The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (good ebook reader .TXT) 📖

a woman for a long time, and

it gave me a pleasant emotion. One of the Sisters I had

seen beyond the wall undoubtedly wrote it—possibly

Sister Theresa herself. A clever woman, that! Thoroughly

capable of plucking money from guileless old

gentlemen! Poor Olivia! born for freedom, but doomed

to a pent-up existence with a lot of nuns! I resolved to

send her a box of candy sometime, just to annoy her

grim guardians. Then my own affairs claimed attention.

 

“Bates,” I asked, “do you know what Mr. Glenarm

did with the plans for the house?”

 

He started slightly. I should not have noticed it if

I had not been keen for his answer.

 

“No, sir. I can’t put my hand upon them, sir.”

 

“That’s all very well, Bates, but you didn’t answer

my question. Do you know where they are? I’ll put

my hand on them if you will kindly tell me where

they’re kept.”

 

“Mr. Glenarm, I fear very much that they have been

destroyed. I tried to find them before you came, to tell

you the whole truth, sir; but they must have been made

‘way with.”

 

“That’s very interesting, Bates. Will you kindly

tell me whom you suspect of destroying them? The

toast again, please.”

 

His hand shook as he passed the plate.

 

“I hardly like to say, sir, when it’s only a suspicion.”

 

“Of course I shouldn’t ask you to incriminate yourself,

but I’ll have to insist on my question. It may

have occurred to you, Bates, that I’m in a sense—in a

sense, mind you—the master here.”

 

“Well, I should say, if you press me, that I fear

Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, burned the plans when

he left here the last time. I hope you will pardon me,

sir, for seeming to reflect upon him.”

 

“Reflect upon the devil! What was his idea, do you

suppose?”

 

“I think, sir, if you will pardon—”

 

“Don’t be so fussy!” I snapped. “Damn your pardon,

and go on!”

 

“He wanted you to study out the place for yourself,

sir. It was dear to his heart, this house. He set his

heart upon having you enjoy it—”

 

“I like the word—go ahead.”

 

“And I suppose there are things about it that he

wished you to learn for yourself.”

 

“You know them, of course, and are watching me to

see when I’m hot or cold, like kids playing hide the

handkerchief.”

 

The fellow turned and faced me across the table.

 

“Mr. Glenarm, as I hope God may be merciful to me

in the last judgment, I don’t know any more than you

do.”

 

“You were here with Mr. Glenarm all the time he was

building the house, but you never saw walls built that

weren’t what they appeared to be, or doors made that

didn’t lead anywhere.”

 

I summoned all my irony and contempt for this arraignment.

He lifted his hand, as though making

oath.

 

“As God sees me, that is all true. I was here to care

for the dead master’s comfort and not to spy on him.”

 

“And Morgan, your friend, what about him?”

 

“I wish I knew, sir.”

 

“I wish to the devil you did,” I said, and flung out

of the room and into the library.

 

At eleven o’clock I heard a pounding at the great

front door and Bates came to announce a caller, who

was now audibly knocking the snow from his shoes in

the outer hall.

 

“The Reverend Paul Stoddard, sir.”

 

The chaplain of St. Agatha’s was a big fellow, as I

had remarked on the occasion of his interview with

Olivia Gladys Armstrong by the wall. His light brown

hair was close-cut; his smooth-shaven face was bright

with the freshness of youth. Here was a sturdy young

apostle without frills, but with a vigorous grip that left

my hand tingling. His voice was deep and musical—a

voice that suggested sincerity and inspired confidence.

 

“I’m afraid I haven’t been neighborly, Mr. Glenarm.

I was called away from home a few days after I heard

of your arrival, and I have just got back. I blew in

yesterday with the snow-storm.”

 

He folded his arms easily and looked at me with

cheerful directness, as though politely interested in what

manner of man I might be.

 

“It was a fine storm; I got a great day out of it,” I

said. “An Indiana snow-storm is something I have

never experienced before.”

 

“This is my second winter. I came out here because

I wished to do some reading, and thought I’d rather do

it alone than in a university.”

 

“Studious habits are rather forced on one out here,

I should say. In my own case my course of reading

is all cut out for me.”

 

He ran his eyes over the room.

 

“The Glenarm collection is famous—the best in the

country, easily. Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, was

certainly an enthusiast. I met him several times; he

was a trifle hard to meet,”—and the clergyman smiled.

 

I felt rather uncomfortable, assuming that he probably

knew I was undergoing discipline, and why my

grandfather had so ordained it. The Reverend Paul

Stoddard was so simple, unaffected and manly a fellow

that I shrank from the thought that I must appear to

him an ungrateful blackguard whom my grandfather

had marked with obloquy.

 

“My grandfather had his whims; but he was a fine,

generous-hearted old gentleman,” I said.

 

“Yes; in my few interviews with him he surprised

me by the range of his knowledge. He was quite able

to instruct me in certain curious branches of church

history that had appealed to him.”

 

“You were here when he built the house, I suppose?”

 

My visitor laughed cheerfully.

 

“I was on my side of the barricade for a part of the

time. You know there was a great deal of mystery

about the building of this house. The country-folk

hereabouts can’t quite get over it. They have a superstition

that there’s treasure buried somewhere on the

place. You see, Mr. Glenarm wouldn’t employ any local

labor. The work was done by men he brought from

afar—none of them, the villagers say, could speak English.

They were all Greeks or Italians.”

 

“I have heard something of the kind,” I remarked,

feeling that here was a man who with a little cultivating

might help me to solve some of my riddles.

 

“You haven’t been on our side of the wall yet? Well,

I promise not to molest your hidden treasure if you’ll

be neighborly.”

 

“I fear there’s a big joke involved in the hidden

treasure,” I replied. “I’m so busy staying at home to

guard it that I have no time for social recreation.”

 

He looked at me quickly to see whether I was joking.

His eyes were steady and earnest. The Reverend Paul

Stoddard impressed me more and more agreeably.

There was a suggestion of a quiet strength about him

that drew me to him.

 

“I suppose every one around here thinks of nothing

but that I’m at Glenarm to earn my inheritance. My

residence here must look pretty sordid from the outside.”

 

“Mr. Glenarm’s will is a matter of record in the

county, of course. But you are too hard on yourself.

It’s nobody’s business if your grandfather wished to

visit his whims on you. I should say, in my own case,

that I don’t consider it any of my business what you

are here for. I didn’t come over to annoy you or to

pry into your affairs. I get lonely now and then, and

thought I’d like to establish neighborly relations.”

 

“Thank you; I appreciate your coming very much,”

—and my heart warmed under the manifest kindness

of the man.

 

“And I hope”—he spoke for the first time with restraint

—“I hope nothing may prevent your knowing

Sister Theresa and Miss Devereux. They are interesting

and charming—the only women about here of your

own social status.”

 

My liking for him abated slightly. He might be a

detective, representing the alternative heir, for all I

knew, and possibly Sister Theresa was a party to the

conspiracy.

 

“In time, no doubt, in time, I shall know them,” I

answered evasively.

 

“Oh, quite as you like!”—and he changed the subject.

We talked of many things—of outdoor sports,

with which he showed great familiarity, of universities,

of travel and adventure. He was a Columbia man and

had spent two years at Oxford.

 

“Well,” he exclaimed, “this has been very pleasant,

but I must run. I have just been over to see Morgan,

the caretaker at the resort village. The poor fellow accidentally

shot himself yesterday, cleaning his gun or

something of that sort, and he has an ugly hole in his

arm that will shut him in for a month or worse. He

gave me an errand to do for him. He’s a conscientious

fellow and wished me to wire for him to Mr. Pickering

that he’d been hurt, but was attending to his duties.

Pickering owns a cottage over there, and Morgan has

charge of it. You know Pickering, of course?”

 

I looked my clerical neighbor straight in the eye, a

trifle coldly perhaps. I was wondering why Morgan,

with whom I had enjoyed a duel in my own cellar only

a few hours before, should be reporting his injury to

Arthur Pickering.

 

“I think I have seen Morgan about here,” I said.

 

“Oh, yes! He’s a woodsman and a hunter—our Nimrod

of the lake.”

 

“A good sort, very likely!”

 

“I dare say. He has sometimes brought me ducks

during the season.”

 

“To be sure! They shoot ducks at night—these

Hoosier hunters—so I hear!”

 

He laughed as he shook himself into his greatcoat.

 

“That’s possible, though unsportsmanlike. But we

don’t have to look a gift mallard in the eye.”

 

We laughed together. I found that it was easy to

laugh with him.

 

“By the way, I forgot to get Pickering’s address from

Morgan. If you happen to have it—”

 

“With pleasure,” I said. “Alexis Building, Broadway,

New York.”

 

“Good! That’s easy to remember,” he said, smiling

and turning up his coat collar. “Don’t forget me;

I’m quartered in a hermit’s cell back of the chapel, and

I believe we can find many matters of interest to talk

about.”

 

“I’m confident of it,” I said, glad of the sympathy

and cheer that seemed to emanate from his stalwart

figure.

 

I threw on my overcoat and walked to the gate with

him, and saw him hurry toward the village with long

strides.