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

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.