The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) đź“•
I was restless under this recital. My father's estate had been of respectable size, and I had dissipated the whole of it. My conscience pricked me as I recalled an item of forty thousand dollars that I had spent--somewhat grandly--on an expedition that I led, with considerable satisfaction to myself, at least, through the Sudan. But Pickering's words amazed me.
"Let me understand you," I said, bending toward him. "My grandfather was supposed to be rich, and yet you tell me you find little property. Sister Theresa got money from him to help build a school. How much
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stock up at once, in case we should be shut off from our
source of supplies. This is a lonely place here; even
the school is a remote neighbor. Better let Bates raid
the village shops to-morrow. I’ve tried being hungry,
and I don’t care to repeat the experience.”
And Larry reached for the tobacco jar.
“I can’t imagine, I really can’t believe,” began the
chaplain, “that Miss Devereux will want to be brought
into this estate matter in any way. In fact, I have heard
Sister Theresa say as much. I suppose there’s no way
of preventing a man from leaving his property to a
young woman, who has no claim on him—who doesn’t
want anything from him.”
“Bah, these women! People don’t throw legacies to
the birds these days. Of course she’ll take it.”
Then his eyes widened and met mine in a gaze that
reflected the mystification and wonder that struck both
of us. Stoddard turned from the fire suddenly:
“What’s that? There’s some one up stairs!”
Larry was already running toward the hall, and I
heard him springing up the steps like a cat, while Stoddard
and I followed.
“Where’s Bates?” demanded the chaplain.
“I’ll thank you for the answer,” I replied.
Larry stood at the top of the staircase, holding a
candle at arm’s length in front of him, staring about.
We could hear quite distinctly some one walking
on a stairway; the sounds were unmistakable, just as
I had heard them on several previous occasions, without
ever being able to trace their source.
The noise ceased suddenly, leaving us with no hint of
its whereabouts.
I went directly to the rear of the house and found
Bates putting the dishes away in the pantry.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
“Here, sir; I have been clearing up the dinner things,
Mr. Glenarm. Is there anything the matter, sir?”
“Nothing.”
I joined the others in the library.
“Why didn’t you tell me this feudal imitation was
haunted?” asked Larry, in a grieved tone. “All it needed
was a cheerful ghost, and now I believe it lacks absolutely
nothing. I’m increasingly glad I came. How
often does it walk?”
“It’s not on a schedule. Just now it’s the wind in
the tower probably; the wind plays queer pranks up
there sometimes.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Glenarm,” said
Stoddard. “It’s as still outside as a country graveyard.”
“Only the slaugh sidhe, the people of the faery hills,
the cheerfulest ghosts in the world,” said Larry. “You
literal Saxons can’t grasp the idea, of course.”
But there was substance enough in our dangers without
pursuing shadows. Certain things were planned
that night. We determined to exercise every precaution
to prevent a surprise from without, and we resolved
upon a new and systematic sounding of walls and floors,
taking our clue from the efforts made by Morgan and
his ally to find hiding-places by this process. Pickering
would undoubtedly arrive shortly, and we wished to
anticipate his movements as far as possible.
We resolved, too, upon a day patrol of the grounds
and a night guard. The suggestion came, I believe,
from Stoddard, whose interest in my affairs was only
equaled by the fertility of his suggestions. One of us
should remain abroad at night, ready to sound the alarm
in case of attack. Bates should take his turn with the
rest—Stoddard insisted on it.
Within two days we were, as Larry expressed it, on a
war footing. We added a couple of shot-guns and several
revolvers to my own arsenal, and piled the library
table with cartridge boxes. Bates, acting as quarter-master,
brought a couple of wagon-loads of provisions.
Stoddard assembled a remarkable collection of heavy
sticks; he had more confidence in them, he said, than in
gunpowder, and, moreover, he explained, a priest might
not with propriety hear arms.
It was a cheerful company of conspirators that now
gathered around the big hearth. Larry, always restless,
preferred to stand at one side, an elbow on the
mantel-shelf, pipe in mouth; and Stoddard sought the
biggest chair—and filled it. He and Larry understood
each other at once, and Larry’s stories, ranging in subject
from undergraduate experiences at Dublin to adventures
in Africa and always including endless conflicts
with the Irish constabulary, delighted the big boyish
clergyman.
Often, at some one’s suggestion of a new idea, we ran
off to explore the house again in search of the key to the
Glenarm riddle, and always we came back to the library
with that riddle still unsolved.
THE RETURN OF MARIAN DEVEREUX
“Sister Theresa has left, sir.”
Bates had been into Annandale to mail some letters,
and I was staring out upon the park from the library
windows when he entered. Stoddard, having kept watch
the night before, was at home asleep, and Larry was off
somewhere in the house, treasure-hunting. I was feeling
decidedly discouraged over our failure to make any
progress with our investigations, and Bates’ news did
not interest me.
“Well, what of it?” I demanded, without turning
round.
“Nothing, sir; but Miss Devereux has come back!”
“The devil!”
I turned and took a step toward the door.
“I said Miss Devereux,” he repeated in dignified rebuke.
“She came up this morning, and the Sister left
at once for Chicago. Sister Theresa depends particularly
upon Miss Devereux—so I’ve heard, sir. Miss
Devereux quite takes charge when the Sister goes away.
A few of the students are staying in school through the
holidays.”
“You seem full of information,” I remarked, taking
another step toward my hat and coat.
“And I’ve learned something else, sir.”
“Well?”
“They all came together, sir.”
“Who came; if you please, Bates?”
“Why, the people who’ve been traveling with Mr.
Pickering came back with him, and Miss Devereux came
with them from Cincinnati. That’s what I learned in
the village. And Mr. Pickering is going to stay—”
“Pickering stay!”
“At his cottage on the lake for a while. The reason
is that he’s worn out with his work, and wishes quiet.
The other people went back to New York in the car.”
“He’s opened a summer cottage in mid-winter, has
he?”
I had been blue enough without this news. Marian
Devereux had come back to Annandale with Arthur
Pickering; my faith in her snapped like a reed at this
astounding news. She was now entitled to my grandfather’s
property and she had lost no time in returning
as soon as she and Pickering had discussed together at
the Armstrongs’ my flight from Annandale. Her return
could have no other meaning than that there was a
strong tie between them, and he was now to stay on the
ground until I should be dispossessed and her rights
established. She had led me to follow her, and my forfeiture
had been sealed by that stolen interview at the
Armstrongs’. It was a black record, and the thought of
it angered me against myself and the world.
“Tell Mr. Donovan that I’ve gone to St. Agatha’s,”
I said, and I was soon striding toward the school.
A Sister admitted me. I heard the sound of a piano,
somewhere in the building, and I consigned the inventor
of pianos to hideous torment as scales were
pursued endlessly up and down the keys. Two girls
passing through the hall made a pretext of looking for
a book and came in and exclaimed over their inability
to find it with much suppressed giggling.
The piano-pounding continued and I waited for what
seemed an interminable time. It was growing dark and
a maid lighted the oil lamps. I took a book from the
table. It was The Life of Benvenuto Cellini and “Marian
Devereux” was written on the fly leaf, by unmistakably
the same hand that penned the apology for
Olivia’s performances. I saw in the clear flowing lines
of the signature, in their lack of superfluity, her own
ease, grace and charm; and, in the deeper stroke with
which the x was crossed, I felt a challenge, a readiness
to abide by consequences once her word was given.
Then my own inclination to think well of her angered
me. It was only a pretty bit of chirography, and I
dropped the book impatiently when I heard her step
on the threshold.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Glenarm.
But this is my busy hour.”
“I shall not detain you long. I came,”—I hesitated,
not knowing why I had come.
She took a chair near the open door and bent forward
with an air of attention that was disquieting. She
wore black—perhaps to fit her the better into the house
of a somber Sisterhood. I seemed suddenly to remember
her from a time long gone, and the effort of memory
threw me off guard. Stoddard had said there were
several Olivia Armstrongs; there were certainly many
Marian Devereuxs. The silence grew intolerable; she
was waiting for me to speak, and I blurted:
“I suppose you have come to take charge of the property.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“And you came back with the executor to facilitate
matters. I’m glad to see that you lose no time.”
“Oh!” she said lingeringly, as though she were finding
with difficulty the note in which I wished to pitch
the conversation. Her calmness was maddening.
“I suppose you thought it unwise to wait for the
bluebird when you had beguiled me into breaking a
promise, when I was trapped, defeated—”
Her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand resting
against her check, the light rippling goldenly in her
hair, her eyes bent upon me inquiringly, mournfully—
mournfully, as I had seen them—where?—once before!
My heart leaped in that moment, with that thought.
“I remember now the first time!” I exclaimed, more
angry than I had ever been before in my life.
“That is quite remarkable,” she said, and nodded her
head ironically.
“It was at Sherry’s; you were with Pickering—you
dropped your fan and he picked it up, and you turned
toward me for a moment. You were in black that
night; it was the unhappiness in your face, in your
eyes, that made me remember.”
I was intent upon the recollection, eager to fix and
establish it.
“You are quite right. It was at Sherry’s. I was
wearing black then; many things made me unhappy
that night.”
Her forehead contracted slightly and she pressed her
lips together.
“I suppose that even then the conspiracy was thoroughly
arranged,” I said tauntingly, laughing a little
perhaps, and wishing to wound her, to take vengeance
upon her.
She rose and stood by her chair, one hand resting
upon it. I faced her; her eyes were like violet seas.
She spoke very quietly.
“Mr. Glenarm, has it occurred to you that when I
talked to you there in the park, when I risked unpleasant
gossip in receiving you in a house where you had
no possible right to be, that I was counting upon something,
—foolishly and stupidly—yet counting upon it?”
“You probably thought I was a fool,” I retorted.
“No;”—she smiled slightly—“I thought—I believe
I have said this to you before!—you were a gentleman.
I really did, Mr. Glenarm. I must say it to justify
myself. I relied upon your chivalry; I even thought,
when I played being Olivia, that you had a sense of
honor. But you are not the one and you haven’t the
other. I even went so far, after you knew perfectly
well who I was, as to try to help you—to give you
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