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

THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES

Annandale derives its chief importance from the fact

that two railway lines intersect there. The Chicago

Express paused only for a moment while the porter deposited

my things beside me on the platform. Light

streamed from the open door of the station; a few

idlers paced the platform, staring into the windows of

the cars; the village hackman languidly solicited my

business. Suddenly out of the shadows came a tall,

curious figure of a man clad in a long ulster. As I

write, it is with a quickening of the sensation I received

on the occasion of my first meeting with Bates. His

lank gloomy figure rises before me now, and I hear his

deep melancholy voice, as, touching his hat respectfully,

be said:

“Beg pardon, sir; is this Mr. Glenarm? I am Bates

from Glenarm House. Mr. Pickering wired me to meet

you, sir.”

“Yes; to be sure,” I said.

The hackman was already gathering up my traps,

and I gave him my trunk-checks.

“How far is it?” I asked, my eyes resting, a little regretfully,

I must confess, on the rear lights of the vanishing

train.

“Two miles, sir,” Bates replied. “There’s no way

over but the hack in winter. In summer the steamer

comes right into our dock.”

“My legs need stretching; I’ll walk,” I suggested,

drawing the cool air into my lungs. It was a still, starry

October night, and its freshness was grateful after the

hot sleeper. Bates accepted the suggestion without

comment. We walked to the end of the platform, where

the hackman was already tumbling my trunks about,

and after we had seen them piled upon his nondescript

wagon, I followed Bates down through the broad quiet

street of the village. There was more of Annandale

than I had imagined, and several tall smoke-stacks

loomed here and there in the thin starlight.

“Brick-yards, sir,” said Bates, waving his hand at

the stacks. “It’s a considerable center for that kind of

business.”

“Bricks without straw?” I asked, as we passed a

radiant saloon that blazed upon the board walk.

“Beg pardon, sir, but such places are the ruin of

men,”—on which remark I based a mental note that

Bates wished to impress me with his own rectitude.

He swung along beside me, answering questions with

dogged brevity. Clearly, here was a man who had reduced

human intercourse to a basis of necessity. I was

to be shut up with him for a year, and he was not likely

to prove a cheerful jailer. My feet struck upon a graveled

highway at the end of the village street, and I

heard suddenly the lapping of water.

“It’s the lake, sir. This road leads right out to the

house,” Bates explained.

I was doomed to meditate pretty steadily, I imagined,

on the beauty of the landscape in these parts, and I

was rejoiced to know that it was not all cheerless prairie

or gloomy woodland. The wind freshened cud blew

sharply upon us off the water.

“The fishing’s quite good in season. Mr. Glenarm

used to take great pleasure in it. Bass—yes, sir. Mr.

Glenarm held there was nothing quite equal to a black

bass.”

I liked the way the fellow spoke of my grandfather.

He was evidently a loyal retainer. No doubt he could

summon from the past many pictures of my grandfather,

and I determined to encourage his confidence.

Any resentment I felt on first hearing the terms of

my grandfather’s will had passed. He had treated me

as well as I deserved, and the least I could do was to

accept the penalty he had laid upon me in a sane and

amiable spirit. This train of thought occupied me as

we tramped along the highway. The road now led away

from the lake and through a heavy wood. Presently, on

the right loomed a dark barrier, and I put out my hand

and touched a wall of rough stone that rose to a height

of about eight feet.

“What is this, Bates?” I asked.

“This is Glenarm land, sir. The wall was one of

your grandfather’s ideas. It’s a quarter of a mile long

and cost him a pretty penny, I warrant you. The road

turns off from the lake now, but the Glenarm property

is all lake front.”

So there was a wall about my prison house! I grinned

cheerfully to myself. When, a few moments later, my

guide paused at an arched gateway in the long wall,

drew from his overcoat a bunch of keys and fumbled at

the lock of an iron gate, I felt the spirit of adventure

quicken within me.

The gate clicked behind us and Bates found a lantern

and lighted it with the ease of custom.

“I use this gate because it’s nearer. The regular entrance

is farther down the road. Keep close, sir, as the

timber isn’t much cleared.”

The undergrowth was indeed heavy, and I followed

the lantern of my guide with difficulty. In the darkness

the place seemed as wild and rough as a tropical wilderness.

“Only a little farther,” rose Bates’ voice ahead of

me; and then: “There’s the light, sir,”—and, lifting

my eyes, as I stumbled over the roots of a great tree, I

saw for the first time the dark outlines of Glenarm

House.

“Here we are, sir!” exclaimed Bates, stamping his

feet upon a walk. I followed him to what I assumed to

be the front door of the house, where a lamp shone

brightly at either side of a massive entrance. Bates

flung it open without ado, and I stepped quickly into

a great hall that was lighted dimly by candles fastened

into brackets on the walls.

“I hope you’ve not expected too much, Mr. Glenarm,”

said Bates, with a tone of mild apology. “It’s very incomplete

for living purposes.”

“Well, we’ve got to make the best of it,” I answered,

though without much cheer. The sound of our steps

reverberated and echoed in the well of a great staircase.

There was not, as far as I could see, a single article of

furniture in the place.

“Here’s something you’ll like better, sir,”—and Bates

paused far down the ball and opened a door.

A single candle made a little pool of light in what I

felt to be a large room. I was prepared for a disclosure

of barren ugliness, and waited, in heartsick foreboding,

for the silent guide to reveal a dreary prison.

“Please sit here, sir,” said Bates, “while I make a

better light.”

He moved through the dark room with perfect ease,

struck a match, lighted a taper and went swiftly and

softly about. He touched the taper to one candle after

another—they seemed to be everywhere—and won

from the dark a faint twilight, that yielded slowly to a

growing mellow splendor of light. I have often watched

the acolytes in dim cathedrals of the Old World set

countless candles ablaze on magnificent altars—always

with awe for the beauty of the spectacle; but in this

unknown house the austere serving-man summoned

from the shadows a lovelier and more bewildering enchantment.

Youth alone, of beautiful things, is lovelier

than light.

The lines of the walls receded as the light increased,

and the raftered ceiling drew away, luring the eyes upward.

I rose with a smothered exclamation on my lips

and stared about, snatching off my hat in reverence as

the spirit of the place wove its spell about me. Everywhere

there were books; they covered the walls to the

ceiling, with only long French windows and an enormous

fireplace breaking the line. Above the fireplace a

massive dark oak chimney-breast further emphasized

the grand scale of the room. From every conceivable

place—from shelves built for the purpose, from brackets

that thrust out long arms among the books, from a

great crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and

from the breast of the chimney—innumerable candles

blazed with dazzling brilliancy. I exclaimed in wonder

and pleasure as Bates paused, his sorcerer’s wand in

hand.

“Mr. Glenarm was very fond of candle-light; he

liked to gather up candlesticks, and his collection is

very fine. He called his place ‘The House of a Thousand

Candles.’ There’s only about a hundred here;

but it was one of his conceits that when the house was

finished there would be a thousand lights, he had quite

a joking way, your grandfather. It suited his humor

to call it a thousand. He enjoyed his own pleasantries,

sir.”

“I fancy he did,” I replied, staring in bewilderment.

“Oil lamps might be more suited to your own taste,

sir. But your grandfather would not have them. Old

brass and copper were specialties with him, and he had

a particular taste, Mr. Glenarm had, in glass candlesticks.

He held that the crystal was most effective of

all. I’ll go and let in the baggageman and then serve

you some supper.”

He went somberly out and I examined the room with

amazed and delighted eyes. It was fifty feet long and

half as wide. The hard-wood floor was covered with

handsome rugs; every piece of furniture was quaint or

interesting. Carved in the heavy oak paneling above

the fireplace, in large Old English letters, was the inscription:

The Spirit of Man is the Candle of the Lord

and