Mrs. Tree

Laura E. Richards

Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.

"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree—he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable 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 lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.'

"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."

Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called:

"Direxia!"

"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something."

"Direxia Hawkes!"

"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't want to let him stay there alone."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!"

"Show him in here!"

"What say?"

"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as I do."

"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree—he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest looking"—

"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?"

"Well! of all the cantankerous,—here! come in, you! She wants to see you," and a man appeared in the doorway—he was shabbily dressed, but it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked at him and then looked again.

"What do you want here?"

"I ask for food, I'm hungry."

"Are you a tramp?"

"Yes, Madam!"

"Anything else?"

Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough—you come out in the kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can take it away with you."

"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a place for this gentleman."

"I—cannot, Madam!—I thank you, but you must excuse me."

"Why can't you?"

"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."

"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"

"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health."

"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"

"That begins it, but after a while,—I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go."

"Cat's foot!"

The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"

The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream—half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair—then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite—he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.

"Old friends!"

The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.

"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good Jocko! Speak up, boy!"

"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"

"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, hey?"

"Yes, I am—faint. I must get out into the air."

"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down."

"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!"

"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!"

And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree, and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."

"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's room—he died here—what's the matter—feel faint—hey?"

"Yes!—I do—"

"Come, Willie—come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed—you are tired, boy."

"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard—I came—to—rob—you."

"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that—there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe he did."

"God knows! When—how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?"

"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you are the same boy."

"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, and worse—but—you won't—do that—you won't do that."

"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door—it's 'Malviny Weight.' Now you lie down and rest—yes, you will—that press there is full of Arthur's clothes—then you come down and talk to me—You do as I tell you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he bit you for stealing his apple,—there's the scar still on your cheek. Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you right if he had, too—Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!"

And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who broke out saying:

"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he—"

"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?"

"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good."

"What tramp?"

"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past Direxia. I see him with these eyes."

"When?"

"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't."

"I won't."

"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I tell you I've had my eye on her these ten years, and now I have found her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats in—and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now."

"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's no tramp here, and there has been none."

"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these—"

"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been none—what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over night with me—he's upstairs now—did you lock your door, Malvina—There are tramps about and if Ephraim's away—well, good-night, Malvina, if you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her."

The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with eagerness she greeted her visitor.

"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are—now go on and tell me—after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very sensible, was it?"

"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget 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, of 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—I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death in it."

"What!"

"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her—but I lost all hope then."

"Why don't you give up drink?"

"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead."

"Cat's foot—fiddlestick—folderol—fudge! She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie 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, Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?"

"To mother!"

"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."

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

"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. Here comes Direxia with your breakfast—you eat it and then we'll go and see your mother."

Out of doors the 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. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:

"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"

"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "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! Don't you go to setting double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? Obstinate as ever?"

"Take this chair, 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 shan'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."

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? 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 talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary—some one came to see me—an old acquaintance—some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,—well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"

The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,—of welcome, of love unutterable,—and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.