Mrs. Tree Part 20

"I have given you one reason already, James. It would be not only unseemly, but impossible, for me to leave my guest. But even without that, even if I were entirely alone, still I could not go. My duties; the house; my dear sister's ideas,--she always said a house could not be left for a month by the entire family without deteriorating in some way--though Diploma is most excellent, most faithful. Then,--it is a small matter, but--I have always cared for my seaward lamp in person. I have never been away, James, since--I first lighted the lamp. Then--"

"I am still waiting for a reason," said Doctor Stedman, grimly. "I have not heard what I call one yet."

The soft color rose in Miss Vesta's face, and she lifted her eyes to his with a look he had seen in them once or twice before.

"Then here is one for you, James," she said, quietly. "I do not wish to go!"

Doctor Stedman rose abruptly, and tramped up and down the room in moody silence. Miss Vesta sighed, and watched his feet. They were heavily booted, but--no, there were no nails in them, and the s.h.i.+ning floor remained intact.

Suddenly he came to a stop in front of her.

"What if I carried you off, you inflexible little piece of porcelain?"

he said. "What if--Vesta,--may I speak once more?"

"Oh, if you would please not, James!" cried Miss Vesta, a soft hurry in her voice, her cheeks very pink. "I should be so truly grateful to you if you would not. I am so happy in your friends.h.i.+p, James. It is such a comfort, such a reliance to me. Do not, I beg of you, my dear friend, disturb it."

"But--you are alone, child. If Phoebe had lived, I had made up my mind never to trouble you again. She is gone, and you are alone, and tired, and--I find it hard to bear, Vesta. I do indeed."

He spoke with heat and feeling. Miss Vesta's eyes were full of tenderness as she raised them to his.

"You are so kind, James!" she said. "No one ever had a kinder or more faithful friend; of that I am sure. But you must never think that, about my being alone. I am never alone; almost never--at least, not so very often, even lonely. I live with a whole life-full of blessed memories.

Besides, I have Aunt Marcia. She needs me more and more, and by and by, when her marvellous strength begins to fail,--for it must fail,--she will need me constantly. I can never, never feel alone while Aunt Marcia lives."

"Hum!" said Doctor Stedman. "Well, good-by! Poison Maria's tea, and I'll let you off with that. I'll send you up a powder of corrosive sublimate in the morning--there! there! don't look horrified. You never can understand--or I never can. I mean, I'll send you some bromide for yourself. Don't tell me that you are sleeping well, for I know better.

Good-by, my dear!"

CHAPTER XVI.

DOCTOR STEDMAN'S PATIENT

Bright and early the next morning, Mrs. Pryor presented herself at Mrs.

Tree's door. It was another Indian summer morning, mild and soft. As she came up the street, Mrs. Pryor had seen, or thought she had seen, a figure sitting in the wicker rocking-chair on the porch. The chair was empty now, but it was rocking--perhaps with the wind.

Direxia Hawkes answered the visitor's knock.

"How do you do, Direxia?" said Mrs. Pryor, in sprightly tones. "You remember me, of course,--Miss Maria. Will you tell Mrs. Tree that I have come, please?"

She made a motion to enter, but Direxia stood in the doorway, grim and forbidding.

"Mis' Tree can't see anybody this morning," she said.

Mrs. Pryor smiled approvingly. "I see you are a good watch-dog, Direxia.

Very proper, I am sure, not to let my aunt, at her age, be annoyed by ordinary visitors; but your care is unnecessary in this case. I will just step into the parlor, and you can tell her that I am here. Probably she will wish me to come up at once to her room, but you may as well go first, just to prepare her. Any shock, however joyful, is to be avoided with the aged."

She moved forward again, but Direxia Hawkes did not stir.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I am so; but I can't let you in, Mis' Pryor, I can't nohow."

"Cannot let me in?" repeated Mrs. Pryor. "What does this mean? It is some conspiracy. Of course I know there is a jealousy, but this is too--stand aside this moment, my good creature, and don't be insolent, or you will repent of it. I shall inform my aunt. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes'm, I know well enough who you are. Yes'm, I know you are her own niece, but if you was fifty nieces I couldn't let you in. She ain't goin' to see a livin' soul to-day except Doctor Stedman. You might see him, after he's ben here," she added, relenting a little at the keen chagrin in the visitor's face.

Mrs. Pryor caught at the straw.

"Ah! she has sent for Doctor Stedman. Very right, very proper! Of course, if my aunt does not think it wise to see any one until after the physician's visit, I can understand that. n.o.body is more careful about such matters than I am. I will see Doctor Stedman myself, get his advice and directions, and call again. Give my love to my aunt, Direxia, and tell her"--she stretched her neck toward the door--"tell her that I am greatly distressed not to see her, and still more to hear that she is indisposed; but that very soon, as soon as possible after the doctor's visit, I shall come again and devote myself to her."

"Scat!" said a harsh voice from within.

"Mercy on me! what's that?" cried Mrs. Pryor.

"Scat! _quousque tandem, O Catilina?_ Helen was a beauty, Xantippe was--"

"Hold your tongue!" said Direxia Hawkes, hastily. "It's only the parrot.

He is the worst-actin'--good mornin', Mis' Pryor!"

She closed the door on a volley of screeches that was pouring from the doorway.

Mrs. Pryor, rustling and crackling with indignation against the world in general, made her way down the garden path. She was fumbling with the latch of the gate, when the door of the opposite house opened, and a large woman came out and, hastening across the road, met her with outstretched hand.

"Do tell me if this isn't Mis' Pryor!" said the large women, cordially.

"I felt sure it must be you; I heard you was in town. You haven't forgotten Mis' Weight, Malviny Askem as was? Well, I am pleased to see you. Walk in, won't you? now do! Why, you _are_ a stranger! Step right in this way!"

Nothing loth, Mrs. Pryor stepped in, and was ushered into the sitting-room.

"Deacon, here's an old friend, if I may presume to say so; Mis' Pryor, Miss Maria Darracott as was. You'll be rejoiced, well I know. Isick and Annie Lizzie, come here this minute and shake hands! Your right hand, Annie Lizzie, and take your finger out of your mouth, or I'll sl--I shall have to speak to you. Let me take your bunnet, Maria, mayn't I?"

Deacon Weight heaved himself out of his chair, and received the visitor with ponderous cordiality. "It is a long time since we have had the pleasure of welcoming you to Elmerton, Mrs. Pryor," he said. "Your family has sustained a great loss, ma'am, a great loss. Miss Phoebe Blyth is universally lamented."

Yes, indeed, a sad loss, Mrs. Pryor said. She regretted deeply that she had not been able to be present at the last sad rites. She had been tenderly attached to her cousin, whom she had not seen for twenty years.

"But I have come now," she said, "to devote myself to those who remain.

My cousin Vesta looks sadly ill and shrunken, really an old woman, and my aunt Mrs. Tree is seriously ill, I am told, unable even to see me until after the doctor's visit. Very sad! At her age, of course the slightest thing in the nature of a seizure would probably be fatal. Have you seen her recently, may I ask?"

Deacon Weight crossed and uncrossed his legs uneasily. Mrs. Weight bridled, and pursed her lips.

"We don't often see Mis' Tree to speak to," she said. "There's those you can be neighborly with, and there's those you can't. Mis' Tree has never showed the wish to _be_ neighborly, and I am not one to put forth, neither is the deacon. Where we are wished for, we go, and the reverse, we stay away. We do what duty calls for, no more. I did see Mis' Tree at Phoebe's funeral," she added, "and she looked gashly then. I hope she is prepared, I reelly do. I know Phoebe was real uneasy about her. We make her the subject of prayer, the deacon and I, but that's all we _can_ do; and I feel bound to say to you, Mis' Pryor, that in _my_ opinion, your aunt's soul is in a more perilous way than her body."

Mrs. Pryor seemed less concerned about the condition of Mrs. Tree's soul than might have been expected. She asked many questions about the old lady's manner of life, who came to the house, how she spent her time, etc. Mrs. Weight answered with eager volubility. She told how often the butcher came, and what costly delicacies he left; how few and far between were what she might call spiritooal visits; "for our pastor is young, Mis' Pryor, and it's not to be expected that he could have the power of exhortation to compare with those who have labored in the vineyard the len'th of time Deacon Weight has. Then, too, she has a way that rides him down--Mr. Bliss, I'm speakin' of--and makes him ready to talk about any truck and d.i.c.ker she likes. I see him come out the other day, laughin' fit to split; you'd never think he was a minister of the gospel. Not that I should wish to be understood as sayin' anything against Mr. Bliss; the young are easily led, even the best of them.

Isick, don't stand gappin' there! Shut your mouth, and go finish your ch.o.r.es. And Annie Lizzie, you go and peel some apples for mother. Yes, you can, just as well as not; don't answer me like that! No, you don't want a cooky now, you ain't been up from breakfast more than--well, just one, then, and mind you pick out a small one! Mis' Pryor, I didn't like to speak too plain before them innocents, but it's easy to see why Mis'

Tree clings as she doos to the things of this world. If I had the outlook she has for the next, I should tremble in my bed, I should so."

Finally the visitor departed, promising to come again soon. After a baffled glance at Mrs. Tree's house, which showed an uncompromising front of closed windows and muslin curtains, she made her way to the post-office, where for a stricken hour she harried Mr. Homer Hollopeter.

She was his cousin too, in the fifth or sixth degree, and as she cheerfully told him, Darracott blood was a bond, even to the last drop of it. She questioned him as to his income, his housekeeping, his reasons for remaining single, which appeared to her insufficient, not to say childish; she commented on his looks, the fas.h.i.+on of his dress (it was a manifest absurdity for a man of his years to wear a sky-blue neck-tie!), the decorations of his office. She thought a portrait of the President, or George Was.h.i.+ngton, would be more appropriate than those dingy engravings. Who were--oh, Keats and Sh.e.l.ley? No one admired poetry more than she did; she had read Keats's "Christian Year" only a short time ago; charming!

"And what is that landscape, Cousin Homer? Something foreign, evidently.