CHAPTER XXII
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 librarywindows when he entered. Stoddard, having kept watchthe night before, was at home asleep, and Larry was offsomewhere in the house, treasure-hunting. I was feelingdecidedly discouraged over our failure to make anyprogress with our investigations, and Bates’ news didnot interest me.
“Well, what of it?” I demanded, without turninground.
“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 leftat once for Chicago. Sister Theresa depends particularlyupon Miss Devereux,—so I’ve heard, sir. MissDevereux quite takes charge when the Sister goes away.A few of the students are staying in school through theholidays.”
“You seem full of information,” I remarked, takinganother 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 camewith them from Cincinnati. That’s what I learned inthe village. And Mr. Pickering is going to stay—”
“Pickering stay!”
“At his cottage on the lake for a while. The reasonis 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, hashe?”
I had been blue enough without this news. MarianDevereux had come back to Annandale with ArthurPickering; my faith in her snapped like a reed at thisastounding news. She was now entitled to my grandfather’sproperty and she had lost no time in returningas soon as she and Pickering had discussed together atthe Armstrongs’ my flight from Annandale. Her returncould have no other meaning than that there was astrong tie between them, and he was now to stay on theground until I should be dispossessed and her rightsestablished. She had led me to follow her, and my forfeiturehad been sealed by that stolen interview at theArmstrongs’. It was a black record, and the thought ofit 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 inventorof pianos to hideous torment as scales werepursued endlessly up and down the keys. Two girlspassing through the hall made a pretext of looking fora book and came in and exclaimed over their inabilityto find it with much suppressed giggling.
The piano-pounding continued and I waited for whatseemed an interminable time. It was growing dark anda maid lighted the oil lamps. I took a book from thetable. It was The Life of Benvenuto Cellini and “MarianDevereux” was written on the fly leaf, by unmistakablythe same hand that penned the apology forOlivia’s performances. I saw in the clear flowing linesof the signature, in their lack of superfluity, her ownease, grace and charm; and, in the deeper stroke withwhich the x was crossed, I felt a challenge, a readinessto abide by consequences once her word was given.Then my own inclination to think well of her angeredme. It was only a pretty bit of chirography, and Idropped the book impatiently when I heard her stepon 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 forwardwith an air of attention that was disquieting. Shewore black—perhaps to fit her the better into the houseof a somber Sisterhood. I seemed suddenly to rememberher from a time long gone, and the effort of memorythrew me off guard. Stoddard had said there wereseveral Olivia Armstrongs; there were certainly manyMarian Devereuxs. The silence grew intolerable; shewas 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 facilitatematters. I’m glad to see that you lose no time.”
“Oh!” she said lingeringly, as though she were findingwith difficulty the note in which I wished to pitchthe conversation. Her calmness was maddening.
“I suppose you thought it unwise to wait for thebluebird when you had beguiled me into breaking apromise, when I was trapped, defeated,—”
Her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand restingagainst her check, the light rippling goldenly in herhair, 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, moreangry than I had ever been before in my life.
“That is quite remarkable,” she said, and nodded herhead ironically.
“It was at Sherry’s; you were with Pickering—youdropped your fan and he picked it up, and you turnedtoward me for a moment. You were in black thatnight; it was the unhappiness in your face, in youreyes, that made me remember.”
I was intent upon the recollection, eager to fix andestablish it.
“You are quite right. It was at Sherry’s. I waswearing black then; many things made me unhappythat night.”
Her forehead contracted slightly and she pressed herlips together.
“I suppose that even then the conspiracy was thoroughlyarranged,” I said tauntingly, laughing a littleperhaps, and wishing to wound her, to take vengeanceupon her.
She rose and stood by her chair, one hand restingupon it. I faced her; her eyes were like violet seas.She spoke very quietly.
“Mr. Glenarm, has it occurred to you that when Italked to you there in the park, when I risked unpleasantgossip in receiving you in a house where you hadno 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 believeI have said this to you before!—you were a gentleman.I really did, Mr. Glenarm. I must say it to justifymyself. I relied upon your chivalry; I even thought,when I played being Olivia, that you had a sense ofhonor. But you are not the one and you haven’t theother. I even went so far, after you knew perfectlywell who I was, as to try to help you—to give you anotherchance to prove yourself the man your grandfatherwished you to be. And now you come to me in a shockingbad humor,—I really think you would like to beinsulting, Mr. Glenarm, if you could.”
“But Pickering,—you came back with him; he ishere and he’s going to stay! And now that the propertybelongs to you, there is not the slightest reason whywe should make any pretense of anything but enmity.When you and Arthur Pickering stand together I takethe other side of the barricade! I suppose chivalrywould require me to vacate, so that you may enjoy atonce the spoils of war.”
“I fancy it would not be very difficult to eliminateyou as a factor in the situation,” she remarked icily.
“And I suppose, after the unsuccessful efforts of Mr.Pickering’s allies to assassinate me, as a mild form ofelimination, one would naturally expect me to sit calmlydown and wait to be shot in the back. But you may tellMr. Pickering that I throw myself upon your mercy.I have no other home than this shell over the way, andI beg to be allowed to remain until—at least—the bluebirdscome. I hope it will not embarrass you to deliverthe message.”
“I quite sympathize with your reluctance to deliverit yourself,” she said. “Is this all you came to say?”
“I came to tell you that you could have the house,and everything in its hideous walls,” I snapped; “totell you that my chivalry is enough for some situationsand that I don’t intend to fi
ght a woman. I had acceptedyour own renouncement of the legacy in goodpart, but now, please believe me, it shall be yours to-morrow.I’ll yield possession to you whenever you askit,—but never to Arthur Pickering! As against himand his treasure-hunters and assassins I will hold outfor a dozen years!”
“Nobly spoken, Mr. Glenarm! Yours is really anadmirable, though somewhat complex character.”
“My character is my own, whatever it is,” I blurted.
“I shouldn’t call that a debatable proposition,” shereplied, and I was angry to find how the mirth I hadloved in her could suddenly become so hateful. Shehalf-turned away so that I might not see her face. Thethought that she should countenance Pickering in anyway tore me with jealous rage.
“Mr. Glenarm, you are what I have heard called aquitter, defined in common Americanese as one whoquits! Your blustering here this afternoon can hardlyconceal the fact of your failure,—your inability to keepa promise. I had hoped you would really be of somehelp to Sister Theresa; you quite deceived her,—shetold me as she left to-day that she thought well of you,—she really felt that her fortunes were safe in yourhands. But, of course, that is all a matter of past historynow.”
Her tone, changing from cold indifference to themost severe disdain, stung me into self-pity for my stupidityin having sought her. My anger was not againsther, but against Pickering, who had, I persuaded myself,always blocked my path. She went on.
“You really amuse me exceedingly. Mr. Pickeringis decidedly more than a match for you, Mr. Glenarm,—even in humor.”
She left me so quickly, so softly, that I stood staringlike a fool at the spot where she had been, and then Iwent gloomily back to Glenarm House, angry, ashamedand crestfallen.
While we were waiting for dinner I made a cleanbreast of my acquaintance with her to Larry, omittingnothing,—rejoicing even to paint my own conduct asblack as possible.
“You may remember her,” I concluded, “she was thegirl we saw at Sherry’s that night we dined there. Shewas with Pickering, and you noticed her,—spoke of her,as she went out.”
“That little girl who seemed so bored, or tired? Blessme! Why her eyes haunted me for days. Lord man,do you mean to say—”
A look of utter scorn came into his face, and he eyedme contemptuously.
“Of course I mean it!” I thundered at him.
He took the pipe from his mouth, pressed the tobaccoviciously into the bowl, and swore steadily in Gaelicuntil I was ready to choke him.
“Stop!” I bawled. “Do you think that’s helping me?And to have you curse in your blackguardly Irish dialect!I wanted a little Anglo-Saxon sympathy, youfool! I didn’t mean for you to invoke your infamousgods against the girl!”
“Don’t be violent, lad. Violence is reprehensible,”he admonished with maddening sweetness and patience.“What I was trying to inculcate was rather the fact,borne in upon me through years of acquaintance, thatyou are,—to he bold, my lad, to be bold,—a good dealof a damned fool.”
The trilling of his r’s was like the whirring rise ofa flock of quails.
“Dinner is served,” announced Bates, and Larry ledthe way, mockingly chanting an Irish love-song.