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MRS. TREE'S WILL
By Laura E. Richards
_Author of_ "Captain January," "Melody," "Marie," "Mrs. Tree," etc.
Boston
Dana Estes & Company
Publishers
_Copyright, 1905_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
MRS. TREE'S WILL
_COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U.S.A._
TO
MY DAUGHTER
Alice
[Illustration: "'HOMER HOLLOPETER,' SHE SAID, 'WHAT IS THE NAME OF THIS
VILLAGE?'"]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WILL ITSELF 11
II. WHAT THE MEN SAID 33
III. WHAT THE WOMEN SAID 51
IV. MOSTLY GOSSIP 79
V. IN MISS PENNY'S SHOP 95
VI. THE SORROWS OF MR. HOMER 111
VII. CONCHOLOGY AND OTHER THINGS 130
VIII. MR. PINDAR 147
IX. "QUAND ON CONSPIRE" 164
X. A PLEASANT HOUR 186
XI. SPINNING YARNS 199
XII. MISS WAX AT HOME 224
XIII. THE SORROWS OF MR. PINDAR 240
XIV. THE DRAMATIC MOMENT 255
XV. AFTER ALL! 283
XVI. MARRIAGE BELLS 297
XVII. THE LAST WORD 309
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"'HOMER HOLLOPETER,' SHE SAID, 'WHAT IS THE NAME OF THIS VILLAGE?'"
_FRONTISPIECE_
"'GOOD MORNING, SETH!' SAID THE LITTLE MINISTER" 80
"AS HE HELD THE CANDLE HIGH, ITS WAVERING LIGHT FELL ON THE COUNTENANCE
OF THE STRANGER" 143
"'BILE IN, SALEM!' SAID SETH WEAVER, 'YOU AIN'T FORGOT, HAVE YE?'" 197
MRS. TREE'S WILL
CHAPTER I.
THE WILL ITSELF
"Suppose you tell me all about it, Mr. Hollopeter!" said Mr. Bliss.
Mr. Homer Hollopeter sighed deeply; wiped his brow with a
sky-blue article, evidently under the impression that it was a
pocket-handkerchief; sighed again yet more deeply on perceiving that it
was a necktie; put it back in his pocket, and looked plaintively at the
minister.
"I should be pleased to do so, Mr. Bliss," he said. "It would be--a
relief; a--an unburdening; an--outlet to imprisoned nature."
"You see," the little minister went on soothingly, "our dear old
friend's death occurring while I was away, and I returning only just in
time for the funeral, I have not really heard the particulars yet. I
might--that is--Mrs. Weight kindly called on me last evening, probably
with a view to giving me some information, but I was unable to see her,
and I should prefer to hear from you how it all happened."
"Yes--a--yes!" said Mr. Homer, nervously. "Mrs. Weight is a--a
person--a--in short, she is a person not connected with the family.
Well, Mr. Bliss, the end came very suddenly; very suddenly indeed. It
was a great shock; a great--blow; a great--unsettling of the equilibrium
of daily life. The village has never known such a sensation, sir,
never."
"Mrs. Tree died in the evening, I believe?" said Mr. Bliss.
"At nine o'clock, sir," said Mr. Homer. "Jocko, the parrot, had had some
trifling indisposition, and Cousin Marcia had sent for Miss Penelope
Pardon, who, as you are doubtless aware, has some knowledge of the
feathered tribes and their peculiar ailments. It chanced that I came in
to bring a letter, which would, I fancied, give Cousin Marcia singular
pleasure. It was from little Vesta--I would say from Mrs. Geoffrey
Strong, Mr. Bliss: she has always been a favorite niece--grandniece, I
should say, of Mrs. Tree. I found my cousin somewhat excited; she was
speaking to Miss Pardon with emphasis, and, as I entered, she struck the
floor with her stick and said: 'Cat's foot! don't tell me! folderol!'
and other expressions of that nature, as was her custom when moved.
Seeing me, she turned upon me with some abruptness and addressed me in
the following words: 'Well, Homer, here you are mooning about as usual.
You ought to be in a cage, and have Penny to take care of you. How would
you like this for a cage?' She waved her stick round the room, and then,
grasping it nervously, shook it at me with violence.
"'Homer Hollopeter,' she said, 'what is the name of this village?'
"Somewhat startled at this outburst, I repeated her remark. 'The name,
Cousin Marcia?'
"'The name!' she said, violently. 'The real name! out with it,
ninnyhammer!'
"I replied firmly,--it is a point on which I have always felt strongly,
Mr. Bliss,--'The real name of this village, Cousin Marcia, is Quahaug.'
"Mrs. Tree sat bolt upright in her chair. 'Homer Hollopeter,' she said,
'you have some sense, after all! Hooray for Quahaug!'
"Mr. Bliss, they were her last words. She sat looking at me,
erect, vivacious, the very picture of life; and the next instant
the stick dropped from her hand. She was gone, sir. The spirit
had--departed;--a--removed itself;--a--winged its way to the empyrean."
He paused, half-drew out the blue necktie, then replaced it hurriedly.
"It was a great shock," he said; "I shall never be the same man again,
never! Miss Pardon was most kind and attentive. She supplied me
with--a--volatile salts, and in other ways ministered to my
outer man till I was somewhat restored; but the inner man, sir,
the--a--rainbow-hued spirit, as the poet has it, is--a--bruised;
is--a--battered; is--a--marked with the impress of a grievous blow. At
my age I can hardly hope to recover the equilibrium which--"
"Come! come! Mr. Hollopeter," said the little minister; "you must not be
despondent. Consider, our dear old friend had rounded out her century;
the ripe fruit dropped quietly from the bough. It is true that her loss
is a grievous one to all our community."
"It is, sir! it is, sir!" said Mr. Homer. "To imagine this community
without Cousin Marcia is to imagine the hive without its queen;
the--a--flock without its leader; the--a--finny tribe--but this is not a
metaphor which can be pursued, Mr. Bliss; and, indeed, I see our friends
even now approaching to join in the ceremony--a--the--I may say
solemnity, which we have come hither to observe."
The foregoing conversation was held in Mrs. Tree's parlor. I say Mrs.
Tree's, advisedly, for, though the bright, energetic spirit that had so
lately held sway there was gone, her presence still remained to fill the
room. Indeed, this room, with its dim antique richness, its glimmer of
gold lacquer, its soft duskiness of brocade and damask, its treasures of
rare and precious woods, and, above all, its fragrance of sandalwood and
roses, had always seemed the fit and perfect setting for the ancient
jewel it held. To the poetic imagination of Mr. Homer Hollopeter, Mrs.
Tree had always seemed out of place elsewhere. He had almost grudged the
occasions, rare of late years, when she went abroad in her camel's-hair
shawl and her great velvet bonnet. There seemed no reason why she should
ever stir from her high-backed chair of carved ebony. He saw her in it
at this moment, almost as plainly as he had seen her three days ago; the
tiny satin-clad figure, erect, alert, the little hands resting on the
ebony crutch-stick, the eyes darting black fire, the lips uttering
pungent words that bit like cayenne pepper, yet were wholesome in their
biting,--was it possible that she was no longer there? Mr. Homer had
feared his cousin Marcia more than any earthly thing, but still he had
loved her sincerely; and now the tears were in his mild blue eyes as he
turned from this vision of her to greet the incoming guests. Since the
death of Doctor Stedman and his dear wife the year before, Mr. Homer was
Mrs. Tree's only kinsman living in the village, and Doctor Strong, now
staying at the Blyth house with his wife, had begged him to take up his
quarters at Mrs. Tree's for the present. He had a special reason for
asking it, he said. Mr. Homer would find out later what it was. So,
meekly and sadly, Mr. Homer had brought a limp carpet-bag, and asked
Direxia Hawkes, the old servant, to put him wherever it would be least
inconvenient; and the old woman, half-blind with weeping, had fiercely
made ready the best bedroom, and was trying with bitter energy to feed
him to death.
Who are these who enter the quiet room, greeting Mr. Homer with a silent
nod or a low-toned word or two? We know most of them. First come Dr.
Geoffrey Strong and Vesta, his wife, a noble-looking pair. Geoffrey
holds his head as high, and his eyes are as bright and keen as ever;
and, if a silver thread shows here and there in his crisp brown hair,
Vesta thinks him none the less handsome for that. There is no silver in
Vesta's own hair; the tawny masses are as beautiful as ever. Her figure
is a little fuller, as becomes the mother of four. Geoffrey tells the
children in confidence that their mother is the exact counterpart of the
Venus of Milo, and says he has no doubt that the latter lady had tawny
hair. Vesta has put on a simple black dress, but there is no special
sign of "mourning" about it.
"If anybody puts on crape for me," Mrs. Tree used to say, "I'll get up
and pull it off 'em. So now they know. Nasty, unhealthy stuff! There's a
piece to go on the door. Tommy Candy knows where it is; and that's all
I'll have."
Here is Tommy Candy now, a tall lad of twenty, walking lame and leaning
on a stick; his hair, which used to stand up in stiff spikes all over
his head, is brought under some control, but there is no suppressing the
twinkle in his gray eyes. Even now, when he is in sincere grief for his
best friend, his eyes will twinkle as he looks out of the window and
sees the elephantine form of Mrs. Weight lumbering up the garden path.
And who is this behind her? Talk of crape,--why, here is a figure
literally swathed in it. The heavy veil is only pushed aside to give
play to a handkerchief with an inch-deep black border, which is pressed
to the eyes; a sob shakes the buxom figure. Who is this grief-smitten
lady? Why, this is Mrs. Maria Darracott Pryor, Mrs. Tree's own and only
lawful niece, the Next of Kin. She brushes past Vesta and her husband
with a curt nod, rustles across the room, and lays her head on the arm
of the ebony chair. At this Homer Hollopeter and Geoffrey Strong both
start from their seats. Mr. Homer's gentle eyes gleam with unaccustomed
fire; he opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again; for the intruder
stops--falters--gives a scared look about her, and, tottering back,
subsides on a sofa at the side of the room. Here she sobs ostentatiously
behind her handkerchief, and takes eager note of the rest of the
company.
She was followed by Mrs. Deacon Weight, from across the way, whom
Direxia admitted "this once!" as she said to herself with silent
ferocity; William Jaquith and his lovely wife; finally, the lawyer, a
brisk, dapper little man, who came in quickly, sat down by the
violet-wood table, and proceeded without delay to open his budget.
"I, Marcia Darracott Tree, being of sound mind, which is more than most
folks I know are--"
There was a movement, slight but general, among the company. No one
quite smiled, but the faces of those who had loved Mrs. Tree lightened,
while those of the others stiffened into a rigidity of disapproval. To
one and all it seemed as if the ancient woman were speaking to them. The
little lawyer paused and gave a quick glance around the room.
"It may be well for me to state in the beginning," he said, "that this
instrument, though beyond question irregular in its form of expression,
is--equally beyond question--perfectly regular in its substance; an
entirely valid instrument. To resume: 'of sound mind,'--I need not
repeat the excursus,--'do hereby dispose of my various belongings, all
of which are absolutely and without qualification within my own control
and possession, in the following manner, to wit, namely, and any other
folderol this man may want to put in.' Ahem! My venerable friend was
very pleasant with me while I was drawing up this instrument,--very
pleasant; but she insisted on my writing her exact words.
"'To Vesta Strong I give and bequeath my jewels, with the exceptions
hereinafter specified; my lace; the velvet and satin dresses in the
cedar chests; the camel's-hair shawls; the silver, both Darracott and
Tree; and anything else in the house that she may fancy, with the
exceptions hereinafter mentioned. She'd better not clutter up her house
with too many things; it is full enough already, with Blyth and Meredith
truck.
"'To Geoffrey Strong I give any of my books that he likes, except the
blue Keats; the engraved sapphire ring, and fifty thousand dollars.
"'Homer Hollopeter is to have the blue morocco Keats, presented by the
author to my father, because he has always wanted it and never expected
to get it.'"
The tears brimmed over in Mr. Homer's eyes. "I certainly never did
expect this," he said, with emotion. "I have held the precious volume in
my hands reverently--a--humbly--a--with abasement of spirit, but I never
thought to possess it. I am indeed overcome. Pardon the interruption,
sir, I beg of you."
The lawyer gave Mr. Homer a look, half-quizzical, half-compassionate.
"Your name occurs again in this instrument, Homer," he said; "I will not
say more at present. To resume:
"'To Direxia Hawkes I give five thousand dollars and a home in this
house as long as she lives, on condition that she never cleans more than
one room in it at a time, and that she makes the orange cordial every
year according to my rule, without making any fool changes.'"
Direxia Hawkes, a tiny withered brownie, had been standing by the door
since she admitted the last comer. She now threw her apron over her head
and began to sob. "Did you ever?" she cried. "Tell me that woman is
dead! She's more alive than the hull bilin' of this village, I tell you.
Sixty years I've been trying to get a mite of ginger into that cordial,
and now I never shall. There! I don't want to no more, now she ain't
here to tell me I sha'n't. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
Vesta Strong went to the old woman's side and comforted her tenderly.
The sobs died away into sniffs, and the lawyer continued:
"'To William Jaquith I leave twenty thousand dollars and the house he
now occupies; also all the property, real and personal, of my grandson,
Arthur Blyth, deceased.
"'To my niece, Maria Darracott Pryor,'"--the little lawyer paused and
glanced over his spectacles. With each of the bequests enumerated, Mrs.
Pryor had become more and more rigid. The black-edged handkerchief was
forgotten, and she sat with her chin raised and her prominent
short-sighted eyes glancing from one to another of the fortunate
legatees with an expression which, to say the least, was not
affectionate. "From envy, hatred, and malice," Geoffrey had whispered a
moment before.
"Hush, Geoffrey," said Vesta.
But at the mention of her own name, Mrs. Pryor's expression changed; the
rigor yielded to a drooping softness; she heaved a deep sigh and raised
the handkerchief to her eyes again.
"Dearest Cousin Marcia!" she murmured; "she remembered even in her
closing moments that I was her next of kin; so touching. The Darracott
blood--"
"'To my niece, Maria Darracott Pryor, I give and bequeath--the sum
of--three dollars and sixty-seven cents, being the price of a ticket
back where she came from. If she tries to stay in my house, tell her to
remember the _last time_.'
"I greatly regret these discourteous observations," said the little
lawyer, deprecatingly, "but my venerable friend was--a--positively
determined on inserting them, and I had no alternative, I assure you."
He looked with some alarm at Mrs. Pryor as he spoke, and, indeed, that
lady's countenance was dreadful to look upon. Every part of her seemed
to clink and crackle as she rose to her feet, her eyes snapping, her
teeth fairly chattering with rage.
"You call this a will, do you?" she cried. "You call this law, do you?
We'll see about that. We'll see if the next of kin is to be insulted and
trodden upon by a low attorney and a set of beggars on horseback. We'll
see--"
But the little lawyer, who came from the neighboring town, had gone to
the Academy with Maria Darracott, and, though a man of punctilious
courtesy, had no idea of being called a low attorney by any such person.
He therefore interrupted her with scant ceremony.
"We must, I fear, postpone discussion," he said, "until the instrument
has been heard in its entirety by all present. To resume."
Mrs. Pryor glanced about her with challenging eyes and heaving breast,
but, seeing that no one paid much heed to her, all looks being bent on
the reader, she subsided once more into her seat, a statue of vindictive
protest.
"'To Thomas Candy I give five thousand dollars, and another five
thousand dollars on his attaining the age of twenty-five if he shall
have been able by that time to carry out the plan and maintain the
condition now to be specified.'"
The little lawyer paused again and glanced round the expectant circle.
His shrewd brown face was immovable, but his black eyes twinkled in
spite of himself.
"I have already observed," he said, "that this instrument is an
unusual, I may say, a singular one. My venerable friend was most
emphatic in her enunciation of the following--a--condition, which--which
I forbear to characterize." He glanced at the empty chair. One would
have thought that for him it was not empty. Then he went on:
"'The condition now to be specified.
"'To Homer Hollopeter and Thomas Candy I give and bequeath this house
and garden, the furniture, etc. (after Vesta Strong has taken what she
wants), the collections of foreign woods, uncut gems, butterflies,
carved ivories, natural curiosities, shells, coins, etc., etc., etc., to
be held by them in trust, and arranged by them as a museum for the
perpetual benefit of this village; and I give them over and above the
before mentioned legacies two thousand dollars yearly for the
maintenance of this museum and for additions thereto: all this on
condition that this village shall resume and maintain its original and
true name of Quahaug, which it would never have lost if Captain Tree and
I had not been in the South Seas while that old noddy, Melancthon Swain,
was minister here.
"'All the rest and residue of my estate I give and bequeath to the
aforesaid Homer Hollopeter, and I appoint him my residuary legatee, and
I hope there's fuss enough about it.'"
The little lawyer stopped reading and pushed back his chair. In doing
so, he may have inadvertently touched the empty chair, for at that
instant an ebony crutch-stick, which had been leaning against it, fell
forward on the floor with a loud rattle. Mrs. Pryor shrieked and fell
into real and violent hysterics. She was supported out of the room by
Doctor Strong and his wife. Mrs. Weight rolled out after them, snorting
indignant sympathy, and the assembly broke up in confusion.