Part 6 (1/2)
”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 a.n.a.lysis of psychical phenomena. But there was a house at s.h.i.+nnec.o.c.k that was reputed to be haunted. The living-room chimney behaved d.a.m.nably. 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sumed 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.”