The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕

“Open order, and fall back slowly toward the house,”

I commanded. And we deployed from the boat-house,

while the attacking party still clung together—a strategic

error, as Larry assured us.

“Stay together, lads. Don’t separate; you’ll get lost

if you do,” he yelled.

Stoddard bade him keep still, and we soon had our

hands full with a preliminary skirmish. Morgan’s line

advanced warily. Davidson, the detective, seemed disgusted

at Morgan’s tactics, openly abused the caretaker,

and ran ahead of his column, revolver in hand,

bearing down upon Larry, who held our center.

The Englishman’s haste was his undoing. The light

fall of snow a few days before had gathered in the little

hollows of the wood deceptively. The detective plunged

into one of these and fell sprawling on all fours—a

calamity that caused his comrades to pause uneasily.

Larry was upon his enemy in a flash, wrenched his pistol

away and pulled the man to his feet.

“Ah, Davidson! There’s many a slip! Move, if you

dare and I’ll plug you with your own gun.” And he

stood behind the man, using him as a shield while Morgan

and the rest of the army hung near the boat-house

uncertainly.

“It’s the strategic intellect we’ve captured, General,”

observed Larry to me. “You see the American invaders

were depending on British brains.”

Morgan now acted on the hint we had furnished him

and sent his men out as skirmishers. The loss of the

detective had undoubtedly staggered the caretaker, and

we were slowly retreating toward the house, Larry with

one hand on the collar of his prisoner and the other

grasping the revolver with which he poked the man

frequently in the ribs. We slowly continued our retreat,

fearing a rush, which would have disposed of us

easily enough if Morgan’s company had shown more of

a fighting spirit. Stoddard’s presence rather amazed

them, I think, and I saw that the invaders kept away

from his end of the line. We were far apart, stumbling

over the snow-covered earth and calling to one another

now and then that we might not become too widely separated.

Davidson did not relish his capture by the man

he had followed across the ocean, and he attempted once

to roar a command to Morgan.

“Try it again,” I heard Larry admonish him, “try

that once more, and The Sod, God bless it! will never

feel the delicate imprint of your web-feet again.”

He turned the man about and rushed him toward the

house, the revolver still serving as a prod. His speed

gave heart to the wary invaders immediately behind him

and two fellows urged and led by Morgan charged our

line at a smart pace.

“Bolt for the front door,” I called to Larry, and Stoddard

and I closed in after him to guard his retreat.

“They’re not shooting,” called Stoddard. “You may

be sure they’ve had their orders to capture the house

with as little row as possible.”

We were now nearing the edge of the wood, with the

open meadow and water-tower at our backs, while Larry

was making good time toward the house.

“Let’s meet them here,” shouted Stoddard.

Morgan was coming up with a club in his hand, making

directly for me, two men at his heels, and the rest

veering off toward the wall of St. Agatha’s.

“Watch the house,” I yelled to the chaplain; and

then, on the edge of the wood Morgan came at me furiously,

swinging his club over his head, and in a moment

we were fencing away at a merry rate. We both had

revolvers strapped to our waists, but I had no intention

of drawing mine unless in extremity. At my right

Stoddard was busy keeping off Morgan’s personal

guard, who seemed reluctant to close with the clergyman.

I have been, in my day, something of a fencer, and

my knowledge of the foils stood me in good stead now.

With a tremendous thwack I knocked Morgan’s club

flying over the snow, and, as we grappled, Bates yelled

from the house. I quickly found that Morgan’s wounded

arm was still tender. He flinched at the first grapple,

and his anger got the better of his judgment. We

kicked up the snow at a great rate as we feinted and

dragged each other about. He caught hold of my belt

with one hand and with a great wrench nearly dragged

me from my feet, but I pinioned his arms and bent

him backward, then, by a trick Larry had taught me,

flung him upon his side. It is not, I confess, a pretty

business, matching your brute strength against that of

a fellow man, and as I cast myself upon him and felt

his hard-blown breath on my face, I hated myself more

than I hated him for engaging in so ignoble a contest.

Bates continued to call from the house.

“Come on at any cost,” shouted Stoddard, putting

himself between me and the men who were flying to

Morgan’s aid.

I sprang away from my adversary, snatching his revolver,

and ran toward the house, Stoddard close behind,

but keeping himself well between me and the men who

were now after us in full cry.

“Shoot, you fools, shoot!” howled Morgan, and as we

reached the open meadow and ran for the house a shot-gun

roared back of us and buckshot snapped and rattled

on the stone of the water tower.

“There’s the sheriff,” called Stoddard behind me.

The officer of the law and his deputy ran into the

park from the gate of St. Agatha’s, while the rest of

Morgan’s party were skirting the wall to join them.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” yelled Morgan, and I felt Stoddard

pause in his gigantic stride to throw himself between

me and the pursuers.

“Sprint for it hot,” he called very coolly, as though

he were coaching me in a contest of the most amiable

sort imaginable.

“Get away from those guns,” I panted, angered by

the very generosity of his defense.

“Feint for the front entrance and then run for the

terrace and the library-door,” he commanded, as we

crossed the little ravine bridge. “They’ve got us headed

off.”

Twice the guns boomed behind us, and twice I saw

shot cut into the snow about me.

“I’m all right,” called Stoddard reassuringly, still

at my back. “They’re not a bit anxious to kill me.”

I was at the top of my speed now, but the clergyman

kept close at my heels. I was blowing hard, but he

made equal time with perfect ease.

The sheriff was bawling orders to his forces, who

awaited us before the front door. Bates and Larry were

not visible, but I had every confidence that the Irishman

would reappear in the fight at the earliest moment

possible. Bates, too, was to be reckoned with, and the

final struggle, if it came in the house itself, might not

be so unequal, providing we knew the full strength

of the enemy.

“Now for the sheriff—here we go!” cried Stoddard—

beside me—and we were close to the fringe of trees that

shielded the entrance. Then off we veered suddenly to

the left, close upon the terrace, where one of the French

windows was thrown open and Larry and Bates stepped

out, urging us on with lusty cries.

They caught us by the arms and dragged us over

where the balustrade was lowest, and we crowded

through the door and slammed it. As Bates snapped

the bolts Morgan’s party discharged its combined artillery

and the sheriff began a great clatter at the front

door.

“Gentlemen, we’re in a state of siege,” observed

Larry, filling his pipe.

Shot pattered on the wails and several panes of glass

cracked in the French windows.

“All’s tight below, sir,” reported Bates. “I thought

it best to leave the tunnel trap open for our own use.

Those fellows won’t come in that way—it’s too much

like a blind alley.”

“Where’s your prisoner, Larry?”

“Potato cellar, quite comfortable, thanks!”

It was ten o’clock and the besiegers suddenly withdrew

a short distance for parley among themselves. Outside

the sun shone brightly; and the sky was never bluer.

In this moment of respite, while we made ready for

what further the day might bring forth, I climbed up

to the finished tower to make sure we knew the enemy’s

full strength. I could see over the tree-tops, beyond the

chapel tower, the roofs of St. Agatha’s. There, at least,

was peace. And in that moment, looking over the black

wood, with the snow lying upon the ice of the lake white

and gleaming under the sun, I felt unutterably lonely

and heartsick, and tired of strife. It seemed a thousand

years ago that I had walked and talked with the

child Olivia; and ten thousand years more since the

girl in gray at the Annandale station had wakened in

me a higher aim, and quickened a better impulse than I

had ever known.

Larry roared my name through the lower floors. I

went down with no wish in my heart but to even matters

with Pickering and be done with my grandfather’s

legacy for ever.

“The sheriff and Morgan have gone back toward the

lake,” reported Larry.

“They’ve gone to consult their chief,” I said. “I

wish Pickering would lead his own battalions. It would

give social prestige to the fight.”

“Bah, these women!” And Larry tore the corner

from a cartridge box.

Stoddard, with a pile of clubs within reach, lay on

his back on the long leather couch, placidly reading his

Greek testament. Bates, for the first time since my arrival,

seemed really nervous and anxious, He pulled a

silver watch from his pocket several times, something I

had never seen him do before. He leaned against the

table, looking strangely tired and worn, and I saw him

start nervously as he felt Larry’s eyes on him.

“I think, sir, I’d better take another look at the outer

gates,” he remarked to me quite respectfully.

His disturbed air aroused my old antagonism. Was

he playing double in the matter? Did he seek now an

excuse for conveying some message to the enemy?

“You’ll stay where you are,” I said sharply, and I

found myself restlessly fingering my revolver.

“Very good, sir,”—and the hurt look in his eyes

touched me.

“Bates is all right,” Larry declared, with an emphasis

that was meant to rebuke me.