Mrs. Tree Part 11

"You must not give our friends a false impression of James's childhood, Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, looking up with the expression of a valorous dove. "He was far from being an unruly child as a general thing, though of course it was a pity about the table."

"Thank you, Vesta!" said Doctor Stedman. "But I am afraid I often got Nat into mischief. Do you remember your Uncle Tree's spankstick, Phoebe?"

"Shall we perhaps change the subject?" said Miss Phoebe, with bland severity. "It is hardly suited to the social board. Cousin Homer, may I give you a little more of the chicken, or will you have some oysters?"

"A--it is immaterial, I am obliged to you, Cousin Phoebe," said Mr.

Homer Hollopeter, looking up with the air of one suddenly awakened. "The inner man has been abundantly refreshed, I thank you."

"The inner man was making a sonnet, Phoebe, and you have cruelly interrupted him," said Doctor Stedman, not without a gleam of friendly malice.

"Not a sonnet, James, this time," said Mr. Homer, coloring. "A few lines were, I confess, shaping themselves in my mind; it is very apt to be the case, when my surroundings are so gracious--so harmonious--I may say so inspiring, as at the present moment."

He waved his hands over the table, whose general effect was of crystal and gold, cream and honey, s.h.i.+ning on the dark mirror of the bare table.

"I agree with you, I'm sure, Mr. Hollopeter," said little Mrs. Bliss, heartily. "I couldn't write a line of poetry to save my life, but if I could, I am sure it would be about this table, Miss Blyth. It _is_ the prettiest table I ever saw, and the prettiest setting."

Miss Phoebe looked pleased.

"It is a Darracott table," she said. "My aunt, Mrs. Tree, has the mate to it. They were saved when Darracott House was burned, and naturally we value them highly. I believe they formed part of the original furnis.h.i.+ng brought over from England by James Lysander James Darracott in 1642. It is a matter of rivalry between our good Diploma Crotty and her aunt, Mrs. Tree's domestic, as to which table is in the more perfect condition. Mrs. Tree's table has no dent in it--"

"Ah, Phoebe, I shall carry that dent to my grave with me!" said Doctor Stedman, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "You will never forgive it, I see."

"On the contrary, James, I forgave it long ago," said Miss Phoebe, graciously. "I was about to remark that though the other table has no dent, it has a scratch, made by Jocko in his youth, which years of labor have failed to efface. To my mind, the scratch is more noticeable than the dent, though both are to be regretted. Mr. Bliss, you are eating nothing. I beg you will allow me to give you a little honey! It is made by our own bees, and I think I can conscientiously recommend it. A little cream, you will find, takes off the edge of the sweet, and makes it more palatable."

"Miss Blyth, you must not give us too many good things," said the little minister, shaking his head, but holding out his plate none the less.

"Thank you! thank you! most delicious, I am sure. I only hope it is not a snare of the flesh, Miss Phoebe."

He spoke merrily, in full enjoyment of his first spoonful of honey--not the colorless, flavorless white clover variety, but the goldenrod honey, rich and full in color and flavor. He smiled as he spoke, but Miss Phoebe looked grave.

"I trust not, indeed, Mr. Bliss," she said. "It would ill become my sister and me to lay snares of any kind for your feet. I always feel, however, that milk, or cream, and honey, being as it were natural gifts of a bounteous Providence, and frequently mentioned in the Scriptures, may be partaken of in moderation without fear of over-indulgence of sinful appet.i.tes. A little more? Another pound cake, Mrs. Bliss? No?

Then shall we return to the parlor?"

"You spoke of your aunt, Mrs. Tree, Miss Blyth," said Mr. Bliss, when they were seated in the pleasant, s.h.i.+ning parlor of the Temple of Vesta, the red curtains drawn, the fire crackling its usual cordial welcome.

"She is a--a singularly interesting person. What vivacity! what readiness! what a fund of information on a variety of subjects! She put me to the blush a dozen times in a talk I had with her recently."

"Have you been able to have any serious conversation with my aunt, Mr.

Bliss?" asked Miss Phoebe, with a slight indication of frost in her tone. "I should be truly rejoiced to hear that such was the case."

"A--well, perhaps not exactly serious," owned the little minister, smiling and blus.h.i.+ng. "In fact,"--here he caught his wife's eye, and checked himself--"in fact,--a--she is an extremely interesting person!"

he concluded, lamely.

"Now, John, why should you stop?" cried Mrs. Bliss. "Mrs. Tree is the Miss Blyths' own aunt, and they must know her ever so much better than we do. She was just as funny as she could be, Miss Blyth. Deacon Weight had asked Mr. Bliss to call and reason with her on spiritual matters,--'wrestle' was what he said, but John told him he was no wrestler,--and so he went and tried; but he had hardly said a word--had you, John?--when Mrs. Tree asked him which he liked best, Shakespeare or the musical gla.s.ses--what _do_ you suppose she meant, Miss Vesta? And when he said Shakespeare, of course, she began talking about Hamlet, and Macready, and Mrs. Siddons, who gave her an orange when she was a little girl, and he never got in another word, did you, John? And Deacon Weight was so put out when he heard about it! I'm gl--"

"Marietta, my love!" remonstrated Mr. Bliss, hastily, "you forget yourself. Deacon Weight is our senior deacon."

"I'm sorry, John! but Mrs. Tree _is_ just as kind as she can be," the little wife went on, her eyes kindling as she spoke. "Oh!--no, I won't tell, John; you needn't be afraid. Why, she said that if I told she would set the parrot on me, and she meant it. That bird frightens me out of my wits. But she _is_ kind, and I never shall forget all she has done for us."

"I understand that you are a poet, sir," the minister said, turning to Mr. Homer Hollopeter, and evidently desirous of changing the subject.

"May I ask if the sonnet is your favorite form of verse?"

Mr. Homer bridled and colored.

"A--not at present, sir," he replied, modestly. "For some years I did feel that my--a--genius, if I may call it so, moved most freely in the fetters of the sonnet; but of late I have thought it well to seek--to employ--to--a--avail myself of the various forms in which the Muse enshrines herself. It--gives, if I may so express myself, more breadth of wing; more scope; more freedom; more"--he waved his hands--"circ.u.mambiency!"

His hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.

"I am sure, Cousin Homer," said Miss Vesta, "our friends would be glad to hear some of your poetry, if you happen to have any with you."

"Very glad," echoed Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, heartily. Doctor Stedman, after a thoughtful glance at the door, and another at the clock,--but it was only seven,--settled himself resignedly in his chair and said, "Fire away, Homer!" quite kindly.

Mr. Homer drew forth a folded paper, and gazed on the company with a pensive smile.

"I confess," he said, "the thought had occurred to me that, if so desired, I might read these few lines to the choice circle before whom--or more properly which--I find myself this evening. An episode has recently occurred in our--a--midst, Mrs. Bliss, which is of deep interest to us Elmertonians. The return of a youth, always cherished, but--shall I say, Cousin Phoebe, a temporary estray from the--a--star-y-pointing path?"

"It is a graceful way of putting it, Cousin Homer," said Miss Phoebe, with some austerity. "I trust it may be justified. Proceed, if you please. We are all attention."

Mr. Homer unfolded his paper, and opened his lips to read; but some uneasiness seemed to strike him. He moved in his seat, as if missing something, and glanced round the room. His eye fell and rested on Miss Phoebe, sitting erect and rigid--in the rocking-chair, _his_ rocking-chair! Miss Phoebe would not have rocked a quarter of an inch for a fortune; every line of her figure protested against its being supposed possible that she _could_ rock in company; but there she sat, and her seat was firm as the enduring hills.

Mr. Homer sighed; pushed his chair back a little, only to find its legs wholly uncompromising--and read as follows:

"LINES ON THE RETURN OF A YOUTHFUL AND VALUED FRIEND.

"Our beloved William Jaquith Has resolved henceforth to break with Devious ways; And returning to his mother Vows he will have ne'er another All his days.

"Husk of swine did not him nourish; Plant of Virtue could not flourish Far from home; So his heart with longing burned, And his feet with speed returned To its dome.

"Welcome, William, to our village!

Peaceful dwell, devoid of pillage, Cherished son!

On her sightless steps attendant, Wear a crown of light resplendent, Duty done!"

There was a soft murmur of appreciation from Miss Vesta and Mrs. Bliss, followed by silence. Mr. Homer glanced anxiously at Miss Phoebe.

"I should be glad of your opinion as to the third line, Cousin Phoebe," he said. "I had it 'Satan's ways,' in my first draught, but the expression appeared strong, especially for this choice circle, so I subst.i.tuted 'devious' as being more gentle, more mild, more--a"--he waved his hands--"more devoid of elements likely to produce discord in the mind."

"Quite so, Cousin Homer!" replied Miss Phoebe, with a stately bend of her head. "I congratulate you upon the alteration. Satan has no place in an Elmerton parlor, especially when honored by the presence of its pastor."

CHAPTER IX.

A GARDEN PARTY

It was a golden morning in mid-October; one of those mornings when Summer seems to turn in her footsteps, and come back to search for something she had left behind. Wherever one looked was gold: gold of maple and elm leaves, gold of late-lingering flowers, gold of close-shorn fields. Over and in and through it all, airy gold of quivering, dancing sunbeams.

No spot in all Elmerton was brighter than Mrs. Tree's garden, which took the morning sun full in the face. Here were plenty of flowers still, marigolds, coreopsis, and chrysanthemums, all drinking in the sun-gold and giving it out again, till the whole place quivered with light and warmth.