The House of a Thousand Candles, Meredith Nicholson [13 inch ebook reader TXT] 📗

was a late acquaintance of your grandfather’s.

He met her through an old friend of his—

Miss Evans, known as Sister Theresa. Miss Devereux

is Sister Theresa’s niece.”

 

I whistled. I had a dim recollection that during my

grandfather’s long widowerhood there were occasional

reports that he was about to marry. The name of Miss

Evans had been mentioned in this connection. I had

heard it spoken of in my family, and not, I remembered,

with much kindness. Later, I heard of her joining a

Sisterhood, and opening a school somewhere in the

West.

 

“And Miss Devereux—is she an elderly nun, too?”

 

“I don’t know how elderly she is, but she isn’t a nun

at present. Still, she’s almost alone in the world, and

she and Sister Theresa are very intimate.”

 

“Pass the will again, Pickering, while I make sure

I grasp these diverting ideas. Sister Theresa isn’t the

one I mustn’t marry, is she? It’s the other ecclesiastical

embroidery artist—the one with the x in her

name, suggesting the algebra of my vanishing youth.”

 

I read aloud this paragraph:

 

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.

 

“For a touch of comedy commend me to my grandfather!

Pickering, you always were a well-meaning

fellow—I’ll turn over to you all my right, interest and

title in and to these angelic Sisters. Marry! I like the

idea! I suppose some one will try to marry me for my

money. Marriage, Pickering, is not embraced in my

scheme of life!”

 

“I should hardly call you a marrying man,” he observed.

 

“Perfectly right, my friend! Sister Theresa was considered

a possible match for my grandfather in my

youth. She and I are hardly contemporaries. And the

other lady with the fascinating algebraic climax to her

name—she, too, is impossible; it seems that I can’t get

the money by marrying her. I’d better let her take it.

She’s as poor as the devil, I dare say.”

 

“I imagine not. The Evanses are a wealthy family,

in spots, and she ought to have some money of her own

if her aunt doesn’t coax it out of her for educational

schemes.”

 

“And where on the map are these lovely creatures to

be found?”

 

“Sister Theresa’s school adjoins your preserve; Miss

Devereux has I think some of your own weakness for

travel. Sister Theresa is her nearest relative, and she

occasionally visits St. Agatha’s—that’s the school.”

 

“I suppose they embroider altar-cloths together and

otherwise labor valiantly to bring confusion upon Satan

and his cohorts. Just the people to pull the wool over

the eyes of my grandfather!”

 

Pickering smiled at my resentment.

 

“You’d better give them a wide berth; they might

catch you in their net. Sister Theresa is said to have

quite a winning way. She certainly plucked your grandfather.”

 

“Nuns in spectacles, the gentle educators of youth

and that sort of thing, with a good-natured old man for

their prey. None of them for me!”

 

“I rather thought so,” remarked Pickering—and he

pulled his watch from his pocket and turned the stem

with his heavy fingers. He was short, thick-set and

sleek, with a square jaw, hair already thin and a close-clipped

mustache. Age, I reflected, was not improving

him.

 

I had no intention of allowing him to see that I was

irritated. I drew out my cigarette case and passed it

across the table,

 

“After you! They’re made quite specially for me in

Madrid.”

 

“You forget that I never use tobacco in any form.”

 

“You always did miss a good deal of the joy of living,”

I observed, throwing my smoking match into his

waste-paper basket, to his obvious annoyance. “Well,

I’m the bad boy of the story-books; but I’m really sorry

my inheritance has a string tied to it. I’m about out

of money. I suppose you wouldn’t advance me a few

thousands on my expectations—”

 

“Not a cent,” he declared, with quite unnecessary

vigor; and I laughed again, remembering that in my

old appraisement of him, generosity had not been represented

in large figures. “It’s not in keeping with

your grandfather’s wishes that I should do so. You

must have spent a good bit of money in your tiger-hunting

exploits,” he added.

 

“I have spent all I had,” I replied amiably. “Thank

God I’m not a clam! I’ve seen the world and paid for

it. I don’t want anything from you. You undoubtedly

share my grandfather’s idea of me that I’m a wild man

who can’t sit still or lead an orderly, decent life; but

I’m going to give you a terrible disappointment. What’s

the size of the estate?”

 

Pickering eyed me—uneasily, I thought—and began

playing with a pencil. I never liked Pickering’s hands;

they were thick and white and better kept than I like

to see a man’s hands.

 

“I fear it’s going to be disappointing. In his trust-company

boxes here I have been able to find only about

ten thousand dollars’ worth of securities. Possibly—

quite possibly—we were all deceived in the amount of

his fortune. Sister Theresa wheedled large sums out of

him, and he spent, as you will see, a small fortune on

the house at Annandale without finishing it. It wasn’t

a cheap proposition, and in its unfinished condition it is

practically valueless. You must know that Mr. Glenarm

gave away a great deal of money in his lifetime. Moreover,

he established your father. You know what he

left—it was not a small fortune as those things are

reckoned.”

 

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

was that?”

 

“Fifty thousand dollars. It was an open account.

His books show the advances, but he took no notes.”

 

“And that claim is worth—?”

 

“It is good as against her individually. But she contends—”

 

“Yes, go on!”

 

I had struck the right note. He was annoyed at my

persistence and his apparent discomfort pleased me.

 

“She refuses to pay. She says Mr. Glenarm made her

a gift of the money.”

 

“That’s possible, isn’t it? He was for ever making

gifts to churches. Schools and theological seminaries

were a sort of weakness with him.”

 

“That is quite true, but this account is among the

assets of the estate. It’s my business as executor to collect

it.”

 

“We’ll pass that. If you get this money, the estate is

worth sixty thousand dollars, plus the value of the land

out there at Annandale, and Glenarm House is worth—”

 

“There you have me!”

 

It was the first lightness he had shown, and it put me

on guard.

 

“I should like an idea of its value. Even an unfinished

house is worth something.”

 

“Land out there is worth from one hundred to one

hundred and fifty dollars an acre. There’s an even

hundred acres. I’ll be glad to have your appraisement

of the house when you get there.”

 

“Humph! You flatter my judgment, Pickering. The

loose stuff there is worth how much?”

 

“It’s all in the library. Your grandfather’s weakness

was architecture—”

 

“So I remember!” I interposed, recalling my stormy

interviews with John Marshall Glenarm over my choice

of a profession.

 

“In his last years he turned more and more to his

books. He placed out there what is, I suppose, the

finest collection of books relating to architecture to be

found in this country. That was his chief hobby, after

church affairs, as you may remember, and he rode it

hard. But he derived a great deal of satisfaction from

his studies.”

 

I laughed again; it was better to laugh than to cry

over the situation.

 

“I suppose he wanted me to sit down there, surrounded

by works on architecture, with the idea that

a study of the subject would be my only resource. The

scheme is eminently Glenarmian! And all I get is a

worthless house, a hundred acres of land, ten thousand

dollars, and a doubtful claim against a Protestant nun

who hoodwinked my grandfather into setting up a

school for her. Bless your heart, man, so far as my inheritance

is concerned it would have been money in my

pocket to have stayed in Africa.”

 

“That’s about the size of it.”

 

“But the personal property is all mine—anything

that’s loose on the place. Perhaps my grandfather

planted old plate and government bonds just to pique

the curiosity of his heirs, successors and assigns. It

would be in keeping!”

 

I had walked to the window and looked out across

the city. As I turned suddenly I found Pickering’s

eyes bent upon me with curious intentness. I had never

liked his eyes; they were too steady. When a man always

meets your gaze tranquilly and readily, it is just

as well to be wary of him.

 

“Yes; no doubt you will find the place literally

packed with treasure,” he said, and laughed. “When

you find anything you might wire me.”

 

He smiled; the idea seemed to give him pleasure.

 

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” I asked. “No

substitute—no codicil?”

 

“If you know of anything of the kind it’s your duty

to produce it. We have exhausted the possibilities. I’ll

admit that the provisions of the will are unusual; your

grandfather was a peculiar man in many respects; but

he was thoroughly sane and his faculties were all sound

to the last.”

 

“He treated me a lot better than I deserved,” I said,

with a heartache that I had not known often in my

irresponsible life; but I could not afford to show feeling

before Arthur Pickering.

 

I picked up the copy of the will and examined it.

It was undoubtedly authentic; it bore the certificate of

the clerk of Wabana County, Indiana. The witnesses

were Thomas Bates and Arthur Pickering.

 

“Who is Bates?” I asked, pointing to the man’s signature.

 

“One of your grandfather’s discoveries. He’s in

charge of the house out there, and a trustworthy fellow.

He’s a fair cook, among other things. I don’t know

where Mr. Glenarm got Bates, but he had every confidence

in him. The man was with him at the end.”

 

A picture of my grandfather dying, alone with a

servant, while I, his only kinsman, wandered in strange

lands, was not one that I could contemplate with much

satisfaction. My grandfather had been an odd little

figure of a man, who always wore a long black coat and a

silk hat, and carried a curious silver-headed staff, and

said puzzling things at which everybody was afraid either

to laugh or to cry. He refused to be thanked for favors,

though he was generous and helpful and constantly

performing kind deeds. His whimsical philanthropies

were often described in the newspapers. He had once

given a considerable sum of money to a fashionable

church in Boston with the express stipulation, which

he