The House of a Thousand Candles | Page 5

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 safeguarded legally, that if the congregation ever intrusted its
spiritual welfare to a minister named Reginald, Harold or Claude, an
amount equal to his gift, with interest, should be paid to the
Massachusetts Humane Society.
The thought of him touched me now. I was glad to feel that his money
had never been a lure to me; it did not matter whether his estate was
great or small, I could, at least, ease my conscience by obeying the
behest of the old man whose name I bore, and whose interest in the
finer things of life and art had given him an undeniable distinction.
"I should like to know something of Mr. Glenarm's last days," I said
abruptly.
"He wished to visit the village where he was born, and Bates, his
companion and servant, went to Vermont with him. He died quite
suddenly, and was buried beside his father in the old village cemetery. I
saw him last early in the summer. I was away from home and did not
know of his death until it was all over. Bates came to report it to me,
and to sign the necessary papers in probating the will. It had to be