The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕

PICKERING SERVES NOTICE

The next morning Bates placed a letter postmarked

Cincinnati at my plate. I opened and read it aloud to

Larry:

On Board the Heloise

December 25, 1901.

John Glenarm, Esq.,

Glenarm House,

Annandale, Wabana Co., Indiana:

DEAR SIR—I have just learned from what I believe to

be a trustworthy source that you have already violated

the terms of the agreement under which you entered into

residence on the property near Annandale, known as

Glenarm House. The provisions of the will of John Marshall

Glenarm are plain and unequivocal, as you undoubtedly

understood when you accepted them, and your absence,

not only from the estate itself, but from Wabana

County, violates beyond question your right to inherit.

I, as executor, therefore demand that you at once vacate

said property, leaving it in as good condition as when

received by you. Very truly yours,

Arthur Pickering,

Executor of the Estate of John Marshall Glenarm.

“Very truly the devil’s,” growled Larry, snapping

his cigarette case viciously.

“How did he find out?” I asked lamely, but my heart

sank like lead. Had Marian Devereux told him! How

else could he know?

“Probably from the stars—the whole universe undoubtedly

saw you skipping off to meet your lady-love.

Bah, these women!”

“Tut! They don’t all marry the sons of brewers,”

I retorted. “You assured me once, while your affair

with that Irish girl was on, that the short upper lip

made Heaven seem possible, but unnecessary; then the

next thing I knew she had shaken you for the bloated

masher. Take that for your impertinence. But perhaps

it was Bates?”

I did not wait for an answer. I was not in a mood

for reflection or nice distinctions. The man came in

just then with a fresh plate of toast.

“Bates, Mr. Pickering has learned that I was away

from the house on the night of the attack, and I’m ordered

off for having broken my agreement to stay here.

How do you suppose he heard of it so promptly?”

“From Morgan, quite possibly. I have a letter from

Mr. Pickering myself this morning. Just a moment,

sir.”

He placed before me a note bearing the same date as

my own. It was a sharp rebuke of Bates for his failure

to report my absence, and he was ordered to prepare to

leave on the first of February. “Close your accounts at

the shopkeepers’ and I will audit your bills on my arrival.”

The tone was peremptory and contemptuous. Bates

had failed to satisfy Pickering and was flung off like a

smoked-out cigar.

“How much had he allowed you for expenses, Bates?”

He met my gaze imperturbably.

“He paid me fifty dollars a month as wages, sir, and

I was allowed seventy-five for other expenses.”

“But you didn’t buy English pheasants and champagne

on that allowance!”

He was carrying away the coffee tray and his eyes

wandered to the windows.

“Not quite, sir. You see—”

“But I don’t see!”

“It had occurred to me that as Mr. Pickering’s allowance

wasn’t what you might call generous it was better

to augment it—Well, sir, I took the liberty of advancing

a trifle, as you might say, to the estate. Your

grandfather would not have had you starve, sir.”

He left hurriedly, as though to escape from the consequences

of his words, and when I came to myself

Larry was gloomily invoking his strange Irish gods.

“Larry Donovan, I’ve been tempted to kill that fellow

a dozen times! This thing is too damned complicated

for me. I wish my lamented grandfather had left

me something easy. To think of it—that fellow, after

my treatment of him—my cursing and abusing him

since I came here! Great Scott, man, I’ve been enjoying

his bounty, I’ve been living on his money! And

all the time he’s been trusting in me, just because of

his dog-like devotion to my grandfather’s memory.

Lord, I can’t face the fellow again!”

“As I have said before, you’re rather lacking at times

in perspicacity. Your intelligence is marred by large

opaque spots. Now that there’s a woman in the case

you’re less sane than ever. Bah, these women! And

now we’ve got to go to work.”

Bah, these women! My own heart caught the words.

I was enraged and bitter. No wonder she had been

anxious for me to avoid Pickering after daring me to

follow her!

We called a council of war for that night that we

might view matters in the light of Pickering’s letter.

His assuredness in ordering me to leave made prompt

and decisive action necessary on my part. I summoned

Stoddard to our conference, feeling confident of his

friendliness.

“Of course,” said the broad-shouldered chaplain, “if

you could show that your absence was on business of

very grave importance, the courts might construe in

that you had not really violated the will.”

Larry looked at the ceiling and blew rings of smoke

languidly. I had not disclosed to either of them the

cause of my absence. On such a matter I knew I should

get precious little sympathy from Larry, and I had,

moreover, a feeling that I could not discuss Marian

Devereux with any one; I even shrank from mentioning

her name, though it rang like the call of bugles in

my blood.

She was always before me—the charmed spirit of

youth, linked to every foot of the earth, every gleam of

the sun upon the ice-bound lake, every glory of the winter

sunset. All the good impulses I had ever stifled

were quickened to life by the thought of her. Amid the

day’s perplexities I started sometimes, thinking I heard

her voice, her girlish laughter, or saw her again coming

toward me down the stairs, or holding against the light

her fan with its golden butterflies. I really knew so

little of her; I could associate her with no home, only

with that last fling of the autumn upon the lake, the

snow-driven woodland, that twilight hour at the organ

in the chapel, those stolen moments at the Armstrongs’.

I resented the pressure of the hour’s affairs, and chafed

at the necessity for talking of my perplexities with the

good friends who were there to help. I wished to be

alone, to yield to the sweet mood that the thought of her

brought me. The doubt that crept through my mind

as to any possibility of connivance between her and

Pickering was as vague and fleeting as the shadow of a

swallow’s wing on a sunny meadow.

“You don’t intend fighting the fact of your absence,

do you?” demanded Larry, after a long silence.

“Of course not!” I replied quietly. “Pickering was

right on my heels, and my absence was known to his

men here. And it would not be square to my grandfather,

—who never harmed a flea, may his soul rest in

blessed peace!—to lie about it. They might nail me for

perjury besides.”

“Then the quicker we get ready for a siege the better.

As I understand your attitude, you don’t propose to

move out until you’ve found where the siller’s hidden.

Being a gallant gentleman and of a forgiving nature,

you want to be sure that the lady who is now entitled to

it gets all there is coming to her, and as you don’t trust

the executor, any further than a true Irishman trusts a

British prime minister’s promise, you’re going to stand

by to watch the boodle counted. Is that a correct analysis

of your intentions?”

“That’s as near one of my ideas as you’re likely to

get, Larry Donovan!”

“And if he comes with the authorities—the sheriff

and that sort of thing—we must prepare for such an

emergency,” interposed the chaplain.

“So much the worse for the sheriff and the rest of

them!” I declared.

“Spoken like a man of spirit. And now we’d