SISTER THERESA
There was further information I wished to obtain,
and I did not blush to pluck it from Stoddard before
I let him go that night. Olivia Gladys Armstrong lived
in Cincinnati; her father was a wealthy physician at
Walnut Hills. Stoddard knew the family, and I asked
questions about them, their antecedents and place of
residence that were not perhaps impertinent in view of
the fact that I had never consciously set eyes on their
daughter in my life. As I look back upon it now my
information secured at that time, touching the history
and social position of the Armstrongs of Walnut Hills,
Cincinnati, seems excessive, but the curiosity which the
Reverend Paul Stoddard satisfied with so little trouble
to himself was of immediate interest and importance.
As to the girl in gray I found him far more difficult.
She was Marian Devereux; she was a niece of Sister
Theresa; her home was in New York, with another
aunt, her parents being dead; and she was a frequent
visitor at St. Agatha’s.
The wayward Olivia and she were on excellent terms,
and when it seemed wisest for that vivacious youngster
to retire from school at the mid-year recess Miss Devereux
had accompanied her home, ostensibly for a visit,
but really to break the force of the blow. It was a pretty
story, and enhanced my already high opinion of Miss
Devereux, while at the same time I admired the unknown
Olivia Gladys none the less.
When Stoddard left me I dug out of a drawer my
copy of John Marshall Glenarm’s will and re-read it for
the first time since Pickering gave it to me in New
York. There was one provision to which I had not
given a single thought, and when I had smoothed the
thin type-written sheets upon the table in my room I
read it over and over again, construing it in a new light
with every reading.
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.
“Bully for the old boy!” I muttered finally, folding
the copy with something akin to reverence for my
grandfather’s shrewdness in closing so many doors upon
his heirs. It required no lawyer to interpret this
paragraph. If I could not secure his estate by settling
at Glenarm for a year I was not to gain it by marrying
the alternative heir. Here, clearly, was not one of those
situations so often contrived by novelists, in which the
luckless heir presumptive, cut off without a cent, weds
the pretty cousin who gets the fortune and they live
happily together ever afterward. John Marshall Glenarm
had explicitly provided against any such frustration
of his plans.
“Bully for you, John Marshall Glenarm!” I rose
and bowed low to his photograph.
On top of my mail next morning lay a small envelope,
unstamped, and addressed to me in a free running hand.
“Ferguson left it,” explained Bates.
I opened and read:
If convenient will Mr. Glenarm kindly look in at St.
Agatha’s some day this week at four o’clock. Sister Theresa
wishes to see him.
I whistled softly. My feelings toward Sister Theresa
had been those of utter repugnance and antagonism. I
had been avoiding her studiously and was not a little
surprised that she should seek an interview with me.
Quite possibly she wished to inquire how soon I expected
to abandon Glenarm House; or perhaps she wished to
admonish me as to the perils of my soul. In any event
I liked the quality of her note, and I was curious to
know why she sent for me; moreover, Marian Devereux
was her niece and that was wholly in the Sister’s favor.
At four o’clock I passed into St. Agatha territory
and rang the bell at the door of the building where I
had left Olivia the evening I found her in the chapel.
A Sister admitted me, led the way to a small reception-room
where, I imagined, the visiting parent was received,
and left me. I felt a good deal like a school-boy
who has been summoned before a severe master for
discipline. I was idly beating my hat with my gloves
when a quick step sounded in the hall and instantly a
brown-clad figure appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Glenarm?”
It was a deep, rich voice, a voice of assurance, a
voice, may I say? of the world,—a voice, too, may I
add? of a woman who is likely to say what she means
without ado. The white band at her forehead brought
into relief two wonderful gray eyes that were alight
with kindliness. She surveyed me a moment, then her
lips parted in a smile.
“This room is rather forbidding; if you will come
with me—”
She turned with an air of authority that was a part
of her undeniable distinction, and I was seated a moment
later in a pretty sitting-room, whose windows
gave a view of the dark wood and frozen lake beyond.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Glenarm, that you are not disposed
to be neighborly, and you must pardon me if I seem to
be pursuing you.”
Her smile, her voice, her manner were charming. I
had pictured her a sour old woman, who had hidden
away from a world that had offered her no pleasure.
“The apologies must all be on my side, Sister Theresa.
I have been greatly occupied since coming here,—
distressed and perplexed even.”
“Our young ladies treasure the illusion that there
are ghosts at your house” she said, with a smile that
disposed of the matter.
She folded her slim white hands on her knees and
spoke with a simple directness.
“Mr. Glenarm, there is something I wish to say to
you, but I can say it only if we are to be friends. I
have feared you might look upon us here as enemies.”
“That is a strong word,” I replied evasively.
“Let me say to you that I hope very much that nothing
will prevent your inheriting all that Mr. Glenarm
wished you to have from him.”
“Thank you; that is both kind and generous,” I said
with no little surprise.
“Not in the least. I should be disloyal to your grandfather,
who was my friend and the friend of my family,
if I did not feel kindly toward you and wish you well.
And I must say for my niece—”
“Miss Devereux.” I found a certain pleasure in pronouncing
her name.
“Miss Devereux is very greatly disturbed over the
good intentions of your grandfather in placing her name
in his will. You can doubtless understand how uncomfortable
a person of any sensibility would be under the
circumstances. I’m sorry you have never met her. She
is a very charming young woman whose happiness does
not, I may say, depend on other people’s money.”
She had never told, then! I smiled at the recollection
of our interviews.
“I am sure that is true, Sister Theresa.”
“Now I wish to speak to you about a matter of some
delicacy. It is, I understand perfectly, no business of
mine how much of a fortune Mr. Glenarm left. But
this matter has been brought to my attention in a disagreeable
way. Your grandfather established this
school; he gave most of the money for these buildings.
I had other friends who offered to contribute, but he insisted
on doing it all. But now Mr. Pickering insists
that the money—or part of it at least—was only a loan.”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Mr. Pickering tells me that he has no alternative in
the matter; that the law requires him to collect this
money as a debt due the estate.”
“That is undoubtedly true, as a general proposition.
He told me in New York that he had a claim against
you for fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yes; that is the amount. I wish to say to you, Mr.
Glenarm, that if it is necessary I can pay that amount.”
“Pray do not trouble about it, Sister Theresa. There
are a good many things about my grandfather’s affairs
that I don’t understand, but I’m not going to see an
old friend of his swindled. There’s more in all this
than appears. My grandfather seems to have mislaid
or lost most of his assets before he died. And yet he
had the reputation of being a pretty cautious business
man.”
“The impression is abroad, as you must know, that
your grandfather concealed his fortune before his
death. The people hereabouts believe so; and Mr. Pickering,
the executor, has been unable to trace it.”
“Yes, I believe Mr. Pickering has not been able to
solve the problem,” I said and laughed.
“But, of course, you and he will coöperate in an effort
to find the lost property.”
She bent forward slightly; her eyes, as they met
mine, examined me with a keen interest.
“Why shouldn’t I be frank with you, Sister Theresa?
I have every reason for believing Arthur Pickering a
scoundrel. He does not care to coöperate with me in
searching for this money. The fact is that he very
much wishes to eliminate me as a factor in the settlement
of the estate. I speak carefully; I know exactly
what I am saying.”
She bowed her head slightly and was silent for a moment.
The silence was the more marked from the fact
that the hood of her habit concealed her face.
“What you say is very serious.”
“Yes, and his offense is equally serious. It may
seem odd for me to be saying this to you when I am a
stranger; when you may be pardoned for having no
very high opinion of me.”
She turned her face to me,—it was singularly gentle
and refined,—not a face to associate with an idea of
self-seeking or duplicity.
“I sent for you, Mr. Glenarm, because I had a very
good opinion of you; because, for one reason, you are
the grandson of your grandfather,”—and the friendly
light in her gray eyes drove away any lingering doubt
I may have had as to her sincerity. “I wished to warn
you to have a care for your own safety. I don’t warn
you against Arthur Pickering alone, but against the
countryside. The idea of a hidden fortune is alluring;
a mysterious house and a lost treasure make a very enticing
combination. I fancy Mr. Glenarm did not realize
that he was creating dangers for the people he
wished to help.”
She was silent again, her eyes bent meditatively upon
me; then she spoke abruptly.
“Mr. Pickering wishes to marry my niece.”
“Ah! I have been waiting to hear that. I am exceedingly
glad to know that he has so noble an ambition.
But Miss Devereux isn’t encouraging him, as near as
I can make out. She refused to go to California with
his party—I happen to know that.”
“That whole California episode would have been
amusing if it had not been ridiculous. Marian never
had the slightest idea of going with him; but she is
sometimes a little—shall I say perverse?—”
“Please do! I like the word—and the quality!”
“—and Mr. Pickering’s rather elaborate methods of
wooing—”
“He’s as heavy as lead!” I declared.
“—amuse Marian up to a certain point; then they annoy
her. He has implied pretty strongly that the claim
against me could be easily adjusted if Marian marries
him. But she will never marry him, whether she benefits
by your grandfather’s will or however that may be!”
“I should say not,” I declared with a warmth that
caused Sister Theresa to sweep me warily with those
wonderful gray eyes. “But first he expects to find this
fortune and endow Miss Devereux with it. That is a
part of the scheme. And my own interest in the estate
must be eliminated before he can bring that condition
about. But, Sister Theresa, I am not so easily got rid
of as Arthur Pickering imagines. My staying qualities,
which were always weak in the eyes of my family, have
been braced up a trifle.”
“Yes.” I thought pleasure and hope were expressed
in the monosyllable, and my heart warmed to her.
“Sister Theresa, you and I are understanding each
other much better than I imagined we should,”—and
we both laughed, feeling a real sympathy growing between
us.
“Yes; I believe we are,”—and the smile lighted her
face again.
“So I can tell you two things. The first is that Arthur
Pickering will never find my grandfather’s lost
fortune, assuming that any exists. The second is that
in no event will he marry your niece.”
“You speak with a good deal of confidence,” she said,
and laughed a low murmuring laugh. I thought there
was relief in it. “But I didn’t suppose Marian’s affairs
interested you.”
“They don’t, Sister Theresa. Her affairs are not of
the slightest importance,—but she is!”
There was frank inquiry in her eyes now.
“But you don’t know her,—you have missed your
opportunity.”
“To be sure, I don’t know her; but I know Olivia
Gladys Armstrong. She’s a particular friend of mine,
—we have chased rabbits together, and she told me a
great deal. I have formed a very good opinion of Miss
Devereux in that way. Oh, that note you wrote about
Olivia’s intrusions beyond the wall! I should thank
you for it,—but I really didn’t mind.”
“A note? I never wrote you a note until to-day!”
“Well, some one did!” I said; then she smiled.
“Oh, that must have been Marian. She was always
Olivia’s loyal friend!”
“I should say so!”
Sister Theresa laughed merrily.
“But you shouldn’t have known Olivia,—it is unpardonable!
If she played tricks upon you, you should not
have taken advantage of them to make her acquaintance.
That wasn’t fair to me!”
“I suppose not! But I protest against this deportation.
The landscape hereabouts is only so much sky,
snow and lumber without her.”
“We miss her, too,” replied Sister Theresa. “We have
less to do!”
“And still I protest!” I declared, rising. “Sister
Theresa, I thank you with all my heart for what you
have said to me,—for the disposition to say it! And
this debt to the estate is something, I promise you, that
shall not trouble you.”
“Then there’s a truce between us! We are not enemies
at all now, are we?”
“No; for Olivia’s sake, at least, we shall be friends.”
I went home and studied the time-table.