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House of a Thousand Candles, The (version 2)

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<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> <h3>BESIEGED</h3> It was nine o’clock. A thermometer on the terrace showed the mercury clinging stubbornly to a point above zero; but the still air was keen and stimulating, and the sun argued for good cheer in a cloudless sky. We had swallowed some breakfast, though I believe no one had manifested an appetite, and we were cheering ourselves with the idlest talk possible. Stoddard, who had been to the chapel for his usual seven o’clock service, was deep in the pocket Greek testament he always carried. Bates ran in to report a summons at the outer wall, and Larry and I went together to answer it, sending Bates to keep watch toward the lake. Our friend the sheriff, with a deputy, was outside in a buggy. He stood up and talked to us over the wall. “You gents understand that I’m only doing my duty. It’s an unpleasant business, but the court orders me to eject all trespassers on the premises, and I’ve got to do it.” “The law is being used by an infamous scoundrel to protect himself. I don’t intend to give in. We can hold out here for three months, if necessary, and I advise you to keep away and not be made a tool for a man like Pickering.” The sheriff listened respectfully, resting his arms on top of the wall. “You ought to understand, Mr. Glenarm, that I ain’t the court; I’m the sheriff, and it’s not for me to pass on these questions. I’ve got my orders and I’ve got to enforce ’em, and I hope you will not make it necessary for me to use violence. The judge said to me, ‘We deplore violence in such cases.’ Those were his Honor’s very words.” “You may give his Honor my compliments and tell him that we are sorry not to see things his way, but there are points involved in this business that he doesn’t know anything about, and we, unfortunately, have no time to lay them before him.” The sheriff’s seeming satisfaction with his position on the wall and his disposition to parley had begun to arouse my suspicions, and Larry several times exclaimed impatiently at the absurdity of discussing my affairs with a person whom he insisted on calling a constable, to the sheriff’s evident annoyance. The officer now turned upon him. “You, sir,—we’ve got our eye on you, and you’d better come along peaceable. Laurance Donovan—the description fits you to a ‘t’.” “You could buy a nice farm with that reward, couldn’t you—” began Larry, but at that moment Bates ran toward us calling loudly. “They’re coming across the lake, sir,” he reported, and instantly the sheriff’s head disappeared, and as we ran toward the house we heard his horse pounding down the road toward St. Agatha’s. “The law be damned. They don’t intend to come in here by the front door as a matter of law,” said Larry. “Pickering’s merely using the sheriff to give respectability to his manoeuvers for those notes and the rest of it.” It was no time for a discussion of motives. We ran across the meadow past the water tower and through the wood down to the boat-house. Far out on the lake we saw half a dozen men approaching the Glenarm grounds. They advanced steadily over the light snow that lay upon the ice, one man slightly in advance and evidently the leader. “It’s Morgan!” exclaimed Bates. “And there’s Ferguson.” Larry chuckled and slapped his thigh. “Observe that stocky little devil just behind the leader? He’s my friend from Scotland Yard. Lads! this is really an international affair.” “Bates, go back to the house and call at any sign of attack,” I ordered. “The sheriff’s loose somewhere.” “And Pickering is directing his forces from afar,” remarked Stoddard. “I count ten men in Morgan’s line,” said Larry, “and the sheriff and his deputy make two more. That’s twelve, not counting Pickering, that we know of on the other side.” “Warn them away before they get much nearer,” suggested Stoddard. “We don’t want to hurt people if we can help it,”—and at this I went to the end of the pier. Morgan and his men were now quite near, and there was no mistaking their intentions. Most of them carried guns, the others revolvers and long ice-hooks. “Morgan,” I called, holding up my hands for a truce, “we wish you no harm, but if you enter these grounds you do so at your peril.” “We’re all sworn deputy sheriffs,” called the caretaker smoothly. “We’ve got the law behind us.” “That must be why you’re coming in the back way,” I replied. The thick-set man whom Larry had identified as the English detective now came closer and addressed me in a high key. “You’re harboring a bad man, Mr. Glenarm. You’d better give him up. The American law supports me, and you’ll get yourself in trouble if you protect that man. You may not understand, sir, that he’s a very dangerous character.” “Thanks, Davidson!” called Larry. “You’d better keep out of this. You know I’m a bad man with the shillalah!” “That you are, you blackguard!” yelled the officer, so spitefully that we all laughed. I drew back to the boat-house. “They are not going to kill anybody if they can help it,” remarked Stoddard, “any more than we are. Even deputy sheriffs are not turned loose to do murder, and the Wabana County Court wouldn’t, if it hadn’t been imposed on by Pickering, lend itself to a game like this.” “Now we’re in for it,” yelled Larry, and the twelve men, in close order, came running across the ice toward the shore. “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 heart-sick, 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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