THE SORROWS OF MR. HOMER
"Morning, Direxia," said Will Jaquith. "How is Mr. Homer this morning? Better, I hope, than he was feeling yesterday."
Direxia Hawkes laid down her duster, and turned a troubled face to the visitor. "There!" she said, "I'm glad you've come, Willy. I can't do nothin' with that man. He ain't eat a thing this day, only just a mossel of toast and a sosser of hominy. It's foolishness, I will say. Mis' Tree may have had her ways,—I expect we all do, if all was known,—but I will say she eat her victuals and relished 'em. I don't see why or wherfore I was left if there ain't anybody ever going to eat anythin' in this house again; there! I don't."
"Oh, Dexy, don't be foolish!" said Will. "I'm coming out this minute to get a doughnut. You will have to live till my wife learns to make as good ones as yours, and that will be some time. Just wait till I see Mr. Homer a minute, and then I'll come out and make love to you, you dear old thing."
Direxia brightened. "Don't she make 'em good?" she asked. "Well, she's young yet. I dono as I had just the hang of 'em when I was her age. Doughnuts is a thing you've got to have the hang of, I've always said."
She retired, beaming, to heap goodies on fine china dishes for her darling, and Jaquith turned his steps toward "the Captain's room." This was a small room looking out over the harbor, and had been Captain Tree's special sanctum. It was fitted like a ship's cabin, with lockers and swinging shelves, all in teak-wood and brass. On the walls were ranged telescopes, spyglasses, and speaking-trumpets of all sizes and varieties, and over the desk hung a picture of the good ship Marcia D. of Quahaug, Ethan Tree, master. This picture was a triumph of Japanese embroidery, having been done in colored silks while the ship lay in the harbor of Nagasaki, and, next to his wife's miniature, it was the Captain's most precious possession. The year after it was made, the Marcia D. had gone down in a typhoon in the South Seas: all hands were saved, to be tossed about for three days on a life-raft, and then tossed ashore on a wild island. The bright shells which framed the picture had been picked up by his wife on the shore, where she watched all day for a coming sail, while master and mariners caught fish and turtles, and gathered strange fruits for her, their lady and their queen. Ethan Tree used to say that that week on the island was one of the best in his life, even though he had lost his ship.
"True blue!" he would murmur, looking up at the picture. "She showed her colors that time. She never flinched, little Marcia. Her baby coming, and not a woman or a doctor within a thousand miles; but she never flinched. Only her cheeks flew the flag and her eyes signalled, when I sung out, 'Sail ho!' True blue, little wife!"
Now, instead of the stalwart figure of Captain Tree, the slender form of Mr. Homer Hollopeter occupied, but did not fill, the chair beneath the picture. The little gentleman sat huddled disconsolately over some papers, and it was a melancholy face that he lifted in response to Will Jaquith's cheery "How are you, Mr. Homer? pretty well this morning?"
Mr. Homer sighed. "I thank you, William, I thank you!" he said. "My corporal envelope is, I am obliged to you, robust;—a—vigorous;—a—exempt for the moment from the ills that flesh is heir to—Shakespeare; we perceive that even our greatest did not disdain upon occasion to conclude a phrase with a preposition, though the practice is one generally reprehended;—a—condemned;—a—denied the sanction of the critics of our own day. I trust you find yourself in health and spirits, William?"
"Capital!" said Will. "Lily and I and the boy, all as well as can be. I have brought the mail, Mr. Homer. I thought you might not feel like coming down this morning, as you were not well yesterday."