She wore the dark gown in which I had seen her last,

and a cloak was drawn over her shoulders.

 

She laughed as her eyes swept the room.

 

“Ah, gentlemen,” she said, shaking her head, as she

viewed our disorder, “what wretched housekeepers you

are!”

 

Steps were again heard in the wall, and she turned to

the panel, held it open with one hand and put out the

other, waiting for some one who followed her.

 

Then down into the room stepped my grandfather,

John Marshall Glenarm! His staff, his cloak, the silk

hat above his shrewd face, and his sharp black eyes were

unmistakable. He drew a silk handkerchief from the

skirts of his frock coat, with a characteristic flourish

that I remembered well, and brushed a bit of dust from

his cloak before looking at any of us. Then his eyes

fell upon me.

 

“Good morning, Jack,” he said; and his gaze swept

the room.

 

“God help us!”

 

It was Morgan, I think, who screamed these words as

he bolted for the broken door, but Stoddard caught and

held him.

 

“Thank God, you’re here, sir!” boomed forth in Bates’

sepulchral voice.

 

It seemed to me that I saw all that happened with a

weird, unnatural distinctness, as one sees, before a

storm, vivid outlines of far headlands that the usual

light of day scarce discloses.

 

I was myself dazed and spellbound; but I do not like

to think, even now, of the effect of my grandfather’s

appearance on Arthur Pickering; of the shock that

seemed verily to break him in two, so that he staggered,

then collapsed, his head falling as though to strike his

knees. Larry caught him by the collar and dragged him

to a seat, where he huddled, his twitching hands at his

throat.

 

“Gentlemen,” said my grandfather, “you seem to have

been enjoying yourselves. Who is this person?”

 

He pointed with his stick to the sheriff, who was endeavoring

to crawl out from under the mass of broken

crystals.

 

“That, sir, is the sheriff,” answered Bates.

 

“A very disorderly man, I must say. Jack, what

have you been doing to cause the sheriff so much inconvenience?

Didn’t you know that that chandelier was

likely to kill him? That thing cost a thousand dollars,

gentlemen. You are expensive visitors. Ah, Morgan—

and Ferguson, too! Well, well! I thought better of both

of you. Good morning, Stoddard! A little work for

the Church militant! And this gentleman?”—he indicated

Larry, who was, for once in his life, without anything

to say.

 

“Mr. Donovan—a friend of the house,” explained

Bates.

 

“Pleased, I’m sure,” said the old gentleman. “Glad

the house had a friend. It seems to have had enemies

enough,” he added dolefully; and he eyed the wreck of

the room ruefully. The good humor in his face reassured

me; but still I stood in tongue-tied wonder, staring

at him.

 

“And Pickering!” John Marshall Glenarm’s voice

broke with a quiet mirth that I remembered as the preface

usually of something unpleasant. “Well, Arthur,

I’m glad to find you on guard, defending the interests

of my estate. At the risk of your life, too! Bates!”

 

“Yes, Mr. Glenarm.”

 

“You ought to have called me earlier. I really prized

that chandelier immensely. And this furniture wasn’t

so bad!”

 

His tone changed abruptly. He pointed to the

sheriff’s deputies one after the other with his stick.

There was, I remembered, always something insinuating,

disagreeable and final about my grandfather’s staff.

 

“Clear out!” he commanded. “Bates, see these fellows

through the wall. Mr. Sheriff, if I were you I’d

be very careful, indeed, what I said of this affair. I’m

a dead man come to life again, and I know a great deal

that I didn’t know before I died. Nothing, gentlemen,

fits a man for life like a temporary absence from this

cheerful and pleasant world. I recommend you to try

it.”

 

He walked about the room with the quick eager step

that was peculiarly his own, while Stoddard, Larry and

I stared at him. Bates was helping the dazed sheriff

to his feet. Morgan and the rest of the foe were crawling

and staggering away, muttering, as though imploring

the air of heaven against an evil spirit.

 

Pickering sat silent, not sure whether he saw a ghost

or real flesh and blood, and Larry kept close to him, cutting

off his retreat. I think we all experienced that bewildered

feeling of children who are caught in mischief

by a sudden parental visitation. My grandfather went

about peering at the books, with a tranquil air that was

disquieting.

 

He paused suddenly before the design for the memorial

tablet, which I had made early in my stay at

Glenarm House. I had sketched the lettering with some

care, and pinned it against a shelf for my more leisurely

study of its phrases. The old gentlemen pulled out his

glasses and stood with his hands behind his back, reading.

When he finished he walked to where I stood.

 

“Jack!” he said, “Jack, my boy!” His voice shook

and his hands trembled as he laid them on my shoulders.

“Marian,”—he turned, seeking her, but the girl had

vanished. “Just as well,” he said. “This room is hardly

an edifying sight for a woman.” I heard, for an instant,

a light hurried step in the wall.

 

Pickering, too, heard that faint, fugitive sound, and

our eyes met at the instant it ceased. The thought of

her tore my heart, and I felt that Pickering saw and

knew and was glad.

 

“They have all gone, sir,” reported Bates, returning

to the room.

 

“Now, gentlemen,” began my grandfather, seating

himself, “I owe you an apology; this little secret of mine

was shared by only two persons. One of these was Bates,”

—he paused as an exclamation broke from all of us; and

he went on, enjoying our amazement—“and the other

was Marian Devereux. I had often observed that at a

man’s death his property gets into the wrong hands, or

becomes a bone of contention among lawyers. Sometimes,”

and the old gentleman laughed, “an executor

proves incompetent or dishonest. I was thoroughly

fooled in you, Pickering. The money you owe me is a

large sum; and you were so delighted to hear of my

death that you didn’t even make sure I was really out of

the way. You were perfectly willing to accept Bates’

word for it; and I must say that Bates carried it off

splendidly.”

 

Pickering rose, the blood surging again in his face,

and screamed at Bates, pointing a shaking finger at the

man.

 

“You impostor—you perjurer! The law will deal

with your case.”

 

“To be sure,” resumed my grandfather calmly;

“Bates did make false affidavits about my death; but

possibly—”

 

“It was in a Pickwickian sense, sir,” said Bates

gravely.

 

“And in a righteous cause,” declared my grandfather.

“I assure you, Pickering, that I have every intention of

taking care of Bates. His weekly letters giving an account

of the curious manifestations of your devotion to

Jack’s security and peace were alone worth a goodly

sum. But, Bates—”

 

The old gentleman was enjoying himself hugely. He

chuckled now, and placed his hand on my shoulder.

 

“Bates, it was too bad I got those missives of yours

all in a bunch. I was in a dahabiyeh on the Nile and

they don’t have rural free delivery in Egypt. Your

cablegram called me home before I got the letters. But

thank God, Jack, you’re alive!”

 

There was real feeling in these last words, and I

think we were all touched by them.

 

“Amen to that!” cried Bates.

 

“And now, Pickering, before you go I want to show

you something. It’s about this mysterious treasure, that

has given you—and I hear, the whole countryside—so

much concern. I’m disappointed in you, Jack, that you

couldn’t find the hiding-place. I designed that as a part

of your architectural education. Bates, give me a

chair.”

 

The man gravely drew a chair out of the wreckage

and placed it upon the hearth. My grandfather stepped

upon it, seized one of the bronze sconces above the mantel

and gave it a sharp turn. At the same moment,

Bates, upon another chair, grasped the companion

bronze and wrenched it sharply. Instantly some mechanism

creaked in the great oak chimney-breast and the

long oak panels swung open, disclosing a steel door with

a combination knob.

 

“Gentlemen,”—and my grandfather turned with a

quaint touch of humor, and a merry twinkle in his

bright old eyes—“gentlemen, behold the treasury! It

has proved a better hiding-place than I ever imagined

it would. There’s not much here, Jack, but enough to

keep you going for a while.”

 

We were all staring, and the old gentleman was unfeignedly

enjoying our mystification. It was an hour

on which he had evidently counted much; it was the

triumph of his resurrection and home-coming, and he

chuckled as he twirled the knob in the steel door. Then

Bates stepped forward and helped him pull the door

open, disclosing a narrow steel chest, upright and held

in place by heavy bolts clamped in the stone of the chimney.

It was filled with packets of papers placed on

shelves, and tied neatly with tape.

 

“Jack,” said my grandfather, shaking his head, “you

wouldn’t be an architect, and you’re not much of an

engineer either, or you’d have seen that that paneling

was heavier than was necessary. There’s two hundred

thousand dollars in first-rate securities—I vouch for

them! Bates and I put them there just before I went

to Vermont to die.”

 

“I’ve sounded those panels a dozen times,” I protested.

 

“Of course you have,” said my grandfather, “but

solid steel behind wood is safe. I tested it carefully before

I left.”

 

He laughed and clapped his knees, and I laughed with

him.

 

“But you found the Door of Bewilderment and Pickering’s

notes, and that’s something.”

 

“No; I didn’t even find that. Donovan deserves the

credit. But how did you ever come to build that tunnel,

if you don’t mind telling me?”

 

He laughed gleefully.

 

“That was originally a trench for natural-gas pipes.

There was once a large pumping-station on the site of

this house, with a big trunk main running off across

country to supply the