establishment, and waited outside in the persons of the adoring pigeons.
Virginia, having been unable to keep the story of the Little Red Chimney
to herself, must now in consequence share her ladyship with the flock.
But certain privileges were hers--to walk next to Miss Bentley and clasp
her disengaged hand; to carry her bag or book; to act as her prime
minister in keeping order.
Thus Miss Bentley went her triumphant way that afternoon, all
unconscious that there was any triumph about it. Not that she was wholly
unaware of her own charm. As she confessed to Uncle Bob, she knew people
liked her, and the knowledge was pleasing. She was now on her way to be
gracious to the Candy Man, and in this connection she had rehearsed a
neat little scene in which she stood by and allowed the children to make
their purchases, and then at the right moment asked easily if there had
been any more accidents on the corner of late, adding something about
his kindness in helping her up, and so on. The Candy Man would of course
touch his cap, for from Virginia's account he was rather a nice Candy
Man, and reply, "Not at all, Miss," or "That's all right"; then she
would smile upon him and the incident would be closed.
The first half of the scene went off perfectly. The Candy Man was
selling taffy to a nurse-maid when they approached, and if he saw who
was coming, and if his heart was in his mouth, and if he felt a wild
longing to escape from the Candy Wagon, he gave no sign. To Margaret
Elizabeth, as they waited, he was a Candy Man in white jacket and cap,
and nothing more.
The pigeons fluttered joyously. Miss Bentley uttered an impersonal good
afternoon, Virginia advanced, a silver quarter in her palm, and demanded
chestnuts for the squirrel. The bag was filled and held out to her, and
as she handed over the quarter in exchange she explained, gratuitously,
"We'll perhaps eat _some_ of them ourselves."
At this the Candy Man looked up with a smile in his eyes, and met the
glance of Miss Bentley, who immediately forgot all she had intended to
say, for these were the eyes that were not the eyes of Augustus. There
was no excuse for arguing the question. She knew it.
The point was, after all, Margaret Elizabeth concluded in the solitude
of her own hearth-stone, not whether she had been equal to the occasion
to-day--and she hadn't--but that he on a former occasion had been guilty
of base behaviour. If this were a real Candy Man, one might excuse him,
but he plainly was not. There was a mystery, and she loathed mysteries.
She was annoyed to the point of exasperation. She would dismiss him from
her mind now and forever.
Uncle Bob, reading the evening paper in the dining-room while Nancy set
the table, admitting as she passed back and forth an occasional savoury
odor from the kitchen region, became aware of sounds in the hall which
betokened some one descending the stairs in haste. The next moment
Margaret Elizabeth stood in the doorway.
"Uncle Bob," she said, as she drew a long white glove over her elbow,
her face shadowed by her plumy hat, "you remember you said it might be
worse, and I insisted it couldn't be? You were right, it is infinitely
worse."
With this she was gone, and a premonitory buzz of great dignity and
reserve from the street presently indicated that she was being borne
away in the Pennington car.
And now it was that Miss Bentley discovered how impossible it is to
forget when you wish to. You may assist a treacherous memory with a
memorandum, but no corresponding resource offers when you wish to
forget. You may succeed in diverting your thoughts for a time, but
sooner or later, ten to one, in the most illogical manner, the very
thing you seek to avoid forces itself upon your attention. What could
have seemed further away from the Candy Man than ancient Hindoo
Philosophy? And into this she plunged to drown her annoyance, and
incidentally help a fellow member of the Tuesday Club. Margaret
Elizabeth was ever ready to fill in a breach, and when Miss Allen came
to her in despair, having been positively forbidden to use her eyes,
she obligingly agreed to help her.
The subject grew, as all subjects have a way of doing. It was a
providential ordering, Uncle Bob remarked, enabling the writers of
papers to take refuge from criticism in the impressive statement that
it is impossible to treat of the matter adequately in so short a space.
Margaret Elizabeth laughed, and crossed out a paragraph at the bottom of
her first page, and then set out for the Public Library.
Seated in the Reference Room, with more books than she could read in a
year on the table before her, behold Miss Bentley presently inconsolable
for lack of a certain authority she chanced to remember in the college
library at home. The whole force of the Reference Room mourned with her,
for Margaret Elizabeth in the part of earnest student was no less
captivating than in her other roles.
"I know where there is a copy," said the youngest and wisest of the
force, "but it won't do you any good. Mr. Knight, the man the children
call the Miser, has one."
"I'll go and ask him to let me see it. I'd like to know a real live
miser." Margaret Elizabeth closed the book she had in hand and rose.
The force gasped at her temerity. They had heard he was a horrid old
man; but the youngest observed wisely that probably he wouldn't bite.
Miss Bentley, however, having recently developed a bump of discretion,
did first consult Dr. Prue in the matter, who responded, "Why certainly,
I see no objection to your asking to see the book. Mr. Knight is a
harmless, studious man. I have met him on two occasions when I was
called in to attend his housekeeper, Mrs. Sampson, and he was courtesy
itself. I will go with you and introduce you, if you like."
Virginia, hanging around and overhearing, begged to be allowed to go
too. "I'd love to see the inside of his house," she urged.
She was assured she would find it stupid, but this was as nothing
compared with the glory of entering the abode of the Miser in company
with her ladyship, and the other pigeons looking enviously on outside.
Dr. Prue, of course, had no time to waste, so Margaret Elizabeth
hastened to find her pad and pencil, and across the street they went
forthwith. The Miser was discovered in his library, a spacious, shabby
room, yet not too shabby for dignity, full of valuable and even rare
things, such as old prints and engravings, and most of all of books,
which overflowed their shelves in a scholarly disorder not unfamiliar
to Margaret Elizabeth.
With businesslike brevity Dr. Vandegrift presented her cousin and her
credentials to Mr. Knight, who, with a quaint and formal courtesy, was
happy to oblige the daughter of an author so distinguished in his chosen
field.
Miss Bentley in her turn presented, with suitable gravity, Miss Virginia
Brooks, who promised to be quiet as a mouse, and whose eyes betrayed her
disappointment on discovering the inside of the Miser's house to be so
much like any other.
After the necessary stir attending upon the finding of the desired
volume, and getting settled to work, profound quiet again rested upon
the library. Margaret Elizabeth wrote busily, her book propped upon a
small stand before her, while across the room Virginia softly turned the
leaves of a huge volume of engravings, pausing now and then to rest her
cheek in her palm and regard the Miser steadily for a moment.
The master of the library had the air of having forgotten their presence
altogether. Aided by a microscope, with a grave absorbed face, he
studied and compared a series of prints spread before him. So quiet was
it all, that the crackle and purr of the coal fire in the old-fashioned
grate made itself quite audible, and the leisurely tick of the clock in
the hall marked time solemnly.
Margaret Elizabeth's interest in Vedantic Philosophy began after a time
to wane, and she allowed her attention to wander about the room, from
object to object, until it concentrated upon the student himself. Was
he really a miser? she wondered. He did not look it. His was rather the
face of an ascetic. Suddenly it flashed into her mind that here was the
sad, grey man of that unforgettable conversation in the park.
Virginia slipped down and came to her side. "Is there really a room full
of gold?" she whispered.
Margaret Elizabeth shook her head sternly. It was time they were going.
Her hand was tired. She would ask permission to come again. As she
returned her book to the shelf, she displaced a smaller one, a shabby
leather-bound book, at which she scarcely glanced, but upon which
Virginia seized.
"The Candy Man has one like this," she said. "Such a funny name! See?
Only his is Vol. one and this is Vol. two."
Miss Bentley cared not at all what strange books the Candy Man owned,
and said so, frowning so severely you could scarcely have believed her
to be the same person who only a few minutes later was thanking the
Miser with such alluring grace of manner.
She was welcome to come when she chose, she was assured, with grave
politeness. His library was at her disposal.
"You have many beautiful things," said Margaret Elizabeth. "This
portrait above the mantel, for instance, seems to me very interesting."
The portrait in question was rather a splendid one of a military-looking
man probably in his thirties. One of the best examples of Jouett's work
it was generally considered, Mr. Knight explained, and said to have been
an admirable likeness of his uncle, General Waite, at the time it was
painted.
It was inexplicable that as Margaret Elizabeth gazed up at the general
the eyes beneath the stern brows should become the eyes of the Candy
Man. But her exasperation at this absurd illusion passed quickly into
horrified embarrassment, when Virginia, edging toward the master of the
house, asked explosively, "Say, have you really got a room full of
gold?"
"There is one thing certain, you can never go there with me again," said
Miss Bentley, on their way across the street.
"But Aleck said----" began the culprit.
"Never mind what he said. Aleck is a very ignorant little boy. People
don't keep gold in rooms. If they have it they put it in the bank or
send it to the mint."
CHAPTER EIGHT
_In which the Miser's past history is touched upon; which shows how
his solitude is again invaded, and how he makes a new friend._
"There isn't any mystery about _him_, so far as I know," said the
Reporter, who was seated as usual upon the carriage block. The Candy
Wagon continued to act as a magnet for him, and in season and out his
genial presence confronted the Candy Man.
If his emphasis upon the pronoun was noticed, it was ignored. The
mystery was, the Candy Man replied, how with such a face he could be a
miser.
"Oh, he's a bit nutty, of course. My grandmother says his money came to
him unexpectedly and the shock was too much for him. They say he has a
notion he is holding it in trust. He is rational enough in every other
way, a shrewd investor, in fact. His uncle, General Waite, who left him
the money, was a connection of my grandmother's."
"The Miser is a cousin then?"
"Not on your tintype, my friend. Old Knight was a nephew of the
general's wife, you see."
"And there were no other heirs?" asked the Candy Man.
"There was an own nephew, I have heard, who mysteriously disappeared
shortly before the general's death. I have heard my grandmother mention
it, but it was long before my day. Why are you interested?"
Even to himself the Candy Man could not quite explain his interest in
this sad and lonely man, except that, as he had told Miss Bentley in
their first and only conversation, he had a habit of getting interested
in people. For example, in the house where he roomed there was a young
couple who just now engaged his sympathies. The husband, a teacher in
the Boys' High School, had been ill with typhoid, and the little wife's
anxious face haunted the Candy Man. The husband was recovering, but of
course the long illness had overtaxed their small resources, and--But,
oh dear! weren't there hundreds of such cases? What was the good of
thinking about it! Yet suppose there were a Fairy Godmother Society?
The Candy Man was a foolish dreamer, and his favourite dream in these
days was of some time sitting beside the Little Red Chimney hearth, and
discussing the Fairy Godmother Society with Miss Bentley. These bright
dreams, however, were interspersed by moments of extreme depression, in
which he cursed the day upon which he had become a Candy Man; moments
when the horrified surprise in the eyes of Miss Bentley as she
recognised him, rose up to torment him.
It was in one of these that the Reporter had presented himself this
time, and when he was gone the Candy Man returned to his gloom. Having
nothing else to do just then he opened the shabby book with the funny
name, and looked at the crimson flower. Through the stain of the flower
he read:
_"If a person is fearful and abject, what else is necessary but
to apply for permission to bury him as if he were dead."_
The book had come into his possession by a curious chance not long
before, and he treasured it, not so much for its sturdy philosophy, as
because it was in some sort a link to the shadowy past of his early
childhood.
The adjectives "fearful" and "abject" brought him up short. What manner
of man was he to be so quickly overwhelmed by difficulties? As for being
a Candy Man, did he not owe to this despised position his good fortune
in meeting Miss Bentley at all?
Somewhere about eight o'clock the next evening, being Sunday, he might
have been seen strolling by the house of the Little Red Chimney. That
particular architectural feature had lost its identity in the shades of
evening, but he was indulging the characteristic desire of a lover to
gaze at his lady's window under the kindly cover of the night.
The blind was drawn within a few inches of the sill, but these inches
allowed him a glimpse of a blazing fire, and while he lingered a shadow
flitted across the curtain in its direction, and then another, until in
his mind's eye he beheld Margaret Elizabeth and Uncle Bob seated beside
the hearth. For aught he knew, it might be Augustus McAllister making
an evening call, but the Candy Man was just then too determinedly
optimistic to harbour such an idea.
[Illustration: THE MISER]
As he passed on he was occupied in trying to picture to himself her
ladyship sitting before her fire, but that familiar little grey hat,
which was so entirely inappropriate, would persist, in spite of all he
could do, in getting into the picture. Only once, when curling plumes
took its place, had he seen her without it, and though for an instant he
would succeed in removing it, presto! before he knew it, there it was
again, jammed down anyhow on her bright hair.
With odds in favour of the hat, the struggle came to a sudden pause at
sight of a tall figure leaning heavily and in evident pain against one
of the ornamental iron fences which prevailed along this street. At once
proffering his assistance, he recognised Mr. Knight, the Miser.
It was plain the sufferer would have preferred to decline help. It would
soon pass. It was nothing. He had had such attacks before. He spoke
brokenly, adding, "I thank you," in a tone of dismissal.
The Candy Man showed himself to be, when occasion demanded, a masterful
person. Without arguing the point, he supported the Miser with a firm
arm and began to urge him in the direction of his home. Mr. Knight, half
fainting as he was, submitted without a word until his door was reached;
then, there being no response to his companion's vigorous ring, he
murmured something about the servants having gone, and began to fumble
in his pocket.
The Candy Man, taking the latch key from his trembling fingers, opened
the door, and ignoring the evident expectation conveyed in his renewed
thanks, continued to assert authority, supporting the invalid into his
library. "I shall not leave you alone until you are relieved," he said.
Again Mr. Knight submitted to his captor's will, and lying back in his
arm-chair directed him to the restorative that was prescribed for these
seizures. When it had been administered he lay quiet with closed eyes.
The Candy Man now turned his attention to the fire, which had burned
low, coaxing it skilfully out of its sullen apathy. He was brushing up
tidily, when Mr. Knight, to whose face the colour was returning, spoke.
"You are very kind," he said, adding as the Candy Man felt his pulse and
nodded his satisfaction, "are you a physician?"
"No," was the smiling answer. "Merely something of a nurse. My father
was an invalid for some years."
The sick man said "Ah!" his eyes resting, perhaps a little wistfully,
upon the vigorous young fellow before him. "Don't let me keep you," he
added. "I am quite relieved, and my housekeeper will return very shortly
from church."
Instead of leaving him the Candy Man sat down. "I have nothing to do
this evening, Mr. Knight, and unless you turn me out forcibly I mean to
stay with you till some member of your household comes in."
"I fear my strength is hardly equal to turning you out," the Miser
replied with a smile. "You are most kind." Then after a pause he added
apologetically: "Will you kindly tell me your name? Your face is
familiar, but my memory is at fault."
"My name is Reynolds, Robert Reynolds, and I am at present conducting a
candy wagon on the Y.M.C.A. corner. That is where you have seen me." He
had no mind to sail under false colours again.
The sick man's "Indeed!" was spoken with careful courtesy, but his
surprise was plain enough.
The Candy Man leaned forward, an arm on his crossed knee; his eyes met
those of the older man frankly. "It is not my chosen profession," he
said. "I happened to be free to follow any chance impulse, and the
opportunity offered to help in this way a friend in need. It may have
been foolish. I am alone in the world, and entirely unacquainted here.
I should not care for the permanent job, but there's more in it than
you would suppose. More enjoyment, I mean."
"I recall now you mentioned the Little Red Chimney," said Mr. Knight.
The Candy Man grew red. Why had he been so imprudent? The Miser's memory
certainly might be worse.
"And now I know why your face is so familiar," the invalid went on.
"I sat opposite to you in the car going to the park one Sunday morning.
My physician prescribes fresh air. And later I saw you with that
bright-faced young girl, Miss Bentley. You were talking together in the
pavilion near the river. You both seemed exceedingly merry. I envied
you. I seemed to realise how old and lonely I am. I think I envied you
her friendship."
"Your impression is natural," answered the Candy Man, "but the truth is
I do not know Miss Bentley. We met unexpectedly in the pavilion that
morning. I did not at the time realise it, I was unpardonably dense,
but she took me for some one else. On the occasion of the accident that
foggy evening--you perhaps remember it--I overheard the name she gave to
the conductor. Well, it seems she had no idea she was talking to a Candy
Man that morning in the park, and I should have known it."
The Miser leaned his head on a thin hand, and certainly there was
nothing sordid, nothing mean, in the eyes which looked so kindly at his
companion. It was not perhaps a strong face, nor yet quite a weak one;
rather it indicated an over-sensitive, brooding nature. "You will not
always be a Candy Man," he said. "I have made Miss Bentley's
acquaintance recently. She is friendliness itself."
At this moment a grey slip of a woman, with a prayer-book in her hand,
entered, and was presented as Mrs. Sampson, the housekeeper. The Candy
Man rose to go, but Mr. Knight seemed now in no haste to release him.
"I should be glad to see you again, if some evening you have nothing
better to do," he said. "You may perhaps be interested in some of my
treasures." He glanced about the room. "You say you too are alone in
the world?"
"Quite," the Candy Man answered. "Everyone I know has some relative, or
at least an hereditary friend, but owing to the peculiar circumstances
of my life, I have none. I do not mean I am friendless, you understand.
I have some school and college friends, good ones. It is in background
I am particularly lacking," he concluded.
"I have allowed my friends to slip away from me," confessed the Miser.
"It was the force of circumstances in my case, too, though I brought it
upon myself. I have been justly misunderstood."
"'Justly misunderstood.'" The Candy Man repeated the words to himself as
he walked home in the frosty night. They were strange words, but he did
not believe them irrational.
CHAPTER NINE
_Shows how Miss Bentley and the Reporter take refuge in a cave, and
how in the course of the conversation which follows, she hears something
which disposes her to feel more kindly toward the Candy Man; shows also
how Uncle Bob proves faithless to his trust, and his niece finds herself
locked out in consequence._
"Let's pretend we are pursued by wild Indians and take refuge in this
cave."
The scene was one of those afternoon crushes which everybody attends and
few enjoy. Miss Bentley, struggling with an ice, which the state of the
atmosphere rendered eminently desirable, and the density of the crowd
made indulgence in precarious, addressed her next neighbour, whom she
had catalogued as a nice, friendly boy. "It's Mr. Brown, isn't it?" she
added in triumph at so easily associating the name with the face.
The young man's beaming countenance showed his delight. "Good for you,
Miss Bentley! It would be great. Let me have your plate while you
squeeze in."
This corner behind a mass of greens seemed to have been left with the
intention of protecting an elaborate cabinet that occupied a shallow
recess. However it might be, here was a refuge, difficult of access,
but possible. Margaret Elizabeth held on to her hat and dived in.
"Grand!" she cried. "This is beyond my wildest hopes," and she perched
herself on a short step-ladder, left here no doubt by the decorators,
and held out her hands for the plates. Mr. Brown found a more lowly seat
beneath a bay tree. They looked at each other and laughed.
"My position is a ticklish one, so to speak," he observed, vainly trying
to dodge the palm leaves to the right of him; "but I think we are
reasonably safe from pursuit."
"I haven't the remotest idea where my aunt is," Margaret Elizabeth
remarked, eating her ice in serene unconcern.
"Say, Miss Bentley, I have heard my cousin speak of you--Augustus
McAllister, you know."
"Are you Mr. McAllister's cousin?" Miss Bentley's tone and smile left
it to be inferred that this fact above any other was a passport to her
favour. It must be regretfully recognised, however, that it would have
been the same if Mr. Brown had mentioned the market-man.
Having thus successfully established his claim to notice, the Reporter,
as was his custom, went on to explain that he belonged to the moneyless
branch of the family.
Margaret Elizabeth assured him, in a grandmotherly manner, that it was
much better for a young man to have his way to make in the world than to
have too much money.
The Reporter owned this seemed to be the consensus of opinion. How the
strange notion had gained such vogue he could not understand, but there
was no use kicking when you were up against it.
"Of course, it must be hard work, but it must be interesting. Don't you
have exciting experiences?" Miss Bentley asked.
Oh, he had, certainly, and met such queer people, too. There was a
fellow who ran a Candy Wagon on the Y.M.C.A. corner, for instance. "You
ought to meet him, really, Miss Bentley, though, of course, you couldn't
very well. He's a character, and I have puzzled my brains to discover
what he's doing it for."
Miss Bentley was interested and requested further enlightenment.
"Well, I have two theories in regard to him. He is an educated man, and
a gentleman, so far as I can tell, and I think he is either studying
some social problem, or he is a detective on some trail."
"I never thought----" began Margaret Elizabeth. "I mean," hastily
correcting herself, "I should never have thought of such an
explanation."
"He's up to something, you may be sure," Mr. Brown continued. "I like to
talk to him, and do, every chance I get."