The House of a Thousand Candles, Meredith Nicholson [13 inch ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: Meredith Nicholson
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where there were lines to run, tracks to lay and bridges
to build.
These thoughts so filled my mind that I forgot he
was patiently waiting for my answer.
“I should like to do anything you ask; I should like
to stay here always, but I can’t. Don’t misunderstand
me. I have no intention of going back to my old ways.
I squandered enough money in my wanderings, and I
had my joy of that kind of thing. I shall find employment
somewhere and go to work.”
“But, Jack,”—he bent toward me kindly—“Jack, you
mustn’t be led away by any mere quixotism into laying
the foundation of your own fortune. What I have is
yours, boy. What is in the box in the chimney is yours
now—to-day.”
“I wish you wouldn’t! You were always too kind,
and I deserve nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“I’m not trying to pay you, Jack. I want to ease my
own conscience, that’s all.”
“But money can do nothing for mine,” I replied, trying
to smile. “I’ve been dependent all my days, and
now I’m going to work. If you were infirm and needed
me, I should not hesitate, but the world will have its
eyes on me now.”
“Jack, that will of mine did you a great wrong; it
put a mark upon you, and that’s what hurts me, that’s
what I want to make amends for! Don’t you see? Now
don’t punish me, boy. Come! Let us be friends!”
He rose and put out his hands.
“I didn’t mean that! I don’t care about that! It
was nothing more than I deserved. These months here
have changed me. Haven’t you heard me say I was going
to work?”
And I tried to laugh away further discussion of my
future.
“It will be more cheerful here in the spring,” he said,
as though seeking an inducement for me to remain.
“When the resort colony down here comes to life the
lake is really gay.”
I shook my head. The lake, that pretty cupful of
water, the dip and glide of a certain canoe, the remembrance
of a red tam-o’-shanter merging afar off in an
October sunset—my purpose to leave the place strengthened
as I thought of these things. My nerves were
keyed to a breaking pitch and I turned upon him stormily.
“So Miss Devereux was the other person who shared
your confidence! Do you understand—do you appreciate
the fact that she was Pickering’s ally?”
“I certainly do not,” he replied coldly. “I’m surprised
to hear you speak so of a woman whom you can
scarcely know—”
“Yes, I know her; my God, I have reason to know her!
But even when I found her out I did not dream that
the plot was as deep as it is. She knew that it was a
scheme to test me, and she played me into Pickering’s
hands. I saw her only a few nights ago down there in
the tunnel acting as his spy, looking for the lost notes
that she might gain grace in his eyes by turning them
over to him. You know I always hated Pickering—he
was too smooth, too smug, and you and everybody else
were for ever praising him to me. He was always held
up to me as a model; and the first time I saw Marian
Devereux she was with him—it was at Sherry’s the night
before I came here. I suppose she reached St. Agatha’s
only a few hours ahead of me.”
“Yes. Sister Theresa was her guardian. Her father
was a dear friend, and I knew her from her early childhood.
You are mistaken, Jack. Her knowing Pickering
means nothing—they both lived in New York and
moved in the same circle.”
“But it doesn’t explain her efforts to help him, does
it?” I blazed. “He wished to marry her—Sister
Theresa told me that—and I failed, I failed miserably
to keep my obligation here—I ran away to follow her!”
“Ah, to be sure! You were away Christmas Eve,
when those vandals broke in. Bates merely mentioned
it in the last report I got as I came through New York.
That was all right. I assumed, of course, that you had
gone off somewhere to get a little Christmas cheer; I
don’t care anything about it.”
“But I had followed her—I went to Cincinnati to see
her. She dared me to come—it was a trick, a part of
the conspiracy to steal your property.”
The old gentleman smiled. It was a familiar way of
his, to grow calm as other people waxed angry.
“She dared you to come, did she! That is quite like
Marian; but you didn’t have to go, did you, Jack?”
“Of course not; of course I didn’t have to go, but—”
I stammered, faltered and ceased. Memory threw
open her portals with a challenge. I saw her on the
stairway at the Armstrongs’; I heard her low, soft
laughter, I felt the mockery of her voice and eyes! I
knew again the exquisite delight of being near her. My
heart told me well enough why I had followed her.
“Jack, I’m glad I’m not buried up there in that Vermont
graveyard with nobody to exercise the right of
guardianship over you. I’ve had my misgivings about
you; I used to think you were a born tramp; and you disappointed
me in turning your back on architecture—the
noblest of all professions; but this performance of yours
really beats them all. Don’t you know that a girl like
Marian Devereux isn’t likely to become the agent of any
rascal? Do you really believe for a minute that she
tempted you to follow her, so you might forfeit your
rights to my property?”
“But why was she trying to find those notes of his?
Why did she come back from Cincinnati with his party?
If you could answer me those things, maybe I’d admit
that I’m a fool. Pickering, I imagine, is a pretty plausible
fellow where women are concerned.”
“For God’s sake, Jack, don’t speak of that girl as
women! I put her in that will of mine to pique your
curiosity, knowing that if there was a penalty on your
marrying her you would be wholly likely to do it—for
that’s the way human beings are made. But you’ve
mixed it all up now, and insulted her in the grossest
way possible for a fellow who is really a gentleman. And
I don’t want to lose you; I want you here with me,
Jack! This is a beautiful country, this Indiana!
And what I want to do is to found an estate, to
build a house that shall be really beautiful—something
these people hereabouts can be proud of—
and I want you to have it with me, Jack, to
link our name to these woods and that pretty lake. I’d
rather have that for my neighbor than any lake in Scotland.
These rich Americans, who go to England to live,
don’t appreciate the beauty of their own country. This
landscape is worthy of the best that man can do. And
I didn’t undertake to build a crazy house so much as
one that should have some dignity and character. That
passage around the chimney is an indulgence, Jack—
I’ll admit it’s a little bizarre—you see that chimney
isn’t so big outside as it is in!”—and he laughed and
rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands—“and my
bringing foreign laborers here wasn’t really to make it
easier to get things done my way. Wait till you have
seen the May-apples blossom and heard the robins sing
in the summer twilight—help me to finish the house—
then if you want to leave I’ll bid you God-speed.”
The feeling in his tone, the display of sentiment so
at variance with my old notion of him, touched me in
spite of myself. There was a characteristic nobility and
dignity in his plan; it was worthy of him. And I had
never loved him as now, when he finished this appeal,
and turned away to the window, gazing out upon the
somber woodland.
“Mr. Donovan is ready to go, sir,” announced Bates
at the door, and we went into the library, where Larry
and Stoddard were waiting.
SHORTER VISTAS
Larry had assembled his effects in the library, and to
my surprise, Stoddard appeared with his own hand-bag.
“I’m going to see Donovan well on his way,” said the
clergyman.
“It’s a pity our party must break up,” exclaimed my
grandfather. “My obligations to Mr. Donovan are very
great—and to you, too, Stoddard. Jack’s friends are
mine hereafter, and when we get new doors for Glenarm
House you shall honor me by accepting duplicate
keys.”
“Where’s Bates?” asked Larry, and the man came in,
respectfully, inperturbably as always, and began gathering
up the bags.
“Stop—one moment! Mr. Glenarm,” said Larry.
“Before I go I want to congratulate you on the splendid
courage of this man who has served you and your house
with so much faithfulness and tact. And I want to tell
you something else, that you probably would never learn
from him—”
“Donovan!” There was a sharp cry in Bates’ voice,
and he sprang forward with his hands outstretched entreatingly.
But Larry did not heed him.
“The moment I set eyes on this man I recognized
him. It’s not fair to you or to him that you should not
know him for what he is. Let me introduce an old
friend, Walter Creighton; he was a student at Dublin
when I was there—I remember him as one of the best
fellows in the world.”
“For God’s sake—no!” pleaded Bates. He was deeply
moved and turned his face away from us.
“But, like me,” Larry went on, “he mixed in politics.
One night in a riot at Dublin a constable was killed.
No one knew who was guilty, but a youngster was suspected,
—the son of one of the richest and best-known
men in Ireland, who happened to get mixed in the row.
To draw attention from the boy, Creighton let suspicion
attach to his own name, and, to help the boy’s case
further, ran away. I had not heard from or of him until
the night I came here and found him the defender of
this house. By God! that was no servant’s trick—it was
the act of a royal gentleman.”
They clasped hands; and with a new light in his face,
with a new manner, as though he resumed, as a familiar
garment, an old disused personality, Bates stood transfigured
in the twilight, a man and a gentleman. I think
we were all drawn to him; I know that a sob clutched
my throat and tears filled my eyes as I grasped his hand.
“But what in the devil did you do it for?” blurted
my grandfather, excitedly twirling his glasses.
Bates (I still call him Bates—he insists on it)
laughed. For the first time he thrust his hands into his
pockets and stood at his ease, one of us.
“Larry, you remember I showed a fondness for the
stage in our university days. When I got to America I
had little money and found it necessary to find employment
without delay. I saw Mr. Glenarm’s advertisement
for a valet. Just as a lark I answered it to see
what an American gentleman seeking a valet looked
like. I fell in love with Mr. Glenarm at sight—”
“It was mutual!” declared my grandfather. “I never
believed your story at all—you were too perfect in the
part!”
“Well, I didn’t greatly mind the valet business; it
helped to hide
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