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.
Chapter XV.
Puzzling Rhymes
“As I was saying,” continued Sinclair, “Mr. and Mrs. Hartley lived happily at Cromarty Manor. Three beautiful children were born to them, who have since grown to be the superior specimens of humanity you see before you. I am the oldest, and, as I may modestly remark, the flower of the family.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” commented Patty, looking affectionately at Mabel.
“Well, anyway, as was only natural, the search for that hidden fortune went on at times. Perhaps a visitor would stir up the interest afresh, and attempts would be made to discover new meaning in Uncle Marmaduke’s last words. And it was my father who succeeded in doing this. He sat in the library one day, looking over the old set of Dickens’ works, which always had a fascinating air of holding the secret. He had not lived here long then, and was not very familiar with the books on the library shelves, but looking about he discovered another set of Dickens, a much newer set, and the volumes were bound in cloth, but almost entirely covered by a gilded decoration. Wait, I’ll show you one.”
Sinclair rose, and going into the library, returned in a moment with a copy of “Barnaby Rudge.” It was bound in green cloth, but so ornate was the gold tooling that little green could be seen.
“Dickens—gold——” murmured Patty, her eyes shining as she realised the new meaning in the words.
“Yes; and, sure enough that was what Uncle Marmaduke meant. Just think! For fifteen years that set of books had stood untouched on the shelves, while people nearly wore out the older set, hunting for a clue to the fortune!”
“It’s great!” declared Patty; “go on!”
“Well, this set of Dickens proved extremely interesting. Between the leaves of the books were papers of all sorts. Bills, deeds, banknotes,