American library books » Adventure » The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕

Read book online «The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕».   Author   -   Meredith Nicholson



1 ... 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 ... 44
Go to page:
him.

 

“Bless you, no! I am not venerable enough. The

Sisters attend to all that—and a fine company of

women they are!”

 

“But there must be obstinate cases. One of the

young ladies confided to me—I tell you this in cloistral

confidence—that she was being deported for insubordination.”

 

“Ah, that must be Olivia! Well, her case is different.

She is not one girl—she is many kinds of a girl

in one. I fear Sister Theresa lost her patience and

hardened her heart.”

 

“I should like to intercede for Miss Armstrong,” I

declared.

 

The surprise showed in his face, and I added:

 

“Pray don’t misunderstand me. We met under

rather curious circumstances, Miss Armstrong and I.”

 

“She is usually met under rather unconventional circumstances,

I believe,” he remarked dryly. “My introduction

to her came through the kitten she smuggled

into the alms box of the chapel. It took me two days

to find it.”

 

He smiled ruefully at the recollection.

 

“She’s a young woman of spirit,” I declared defensively.

“She simply must find an outlet for the joy of

youth—paddling a canoe, chasing rabbits through the

snow, placing kittens in durance vile. But she’s demure

enough when she pleases—and a satisfaction to

the eye.”

 

My heart warmed at the memory of Olivia. Verily

the chaplain was right—she was many girls in one!

 

Stoddard dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee.

 

“Miss Devereux begged hard for her, but Sister Theresa

couldn’t afford to keep her. Her influence on the

other girls was bad.”

 

“That’s to Miss Devereux’s credit,” I replied. “You

needn’t wait, Bates.”

 

“Olivia was too popular. All the other girls indulged

her. And I’ll concede that she’s pretty. That gipsy

face of hers bodes ill to the hearts of men—if she ever

grows up.”

 

“I shouldn’t exactly call it a gipsy face; and how

much more should you expect her to grow? At twenty

a woman’s grown, isn’t she?”

 

He looked at me quizzically.

 

“Fifteen, you mean! Olivia Armstrong—that little

witch—the kid that has kept the school in turmoil all

the fall?”

 

There was decided emphasis in his interrogations.

 

“I’m glad your glasses are full, or I should say—”

 

There was, I think, a little heat for a moment on both

sides.

 

“The wires are evidently crossed somewhere,” he said

calmly. “My Olivia Armstrong is a droll child from

Cincinnati, whose escapades caused her to be sent home

for discipline to-day. She’s a little mite who just about

comes to the lapel of your coat, her eyes are as black

as midnight—”

 

“Then she didn’t talk to Pickering and his friends

at the station this morning—the prettiest girl in the

world—gray hat, gray coat, blue eyes? You can have

your Olivia; but who, will you tell me, is mine?”

 

I pounded with my clenched hand on the table until

the candles rattled and sputtered.

 

Stoddard stared at me for a moment as though he

thought I had lost my wits. Then he lay back in his

chair and roared. I rose, bending across the table toward

him in my eagerness. A suspicion had leaped into

my mind, and my heart was pounding as it roused a

thousand questions.

 

“The blue-eyed young woman in gray? Bless your

heart, man, Olivia is a child; I talked to her myself on

the platform. You were talking to Miss Devereux.

She isn’t Olivia, she’s Marian!”

 

“Then, who is Marian Devereux—where does she

live—what is she doing here—?”

 

“Well,” he laughed, “to answer your questions in order,

she’s a young woman; her home is New York;

she has no near kinfolk except Sister Theresa, so she

spends some of her time here.”

 

“Teaches—music—”

 

“Not that I ever heard of! She does a lot of things

well—takes cups in golf tournaments and is the nimblest

hand at tennis you ever saw. Also, she’s a fine

musician and plays the organ tremendously.”

 

“Well, she told me she was Olivia!” I said.

 

“I should think she would, when you refused to meet

her; when you had ignored her and Sister Theresa—

both of them among your grandfather’s best friends,

and your nearest neighbors here!”

 

“My grandfather be hanged! Of course I couldn’t

know her! We can’t live on the same earth. I’m in

her way, hanging on to this property here just to defeat

her, when she’s the finest girl alive!”

 

He nodded gravely, his eyes bent upon me with sympathy

and kindness. The past events at Glenarm

swept through my mind in kinetoscopic flashes, but the

girl in gray talking to Arthur Pickering and his

friends at the Annandale station, the girl in gray who

had been an eavesdropper at the chapel—the girl in

gray with the eyes of blue! It seemed that a year passed

before I broke the silence.

 

“Where has she gone?” I demanded.

 

He smiled, and I was cheered by the mirth that

showed in his face.

 

“Why, she’s gone to Cincinnati, with Olivia Gladys

Armstrong,” he said. “They’re great chums, you

know!”

CHAPTER XVII

SISTER THERESA

 

There was further information I wished to obtain,

and I did not blush to pluck it from Stoddard before

I let him go that night. Olivia Gladys Armstrong lived

in Cincinnati; her father was a wealthy physician at

Walnut Hills. Stoddard knew the family, and I asked

questions about them, their antecedents and place of

residence that were not perhaps impertinent in view of

the fact that I had never consciously set eyes on their

daughter in my life. As I look back upon it now my

information secured at that time, touching the history

and social position of the Armstrongs of Walnut Hills,

Cincinnati, seems excessive, but the curiosity which the

Reverend Paul Stoddard satisfied with so little trouble

to himself was of immediate interest and importance.

As to the girl in gray I found him far more difficult.

She was Marian Devereux; she was a niece of Sister

Theresa; her home was in New York, with another

aunt, her parents being dead; and she was a frequent

visitor at St. Agatha’s.

 

The wayward Olivia and she were on excellent terms,

and when it seemed wisest for that vivacious youngster

to retire from school at the mid-year recess Miss Devereux

had accompanied her home, ostensibly for a visit,

but really to break the force of the blow. It was a pretty

story, and enhanced my already high opinion of Miss

Devereux, while at the same time I admired the unknown

Olivia Gladys none the less.

 

When Stoddard left me I dug out of a drawer my

copy of John Marshall Glenarm’s will and re-read it for

the first time since Pickering gave it to me in New

York. There was one provision to which I had not

given a single thought, and when I had smoothed the

thin type-written sheets upon the table in my room I

read it over and over again, construing it in a new light

with every reading.

 

Provided, further, that in the event of the marriage of

said John Glenarm to the said Marian Devereux, or in the

event of any promise or contract of marriage between said

persons within five years from the date of said John Glenarm’s

acceptance of the provisions of this will, the whole

estate shall become the property absolutely of St. Agatha’s

School at Annandale, Wabana County, Indiana, a corporation

under the laws of said state.

 

“Bully for the old boy!” I muttered finally, folding

the copy with something akin to reverence for my

grandfather’s shrewdness in closing so many doors upon

his heirs. It required no lawyer to interpret this

paragraph. If I could not secure his estate by settling

at Glenarm for a year I was not to gain it by marrying

the alternative heir. Here, clearly, was not one of those

situations so often contrived by novelists, in which the

luckless heir presumptive, cut off without a cent, weds

the pretty cousin who gets the fortune and they live

happily together ever afterward. John Marshall Glenarm

had explicitly provided against any such frustration

of his plans.

 

“Bully for you, John Marshall Glenarm!” I rose

and bowed low to his photograph.

 

On top of my mail next morning lay a small envelope,

unstamped, and addressed to me in a free running hand.

 

“Ferguson left it,” explained Bates.

 

I opened and read:

 

If convenient will Mr. Glenarm kindly look in at St.

Agatha’s some day this week at four o’clock. Sister Theresa

wishes to see him.

 

I whistled softly. My feelings toward Sister Theresa

had been those of utter repugnance and antagonism. I

had been avoiding her studiously and was not a little

surprised that she should seek an interview with me.

Quite possibly she wished to inquire how soon I expected

to abandon Glenarm House; or perhaps she wished to

admonish me as to the perils of my soul. In any event

I liked the quality of her note, and I was curious to

know why she sent for me; moreover, Marian Devereux

was her niece and that was wholly in the Sister’s favor.

 

At four o’clock I passed into St. Agatha territory

and rang the bell at the door of the building where I

had left Olivia the evening I found her in the chapel.

A Sister admitted me, led the way to a small reception-room

where, I imagined, the visiting parent was received,

and left me. I felt a good deal like a school-boy

who has been summoned before a severe master for

discipline. I was idly beating my hat with my gloves

when a quick step sounded in the hall and instantly a

brown-clad figure appeared in the doorway.

 

“Mr. Glenarm?”

 

It was a deep, rich voice, a voice of assurance, a

voice, may I say? of the world—a voice, too, may I

add? of a woman who is likely to say what she means

without ado. The white band at her forehead brought

into relief two wonderful gray eyes that were alight

with kindliness. She surveyed me a moment, then her

lips parted in a smile.

 

“This room is rather forbidding; if you will come

with me—”

 

She turned with an air of authority that was a part

of her undeniable distinction, and I was seated a moment

later in a pretty sitting-room, whose windows

gave a view of the dark wood and frozen lake beyond.

 

“I’m afraid, Mr. Glenarm, that you are not disposed

to be neighborly, and you must pardon me if I seem to

be pursuing you.”

 

Her smile, her voice, her manner were charming. I

had pictured her a sour old woman, who had hidden

away from a world that had offered her no pleasure.

 

“The apologies must all be on my side, Sister Theresa.

I have been greatly occupied since coming here—

distressed and perplexed even.”

 

“Our young ladies treasure the illusion that there

are ghosts at your house” she said, with a smile that

disposed of the matter.

 

She folded her slim white hands on her knees and

spoke with a simple directness.

 

“Mr. Glenarm, there is something I wish to say to

you, but I can say it only if we are to be friends. I

have feared you might look upon us here as enemies.”

 

“That is a strong word,” I replied evasively.

 

“Let me say to you that I hope very much that nothing

will prevent your inheriting all that Mr. Glenarm

wished you to have from him.”

 

“Thank you; that is both kind and generous,” I said

with no little surprise.

 

“Not in the least. I should be disloyal to your grandfather,

who

1 ... 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 ... 44
Go to page:

Free e-book: «The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕»   -   read online now on website american library books (americanlibrarybooks.com)

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment