CHAPTER IV
A VOICE FROM THE LAKE
I ran to the window and peered out into the night.The wood through which we had approached the houseseemed to encompass it. The branches of a great treebrushed the panes. I was tugging at the fastening ofthe window when I became aware of Bates at my elbow.
“Did something happen, sir?”
His unbroken calm angered me. Some one had firedat me through a window and I had narrowly escapedbeing shot. I resented the unconcern with which thisservant accepted the situation.
“Nothing worth mentioning. Somebody tried to assassinateme, that’s all,” I said, in a voice that failedto be calmly ironical. I was still fumbling at the catchof the window.
“Allow me, sir,”—and he threw up the sash with anease that increased my irritation.
I leaned out and tried to find some clue to my assailant.Bates opened another window and surveyed thedark landscape with me.
“It was a shot from without, was it, sir?”
“Of course it was; you didn’t suppose I shot at myself,did you?”
He examined the broken pane and picked up the bulletfrom the table.
“It’s a rifle-ball, I should say.”
The bullet was half-flattened by its contact with thewall. It was a cartridge ball of large caliber and mighthave been fired from either rifle or pistol.
“It’s very unusual, sir!” I wheeled upon him angrilyand found him fumbling with the bit of metal, atroubled look in his face. He at once continued, asthough anxious to allay my fears. “Quite accidental,most likely. Probably boys on the lake are shooting atducks.”
I laughed out so suddenly that Bates started back inalarm.
“You idiot!” I roared, seizing him by the collar withboth hands and shaking him fiercely. “You fool! Do thepeople around here shoot ducks at night? Do theyshoot water-fowl with elephant guns and fire at peoplethrough windows just for fun?”
I threw him back against the table so that it leapedaway from him, and he fell prone on the floor.
“Get up!” I commanded, “and fetch a lantern.”
He said nothing, but did as I bade him. We traversedthe long cheerless hall to the front door, and I sent himbefore me into the woodland. My notions of the geographyof the region were the vaguest, but I wished toexamine for myself the premises that evidently containeda dangerous prowler. I was very angry and myrage increased as I followed Bates, who had suddenlyretired within himself. We stood soon beneath thelights of the refectory window.
The ground was covered with leaves which brokecrisply under our feet.
“What lies beyond here?” I demanded.
“About a quarter of mile of woods, sir, and then thelake.”
“Go ahead,” I ordered, “straight to the lake.”
I was soon stumbling through rough underbrush similarto that through which we had approached the house.Bates swung along confidently enough ahead of me,pausing occasionally to hold back the branches. I beganto feel, as my rage abated, that I had set out on a foolishundertaking. I was utterly at sea as to the character ofthe grounds; I was following a man whom I had notseen until two hours before, and whom I began to suspectof all manner of designs upon me. It was whollyunlikely that the person who had fired into the windowswould lurk about, and, moreover, the light of the lantern,the crack of the leaves and the breaking of theboughs advertised our approach loudly. I am, however,a person given to steadfastness in error, if nothing else,and I plunged along behind my guide with a grim determinationto reach the margin of the lake, if for noother reason than to exercise my authority over thecustodian of this strange estate.
A bush slapped me sharply and I stopped to rub thesting from my face.
“Are you hurt, sir?” asked Bates solicitously, turningwith the lantern.
“Of course not,” I snapped. “I’m having the timeof my life. Are there no paths in this jungle?”
“Not through here, sir. It was Mr. Glenarm’s ideanot to disturb the wood at all. He was very fond ofwalking through the timber.”
“Not at night, I hope! Where are we now?”
“Quite near the lake, sir.”
“Then go on.”
I was out of patience with Bates, with the pathlesswoodland, and, I must confess, with the spirit of JohnMarshall Glenarm, my grandfather.
We came out presently upon a gravelly beach, andBates stamped suddenly on planking.
“This is the Glenarm dock, sir; and that’s the boat-house.”
He waved his lantern toward a low structure that rosedark beside us. As we stood silent, peering out into thestarlight, I heard distinctly the dip of a paddle and thesoft gliding motion of a canoe.
“It’s a boat, sir,” whispered Bates, hiding the lanternunder his coat.
I brushed past him and crept to the end of the dock.The paddle dipped on silently and evenly in the stillwater, but the sound grew fainter. A canoe is the mostgraceful, the most sensitive, the most inexplicable contrivanceof man. With its paddle you may dip up starsalong quiet shores or steal into the very harbor ofdreams. I knew that furtive splash instantly, and knewthat a trained hand wielded the paddle. My boyhoodsummers in the Maine woods were not, I frequentlyfind, wholly wasted.
The owner of the canoe had evidently stolen close tothe Glenarm dock, and had made off when alarmed bythe noise of our approach through the wood.
“Have you a boat here?”
“The boat-house is locked and I haven’t the key withme, sir,” he replied without excitement.
“Of course you haven’t it,” I snapped, full of angerat his tone of irreproachable respect, and at my ownhelplessness. I had not even seen the place by daylight,and the woodland behind me and the lake at my feetwere things of shadow and mystery. In my rage Istamped my foot.
“Lead the way back,” I roared.
I had turned toward the woodland when suddenlythere stole across the water a voice,—a woman’s voice,deep, musical and deliberate.
“Really, I shouldn’t be so angry if I were you!” itsaid, with a lingering note on the word angry.
“Who are you? What are you doing there?” I bawled.
“Just enjoying a little tranquil thought!” was thedrawling, mocking reply.
Far out upon the water I heard the dip and glide ofthe canoe, and saw faintly its outline for a moment;then it was gone. The lake, the surrounding wood, werean unknown world,—the canoe, a boat of dreams. Thenagain came the voice:
“Good night, merry gentlemen!”
“It was a lady, sir,” remarked Bates, after we hadwaited silently for a full minute.
“How clever you are!” I sneered. “I suppose ladiesprowl about here at night, shooting ducks or into people’shouses.”
“It would seem quite likely, sir.”
I should have liked to cast him into the lake, but bewas already moving away, the lantern swinging at hisside. I followed him, back through the woodland to thehouse.
My spirits quickly responded to the cheering influenceof the great library. I stirred the fire on thehearth into life and sat down before it, tired from mytramp. I was mystified and perplexed by the incidentthat had already marked my coming. It was possible,to be sure, that the bullet which narrowly missed myhead in the little dining-room had been a wild shot thatcarried no evil intent. I dismissed at once the idea thatit might have been fired from the lake; it had crashedthrough the glass with too much force to have come sofar; and, moreover, I could hardly imagine even a rifle-ball’sfinding an unimpeded right of way through sodense a strip of wood. I found it difficult to get rid ofthe idea that some one had taken a pot-shot at me.
The woman’s mocking voice from the lake added tomy perplexity. It was not, I reflected, such a voice asone might expect to hear from a country girl; nor couldI imagine any errand that would excuse a woman’spresence abroad on an October night whose cool air inspiredfirst confidences with fire and lamp. There wassomething haunting in that last cry across the water;it kept repeating itself over and over in my ears.
Itwas a voice of quality, of breeding and charm.
“Good night, merry gentlemen!”
In Indiana, I reflected, rustics, young or old, men orwomen, were probably not greatly given to salutationsof just this temper.
Bates now appeared.
“Beg pardon, sir; but your room’s ready wheneveryou wish to retire.”
I looked about in search of a clock.
“There are no timepieces in the house, Mr. Glenarm.Your grandfather was quite opposed to them. He hada theory, sir, that they were conducive, as he said, toidleness. He considered that a man should work by hisconscience, sir, and not by the clock,—the one beingmore exacting than the other.”
I smiled as I drew out my watch,—as much at Bates’solemn tones and grim lean visage as at his quotationfrom my grandsire. But the fellow puzzled and annoyedme. His unobtrusive black clothes, his smoothly-brushedhair, his shaven face, awakened an antagonismin me.
“Bates, if you didn’t fire that shot through the window,who did—will you answer me that?”
“Yes, sir; if I didn’t do it, it’s quite a large questionwho did. I’ll grant you that, sir.”
I stared at him. He met my gaze directly withoutflinching; nor was there anything insolent in his toneor attitude. He continued:
“I didn’t do it, sir. I was in the pantry when I heardthe crash in the refectory window. The bullet camefrom out of doors, as I should judge, sir.”
The facts and conclusions were undoubtedly withBates, and I felt that I had not acquitted myself creditablyin my effort to fix the crime on him. My abuse ofhim had been tactless, to say the least, and I now triedanother line of attack.
“Of course, Bates, I was merely joking. What’s yourown theory of the matter?”
“I have no theory, sir. Mr. Glenarm always warnedme against theories. He said—if you will pardon me—there was great danger in the speculative mind.”
The man spoke with a slight Irish accent, which initself puzzled me. I have always been attentive to thepeculiarities of speech, and his was not the brogue ofthe Irish servant class. Larry Donovan, who was English-born,used on occasions an exaggerated Irish dialectthat was wholly different from the smooth liquid tones ofBates. But more things than his speech were to puzzleme in this man.
“The person in the canoe? How do you account forher?” I asked.
“I haven’t accounted for her, sir. There’s no womenon these grounds, or any sort of person except ourselves.”
“But there are neighbors,—farmers, people of somekind must live along the lake.”
“A few, sir; and then there’s the school quite a bitbeyond your own west wall.”
His slight reference to my proprietorship, my ownwall, as he put it, pleased me.
“Oh, yes; there is a school—girls?—yes; Mr. Pickeringmentioned it. But the girls hardly paddle on thelake at night, at this season—hunting ducks—shouldyou say, Bates?”
“I don’t believe they do any shooting, Mr. Glenarm.It’s a pretty strict school, I judge, sir, from all accounts.”
“And the teachers—they are all women?”
“They’re the Sisters of St. Agatha, I believe they callthem. I sometimes see them walking abroad. They’revery quiet neighbors, and they go away in the summerusually, except Sister Theresa. The school’s her regularhome, sir. And there’s the little chapel quite near thewall; the young minister lives there; and the gardener’sthe only other man on the grounds.”
So my immediate neighbors were Protestant nunsand school-girls, with a chaplain and gardener thrownin for variety. Still, the chaplain might be a social resource.There was nothing in the terms of my grandfather’swill to prevent my cultivating the acquaintanceof a clergyman. It even occurred to me that this mightbe a part of the game: my soul was to be watched overby a rural priest, while, there being nothing else to do,I was to give my attention to the study of architecture.Bates, my guard and housekeeper, was brushing thehearth with deliberate care.
“Show me my cell,” I said, rising, “and I’ll go tobed.”
He brought from somewhere a great brass candelabrumthat held a dozen lights, and explained:
“This was Mr. Glenarm’s habit. He always used thisone to go to bed with. I’m sure he’d wish you to haveit, sir.”
I thought I detected something like a quaver in theman’s voice. My grandfather’s memory was dear to him.I reflected, and I was moved to compassion for him.
“How long were you with Mr. Glenarm, Bates?” Iinquired, as I followed him into the hall.
“Five years, sir. He employed me the year you wentabroad. I remember very well his speaking of it. Hegreatly admired you, sir.”
He led the way, holding the cluster of lights high formy guidance up the broad stairway.
The hall above shared the generous lines of the wholehouse, but the walls were white and hard to the eye.Rough planks had been laid down for a floor, and beyondthe light of the candles lay a dark region that gaveout ghostly echoes as the loose boards rattled under ourfeet.
“I hope you’ll not be too much disappointed, sir,”said Bates, pausing a moment before opening a door.“It’s all quite unfinished, but comfortable, I should say,quite comfortable.”
“Open the door!”
He was not my host and I did not relish his apology.I walked past him into a small sitting-room that was,in a way, a miniature of the great library below. Openshelves filled with books lined the apartment to theceiling on every hand, save where a small fireplace, acabinet and table were built into the walls. In thecenter of the room was a long table with writing materialsset in nice order. I opened a handsome case andfound that it contained a set of draftsman’s instruments.
I groaned aloud.
“Mr. Glenarm preferred this room for working. Thetools were his very own, sir.”
“The devil they were!” I exclaimed irascibly. Isnatched a book from the nearest shelf and threw itopen on the table. It was The Tower: Its Early Usefor Purposes of Defense. London: 1816.
I closed it with a slam.
“The sleeping-room is beyond, sir. I hope—”
“Don’t you hope any more!” I growled; “and itdoesn’t make any difference whether I’m disappointedor not.”
“Certainly not, sir!” he replied in a tone that mademe ashamed of myself.
The adjoining bedroom was small and meagerly furnished.The walls were untinted and were relieved onlyby prints of English cathedrals, French chateaux, andlike suggestions of the best things known to architecture.The bed was the commonest iron type; and theother articles of furniture were chosen with a strict regardfor utility. My trunks and bags had been carriedin, and Bates asked from the door for my commands.
“Mr. Glenarm always breakfasted at seven-thirty, sir,as near as he could hit it without a timepiece, and hewas quite punctual. His ways were a little odd, sir. Heused to prowl about at night a good deal, and there wasno following him.”
“I fancy I shan’t do much prowling,” I declared.“And my grandfather’s breakfast hour will suit me exactly,Bates.”
“If there’s nothing further, sir—”
“That’s all;—and Bates—”
“Yes, Mr. Glenarm.”
“Of course you understand that I didn’t really meanto imply that you had fired that shot at me?”
“I beg you not to mention it, Mr. Glenarm.”
“But it was a little queer. If you should gain anylight on the subject, let me know.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But I believe, Bates, that we’d better keep the shadesdown at night. These duck hunters hereabouts are apparentlyreckless. And you might attend to these now,—and every evening hereafter.”
I wound my watch as he obeyed. I admit that in myheart I still half-suspected the fellow of complicity withthe person who had fired at me through the dining-roomwindow. It was rather odd, I reflected, that the shadesshould have been open, though I might account for thisby the fact that this curious unfinished establishmentwas not subject to th
e usual laws governing orderlyhousekeeping. Bates was evidently aware of my suspicions,and he remarked, drawing down the last of theplain green shades:
“Mr. Glenarm never drew them, sir. It was a sayingof his, if I may repeat his words, that he liked the open.These are eastern windows, and he took a quiet pleasurein letting the light waken him. It was one of his oddities,sir.”
“To be sure. That’s all, Bates.”
He gravely bade me good night, and I followed himto the outer door and watched his departing figure,lighted by a single candle that he had produced fromhis pocket.
I stood for several minutes listening to his step, tracingit through the hall below—as far as my knowledgeof the house would permit. Then, in unknown regions,I could hear the closing of doors and drawing of bolts.Verily, my jailer was a person of painstaking habits.
I opened my traveling-case and distributed its contentson the dressing-table. I had carried through allmy adventures a folding leather photograph-holder, containingportraits of my father and mother and of JohnMarshall Glenarm, my grandfather, and this I set upon the mantel in the little sitting-room. I felt to-nightas never before how alone I was in the world, and aneed for companionship and sympathy stirred in me.It was with a new and curious interest that I peeredinto my grandfather’s shrewd old eyes. He used to comeand go fitfully at my father’s house; but my father haddispleased him in various ways that I need not recite,and my father’s death had left me with an estrangementwhich I had widened by my own acts.
Now that I had reached Glenarm, my mind revertedto Pickering’s estimate of the value of my grandfather’sestate. Although John Marshall Glenarm was an eccentricman, he had been able to accumulate a large fortune;and yet I had allowed the executor to tell me thathe had died comparatively poor. In so readily acceptingthe terms of the will and burying myself in a region ofwhich I knew nothing, I had cut myself off from theusual channels of counsel. If I left the place to returnto New York I should simply disinherit myself. AtGlenarm I was, and there I must remain to the end ofthe year; I grew bitter against Pickering as I reflectedupon the ease with which he had got rid of me. I hadalways satisfied myself that my wits were as keen as his,but I wondered now whether I had not stupidly put myselfin his power.