Hamilton unfolded her plans to Patty.
“I have been in correspondence with Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield,” she said, “and we’ve concluded that we must have Patty back with us again. She has been very happy here, I know, but she has made you a long visit, and I’ve really been sent down here to kidnap her.”
Patty smiled, but the others didn’t. Mrs. Cromarty and Mrs. Hartley looked truly sorry, and Mabel had to struggle to keep her tears back.
“You are right,” said Mrs. Cromarty, at last. “We have enjoyed having Patty here more than I can tell you. But we must not be selfish. I know her parents have been writing for her to go to them, and it is wrong for us to urge her to stay here.”
“But I don’t want Patty to go away,” said Mabel, and now she was really crying.
“I know you don’t, dearie,” said her mother. “But I see it as Grandma does, and I think we must let her go. Perhaps some time she’ll come again.”
“Oh, I hope so,” said Patty, smiling through the tears that had gathered in her own eyes. “You’ve all been so good to me, and I’ve had such lovely times.”
The question once settled, Lady Hamilton went on to say that she proposed to take Patty away the next day. Of course this redoubled Mabel’s woe, but Lady Kitty was firm.
“It would be just as hard to spare her a week hence,” she said. “And then, who would take her to London? If she goes with us to-morrow, we will keep her with us for the rest of our motor tour—about a week—and then reach London about the first of July. After that Patty and I will join Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield in Switzerland, and go on to do some further travelling.”
Although Patty was sorry to leave Cromarty, this plan did sound delightful, and she was glad that it was all settled for her, and she had no further responsibility in the matter.
Lady Hamilton had a genius for despatch, and she superintended the packing of Patty’s clothes and belongings that same afternoon. Except for the luggage needed on the motor-tour, everything was to be sent to Lady Kitty’s home in London, and Patty had to smile, as she realised that her present temporary home was the great house where she had so daringly braved the irascible Sir Otho.
There was a daintily furnished room in the Markleham house that had been set aside for Patty’s very own, and whenever she cared to she was invited to occupy it.
When the boys came home that afternoon and heard the news, they set up a wail of woe that was both genuine and very noisy.
No one could help admiring Lady Kitty, but Sinclair and Bob felt as if she were robbing their household, and it required all their good manners to hide their feeling of resentment.
But they rose nobly to the occasion, and Bob said: “Well, since Patty must go, we’ll have to send her off in a blaze of glory. Let’s make a party, mother, a few people to dinner, and some more for the evening.”
Mrs. Hartley quickly realised that this would be the best way to tide over a sad occasion, and she agreed. The Merediths and a few others were sent for to come to dinner, and a dozen or more young people asked for a little dance in the evening. Notwithstanding her unwelcome errand, Lady Kitty fitted right into the house party, and both she and her father were so affable and pleasant that the Hartleys forgave them for stealing Patty away.
The tourists had luggage with them, so were able to don attire suitable to the party. Lady Hamilton wore one of her beautiful trailing lace gowns, which had won for her Patty’s name of “The White Lady.”
Patty, too, wore a white frock, of ruffled organdie, with touches of pale green velvet. In her pretty hair was a single pink rose, and as she arranged it, she felt a pang as she thought that might be the last flower she would ever wear from the dear old Cromarty rose garden. The dinner was a beautiful feast, indeed. The table sparkled with the old silver and glass that had belonged to the Cromarty ancestors. Flowers were everywhere, and the table and dining-room were lighted entirely by wax candles, with the intent of abiding by the old traditions of the manor.
At Patty’s plate was a multitude of gifts. How they managed it on such short notice, she never knew, but every one of the family and most of the guests gave her a parting souvenir.
Grandma Cromarty gave her a valuable old miniature that had long been in her historic collection. Mrs. Hartley gave her an exquisite fan, painted by a celebrated artist. Mabel gave her a ring set with a beautiful pearl, and the boys together gave her a splendid set of Dickens’ works in elaborately gilded binding. Grace Meredith brought her a bangle, and Tom a quaint old-fashioned candlestick; and many other guests brought pretty or curious trifles.
Patty was overwhelmed at this unexpected kindness, and opened parcel after parcel in a bewilderment of delight.
Everybody was gay and merry, yet there was an undercurrent of sadness, as one after another remembered this was the last time they would see pretty Patty.
After dinner they all assembled on the terrace, and the other guests, arriving later, joined them there.
But the soft beauty of the summer evening seemed to intensify the spirit of sadness, and all were glad to hear the strains of a violin coming from the great hall.
Bob had sent for two or three musicians, and soon the young people were spinning around in the dance, and merriment once more reigned.
Always a popular partner, Patty was fairly besieged that night.
“I can’t,” she said laughingly, as the young men gathered around to beg her favours; “I’ve halved every dance already; I can’t do more than that.”
“Don’t halve this one,” said Tom Meredith, as he led her away for a waltz. “I must have all of it. Unless you’ll sit it out with me on the terrace.”
“No, thank you,” said Patty. “I’d rather dance. I don’t suppose I’ll find another dancer as good as you all summer.”
“I hate to think of your going away,” said Tom. “You almost promised me you’d stay here all summer.”
“I know. But I’m not mistress of my own plans. They’re made for me.”
“And you’re glad of it,” said Tom, almost angrily. “You’re glad you’re going away from here—to go motoring in Switzerland, and all sorts of things.”
“Don’t be so savage. It isn’t surprising that I’m glad to go away from any one as cross as you are.”
Tom had to smile in return for Patty’s laughing tones, and he said more gently:
“I don’t mean to be bearish, but I wish you weren’t going. I—I like you an awful lot, Patty. Truly I do.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Patty, heartily, “and I like you too. After Sinclair and Bob, you’re the nicest boy in England.”
“There’s luck in odd numbers,” said Tom, a little ruefully, “so I’m glad I’m number three. But I’d like to be number one.”
“Well, you’re a number one dancer,” said Patty, as the music ceased, and with that Tom had to be content.
And now the hour was getting late and the young people began to go home.
It was really an ordeal for Patty to say good-bye, for she had many friends among them, and they all seemed truly regretful to part with her.
But after they had gone, and only those staying in the house remained, another surprise was in waiting for Patty. They were gathered in the great hall, talking over for the last time the mystery of the hidden fortune, and Patty’s clever solution of it.
“And now,” said Sinclair, “I’ve a little speech to make.”
He went and stood on the “stair across the hall,” in front of the old chimney-piece, and so, just beneath the picture of the fir trees. The painting was