“Always,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “At least, whenever he was here. I never saw him elsewhere.”
“Go back, Grandy; you’re getting ahead of your story.”
“Well, I tried my best to bring about a reconciliation between the two brothers, but both were proud and a bit stubborn. I could not persuade my husband to write to Marmaduke, and though I wrote to him myself, my letters were torn up, and the scraps returned to me.”
“Lovely old gentleman!” commented Bob. “I’m glad my manners are at least better than that!”
“At last, my husband, Mr. Roger Cromarty, became very ill. I knew he could not recover, and wrote Marmaduke to that effect. To my surprise, I received a grim, but fairly polite letter, saying that he would leave India at once, and hoped to reach his brother’s bedside in time for a reconciliation.”
“And did he?” asked Patty, breathlessly.
“Yes, but that was all. My husband was dying when his brother came. They made peace, however, and arranged some business matters.”
“Oh,” cried Patty, “how glad you must have been that he did not come too late. What a comfort all these years, to know that they did make up their quarrel.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented Mrs. Cromarty. “But I have talked all I can. Emmeline, you may take up the narrative.”
“I’ll tell a little,” said Mrs. Hartley, smiling; “but I shall soon let Sinclair continue. We all know this tale by heart, but only Sinclair can do full justice to the mysterious part of it. I was only ten years old when my father died, and Uncle Marmaduke came here to live. It changed the whole world for me. Where before all had been happiness and love, now all was unkindness and fear. None of us dared cross Uncle Marmaduke, for his fiery anger was something not to be endured. And beside being bad-tempered, he was erratic. He did most peculiar things, without any reason in them whatever. Altogether, he was a most difficult man to live with. But at my father’s death he owned this estate, and we had to live with him or go homeless. He had plenty of money, and he repaired and restored much about the place. But even in this he was erratic. He would have masons in to renew the crumbling plaster and brickwork in the cellars, while the drawing-room furniture could go ragged and forlorn. He spent his money freely for anything he wanted himself, but was niggardly toward mother and myself. However, he always told us that at his death we should inherit his wealth. The estate, also, he willed to mother. He lived with us for about five years, and then was killed by a fall from his horse. I was a girl of fifteen then, and when he was brought in, mangled and almost dead, he called for me. I went to his bedside, trembling, for even then I feared he was going to scold me. But he could only speak in hesitating, disjointed sentences. It was with difficulty I gathered that he was trying to give me some information about his fortune. I wish now I had tried to help him tell me; but at that time it seemed heartless to think of such things when the poor man was dying, and I soothed him, and begged him not to try to talk, when it was such an exertion.”