The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (good ebook reader .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER X

AN AFFAIR WITH THE CARETAKER

 

I read in the library until late, hearing the howl of

the wind outside with satisfaction in the warmth and

comfort of the great room. Bates brought in some sandwiches

and a bottle of ale at midnight.

 

“If there’s nothing more, sir—”

 

“That is all, Bates.” And he went off sedately to his

own quarters.

 

I was restless and in no mood for bed and mourned

the lack of variety in my grandfather’s library. I moved

about from shelf to shelf, taking down one book after

another, and while thus engaged came upon a series of

large volumes extra-illustrated in water-colors of unusual

beauty. They occupied a lower shelf, and I

sprawled on the floor, like a boy with a new picture-book,

in my absorption, piling the great volumes about me.

They were on related subjects pertaining to the French

chateaux.

 

In the last volume I found a sheet of white note-paper

no larger than my hand, a forgotten book-mark,

I assumed, and half-crumpled it in my fingers before I

noticed the lines of a pencil sketch on one side of it. I

carried it to the table and spread it out.

 

It was not the bit of idle penciling it had appeared

to be at first sight. A scale had evidently been followed

and the lines drawn with a ruler. With such trifles my

grandfather had no doubt amused himself. There was

a long corridor indicated, but of this I could make nothing.

I studied it for several minutes, thinking it might

have been a tentative sketch of some part of the house.

In turning it about under the candelabrum I saw that

in several places the glaze had been rubbed from the

paper by an eraser, and this piqued my curiosity. I

brought a magnifying glass to bear upon the sketch.

The drawing had been made with a hard pencil and the

eraser had removed the lead, but a well-defined imprint

remained.

 

I was able to make out the letters N. W. 3/4 to C.—

a reference clearly enough to points of the compass and

a distance. The word ravine was scrawled over a rough

outline of a doorway or opening of some sort, and then

the phrase:

 

THE DOOR OF BEWILDERMENT

 

Now I am rather an imaginative person; that is why

engineering captured my fancy. It was through his trying

to make an architect (a person who quarrels with

women about their kitchen sinks!) of a boy who wanted

to be an engineer that my grandfather and I failed to hit

it off. From boyhood I have never seen a great bridge or

watched a locomotive climb a difficult hillside without

a thrill; and a lighthouse still seems to me quite the

finest monument a man can build for himself. My

grandfather’s devotion to old churches and medieval

houses always struck me as trifling and unworthy of a

grown man. And fate was busy with my affairs that

night, for, instead of lighting my pipe with the little

sketch, I was strangely impelled to study it seriously.

 

I drew for myself rough outlines of the interior of

Glenarm House as it had appeared to me, and then I

tried to reconcile the little sketch with every part of

it.

 

“The Door of Bewilderment” was the charm that held

me. The phrase was in itself a lure. The man who had

built a preposterous house in the woods of Indiana and

called it “The House of a Thousand Candles” was quite

capable of other whims; and as I bent over this scrap of

paper in the candle-lighted library it occurred to me

that possibly I had not done justice to my grandfather’s

genius. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused as to the

hidden corners of the queer old house, round which the

wind shrieked tormentingly.

 

I went to my room, put on my corduroy coat for its

greater warmth in going through the cold halls, took a

candle and went below. One o’clock in the morning is

not the most cheering hour for exploring the dark recesses

of a strange house, but I had resolved to have a

look at the ravine-opening and determine, if possible,

whether it bore any relation to “The Door of Bewilderment.”

 

All was quiet in the great cellar; only here and there

an area window rattled dolorously. I carried a tape-line

with me and made measurements of the length and

depth of the corridor and of the chambers that were set

off from it. These figures I entered in my note-book for

further use, and sat down on an empty nail-keg to reflect.

The place was certainly substantial; the candle

at my feet burned steadily with no hint of a draft; but

I saw no solution of my problem. All the doors along

the corridor were open, or yielded readily to my hand.

I was losing sleep for nothing; my grandfather’s sketch

was meaningless, and I rose and picked up my candle,

yawning.

 

Then a curious thing happened. The candle, whose

thin flame had risen unwaveringly, sputtered and went

out as a sudden gust swept the corridor.

 

I had left nothing open behind me, and the outer

doors of the house were always locked and barred. But

some one had gained ingress to the cellar by an opening

of which I knew nothing.

 

I faced the stairway that led up to the back hall of the

house, when to my astonishment, steps sounded behind

me and, turning, I saw, coming toward me, a man carrying

a lantern. I marked his careless step; he was undoubtedly

on familiar ground. As I watched him he

paused, lifted the lantern to a level with his eyes and

began sounding the wall with a hammer.

 

Here, undoubtedly, was my friend Morgan—again!

There was the same periodicity in the beat on the wall

that I had heard in my own rooms. He began at the

top and went methodically to the floor. I leaned

against the wall where I stood and watched the lantern

slowly coming toward me. The small revolver with

which I had fired at his flying figure in the wood was in

my pocket. It was just as well to have it out with the

fellow now. My chances were as good as his, though I

confess I did not relish the thought of being found dead

the next morning in the cellar of my own house. It

pleased my humor to let him approach in this way, unconscious

that he was watched, until I should thrust my

pistol into his face.

 

His arms grew tired when he was about ten feet from

me and he dropped the lantern and hammer to his side,

and swore under his breath impatiently.

 

Then he began again, with greater zeal. As he came

nearer I studied his face in the lantern’s light with interest.

His hat was thrust back, and I could see his jaw

hard-set under his blond beard.

 

He took a step nearer, ran his eyes over the wall and

resumed his tapping. The ceiling was something less

than eight feet, and he began at the top. In settling

himself for the new series of strokes he swayed toward

me slightly, and I could hear his hard breathing. I was

deliberating how best to throw myself upon him, but as

I wavered he stepped back, swore at his ill-luck and

flung the hammer to the ground.

 

“Thanks!” I shouted, leaping forward and snatching

the lantern. “Stand just where you are!”

 

With the revolver in my right hand and the lantern

held high in my left, I enjoyed his utter consternation,

as my voice roared in the corridor.

 

“It’s too bad we meet under such strange circumstances,

Morgan,” I said. “I’d begun to miss you; but

I suppose you’ve been sleeping in the daytime to gather

strength for your night prowling.”

 

“You’re a fool,” he growled. He was recovering from

his fright—I knew it by the gleam of his teeth in his

yellow beard. His eyes, too, were moving restlessly

about. He undoubtedly knew the house better than I

did, and was considering the best means of escape. I

did not know what to do with him now that I had him

at the point of a pistol; and in my ignorance of his motives

and my vague surmise as to the agency back of

him, I was filled with uncertainty.

 

“You needn’t hold that thing quite so near,” he said,

staring at me coolly.

 

“I’m glad it annoys you, Morgan,” I said. “It may

help you to answer some questions I’m going to put to

you.”

 

“So you want information, do you, Mr. Glenarm? I

should think it would be beneath the dignity of a great

man like you to ask a poor devil like me for help.”

 

“We’re not talking of dignity,” I said. “I want you

to