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CHAPTER XIII
CROMARTY MANOR
Life at Cromarty Manor was very pleasant indeed.
Although Patty had not definitely realised it, she was thoroughly tired out by her London gaieties, and the peaceful quiet of the country brought her a rest that she truly needed.
Also, the Hartleys were a delightful family to visit. There is quite as much hospitality in knowing when to leave guests to themselves as there is in continually entertaining them.
And while the Hartleys planned many pleasures for Patty, yet there were also hours in the morning or early afternoon, when she was free to follow her own sweet will.
Sometimes she would roam around the historic old house, pausing here and there in some of the silent, unused rooms, to imagine romances of days gone by.
Sometimes she would stroll out-of-doors, through the orchards and woods, by ravines and brooks, always discovering some new and beautiful vista or bit of scenery.
And often she would spend a morning, lying in a hammock beneath the old trees, reading a book, or merely day-dreaming, as she watched the sunlight play hide-and-seek among the leaves above her head.
One morning, after she had been at Cromarty Manor for about a week, Patty betook herself to her favourite hammock, carrying with her a book of Fairy Tales, for which she had never outgrown her childish fondness.
But the book remained unopened, for Patty’s mind was full of busy thoughts.
She looked around at the beautiful landscape which, as far as the eye could reach included only the land belonging to the Cromarty estate. There were more than a thousand acres in all, much of which was cultivated ground, and the rest woodland or rolling meadows. Patty looked at the dark woods in the distance; the orchards nearer by; and, in her immediate vicinity, the beautiful gardens and terraces.
The latter, of which there were two, known as the Upper and Lower Terrace, were two hundred feet long and were separated by a sloping bank of green lawn, dotted with round flower beds.
Above the terraces rose the old house itself. The Manor was built of a grayish stone, and was of Elizabethan architecture.
More than two hundred years old, it had been remodelled and added to by its various successive owners, but much of its fine old, original plan was left.
Ivy clung to its walls, and birds fluttered in and out continually.
There was a tower on either side the great entrance, and Patty loved to fancy that awful and mysterious deeds had been committed within those frowning walls.
But there was no legend or tradition attached to the mansion, and all its history seemed to be peaceful and pleasant.
Even the quaint old yew-tree walk, with its strangely misshapen shrubbery, was bright and cheerful in the morning sunlight, and the lake rippled like silver, and gave no hint of dark or gloomy depths.
And yet, Patty couldn’t help feeling that there was some shadow hanging over the Hartley family. They were never sad or low-spirited, but sometimes Mrs. Hartley would sigh, or Grandma Cromarty would look anxious, as if at some unrelievable sorrow.
The boys were always light-hearted and gay, but Mabel often had moods of despondency, which, while they never made her cross or irritable, were so pathetic that it worried Patty’s loving heart.
And so she lay in her hammock, gazing at the beauty all about her, and wondering what was the secret grief that harassed her dear friends. It never occurred to her that it was none of her affair, for Patty was possessed of a healthy curiosity, and moreover she was innately of a helpful nature, and longed to know what the trouble was, in a vague hope that she might be of some assistance.
“I know they’re not rich,” she said to herself, “for the whole place shows neglect and shabbiness; but there’s something besides lack of money that makes Madam Cromarty sad.”
The place was indeed in a state of unrepair. Though there were many servants, there were not enough to do all that should have been done. The two gardeners did their best to keep the flowers in order, but the elaborate conventional gardens, laid out in geometric designs, and intricate paths, called for a complete staff of trained workers, and in the absence of these, became overgrown at their borders and untidy in appearance.
It was the same indoors. The handsome old furniture, covered with silk brocades and tapestries, was worn and sometimes ragged in appearance. Some of the decorations showed need of regilding, and though the magnificent old carved woodwork, and tessellated floors could not be marred by time, yet many of the lesser appointments called for renovation or renewal. The Great Hall, as it was called, had best withstood the ravages of time, as it was wainscoted and ceiled in massive old oak.
It was a noble apartment, with recessed windows and panelled walls, and across one end was a raised platform from the back of which rose a wonderfully carved chimney-piece.
This apartment, in the palmier days of the Manor House, had been the Banqueting Hall, but as there was a smaller and more appropriate dining-room, the Hartleys used the Great Hall as a living room, and had gathered in it their dearest treasures and belongings. Grandma Cromarty had her own corner, with her knitting basket. In another corner was a grand piano, and many other musical instruments. In one north bay window was Mabel’s painting outfit, and so large was the recess that it formed a good-sized studio. On the walls, hobnobbing with the ancient antlers and deers’ heads, trophies of the chase, were the boys’ tennis rackets, and in the outstretched arm of a tall figure in armour, a lot of golfsticks rested against the quartered shield.
“I suppose,” Mabel had said, when they first showed this room to Patty, “a great many people would consider it desecration to fill up this fine old place with all our modern stuff. But we’re modern, and so we make the carving and tapestries give way to us.”
“They like it,” Patty had replied. “They feel sorry for other houses where the carvings and tapestries have to stay back in their own old times. Now hear these old rafters ring to modern music,” and seating herself at the piano, Patty began some rollicking songs that were of decidedly later date than the old rafters.
Opening from the old Banqueting Hall was the library. This had been left just as it was, and the shelves full of old books were a never-failing delight to Patty’s browsing nature. A gallery ran round all four sides, which was reached by spiral iron staircases, and the deep-seated windows, with their old leather cushions, made delightful nooks in which to pore over the old volumes. There were many unused rooms in the Manor House. Many unexpected alcoves and corridors, and in these the old furniture was worn and decayed. The rooms that were lived in were kept in comfortable order, but Patty knew, had there been more house-servants, these other apartments would have been thrown open to light and air.
Surely, Patty decided, the Hartleys were pinched for money, but just as surely, she thought, that could not have the effect of casting that indefinite gloom over them which was now and then observable. And as she idly swung in her hammock, she made up her mind to ask about it.
“If they don’t want to tell me, they needn’t,” she said to herself, “but they surely know me well enough now to know that I’m honestly interested in their life, and not merely trying to pry into their secrets.”
But she could not quite decide which one of the family to ask about it. She would have preferred to ask Grandma Cromarty, but the old lady had a certain reserve, which, at times, was forbidding, and Patty stood a little in awe of her.
Mrs. Hartley was kindly and responsive, but Patty rarely saw her except when the whole family was present. In the morning Mrs. Hartley was busy with household duties, and afternoons Patty and Mabel were usually together. Patty felt sure she could never ask Mabel, for though the two girls were confidential friends, there was a sensitiveness in Mabel’s disposition that made Patty shrink from touching on what she felt might be a painful subject. Then there were the boys. Bob, at home on his vacation from college was Patty’s chum and merry comrade, but she imagined he would cleverly evade a serious question. He was always chaffing, and while Patty was always glad to meet him on this ground, she almost knew he wouldn’t talk seriously on family subjects. This left only Sinclair. Patty really liked Sinclair Hartley. A young man of about twenty, he was studying law in a nearby town, where he went every morning, returning in mid-afternoon.
He was kindly and courteous, and though often grave, was always appreciative of a joke, and quite ready to join in any fun. But he had a serious side, and Patty had enjoyed many long talks with him on subjects that never would interest Mabel or Bob.
And so she concluded that at the first opportunity, she would ask Sinclair what was the nature of the mystery that seemed to hang over the House of Hartley.
“Ah, there, Pitty-Pat!” called a gay voice, and looking around, Patty saw Bob strolling toward her across the lawn. “Want to go out on the lake and fish for pond-lilies?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Patty, twisting herself out of the hammock. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Oh, just for the lunch table. Mabel’s so everlastingly fond of them, you know.”
Patty thought it was nice of Bob to remember his sister’s tastes, and she willingly went with him toward the lake.
“How beautiful it all is!” she said as they went down the terrace steps and along the lake path which led through a pergola and around a curved corner called “The Alcove.”
This delightful nook was a small open court of marble, adorned with pillars and statues, and partly surrounding a fountain.
“Yes, isn’t it?” exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically. “You know, Patty, this old place is my joy and my despair. I love every stick and stone of it, but I wish we could keep it up in decent order. Heigh-ho! Just wait until I’m out of college. I’ll do something then to turn an honest shilling, and every penny of it shall go to fix up the dear old place.”
“What are you going to be, Bob?”
“An engineer. There’s more chance for a fellow in that than in any other profession. Old Sinclair’s for being a lawyer, and he’ll be a good one, too, but it’s slow work.”
“You ought to go to America, Bob, if you want to get rich.”
“I would, like a shot, if I could take the old house with me. But I’m afraid it’s too big to uproot.”
“I’m afraid it is. I suppose you wouldn’t like to live in a brown-stone front on Fifth Avenue?”
“Never having seen your brown-stone Avenue, ma’am, I can’t say; but I suppose a deer park and lake and several thousand acres of meadow land are not included with each house.”
“No; not unless you take the whole of Manhattan Island.”
“Even that wouldn’t do; unless I had taken it a few hundred years ago, and started the trees growing then.”
“No, America wouldn’t suit you,” said Patty, thoughtfully, “any more than English country life would suit most of our American boys.”
“But you like this life of ours?”
“I love it; for a time. And just now I am enjoying it immensely. Oh, what gorgeous lilies!”
They had reached the lake, and the quiet, well-behaved water was placidly rippling against the stone coping.
Bob untied the boat.
“It’s an old thing,” he said, regretfully; “but it’s water-tight, so don’t be afraid.”
Patty went down the broad marble steps, and seated herself in the stern of the boat, while Bob took the rowing seat.
A few of his strong pulls, and they were out among the lily pads.
“Row around a bit before we gather them,” suggested Patty, and Bob with long, slow strokes sent the boat softly and steadily along.
“Isn’t it perfect?” said Patty, dreamily. “It seems as if nothing could stir me up on a day like this.”
“Is that so?” said Bob, and with mischief in his eyes, he began to rock the boat from side to side.
“You villain!” cried Patty, rudely stirred from her calm enjoyment; “take that!”
She dashed light sprays of water at him from over the side of the boat, and he returned by cleverly sprinkling a few drops on her from the blade of his oar.
“Why did you want to kick up a bobbery, when everything was so nice and peaceful?” she said, reproachfully.
“I shall always kick up a bobbery,” he returned, calmly, “when you put on that romantic, sentimental air.”
“I didn’t put on any sentimental air! I was just enjoying the dreamy spirit of the lake.”
“Thank you! That’s the same as saying my society makes you sleepy.”
“Nothing of the sort. And anyway, the dreamy mood has passed.”
“Yes, I intended it should. Now, let’s sing.”
“All right; what?”
“The ‘Little Kibosh,’ I think. That’s a good song to row by.”
The young people at Cromarty Manor had already composed several songs which seemed to them choicest gems of musical composition.
As a rule Patty and Bob made up the words, while Mabel and Sinclair arranged the tunes.
Sometimes the airs were adapted from well-known songs, and sometimes they were entirely original.
“The Little Kibosh” was one of their favourite nonsense songs, and now Patty and Bob sang it in unison as they rowed slowly about on the lake.
“It was ever so many years ago,
On a prairie by the sea;
A little Kibosh I used to know
By the name of Hoppity Lee.
His hair was as green as the driven snow,
And his cheeks were as blue as tea.
“’Twas just about night, or nearly noon
When Hoppity Lee and I
Decided to go for a sail to the moon,
At least, as far as the sky.
But instead of taking the Big Balloon,
sailed in a pumpkin pie.
“Dear little Hoppity Lee and I
Were happy and glad and gay;
But the Dog Star came out as we passed by,
And began to bark and bay.
And the little Kibosh fell out of the pie,
And into the Milky Way!
“I fished and fished for a year and a week
For dear little Hoppity Lee;
And at last I heard a small faint squeak
From the place where he used to be;
And he said, ‘Go home, and never more seek,
Oh, never more seek for me!’”
CHAPTER XIV
UNCLE MARMADUKE
That very same evening Patty had a chance to speak to Sinclair alone.
It was just after dinner, and the lovely English twilight was beginning to cast long, soft shadows of the tall cypresses across the lawn. The various members of the family were standing about on the terrace, when Sinclair said, “You need some exercise, Patty; let’s walk as far as the alcove.”
Patty assented, and the two strolled away, while Mabel called after them, “Don’t be gone long, for we’re all going to play games this evening.”
They all loved games, so Patty promised to return very soon.
“I never saw anything like this alcove before in my life,” said Patty, as they reached the picturesque spot and sat down upon the curving marble seat.
“They are often found in the gardens of old English homes. Any arched or covered seat out of doors is called an alcove. But this is rather an elaborate one. The marble pillars are of fine design, and the whole thing is beautifully proportioned.”
“Is it very old?”
“Yes, older than the house. You know the Cromartys have lived on this estate for several hundred years. But the original house was destroyed by fire, or nearly so, and the present house was built on the old foundations about the middle of the seventeenth century. If you’re interested in these things, there are lots of books in the library, telling all about the history of the place.”
“Indeed I am interested, and I shall look up the books, if you’ll tell me what they are. Is there any legend or tradition connected with the place?”
“No. We have no ghosts at Cromarty Manor. We’ve always been a peaceful sort, except that my great uncle quarrelled with my grandfather.”
“Mrs. Cromarty’s husband?”
“Yes. He was Roger Cromarty—grandfather was, I mean—and he had a brother Marmaduke. They were both high-tempered, and Marmaduke after an unusually fierce quarrel left home and went to India. But have you never heard the story of the Cromarty Fortune?”
“No, I never have. Is it a sad story? Would you rather not tell me?”
“Why, no; it isn’t a sad story, except that the conditions are rather sad for us. But there’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t hear it, if you care to. Indeed, I supposed Mabel had already told it you.”
“No, she never did. Will you?”
“Yes. But not here. Let us go in, and get the family all together, and we’ll give you a dramatic recital of the Great Cromarty Mystery.”
“Oh, is it a mystery story? How delightful. I love a mystery.”
“I’m glad you do, but I assure you I wish it wasn’t a mystery.”
“Will it never be solved?”
“I fear not, now. But let us go back to the house, and tell the tale as it should be told.”
They found that the others had already gone into the house, and were gathered round the big table that stood in the middle of the living room. As they joined the group, Sinclair said:
“Before we play games this evening, we are going to tell Patty the story of Uncle Marmaduke’s money.”
Patty was surprised to note the different expressions on her friends’ faces. Mabel seemed to shrink into herself, as if in embarrassment or sensitiveness. Mrs. Cromarty looked calmly proud, and Mrs. Hartley smiled a little.
But Bob laughed outright, and said:
“Good! I’ll help; we’ll all help, and we’ll touch up the tale until it has all the dramatic effect of a three-volume novel.”
“It won’t need touching up,” said Sinclair. “Just the plain truth is story enough of itself.”
“You begin it, Grandy,” said Bob, “and then, when your imagination gives out, I’ll take a hand at it.”
The old lady smiled.
“It needs no imagination, Robert,” she said; “if Patty cares to hear of our family misfortune, I’m quite willing to relate the tale.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was a misfortune,” cried Patty. “I thought it was a mystery story.”
“It’s both,” said Mrs. Cromarty, “but if the mystery could be solved, it would be no misfortune.”
“That sounds like an enigma,” observed Patty.
“It’s all an enigma,” said Bob. “Go ahead, Grandy.”
“The story begins,” said Mrs. Cromarty, “with my marriage to Roger Cromarty. I was wed in the year 1855. My husband and I were happy during the first few years of our married life. He was the owner of this beautiful place, which had been in his family for many generations. My daughter, Emmeline, was born here, and when she was a child she filled the old house with her happy laughter and chatter. My husband had a brother, Marmaduke, with whom he was not on good terms. Before my marriage, this brother had left home, and gone to India. My husband held no communication with him, but we sometimes heard indirectly from him, and reports always said that he was amassing great wealth in some Indian commerce.”
“Is that his portrait?” asked Patty, indicating a painting of a fine-looking man in the prime of life.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “But the picture represents him as looking amiable, whereas he was always cross, grumpy, and irritable.”
“Like me,” commented Bob.
“No,” said his mother, “I’m thankful to say that none of you children show the slightest signs of Uncle Marmaduke’s disposition. I was only fifteen years old when he died, but I shall never forget his scowling face and angry tones.”
“Was he always cross?” asked Patty, amazed that any one could be invariably ill-tempered.
“Always,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “At least, whenever he was here. I never saw him elsewhere.”
“Go back, Grandy; you’re getting ahead of your story.”
“Well, I tried my best to bring about a reconciliation between the two brothers, but both were proud and a bit stubborn. I could not persuade my husband to write to Marmaduke, and though I wrote to him myself, my letters were torn up, and the scraps returned to me.”
“Lovely old gentleman!” commented Bob. “I’m glad my manners are at least better than that!”
“At last, my husband, Mr. Roger Cromarty, became very ill. I knew he could not recover, and wrote Marmaduke to that effect. To my surprise, I received a grim, but fairly polite letter, saying that he would leave India at once, and hoped to reach his brother’s bedside in time for a reconciliation.”
“And did he?” asked Patty, breathlessly.
“Yes, but that was all. My husband was dying when his brother came. They made peace, however, and arranged some business matters.”
“Oh,” cried Patty, “how glad you must have been that he did not come too late. What a comfort all these years, to know that they did make up their quarrel.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented Mrs. Cromarty. “But I have talked all I can. Emmeline, you may take up the narrative.”
“I’ll tell a little,” said Mrs. Hartley, smiling; “but I shall soon let Sinclair continue. We all know this tale by heart, but only Sinclair can do full justice to the mysterious part of it. I was only ten years old when my father died, and Uncle Marmaduke came here to live. It changed the whole world for me. Where before all had been happiness and love, now all was unkindness and fear. None of us dared cross Uncle Marmaduke, for his fiery anger was something not to be endured. And beside being bad-tempered, he was erratic. He did most peculiar things, without any reason in them whatever. Altogether, he was a most difficult man to live with. But at my father’s death he owned this estate, and we had to live with him or go homeless. He had plenty of money, and he repaired and restored much about the place. But even in this he was erratic. He would have masons in to renew the crumbling plaster and brickwork in the cellars, while the drawing-room furniture could go ragged and forlorn. He spent his money freely for anything he wanted himself, but was niggardly toward mother and myself. However, he always told us that at his death we should inherit his wealth. The estate, also, he willed to mother. He lived with us for about five years, and then was killed by a fall from his horse. I was a girl of fifteen then, and when he was brought in, mangled and almost dead, he called for me. I went to his bedside, trembling, for even then I feared he was going to scold me. But he could only speak in hesitating, disjointed sentences. It was with difficulty I gathered that he was trying to give me some information about his fortune. I wish now I had tried to help him tell me; but at that time it seemed heartless to think of such things when the poor man was dying, and I soothed him, and begged him not to try to talk, when it was such an exertion.”
“Oh, Mother,” wailed Bob, “if you’d only listened, instead of talking yourself!”
Mrs. Hartley smiled, as if she were used to such comments at this part of the story.
“Well,” she said, “I think Sinclair may take up the recital here. That is, if you’re interested, Patty?”
“If I’m interested! Indeed I am! It’s very exciting, and I want it all now; no ‘continued in our next.’”
“We don’t know the end, ourselves,” said Mabel, with such a wistful look in her eyes that Patty went over and sat by her, and with her arm round her listened to the rest of the story.
“Well, then,” said Sinclair, in his grave, kindly voice, “Uncle Marmaduke tried very hard to communicate to mother and Grandy something about his fortune. But his accident had somehow paralysed his throat, and he could scarcely articulate. But for an hour or more, as he lay dying, he would look at them with piercing glances, and say what sounded like dickens! gold!”
“Did he mean gold money?” asked Patty, impulsively.
“They didn’t know, then. But they thought at the time that dickens! was one of his angry expletives, as he was given to such language. The gold, they felt sure, referred to his fortune, which he had always declared he would leave to Grandmother. Then he died, without being able to say any other except those two words, gold and dickens.”
“He might have meant Charles Dickens,” suggested Patty, who dearly loved to guess at a puzzle.
“As it turned out, he did,” said Sinclair, serenely; “but that’s ahead of the story.”
“And, too,” said Mrs. Hartley, “the way in which he finally articulated the word, by a great effort, and after many attempts, was so—so explosive, that it sounded like an ejaculation far more than like a noted author.”
“Years went by,” continued Sinclair, “and Grandy and mother were left with the old Cromarty estate, and nothing to keep it up with.”
“We had a small income, my boy,” said his grandmother.
“Yes, but not enough to keep the place as it should be kept. However, no trace could be found of Uncle Marmaduke’s money. He was generally supposed to have brought a large fortune home from India, but it seemed to have vanished into thin air. His private papers and belongings showed no records of stocks or bonds, no bank books, and save for a small amount of ready money he had by him, he seemed to be penniless. Of course, he wasn’t; the way he had lived, and the money he had spent indicated that he had a fortune somewhere; and, too, there was his promise to leave it to Grandy. Of course, the conclusion was that he had hidden this fortune.”
“A hidden fortune!” exclaimed Patty, blissfully. “Oh, what a lovely mystery! Why, you couldn’t have a better one!”
“I think a discovered fortune would be far better,” said Mabel, and Patty clasped her friend’s hand in sympathy.
“At last,” said Sinclair, “a very bright lawyer had a glimmering of an idea that Uncle Marmaduke’s last words had some meaning to them. He inquired of the ladies of the house, and learned that the late Mr. Marmaduke had been exceedingly fond of reading Dickens, and that he was greatly attached to his own well-worn set of the great author’s works. ‘Ah, ha!’ said the very bright lawyer. ‘Between those well-thumbed pages, we will find many Bank of England notes, or certificates of valuable stocks!’ They flew to the library, and thoroughly searched all the volumes of the set. And what do you think they found?”
“Nothing,” said Patty, wagging her head solemnly.
“Exactly that! Save for a book-marker here and there, the volumes held nothing but their own immortal stories. ‘Foiled again!’ hissed the very bright lawyer. But he kept right on being foiled, and still no hoard of securities was found.”
“But what about the gold?” said Patty. “They didn’t expect to find gold coins in Dickens’ books?”
“No, but they fondly hoped they’d find a mysterious paper in cryptogram, like the ‘Gold Bug,’ you know, telling them to go out in the dark of the moon, and dig north by northwest under the old apple tree.”
“Don’t try to be funny, Clair,” put in Bob; “go on with the yarn. You’re telling it well to-night.”
“And then,” said Sinclair, looking from one to another of his interested hearers, “and then the years rolled by until the fair maiden, Emmeline Cromarty, was of sufficient age to have suitors for her lily-white hand. As we can well believe, after a mere glance in her direction, she was the belle of the whole countryside. Brave gallants from far and near came galloping into the courtyard, and dismounting in feverish, haste, cried, ‘What ho! is the radiant Emmeline within?’ Then the old warden with his clanking keys admitted them, and they stood in rows, that the coquettish damsel might make a selection.”
“How ridiculous you are, Sinclair!” said his mother, smiling. “Can’t you omit that part?”
“Nay, nay, fair lady. And so, it came to pass, that among the shoals of suitors was one who was far more brave and strong and noble than all the rest. Edgar Hartley–”
Sinclair’s voice broke a little as he spoke the name of his revered father. But hiding his emotion, he went on.
“Edgar Hartley wooed and won Emmeline Cromarty, and in the beautiful June of 1880 they were wed and merrily rang the bells. Now while Edgar Hartley was by no means wealthy, he had a fair income, and the fortunes of Cromarty Manor improved. The young couple took up their abode here, and the Dowager Duchess of Cromarty lived with them.”
“I’m not a Duchess,” interposed Mrs. Cromarty, in her calm way.
“You ought to have been, Grandy,” declared Bob. “You look the part, and I’m sure there’s a missing title somewhere that belongs to you. Perhaps Uncle Marmaduke concealed it with the rest of his fortune.”
“No, dear boy; we are not titled people. But the Cromartys are an old family, and much beloved and respected by all the country round.”
“We are so!” declared Bob, with great enthusiasm.
