THE WORLD WIDE SECRET
Marjorie was laughing as she resumed her seat at the study table. She
was quick to understand the purpose of Jerry’s ridiculous and elaborate
objections to her really sincere words concerning Hal. Her flash of
self-conscious embarrassment had vanished in quick amusement of Jerry’s
remarks.
“These are letters to Brooke Hamilton from friends,” she explained as
she shoved the two packs across the table to Jerry.
“He must have been right in line for a popularity prize.” Jerry eyed the
tightly-bound, thick stacks of letters with comical respect.
“They represent the correspondence of only four or five men. Each letter
isn’t from a different person, my child,” Marjorie said lightly. “Your
job is to put the letters of each person in separate piles. You may have
that end of the table all to yourself.”
“I get you, Bean.” Jerry energetically gathered up the two packs of
letters and moved with them to the upper end of the table. “Watch my
speed, my efficiency, my celostrous usefulness. By the way, my new word
is on the gain. I’ve persuaded Jonas to use it, Miss Susanna thinks well
of it and Leila says it is clever enough to be Irish.”
“It’s a good imitation. Celostrous—sounds like a real word, even though
it isn’t,” laughingly commented Marjorie.
“Sh-h-h. Somebody might hear you.” Jerry held up a cautioning finger.
She cast a roguish smile toward a vividly handsome face which looked
down at her from a portrait on the wall. It was the face of Brooke
Hamilton. Life-size and life-like the deep blue eyes seemed almost to
twinkle an answer to Jerry’s mischievous smile as she continued to gaze
at the portrait.
“He’s so real.” Marjorie turned her head over one shoulder to glance up
at the pictured face of a strong man in the noon of manhood. A friendly
smile played upon her lips. “I hope you haven’t minded my sitting with
my back to you this afternoon, Mr. Brooke,” she apologized.
“If that was a magic portrait this is the way it would be. ‘Then the
enchanted portrait spoke from the wall and said: “Don’t mention it,
beautiful Bean. Go as far as you like. Even the back of your head is an
inspiration to me. I can never be grateful enough to you for writing my
biography. How is your friend, Miss Macy? She is a lovely girl and I—”’”
“Jeremiah, you disrespecter of great persons!” Marjorie sprang from her
chair and made a frolicsome pounce upon Jerry. “Stop it this minute.”
The two tussled gently for a brief instant, then fell laughingly apart.
The blue eyes of the man in the portrait seemed almost to be watching
the merry conflict.
“You see how utterly you disrupt serious work,” Marjorie pointed out
severely. “I have half a mind to take the job I gave you away from you.”
“You can’t. I have it cinched.” Jerry snatched up the two packs of
letters and tucked one under each arm. “I love the job. I’ll do better,
Bean. I promise on my sacred Jeremiah honor.”
“I haven’t the heart to take those letters away from you,” Marjorie
jestingly conceded.
“Glad of it. Kindly don’t bother me. I am going to give a violent
demonstration of the word ‘work.’ It’s three o’clock now.” Jerry peered
down at the tiny open-face, necklace watch she wore about her neck on a
fine-linked platinum chain.
“I knew it was nearly three. I’ve learned to tell time by the sun since
I came to the Arms and began my work here.” There was no timepiece in
the study, nor would Marjorie wear a watch when she came into it to
work. She did not wish to reckon her daily faithful application to the
biography by time. She liked to lose herself in the thought that all
time was hers in which to do Brooke Hamilton’s memory honor.
Jerry followed her announcement of industry by a business-like attack
upon one of the packs of letters. Soon she was deep in carrying out
Marjorie’s directions. Marjorie resumed a reading of the paper in which
she had been engrossed when Jerry had entered. It was a dissertation on
democracy in Brooke Hamilton’s fine, clear hand.
Silence took up its reign in the study. Marjorie was deep in the
dissertation. Oblivious to all else Jerry interestedly sorted letters,
reading pertinent snatches of them. Neither saw the sliding panel in the
back wall of the study begin to move slowly. Neither saw Miss Susanna’s
head appear in the opened square.
For fully a minute the old lady watched the industrious pair with
brooding, tender eyes. She had thought Marjorie alone in the study and
had come to her by the secret entrance in the same spirit of play which
had prompted Jerry to use the sliding panel. In one hand were three
letters for Marjorie which Jonas had just brought from the mail box at
the main gates of the Arms.
As soundlessly as she had appeared in the secret doorway the visitant
disappeared. In noiseless obedience to her touch the panel slid once
more into place. Miss Susanna trotted down the long hall and on down the
wide staircase. Her small face was illumined by a bright smile. She
looked as though she had suddenly discovered the world-sought secret of
happiness.
She continued on out the massive front door, down the steps and across
the lawn to where Jonas was clipping long sprays of furry pussy willows
for the two tall Chinese vases at each end of the sitting room mantel.
“You ought to see them, Jonas,” she burst out happily. “They’re both in
the study, lost to the world among Uncle Brooke’s papers. I came away
without their knowing I saw them. I couldn’t bear to disturb his
helpers, Jonas. And I once thought no one but the president of Hamilton
College was fitted to write his biography!”
“Strange things happen, Miss Susanna.” Jonas’s silver head wagged itself
solemnly over the huge bunch of pussy willows he was holding. “He’d be
better pleased, though, to have things as they are now. I believe he’d
rather the little girl would write his story.”
Jonas invariably spoke of Brooke Hamilton as one alive, but traveling in
a far country, rather than of a man who had passed from earth.
“I think so, too, Jonas.” The instant, eager response brought a pleased
gleam to the old man’s eyes. “He founded Hamilton College for the higher
education of girls. It seems as though Hamilton has at last shown
appreciation of him by raising up a student after his own heart. That
student is Marjorie Dean.” She paused, apparently taken with her own
fancy. She added sturdily: “All the more reason why she should be the
one to write his biography.”
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