Читать книгу The Maxwell Mystery - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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"Oh, how stunning!" cried Irene Gardiner, for just then we whizzed up the driveway to the Maxwell house, and though perhaps not the word a purist would have chosen, "stunning" did seem to express the effect. The white pillars and porticoes of the mansion gleamed through the evergreen trees that dotted the broad lawn; the sunset in progress was of the spectacular variety, and a nearby lake reflected its gorgeous colorings.

Alexander Maxwell had chosen to call his beautiful home "Maxwell Chimneys," and the place was as picturesque and unusual as its name. It had chimneys of the reddest of red brick, and these stuck up all over the roof of the many-gabled house, and also ran up the sides and down the back, and nestled in corners, and even presented the novel spectacle of a fireplace right out on the broad front veranda.

Though Philip had laughed at this addition to the heating facilities of the mansion, it proved to be a great success, and on cool summer evenings the open fire lit up the atmosphere gaily and, incidentally, warmed a small portion of it.

The truth was, Miss Maxwell did not herself like outdoor life; so, by filling her home with cosy fireplaces, she often enticed her guests indoors, which thoroughly pleased her hospitable soul. For the great house was always filled with guests, and one house-party followed close on the heels of another all summer long.

"Maxwell Chimneys" occupied one of the most desirable locations in Fairmountain Park, and the views from its various windows and balconies were like a series of illuminated post-cards. Or, at least, that was the remark made by seven out of every ten of the guests who visited there.

As we neared the veranda, a cheery voice shouted "Hello," and Tom Whiting ran down the steps to meet us. The big, good-natured chap was a general favorite, and I cordially returned his hearty greeting. Then the wide front door swung open, and the old doorway made a fitting frame for the gentle lady of the house who stood within it.

Miss Miranda Maxwell was Philip's aunt and, incidentally, was his devoted slave.

She and her brother Alexander had lived in the old house for many years, beloved and respected by the townspeople of Hamilton, though deemed perhaps a shade too quiet and old-fogy for the rising generation.

But this was all changed when their nephew Philip came to live with them, and filled the house with young life and new interests. He had been there about three years now, and though the village gossips had concluded that he would never make the gentleman of the old school that his uncle was, yet he had won his own place in their regard, and his gay, sunny nature had gained many friends for him.

Phil was a good-looking chap of about twenty-three and had been an orphan since childhood.

After his school and college days, his uncle had invited him to make his permanent home at "Maxwell Chimneys," and Philip had accepted the invitation.

It was generally understood that he would eventually inherit the place, together with Alexander Maxwell's large fortune, and though not avaricious, Philip looked forward complacently to a life of ease and luxury.

So far as social life went, he was practically master of Maxwell Chimneys; he invited guests whenever he chose, and entertained them elaborately.

Though Mr. Maxwell joined but seldom in the young people's festivities, he paid the bills without a murmur, and smiled indulgently at his merry-hearted nephew.

I had known Philip all through our college days, and I had made long and frequent visits at Maxwell Chimneys, where the hours of quiet enjoyment were often varied by delightful impromptu entertainments, the product of Philip's ingenuity.

I was a favorite with both the old people, and I fully returned their regard.

Mr. Maxwell was a collector in a modest way, and I was always gratified when I could assist him in his quest or researches.

Miss Maxwell had such a kind, motherly heart that I think she was a friend to everybody, but she, too, seemed specially to like me, and so my visits to Hamilton were always pleasant occasions.

"How do you do, Peter? I'm very glad to see you," she said, so cordially, that the warm welcome of her tone made the commonplace salutation a heart-felt one.

"How do you do, Miss Miranda?" I responded, with equal cordiality. "I'm most happy to be here again. It is a long time since I've enjoyed your hospitality. Ah! here is Mr. Maxwell; how do you do, sir?"

I raised my voice to speak to my elderly host, for I remembered his deafness. He shook hands, and greeted me warmly, expressing his pleasure that I was with them once again.

I counted this brother and sister among my best friends, and aside from their kindness and hospitality they represented the best type of our American people. Educated, cultured and refined, they imbued their home with an atmosphere of pleasantest good humor.

The house was luxurious, and their manner of living, though rather elaborate, was not formal and not uncomfortably conventional.

Miss Maxwell herself showed me to my room, and as she left me at the door, she gave a motherly little pat to my shoulder, saying: "Now, Peter, dear boy, Philip's man will look after you, but if everything isn't just to your liking let me know, won't you?"

"Sure he will, Aunt Miranda," broke in Philip's gay voice, as he passed us in the hall; "look alive, now, Peter, old boy, and tog yourself for dinner at once; and drop down to the terrace as soon as you're ready."

But after I was dressed, I stepped out onto the balcony through my own window, lured by the beauty of the scene before me. The distant hills were purple in the late twilight, and the crisp air of early autumn was pleasant after the warmth of the house. I stood at the balcony rail, and as I looked down I saw two people strolling along the terrace just beneath me. In the dusk, I was uncertain who they were, and then I heard Philip's clear, deep voice:

"You're a rattle-brained, butterfly-minded and extremely conceited young person," he declared, "but I have the misfortune to love you as I love life itself; so, once more, Mildred, darling, won't you marry me?" Mildred laughed.

"Philip," she said, "I do believe that's the thousandth time you've asked me that question. Please don't do it again. My answer is—No."

"Milly," and Philip's voice took on a new tone, "I shall ask you that question just once more. Not now; and only once more. Remember, dear, only once. Come, let us go back to the house."

I felt no compunction at my involuntary eavesdropping, for these people were speaking in casual tones, and any one on the verandas might have overheard them. And, too, what they said was no secret. Miss Gardiner had told me that Philip wanted to marry Mildred, and I felt sure that the laughing reply she had given him was merely coquetry, and that he would again ask her the same question and get another answer.

I went downstairs and met the pair just entering the house, and then we went in to dinner.

Later on, as was the custom at Maxwell Chimneys, we all gathered on the front veranda to watch the moon rise. Now, moonrise over Fairmountain was of the nature of a solemn function, and by no means to be lightly treated. The feminine members of the party, therefore, had selected their places with a view to their own picturesque effect in connection with the view and the men naturally fell into position near the women they most admired.

This, of course, meant that Philip Maxwell should establish himself in the near vicinity of Mildred Leslie. But the young man had learned by experience that Mildred's nature was possessed of a certain butterfly quality, that often caused her to hover about from one place to another, before settling on a final choice. And as he could not, with dignity, jump up and run about after her, he wisely paused, and stood carelessly leaning against a pillar, watching her as she fluttered about.

The young man had certainly shown no error in taste in admiring Mildred. She was without doubt the prettiest girl present, and prettier than any girl one would meet in many a long summer day. Her piquant, merry little face was always smiling, and her deep blue eyes seemed to be full of half-hidden sunshine. Her hair was just on the darker side of golden, and owing to a bewitching waviness seemed to look prettier every new way she arranged it.

Mildred was not quite twenty, and had not outgrown a certain childish wilfulness that was inherent in her nature. But though sometimes provokingly saucy, she was so winsomely attractive that her friends declared her adorable, in spite of the fact that she was a spoiled child.

Philip's devotion to her was an open secret, and though there were others whose devotion was equally evident, the somewhat strong-willed young man had determined to win her, and of late had felt that he might consider his case hopeful.

In her dainty white evening gown, befrilled with fluffy laces, Mildred was a picture as she flitted about, from one group to another, the filmy blue scarf trailing around her, never in place, but always picturesque.

"Dear Miss Maxwell," she said, pausing a moment by her hostess' chair, "mayn't we have a picnic to Heatherwood, some day, soon?"

"Oh, do let us," chimed in Irene Gardiner, "a real old-fashioned picnic, with devilled eggs and lemon pie."

"My dear girls," replied Miss Maxwell, "you may have a picnic at Land's End if you choose, provided you don't ask me to go to it." For though Miss Miranda wanted young people about her, she didn't fancy running around much.

"Dear old Dearie," said Mildred, patting her shoulder, "she shall stay at home if she wants to, and toast her toes at her own fire-side, so she shall. Edith, you'll chaperon us, won't you?" she asked of the young matron of the party.

"I'll be chaperon in name only," said Mrs. Whiting, laughing; "but as to exercising any real authority over you rollicking creatures, I shouldn't like to promise it."

"Now, Mrs. Whiting," exclaimed Irene, "that's too bad! Milly, we all know, is difficult, but I'm as good as gold. At least, I have my good days; they're Tuesdays and Sundays this summer, and as to-morrow is Sunday you needn't worry at all about me."

"That's a lovely plan of yours," said Mildred, "to have days on which to be good. I wish I had one. I think one would be enough for me."

"You!" exclaimed Gilbert Crane, a neighbor who had strolled over; "you'd have to choose Tib's Eve, or the thirty-first of February."

"How delightfully rude you are," said Mildred, her dimples deepening, as she slowly drawled out the words at him; then, as if it were an afterthought—"I love rude men."

"It's nice of you to put it that way," he responded, "and as a reward I'll take you for a walk. Come on, we'll go and hunt up that moon. I don't believe it's ever going to rise over that mountain. Must have slipped a cog, or something."

"Thank you so much," said Mildred settling herself complacently in a rustic chair beside Miss Maxwell, "but I'm not going out this evening."

"Oh, yes, you are!" declared Crane in a gaily commanding tone. "Just gather up that undecided blue wrap that seems to be detaching itself from your personality, and come along with me."

"Observe me go," said Mildred calmly, as she sat motionless in her big rattan easy chair.

Gilbert Crane laughed, and sat down beside her, and began to chat in low tones, paying no attention to Philip's haughty look. Presently their attention was arrested by what Miss Maxwell was saying.

"Yes, he's coming to-morrow," declared that lady, with a note of triumph in her voice. She had been reading a telegram which a servant had just brought her, and as she folded it away, Mildred asked:

"Who is coming to-morrow?"

"Clarence, Earl of Clarendon," was the proud reply.

"Goodness! What a name! He ought to have it dramatized. But I suppose we can call him Clare or Clarry. Is he a real live earl, and what's he coming for?"

"Yes, indeed, he's real," said Miss Maxwell, in reply to the first question. "I was so afraid he wouldn't come, that I didn't tell you I had asked him. But he is coming, and all you girls must make yourselves particularly charming, and give him a good time. His people were perfectly lovely to us in England, so we must reciprocate. He'll be here in time for your picnic, Milly."

"He won't like me," said Mildred, pensively. "I'm too Stars and Stripesy to please an English earl. He'll succumb to Irene's statuesque charm and Vere de Verean repose of manner."

"Yes, of course, Clarence will think Irene the gem of this collection," agreed Edith Whiting; "but let's put up a brave fight, Milly. If we can't charm the belted gentleman, let's at least impress him with our free-born Americanism. We can attract his attention in some way, unless he's hunting an heiress."

"Why are earls always belted?" asked Mildred, drowning Miss Maxwell's protest at Edith's last words.

"They deserve to be belted for coming over here and bothering our girls," said Philip.

"I sha'n't bother with him," declared Mildred. "United States boys are good enough for me"; and she cast an approving glance at the good-looking young American men standing about.

"That's all very well," said Gilbert Crane, "and I hope you won't bother with his Earlship; but, I say, Milly, if you cast those big blue soup-plates of eyes of yours at him, I shouldn't like to answer for the consequences. You know English girls stare, they don't dart fascinating glances through a regular Niagara Falls of eyelashes; and I prophesy that his Belted Highness won't know where he's at, when you've smiled at him a few."

"Nonsense," said Mildred; "he won't give me a chance to look at him. Those English grandees are awfully stuck up, and they only come to quiz us and write us up. What does he look like, Miss Miranda? I suppose, as Lord Fauntleroy says, he doesn't wear his coronet all the time."

"I won't tell you anything more about him," rejoined Miss Maxwell, decidedly. "It isn't fair for you to know about him when he doesn't know anything about you."

"I think," said Tom Whiting, "I shall draw up a sort of descriptive catalogue of you girls, and nail it on the inside of his door. It will save him lots of trouble. Something like this, you know: Miss Irene Gardiner, raving beauty of the Burne-Jones type; classic features, amiable disposition, great tennis player and all-round athlete."

"There's no use going any further than Irene," interrupted Edith, with a disheartened sigh; "after that description, Clarence won't read any more."

"Wait and see," said her husband, laughingly. "Next, we have Mrs. Whiting; a perfect blonde, of the peaches and cream variety. Sings like an angel and plays the mandolin to beat the band."

"That ought to charm any old earl," declared Crane; "now hit off Milly, though no mere words can do her justice."

"Ah, there's the rub!" exclaimed Tom. "If anyone can describe Mildred Leslie they're welcome to do it. I can't."

"I'll try," said Crane, "and if my descriptive powers give out, somebody else can take up the tale. To begin with, I should say Miss Mildred Leslie is a mischievous, roguish, saucy, adorable bit of humanity, who flirts with everybody within hailing distance."

"I don't!" put in Milly, making a moue.

"You do," asserted Philip. "Go on, Gilbert; a willful, perverse, spoiled child, who always has her own way."

"Because everybody is so good to her," interrupted Milly again.

"Because everybody loves her," said Miss Maxwell, looking affectionately at the young girl. At which Mildred kissed that lady's hand, and suddenly jumped up and ran away.

Later, when their hostess declared it was growing chilly, and they would go indoors and have some music, Philip came upon Milly and myself in a vine-draped corner of the veranda.

"See here, Milly," he said, "you're not to let that foreign popinjay tie himself to your apron-strings."

"Oh, do you suppose that's what he is coming over here for?" asked the girl, dropping her voice to an awe-struck tone.

"If you weren't you, Milly, I should say you are a goose!" and Philip's tone actually sounded vexed.

Mildred's manner became coldly dignified, but her eyes gleamed as she said, "Why, that's what I wanted to say to you."

At that Philip laughed genially. "Then let me beg you again not to let the Britisher tie himself up with any of your danglers."

"I certainly sha'n't ask him to," said Mildred carelessly, "but if he sees fit to tie himself, I can't help it. And you must admit, Phil, it would be a novel experience to have a real earl at my beck and call! Oh, I'd love to be proposed to by a nobleman! How do you suppose they do it, Philip?"

"You ought to know all there is to know about how men propose; you've been through it often enough."

"Yes, but it's almost always you, you know."

"I only wish that were true."

"Well, it is—almost," Mildred sighed. "But anyway, I like you better than most of the others; you're a lot nicer than Gilbert Crane, for instance."

"Well, I am glad you think so!" and Philip squared his shoulders with an unconscious air of superiority.

"You needn't act so conceited over it!" Mildred exclaimed. "Of course, you're big and handsome—and he's insignificant looking; but he can't help that, and you oughtn't to be vain."

Philip tried to look modest and self-depreciatory, but only succeeded in achieving a satisfied grin, whereat we all laughed.

"But you know," Mildred went on, "it isn't everything to be big and handsome and rich, as you are; and if I promised to marry you, I might afterward see someone I liked better."

"An earl, perhaps," said Philip, not noticing me, but looking at her steadily.

"Yes," said Mildred, returning his look with an unflinching gaze, "an earl, perhaps."

"Well," said Philip, giving her a curious look, "you might do worse."

"Indeed I might," she responded, a little curtly; "very much worse."

And, laughing a little at their foolish banter, I left them and went into the house.