Read Christmas at Candleshoe for Free Online Page B

rather hastily to his feet. Mr Armigel may be mad. Miss Candleshoe’s wine may be a magic potion calculated to turn respectable pilgrims from Massachusetts into Sleeping Beauties or Rip van Winkles.
    ‘Haven’t I seen that coat of arms before?’ Mrs Feather, uninterested in Milton, is pointing to the upper part of the monument.
    Grant follows her gesture. He remembers that he, too, has had the same impression. And suddenly he can account for it. ‘The flag, momma – the Spendlove standard, flying above Benison.’ He turns to Mr Armigel. ‘Are the Candleshoes connected with the Spendloves, sir?’
    Mr Armigel finds this amusing. He contrives the odd feat of laughing and taking snuff simultaneously. ‘My dear Mr Feather, your conjecture is at once correct and preposterous.’
    ‘I don’t get that.’ Grant is now sure that the old gentleman is crazy.
    ‘Correct but upside-down, topsy-turvy, the wrong way round. The Spendloves are connected with the Candleshoes.’
    Grant sees the difference. He glances again at Admiral Candleshoe and experiences a shock of discovery. Here is the other similarity that has worried him. The expiring sailor is not only like the present Miss Candleshoe of Candleshoe Manor; he is the split image of Lord Scattergood of Benison Court.
    ‘The Spendloves are Candleshoes – but of a very junior line.’ Mr Armigel, pleased to find Mrs Feather evidently entranced, appears about to embark upon genealogical disquisition. But he checks himself. ‘Miss Candleshoe is waiting to receive you. She is most interested in your visit, and it will be a kindness if you will make a short call. Let me lead the way to the house.’
    The Feathers, with polite murmurs, prepare to follow Mr Armigel. All three turn towards the door of the chapel, and all three pause. Framed in it, as if to bar their way, stands a boy. He is dressed in what may be Tudor costume. And he carries a bow.

 
     
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    Abruptly the boy vanishes. Together with accurate archery, it seems to be his main accomplishment. For a moment the effect has been as of some ancient portrait; now the arched doorway of the chapel is like an empty frame, and behind it is only mild evening sky. Grant Feather frowns for a moment into this immensity, and then takes a glance back at Admiral Candleshoe. That distressed mariner has all the timelessness and immobility which the best authorities pronounce to be desirable in sculpture. He does not propose really to drown, nor on the other hand has he any genuine mind to be rescued. It is conceivable that when the chapel is void of spectators the attendant effigies will lower their marble curtains on the scene and go off duty for the night. But this fancy can be entertained only in defiance of the most powerful suggestion to the contrary. These supporting figures are frozen into the same permanence as the Admiral between them. In the first days of their existence, while Gerard Christmas was still tidying up his chisels and superintending the gilding, they must already have had the appearance of centennial vigil. Infants christened beneath their impassive gaze have come rejoicing to the command of bow and arrow and angling-rod and fowling-piece – and have returned to their presence in the end, while some predecessor of Mr Armigel’s has addressed himself to the burial service.
    From somewhere outside comes a sudden hubbub of young voices; it recedes, as if a bevy of children are racing and tumbling into the distance. Mr Armigel occupies himself with a bunch of keys; Mrs Feather takes the opportunity of slipping her half-crown unobtrusively back into her bag; Grant finds small comfort in this, for he suspects his mother of nursing an atrocious purpose. The coin may not be produced again at Candleshoe. But what about its near companion, Mrs Feather’s cheque-book? The Spendloves at Benison are lords. But Mrs Feather’s forebears for several generations have been princes – merchant-princes – and she has