CHAPTER XVI
THE PASSING OF OLIVIA
Bates brought a great log and rolled it upon exactlythe right spot on the andirons, and a great constellationof sparks thronged up the chimney. The old relic of ahouse—I called the establishment by many names, butthis was, I think, my favorite—could be heated in allits habitable parts, as Bates had demonstrated. Thehalls were of glacial temperature these cold days, butmy room above, the dining-room and the great librarywere comfortable enough. I threw down a book andknocked the ashes from my pipe.
“Bates!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think my spiritual welfare is in jeopardy. I needcounsel,—a spiritual adviser.”
“I’m afraid that’s beyond me, sir.”
“I’d like to invite Mr. Stoddard to dinner so I maydiscuss my soul’s health with him at leisure.”
“Certainly, Mr. Glenarm.”
“But it occurs to me that probably the terms of Mr.Glenarm’s will point to my complete sequestration here.In other words, I may forfeit my rights by asking aguest to dinner.”
He pondered the matter for a moment, then replied:
“I should think, sir,—as you ask my opinion,—thatin the case of a gentleman in holy orders there wouldbe no impropriety. Mr. Stoddard is a fine gentleman;I heard your late grandfather speak of him veryhighly.”
“That, I imagine, is hardly conclusive in the matter.There is the executor—”
“To be sure; I hadn’t considered him.”
“Well, you’d better consider him. He’s the court oflast resort, isn’t he?”
“Well, of course, that’s one way of looking at it,sir.
“I suppose there’s no chance of Mr. Pickering’s droppingin on us now and then.”
He gazed at me steadily, unblinkingly and with entirerespect.
“He’s a good deal of a traveler, Mr. Pickering is. Hepassed through only this morning, so the mail-boy toldme. You may have met him at the station.”
“Oh, yes; to be sure; so I did I” I replied. I was notas good a liar as Bates; and there was nothing to begained by denying that I had met the executor in thevillage. “I had a very pleasant talk with him. He wason the way to California with several friends.”
“That is quite his way, I understand,—private carsand long journeys about the country. A very successfulman is Mr. Pickering. Your grandfather had greatconfidence in him, did Mr. Glenarm.”
“Ah, yes! A fine judge of character my grandfatherwas! I guess John Marshall Glenarm could spot a rascalabout as far as any man in his day.”
I felt like letting myself go before this masked scoundrel.The density of his mask was an increasing wonderto me. Bates was the most incomprehensible humanbeing I had ever known. I had been torn with athousand conflicting emotions since I overheard him discussingthe state of affairs at Glenarm House withPickering in the chapel porch; and Pickering’s acquaintancewith the girl in gray brought new elementsinto the affair that added to my uneasiness. But herewas a treasonable dog on whom the stress of conspiracyhad no outward effect whatever.
It was an amazing situation, but it called for calmnessand eternal vigilance. With every hour my resolutiongrew to stand fast and fight it out on my own accountwithout outside help. A thousand times duringthe afternoon I had heard the voice of the girl in graysaying to me: “You are a man, and I have heard thatyou have had some experience in taking care of yourself,Mr. Glenarm.”
It was both a warning and a challenge, and the memoryof the words was at once sobering and cheering.
Bates waited. Of him, certainly, I should ask noquestions touching Olivia Armstrong. To discuss herwith a blackguard servant even to gain answers to bafflingquestions about her was not to my liking. And,thank God! I taught myself one thing, if nothingmore, in those days at Glenarm House: I learned tobide my time.
“I’ll give you a note to Mr. Stoddard in the morning.You may go now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The note was written and despatched. The chaplainwas not at his lodgings, and Bates reported that he hadleft the message. The answer came presently by thehand of the Scotch gardener, Ferguson, a short, wiry,raw-boned specimen. I happened to open the door myself,and brought him into the library until I could readStoddard’s reply. Ferguson had, I thought, an uneasyeye, and his hair, of an ugly carrot color, annoyed me.
Mr. Paul Stoddard presented his compliments andwould be delighted to dine with me. He wrote a largeeven hand, as frank and open as himself.
“That is all, Ferguson.” And the gardener took himselfoff.
Thus it came about that Stoddard and I faced eachother across the table in the refectory that same eveningunder the lights of a great candelabrum whichBates had produced from the store-room below. AndI may say here, that while there was a slight hitch sometimesin the delivery of supplies from the village;while the fish which Bates caused to be shipped fromChicago for delivery every Friday morning failed onceor twice, and while the grape-fruit for breakfastwas not always what it should have been,—the supplyof candles seemed inexhaustible. They were producedin every shade and size. There were enormousones, such as I had never seen outside of a Russianchurch,—and one of the rooms in the cellar was filledwith boxes of them. The House of a Thousand Candlesdeserved and proved its name.
Bates had certainly risen to the occasion. Silver andcrystal of which I had not known before glistened onthe table, and on the sideboard two huge candelabraadded to the festival air of the little room.
Stoddard laughed as he glanced about.
“Here I have been feeling sorry for you, and yet youare living like a prince. I didn’t know there was somuch splendor in all Wabana County.”
“I’m a trifle dazzled myself. Bates has tapped a newcellar somewhere. I’m afraid I’m not a good housekeeper,to speak truthfully. There are times when Ihate the house; when it seems wholly ridiculous, thewhim of an eccentric old man; and then again I’m actuallyafraid that I like its seclusion.”
“Your seclusion is better than mine. You know mylittle two-room affair behind the chapel,—only a fewbooks and a punching bag. That chapel also is one ofyour grandfather’s whims. He provided that all theoffices of the church must be said there daily or theendowment is stopped. Mr. Glenarm lived in the past,or liked to think he did. I suppose you know—or maybeyou don’t know—how I came to have this appointment?”
“Indeed, I should like to know.”
We had reached the soup, and Bates was changingour plates with his accustomed light hand.
“It was my name that did the business,—Paul. Abishop had recommended a man whose given name wasEthelbert,—a decent enough name and one that youmight imagine would appeal to Mr. Glenarm; but herejected him because the name might too easily be cutdown to Ethel, a name which, he said, was very distastefulto him.”
“That is characteristic. The dear old gentleman!” Iexclaimed with real feeling.
“But he reckoned without his host,” Stoddard continued.“The young ladies, I have lately learned, callme Pauline, as a mark of regard or otherwise,—probablyotherwise. I give two lectures a week on churchhistory, and I fear my course isn’t popular.”
“But it is something, on the other hand, to be in touchwith such an institution. They are a very sightly company,those girls. I enjoy watching them across thegarden wall. And I had a closer view of them at thestation this morning, when you ran off and desertedme.”
He laughed,—his big wholesome cheering laugh.
“I take good care not to see much of them socially.”
“Afraid of the eternal feminine?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. I’m preparing to go into aBrotherhood, as you probably don’t know. And girlsare distracting.”
I glanced at my companion with a new inquiry andinterest.
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Yes; I’m spending my year in studies that I maynever have a chance for hereafter. I’m going into anorder whose members work hard.”
He spoke as though
he were planning a summer outing.I had not sat at meat with a clergyman since thedeath of my parents broke up our old home in Vermont,and my attitude toward the cloth was, I fear, one ofantagonism dating from those days.
“Well, I saw Pickering after all,” I remarked.
“Yes, I saw him, too. What is it in his case, geniusor good luck?”
“I’m not a competent witness,” I answered. “I’ll befrank with you: I don’t like him; I don’t believe inhim.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t know, of course.”
“The subject is not painful to me,” I hastened toadd, “though he was always rather thrust before me asan ideal back in my youth, and you know how fatal thatis. And then the gods of success have opened all thegates for him.”
“Yes,—and yet—”
“And yet—” I repeated. Stoddard lifted a glass ofsherry to the light and studied it for a moment. He didnot drink wine, but was not, I found, afraid to lookat it.
“And yet,” he said, putting down the glass and speakingslowly, “when the gates of good fortune open tooreadily and smoothly, they may close sometimes rathertoo quickly and snap a man’s coat-tails. Please don’tthink I’m going to afflict you with shavings of wisdomfrom the shop-floor, but life wasn’t intended to be tooeasy. The spirit of man needs arresting and chastening.It doesn’t flourish under too much fostering ortoo much of what we call good luck. I’m disposed tobe afraid of good luck.”
“I’ve never tried it,” I said laughingly.
“I am not looking for it,” and he spoke soberly.
I could not talk of Pickering with Bates—the maskedbeggar!—in the room, so I changed the subject.
“I suppose you impose penances, prescribe disciplinefor the girls at St. Agatha’s,—an agreeable exercise ofthe priestly office, I should say!”
His laugh was pleasant and rang true. I was likinghim better the more I saw of him.
“Bless you, no! I am not venerable enough. TheSisters attend to all that,—and a fine company ofwomen they are!”
“But there must be obstinate cases. One of theyoung ladies confided to me—I tell you this in cloistralconfidence—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 girlin one. I fear Sister Theresa lost her patience andhardened her heart.”
“I should like to intercede for Miss Armstrong,” Ideclared.
The surprise showed in his face, and I added:
“Pray don’t misunderstand me. We met underrather curious circumstances, Miss Armstrong and I.”
“She is usually met under rather unconventional circumstances,I believe,” he remarked dryly. “My introductionto her came through the kitten she smuggledinto the alms box of the chapel. It took me two daysto 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 ofyouth,—paddling a canoe, chasing rabbits through thesnow, placing kittens in durance vile. But she’s demureenough when she pleases,—and a satisfaction tothe eye.”
My heart warmed at the memory of Olivia. Verilythe 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 Theresacouldn’t afford to keep her. Her influence on theother girls was bad.”
“That’s to Miss Devereux’s credit,” I replied. “Youneedn’t wait, Bates.”
“Olivia was too popular. All the other girls indulgedher. And I’ll concede that she’s pretty. That gipsyface of hers bodes ill to the hearts of men—if she evergrows up.”
“I shouldn’t exactly call it a gipsy face; and howmuch more should you expect her to grow? At twentya woman’s grown, isn’t she?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Fifteen, you mean! Olivia Armstrong—that littlewitch—the kid that has kept the school in turmoil allthe 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 bothsides.
“The wires are evidently crossed somewhere,” he saidcalmly. “My Olivia Armstrong is a droll child fromCincinnati, whose escapades caused her to be sent homefor discipline to-day. She’s a little mite who just aboutcomes to the lapel of your coat, her eyes are as blackas midnight—”
“Then she didn’t talk to Pickering and his friendsat the station this morning—the prettiest girl in theworld—gray hat, gray coat, blue eyes? You can haveyour Olivia; but who, will you tell me, is mine?”
I pounded with my clenched hand on the table untilthe candles rattled and sputtered.
Stoddard stared at me for a moment as though hethought I had lost my wits. Then he lay back in hischair and roared. I rose, bending across the table towardhim in my eagerness. A suspicion had leaped intomy mind, and my heart was pounding as it roused athousand questions.
“The blue-eyed young woman in gray? Bless yourheart, man, Olivia is a child; I talked to her myself onthe platform. You were talking to Miss Devereux.She isn’t Olivia, she’s Marian!”
“Then, who is Marian Devereux—where does shelive—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 shespends some of her time here.”
“Teaches—music—”
“Not that I ever heard of! She does a lot of thingswell,—takes cups in golf tournaments and is the nimblesthand at tennis you ever saw. Also, she’s a finemusician and plays the organ tremendously.”
“Well, she told me she was Olivia!” I said.
“I should think she would, when you refused to meether; 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’tknow her! We can’t live on the same earth. I’m inher way, hanging on to this property here just to defeather, when she’s the finest girl alive!”
He nodded gravely, his eyes bent upon me with sympathyand kindness. The past events at Glenarmswept through my mind in kinetoscopic flashes, but thegirl in gray talking to Arthur Pickering and hisfriends at the Annandale station, the girl in gray whohad been an eavesdropper at the chapel,—the girl ingray with the eyes of blue! It seemed that a year passedbefore I broke the silence.
“Where has she gone?” I demanded.
He smiled, and I was cheered by the mirth thatshowed in his face.
“Why, she’s gone to Cincinnati, with Olivia GladysArmstrong,” he said. “They’re great chums, youknow!”