[Illustration: MRS. TREE.]
MRS. TREE
By
Laura E. Richards
_Author of_
"Captain January," "Melody," "Marie," etc.
Boston
Dana Estes & Company
Publishers
_Copyright, 1902_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
MRS. TREE
Published June, 1902
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
To
My Daughter Rosalind
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Wedding Bells 11
II. Phoebe's Opinions 25
III. Introducing Tommy Candy and Solomon, his Grandfather 41
IV. Old Friends 55
V. "But When He Was Yet a Great Way off" 75
VI. The New Postmaster 92
VII. In Miss Penny's Shop 107
VIII. A Tea-party 124
IX. A Garden-party 142
X. Mr. Butters Discourses 161
XI. Miss Phoebe Passes on 175
XII. The Peak in Darien 189
XIII. Life in Death 201
XIV. Tommy Candy, and the Letter He Brought 217
XV. Maria 233
XVI. Doctor Stedman's Patient 249
XVII. Not Yet! 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mrs. Tree Frontispiece
"She put out a finger, and Jocko clawed it without ceremony" 119
"'Careful with that Bride Blush, Willy'" 143
"'Perhaps this is as good medicine as you can take!' he said" 262
MRS. TREE
CHAPTER I.
WEDDING BELLS
"Well, they're gone!" said Direxia Hawkes.
"H'm!" said Mrs. Tree.
Direxia had been to market, and, it was to be supposed, had brought
home, beside the chops and the soup-piece, all the information the
village afforded. She had now, after putting away her austere little
bonnet and cape, brought a china basin, and a mystic assortment of white
cloths, and was polishing the window-panes, which did not need
polishing. From time to time she glanced at her mistress, who sat bolt
upright in her chair, engaged on a severe-looking piece of knitting.
Mrs. Tree detested knitting, and it was always a bad sign when she put
away her book and took up the needles.
"Yes'm; they're gone. I see 'em go. Ithuriel Butters drove 'em over to
the Junction; come in yesterday o' purpose, and put up his team at
Doctor Stedman's. Ithuriel thinks a sight of Doctor Strong. Yes'm; folks
was real concerned to see him go, and her too. They made a handsome
couple, if they be both light-complected."
"What are you doing to that window, Direxia Hawkes?" demanded Mrs. Tree,
looking up from her knitting with a glittering eye.
"I was cleanin' it."
"I'm glad to hear it. I never should have supposed so from looking at
it. Perhaps you'd better let it alone."
"You're a terrible tedious woman to live with, Mis' Tree!" said
Direxia.
"You're welcome to go any minute," replied Mrs. Tree.
"Yes'm," said Direxia. "What kind of sauce would you like for tea?"
"Any kind except yours," said Mrs. Tree; and then both smiled grimly,
and felt better.
Direxia polished away, still with an anxious eye on the old woman whom
she loved fiercely.
"He sent a message to you, last thing before he drove off. He wanted I
should tell you--what's this now he said? 'Tell her to keep on growing
young till I come back,' that was it. Well, he's a perfect gentleman,
that's what he is."
Something clicked in Mrs. Tree's throat, but she said nothing. Mrs. Tree
was over ninety, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles,
netted fine and close as a brown veil, she showed little sign of her
great age. As she herself said, she had her teeth and her wits, and she
did not see what more any one wanted. In her morning gown of white
dimity, with folds of soft net about her throat, and a turban of the
same material on her head, she was a pleasant and picturesque figure.
For the afternoon she affected satin, either plum-colored, or of the
cinnamon shade in which some of my readers may have seen her elsewhere,
with slippers to match, and a cap suggesting the Corinthian order. In
this array, majesty replaced picturesqueness, and there were those in
Elmerton who quailed at the very thought of this tiny old woman, upright
in her ebony chair, with the acanthus-leaf in finest Brussels nodding
over her brows. The last touch of severity was added when Mrs. Tree was
found knitting, as on the present occasion.
"Ithuriel Butters is a sing'lar man!" Direxia went on, investigating
with exquisite nicety the corner of a pane. "He gave me a turn just now,
he did so."
She waited a moment, but no sign coming, continued. "I was to Miss
Phoebe 'n' Vesty's when he druv up, and we passed the time o' day. I
said, 'How's Mis' Butters now, Ithuriel?' I said. I knew she'd been re'l
poorly a spell back, but I hadn't heard for a consid'able time.
"'I ain't no notion!' says he.
"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.
"'Just what I say,' says he.
"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know.
She has consid'able kin round here.
"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I left her in the bur'in'-ground, that's
all I know.'
"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month, and I never knew the first
word about it. They're all sing'lar people, them Butterses. She was a
proper nice woman, though, this Mis' Butters. He had hopes of Di-plomy
one spell, after his last died--_she_ was a reg'lar fire-skull; he
didn't have much peace while she lived--died in a tantrum too, they say;
scol't so hard she bust a vessel, and it run all through her, and car'd
her off--but Di-plomy couldn't seem to change her state, no more'n Miss
Phoebe 'n' Vesty.
"My sakes! if there ain't Miss Vesty comin' now. I'll hasten and put
away these things, Mis' Tree, and be back to let her in."
Miss Vesta Blyth came soberly along the street and up the garden path.
She was a quaint and pleasant picture, in her gown of gray and white
foulard, with her little black silk mantle and bonnet. Some thirty years
ago Miss Vesta and her sister Miss Phoebe had decided that fashion was
a snare; and since then they had always had their clothes made on the
same model, to the despair of Prudence Pardon, the dressmaker.
But when one looked at Vesta Blyth's face, one was not apt to think
about her clothes; one rather thought, what a pity one must look away
from her presently! At least, that was what Geoffrey Strong used to say,
a young man who loved Miss Vesta, and who was now gone away with his
young wife, leaving sore hearts behind.
Direxia Hawkes came out on the porch to meet the visitor, closing the
door behind her for an instant.
"I'm terrible glad you've come," she said. "She's lookin' for you, too,
I expect, though she won't say a word. There! she's fairly rusted with
grief. It'll do her good to have somebody new to chaw on; she's been
chawin' on me till she's tired, and she's welcome to."
"Yes, Direxia, I know; you are most faithful and patient," said Miss
Vesta, gently. "You know we all appreciate it, don't you, my good
Direxia? I have brought a little sweetbread for Aunt Marcia's supper.
Diploma cooked it the way she likes it, with a little cream, and just a
spoonful of white wine. There! now I will go in. Thank you, Direxia."
"Dear Aunt Marcia," the little lady said as she entered the room, "how
do you do to-day? You are looking so well!"
"I've got the plague," announced Mrs. Tree, with deadly quiet.
"Dearest Aunt Marcia! what can you mean? The plague! Surely you must
have mistaken the symptoms. That terrible disease is happily, I think,
restricted to--"
"I've got twenty plagues!" exclaimed the old lady. "First there's
Direxia Hawkes, who torments my life out all day long; and then you,
Vesta, who might know better, coming every day and asking how I am. How
should I be? Have you ever known me to be anything but perfectly well
since you were born?"
"No, dear Aunt Marcia, I am thankful to say I have not. It is such a
singular blessing, that you have this wonderful health."
"Well, then, why can't you let my health alone? When it fails, I'll let
you know."
"Yes, dear Aunt Marcia, I will try."
"Bah!" said Mrs. Tree. "You are a good girl, Vesta, but you would
exasperate a saint. I am not a saint."
Miss Vesta, too polite to assent to this statement, and too truthful to
contradict it, gazed mildly at her aunt, and was silent.
Mrs. Tree, after five minutes of vengeful knitting, rolled up her work
deliberately, stabbed it through with the needles, and tossed it across
the room.
"Well!" she said, "have you anything else to say, Vesta? I am cross, but
I am not hungry, and if I were I would not eat you. Tell me something,
can't you? Isn't there any gossip in this tiresome place?"
"Oh, Aunt Marcia, I cannot think of anything but our dear children,
Geoffrey and Vesta. We have just seen them off, you know. Indeed, I came
on purpose to tell you about their departure, but you seemed--Aunt
Marcia, they were sad at going, I truly think they were. It was here
they first met, and found their young happiness--the Lord preserve them
in it all their lives long!--there were tears in Little Vesta's eyes,
dear child! but still, they are going to their own home, and of course
they were full of joy too. Oh, Aunt Marcia, I must say, dear Geoffrey
looked like a prince as he handed his bride into the carriage."
"Was he in red velvet and feathers?" asked Mrs. Tree. "It wouldn't
surprise me in the least."
"Oh, no, dear Aunt Marcia! Nothing, I assure you, gaudy or striking, in
the very least. He wore the ordinary dress of a gentleman, not
conspicuous in any way. It was his air I meant, and the look of--of
pride and joy and youth--ah! it was very beautiful. Vesta was beautiful
too; you saw her travelling-dress, Aunt Marcia. Did you not think it
charming?"
"The child looked well enough," said Mrs. Tree. "Lord knows what sort of
wife she'll make, with her head stuffed full of all kinds of notions,
but she looks well, and she means well. I gave her my diamonds; did she
tell you that?"
Miss Vesta's smooth brow clouded. "Yes, Aunt Marcia, she told me, and
showed them to me. I had not seen them for years. They are very
beautiful. I--I confess--"
"Well, what's the matter?" demanded her aunt, sharply. "You didn't want
them yourself, did you?"
"Oh! surely not, dear Aunt Marcia. I was only thinking--Maria might
feel, with her two daughters, that there should have been some
division--"
"Vesta Blyth," said Mrs. Tree, slowly, "am I dead?"
"Dear Aunt Marcia! what a singular question!"
"Do I look as if I were going to die?"
"Surely not! I have rarely seen you looking more robust."
"Very well! When I _am_ dead, you may talk to me about Maria and her two
daughters; I sha'n't mind it then. What else have you got to say? I am
going to take my nap soon, so if you have anything more, out with it!"
Miss Vesta, after a hurried mental review of subjects that might be
soothing, made a snatch at one.
"Doctor Stedman came to see the children off. I think he is almost as
sorry to lose Geoffrey as we are. It is a real pleasure to see him
looking so well and vigorous. He really looks like a young man."
"Don't speak to me of James Stedman!" exclaimed Mrs. Tree. "I never
wish to hear his name again."
"Aunt Marcia! dear James Stedman! Our old and valued friend!"
"Old and valued fiddlestick! Who wanted him to come back? Why couldn't
he stay where he was, and poison the foreigners? He might have been of
some use there."
Miss Vesta looked distressed.
"Aunt Marcia," she said, gently, "I cannot feel as if I ought to let
even you speak slightingly of Doctor Stedman. Of course we all feel
deeply the loss of dear Geoffrey; I am sure no one can feel it more
deeply than Phoebe and I do. The house is so empty without him; he
kept it full of sunshine and joy. But that should not make us forgetful
of Doctor Stedman's life-long devotion and--"
"Speaking of devotion," said Mrs. Tree, "has he asked you to marry him
yet? How many times does that make?"
Miss Vesta went very pink, and rose from her seat with a gentle dignity
which was her nearest approach to anger.
"I think I will leave you now, Aunt Marcia," she said. "I will come
again to-morrow, when you are more composed. Good-by."
"Yes, run along!" said Mrs. Tree, and her voice softened a little. "I
don't want you to-day, Vesta, that's the truth. Send me Phoebe, or
Malvina Weight. I want something to 'chaw on,' as Direxia said just
now."
"The dogs! I was going to say," exclaimed Direxia, using one of her
strongest expressions. "You never heard me, now, Mis' Tree!"
"I never hear anything else!" said the old lady. "Go away, both of you,
and let me hear myself think."