"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."