THE BITTENBENDER TRUNK
MISS BRADBURY kept talking of returning to town, but still she lingered
in the Ark. Mrs. Scollard was not well enough to resume her position
in the city, and stayed on with her family at Crestville, her recovery
retarded by her anxiety as to the next move, and by her unwillingness
to continue to accept the kindness which Miss Bradbury truthfully
assured her was for her hostess an economy over city expenditures. For
though this were true, Miss Bradbury could not continue to carry an
entire family on her shoulders, however broad they were, or however
light their burden. In the meantime nothing changed in the arrangements
at the Ark through the golden days of October, and, as if they had
waited for Gretta to be safely harbored in her ark of refuge, the
storms of winter set in prematurely in November, and with remarkable
vigor.
The old house must have wondered at the way its new inmates set up
stoves in every room where there was a chimney, and then drove them to
their utmost. It had been accustomed only to a fire in the kitchen and
in "the room." Gretta and Rosie seemed to have difficulty in adjusting
their minds to this excess in the use of coal.
In the middle of November the first snow-storm of the year arrived
untimely. It drifted to the height of a man's knee, and the thermometer
dropped down past the naught on its register, down four more degrees.
Of course such weather could not last, so early in the season; it was
followed by a swift ascent of the thermometer, and the snow melted
away faster than it had come. But while it lasted, it was an excellent
imitation of winter, and not a little dismaying to novices in the art
of living in the country.
The storm began on Friday; Don Dolor came up from the post-office with
his back white with snow, and his long mane and tail balled with it.
On Saturday the drifting snow lay over the Ark and its grounds and
out-buildings like a beautiful blanket, and it was still falling. There
was no denying that it was beautiful, but there was no denying either
that it made the present world seem very solitary, and the outside
world very distant and inaccessible.
The silence seemed like something tangible; as if one might take it
by its corners and lift it up--only there was not precisely the right
person to lift it. The licking of the little tongues of flame on the
hearth fell curiously on Mrs. Scollard's ears, as if they should have
been louder, but were muffled. The children's voices came down to her
from above stairs loud and cheerful, but unreal, and through and above
their ringing, she seemed to hear the silence of the snow-enveloped
country.
Happie wandered restlessly into the room and threw herself into a chair
with a movement most unlike her cheery, quick self.
"I feel suffocated, motherums," she said. "It's so still, so _benumbed_
still, that I can hear the distant planets roll--hear them better than
this one, for that matter; this one seems to be motionless."
"Make your own sounds, Happie," suggested her mother, not admitting to
sharing her feeling. "Sing and shout; get the others to help you. What
you have just said has a note of loneliness."
"I'm not so much lonely as lost, queer, restless," returned Happie.
"And as to making sounds for ourselves, it's of no use. We've been
trying it, but the more we sing, and laugh, and chatter, the more we
hear the stillness of the earth. Gretta doesn't mind, because she's
used to it, but Margery and I, and Laura, and even Polly a wee bit, are
ready to fly into inch pieces."
"I prefer you whole," said her mother. "We shall have to devise
something pleasant to do. You don't make fudge as often as you used to
make it in town; would fudge be a solution?"
Happie shook her head with unmistakable emphasis. "I shouldn't like a
solution of fudge, motherums," she said. "And it wouldn't be a solution
of our troubles. Especially that there isn't any trouble," added
Happie, rallying in an attempt at her usual cheerfulness. "I'll go back
to the others and see if we can't think up something so interesting
that we can drown out that no-sounding loud silence."
"Reading aloud?" suggested Mrs. Scollard, as Happie rose lazily and
turned towards the door.
Happie turned back. "Now, motherums," she said reproachfully; "on such
day as this we couldn't hear the most interesting story that was ever
written; the silence would drown it. I wonder what can be the matter? I
never noticed such a--such an audible silence, and it isn't like me to
be so good-for-nothing, and restless."
"It is our first experience of a snow-storm in the country, and I
suspect loneliness is at the bottom of your restlessness, dear Happie,"
said her mother. "I hope you'll find a weapon to rout your enemies, the
silence and the loneliness, though you won't own up to the latter, my
Happiness." And Mrs. Scollard waved a tiny farewell to her daughter,
with more cheerfulness of manner than of heart.
"We're going to prowl, Hapsie," announced Bob, as Happie came back to
her own room, where the clan of Scollard had assembled.
"To prowl? Where? We haven't any snow-shoes," said Happie.
"We don't need them in the attic, and that's where we're going to
prowl. We thought we would go up there and see how it seems with the
roof snow-padded," returned Bob.
"I imagine it will seem cold," said Happie. "However, I'm ready. There
seems to be nothing better to do this morning."
"Penny and I are going down to get mama to read to us," said Polly.
"Penny'll get cold up there, and we're going to ask mama----"
"To read 'bout the kitten that went walking all by himself, waving his
wild tail!" cried Penny, interrupting joyfully.
The two younger children went away, Polly carrying under her arm a very
shabby copy of "The Just So Stories." The four elder ones, with Gretta,
climbed the attic stairs, the chill of the snowy air striking sharp
upon their faces as they ascended.
"I wish I had had this place while I was still young enough to play
Robber Baron! We never had such a dandy lair as this would have made,
did we, Happie?" said Bob looking about him with an interest that
suggested that he might still have enjoyed childish things if the
dignity of sixteen years had not forbidden them.
"We never had anything that was a patch on this attic," said Happie
sympathetically. "The only mystery we could get into our lairs was
imaginary. Do you remember how we used to pretend that the playroom was
so dark we couldn't see to walk in it, Bob?"
"Yes, and how we used to hold up the yardstick and father's cane for
torches when our men came back from their raids?" added Bob.
"Of course, and how much we used to wish that we could get Margery to
be the men, but she never would be, and we had to get on with imaginary
followers. Though Margery could pretend she was the old witch woman
that stayed in the cave and got the dinner, but Laura couldn't help one
bit. She had to stop and argue that a chair was a chair, when we were
pretending it was a turret of a castle," said Happie, brightening very
much under these reminiscences.
"It was so stupid," said Laura decidedly. "I never could see anything
in playing Robber Baron."
"Well, we did," sighed Happie. "This certainly would have made a
perfectly lovely lair, Bob. It is too bad we didn't get it in time.
No city child has an attic, and attics are made for children. In town
houses there is nothing but an upper floor, with one room kept for a
storeroom; in Patty-Pans flats there isn't so much as that!"
"We might turn the attic to another use to-day," said Margery. "We
might each tell a story about it, and what we think may have happened
in it during all the years that the house has stood. There is that
Bittenbender trunk under the eaves; that would be a good subject for a
story."
"Oh, that Bittenbender trunk!" cried Happie, starting into sudden
animation. "I had forgotten all about it. We never have opened it.
To-day would be the very day to see what is in it. Here is Gretta,
living with us, and she is as near to being a representative of the
Bittenbenders as Crestville boasts. Let's open it, now, this minute,
and solve the mystery, instead of weaving yarns about it. Maybe we'll
find some dark secrets hidden in its depths."
"Some dark clothes, much moth-eaten, more likely," said Bob. "But I'm
with you for the opening. The late Mr. Bittenbender announces his
early winter opening--so does Crestville to-day, for that matter! Say,
Gretta, he is 'the late,' isn't he?"
"What is?" asked Gretta, puzzled into a relapse into the vernacular.
"The late; he is dead, isn't he?" asked Bob.
"Oh, yes; of course he is," said Gretta. "He died three or four years
ago somewhere down country where he came from in the first place."
"Well, from all accounts of him, that seems to be a good thing," said
Bob cheerfully. "Wouldn't you like to open that trunk and see what
your grandfather-in-law--no, your step-grandfather left behind in that
venerable, partly bald receptacle?"
"I don't mind; yes, I should like to open it," said Gretta, "but I
think we ought to speak to Miss Bradbury first."
"Aunt Keren won't object, but of course you're right; we should have to
ask her," said Happie. "Bob, suppose you go down and get all the trunk
keys there are in the house, and bring up the hammer and chisel in case
none works, and at the same time ask Aunt Keren's permission to break
and enter?"
"Neat way of making sure you don't have to go yourself. I see through
your dark wiles, Miss Keren-happuch," said Bob. "But I don't mind; I'm
public spirited; ready to be butchered to make a Roman holiday."
And Bob departed, whistling in a way that declared that for him the
loneliness of the morning had been dissipated. He came back bearing a
quantity of keys, the hammer and chisel, and Miss Bradbury's permission
to investigate the Bittenbender trunk. He and Gretta dragged it forth
from its long established retreat under the eaves, into the light of
one of the four gable windows. Here the poor thing looked even shabbier
than in the shadow, and smaller.
"It seems to be shrinking from the garish light of day," suggested
Happie.
"You can hardly blame it," said Bob. "It is a melancholy trunk. I
never saw anything else so bald as it is in spots. It ought to have a
skullcap, or we might throw a buffalo robe over it--it might think its
own hair had grown out again."
"You're as silly as I am, Bobby," said Happie approvingly, as she tried
first one, then another of the keys without any result. "I thought it
would open like--like sesame! But it doesn't seem so easy, after all."
"It looks as if a door-key would be about the right thing," said Bob,
kneeling to squint into the lock. "Let me try it. I don't like to force
the poor old thing; time has been hard enough on it without our being
violent. I'll try this key, and if everything else fails, I believe
wire will do the trick, for it is far from a Yale lock." Everything
else did fail, so Bob twisted a wire and picked the lock, "in a manner
worthy the Robber Baron," Happie said.
Bob threw back the lid impressively. "Behold the treasures of The Last
of the Bittenbenders!" he cried melodramatically, stepping back a pace.
The girls crowded around to see what was revealed, Laura shivering with
the combination of cold and excitement.
"Let Gretta take out the contents," said Happie. "We must do everything
decently and in order, and we mustn't forget that she is the most in
order of any of us. When it comes to Bittenbender things, she's the
family representative."
"I won't be jealous of any one who wants that place," laughed Gretta,
kneeling before the trunk nevertheless. "I'm not anxious to be mixed up
with the Bittenbenders; they are not one bit relation to me, I'm proud
to say."
"Never mind genealogy just now, Gretta; show us what's in the trunk. If
Happie says you must, you must--her word is always law somehow," said
Bob.
"Because her words are Happie-thought words," smiled Margery.
[Illustration: "THE GIRLS CROWDED AROUND TO SEE WHAT WAS REVEALED"]
Gretta began to deposit on the floor the top layer of the contents of
the trunk. There was nothing interesting to the eager on-lookers,
and everything had a dusty, musty smell, "as if spiders had wrapped
them up in their webs instead of moth balls," Margery suggested. There
were queer old garments, not valuable when they were new, and far from
new when they were packed away. There were old account books which none
but the accountant could have understood; some old newspapers, yellow
and stained, and at the bottom more newspapers, but these bore dates
several years subsequent to the papers on top, or the dates revealed by
the garments.
"There isn't anything wildly exciting about this," said Bob wearily.
"And I'm getting chilled to my marrow up here. Queer the newer papers
are below; they must have repacked this thing. Why what's the matter,
Gretta? What's up?"
He spoke sharply, and dropped on his knees beside the girl to look over
her shoulder. Gretta was sitting back on her heels, holding a long,
yellowed envelope in her hand at which she was gazing with all color
fled from her frightened face.
"'The Last Will and Testament of Anna Bittenbender,'" read Bob, aloud.
"Good gracious, Gretta, has it been found at last? And right here in
the house? Open it, quick!"
"I can't," said Gretta, holding out the envelope to Happie as if it had
been a dynamite bomb. "You read it, Happie."
Happie took the envelope eagerly, and drew forth from it a sheet
of foolscap, covered with clear writing, very different from the
inscription on the envelope.
"'I, Anna Bittenbender, born Neumann, and subsequently wife to Herman
Engel, now the wife of Isaac Bittenbender, being of sound mind----'
Why, Gretta, is it--it is actually your grandmother's will!" cried
Happie, breaking off short in her reading, greatly excited.
"No doubt of that!" cried Bob, not less excited, while Margery and
Laura mounted the fateful trunk, the better to look over Happie's
shoulder. "Hurry up, Hap! She gives and bequeaths, of course. What does
she give and bequeath--to whom?"
"I can't tell, you fluster me so!" gasped Happie. "Here are some small
items. Here is a hundred dollars to her husband--oh, my! That's only
to bury her! And here---- Yes, it is! 'I give and bequeath to my son
Rufus Engel the house and farm in and on which I now live, consisting
of sixty acres of cleared and wooded land, situated on the main road
running from Crestville to Sprucetown, in the county of Madison, in the
state of Pennsylvania, together with all the live stock which may be on
the farm, and all the tools, vehicles and furniture in the house and
farm buildings at the time of my death. In the event of the death of my
son, the farm with all its appointments, as above named, shall pass to
my son's only child, his daughter Gretchen Elizabeth, for her use and
behoof, and for her heirs after her, without restriction and forever.'"
Happie ceased reading, and the will fluttered from her hand. She looked
shocked; indeed all the young people gazed on one another blankly,
utterly dazed. Gretta began to cry softly, and this brought the
Scollards to their senses.
"Then the Ark is yours, Gretta," said Bob. "It is fine! Instead of Aunt
Keren's sheltering you, you are sheltering all of us. You will let us
stay on a while, won't you?"
"Don't!" cried Gretta, hysterically.
"Come down to mother. We must tell mother," said Margery. "And we must
find Aunt Keren. Pray don't cry, Gretta. It is the loveliest thing that
could have happened to you; you will be perfectly happy when you have
got used to it, and realize that you own a farm. And, though we have
always supposed that Aunt Keren was not at all rich--only comfortably
off, she didn't seem to dread giving up this place if she had found the
will. Come down-stairs as quick as you can."
But in spite of her cheerful words, Margery's mind was divided between
rejoicing for Gretta, and regret for kind Aunt Keren's loss.
Without a second thought for the contents of the shabby little trunk
which had so long guarded its secret till this day of dramatic
revelation, the Scollards escorted Gretta down-stairs, Laura's tears
falling as fast as Gretta's had. Laura had never quite liked accepting
the country girl on equal terms with themselves, and she had been
building air castles of succeeding summers spent at the Ark, with Aunt
Keren. Laura was instinctively selfish; it always took much effort to
get her up to the point of rejoicing in another's good.
"Aunt Keren, would you please come into the library where mother is?"
said Margery looking in at Miss Bradbury busied with accounts at the
dining-room table. "We have something wonderful to tell you."
Miss Bradbury looked up, with considerable doubt as to the importance
of the communication that she was to hear. A glance at Margery's face
convinced her that something serious had happened, and she followed the
young people into the library at once. Mrs. Scollard lifted her face
as the five entered, followed by Miss Bradbury. Polly sat on the arm
of her mother's chair, Penny was curled within its embrace; it was a
pretty and peaceful picture which they had come to break up.
Mrs. Scollard greeted them with her bright welcoming smile, but it
faded instantly, her book fell from her hand, she set Penny on her feet
and sprang to her own, crying: "My dears, what has happened?"
"We opened the trunk, Aunt Keren, mother," said Bob, making himself
spokesman. "It had a lot of trash in it, but it had something else
besides. We have found Gretta's grandmother's will!"
"Her will!" cried Mrs. Scollard. And with an instant perception of the
truth, Miss Bradbury added: "And she has left this farm to Gretta; her
husband hid the will!"
"Well, of course we can't tell about that," said Bob. "But yet it must
have been so. The will was under a lot of old account-books, clothes
and stuff belonging to old Bittenbender. It gives this place to Mrs.
Bittenbender's son, Rufus Engel, and if he died, to his daughter
Gretta."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" cried Gretta, throwing herself face downward on the
couch. "After you've been so good to me! But maybe it won't matter. We
won't tell any one we found the old will, and then you can keep the
Ark!"
Miss Bradbury laughed. "My dear little girl, would you have me compound
a felony?" she asked, going over to stroke Gretta's hair. "Look up, my
dear Gretta, and let me see you as glad as you should be! No longer a
homeless girl, dependent on the grudging kindness of distant kindred,
but an heiress, as things go in the country; the owner of an excellent
farm. As for me, you know how hard I tried to find this will, and how
glad I am to have justice done you. Fancy hiding the will! Why, this
old man your grandmother married was a rare old scamp, and would you
have me as bad as he was? We'll hasten to prove the will, get it
through probate, and establish our Gretta in her rights just as fast as
the law can move. Don't feel sorry, Gretta, my dear! I am very glad,
and can get on perfectly well without the Ark. How much good has it
done me since I took it until this summer? Isn't it a good joke on us
all that the will was reposing quietly in our attic all the time that
we were scouring the country for a trace of it?"
Gretta sat up flushed and purpling with excitement, her eyes burning,
her breath coming short. "I'll never take the Ark, never, unless you
don't want it!" she cried. "And I'll never take it then unless you will
promise to own it with me and stay here all the time, and let me work
for you. I won't touch the will, nor the place, unless you own it just
as much as I do."
"My dear, grateful, generous Gretta," said Miss Bradbury, "did you ever
hear that Shakespeare said that some people had greatness thrust upon
them? You can't escape your good fortune in this world any more than
your bad luck. I did not intend staying here all the time, you know,
even when I owned the farm. But we'll promise that the Ark shall be our
refuge when we need one, just as it was your refuge in time of trouble
when I owned it. And who knows what good may be in store for us, as
well as you? Good and bad happenings seem to run in schools, like
mackerel, I have noticed."
"I feel exactly as if I were in a story-book," said Happie. "Hidden
wills and tardy justice done the heroine, who has been poor and
oppressed--now isn't it a regular fairy-tale?"
"It is very interesting," said Laura, so pensively that they all
laughed, even Gretta.
"It is the very best thing that could have happened," declared Mrs.
Scollard heartily, with an eye on Gretta's still clouded face. "It will
turn this dreary day into summer sunshine. Come, let us tell Rosie; she
will be delighted too."
But the dear woman could not quite forget that, though she was
impatient to remove her children from dependence on Miss Keren, for
the time they had no other home than the Ark. And it was a good home,
however forlorn it had appeared at first. This discovery would have a
decided, though indirect effect on her family fortunes.