"BUT WHEN HE WAS YET A GREAT WAY OFF"
"And so when she ran away and left you, you took to drink, Willy. 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, Willy. 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 God 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-glass 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 glass, Willy; 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, Willy
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, Willy, 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, Willy 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
apron 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, Willy. 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, Willy 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 identity 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 glasses; 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 passionate yearning till the pair passed 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.
"It won't hurt your teethache any. Run now, and I'll make you a
saucer-pie next time I'm baking."
"You allers say that, and then you never!" grumbled Isaac, dragging
reluctant feet toward the door.
"Isick Weight, don't you speak to me like that! I'll tell your pa, if
you don't do as I tell you."
"Well, ain't I goin', quick as I can? I won't go through Candy's yard,
though; that mean Tom Candy's waitin' for me now with a big rock, 'cause
I got him sent home for actin' in school. I'll go and ask the man who he
is. S'pose he knows."
"You won't do nothing of the sort. There! no matter--it's too late now.
You're a real aggravatin', naughty-actin' boy, Isick Weight, and I
believe you've been sent home your own self for cuttin' up--not that I
doubt Tommy Candy was, too. I shall ask your father to whip you good
when he gits home."
* * * * *
"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit."
"Mrs. Tree! Is this you? My dear soul, what brings you out so early in
the morning? Come in! come in! Who is with you?"
"I didn't say any one was with me!" snapped Mrs. Tree. "Don't you go to
setting up double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old
enough. How are you? obstinate as ever?"
The blind woman smiled. In her plain print dress, she had the air of a
masquerading duchess, and her blue eyes were as clear and beautiful as
those which were watching her from the door.
"Take this chair," she said, pushing forward a straight-backed armchair.
"It's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear Mrs. Tree?"
"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty
times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter
and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but
that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you
like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I sha'n't ask you again, and
so I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."
"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for
a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There
surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated,
whoever it is."
She turned her beautiful face and clear, quiet eyes toward the door.
There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree
shook her head, fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.
"Who is it?" she said. "Be kind, please, and tell me."
"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for
two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your
questions. Mary, I--I had a visitor last night. Some one came to see
me--an old acquaintance--who had--who had heard of Willy lately. Willy
is--doing well, my dear. Now, Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down, I
won't say another word. Of all the unreasonable women I ever saw in my
life--"
Mrs. Tree stopped, and rose abruptly from her seat. The blind woman was
holding out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal, of welcome, of
love unutterable: her face was the face of an angel. Another moment, and
her son's arms were round her, and her head on his bosom, and he was
crying over and over again, "Mother! mother! mother!" as if he could not
have enough of the word.
"Arthur was a nice boy, too!" said Mrs. Tree, as she closed the door
behind her.
* * * * *
Five minutes later, Mrs. Weight, hurrying up the plank walk which led to
the Widow Jaquith's door, was confronted by the figure of her opposite
neighbor, sitting on the front doorstep, leaning her chin on her stick,
and looking, as Mrs. Weight told the deacon afterward, like Satan's
grandmother.
"Want to see Mary Jaquith?" asked Mrs. Tree. "Well, she's engaged, and
you can't. Here! give me your arm, Viny, and take me over to the girls'.
I want to see how Phoebe is this morning. She was none too spry
yesterday."