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.”
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