CHAPTER XIV

MARJORIE FINDS THE LOST NOTE BOOK

“Only one more case to do, then this job will be finished, and finished as it should be.” Miss Susanna Hamilton, looking tinier than usual in the enveloping folds of a blue and white pinafore, gave a long, satisfied sigh as she viewed the completed work which had engaged Marjorie, Jonas and herself for several days.

“It truly does look fine,” Marjorie echoed the sigh. Standing beside Miss Susanna in the middle of the large library at the Arms, she was a charming study of work in her pale blue smock and dust cap. “Only to think; we are the first to re-arrange Mr. Brooke’s books since he himself used them,” she added meditatively.

“Yes,” Miss Susanna nodded rather absently. Her thoughts, as well as Marjorie’s, were turning to the long-passed master of the Arms whose influence still pervaded the stately old house like a living presence.

“Goodness knows the library needed a going-over,” Miss Hamilton said with a sudden change to practicality. “Jonas has kept the books dusted, of course; but that’s all. I knew Uncle Brooke’s books were sadly out of place. I used to help him take care of his library. Somehow, after his death, I hadn’t a heart for this straightening job. Toward the last of his life he spent a great deal of time in the library. He was inclined to forgetfulness at times, which accounts for his books being so sadly out of place. They’re in order again at last, thanks to you, Marjorie.” Her keen dark eyes wandered contentedly from one tall-glassed bookcase to another.

“It’s not yet eleven. I think we’d have time to do that last case before luncheon, don’t you?” Marjorie was appraising the contents of a smaller teak-wood bookcase that stood by itself against the east wall of the library. Three sides of the library were book-lined, but the east side showed no bookcases other than the one she had just indicated.

“Yes; I think so, too. That case holds Uncle Brooke’s most treasured books.” Miss Susanna stood regarding it retrospectively. “Not books which might be considered very valuable from a money standpoint,” she explained. “It holds the books that were dear to him, for one reason or another. He never followed any particular arrangement in the matter of that case. I daresay half of them are standing upside-down on the shelves. I left it until last, purposely. The case is locked, but here’s the key.”

The old lady brought a small brass key from the depths of her pinafore pocket. She trotted across the room to the case and fitted the key to the lock. Marjorie followed her, standing interestedly beside her as she swung open the double glassed doors. More than once, during her stay at Hamilton Arms, while compiling the Brooke Hamilton biography, she had wondered idly about this particular case. Its glass doors had inside curtains of a thin, silky Oriental material which lent to the case an oddly mysterious air. Miss Susanna had never spoken of it to her, and Marjorie had delicately forborne making any inquiry to Miss Hamilton concerning it.

“It’s just as he left it.” Miss Susanna’s brisk tones had softened. She and Marjorie were gazing into the interior of the now open bookcase at the orderly disorder of the overcrowded shelves. There were books, thick and thin, large and small, even to tininess, leather and cloth bindings, standing in uneven rows upon the dusty shelves. On top of the rows were yet more books, in little piles of twos and threes, a true sign of an ardent book lover.

“We’ll have to take them out, four or five at a time, dust them and the space on the shelf that they occupy, then put them back exactly as we found them,” was Marjorie’s plan of action. “Wait a minute, I’ll bring you a chair, Goldendede. You shall sit beside me, and direct this enterprise. Let me do the work. The case is hardly large enough for us both to work on at the same time.”

She was hurrying across the library before she had finished speaking for Miss Susanna’s favorite chair. “There, my dear Goldendede, pray you be seated,” she invited, with a low bow, setting the chair beside Miss Hamilton, “while your faithful servitor proceeds to work magic.”

“I’ll take you at your word, child. I’m really a little tired. I haven’t your young strength, and we have delved most industriously this morning.” The old lady sat down in the chair with grateful alacrity.

Very carefully Marjorie began the task. She started at the left end of the top shelf of the case, gently pulling out the well-worn bindings with reverent fingers. Brooke Hamilton had ranged literature in search of the best was her thought as she continued to explore his treasures.

“You are welcome to the key to the case at any time, Marjorie,” Miss Susanna’s bright, bird-like eyes had not missed the warm, interested light upon Marjorie’s lovely features as her willing hands moved among the dusty bindings, restoring them once more to something of their original pristine brightness.

“How dear in you, Goldendede. I was just wishing that I might go browsing among these books.” Marjorie’s childlike delight at the unexpected concession was the old lady’s pleasure. “This bookcase seems a little library in itself, representative of Mr. Brooke and his broad-mindedness.”

“It is just that. Uncle Brooke’s books were his best friends. They were dear to him because of the particular message each had for him.” The mistress of the Arms dropped into one of her not infrequent intervals of silence which Marjorie had early come to know and respect. She continued with her work, content to let the little old lady shatter it at will.

“What is the latest news from the campus, child?” Miss Susanna came suddenly out of her brief spell of silent abstraction. “‘I have nerve,’ as Jerry would say, to ask you that, since I’ve been the means of keeping you away from it for the past week.”

“Then, further to quote Jerry, ‘I like your nerve,’” Marjorie replied laughingly. “I’ve loved to be here. Not that I love the campus less, but Goldendede more. I’m going over to Wayland Hall tomorrow evening to see the girls. Hal has a business appointment in the town of Hamilton. I haven’t the least idea of what it’s all about. He’s been very mysterious over it. He’s going to stop for me on his way home.”

“A business appointment! That sounds interesting.” Miss Susanna exhibited affectionate curiosity. Hal’s one cross since he and Marjorie had taken up their residence at Hamilton Estates had been his inability to decide upon some definite plan of business occupation. Possessed of a comparatively large fortune, inherited from his grandfather, his youthful energy rebelled against settling down at Travelers’ Rest as a country gentleman. Marjorie had found her work at Hamilton College, the work which had all but parted them forever. Hal hoped that he might also find a work in their new home, satisfying to heart and brain. Only lately an idea had come to him as the result of a prospecting tour about the staid, self-centered town of Hamilton. Pursuant of his idea he had got into action. The result had been his appointment with John Saxe, the real estate agent who had formerly figured in the business ventures of the steady little firm of “Page & Dean.” The outcome of his appointment with Mr. Saxe would, he fondly hoped, furnish a happy surprise for Marjorie.

“Of course it sounds interesting. That’s precisely what I said to Hal when he mentioned the appointment to me. He laughed, but wouldn’t volunteer any further information. I didn’t ask for any, either. He has some sort of delightful surprise in store for me. I know he has,” was Marjorie’s smilingly confident assertion.

Miss Susanna nodded smiling content of the happiness of the two young people upon whom her affections were so firmly centered.

“There’s the bell.” She suddenly held up a hand in a listening attitude. “Now _who_ can that be? Not callers, I hope. If it should be, I shall receive them just as I am; pinafore, dusty hands, and all.”

“It’s Miss Leslie, Miss Susanna.” Jonas had appeared in the open doorway of the library.

“Oh! What a relief! Ask her to come in here, Jonas.” Miss Hamilton had bobbed up from the chair at sound of the bell. She dropped into it again, with a thankful sigh.

“Where have you been keeping yourself, Leslie?” Sight of Leslie Cairns in the doorway, looking her best in a smart ecru ensemble and ultra-trim little felt hat, brought Miss Susanna to her feet again, and hurrying across the room to greet her welcome caller.

“Yes! where have you been, elusive person?” Marjorie hastily shoved a book, held in her right hand, back into place on a shelf and came forward, dust cloth cheerfully waving a greeting to the visitor. “Twice I’ve ’phoned you. ‘Out’ was the answer Annie gave me both times. Then I wrote you a note, demanding your presence at Travelers’ Inn at dinner tomorrow evening. I ’phoned Leila, asking her and Vera to come, too. They can’t come because the Bertramites are entertaining them at Baretti’s. They’ll be back at the Hall, though, by seven-thirty, for the Bertramites have to study. Leila said, why not foregather in Vera’s and her room for the evening. Now you see what it’s all about. My note to you was a sketchy scrawl. I wrote it in a hurry. Perhaps you haven’t received it yet.” Marjorie glanced inquiringly at Leslie.

“Yes; I received it in the morning mail. I was anxious to see you, and Miss Susanna, so I took a run over here instead of telephoning. I had an idea you were still busy with the library job. It looks great.” Leslie’s eyes roved approvingly over the beautiful old room with its wealth of books from many lands.

“This is the last case, and I have only two more shelves to do. Please tell Leslie about it, Goldendede, while I work very hard to finish it.” Marjorie energetically resumed work, making herself a mental promise to spend a day soon in the library in a leisurely exploration of the treasures of the quaint old bookcase.

Presently coming to the bottom shelf, she sat down upon the thick velvet rug, reaching mechanically for the first book at the left end of the shelf. It was, she saw, a copy of the dissertations of Epictitus, bound in green morocco, the soft fine leather worn by constant use. She smiled. Epictitus had been Brooke Hamilton’s favorite philosopher, so Miss Susanna had told her. She wiped away the dust very gently from the priceless volume, then opened it, about to give the yellowed leaves a mild shake.

To her surprise a considerably smaller, black, cloth-bound book dropped from among the leaves of the Epictitus into her lap. It was a thin little book, not more than six inches long and three inches wide. About an inch from the top of the cover a white label had been pasted that bore the writing of the departed master of the Arms. “Brooke Hamilton,” she read, “Personal Notes.”

Marjorie’s heart began a sudden joyful throbbing. Could the little black book be the particular, important notebook of which Miss Susanna had regretfully spoken as lost at the time when she had turned over to Marjorie the material for her distinguished great-uncle’s biography?

With a joyful little cry Marjorie was on her feet, and holding out the little black book to Miss Hamilton.

“What wonderful thing have you found in the old case, child?” Miss Susanna interrupted her conversation with Leslie to peer tolerantly through her glasses at Marjorie.

“Look at it, Goldendede,” Marjorie excitedly thrust the notebook into the old lady’s hands. “It’s a notebook. Mr. Brooke’s own notebook; the one that you thought was lost. I’m sure of it.”