Mrs. Tree Part 6

"BUT WHEN HE WAS YET A GREAT WAY OFF"

"And so when she ran away and left you, you took to drink, w.i.l.l.y. That wasn't very sensible, was it?"

"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget for a bit at a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then--I lost my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked in Denver, every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought I would tramp--it was last spring, and warm weather coming on--till I'd got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come back to Mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then--in some place, I forget what, though I know the pattern of the wall-paper by the table where I was sitting--I came upon a King's County paper with Mother's death in it."

"What!" said Mrs. Tree, straightening herself over her stick.

"Oh, it didn't make so much difference," Jaquith went on, dreamily. "I wasn't fit to see her, I knew that well enough; only--it was a green paper, with splotchy yellow flowers on it. Fifteen flowers to a row; I counted them over seven times before I could be sure. Well, I was sick again after that, I don't know how long; some kind of fever. When I got up again something was gone out of me, something that had kept me honest till then. I made up my mind that I would get money somehow, I didn't much care how. I thought of you, and the gold counters you used to let Arthur and me play with, so that we might learn not to think too much of money. You remember? I thought I might get some of those, and you might not miss them. You didn't need them, anyhow, I thought. Yes, I knew you would give them to me if I asked for them, but I wasn't going to ask. I came here to-night to see if there was any man or dog about the house.

If not, I meant to slip in by and by at the pantry window; I remembered the trick of the spring. I forgot Jocko. There! now you know all. You ought to give me up, Mrs. Tree, but you won't do that."

"No, I won't do that!" said the old woman.

She looked at him thoughtfully. His eyes were wandering about the room, a painful pleasure growing in them as they rested on one object after another. Beautiful eyes they were, in shape and color--if the light were not gone out of them.

"The bead puppy!" he said, presently. "I can remember when we wondered if it could bark. We must have been pretty small then. When did Arthur die, Mrs. Tree? I hadn't heard--I supposed he was still in Europe."

"Two years ago."

"Was it--" something seemed to choke the man.

"Fretting for her?" said Mrs. Tree, sharply. "No, it wasn't. He found her out before you did, w.i.l.l.y. He knew you'd find out, too; he knew who was to blame, and that she turned your head and set you crazy. 'Be good to old Will if you ever have a chance!' that was one of the last things he said. He had grippe, and pneumonia after it, only a week in all."

Jaquith turned his head away. For a time neither spoke. The fire purred and crackled comfortably in the wide fireplace. The heat brought out the scent of the various woods, and the air was alive with warm perfume.

The dim, antique richness of the little parlor seemed to come to a point in the small, alert figure, upright in the ebony chair. The firelight played on her gleaming satin and misty laces, and lighted the fine lines of her wrinkled face. Very soft the lines seemed now, but it might be the light.

"Arthur Blyth taken and Will Jaquith left!" said the young man, softly.

"I wonder if G.o.d always knows what he is about, Mrs. Tree. Are there still candied cherries in the sandalwood cupboard? I know the orange cordial is there in the gold-gla.s.s decanter with the little fat gold tumblers."

"Yes, the cordial is there," said Mrs. Tree. "It's a pity I can't give you a gla.s.s, w.i.l.l.y; you'll need it directly, but you can't have it. Feel better, hey?"

William Jaquith raised his head, and met the keen kindness of her eyes; for the first time a smile broke over his face, a smile of singular sweetness.

"Why, yes, Mrs. Tree!" he said. "I feel better than I have since--I don't know when. I feel--almost--like a man again. It's better than the cordial just to look at you, and smell the wood, and feel the fire. What a pity one cannot die when one wants to. This would be ceasing on the midnight without pain, wouldn't it?"

"Why don't you give up drink?" asked Mrs. Tree, abruptly.

"Where's the use?" said Jaquith. "I would if there were any use, but Mother's dead."

"Cat'sfoot-fiddlestick-folderol-fudge!" blazed the old woman. "She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! hold on to yourself now, w.i.l.l.y Jaquith, and don't make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too.

None of that family was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in 'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, w.i.l.l.y, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?"

Jaquith had started to his feet, dead white, his eyes shining like candles.

"To Mother!"

"Yes, I would! wake her up out of a sound sleep at ten o'clock at night, and scare her into convulsions. Sit down, w.i.l.l.y Jaquith; _do as I tell you_! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."

"Oh, Mother! Mother! and I have left her alone all this time."

"Exactly! now don't go into a caniption, for it won't do any good. You must go to bed now, and, what's more, go to sleep; and we'll go down together in the morning. Here's Direxia now with the gruel. There! hush!

don't say a word!"

The old serving-woman entered bearing a silver tray, on which was a covered bowl of India china, a small silver saucepan, and something covered with a napkin. William Jaquith went to a certain corner and brought out a teapoy of violet wood, which he set down at the old lady's elbow.

"There!" said Direxia Hawkes. "Did you ever?"

She was shaking all over, but she set the tray down carefully. Jaquith took the saucepan from her hand and set it on the hob. Then he lifted the napkin. Under it were two plates, one of biscuits, the other of small cakes shaped like a letter S.

"Snaky cakies!" said Will Jaquith. "Oh, Direxia! give me a cake and I'll give you a kiss! Is that right, you dear old thing?"

He stooped to kiss the withered brown cheek; the old woman caught up her ap.r.o.n to her face.

"It's him! it's him! it's one of my little boys, but where's the other?

Oh, Mis' Tree, I can't stand it! I can't stand it!"

Mrs. Tree watched her, dry-eyed.

"Cry away, so long as you don't cry into the gruel," she said, kindly.

"You are an old goose, Direxia Hawkes. I haven't been able to cry for ten years, w.i.l.l.y. Here! take the 'postle spoon and stir it. Has she brought a cup for you?"

"Well, I should hope I had!" said Direxia, drying her eyes. "I ain't quite lost my wits, Mis' Tree."

"You never had enough to lose!" retorted her mistress. "Hark! there's Jocko wanting his gruel. Bring him in; and mind you take a sup yourself before you go to bed, Direxia! You're all shaken up."

"Gadzooks!" said the parrot. "The cup that cheers! Go to bed, Direxia!

Direxia Hawkes, wife of Guy Fawkes!"

"Now look at that!" said Direxia. "Ain't you ashamed, w.i.l.l.y Jaquith? He ain't said that since you went away."

The next morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of paradise, which she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more than that length of time. "Adorning her perishing back with what would put food in the mouth of twenty Christian heathens for a year!" was the way Mrs.

Weight herself expressed it.

This morning, however, Mrs. Weight had no eyes for her aged neighbor.

Every faculty she possessed was bent on proving the ident.i.ty of the stranger. He kept his face turned from her in a way that was most exasperating. Could it be the man she saw last night? If her eyes were going as bad as that, she must see the optician next time he came through the village, and be fitted a new pair of gla.s.ses; it was scandalous, after paying him the price she did no more than five years ago, and him saying they'd last her lifetime. Why, this was a gentleman, sure enough. It must be the same, and them shadows, looking like rags, deceived her. Well, anybody living, except Mis' Tree, would have said his name, if it wasn't but just for neighborliness. Who could it be? Not that Doctor Strong back again, just when they were well rid of him? No, this man was taller, and stoop-shouldered. Seemed like she had seen that back before.

She gazed with pa.s.sionate yearning till the pair pa.s.sed out of sight, the ancient woman leaning on the young man's arm, yet stepping briskly along, her ebony staff tapping the sidewalk smartly.

Mrs. Weight called over the stairs.

"Isick, be you there?"

"Yep!"

"Why ain't you to school, I'd like to know? Since you be here, jest run round through Candy's yard and come back along the street, that's a good boy, and see who that is Mis' Tree's got with her."

"I can't! I got the teethache!" whined Isaac.