has forsworn the professions and identified himself with the honorable
calling of the husbandman."
"We met Mr. Wiggins while traveling abroad last summer," interposed
Cecilia, meeting my eyes quite frankly.
"Met him! Did you say met him, Cecilia? On the contrary we found him
waiting for us at the dock the morning we sailed," corrected Miss
Hollister, "and we never lost him a day in three months of rapid
travel. I had never met him before, but I cannot deny that he made
himself exceedingly agreeable. If, as I suspected, he had deliberately
planned to travel on the same steamer with my two nieces, I have only
praise for his conduct, for in these days, Mr. Ames, it warms my heart
to find young men showing something of the old chivalric ardor in their
affairs of the heart."
"I 'm sure Mr. Wiggins made himself very agreeable," remarked Cecilia
colorlessly.
"For myself," retorted Miss Hollister, "I should speak even more
strongly. He repeatedly served us with tact and delicacy; and I recall
with the greatest satisfaction his vigorous chastisement of our courier
in Cologne, where that person was found to have treated us in the most
treacherous manner. He had, in fact, in collusion with an inn-keeper,
connived at the loss of our baggage to delay our departure, even after
I had pronounced the cathedral the greatest architectural monstrosity
in Europe."
"Oh, Aunt Octavia, you didn't really mean that!" And Cecilia laughed
for the first time. Her color had risen, and her dark eyes lit with
pleasure.
"I had formed so high an opinion of Mr. Wiggins," Miss Octavia
continued, "that I learned with sincerest regret that his ancestors
were Tories and took no part in the struggle for American independence.
There are times when I seriously question the wisdom of the colonists
in breaking with the mother country; but certainly no man of character
in that day could have hesitated as to his proper course."
Then, as though by intention, Miss Hollister dropped upon the smooth
current of our talk a sentence that drove the color from Cecilia's
face. At once the girl was cold again, and I felt embarrassed and
uncomfortable that a friend of mine had been brought into the
conversation to my befuddlement. The situation was trying, but in
spite of this it grew steadily more interesting.
"Hezekiah and Mr. Wiggins were the best of friends," was Miss
Hollister's remark.
Cecilia's eyes were on her plate; but her aunt went on in her blithest
fashion:--
"You may not know that Hezekiah is another niece, Cecilia's sister.
She was named, at my suggestion, for my father, there being no son in
the family, and I trust that so unusual a name in a young girl does not
strike you as indefensible."
"On the contrary, it seems to me wholly refreshing and delightful. As
I recall the Sunday-school of my youth, Hezekiah was a monarch of great
authority, whose animosity toward Sennacherib was justified in the
fullest degree. The very name bristles with spears, and is musical
with the trumpets of Israel. Nothing would make me happier than to
meet the young lady who bears this illustrious name."
"As to your knowledge of ancient history, Mr. Ames," began Miss
Hollister, as she helped herself to the cheese,--sweets, I noted, were
not included in the very ample meal I had enjoyed,--"it is clear that
you were well taught in your youth. I am not surprised, however, for I
should have expected nothing less of a son of the late General Ames of
Hartford. As to meeting my niece Hezekiah, I fear that that is at
present impossible. While Cecilia remains with me, Hezekiah's duty is
to her father, and I must say in all kindness that Hezekiah's ways,
like those of Providence and the custom-house, are beyond my feeble
understanding. In a word, Mr. Ames, Hezekiah is different."
"Hezekiah," added Cecilia with feeling, "is a dear."
"Please don't bring sentimentalism to the table!" cried Miss Hollister.
"Mr. Wiggins once informed me in a moment of forgetfulness,--it was at
Fontainebleau, I remember, when Hezekiah persisted in reminding a
one-armed French colonel who was hanging about that we named cities in
America for Bismarck,--it was there at the inn, that Mr. Wiggins
confided to me his belief that Hezekiah bears a strong resemblance to
the common or domestic peach. As a single peach at that place was
charged in the bill at ten francs, the remark was ill-timed, to say the
least. But Mr. Wiggins was so contrite when I rebuked him, that I
allowed him to pay for our luncheon,--no small matter, indeed, for
Hezekiah's appetite is nothing if not robust."
The table-talk had yielded little light on the subject of Wiggins's
predicament, whatever that might be; but these references to the absent
Hezekiah had set a troop of interrogation points to dancing on the
frontiers of my curiosity. Miss Hollister had given so many turns to
the conversation that I could reach no conclusion as to her feeling
toward Wiggins or Hezekiah Hollister; and as for Cecilia, I was unable
to determine whether she was a prisoner at Hopefield Manor or the
willing and devoted companion of her aunt.
In this bewildered state of mind, while we lingered over our coffee,
the servant appeared with a card for each of the ladies. I saw Cecilia
start as she read the name.
"Mr. Wiggins! How remarkable that he should have appeared just as we
were speaking of him," said Miss Hollister. "Be sure the gentleman is
comfortable in the library, James. We shall be in at once. Mr. Ames,
you will of course be delighted to meet your friend here, and you will
assist us in dispensing our meagre hospitality."
V
THE STRANGE BEHAVIOR OF A CHIMNEY
There was no reason in the world why Hartley Wiggins should not call
upon two ladies living in Westchester County, and I must say that he
appeared to advantage in Miss Hollister's library.
He had got into his evening clothes somewhere, perhaps at a neighboring
inn, or maybe at the house of a friend; for he could not possibly have
motored into town and back since his interview with Cecilia in the
highway. He had impressed the clerk at the Hare and Tortoise with the
idea that he had left New York for a long absence, and he had
apparently camped at the gates of Hopefield to be near Cecilia.
When he had paid his compliments to the ladies, he turned to me with an
almost imperceptible lifting of the brows; but he was cordial enough.
If he was surprised or disappointed at seeing me, his manner did not
betray the feeling.
"Glad to see you, Ames. Rather nice weather, this."
"Even Dakota could n't do better," I affirmed with a grin; but he
ignored the fling.
"It is quite remarkable, Mr. Wiggins, that you should have appeared
just when you did, for we had been speaking of you, and I had been
telling Mr. Ames of our travels abroad and in particular of the
thumping you very properly gave our courier at Cologne. And I shall
not deny that I mentioned also our brief discussion of the peach-crop
at Fontainebleau."
Cecilia stirred restlessly; Wiggins shot a glance of inquiry in my
direction; and I felt decidedly ill at ease. Miss Hollister crossed to
the fireplace and poked the logs.
Just what part Hezekiah Hollister played in the situation was beyond
me. If I had not witnessed Wiggins's clandestine meeting with Cecilia,
matters would have been clearer to my comprehension; but his appearance
at the house, after the colloquy I had overheard from the briar patch,
was in itself inexplicable. Cecilia was a woman, therefore to be
wooed, and yet she had indicated by her words to him that the wooing,
independently of her feeling and inclination, might not go forward with
entire freedom. Miss Hollister's singular references to Hezekiah--a
person about whom my curiosity was now a good deal aroused--added to
the mystery that enfolded the library.
"Our American peaches are not what they were in my youth. Cold storage
destroys the flavor. I have not tasted a decent peach for twenty
years."
This was pretty tame, I admit; but I felt that I must say something.
Responsive to Miss Hollister's energetic prodding, the flames in the
fireplace leaped into the great throat of the chimney with a roar. She
turned, her back to the blaze, and looked upon her guests benignantly.
"If all your flues draw like that one, they are not seriously in need
of doctoring," I remarked, feeling that flues were a safer topic than
the peach-crop.
"Flues are nothing if not erratic," replied Miss Hollister. The
subject did not appear to interest her; nor had she, by the remotest
suggestion, referred to the object of my coming. I had sniffed vainly
in the halls above and below for any trace of the stale smoke which
usually greeted me at once on my arrival at the house of a client. The
air of Hopefield Manor was as sweet as that of a June meadow. Wiggins
remarked to me that I doubtless knew the Manor had been designed by
Pepperton, whom we both knew well.
"This is Pep's masterpiece. He need do nothing better to keep his grip
at the top," he said.
"I consider it a great privilege to be permitted to visit a house
designed by a dear friend and occupied by a lady peculiarly fitted to
appreciate and adorn it."
I thought rather well of this as I spoke the words; but neither Cecilia
nor Wiggins rose to it as I hoped they might.
"You have a neat turn for the direct compliment," said Miss Hollister
promptly. "The house was built, you may not know, for a manufacturer
of umbrellas, who died before he had occupied it, in circumstances I
may later disclose to you; which accounts, Mr. Ames, for that figure of
Cupid under a pink parasol on the drawing-room ceiling. At the first
opportunity I shall remove it, as baby Cupids are irreconcilable with
the militant love-making I admire. I consider umbrellas detestable,
and never carry one when I can command a mackintosh."
"When I 'm on the ranch I wear a slicker," said Wiggins. "It's
bullet-proof, and that I have found at times a decided advantage."
We discussed mackintoshes for at least ten minutes, with far more
sprightliness than I had imagined the subject could evoke. Then Miss
Hollister, after a turn up and down the room, paused beside me.
"Mr. Ames," she said, "would you care to join me in a game of
billiards? I 'm not in my best form, but I think we might profitably
knock the balls for half an hour."
I acquiesced with alacrity. I assumed it to be Miss Hollister's
purpose to leave Cecilia and Wiggins alone. I should be rendering
Wiggins and Cecilia a service by withdrawing, and I was glad of a
chance to escape.
To my infinite surprise they both protested, not in mere polite murmurs
but with considerable vehemence.
"It's quite cool to-night, and I don't believe you ought to use the
billiard-room until the plumber has fixed the radiator," said Cecilia.
"And if you knew Mr. Ames's game I 'm sure you would n't care to waste
time on him," piped Wiggins, whom I had frequently vanquished in
billiard bouts at the Hare and Tortoise, where, I may say modestly, I
had long been considered one of the most formidable of the club's
players.
Both he and Cecilia had risen, and we stood, I remember, just before
the hearth, during this exchange. At this moment, a singular thing
happened. The fire that had been sweeping in a broad wave-like curve
into the chimney was checked suddenly. I had repeatedly marked the
admirable draught, the facile grace of the flame as it rose and
vanished. The cessation of the draught was unmarked by any of those
premonitory symptoms by which a fire usually gives warning of evil
intentions. The upward current of air had ceased utterly and without
apparent cause. We were all aware of a choking, a gasping in the deep
flue, which could not be accounted for by any natural stoppage incident
to chimneys--the dislodging of masonry, or a packing of soot. The
former was hardly possible and the house was not old enough to make the
latter theory plausible. From my survey of the flue on my arrival in
the afternoon, I judged that this particular chimney had been little
used.
The smoke now rolled out in billows and drove us back from the hearth.
I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the logs, without,
however, any hope of correcting a difficulty that lay patently in the
upper regions of the flue itself. The smoke, after a courageous effort
to rise, encountered an obstruction of some sort and ebbed back upon
the hearth and out into the room. My efforts to stop the trouble by
shifting the logs were futile, as I expected them to be, and I
retreated quickly, making, I fear, no very gallant appearance as I
mopped my face and eyes.
[Illustration: I seized the tongs and poker and began readjusting the
logs.]
"Well," exclaimed Miss Hollister, who had rung for a servant to open
the doors and windows, "this is certainly most extraordinary. What
solution do you offer, Mr. Ames?"
"The matter requires investigation. I can't venture an opinion until I
have made a thorough investigation. The night is perfectly quiet and
the wind is hardly responsible. I think we had better abandon the room
until I can solve this riddle in the morning."
The prompt opening of the windows and doors caused the slow dispersion
of the smoke, but the lights in the room still shone dimly as through a
fog.
"It's beastly," ejaculated Wiggins, coughing. "I did n't suppose
Pepperton would put a flue like that into a house. He ought to be
shot."
"It is fortunate," said Miss Hollister, "that Mr. Ames is on the
ground. He now has a case that will test his most acute powers of
diagnosis."
The logs that had burned so brightly before the chimney choked still
held their flames stubbornly, and I had advised against pouring water
upon them, fearing to crack the brick and stonework. We were about to
adjourn to the drawing-room; Miss Hollister and the others had in fact
reached the door, leaving me alone before the hearth. Then, as I stood
half-blinded watching the smoke pour out into the room, and more
puzzled than I had ever been before in any of my employments, the
chimney, with a deep intake of breath, began drawing the smoke upward
again; the flames caught and spread with renewed ardor; and when the
trio still loitering in the hall returned in answer to my exclamation
of surprise, the flue had recovered its composure and was behaving in a
sane and normal manner.
There is, I imagine, nothing pertaining to the life of man (unless it
be rival climates, motor-cars or pianos) that so inspires incompetent,
irrelevant and immaterial criticism as wayward fireplaces. It is part
of my business to listen respectfully to opinions, to receive with an
appearance of credulity the theories of others; and those advanced in
Miss Hollister's library were not below the average to which I was
accustomed.
"A swallow undoubtedly fell into the chimney-pot and then got itself
out again," suggested Cecilia.
"The logs must have been wet. The sap had n't dried out yet," proposed
Wiggins.
"The wood was as dry as tinder," averred Miss Hollister, not without
irritation. "And one swallow does not make a summer or a chimney
smoke. It must have been a changing current of air. I was reading a
book on ballooning the other day, and it is remarkable how the air
currents change."
"That is quite possible, as the air cools rapidly after sunset at this
season, and that is bound to have an effect on the quality and
resistance of the atmosphere," I replied sagely.
"Perhaps," suggested Miss Hollister, with one of those flashes of
animation that were so delightful in her, "perhaps it was a ghost!
Will you tell us, Mr. Ames, whether in your experience you have ever
known a chimney ghost?"
As I had no opinion of my own as to what had caused the chimney's brief
aberration, I was glad to follow Miss Hollister's lead.
"I have had several experiences with ghosts," I began, "though I should
not like you to think that I profess any special genius for the
analysis of psychical phenomena. But there was a house at Shinnecock
that was reputed to be haunted. The living-room chimney behaved
damnably. The house was one of Buffington's. Buffington, you know,
was quite capable of building a house and omitting any stairway. We
used to say at the club that he ought to have specialized in
fire-engine houses, where the men don't use stairways but slide down a
pole. Well, the living-room chimney in this particular house could n't
be made to draw with a team of elephants, and it had also the
reputation of being haunted. Strange flutings of the weirdest and most
distressing kind were often heard at night. The owner gave up in
despair and moved out, turning the house over to me. After eliminating
all other possibilities, I decided that the piping spook must be
related to the disorder in the chimney. It served two fireplaces, and
I proceeded to knock the kinks out of it so it did n't tie knots in a
plumb-line as at first; but, believe me, when it stopped smoking it
still whistled, in the most fantastical fashion. I was living in the
house, with only the servants about, and for a week gave my whole
thought to this flue. The ghostly flutist was an amateur, but he tried
his hand at every sort of tune, from 'Sally in our Alley' to the jewel
song in Faust. The whistling did n't begin till nearly midnight, and
continued usually for about an hour. I tried in every way to lure him
into the open, and I fell downstairs one night as I crept about in the
dark trying to trace the sound. And to what palpable and mundane
source do you suppose I traced that ghost?"
"I never should guess," murmured Cecilia, "unless it was merely the
weird whistling of the wind."
"Nothing so poetical, I'm sorry to confess. It was the butler! In his
nightly cups his soul inclined to music, and being a timid soul,
fearful of the cynical tongues of the other servants, he crawled into
the ash-dump in the cellar, which communicated with the several
fireplaces above, and there indulged himself gently upon the tuneful
reed. The night I caught him he was breathing the wild strains of
Brunhilde's Battle-Cry into the tube, and it was shuddersome, I can
tell you! I took it upon myself to discharge him on the spot, and the
grateful owner returned the next day."
"The presence of a ghost in this house would give me the greatest
pleasure," declared Miss Hollister, who had listened intently to my
recital. "I should look upon a ghost's appearance at Hopefield Manor
as a great compliment. If any reputable, decent ghost should by any
chance take up his residence in this house, I should give him every
encouragement."
Miss Hollister seemed to have forgotten the proposed game of billiards.
The chimney's lawless demonstration had, in fact, given a new turn to
the evening. We discussed ghosts for half an hour, and then, without
having enjoyed any opportunity for a single private word with Cecilia,
Wiggins rose to leave. He shook hands all around and bowed from the
door. It was in my mind to follow, making a pretext of walking with
him to the station or of helping him find his car; but nothing in his
good-night to me encouraged such attentions, and as I pondered, the
outer door closed upon my irresolution.
At the stroke of ten Miss Hollister rose and excused herself. "We
breakfast at eight, Mr. Ames. I trust the hour does not conflict with
your habits."
I assured her that the hour was wholly agreeable, and she gave me her
hand with great dignity.
When I turned toward Cecilia she had moved to a seat close by the
hearth and was gazing dreamily into the fire, now a bed of glowing
coals.
"It was odd," I remarked.
"You mean the chimney?"
"Yes. It was quite unaccountable. I confess that I never knew a
chimney's mood to change so abruptly."
She sat silent for several minutes, and then she lifted her head and
her eyes met mine.
"Pardon me, Mr. Ames, but did my aunt ask you here to examine the
chimneys? I did n't quite understand. We have been here only a week;
the weather has been warm, and I believe this fire had not been lighted
before to-day. You will pardon my frankness, but I can't quite
understand why my aunt invited you here if you came professionally. I
thought when you appeared this afternoon that you were a guest--nothing
more--or less."
"You had heard nothing of any trouble with the fireplaces? Then I am
in the dark as much as you. As I understood it, I was called here to
examine the flues; but now that I think of it, she did not say
explicitly that her chimneys were behaving badly, though that was of
course implied. I naturally assumed that she summoned me here in my
professional capacity. I was a stranger to your aunt; she would hardly
have invited me otherwise."
She turned again to the fire as though referring to it for counsel.
Her perplexity was no greater than my own. It was certainly an
extraordinary experience to be invited to a strange house where my
services had not been needed, and to find that an apparently sound
chimney had begun to smoke at once as though in mockery of my presence.
"I imagine, however, that your aunt acts a good deal on impulse. Her
asking me here may have been only a whim."
"Please don't imagine that your coming has not been agreeable to me,"
Cecilia protested. "My aunt is quite capable of inviting a stranger to
the house. She met you, I believe, at the Asolando. I hope you
understand that it is only because I am in deep trouble, Mr. Ames,
trouble of the gravest nature, that I have ventured to speak to you in
this way of my aunt, for whom I have all respect and affection."
She had never, I was sure, been lovelier than at this moment. Her eyes
filled, but she lifted her head proudly. Whatever the trouble might be
I was sorry for it on her own account; and if it involved Hartley
Wiggins my sympathy went out to him also. On an impulse I spoke of him.
"I was surprised to meet Hartley Wiggins here. He 's a dear friend of
mine, you know. I thought he had gone to his ranch. He left the Hare
and Tortoise very abruptly a few nights ago just after we had dined
together. He must be stopping somewhere in the neighborhood."
"It's quite possible. And there's an inn, you know. I fancy he drove
over from there."
"I hadn't thought of that; the Prescott Arms, I suppose you mean."
She nodded, but she was clearly not interested in me, and when I found
myself failing dismally to divert her thoughts to cheerfuller channels,
I rose and bade her good-night.
The servant who had previously attended me appeared promptly when I
reached my room, bearing a tray, with biscuits and a bottle of ale. He
gave me an envelope addressed in a hand I already knew as Miss
Octavia's, and I opened and read:--
"The following I either detest or distrust, so kindly refrain from
mentioning them while you are a guest of Hopefield Manor:--
Automobiles.
Mashed Potatoes.
Whiskers.
Chopin's Concerto in E Minor (op. 11).
Bishop's Coadjutor.
Limericks.
Cats.
OCTAVIA HOLLISTER."
I absorbed this with a glass of ale. There were seven items, I noted,
and I had no serious quarrel with her attitude toward any of them; but
just what these matters had to do with me or my presence in her house I
could not determine. She had referred to me in the note as a guest--I
had noted that; and I did know, moreover, that Miss Octavia Hollister
possessed a quaint and delicate humor; and I looked forward with the
pleasantest anticipations to our further meetings.
Before I slept I threw up my window and stepped out upon a narrow
balcony that afforded a capital view of the fields and woods to the
east. The night was fine, with the sky bright with stars and moon. As
my eyes dropped from the horizon to the near landscape, I saw a man
perched on a knoll in the midst of a corn-field. He stood as rigid as
a sentry on duty, or like a forlorn commander, counting the spears of
his tattered battalions. I was not sure that he saw me, for the
balcony was slightly shadowed, but at any rate, he was sharply outlined
to my vision. His derby hat and overcoat gave him an odd appearance as
he stood brooding above the corn. Then he vanished suddenly, though,
as he retired toward the highway, I followed him for some time by the
shaking and jerking of the corn-stalks.