CHAPTER XV
THE PROMISE OF THE GREEN BRANCH
WHEN the family assembled at the breakfast table on the followingmorning, and had laughed their fill at the memory of the funny exit ofthe preceding evening, they discovered that the visitors had left aresiduum of discomfort in the mind of each member of the family who wasold enough to realize the full import of Eunice Neumann's story aboutthe house.
It would be bad enough in any case to feel that their enjoyment of theArk was the fruit of dishonesty, but when the person who suffered fromthat dishonesty was Gretta, Gretta of whom they had all grown so fond,and who so sorely needed justice done her, it was unbearable to feelthat they might be innocently adding to her wrongs by depriving her ofher property.
Therefore when they espied Gretta coming up the road with the blanketwhich Emmaline Gulick had carried off in her stampede from her fanciedfire, Happie rushed to meet her with more than her usual eagerness, anddragged Gretta into the dining-room, completely bewildered by the floodof questions and incomprehensible explanations with which Happie wasdeluging her.
Miss Bradbury greeted the young girl with a hint of tenderness unlikeher usual manner, and Mrs. Scollard kissed her very gently. Grettaperched herself on a chair beside the latter, fanning herself with hersunbonnet and twisting a corner of the apron which she never discardedwhen she came on an errand, as she never wore it when making a socialcall, thereby marking the difference between the two.
"I'm sure I don't know what Happie is trying to tell me," she said witha whimsical twist of the lips. "She always talks so fast that I haveto listen with every bit of me--I'm used to folks that talk slow, youknow. But this time an automobile couldn't keep up with her! All I canmake out is that Eunice told you something about this house being mineby rights, and that it worries you."
"You seem to have kept up pretty well, considering you haven't anautomobile, Gretta," said Bob. "That's the story in a nutshell."
"I expect you to tell me all that you know of the matter, Gretta," saidMiss Bradbury. "I have no particular desire to wrong any one, and Idon't purpose beginning with you."
"I don't know one thing about it, Miss Bradbury, and that's thetruth. All I have heard I have heard from Eunice, and you may be sureshe didn't leave out much when she told you about it," said Gretta."Everybody around here who knew her says my grandmother meant to havewilled me this house, but there never was any will found, and that'sall there is to it. There's no reason why you should leave--let--itworry you. I didn't get the house, and it's a good thing for me thatyou did, instead of somebody else."
"I shall certainly look into the matter thoroughly, and if the houseis yours you shall have it as soon as I can deliver it. Then I'll rentit from you, if you will lease it to me," said Miss Bradbury with sucha briskly ready air that it suggested a pen already in her hand withwhich to sign a lease.
Gretta laughed carelessly as she arose to go. "There isn't a singlething to find out, nor to talk about," she declared. "Eunice has triedto find out, but she didn't get at anything more than she knew before,and she would if there was anything to find out. She'd do more than geta house for me, to get rid of me! I guess I'll have to ask you to findme a place of some sort in the city next winter; I don't believe I canstay here."
The pretty face clouded and the dark eyes filled with tears. Morepainful to Gretta than the hard fact that she was homeless andresourceless was the injustice of her cousins' treatment of her, andthat, do what she would, she could win no love from them, but wasconsidered a burden and a nuisance.
"It's all coming out some way, Gretta!" cried Happie, throwing her armsaround the girl so impulsively that the sunbonnet which she was justtying on flew across the room.
Bob picked up the bonnet and handed it to Gretta with a deep bow, handon heart, in true colonial manner.
"Don't you worry, Gretta," he said. "We'll all go into businesstogether in New York this winter. We've got so we feel you're one ofthe family--and I guess we feel as if we owned the Ark, instead of AuntKeren! We wouldn't be willing to disembark from it, even to give it toyou! This is a nice sort of place, after all."
"I don't know any other," said Gretta with a grateful smile ofacknowledgment to Bob for his including her in family plans, "but thishouse looks perfectly beautiful to me. There isn't any other aroundhere half so pretty as you have made this one. And I don't believe Icould be happy long away from Crestville. No matter what fine things Ilooked at I'm sure my eyes would ache for a sight of those mountains."
She turned towards the window as she spoke, and her eyes brightenedlovingly as they rested on the mountain peaks, just visible above thetrees. Then she turned back to the friends who had cheered her lonelylife, and smiled brightly, brushing away a tear or two that glistenedon her lashes.
"Don't you worry about me, dear folks," she said. "You have made merich already, and the house doesn't matter." Then she fairly ran away,embarrassed by her unwonted betrayal of feeling.
Miss Bradbury took Don Dolor and one of the Scollards and drove aboutcross-examining every old man or woman who might know somethingdefinite of Mrs. Bittenbender's will. But in every instance she failedin getting more than an unanimous testimony to the misfortune whichGretta's grandmother's second marriage had been, and to the fact thatshe had intended willing everything tight and fast to her son and hischild, out of the reach of the Bittenbender grasping fingers. Thatshe had done so nobody could prove, and it was certain that the son,Gretta's father, had died some months before his mother. To be sure,there were those who declared that they had heard Mrs. Bittenbendersay, not that she _would_ make this will, but that she _had_ made it.Still, the will itself was not in evidence, and finally Miss Bradburygave up the investigation, baffled, still uneasy in her mind, butunable to see that it was her duty to give up the farm.
For justice, to be wise and efficacious, must include justice tooneself. The farm had come to Miss Bradbury in payment of a debt; shecould not prove that it had come to her from other than its legalowner. And her plans for the future made it well for all concerned thatthe Ark should belong to upright, big-hearted Keren-happuch Bradbury.The matter resolved itself into letting everything go on as it was,holding the farm in readiness to give it up, should proof arise thatit was not Miss Bradbury's, except by the wrong-doing of the lateBittenbender, and in the meantime trying more than ever to make up toGretta for her hard fate.
While the question was under discussion, and was the uppermost interestin the Ark, the weeks of August slipped by into the first week ofSeptember, and the letter for which the Scollards were eagerly lookingcame from Margery, announcing her return.
A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the Ark on the openingof that letter. All the inmates revived as they did when the strongSeptember winds swept down the mountains, driving off the Augustheaviness.
Happie fell to garnishing her room for Margery to return to,re-covering chair cushions, washing and furbishing the lace of the pincushion. Laura began at once the composition of a Song of Welcome, thefirst musical feat that she had essayed since the disastrous Fourth.
Polly began to sew for dear life on a new gown for Phyllis Lovelocks,that she might be suitably attired to greet her traveled aunt. Evenlittle Penny cleaned her doll house, and weeded industriously the tinygarden which had been given her, and in which the weeds so far exceededthe flowers that the marigold which had survived the choking processfatal to Penny's other seeds, stood out, looking conspicuously out ofplace among its ragged comrades.
Bob went about whistling, putting fine touches on handsome Don Dolor'sglossy coat and harness, and getting the place into better conditionthan ever, though all summer the garden had been a credit to aninexperienced boy. Miss Bradbury did not say much, but she watched, andfully appreciated the manly lad who had shouldered his disagreeableand unaccustomed tasks without a murmur, and had performed them sowell that the farm--"and the cows and calves and the horse," Happiesaid--blossomed like the t
ropics.
Rosie cleaned house with a fervor that was more like a fever,especially that no one save herself could see a speck in all herdomain. But to Rosie's mind, house-cleaning was necessary before anyevent; it was to her a ceremonial, not unlike the ablutions of the Jews.
As to Margery's mother, she performed no unusual tasks, but went aboutthe ordinary ones with such a happy, brooding look that it betrayedhow much she had missed her eldest, and how ill a mother can spare onechild, even from a large flock.
Every corner of the Ark was filled with glad expectancy, and thecountry was growing lovelier every moment. The summer boarders who hadthronged into the mountains were daily crowding the little Crestvillestation platform, returning to the two great cities which poured theircitizens into Pennsylvania for the summer.
The Scollards watched these crowds with a feeling of pity, to their ownunbounded surprise, for they had not realized how entirely they wererecovered from their first homesickness. It seemed hard to be goingback now that everything was at its best, and hourly growing better--ifa paradox that seemed to be true might be permitted.
"Perfect weather for Margery," said Mrs. Scollard with profoundsatisfaction.
"Expressly for her," Miss Bradbury agreed with a smile, but she lookedas pleased with the prospect of getting back their gentle girl as hermother could ask.
"We ought not to have called Rosie the dove; if we hadn't we could havesaid that Margery was the dove, returning after many days," suggestedLaura.
"Yes; she's the dove-like one of this family," Bob agreed.
"I wonder what she may have found on the face of the waters, on herfirst flight without me. Of course she has written faithfully, butletters do not tell one much. I hope she will not return less ourdove-like Margery," said her mother.
"No fear, motherums," cried Happie with conviction. "Only an anxiousmother could imagine Margery changed. She is never anything but herquiet self; she never puts on--nor takes off"--Happie paused to chucklea little over her logical new expression--"never puts on nor takes offairs, nor does anything but just go on breathing and being the wayshe was meant to breathe and to be, and nothing on this earth couldmake her different. She's a gentle girl, but she's not one bit easilyinfluenced. Margery would be just the same Margery if she were madeempress of the French as suddenly as Josephine was, or if she were putdown in a tenement to make alpaca coats and eat limburger cheese allher days."
"Well, I wouldn't go as far as that, Hapsie," remarked Bob, departingto harness. "If limburger's influence is as strong as its odor, itought to affect any one."
Bob profited this time by his labors and position of coachman, for hewas secure of meeting Margery. The others had to debate which wereto go; it ended in Laura's going with the two younger children, andHappie's staying at home with her mother to welcome the traveler in therole of Daughter of the House.
In the glorious September sunset, through the delicious odor of theripened wild grapes, Don Dolor brought Margery up the hill home. Happiesprang down the steps to greet her, and then stood still, not only toallow her mother her right of the first embrace, but because it seemedto her that after all it was a different Margery from the one who hadhappily, yet tearfully, bidden them good-bye more than two monthsbefore, whose pretty face now smiled gladly at them over the children'sshoulders.
The quick perception of the change held Happie's flying feet, bringinga pang with it, but only for the briefest of seconds. As soon as hermother released her from her clinging embrace, Happie had Margery inher arms, and was crushing her dainty linen in a way that left no doubtof her joy in getting her sister back again.
Margery stood on the upper step of the Ark and looked around her, thesunset resting on her face. In her eyes there was a greater radiance ofjoy, and around her lips an expression of deeper sweetness than whenshe left them. Her voice thrilled with new music, though all that shesaid was: "Oh, it's good to be here again, and I am so glad to see youall!"
Miss Bradbury followed Mrs. Scollard's glance to Margery and noddedemphatically to her telegram, thus delivered, that she found her girlmost good to look upon.
"I should be glad of a little, even the least notice from Happie; Ishould like to be considered some consequence in my own Ark," she saidwith deep pathos, as Happie tripped over her foot without knowing thatshe had done so.
Happie wheeled around with a laugh. "Oh, Aunt Keren," she cried, "youhaven't blossomed into a lovely young lady since I last saw you, and Itruly believe that Margery has!"
Margery had. Rosie saw it the instant that Margery entered the house,and put out her sea-browned hand to clasp faithful Rosie's hard one.Gretta saw it when she ran up after tea to add a word to the welcomingchorus, and even Mahlon--waxing something like alive since he hadbenefited by his wife's cooking--even Mahlon said: "Guess Margery'sbeen looking 'round. She's woke up someway since she was 'way offwherever 'twas."
After the children had been tucked away for the night, Margery andHappie crept to their room where they could be together alone oncemore, looking out at the mountains. The whole world was flooded withthe radiance of the harvest moon, and the mountains rose up in itslight with the heavy shadows of their own peaks touching the dimmedstars, dark amid the glory of the white night.
Happie curled herself up at Margery's feet. She felt unwontedly longand awkward, conscious of her immaturity and a trifle shy, as she gazedup at Margery, sitting in her white kimono in the chair above her, hersoft, luxuriant hair falling around her shoulders, her elbow resting onthe window-sill, and her eyes gazing, dreamily bright in the moonlight,at the mountains with a gaze that seemed to look beyond them.
"The ocean is glorious on these moonlight nights," said Margery softly."But I am not sure that the mountains are not even more beautiful. Thecontrast of their shadows makes the light more splendid--and then onefeels as if they were hiding all sorts of mysteries. Almost anythingmight be in those hills--or come out from them."
"What will you do, Margery, if we stay here all winter? You knowmother is not strong enough yet to take her position, and Aunt Kerensays we are welcome to live in the Ark if we can make it go. Of course,we should go to town for visits--and you would have most of thosevisits," said Happie, remembering that this dawning young lady sistermust have the benefit of New York, while she bided her time at home.
"Oh, I shall not mind at all," said Margery. "Indeed, I almost think Ishould prefer to stay. I am in my eighteenth year----"
"Yes, but how far in it?" interrupted Happie with a recurrence of herbrief pang in the moment of meeting Margery, a vague jealousy of someunknown thing that was stealing her sister.
"Not far," smiled Margery. "But quite far enough to be slipping towardstwenty so fast that it takes my breath away. I should be content tostay in the country all winter, reading and studying with mother, andlearning all sorts of things. A woman ought to know all about cooking,mending, sewing--all those housewifely tasks--and I don't feel as ifI knew anything, though I used to think I knew a great deal. Oh, yes;I should be very busy and quite happy if I stayed in the country allwinter, and did not go to New York once."
"What has come over you?" demanded Happie, feeling certain, though shecould not have told why, that it was something that she did not like."And a woman, you say! Do you consider yourself a woman at your age?"
"No, but I shall be one very soon," said Margery placidly. "And I thinkI have changed my mind; I think I shall not care to be a society woman,only a thoroughly domestic one."
"Well, that's heaps better, but I don't see----" began Happiesuspiciously. Then, interrupting herself, she said: "Tell me about thegirls you met; you have not written much about them, and haven't saidone word."
"I didn't make many acquaintances, Hapsie, dear," replied Margery."Not as many as you would have done if you had not been such a dear,blessed, good girl as to let me go in your place. Oh, Happie, to thinkthat I owe this lovely, lovely summer to you! I mean to be the bestsister a girl ever had to pay you for it, or to pay you a little bit!
"
"You needn't mind," said Happie rather ungraciously. "I was perfectlysatisfied with you as you were. You seem away off, Margery. I don'tknow what it is, but I feel as if you were up on those mountain tops,where I couldn't touch you."
"You can touch me very well, you dear little Happie-goosie," saidMargery, encircling her sister's head with her arms, and drawing itclose to her as she bent over her. "It is the witchery of the sea thatyou feel, Hapsie; I haven't recovered from the effect of the mermaids'songs. I am glad our room looks towards those mountains," she addedirrelevantly. "I shall sit here lots and lots to think, and to lovethem."
"Think! To moon and build castles, you mean, if you are going to lookat them like that! Oh, Margery, have you come to the mooning age?"cried Happie shaking herself free of the encircling arms, and sittingerect to look into Margery's face.
Their mother entered as Happie made her protest, and looked sharplyfrom one to the other of the girls, Happie, rumpled, flushed andvaguely worried, Margery fair, serene, smiling to herself in themoonlight. She caught her breath quickly, but only said, as she seatedherself on the edge of the bed: "I think you said at tea that you hadnot seen much of Happie's friends, not even of Auntie Cam's Edith,Margery. I suppose they drifted into a younger set and amusements thanyours. But did you find any girls of your own age that you liked? Youhave not told us much of your new friends."
"There were several nice girls there, mother. Two I liked very much,"said Margery slowly.
"The two of whom you wrote us?" asked her mother. "Yet I haven'tprecisely a clear impression of them."
"No, mother; I wanted to tell you all about it when I came," saidMargery. "One was a Boston girl, and the other from Baltimore. Theywere both nice; I saw a good deal of them, and we are going to keep upour friendship. But--I was going to tell you--the girl from Baltimorehad a brother, six years older than I. He had had typhoid fever, so hisvacation lasted all summer. They had a cottage--Auntie Cam knows them,and likes them all, very much. I think, perhaps, I saw more--or ratherI was--I think the Baltimore girl's brother and I were more friendly,more congenial, don't you see? than even those two girls and I."
"It is pleasant to have a friend, older and wiser than oneself, littleMargery," said her mother, feeling her way.
"Yes, that's just it!" cried Margery eagerly. "He was ever so muchwiser than I, and so nice, mother! You will like him. We used to readtogether. Auntie Cam and his mother would sew, and it seemed as if heread to me chiefly--I don't mean that conceitedly, but it really did!And then he often took his mother, or Auntie Cam, or Mary, his sister,rowing, and I always was asked. He is nice, truly, mother. He hastaught me a great deal. I feel sure you will like him."
"Am I likely to meet him, dear? Of course I should like any onedeserving of such high praise, but Baltimore is not precisely in ourneighborhood," suggested her mother.
"He will come to New York; he said he would not mind coming here, evenin winter; he loves the country," cried Margery eagerly. Then stoppedat a groan from Happie. "He asked if he might write to me--sometimes,you know, mother," Margery said slowly.
"Certainly, dear, if I may know how and what he writes you. I shallhave to satisfy myself as to any new friend, that he is trustworthy,and appreciates my little Margery," said her mother.
"Oh, he is trustworthy, mother, and he does appreciate me!" criedMargery, so eagerly that the mother's sigh turned into a half laugh.
"Ah, well, dear, you shall not lose a friend, and you shall have thebenefit of this wise and discerning Baltimore boy's letters, if theyare not too frequent, and maintain his reputation for wisdom," themother said rising. "But remember that you are a young girl still,little Margery, and that I was never willing that my children shouldplay with other children until I knew them for the sort that I wouldchoose for their associates. I am not less careful now, so I must waitbefore I fully endorse this new acquaintance."
Margery sprang to her feet and ran after her mother to kiss hergood-night. It was with a special tenderness that Mrs. Scollard foldedher in her arms.
"He is good, mother, and brave, and handsome and clever," whisperedMargery.
"Yes, dear, yes. Good-night, my Margery, my little daughter. Sleepwell, and remember that there is no friend like your mother, andthat she is glad to get you back, and to keep you close," said Mrs.Scollard, whispering lest her voice might prove unsteady.
She found Miss Bradbury waiting her in her own room as she came in andclosed the door. "Oh, Miss Keren, Miss Keren, our dove has flown backto the Ark, but she has brought with her the green branch to show thatspring-time and blossom-time are at hand," she said, trying to smilethrough the tears on her cheeks.
"Well, my dear Charlotte, you would not have her flight over barrenwaters, would you? The spring-time is part of every year, littlemother," said that wise woman.
Across the narrow entry Happie crept to bed at her sister's side,drawing up the sheet over her head to stifle her moan as she returnedMargery's good-night kiss. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," she murmured buryingher head in the pillow. "It's growing up--and worse! Oh, dear, oh,dear!"
Six Girls and Bob: A Story of Patty-Pans and Green Fields Page 16