Wind and rain rioted in the wood, and occasionally

both fell upon the library windows with a howl and a

splash. The tempest had wakened me; it seemed that

every chimney in the house held a screaming demon.

We were now well-launched upon December, and I was

growing used to my surroundings. I had offered myself

frequently as a target by land and water; I had sat

on the wall and tempted fate; and I had roamed the

house constantly expecting to surprise Bates in some act

of treachery; but the days were passing monotonously.

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I saw nothing of Morgan-he had gone to Chicago on

some errand, so Bates reported-but I continued to walk

abroad every day, and often at night, alert for a reopening

of hostilities. Twice I had seen the red tam-o'-shanter

far through the wood, and once I had passed my

young acquaintance with another girl, a dark, laughing

youngster, walking in the highway, and she had bowed

to me coldly. Even the ghost in the wall proved inconstant,

but I had twice heard the steps without being able

to account for them.

Memory kept plucking my sleeve with reminders of

my grandfather. I was touched at finding constantly

his marginal notes in the books he had collected with so

much intelligence and loving care. It occurred to me

that some memorial, a tablet attached to the outer wall,

or perhaps, more properly placed in the chapel, would

be fitting; and I experimented with designs for it, covering

many sheets of drawing-paper in an effort to set

forth in a few words some hint of his character. On this

gray morning I produced this: 1835

The life of John Marshall Glenarm

was a testimony to the virtue of

generosity, forbearance and gentleness

The Beautiful things he loved

were not nobler than his own days

His grandson (who served him ill)

writes this of him

1901 I had drawn these words on a piece of cardboard and

was studying them critically when Bates came in with

wood.

"Those are unmistakable snowflakes, sir," said Bates

from the window. "We're in for winter now."

It was undeniably snow; great lazy flakes of it were

crowding down upon the wood.

Bates had not mentioned Morgan or referred even remotely

to the pistol-shot of my first night, and he had

certainly conducted himself as a model servant. The

man-of-all-work at St. Agatha's, a Scotchman named

Ferguson, had visited him several times, and I had surprised

them once innocently enjoying their pipes and

whisky and water in the kitchen.

"They are having trouble at the school, sir," said

Bates from the hearth.

"The young ladies running a little wild, eh?"

"Sister Theresa's ill, sir. Ferguson told me last

night!"

"No doubt Ferguson knows," I declared, moving the

papers about on my desk, conscious, and not ashamed of

it, that I enjoyed these dialogues with Bates. I occasionally

entertained the idea that he would some day

brain me as I sat dining upon the viands which he prepared

with so much skill; or perhaps he would poison

me, that being rather more in his line of business and

perfectly easy of accomplishment; but the house was

bare and lonely and he was a resource.




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