Other People's Business
by Harriet L. Smith
OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS
The Romantic Career of the Practical Miss Dale
HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH
Indianapolis The Bobbs-Merrill Company Publishers
Copyright 1916 The Bobbs-Merrill Company
CHAPTER II. THE
CHAPTER III. A
CHAPTER IV. THE
CHAPTER VI. THE
CHAPTER VII. A
EVE AND THE
CHAPTER IX. A
DAY TO HERSELF
'TWIXT THE CUP
AND THE LIP
CHAPTER XII. A
THE MAIL BAG
CHAPTER XIV. AN
CHAPTER XV. A
WOMAN AT LAST
FEAR TO TREAD
CHAPTER XVIII. A
CHAPTER XIX. A
CHAPTER XXI. DE
OTHER PEOPLE'S BUSINESS
CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING PERSIS
The knocking at the side door and the thumping overhead blended in a
travesty on the anvil chorus, the staccato tapping of somebody's
knuckles rising flute-like above the hammering of Joel's cane. TO some
temperaments the double summons would have proved confusing, but Persis
Dale dropped her sewing and moved briskly to the door, addressing the
ceiling as she went. 'Twon't hurt you to wait.
The stout woman on the steps entered heavily and fell into a chair
that creaked an inarticulate protest. Persis' quick ear caught the
signal of distress.
Mis' West, you'd be more comf'table in the armchair. I fight shy of
it because it's too comf'table. If I set back into the hollow, it's
because my work's done for the day. And here's a palm-leaf. You look as
hot as mustard-plaster.
Having thus tactfully interfered for the preservation of her
property, Persis cast a swiftly appraising glance at the chair her
caller had vacated. Front rung sprung just as I expected, was her
unspoken comment. It's a wonder that Etta West don't use more
discretion about furniture.
Mrs. West dabbed her moist forehead with her handkerchief, flopped
the palm-leaf indeterminately and cast an alarmed glance heavenward.
Gracious, Persis, first thing you know, he'll be coming through.
'Twon't hurt him to wait, Persis said again, as if long testing
had proved the reliability of the formula. He called me up-stairs
fifteen minutes ago, she added, to have me get down the 'cyclopedia
and find out when Confucius was born.
I want to know, murmured Mrs. West, visibly impressed. He's
certainly got an active mind.
He has, Persis agreed dryly. And it's the sort of mind that makes
lots of activity for other folks' hands and feet. Does that noise worry
you, Mis' West? For if it does, I'll run up and quiet him before we get
down to business.
Mrs. West approved the suggestion. I brought my black serge, she
explained, to have you see if it'll pay for a regular making-overnew
lining and allor whether I'd better freshen it up and get all the
wear I can out of it, just as 'tis. But I declare! With all that noise
over my head, I wouldn't know a Dutch neck from a placket-hole. I don't
see how you stand it, Persis, day in and day out.
There's lots in getting used to things, Persis explained, and left
the room with the buoyant step of a girl. She looked every one of her
six and thirty years, but her movements still retained the ardent
lightness of youth. Beaten people drag through life. Only the
unconquered move as Persis moved, as though shod with wings.
The anvil chorus ceased abruptly when Persis opened the door of her
brother's room. She entered with caution for the darkness seemed
impenetrable, after the sunny brightness of the spring afternoon. Joel
Dale's latest contribution to hygienic science was the discovery that
sunshine was poison to his constitution. Not only were the shutters
closed, and the shades drawn, but a patch-work bed-quilt had been
tacked over the window that no obtrusive ray of light should work havoc
with his health. Joel's voice was hoarsely tragic as he called to his
sister to shut the door.
I'm going to as soon as I can find my way to the knob. It's so
pitch-dark in here that I'm as blind as an owl till I get used to it.
Maybe 'twould help your eye-sight if you was the one getting
poisoned, Joel returned sarcastically in the querulous tones of the
confirmed invalid. I've 'suffered the pangs of three several deaths,'
as Shakespeare says, because you left the door part way open the last
time you went to the 'cyclopedia. For twenty years Joel had been an
omnivorous reader, and his speech bristled with quotations gathered
from his favorite volumes, and generally tagged with the author's name.
The quotations were not always apt, but they helped to confirm the
village of Clematis in the conviction that Joel Dale was an
By the time Persis had groped her way to the bed, she was
sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to be able to distinguish her
brother's restless eyes gleaming feverishly in the pallid blur of his
face. What do you want now, Joel? she asked, with the mechanical
gentleness of overtaxed patience.
Persis, there's a text o' Scripture that's weighing on my mind. I
can't exactly place it, and I've got to know the context before I can
figure out its meaning. 'Be not righteous over-much, neither make
thyself over-wise. Why shouldst thou destroy thyself?' That's the way
it runs, as near as I can remember. Now if righteousness is a good
thing and wisdom too, why on earth
Goodness, Joel! I don't believe that's anywhere in the Bible.
Sounds more like one of those old heathens you're so fond of reading.
And anyway, continued Persis firmly, frustrating her brother's evident
intention to argue the point. I can't look it up now. Mis' West's
Come to discuss the weighty question o' clothes, I s'pose. 'Bonnets
and ornaments of the legs, wimples and mantles and stomachers,' as the
prophet says. And that's of more importance than to satisfy the
cravings of a troubled mind. If the world was given up to the tender
mercies o' women, there'd be no more inventions except some new kind of
crimping pin, and nothing would be written but fashion notes.
I'll have to go now, Joel. Persis Dale, having supported her
brother from the time she was a girl of seventeen, had enjoyed ample
opportunity to become familiar with his opinion of her sex. As the
manly qualities had declined in Joel, his masculine arrogance had waxed
strong. The sex instinct had become concentrated in a sense of
superiority so overwhelming that the woman was not born whom Joel would
not have regarded as a creature of inferior parts, to be patronized or
snubbed, as the merits of the case demanded.
Do you want a drink of water? Persis asked, running through the
familiar formula. Shall I get you a fan, or smooth out the sheets?
Then I guess I'll go down, Joel. I wouldn't pound any more for a while,
if I was you. 'Twon't do any good.
The sound of voices greeted her, as she descended the stairs, Mrs.
West's asthmatic tones blending with the flutey treble of a young girl.
It's Diantha, thought Persis, her lips tightening. I might have
known that Annabel Sinclair would send for that waist two days before
it was promised.
The young girl sitting opposite Mrs. West was perched lightly on the
edge of her chair like a bird on the point of flight, and the skirt of
her blue cotton frock was drawn down as far as possible over a
disconcerting length of black stocking. Her fair hair was worn in curls
which fell about her shoulders. Fresh coloring and regularity of
feature gave her a beauty partially discounted by an expression of
resentful defiance, singularly at variance with her general rosebud
Mother sent me to see if her waist was ready, Miss Persis. Diantha
spoke like a child repeating a lesson it has been kept after school to
It won't be done till Saturday, Diantha. I told your mother
Saturday when she sent the goods over.
The girl rose nimbly, the movement revealing unexpected height and
extreme slenderness, both qualities accentuated by her very juvenile
attire. She made a bird-like dart in the direction of the door, then
Mother said I was to coax you into finishing it for to-morrow, she
announced, a light mockery rasping under the melody of her voice. I
know it won't do any good, but I've got to be obedient. Please consider
No, it won't do any good, Diantha. The waist'll be ready about two
o'clock on Saturday. Persis stood watching the girl's retreating
figure, and the serenity of her face was for the moment clouded.
Diantha Sinclair reminds me of a Lombardy poplar, remarked Mrs.
West. Nothing but spindle till you're most to the top. It does seem
fairly immoral, such a show o' stockings.
Annabel Sinclair seems to think she can stop that girl's growing up
by keeping her skirts to her knees, returned Persis grimly. A young
lady daughter would be a dreadful inconvenience to Annabel. Then the
momentary sternness of her expression was lost in sympathetic
comprehension as Mrs. West bowed her head and sprinkled the black serge
with her tears.
There, there, Mis' West. Cry if you feel like it. Crying's the best
medicine when there's no men folks around to keep asking what the
matter is. Just let yourself go, and don't mind me.
Of course you know, exclaimed Mrs. West, her fat shoulders heaving
as she took full advantage of the permission. Everybody knows.
Everybody's talking about it. To think that a son of mine would stoop
to steal a wife's affection away from her lawful husband.
Don't make things out any worse than they are, Mis' West. Your Thad
can't steal what never was. And Annabel Sinclair never had any
affection to give her husband nor nobody else.
Mrs. West's distress was too acute to permit her to find comfort in
a distinction purely technical. Thad always was such a good boy,
Persis, but now I'm prepared for anything. I think she's capable of
working him up to the point of running away with her.
Again Persis proffered consolation. I don't think so. Annabel
Sinclair's what I call a feeble sinner. She reminds me of Joel when he
was a little boy. He'd go down to the river, along in April when the
water was ice-cold, and he'd get off his clothes and stand on the bank
shivering. After his teeth had chattered an hour or so, mother'd come
to look him up and Joel would get into his trousers and go home meek as
a lamb. Well, Annabel's the same way. She likes to shiver on the bank
and think what a splash she'll make when she goes in, but she hasn't
got the courage to risk a wetting, let alone drowning.
Mrs. West, blinking through her tears, looked hard at her friend.
Seems to me you're talking awful peculiar, Persis. 'Most as if you'd
respect Annabel more if she was wickeder.
Maybe I would, acknowledged Persis bluntly. Seems to me it's
almost better to have folks in earnest, if it's only about their sins.
Annabel Sinclair turns everything into play-acting, good and bad
I don't know why Thad can't see through her, cried the distracted
mother, voicing an age-old wonder. I used to think he was as smart as
chain-lightning, but I've changed my mind. Any man that'll let Annabel
Sinclair lead him around by the nose hasn't got any more than just
sense enough to keep him out of an asylum for the feeble-minded, if he
is my son.
That's where all of 'em belong when it comes to a woman like
Annabel, said Persis with unwonted pessimism. And Thad's just young
enough to be proud of having that sort of acquaintance with a married
woman. Men are queer cattle, Mis' West. The worst woman living likes to
pretend to herself that she's as good as anybody, but a man who's been
decent from the cradle up, gets lots of comfort out of thinking he's a
regular devil. At the same time, she conceded, with a change of tone,
the thing ought to be stopped.
Of course it had. But how are we going to do it? I've talked to
Thad and talked to him, and so has his father. If I thought the
minister would have any influence
You just let Thad alone for a spell, Persis commanded with her
usual decision. And you leave this thing to me. I'll try to think a
This astonishing offer was made in a matter-of-fact tone,
significant in itself. Persis Dale earned her living as a dressmaker
and pieced out her income by acting as a nurse in the dull seasons, but
her real occupation in life was attending to other people's business.
She had a divine meddlesomeness. She was inquisitive after the fashion
of a sympathetic arch-angel. It appalled her to see people wrecking
their lives by indecision, vacillation, incapacity, by poor judgment
and crass stupidity. Her homely wisdom, the fruit of observant years,
her native common sense, her strength and discernment were all at the
service of the first comer. Responsibility, the bugbear of mankind, was
as the breath in her nostrils.
I wouldn't do any more talking to Thad, Persis repeated, as Mrs.
West looked at her with the instant confidence of inefficiency in one
who indicates a readiness to take the helm. Don't make him feel that
he's so awfully important just because he's making a fool of himself.
Most boys attract more attention the first time they kick over the
traces than they ever did in all their lives before. 'Tisn't any wonder
to me that the elder brother gets a little cranky when he sees the fuss
made over the prodigal, first because he's gone wrong and then because
he's going right, same as decent folks have been doing all the time.
What do you mean to do, Persis? Mrs. West's tone indicated that by
some mysterious legerdemain the burden had been shifted. It was now
That'll bear thinking about, Persis returned with no sign of
resenting her friend's assumption. And while I'm turning it over in my
mind, let Thad alone, and don't wear yourself out worrying. The
injunction probably had a figurative import though Mrs. West
interpreted it literally.
Wear myself out. I can't so much as wear off a pound.
I've been too upset to eat or sleep for the last two months, and I've
been gaining right along. Most folks can reduce by going without
breakfast, but seems as if it don't make any difference with me whether
I touch victuals or not.
She was rising ponderously when Persis checked her. Your serge,
Mis' West. We were going to see if 'twas worth making over.
It's time to get supper, Persis, and there ain't a mite of hurry
about that serge. Truth is, explained Mrs. West, lowering her voice to
a confidential murmur, 'twasn't altogether the dress that brought me
over. I sort of hankered for a talk with you. There never was such a
hand as you be, Persis, to hearten a body up.
Persis found no time that evening for grappling with the problem for
which she had voluntarily made herself responsible. The preparation of
Joel's supper was a task demanding time and prayerful consideration,
for as is the case with most chronic invalids, his fastidiousness
concerning his food approached the proportions of a mania. Her efforts
to gratify her brother's insatiable curiosity on points of history and
literature, had put her several hours behind with her sewing, and as
she owned to a most unprofessional pride in keeping her word to the
letter, midnight found her still at work. A few minutes later she
folded away the finished garment and picked from the rag carpet the
usual litter of scraps and basting threads, after which she was at
liberty to attend to that mysterious rite known to the housekeeper as
shutting up for the night, a rite never to be omitted even in the
village of Clematis where a locked door is held to indicate that
somebody is putting on airs.
Candle in hand, Persis paused before a photograph, framed in blue
plush and occupying a prominent position on the mantel. Good night,
Justin, she said in as matter-of-fact a tone as if she were exchanging
farewells with some chance caller. As the candle flickered, a wave of
expression seemed to cross the face in the plush frame, almost as if it
It was a pleasant young face with a good forehead and frank eyes.
The indeterminate sweetness of the mouth and chin hinted that this was
a man in the making, his strength to be wrought out, his weakness to be
mastered. Like the blue plush the photograph was faded, as were alas,
the roses in Persis' cheeks. It was twenty years since they had kissed
each other good-by in that very room, boy and girl, sure of themselves
and of the future. Justin was going away to make a home for her, and
Persis would wait for him, if need be, till her hair was gray.
He had been unfortunate from the start. Up in the garret, spicy with
the fragrance of dried herbs and of camphor, were his letters, locked
away in a small horse-hair trunk. Twice a year Persis opened the trunk
to dust the letters, and sometimes she drew out the contents of a
yellowing envelope and read a line here and there. These were the
letters over which she had wept long, long before,blurred in places
by youth's hot tears, the letters she had carried on her heart. They
were full of the excuses in which failure is invariably fertile,
breathing from every page the fatal certainty that luck would soon
The letters became infrequent after old Mr. Ware's stroke. Persis
understood. For them there could be no thought of marrying nor giving
in marriage while the old man lay helpless. All that Justin could spare
from his scant earnings, little enough, she knew, must be sent home.
And meanwhile Joel having discovered in a three months' illness his
fitness to play the part of invalid, had apparently decided to make the
rôle permanent. Like many another, Persis had found in work and
responsibility, a mysterious solace for the incessant dull ache at her
That was twenty years before. Persis Dale, climbing the stairs as
nimbly as if it were early morning and she herself just turned sixteen,
seemed a woman eminently practical. Yet in the changes of those twenty
years, though trouble had been a frequent guest under the sloping roof
of the old-fashioned house and death had entered more than once, there
had never been a time when Persis had gone to her bed without a good
night to the photograph in the blue plush frame, never a morning when
she had begun the day without looking into the eyes of her old lover.
The most practical woman that ever made a button-hole or rolled a
pie-crust, despite a gray shimmer at her temples and a significant
tracery at the corners of her eyes, has a chamber in her heart marked
private where she keeps enshrined some tender memory. At the core,
every woman is a sentimentalist.
CHAPTER II. THE LOVER
Thomas Hardin, trudging through the dusk of the spring evening, his
shoulders stooping and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, wore an
expression better befitting an apprehensive criminal than an expectant
lover. As he approached the Dale cottage where the light of Persis'
lamp shone redly through the curtained window, his look of gloom
increased, and he gave vent to frequent and explosive sighs.
The sense of unworthiness likely to overwhelm the best of men who
seek the love of a good woman, was in Thomas' case complicated by a
morbidly sensitive conscience and ruthless honesty. To Thomas, Persis
Dale represented all that was loveliest in womankind, but he would have
resigned unhesitatingly all hope of winning her rather than have gained
her promise under false pretenses. I can stand getting the mitten if
it comes to that, Thomas assured himself with a fearful sinking of the
heart, which belied the boast. But I can't stand the idea of taking
her in. When she knew him at his undisguised worst, it would be time
enough to consider taking him for a possible better.
Unluckily for his peace of mind, confession was more intricate and
protracted than in his complacency he would have believed. It seemed
impossible to finish with it. Whenever he nerved himself to the point
of putting the question which had trembled on his lips for a dozen
years, dark episodes from his past flashed into his memory with the
disconcerting suddenness of a search-light, and further humiliating
disclosures were in order before he could direct his attention to the
business of love-making. Sometimes Thomas felt that his reputation for
uprightness was a proof of hypocrisy, and that his friends and
neighbors would shrink away aghast if they suspected a fraction of his
Persis was alone when Thomas entered. Not till the last lingering
tinge of gold had deserted the west, would Joel venture to leave the
room barricaded against the hostile element. But at any moment now he
might think it safe to risk himself down-stairs, and knowing this,
Thomas resolved to waste no time in preliminaries.
How's your sister and the children? Persis asked, shaking hands
and returning to her sewing. She offered no excuse for continuing her
work, nor did Thomas wish it. There was a delicious suggestion of
domesticity in the sight of Persis sewing by the shaded lamp while he
sat near enough to have touched the busy fingers, had he but won the
right to such a privilege.
Nellie's well. Little Tom's eyes have been troubling him since he
had the measles, but the doctor thinks it's nothing serious. Look here,
Persis, I was wondering as I came along if you knew that I chewed.
Persis' lids dropped just in time to hide a quizzical, humorous
gleam in her eyes. The rest of her face remained becomingly grave. I
may have suspected it, Thomas.
It's a filthy habit, he said, inordinately relieved by her
astuteness and yet with wonder.
She looked up from her work to explain. It's this way, Thomas.
Sometimes when I go into the store I catch sight of you before you see
me, and maybe one of your cheeks will be all swollen up as if you had
the toothache. Then you slip into the back room, and come out in
quarter of a minute with both of 'em the same size. It's a woman's way,
Thomas, to put two and two together.
Thomas' face was radiant. That weight was off his conscience. He had
a right to proceed to more agreeable disclosures, undeterred by the
fear of practising deception on the noblest of God's creatures. It
contributed to his joy that Persis had known of his weakness, and yet
had not crushed him with her contempt. She had not even expressed
agreement when he had called chewing tobacco a filthy habit.
Persis, he began in his deepest tones, I was thinking as I came
The stairs creaked and Persis interrupted him. There's Joel. It
makes it hard for him when the days are getting longer all the time.
He'll be glad when we have to light the lamps at five.
Thomas was in a mood to wish that the village of Clematis basked in
the rays of the midnight sun. He forced a smile to his reluctant lips
as Persis' brother entered and magnanimously put the question, How do
you find yourself to-night, Joel? though he knew only too well the
consequences to which this exposed him. There was no surer passport to
Joel's favor than to inquire about his health if one was also willing
to listen to his answer. The people who said, How do you do? and
immediately began to talk of something else were the objects of Joel's
detestation, while his grateful affection went out to the select few
willing to hear in detail his physical biography since their last
meeting. Joel experienced the same satisfaction in describing the pains
in his abdomen or an attack of palpitation that a bride feels in
exhibiting her trousseau.
I've nothing to complain of, especially when you take into account
that I'd have been six feet under the sod by now, if I hadn't
discovered that sunshine was poison to my constitution. It sort of
draws all the vitality out of me, same as it draws the oil out of goose
feathers. I'd have improved a good ideal faster, Joel continued with
sudden irritation, if it hadn't been for Persis' carelessness in
leaving the door open. You'd think that I had a good big life insurance
in her favor, the way she acts. As the Frenchman said, 'Defend me from
my friends, I can defend myself'
I've always understood that sunshine was about the healthiest of
anything, interrupted Thomas, reddening angrily at the criticism of
Persis. And if you want my opinion, you look to me a good deal like a
plant that's sprouted in the cellar.
The last thing Joel wanted was another's opinion. He continued as
though Thomas had not spoken.
And besides that, I've been eating too much meat. Science tells us
that the human body is pretty near all water. Don't that show that most
of the needs of the body can be supplied by drinking plenty of water?
Thomas shook his head. I'd hate to try it. When I'm hungry, I
wouldn't swap a good piece of beef-steak for a hogshead of water.
You eat too much meat. Joel, extending an almost transparent hand
toward his sister's caller, shook a bony forefinger in warning. You're
undermining your constitution. You're shortening your days by your
inordinate use of animal food.
Me! Why, bless you, Joel, I never was sick a day in my life.
Well, that don't prove that you never will be, does it? And anybody
with half an eye can see that you're not in good shape. Flesh don't
show nothing. A man who weighs two hundred is the first to go under
when disease gets hold of him. Your color, as like as not, is due to
fever. How many times a day do you eat meat?
Well, always twice, and sometimes
Joel groaned. Rank suicide! Suicide just as much as if you put a
revolver to your head. It sounds well to talk about prime cuts of beef
and all that, but when you come down to cold facts, what's meat? Dead
stuff, that's all. It ain't reasonable to talk of building up life out
Persis' quick ear had caught the sound of stealthy movements in the
adjoining room. She wove her needle into the seam, a practise so
habitual that probably she would have done the same if the lamp had
exploded unexpectedly, and crossing to the kitchen door, opened it
without warning. A small untidy woman, the shortcoming of her
appearance partly concealed by the old plaid shawl that enveloped her
person, dodged away from the key-hole with a celerity perhaps due to
It just struck me that there was more voices than two, she
explained with self-accusing haste. And I didn't want to intrude if
you was entertaining company. Sounded to me like Thomas Hardin's
Yes, it's Mr. Hardin. Will you come in, Mis' Trotter? Persis'
invitation lacked its usual ring of cordiality.
Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude. But I says to Bartholomew this very
day, 'I'm going to run over to Persis Dale's after supper,' says I, 'to
see if she can't let me have some pieces of white goods left over from
her dressmaking.' You're doing a good deal in white this time of the
year, as a rule, concluded Mrs. Trotter, a greedy look coming into her
Mis' Trotter, I always send back the pieces, even if they're no
bigger than a handkerchief. If anybody's going to make carpet rags out
of the scraps, I don't know why it shouldn't be the people who bought
and paid for the goods.
And that's where you're right, Mrs. Trotter agreed, with the
adaptability that was one of her strong points. There was Mattie
Kendall, now, who kept up her dressmaking after she married Henry
Beach. Well, she set out to dress her children on the left-overs, and
it went all right while they was little. But Mamie got grasping. After
her oldest girl was as long-legged as a colt, she'd send word to her
customers and say that they needed another yard and a half or two yards
to make their dresses in any kind of style. Of course it got out in
time, and everybody who wanted sewing done went to a woman in South
Rivers. I often say to Bartholomew that honesty's the best policy, even
where it looks the other way round.
During the progress of this moral tale, Persis' thoughts had been
self-accusing. She reflected that curiosity is not among the seven
deadly sins, and that if Mrs. Trotter found in listening at key-holes
any compensation for the undeniable hardships of her lot, only a harsh
nature would grudge her such solace. Moreover ingrained in Persis'
disposition, was the inability to hold a grudge against one who asked
her a favor.
I don't know, Mis' Trotter, but maybe I've got some white pieces of
my own that aren't big enough for anything but baby clothes. I'll look
over my piece-bag to-morrow. If there's anything you can use, you'll be
Mrs. Trotter expressed her appreciation, With all the sewing I done
when Benny was expected, I did think I was pretty well fixed, come what
might. I didn't reckon on the twins, you see. And then when little Tom
died, they laid him out in the embroidered dress I'd counted on for the
christening of the lot. Not that I grudged it to him, added the mother
quickly, and sighed.
This had the effect of dissipating Persis' sense of annoyance. I'm
pretty sure I can find you something, Mis' Trotter. And I'll speak to
one or two of my customers. Some of 'em may have things put away that
they're not likely to want again.
Mrs. Trotter received the offer with a dignity untainted by servile
Me and Bartholomew feel that in raising up a family the size of
ourn, we're doing the community a service. So we ain't afraid to take a
little help when we happen to need it. And by the way, if you should
find some of the white pieces you was talking about, maybe you wouldn't
mind cutting out the little slips and just stitching 'em up on your
machine. The needle of mine's been broke this six months, and anyway,
something's the matter with the wheels. They won't hardly turn.
Need oil, probably, commented Persis. She knew she was wasting her
breath in making the suggestion. The shiftlessness which left the
sewing-machine useless junk in a family of eight was a Trotter
characteristic. If Bartholomew could have appreciated the value of
machine oil, he would have been an entirely different man, and probably
able to support his family. In view of this, Persis felt that she could
do no less than add: To be sure I'll stitch 'em up. 'Twon't take much
of any time.
Now I'm not going to keep you a minute longer. I guess Thomas
Hardin don't come here to talk to your brother the whole evening. Mrs.
Trotter smiled pleasantly, but with a distinct tinge of patronage, the
inevitable superiority of the wedded wife to the woman who has carried
her maiden name well through the thirties. And indeed in Mrs. Trotter's
estimation, the hardships of her matrimonial experience were trivial in
comparison with the unspeakable calamity of being an old maid.
After Joel was once fairly launched on the subject of hygiene, it
was difficult, as a rule, to introduce another topic of conversation
under an hour and a quarter. Persis was almost startled, on her return,
to find the two men discussing an alien theme. More surprising still,
instead of sulking over the curtailment of the dear privilege of
self-dissection, Joel was plainly interested.
It's one of the games where you can't lose, if you take their word
for it, Thomas was explaining to his absorbed listener. The company
begins to pay you int'rest on your investment just as soon as you hand
over the money, six per cent. every year up to the time the orchard
gets to bearing. Then it goes up little by little, and by the tenth
year they guarantee you twenty-five per cent. Even that doesn't cover
it. They say that orchard owners in the same locality are making as
much as a hundred per cent. most years. Anybody who could spare a few
thousand would be sure of a good income for the rest of his days.
But there's the off years, objected Joel, a crackle of greed in
his high-pitched voice.
There's not going to be any off years the way those fellows figure.
They say that by thinning out the apples when the yield is heavy, they
can be sure of a crop every season. Thomas' gaze wandered to Persis
who had resumed her seat and taken up her sewing. We're talking of a
chance to put your money where it'll get more than savings bank
int'rest, he said, resolved that Joel should not monopolize every
topic of conversation. The Apple of Eden Investment Company, they call
I heard you say something about twenty-five per cent, returned
Persis, sewing placidly. 'Most too good to please me.
Now if that ain't a woman all over, Joel interjected excitedly.
The toe of a stocking is a good enough bank for any of 'em, and as for
using foresight and putting a little capital where it'll bring in an
income for your old age, you'd think to hear 'em talk, that such a
thing was never heard tell of. If I'd had the handling of the money
that's come into this house for the last twenty years, we'd have been
on Easy Street by now. But Persis has the kind of setness that doesn't
take no account of reason. And as the poet says:
'He is a fool who thinks by force or skill
To turn the current of a woman's will.'
Thomas, purpling with resentment, addressed his next remark to
Persis. I don't s'pose our folks would take so much stock in all these
fine promises if there wasn't a Clematis boy secretary of the company.
I guess you remember him, Persis. Ware, his name was. Justin Ware.
Yes, I remember him. An abrupt movement on Persis' part had
unthreaded her needle. She bent close to the lamp, vainly trying to
insert the unsteady end of the thread into the opening it had so lately
I've been telling you right along you needed glasses, triumphed
Joel. And to keep on saying that you don't, ain't going to help the
matter. 'When age, old age comes creeping on,' as the poet says
I don't need glasses any more than you need a crutch. The denial
came out with a snap. Persis Dale, patient to the point of weakness,
enduring submissively for twenty years the thankless exactions of her
brother, proved herself wholesomely human by her prompt resentment. My
eyes are as good as they ever were, she insisted, and closed the
discussion if she did not prove her point, by putting her work away.
Secretary of an investment company making such golden promises! That
looked as if at last fortune had smiled on Justin Ware.
The two men had the talk to themselves. Persis' absorption was
penetrated now and then by references to the miracles wrought by
scientific spraying and pruning, or the possibility of heating orchards
so that late frosts would no longer have terrors for the fruit grower,
sober facts which the literature of the Apple of Eden Investment
Company had enveloped in the rosy atmosphere of romance. Like many
people who have never made money by hard work, Joel believed profoundly
in making it by magic. His pallid face flushed feverishly, and his eyes
glittered as he discussed the possibility of making a thousand dollars
double itself in a year.
It was ten o'clock when Thomas again had the field to himself and in
Clematis only sentimental visits were prolonged beyond that hour.
Thomas' opportunity had arrived, but with it unluckily had come the
recollection of a misdeed for which he must receive absolution before
the flood-gates of his heart were opened.
Persis, do you remember that old Baptist minister who lived
opposite the schoolhouse when we were kids? Elder Buck, everybody
With an effort she set aside her own recollections in favor of his.
Oh, yes, I remember. The one whose false teeth were always slipping
His picket fence was all torn to pieces one night. He had a way of
calling names in the pulpit, the elder had,children of the devil and
that sort of thingand it got some of the boys riled. And to pay him
back, they tore down his fence. Persis, II was one of those boys.
He looked at her appealingly and felt his heart sink. Persis' eyes
were lowered. Her face was grave and a little sad as befits one who has
been tendered irrefutable proof of a friend's unworthiness. Thomas
gulped. Well, it was only what he had expected all along. A woman like
Persis could not be asked to overlook everything.
Good night, Persis, he said huskily, and he thought it more than
his deserts when she answered him with her usual kindness, Good night,
CHAPTER III. A FITTING
During the spring and summer Persis rose at half past five, and
though she slept little the night following Thomas Hardin's
disclosures, she refused to concede to her feeling of weariness so much
as an extra half-hour. Her fitful slumbers had been haunted by dreams
of apples, apples in barrels, apples in baskets, apples dropping from
full boughs and pelting her like hail-stones, for all her dodging.
There were feverishly red apples, gnarly green apples and the golden
sweets, the favorites of her childhood, all of them turning into
goblins as she approached, and leering up at her out of impish eyes
which nevertheless bore a startling resemblance to those eyes in whose
depths she had once seen only the reflection of her own loyalty. It was
small wonder that Persis woke unrefreshed. I declare, she mused, as
she twisted her hair into the unyielding knob, highly in favor among
the feminine residents of Clematis as a morning coiffure, a few more
nights like that would set me against apple pie for good and all.
But the developments of the day were soon to elbow out of Persis'
thoughts the visions of the night. As she stepped out on the porch for
a whiff of the invigorating morning air, her eyes fell upon a unique
figure coming toward her across the dewy grass. In certain details it
gave a realistic presentment of an Indian famine sufferer. In respect
to costume, it was reminiscent of a bathing beach in mid-July.
Of all things! Persis gasped, one hand groping for support, while
the other shaded her incredulous and indignant eyes. Have you taken
leave of your senses, Joel Dale?
Her brother ascended the steps, wearing the expression of triumph
ordinarily assumed in honor of his great hygienic discoveries. He
replied to her question by another: Persis, what do you s'pose is at
the bottom of all human ills?
I don't know as I'd undertake to speak for 'em all, but I should
say that a good nine-tenths was due to a lack of common sense.
Joel disdained to take up the gauntlet. Persis, it's clothes.
His sister looked him over. Joel was attired in a pair of bathing
trunks and a bath towel, the latter festooned gracefully about his
body, low enough to show his projecting ribs. If the style you're
wearing at present was ever to get what you'd call popular, she agreed
dryly, I think it would make considerable trouble.
Joel again refused to be diverted. Clothes, Persis, are an
invention of the devil. The electricity of the body, instead of passing
off into the earth as it would do if we went around the way the Lord
intended, is kept pent up in our insides by our clothes, and of course
it gets to playing the mischief with all our organs. As old Fuller
says, 'He that is proud of the rustling of his silks, like a madman
laughs at the rattling of his fetters.'
The sun is shining right on your bare back, remarked Persis
acridly. According to your ideas yesterday, you'd ought to be ready to
Joel magnanimously ignored the taunt. Like some greater men, he had
discovered that to be true to to-day's vision, one must often violate
yesterday's conviction. The charge of inconsistency never troubled him.
Earth and air are stuffed with helpfulness, Persis, and the clothes
we wear won't give it a chance at us. If the Lord had wanted us to be
covered, we'd have come into the world with a shell like a turtle. Now,
this rig ain't ideal because we've got to make some concessions to
folks' narrowness and prejudice, but it's a long way ahead of ordinary
Joel Dale! The grim resolution of Persis' voice warned the dreamer
of the family that the limit of her forbearance had been reached. I'm
not going to stand up for clothes, though seeing that my living, and
yours too, depends on 'em, it's not for me to run 'em down. But this I
will say, as long as we live in a civilized land, we've got to act
civilized. And as for having you show yourself on this lawn in a get-up
that would set every dog in Clematis to barking, I won't. Go up-stairs
and dress like somebody beside a Fiji islander, but first give your
feet and legs a good rubbing. If you don't, the next thing you know,
you'll be down with pneumonia.
Perhaps Joel's tyrannical rule in the household for the last twenty
years had been due in part to his knowing the time to yield, a
knowledge that would have prolonged the sway of many a despot. He went
up-stairs in a rebellious mood which found expression in invectives
against womankind, its blindness, its wilfulness, its weak subservience
to usage. But when he appeared at the breakfast table, the conventional
shirt and trousers testified to the extent of Persis' authority.
Little was said during the progress of the meal. Joel, saddened by
the lack of enthusiasm with which his great discovery had been
received, maintained a dignified silence. Persis, always moved to
magnanimity by triumph, forbore to emphasize her victory by obtruding
on her brother's reserve. Not till Joel had been fortified by a hearty
breakfast and had reached the advertising columns in his perusal of the
weekly paper, did she venture to touch upon another delicate theme.
Joel, I wish you'd open the shutters of your bedroom and run up the
shade to the top. If ever a room needed airing and sunning, that's the
one. I'm going to give it a good cleaning as soon as I can take the
time, but this morning I'm too busy. Annabel Sinclair's coming for a
fitting at ten o'clock and that young Mis' Thompson at eleven. And I'm
as sure as I can be of anything but death and taxes, that Annabel will
Persis' apprehension would have taken on a keener edge, could she
have been favored at that moment with a glimpse of the patron of whose
punctuality she was in doubt. Ever since eight o'clock, Diantha
Sinclair had been opening the door of her mother's room at intervals of
five minutes and closing the same noiselessly, after a brief survey of
the figure on the bed. As the tenantry of field and forest apprehend
the approach of some natural cataclysm, by means of signs imperceptible
to man's grosser senses, so to Diantha the curve of her mother's
shoulder under the sheet, presaged a storm. Her uneasiness was due to a
horrid uncertainty as to which would anger her mother the more, to be
wakened too early or to be allowed to sleep too long.
By nine o'clock, the second of the alternatives seemed to Diantha
the more serious. She stole into her mother's room, and stationing
herself by the bed, spoke in the softest of voices; Mama, your new
The opening showed a tact creditable to her years. After all, it is
one thing to be wakened by the crashing of a boarding-house breakfast
gong, and another to be roused by the music of a harp. Annabel opened
her eyes with a sense of something agreeable on the way, and Diantha
promptly acted on her advantage.
Mama, you are to try on your new dress at ten o'clock, and it's
Nine! moaned Annabel. You should have called me before. Yet she
made no effort to rise and after a moment added sharply: What are you
waiting for? Can't you see I'm awake?
Diantha scurried like a rabbit, and her mother turned on her pillow
for another half-hour, an indulgence she would not have ventured under
her daughter's observant eyes. Like many people who defy public opinion
in large matters, she was acutely sensitive to criticism over trifles.
Aspersions of her character she accepted philosophically, almost
complacently indeed, because of her inward conviction that they were
indirectly a tribute paid by jealousy to her superior fascinations. But
a suggestion that a dress was unbecoming would make her unhappy for
Her first act on rising was to run up the shade, in order to benefit
by the full light of the morning sun. Then for some minutes she studied
her reflection in a little hand-mirror which gave back to her view a
face rapt and absorbed. With Annabel this rite was a substitute for
morning prayer, and it brought her a peace not always secured by
equally sincere devotions. Diantha's willowy height woke in her a sense
of exasperated fear. It sometimes seemed to her that the girl's growth
was with deliberate purpose, a malicious demonstration of the fact that
her mother was not so young as she looked.
The testimony of the hand-mirror was reassuring, clear pink and
white, the crisp freshness of apple blossoms. Annabel worshiped and
rose from her knees, duly fortified against the mischances of the day,
though her divinity had been only her own beauty.
At nineteen, Annabel had married a man twenty years her senior, who
like many of his sex assumed that a pretty wife is from the Lord and
associated amiability, compliance and other feminine graces with a
rose-leaf complexion. The earlier years of their married life had been
a succession of ghastly struggles in which both sides had been worsted,
descending to incredible brutalities. Sinclair was essentially a
gentleman, and long after those contentious years he sometimes woke
from his sleep in a cold sweat, remembering what he had said to his
wife and she to him. Her unwelcome motherhood had only widened the
breach between them. Her hysterically fierce resentment of that which
he had innocently assumed to be a woman's crowning happiness, had
extinguished finally the last gleaming embers of a flame which might
have been altar fire and hearth fire both in one.
The man's growing apathy at length gave the victory to the woman. If
he did not hate his wife, Stanley Sinclair was so far from loving her
that his thin lips curled mockingly over the recollection of what he
had hoped on his wedding-day. If there is pathos in the lost illusions
of youth, those of middle life are grim tragedy. Sinclair wanted peace
at any price. The masculine intolerance of rivalry was less insistent
than it would have been in a younger man. Out of the wreck of things he
asked to save only quiet and the chance to live a gentleman. His wife
might go her way, so that she showed him a serene face and treated him
with tolerable courtesy. And so tacitly the two made the Great
At fifty-seven Stanley Sinclair was a cynically cheerful
philosopher. He had long before discovered that technically his rights
as a husband were safe. The woman whose vanity is stronger than her
affections is shielded by triple armor, and Annabel's virtue was safe,
at least while her complexion lasted. She was a glutton of admiration,
and since the highest homage a man could pay her charms was to fall in
love with her, she bent her energies unweariedly to bringing him to the
point of candid love-making. With success, her interest waned. A lover
might last six months or even a year, but as a rule he was displaced in
considerably less time by some understudy whom Annabel had thoughtfully
kept in training for the star rôle.
In Annabel's creed, masculine admiration was the supreme good. It
was the ultimate test of a woman's success, as the ability to make
money tested the success of men. Beauty was precious, because it was
the most effective lure. Talent was not to be despised, since it too
could boast its captives. But the woman who claimed that she prized her
gift for its own sake was guilty of an affectation which could deceive
no one, not at least, so shrewd an observer as Annabel.
At nineteen she had married a man more than twice her age. Since
then her preference for youthfulness had been growing, a phenomenon not
unusual in women of her type. At thirty-seven, she looked upon her
husband as senile, patriarchal, as far removed from her generation as
the Pilgrim fathers. Men of her own age bored her. They were interested
in business, politics, their families, a thousand things besides
herself. They had lost the obsession of personality, the you-and-I
attitude which is the life-blood of flirtation.
Just now Annabel preferred boys still young enough to be secretly
proud of the necessity of shaving every other day, young enough to
swagger a little when they lighted a cigarette. At her present rate of
progress, by the time she was fifty, she would have come by successive
gradations to the level of short trousers and turn-over collars.
The average worshiper may hurry over his prayers, but the devotee of
vanity must not make haste with her toilet. It was quarter of eleven
when Annabel was dressed, but since the results were satisfactory, she
was untroubled over her lack of punctuality. It was Diantha who
fidgeted, and looked at the clock.
You're 'most an hour behind time. You'd better hurry if you don't
want Miss Persis to scold.
I shan't hurry for any one, Annabel returned, selecting after due
deliberation the parasol with the pink lining. Her husband was lounging
on the porch as she went out, and he greeted her with his usual, Good
morning, my dear, his gaze following her with the gently satiric smile
which always made her feverishly impatient to consult the little mirror
she carried in her hand-bag. That smile hinted at extraordinary insight
and unnerved her as his frenzied outbursts of anger had never done. She
had lost her power to hurt him except in the way of humiliation, but he
cynically argued that the constant amusement she afforded him almost
paid this last indebtedness. It was like having a season ticket to a
Persis Dale was fitting young Mrs. Thompson, the traveling man's
wife, when Annabel made her appearance. She nodded, glad that the half
dozen pins held loosely between her lips, relieved her from the
obligation of a welcoming smile.
Maybe you'd like to set on the porch, Mis' Sinclair, till I'm at
liberty. Your hour was ten, you know. It's shady out there and you can
look over the new books. And now, Mis' Thompson, before I go any
further we've got to decide whether it's to open in the front or in the
I think the buttons down the back are more stylish, said young
There's no doubt of that, Persis agreed. Everything in the book
is back. But there's always more'n one way to skin a cat. I could put a
row of hooks under the lace, around this side of the yoke, and nobody'd
ever know where it was fastened, or whether you were just run into it.
Young Mrs. Thompson hesitated, studying herself in the mirror.
Persis employed several pins in tightening a seam and expressed her
views at some length.
It's just this way, Mis' Thompson. If you had a nice little girl,
big enough to stand on a chair and fasten you up the back, I wouldn't
say a word against it. But of all things that rack your nerves and
spoil your temper, twisting and squirming and trying to reach three or
four buttons, first from above and then from below, is certainly the
limit. And putting a shawl over your shoulders on a hot day and going
to find some neighbor to do it for you, ain't a great deal better.
But this is going to be my Sunday dress, said the six-months
bride, whose color had increased appreciably during the course of
Persis' remarks. And Will is always home for Sunday.
Well, if you feel like taking the risk, Mis' Thompson, I haven't a
word to say. But when a man's home for a Sunday rest, he generally
wants a rest, and dresses that button up the back don't seem to fit in
with the idea. Human nature can't stand only just so much and man
nature considerable less.
An undecided murmur escaped the lips of young Mrs. Thompson.
I had a customer, continued Persis, recklessly filling her mouth
with pins, who gave up a good position as cashier in a city glove
store, to keep house for her brother when his wife died. She was always
telling me how grateful he was. Seemed like he couldn't do enough for
her. She used to say it 'most made her uncomfortable to see that man
racking his brains to find some way of showing her how he appreciated
what she'd done for him. Please walk to the end of the room, Mis'
Thompson, slow and graceful, till I see how that skirt hangs. Just a
trifle long on the seam. I thought so.
Well, I made her a princess dress; gray it was and very stylish. It
hooked down the back, and then there was a drapery effect that hooked
up the side and across the shoulder. I wouldn't dare say how many cards
of hooks and eyes I used on that dress. I did ask her once how she'd
get into it, and she said that her brother, what with having been
married and all, was as handy as a woman at such things.
I sent it home of a Saturday, and I didn't see her for two weeks.
Then she brought it in and she was crying. She wanted me to fix it some
way so that she could get into it by herself. Easier said than done,
you can believe. She'd worn it twice, and both times they'd had words,
and some of 'em were swear words, too. Well, I did the best I could by
the dress, but it was too late to save the day. You see she'd taken
such comfort in thinking how grateful he was, that she hadn't minded
what she'd given up herself, but after that, things was different. She
went back to the city in less than a year. I think she's a cashier in
some restaurant. She couldn't get her old place in the glove store.
Young Mrs. Thompson had a bright idea. Couldn't you put a row of
buttons down the back, just for looks, and then hook it under the lace,
same as you said?
Easiest thing in the world, Persis assured her. The domestic peace
of the Thompson family was preserved for the time being, though neither
woman guessed for how brief a period.
Annabel Sinclair was thoroughly out of temper when the time for her
fitting came, though she paid Persis the compliment of making a
whole-hearted effort to conceal her feelings. Persis Dale was one of
the few of whom Annabel stood in awe. Behind her back she frequently
referred to the dressmaker as an interfering old maid, but in Persis'
presence she paid reluctant tribute to the dominating personality. When
very angry, Annabel indulged in whatever brutalities of plain speech
were suggested by a somewhat limited imagination, but her habitual
weapon was innuendo. She shrank from Persis' bluntness as a dog cringes
away from a whip.
When young Mrs. Thompson had hurried off to the brand-new cottage on
the hill, Annabel concealed her annoyance under a smile, inquired after
Joel's health and yielded to Persis' opinion with flattering deference.
But Persis' mood was not merciful.
How your Diantha is growing, Mis' Sinclair. She must have left you
way behind before this.
Annabel winced. She had long been in the habit of referring to
Diantha as my little girl. Of late she had fancied that her listeners
looked amused at her choice of a qualifying adjective.
It's such a pity, she answered in her softest voice, for a child
to grow that way. People expect so much more of tall children.
Well, girls often get their growth by the time they're Diantha's
age. Let's see. She must be six
I believe that seam twists, Annabel exclaimed. She chose her
criticism at random with the sole purpose of distracting Persis'
attention before the obnoxious word should be spoken. Yet it was true
that she had been married eighteen years. In another seven she would be
able to celebrate her silver wedding, an anniversary she had always
associated with old age. The horror of the situation was not lessened
by its grotesqueness.
The worst of it is that everybody in this dreadful little town
knows all about it, she thought with a sense of panic. People haven't
anything to do but remember dates. She wondered if she could prevail
upon her husband to go west, leaving Diantha in school somewhere. Then
she could say what she chose of her little girl without appealing to
the risibilities of her audience.
Persis, distracted for a moment by the false alarm of a twisting
seam, soon returned to her guns. With a skill Annabel was forced to
admire, she veiled her cruelty in compliment.
Diantha is a pretty girl. Pretty and clever with her tongue. An
apple's got to have flavor as well as a rosy skin. There'll be lively
times at your place before long. It'll make you and Mr. Sinclair feel
young again to have courting going on in the house.
If murderous thoughts were as potent as daggers, Persis would never
have fitted another gown. Annabel was reaching the point where
self-control was difficult. Young again! Again! Even her reflection in
the mirror and the knowledge that the new dress was becoming, failed to
restore her equanimity.
Yet in the end it was Annabel who scored. For when at length she
crossed Persis' threshold, a young man happened to be passing. A
ravishing smile banished Annabel's look of sullen resentment. Her
white-gloved hand fluttered in greeting.
The young fellow swung upon his heel, his boyish face flushing in
undisguised rapture. He waited till Annabel reached the sidewalk, took
the pink-lined parasol from her hand with an air of proud possession,
and the two walked away together.
From the window Persis looked grimly after them. Make the most of
this chance, she apostrophized the pair. I'm getting ready to take
your case in hand.
CHAPTER IV. THE WOMAN'S CLUB
Persis Dale was under no misapprehension, regarding her standing in
the community. She fully appreciated the fact that she was a pillar of
Clematis society and would have accepted as her due the complimentary
implication of Mrs. Warren's post-card, even if its duplicates had not
offered a similar tribute to at least thirty of her acquaintances. The
invitations were all written in Mrs. Warren's near-Spencerian hand, the
t's expanding blottily at the tips, the curves of the capitals
suggesting in their sudden murky expansion, the Mississippi River after
its union with the muddy Missouri.
As one of the representative women of Clematis, you are invited to
attend a meeting at the home of Mrs. Sophia Warren, Saturday the 12th
inst. at 2 P. M. Object of meeting, the organization of a Woman's Club
for the purpose of expanding the horizon of the individual members and
uplifting the community as a whole. Please be prompt.
The arrival of the postman while Persis was busy with a fitting,
gave Joel time to examine the mail and frame a withering denunciation
of Mrs. Warren's plan. He sprung the same upon his sister with
pyrotechnic effect a little later.
A woman's club! Clematis is getting on. Pretty soon the women'll be
smoking cigarettes and wanting to run for mayor and letting their own
rightful sphere go to the everlasting bow-wows. Expand their horizons!
What's the good of a horizon to a woman who's got a house to look
after, and a man around to do her thinking for her? If women folks
nowadays worked as hard as their grandmothers did, we wouldn't hear any
of this nonsense about clubs. As good old Doctor Watts says:
'For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'
Persis, arranging a cascade of lace, over the voluptuous bosom of
her adjustable bust-form, stood back to get the effect. Maybe you're
right, Joel, she acknowledged placidly, but I'm going to that meeting
at Sophia Warren's Saturday if I have to sew all Friday night to get my
week's work out of the way.
In the face of masculine scoffs, which sometimes, as in Joel's case,
became denunciatory rather than humorous, about twenty of the
representative thirty Mrs. Warren had called from her list of
acquaintances, accepted the invitation and were on hand at the hour
designated. The opposition of sundry husbands and fathers, as well as
of those unattached males who disapproved of women's clubs on general
principles, had lent to the project the seductive flavor of forbidden
fruit. The women who donned their Sunday best that Saturday afternoon
had an exhilarating sense of adventure. Even Annabel Sinclair,
invariably bored by the society of her own sex, made her appearance
with the others and from her post of observation in the corner, noted
the effect of lavender on Gladys Wells' complexion, and wondered why
Thad West's mother didn't try anti-fat.
As the clock struck two, Mrs. Warren rose with a Jack-in-the-box
effect from behind the table where she had ensconced herself after
welcoming the last arrival. Mrs. Warren had taught school before her
marriage and under the stimulus of her present responsibility, her
voice and manner reverted to their earlier pedagogical precision. As
she rapped the assembly to order, she had every appearance of a teacher
calling on the A-class to recite.
Ladies, I am glad to see so many of you punctual. Miss Persis Dale
has sent word that she will be detained for a little by the pressure of
Saturday's work, but that she will join us later, and undoubtedly other
tardy arrivals will have excuses equally good. And now, ladies, the
first business of the afternoon will be the election of a chairman.
Oh, you've got to be chairman, observed Mrs. West conversationally
from the largest armchair. None of the rest of us know enough.
Corroborative nods and murmurs approved the suggestion, and Mrs. Warren
acknowledged the compliment by a prim little bow.
Do I understand you to make this in the form of a motion, Mrs.
Why, ye-es, I s'pose so, returned Mrs. West, visibly startled by
the suggestion that she had performed that feat without a realizing
sense of its momentous character.
Is there a second to this motion?
The chilling silence, which the first hint of parliamentary
procedure imposes on the most voluble gathering, unaccustomed to its
technicalities, was broken at length, by the voice of Susan Fitzgerald,
who said faintly, I do, and blushed to the roots of her hair.
You have heard the motion, ladies. All in favor signify it, by
Twenty voices in unison gave an effect at once businesslike and
harmonious; and the representative women of Clematis looked vaguely
pleased to find their end so easily attained.
Contrary-minded, the same sign. A breathless pause while the
assembly waited for the daring opposition to manifest itself. The
motion appears to be carried, carried unanimously, ladies. I thank you
for your confidence. We shall now proceed to consider the best method
of organizing ourselves so as to expand the horizon of the individual
membersMrs. Warren was quoting, unabashed, from her own
post-cardin addition to uplifting the community as a whole.
The chairman went into temporary eclipse by taking her seat, and the
gathering no longer frozen into speechlessness by the realization that
there was a motion before the house, rippled out in brook-like fluency.
I think a card club would be just too grand for anything, gushed
Gladys Wells with an effect of girlishness, quite misleading. My
cousin in Springfield belongs to a card club, and they have just the
grandest times. Everybody pays ten cents each meeting, and that goes
for the prize. My cousin won a perfectly grand cut-glass butter dish.
I don't see how parlor gambling would help uplift the community,
commented Mrs. Richards coldly from the opposite side of the room.
The seemingly inevitable clash was averted by Susan Fitzgerald, who
rose and addressed the chair, a feat of such reckless daring as to
reduce the assembly to instant dumbness.
Mrs. President, I think a suffrage club is what we need in Clematis
'most of anything. We women have submitted to being downtrodden long
enough, and the only way for us to force men to give us our rights is
to organize and stand shoulder to shoulder. It's time for us to
ariseto arise in our might and defy the oppressor.
Susan subsided, mopping her moist forehead as if her oratorical
effort had occupied an hour, rather than a trifle over thirty seconds.
Gradually the meeting recovered from its temporary paralysis.
If it's going to be that sort of a club, I'm sure Robert wouldn't
approve of my having anything to do with it, Mrs. Hornblower remarked
with great distinctness, though apparently addressing her remarks to
her right-hand neighbor. Robert isn't what you'd call a tyrant, but he
believes that a man ought to be master in his own house. If he thought
there was any danger of my getting interested in such subjects, he'd
put his foot right down and that would be the end of it.
The ghost of a titter swept over the gathering. Mrs. Hornblower,
though fond of flaunting her wifely subjection in the faces of her
acquaintances, never failed to get her own way in any domestic crisis
where she had taken the trouble to form a preference. And on the other
hand, poor Susan Fitzgerald, for all her blustering defiance of the
tyrant sex, could in reality be overawed and browbeaten by any male not
yet out of kilts. Before the phantom-like laughter had quite died away,
Mrs. Hornblower added majestically: But I don't want my opinions to
count too much either way as I may be leaving Clematis before long.
The expansion of the horizon of the representative women of
Clematis, with the incidental uplift of the community, was immediately
relegated to the background of interest. Leaving Clematis! exclaimed
a dozen voices, the accent of shocked protest easily perceptible above
mere surprise and curiosity.
Mrs. Hornblower, in her evident enjoyment of the sensation of which
she was the center, was in no hurry to explain.
We're thinking of selling the farm and investing in an apple
orchard, she announced at length. Robert's worked hard all his life,
and we think it's about time he began to take things easy. The comp'ny
undertakes to do all the work of taking care of the orchard and
marketing the fruit for a quarter of our net profits, and that'll leave
me and Robert free to travel 'round and enjoy ourselves. We're looking
over plans now for our villa.
Even Annabel Sinclair straightened herself suddenly, galvanized into
closer attention by that magic word.
I've heard tell that there was lots of money in apples, exclaimed
Mrs. West. But I didn't s'pose there was enough so that folks wouldn't
need to do any work to get it out.
You see, people in general don't appreciate what science and system
can do, patronizingly explained Mrs. Hornblower. If you'd read some
of the literature the Apple of Eden Investment Comp'ny sends us, it
would be an eye-opener.
Ladies, ladies! expostulated the chairman, we are forgetting the
object of our meeting. Then temporarily setting aside her official
duties in favor of her responsibility as hostess, she hurried forward
to greet a new arrival. So glad to see you, Mrs. Leveridge. But I'm
sorry you couldn't persuade young Mrs. Thompson to accompany you.
She'd agreed to come, replied Mrs. Leveridge, loosening her
bonnet-strings and sighing. But at the last minute she found it wasn't
The room rustled expectantly. There is always a chance that the
reason for a bride's regrets may be of interest.
Nothing serious, I hope, said Mrs. West insinuatingly.
Mrs. Leveridge's sigh was provocative of further questions.
Well, no, and then again, yes. It isn't anything like a death in
the family. But you don't have to live long to find out that death
ain't the worst thing.
My goodness, Minerva, exclaimed Susan Fitzgerald, aghast. What's
Mrs. Leveridge's deliberative gaze swept the silently expectant
Of course, I wouldn't repeat it everywhere. But I'm sure anything I
say won't go a step further.
Twenty voices replied, Of course not, with a unanimity which gave
it the effect of a congregational response in the litany.
Mrs. Leveridge, having made terms with her conscience, from all
appearances rather enjoyed the responsibility of enlightening her
audience, It's her husband.
Her husband! cried Susan Fitzgerald protestingly; why, she hasn't
been married six months.
Mrs. Leveridge's smile showed more than a tinge of patronage.
If you'd ever been married yourself, Susan, you'd know that six
months was enough, quite enough. If he's that kind of a man, six weeks
is about as long as he can keep on his good behavior.
He hasn't been beating her, has he? asked Mrs. Hornblower, her
voice dropping to a thrilled whisper.
No, I'd call it worse than that, myself. You see when I stopped for
Mis' Thompson, on my way here, I found her crying and taking on
something terrible. She had a letter in her hand, and of course I
s'posed it had brought some bad news that was working her up, and I
begged her to tell me about it so's to ease her mind, you understand.
Well, she kept on moaning and crying, and at last it all came out.
It seems that when she went to the closet to get down her jacket, a
coat of her husband's fell off the hanger. The pockets was stuffed with
letters, the shiftless way men-folks have, and they went sprawling all
over the floor. She picked up this among the rest. It was addressed to
W. Thompson, at some hotel in Cleveland, and it had been forwarded to
the city office of his firm. And seeing it was a dashing sort of
writing that stretched clear across the envelope, and didn't look a
mite like business, she was curious to know what it was about.
Now, don't tell me there was anything bad in that letter, implored
Mrs. West. I always thought young Mr. Thompson had such a nice face.
Well, if handsome is that handsome does, he hasn't any more looks
to boast of than a striped snake. It was a letter from a girl, a
regular love-letter from start to finish. It opened up with 'Tommy
But young Mr. Thompson's name is Wilbur, somebody objected.
I guess the Tommy was pet for Thompson. The envelope was directed
to W. Thompson and you can't squeeze a Tommy out of a W. no matter how
hard you try. The girl, whoever she is, has gone into it with her eyes
open. Two or three times she dropped little hints about his wife.
Didn't say wife right out, you know. It was kind of veiled, but
you couldn't help understanding.
Was there any name signed? asked Annabel Sinclair, opening her
lips for the first time that afternoon. She herself had long before
realized the unadvisability of signing one's name to one's epistolary
'Twas just signed 'Enid.' There was a monogram on the paper, but I
couldn't make it out. Seems as if you could find 'most any letter in a
monogram. The paper was nice and heavy and all scented up. Poor Mis'
She ought to leave him, exploded Susan Fitzgerald. And I
shouldn't blame her a mite if she poisoned his coffee first. If women
could vote, they'd send a man like that to the gallows.
Mrs. West championed the absent sex. In a case of that sort, Susan,
you can't put all the blame off on to the man. There's a woman in it,
too, every time, and the one's as deep in the mud as the other is in
the mire. And like as not, continued Mrs. West, a tell-tale tension in
her voice, he was a nice, clean-minded young man when she came along,
making eyes at him, like a snake charming a sparrow. I'm not crazy
about voting, but if I had the ballot, I'd vote for locking up those
kind of women and keeping every last one of 'em at hard labor for the
term of their natural lives.
The moment was electric, and Mrs. Warren hastily proffered her
services as a lightning-rod. Is she going to leave him, do you think?
Well, I guess she's got a crazy notion in her head that maybe he
can explain. I tried to talk her out of that idea. As I said to her, a
man capable of anything of that sort won't stop at lying out of it. And
I should judge, concluded Mrs. Leveridge, that that young Mr.
Thompson would be capable of a real convincing lie. He don't look
wicked, but he does look smart.
The outer door opened and closed with an impetus just short of a
slam, irresistibly suggestive in some obscure fashion, of the entrance
of ardent youth. I didn't think 'twas worth while to ring, explained
Persis Dale, nodding to the right and left as she advanced to greet her
hostess. Sorry to be so late. I guess you've got everything pretty
nearly settled by now. She bowed rather stiffly to Annabel Sinclair,
sitting silent in her corner, and acknowledged with reluctant
admiration that the woman certainly was a credit to her dressmaker.
A guilty constraint settled upon the gathering so fluent a moment
before, and psychologically considered, there was food for reflection
in the sudden embarrassed silence. These good women were far from being
vulgar gossips with one or two possible exceptions. They were shocked
at this unanticipated revelation of human perfidy. The young wife,
humiliated and heart-broken before the morning glow of romance had
faded from her marriage, had their profoundest sympathy. Yet when the
curtain rises on a human drama, however tragic its development, the
little thrill that runs over the audience is not altogether unpleasant.
Regrettable as it is that Othello should smother his wife, there seems
a certain gratification in making ourselves familiar with the details
of the operation. It was the consciousness of this unacknowledged
satisfaction which rendered Mrs. Warren's guests abashed at Persis'
advent, like children discovered in some forbidden pastime. They
avoided one another's eyes, assuming an expression of grave absorption,
whose obvious implication was that the uplifting of the community was
the matter most in their thought.
With all her interest in other people's affairs, the personality of
Persis Dale was as a killing frost to many a flourishing scandal. She
had a readiness to believe the best, a reluctance to condemn her fellow
men on anything short of convincing proof, fatal to calumny. Although
perhaps justified in thinking the worst of young Mr. Thompson, no one
present felt disposed to enlighten Persis as to the character of the
discussion which had engrossed a gathering convened for the high moral
purposes outlined on Mrs. Warren's post-card.
Iwewell, we have not reached any conclusion as yet, explained
the chairman of the meeting, with a notable accession of color.
Several suggestions have been made, however, and we hope you will have
something to add.
Persis would not have been Persis had she failed to have something
to suggest. Whether her businesslike methods aided in bringing matters
to a focus, or whether the change was due to a conscience-stricken
reaction on the part of the representative women of Clematis, it is
certain that the deliberations of the body were not again side-tracked
by the intrusion of personal matters. The business of the afternoon was
transacted with a rapidity putting to shame some more pretentious
conventions, the women wisely refusing to be hampered or restricted by
the tangles of parliamentary law, in which, as every one knows, much
really important legislation is strangled.
When the meeting adjourned at quarter of six, an hour which sent
prudent housewives scurrying homeward, Mrs. Sophia Warren was the duly
elected president of the Clematis Woman's Club, while Susan Fitzgerald
had accepted the duties of secretary of the organization. The members
had voted to meet weekly, taking up the study of English literature,
and current events, the two subjects to divide the program equally. The
club was to hold itself in readiness to grapple with questions of civic
improvement, and already a committee had been appointed to arrange for
a Harvest Home Festival at the county almshouse for the edification of
the inmates. It really began to look as if the horizon of a number of
people would be enlarged and the community as a whole uplifted, with or
without its consent.
CHAPTER V. DIANTHA GROWS UP.
Now that Annabel Sinclair had no immediate use for Persis' services,
Diantha's wardrobe could receive attention. The girl presented herself
at the dressmaker's late one afternoon, her smooth forehead disfigured
by an irritated frown, her mouth resolutely unsmiling. Under one arm
she carried a roll of cheap white lawn. Annabel frequently commented on
the uselessness of buying expensive materials for a girl who grew as
rapidly as Diantha, though the reasonableness of this contention was
slightly discounted by her recognized ability to demonstrate that the
cream of things was invariably her portion, while an all-wise
Providence had obviously designed the skimmed milk for the rest of the
Her eyes upon the girl's averted face, Persis measured off the
coarse stuff, using her arm as a yard-stick. Hm! Even with skirts as
skimpy as they are now, this won't be enough by a yard and a half.
Better call it two yards. It's high time your skirts were coming down
where they belong. You can't stay a little girl forever.
Some magic had erased the fretful pucker between Diantha's brows.
The grim ungirlish compression of her lips softened into angelic
mildness. As she turned upon Persis, she looked an older sister of the
How longabout how long do you think it had better be, Miss
I should sayPersis looked her over with an impersonal air,
lending weight to the resulting judgmentI should say about to your
Had she guessed the consequences of such an expression of opinion,
she might have modified her verdict or at least held it in reserve. A
tempest swept the room. Persis was seized, whirled this way and then
that, hugged, kissed, forced to join in a delirious two-step. With
scarcely breath to protest, powerless in the grip of the storm she had
herself evoked, she finally came to anchor between the secretary and
the armchair, Diantha still holding her fast.
Shoe-tops! You did say shoe-tops, didn't you, darling Miss
Yes, I said shoe-tops, and I'm glad I didn't say a train. A real
long dress would have been the death of me, it's more'n likely. For all
you're as tall as Jack's bean-stalk, Diantha Sinclair, you're not grown
Persis freed herself, smiling ruefully as she arranged her
disordered hair. The delicious girlishness of the outburst in which she
had involuntarily participated had the effect of challenging her own
obstinate sense of being on the threshold of things, and making her
wonder if perhaps she were not growing old. That the passing shadow on
her face failed to attract Diantha's attention was due less to lack of
insight than to youth's cheerfully selfish absorption in its own
problems. May I pick out the style from the grown-up part of the
fashion books? was the girl's breathless question.
It's got to be simple, Persis warned her sternly. Then softening:
But good land! Grandmothers nowadays are wearing simple little girlish
things with ribbon bows in the back. Pick out what you want. Everything
in this month's book is just about right for sixteen.
As Diantha gave herself to rapturous study of the fashion-plates,
Persis studied her. She's in a fair way to make a beauty. Annabel at
her best never held a candle to what this girl is likely to turn out.
Annabel's looks are skin deep. Diantha's have top-roots running to her
brain and her heart, too. Only she ought to be happier. 'Most any girl
face is pretty to look at if it's happy enough, same as 'most any
flower is pretty if it grows in the sun.
A harassing reflection troubled Diantha's bliss. Miss Persis, I
haven't got a petticoat that comes below my knees.
I'll make you a petticoat the same length as the dress. That's
always the best way. A skirt that's too long looks as if you wanted to
show the lace, and one's that too short looks as if you were trying to
save on cotton cloth, and I don't know which is worse. To herself
Persis added: If she went home and asked her mother for a long
petticoat, the fat would all be in the fire.
For a woman at least as conscientious as the average of her sex,
Persis was singularly unmindful of the enormity of encouraging a
daughter to act in defiance of her mother's wishes. Had she been called
upon to defend herself, she might have explained that she had small
respect for the authority of a motherhood which had never progressed
beyond the physical relationship. Annabel, a reluctant mother in the
beginning, had been consistently selfish ever since, and Persis gave
scant recognition to parental rights that were not the out-growth of
parental love. Moreover, the project she had in mind was of too complex
importance for her to allow it to be side-tracked by petty scruples.
Like enough she'll refuse to pay my bill, thought Persis, with a
grim smile, as she watched Diantha turning the gaily colored plates
like a butterfly fluttering from blossom to blossom. I guess she won't
go as far as that though, as long as there ain't another dressmaker in
Clematis she'd trust to make her a kimono. If she says anything,
that'll pave the way for me to give her a good plain talking to, and
even if I never get a cent for the dress, I might as well give my
missionary money that way as any other.
The rush of the seasonClematis is sufficiently sophisticated to
know in what months propriety demands overworking one's dressmaker and
millinerwas already over, and the little frock made rapid progress.
Cheap and plain and simple as it was, its effect upon the wearer, even
in its stages of incompleteness, was so striking that Persis sometimes
forgot her official duty in the satisfaction of a long admiring stare.
And probably in her sixteen years of existence, Diantha had never so
nearly approximated all the cardinal virtues as in that idyllic week.
She besieged Persis with offers of assistance, pleading for permission
to pull basting threads or overcast seams. At home she was gentle,
yielding, subdued. Her father, having learned through bitter experience
how open to the attack of a million miseries love makes the heart, had
resolved that fate should not again trick him. He had steeled himself
against the appeal of Diantha's babyhood and had watched unmoved her
precocious development. The mocking politeness which characterized his
manner toward his wife was replaced in the case of the daughter by a
distant formality. Yet now as Diantha went about the house with dreamy
eyes and a half smile on her lips, there were times when the father
looked at her almost wistfully and wondered of what she were thinking.
With all due respect to the human will, we must acknowledge ourselves
creatures of circumstance in no little degree, when two yards of lawn,
retailing at twelve and a half cents, can prove so potent a factor in
character and destiny.
Diantha's mother might have prescribed quinine had she noted
anything unusual in the girl's demeanor. But Annabel had reached a
crucial stage in her flirtation with Thad West. The boy was developing
a gratifying jealousy of the tenor singer in the Unitarian church choir
and must be treated with a nice commingling of indulgence and severity
to prevent his asserting himself in the crude masculine fashion, and
either terminating the intimacy or else permanently getting the upper
hand. Annabel was enjoying the crisis of the game and found it
impossible to spare from her own absorbing interests a thought for such
a minor consideration as Diantha's moods.
Diantha anticipated the time when she was to call for her finished
frock by more than an hour. I know you're not ready yet, she
apologized, as Persis looked at the clock. But I thought I'd like to
watch you work, if you don't mind.
Of course I don't mind, child. Just put those fashion books on the
table and take the easy chair. Persis bent over the finishings of the
little frock with a vague satisfaction in the nearness of the
motionless figure. She was growing fond of Diantha, a not unnatural
result of the adoring attention Diantha had lavished upon her for a
week past. But because Persis was a woman with a living to make, and
Diantha was a girl with a dream to be dreamed, scarcely a word was
spoken till the last stitch was taken.
There! Persis removed a basting thread with a jerk, making an
unsuccessful pretense that the finishing of this dress was like the
completion of any other piece of work. There! It's done at last. I
suppose you'll want to try it on.
Yes, said Diantha, I'll try it on. And as the faded blue serge
slipped from her shoulders to be replaced by the white lawn, the
Diantha who had been, took her departure to that remote country from
which the children never come back.
Persis was almost appalled by the result for which she was
principally responsible. The tall Diantha in a dress to her shoe-tops
was disconcertingly unlike the little girl she had known. She looked
older than her years, stately, self-contained and beautiful. It was not
till Persis had fortified herself by the reflection that she might as
well be hung for an old sheep as for a lamb, that she ventured another
Diantha, I s'pose you'll make some change in the way you do your
Yes, indeed. Diantha, scrutinizing herself in the mirror, frowned
at the drooping curls with an air of restrained disgust. This way is
only suitable for children.
Persis' negligent gesture called attention to the open door of the
bedroom. There's a box of hairpins on the dresser. If you like, you
can fix yourself up and surprise your mother.
Diantha vanished swiftly. She had no illusions regarding the nature
of the coming surprise. Her mother would be very angry, but the sooner
that storm had spent itself, the better. Relentlessly the golden curls
were sacrificed to the impressive coiffure of the woman of fashion. For
a novice Diantha was remarkably deft, her skill suggesting periods of
anticipatory practise with her door locked and no eyes but her own to
admire the effect.
During the progress of this rite, Persis in the adjoining room,
looked at the clock, glanced at the window and then paced the floor,
for once in her well-disciplined life too nervous to utilize the flying
moments. Persis was in the dilemma of a stage manager whose curtain is
ready to go up, and whose prima donna is about to appear, while
the audience has failed to materialize. To such mischances does one
subject one's self in assuming the responsibilities of a
Then her brow cleared, even while her heart jumped into her throat.
The gate clicked, and a lithe figure swung up the path. Persis took her
time in answering the peremptory knock.
Good afternoon, Miss Persis. Mother said that you
Walk in, Thad. Yes, I've a little package to send your mother. Sit
down while I look for it.
Would the girl never come! The curtain was rung up, the audience
waiting. But the stage was empty. How long a time in Heaven's name did
Diantha expect to spend in combing her hair. I should think she was
waiting for it to grow, thought the harassed Persis. Very deliberately
she opened and closed every drawer in the old-fashioned secretary,
though she knew the upper contained only old letters and the second,
Thad was fidgeting. If you can't put your hand on it, Miss Persis,
don't bother to hunt. I'll drop in again in a day or two.
Just a minute, Thad. It must be right around here. It can'tah!
Persis forgot the ending of the unnecessary sentence. For now Thad West
was at liberty to leave whenever he pleased.
A tall slender figure advanced into the room. Diantha's grace had
always made her an anomaly among tall children. Her hair was parted and
drawn back simply, after the fashion doubtless designed by earth's
beauties, since it is the despair of plain women. The yellow curls,
sacrificing their individual distinction, had magnanimously contributed
to the perfection of the exquisite golden coil at the back of her
shapely head. No one would have looked twice at the plain little lawn,
but it proved superior to some more pretentious gowns in that it set
off the charms of the wearer, instead of distracting attention from
them. The unlooked-for apparition brought Thad West to his feet, and so
Youth and Beauty met as if hitherto they had been strangers.
For a long half minute they stood without speaking. Oh, good
afternoon, Diantha said at last, and veiled her eyes from his
fascinated stare. Formerly she had treated him with the free-and-easy
pertness of a precocious child. Now the exquisite shyness of maidenhood
enveloped her. Instinct drew her back from the man's inevitable
advance. I didn't know it was so late, she said to Persis, oblivious
to Thad's gasping greeting. I must hurry.
Thad's sense of confusion was like a physical dizziness. This regal
young beauty was the daughter of the woman whose hand he had held
surreptitiously the previous evening. With an effort he steadied
himself, only to make the discovery that in that hazy moment the world
had undergone a process of readjustment. He knew as well as he was ever
to know it, that Annabel Sinclair belonged to another generation from
I suppose you want to take this along. Persis' gesture indicated
the package containing the discarded serge which Diantha would have
been glad to contribute to the wardrobe of the youthful Trotters. But
with all her daring, her courage was hardly equal to such a step. She
put out her hand for the package, but Thad had already pounced upon it.
II'm going your way, he said, a trace of his recent disorder in
his stammering speech. I'll carry it for you.
Silently Diantha accepted the offer. She kissed Persis good-by in a
fashion which the critical might have pronounced needlessly
provocative, though her dreamy eyes protested that nothing was further
from her maiden thoughts than the presence of Thad West. Persis, who
was intensely alive to every phase of the dramatic situation, had
caught a glimpse of the young fellow's face during the affectionate
leave-taking and was abundantly satisfied.
Thad's no fool, though he's acted like the twin brother to an
idiot. He can't help seeing that the mother of a grown-up girl like
Diantha hadn't ought to be flirting with a boy like him. If he doesn't
see it now he will before he gets her home, or I miss my guess.
Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Sinclair were seated side by side on their
front porch, presenting an agreeable picture of domesticity. The reason
for Annabel's presence was that the tenor singer of the Unitarian choir
was accustomed to pass the house at that hour. Sinclair stayed on
simply because he suspected that his wife wished him indoors. He read
aloud inane items of village news from the weekly paper, and only the
veiled mockery of his eyes betrayed the fact that he was not the most
devoted and the most complacent of husbands.
As the two young people came into view, Annabel's air of indifferent
listlessness changed to rigid attention. She recognized the gallant
figure of the young man considerably before she knew his graceful
companion. Her husband's eyes were quicker. His paper dropped from his
hand, and his emotions found vent in an explosive and needlessly
The two culprits came up the walk, Thad with a fine color, Diantha
extraordinarily self-possessed. The girl's eyes rested on her mother's
face, then went in swift appeal to her father's. Their consternation
was too obvious to be ignored.
I wore my new dress home, she remarked casually. Then with sudden
recklessness: Do you like it?
It'sit's absurd, pronounced Annabel almost with a snarl. So a
mother tigress might have corrected her offspring. Never had she seemed
less prepossessing to her youthful adorer than at that moment. Anger
aged her indescribably. The young man looked at her and dropped his
It's no longer than other girls of sixteen are wearing, said
Diantha, and turned to Thad. Thank you for carrying my bundle. She
took the package and vanished. Nothing in her outward composure
indicated that her heart was thumping, and girlhood's ready tears
burning under her drooping lids.
Persis' device had been eminently successful, entailing
consequences, indeed, she was far from anticipating. For Stanley
Sinclair had waked to the fact that he was the father of a beautiful
girl on the verge of womanhood, and his sense of parental
responsibility, long before drugged, manacled and locked into a dark
cell, had roused at last and was clamoring to be free from its prison.
Annabel, his wife, had recognized a possible rival in her own
household. And lastly, Thad West was the prey of an uneasy suspicion
that perhaps, after all, the mother of Diantha Sinclair had been making
a fool of him.
CHAPTER VI. THE NEW ARRIVAL
Mindful of her promise to Mrs. Trotter, Persis had looked through
her piece-bag apparently with excellent results. For the little
garments symbolic of humanity's tenderest hopes, the garments that are
to clothe the unborn child, were growing rapidly under her skilful
The first slip had been severely plain, and then Persis, yielding to
a temptation most women will understand, began to fashion scraps of
embroidery and odds and ends of lace and insertion into tiny yokes and
bands. After many a long day's work she sat by the shaded lamp
finishing the diminutive garments with stitches worthy of a bridal
Who is it that's expecting? Joel demanded one evening, his sex not
proving an impregnable armor against the assaults of curiosity.
The brevity of Persis' answer indicated reluctance to import the
desired information. Mis' Trotter.
Bartholomew Trotter's wife? And of course she's going to pay you
for all this fiddling and folderol.
Persis accepted the implied rebuke meekly. I guess I'm paying
myself in the satisfaction I get out of it. I started in to stitch up
some slips on the machine, but I just couldn't stand it. Machine
sewing's all right for grown folks, but it does seem that when a little
child's getting ready to come into the world, there'd ought to be a
needle weaving back and forth, and tender thoughts and hopes weaving
along with it. And specially if a baby's going to be born into a home
like the Trotters', you can't grudge it a little bit of beauty to start
Well, I must say it's lucky that so far you women have been kept
where you belong. Weaving hopes, indeed! As if 'twould make any
difference to that young one of Trotter's whether it was rigged out
like a millionaire baby or wrapped up in a horse blanket.
Persis sewed on unmoved. I don't say the baby'd know the
difference. It's just my way of showing respect for the human race.
Her industry was not premature. One Saturday night she carried to
the Trotters' squalid home a daintily fashioned, freshly laundered
outfit which took Mrs. Trotter's restrained and self-respecting
gratitude quite by storm. Forgetting for once the public obligation to
provide for the needs of her family present and to come, she accepted
the gift in a silence vastly more eloquent than her usual volubility.
Then the muscles of her scrawny throat twitched, and a tear splashed
down on the soft cambric. Nor did she, during the interview, recover
her usual poise sufficiently to refer to the obligation under which
Bartholomew and herself were placing the community; and Persis returned
home in a mood of even more than her customary tolerance.
That was Saturday night. Early Monday morning little Benny brought
word that his mother was sick and wanted Miss Persis to come right
away. Joel had not risen, and Persis scrawled a hasty note explaining
her abrupt departure and set out for the Trotter establishment,
stopping on the way to ask a favor of Susan Fitzgerald.
Susan was finishing her early breakfast, her hair still wound about
her crimping pins, the painfully strained and denuded effect which
resulted being a necessary preliminary to the rippling luxuriance of
the afternoon. Persis stated her errand tersely.
Susan, they've sent for me from Trotters', and there's no telling
when I'll be home. I wish you'd go up to the house, if you've nothing
particular on hand and look after Joel. He's the helplessest man ever
born when it comes to doing for himself.
In her complex excitement, Susan fluttered like an impaled
butterfly. Oh, dear me! I mean of course I will, Persis. But what do
you want me to do?
Oh, just get his meals and amuse him till I get back. You can keep
Joel pretty cheerful if you'll let him unload all his notions on you.
Joel generally finds a good listener good comp'ny.
And so poor Lizzie Trotter's going through that again, exclaimed
Susan, momentarily forgetting her own prospective ordeal, in sympathy
for the other woman's severer trial. I don't want to accuse Divine
Providence, but I must say it hardly seems fair to put all the
responsibility for getting the children into the world off on women. If
'twas turn and turn about, now, I wouldn't say a word.
I guess if that was the way of it, there'd never be more'n three in
a family, and it took a sight of people to fill up the world, starting
with the garden of Eden. Well, I must hurry, Susan. I won't be gone a
mite longer'n I can help.
As Susan removed her crimping pins, her agitation grew. The favor
Persis had asked so lightly, and she had granted so readily, took on a
new aspect as she considered it. Susan shared the respect of Clematis
for Joel Dale's intellectuality and stood rather in awe of his foibles.
Her hands trembled as she arranged her undulating locks in the fashion
ordinarily reserved for afternoons. Her cooking might not suit him. Her
efforts to be entertaining might not measure up to his lofty standards.
She quaked, picturing his possible displeasure. For this courageous
champion of the rights of womankind who did not hesitate to call the
Creator Himself to account for seeming injustice, became the meekest of
the meek when confronted with the sex from which oppressors are made.
Susan's apprehensions were not so groundless as might be fancied.
Joel Dale was in a very bad humor after he had finished reading his
sister's note. Joel held the not unpopular theory that the supreme duty
of woman is to make some man comfortable. Religion and philanthropy
were legitimate diversions if not allowed to interfere with the higher
claim. Even the exercise of talent might be tendered a patronizing
approval, if this, too, knew its place. Joel was willing that Persis
should utilize her gifts in earning his living provided she did not
forget the complex ministrations involved in making him comfortable.
He was ready to allow her to help her poorer neighbors, so that she was
never absent when he wanted her. But if that jealous divinity, his
Comfort, were denied its due, the indulgent brother was lost in the
Poor Susan Fitzgerald found her tremors doubled by the sight of his
lowering face. Mr. Dale, I've come up to keep house for you to-day,
seeingseeing Persis has been called away. She blushed, realizing
that Joel was undoubtedly in the secret of that errand. After forty
years in a world where birth is the one inevitable human experience,
aside from death, she had never been able to rid herself of the
impression that it was essentially immodest.
Though the cloud of Jovian displeasure did not remove immediately
from Joel's brow, his mood underwent an instant change. His sister had
not been guilty of leaving him to shift for himself. The opportune
appearance of Susan Fitzgerald indicated a proper regard for the
masculine helplessness, which is also, by some obscure process of
reasoning, the badge of masculine superiority. Moreover Susan's
presence furnished the opportunity of setting forth in detail sundry
theories which to Persis were an old story. To a gentleman of Joel's
temperament, a new audience is at times a necessity.
You won't have much trouble getting my meals, he assured her, his
cold dignity thawing rapidly. Just set on the dish of apples and
Susan's near-sighted eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. You mean
Dessert! When Adam and Eve started housekeeping do you s'pose they
sat down to soup to begin with and wound up with pie? The Lord put 'em
in a garden instead of a butcher's shop, because He wanted 'em to eat
vegetable food and not poison themselves with dead animals. Joel's
voice had grown almost cheerful. His ardor in the dissemination of his
dietetic theories waxed and waned, but when there was a new observer to
be impressed, he always found the crucifixion of his appetites well
worth while. He seated himself at the table with a gesture which seemed
to wave into some remote background the temptation of sausages and
No trouble for me. Just set on the nuts and apples, same as our
ancestors ate before they got wiser'n their Creator and learned to cook
their victuals. We're the only animals that ain't satisfied with raw
food. And we're the only ones that are everlastingly kicking about
I declare! exclaimed Susan Fitzgerald, carried away by this
masterly logic. You certainly have your own way of looking at
subjects, Mr. Dale.
Well, I'll admit that I'm not much at taking up with second-hand
opinions. Now, here's another idea of mine. He held up a walnut
between his thumb and finger. There's a tree in that, ain't there?
Why, yes. Susan's ready admission gave every indication of a
willingness to be impressed.
Well, what's enough to give a start to a tree that may grow seventy
feet or over, ought to start a man off to his day's work pretty well.
That's my way of reasoning.
But don't you feel an awful goneness after a breakfast like that?
Goneness! Magnificently Joel waved away the suggestion. With an
apple and five or six good nuts inside me, I feel like I could run
through a troop, as the psalmist says, and leap over a wall.
Susan's admiring murmur indicated that the sustaining effect of the
diet Joel recommended was due less to its intrinsic virtue than to some
unusual and dominating quality of Joel's personality. And Joel,
struggling with a peculiarly tough Brazil nut, reflected that Susan
Fitzgerald was an intelligent woman as well as an agreeable one.
The morning passed pleasantly for both. Susan possessed the gift
which men have ever highly esteemed in the sex, the faculty of
continued silence, combined with close attention. Some of Joel's
theories impressed her as startling, but like many very proper people,
Susan rather enjoyed being shocked, if the sensation was not overdone.
Whether she murmured approval or blushed in decorous protest, it was
plain that she found Joel's monologues immensely interesting. She could
hardly believe her ears when the clock struck twelve.
Susan brought the nuts and apples out again after their brief period
of retirement, and seated herself at the table, to share the Eden-like
repast. You'd be an awful easy man to cook for, Mr. Dale, she said,
with a glance which in another woman would have been coquettish.
But the arrow glanced harmless. Joel's mood was abstracted. Not for
some time had he put into practise his theories regarding uncooked
food, and his rebellious appetite craved more stimulating fare. He
munched his nuts with distracting memories of yesterday's pot roast. He
found himself resenting Susan's eager compliance. She should have
insisted on preparing him a good mealgood from her standpointand as
a gentleman he could have done no less than show his appreciation by
For once Joel had lost interest in his own eloquence. Inward voices
were protesting against this return to the fare which had satisfied
Father Adam. When he retired to the armchair, after dinner, and
relapsed into a sulky silence, Susan remembered that the obligation to
amuse him was also nominated in the bond. Luckily his tastes were
literary, which rendered her task a simple one.
Susan stepped into the tightly-closed, partially darkened parlor
which never in the sultriest weather seemed wholly to lose the chill of
its unwarmed winter days. The center of the room was occupied by a
square table, on each corner of which lay a book, the four arranged
with geometrical nicety. Susan was too familiar with Clematis
traditions not to know that the books on the center-table were seldom
of a sort one would care to open, but as she lifted the nearest volume
and saw that it was a collections of poems, she felt a comforting
certainty that luck was with her.
You're a great admirer of po'try, ain't you, Mr. Dale? I've always
With an effort Joel roused himself.
Another has expressed my sentiments, Miss Fitzgerald.
Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound.'
Then if you'd like, I'll read you a little so's to help pass the
time. Susan seated herself near the window, cleared her throat and
opening the volume at random, began in the self-conscious and unnatural
voice characterizing ninety-nine people out of every hundred who
attempt the reading of verse.
'O there's a heart for every one
If every one could find it.
Then up and seek, ere youth is gone,
Whate'er the task, ne'er mind it.
For if you chance to meet at last
With that one heart intended'
Susan's voice had grown husky. She cleared her throat again. I'm
afraid I made a poor selection, she apologized. You see I'm not as
familiar with po'try as you are, Mr. Dale. She turned the leaves in a
confusion that increased as her groping vision stumbled continually on
lines startlingly sentimental.
'Let thy love in kisses rain
On my cheeks and eye-lids pale.'
Susan opened ten pages ahead and tried again.
'When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee.
Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea.'
Joel's change of position was subtly suggestive of weariness. Susan
whirled the leaves and took a desperate plunge.
'Ask if I love thee? O, smiles can not tell
Plainer what tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee my sky had been clear;
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here.'
It was plainly impossible for a self-respecting single woman to
continue. Why, they're all silly, she exclaimed, with a little
nervous giggle. Her face flamed. What was she to say next, not only to
carry out Persis Dale's injunction, but to occupy the blank silence
which contradictorily seemed echoing with that fateful refrain, Had I
not loved thee I had not been here.
When in doubt, play trumps. Susan Fitzgerald's chief interest in
life was the question of woman's suffrage. And the confusion which had
swept her mind bare of small talk, had not jostled her substantial
ideas on the familiar theme. She determined to broach the subject
delicately and with caution. If Joel cared for discussion, this would
occupy a good portion of the afternoon, and be a sufficient antidote
for her unfortunate poetical selections. It was even possible that a
strong forceful presentation of the case might result in making a
convert. Susan thrilled, realizing what such an accession would mean to
Mr. Dale, she began, feeling her way to a tactful introduction. I
am sure you must have a pretty good opinion of women. A man with such a
sister as you've got couldn't help it.
Her opening was unfortunate. No man is so reluctant to recognize
feminine superiority as the one who profits most by the gifts of some
woman. Joel's brow clouded, and his answer showed a cautious resolve
not to be trapped into any compromising admission.
Oh, I haven't anything against women folks. I've always thought the
poet went too far when he said:
'Mankind from Adam has been woman's fools.
Women from Eve have been the Devil's tools.'
Despite the negative nature of this encouragement, Susan continued.
I'm sure a fair-minded man like you are, Mr. Dale, wouldn't want to
keep any woman out of what rightfully belonged to her. You'd want her
to have a chance to fill her place in the world, wouldn't you?
Why, yes, I'd be in favor of that. Joel's voice was less positive
than his words, owing to an inward uncertainty as to the trend of these
Well, Mr. Dale, there's lots of us that are ready to take up our
share of the duties the Creator designed for us. We are standing
waiting like the people in the parable that nobody had hired. The
trouble is you won't let us, you men won't. We've got to wait for you
to give us our rights. All our willingness doesn't amount to anything
till you are ready.
A sudden harassing suspicion assailed the target of Susan's
eloquence, and no sooner had it entered his mind than a dozen details
instantly corroborated it. Joel remembered the look which had
accompanied Susan's declaration that he would be an easy man to cook
for. The love poems had in themselves been equivalent to an avowal of
passion even without her tell-tale blushes. And now at last he grasped
the underlying meaning of her vague hints and obscure figures of
speech. For though she talked of rights and duties and the designs of
the Creator, there could be no doubt that she meant a husband.
Joel rose to his feet and his mute tempestuous indignation was not
without interest as throwing light on the workings of the masculine
mind. In such a design as he attributed to Susan, it would seem that
the lady had much to lose and little to gain. She was vigorous,
well-preserved, possessed of a competence, while Joel was doubly
bankrupt. Yet his mood was far removed from humble gratitude. He was
furious at her presumption, alert to defend his threatened
prerogatives, angry at Persis for exposing him to such an attack under
his own roof where ignominious retreat was his only safety.
I've just thought of a little matter I've got to look after this
afternoon, he said, his manner nicely calculated to repel any tender
advances. I'll have to hurry along, and there won't be any occasion
for you to linger. Please hang the key on the nail so Persis can let
herself in when she comes.
His sudden hauteur was not lost on Susan. She sighed as he withdrew.
Funny how real liberal-minded men won't listen to argument when it
comes to some questions. But maybe he'll think over what I said and
it'll have an influence sooner or later. Anyway, we've got to be
prepared to sow beside all waters.
The leather-covered book, whose failure to serve her purpose was
indirectly responsible for the broaching of so delicate a question,
caught her wandering attention. She picked it up, reading the title
Love Songs of Many Lands. No wonder I couldn't find one that
was sensible. Well, I declare!
The book had opened at the fly-leaf. Persis from Justin, Susan
read, bringing her near-sighted eyes close to the faded ink. She pursed
her lips and shook her head in disapproving surprise.
Persis Dale must have known some man pretty well to let him give
her anything so pointed. I should have thought she'd have felt awfully
embarrassed if she ever read the poems. Justin! Justin! There was a
Justin Ware, but I never heard there was anything between them.
She returned the book to the chilly front room, adjusting it to the
proper angle on the center-table, as if it had been a part of a
geometrical diagram, And finally, after locking the door and hanging
the key where Persis, or any other arrival, would immediately notice
it, she turned her downcast face toward home.
I'm afraid I hurt Mr. Dale's feelings. It beats all how sensitive
some natures are. It's lucky I didn't get as far as what you would call
the real telling arguments.
If Susan Fitzgerald's mood was despondent, as she reviewed the
activities of the day, such was not the case with Persis Dale. In the
Trotters' shabby cottage, exaltation reigned. Young Doctor Ballard,
lean and boyish, looked ready to be congratulated on a good piece of
work, though perfectly aware ha could never in this world, at least,
collect his fee for medical attendance. Bartholomew's complacent
self-importance almost straightened his bowed shoulders and redeemed
the weakness of his sagging lips and feeble chin. Lizzie, his wife,
spent and pallid, her gaunt temples hollowed and her face chiseled by
suffering, smiled contentedly as she lay against her pillow, a creature
lifted for the moment above the petty weaknesses, pitiable fruit of
life-long and grinding poverty, by the gracious dignity of motherhood.
As for Persis, as she carried the new arrival down-stairs to make the
acquaintance of his brothers and sisters, her comely face was radiant.
Weariness was forgotten. The hours of uncertainty, the long hours when
Life and Death matched forces in that old duel renewed with each new
existence, had all been forgotten. For a man was born.
The little Trotters gathered around in an ecstasy of pleasure and
surprise. In a household where food was scanty, and every new pair of
shoes was a serious economic problem, there was no lack of welcome for
the newcomer. Chirpy little voices commented on the new brother's
surprising pinkness, his diminutive proportions and his belligerent
fashion of clenching his fists.
He's got on the nice clean dress the angels made him, said Winnie,
the observant. See the lace in the sleeves.
I wish the angels had made him some hair instead, suggested
Wilbur, plainly aggrieved. 'Cause he could have worn some of our old
clothes, but he can't wear our hair.
He can have my jack-knife when he gets big enough, declared Benny,
the oldest of the flock. He drew the cherished possession from his
pocket as if ready to surrender it on the instant. And that offer was a
signal for a general outburst of generosity.
He can have my tooth brush.
I'll give him my rubber boot. Maybe when he's big enough to wear
it, somebody will give him one for the other leg.
You're going to let the new baby have your high chair, ain't you,
Essie? Thus Winnie prompted the sister now compelled to relinquish the
honors and dignities attaching to the post of baby of the family. And
Essie, nodding her little tow head, laid a rose-leaf cheek against the
crumpled carnation of the newcomer. Nice litty brudder, she cooed.
Essie loves 'oo.
My gracious me! thought Persis Dale, as she tucked the baby into
the battered cradle, never long without an occupant, It's queer that
we ain't shaking our heads and groaning over this. The Trotters can't
afford a new baby any more than I can afford a steam yacht. There ain't
enough of anything to go around, and yet we're all holding up our heads
and acting as if this was the best day's work we ever had a hand in.
It's no use talking. Down in our hearts we know that life's a good
thing, even when we've got to take poverty and hardships along with it.
And that's why we start in singing Psalms in spite of ourselves when a
new baby comes.
CHAPTER VII. A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT
I believe, said young Mr. Thompson, that I've been owing you a
little bill for some weeks, Miss Dale. It had completely slipped my
He looked old and worn, Persis thought, more like the man who must
settle for the spring finery of a family of grown daughters, than a
complacent young husband paying for his wife's first new gown since the
wedding. There was a flatness in his voice that matched the weariness
in his eyes, and forthwith a dozen questions raced through her alert
Well, Mr. Thompson, I hope you like the dress. I always tell my
customers that I'm as anxious to please their husbands as I am to
please them. 'Tain't fair, from my point of view, to ask a man to pay
out good money for clothes he just despises.
Evasion is an art possessed in its perfection by few of the sterner
Mrs. Thompson hasn't worn the dress yet, explained Mrs. Thompson's
husband. I dare say it's very pretty. He had taken a little roll of
bills from his pocket, but his absent air showed conclusively that he
was thinking neither of them nor of his answer.
Persis lowered her voice confidentially.
If I was you, Mr. Thompson, I wouldn't encourage her in that way of
doing. Maybe it seems like prejudiced advice, coming from a dressmaker,
so, but I never could see there was any saving in hanging a dress away
in the closet and not getting any wear out of it, till it was clear out
of style. You know how it is with young wives. They've got their hearts
so set on having their husbands praise 'em for being saving that they
make those little mistakes. You just tell her that you'd rather spend a
little more money, if it came to that, and see her look her prettiest.
Mrs. Thompson is not began the young husband and broke off
uncertainly. His troubled eyes went to the kind resolute face opposite,
and the little roll of greenbacks dropped to the floor unheeded. Fact
is, said the young fellow, carried away by that impulse toward
confidence which the sight of Persis was likely to inspire in the least
communicative, fact is we're having the deuce of a time.
Persis nodded understandingly. That ain't strange the first year or
so. After the honeymoon's over, then comes the getting acquainted. I
don't care how well folks have known each other beforehand, they've got
to start all over again after they're married. But don't worry; it
don't take long as a rule.
You don't quite get my idea. Young Mr. Thompson scowled at the
floor. It's worse than you think. I'm in a fix, a devil of a fix. Part
of it I'm to blame for. I'm one of those guys with a sense of humor,
you know. I'm the regular George Cohan kind, and between my practical
jokes and some interfering old maidsII beg your pardon.
I'm not partial to 'em myself, smiled Persis reassuringly.
There was an instant of understanding silence. Well, anyway,
groaned the young man, with a little outside help, I've queered myself
for good. And that's tough on a chap not a year married, believe me.
He stared at the floor gloomily and when he lifted his eyes, she saw
the whole story on its way. You wouldn't call Thompson an unusual
name, would you?
One of the commonest, I should say.
And there's nothing so strange about 'W. Thompson' that you'd
strain your neck getting another look at it on a sign. Half the men you
meet are named William, to say nothing of the Walters and the Warrens,
and the new crop of Woodrow Wilsons.
Persis' murmur of agreement was admirably calculated to encourage
the flow of confidence, not to check it.
Look at that. Young Mr. Thompson pulled a letter from his pocket
and slammed it down on the table. There's the proof that I'm a hound
and a blackguard and that hanging would be too good for me. At least
that's what all the women tell my wife. And take it from me, they
Persis picked up the envelope and studied the superscription. It had
originally been addressed to Mr. W. Thompson, Hollenden Hotel,
Cleveland, Ohio, and later redirected in another hand to the firm by
which Mr. Thompson was employed. The unhappy husband explained:
Our men generally stop at the Hollenden when they are in Cleveland.
I never was there in my life. But Hudson, one of our fellows, blew in
one night and noticing a letter directed to W. Thompson, he knew, of
course, it must be for me. That's just the sort of 'buttinski' that
Hudson is. If he'd run across a tombstone with W. Thompson on it, he'd
have expressed it to me before he'd eaten his dinner. So he told the
clerk he knew me and sent the letter on to the main office. Now,
perhaps you'll appreciate the rest of my story better, if you'll read
Gratified by the permission, for young Mr. Thompson had succeeded in
piquing her curiosity, Persis drew the enclosure from the envelope and
for an instant studied the monogram at the head of the sheet. When her
gaze dropped to the address, her eyebrows lifted.
Yes, I know, murmured young Mr. Thompson. 'Tommy darling.' Tommy
is short for Thompson, I suppose. Tommy-rot, I call it. You might read
it aloud if you don't mind. It'll help me to have a realization of what
I'm up against.
Here I am writing you again for all I promised myself that I
wouldn'tnot ever. It makes me feel so dishonorable when I think of
Her. And then, dear, I think of you and everything else is forgotten
for a little while.
That lovely, sad, happy, heart-breaking afternoon together! I've
lived on the memory of it ever since. I thought when we said good-by
that it was for the last time. I really meant it, dear. But now the
thought of never seeing you again is like a great black wall shutting
out everything bright and beautiful. I'm not brave enough to bear it.
Tell me when and where we can see each other, Tommy. I'm not going
to think of Her, but only of you and me and the joy of loving and being
She seems, observed Persis Dale, folding the letter carefully, to
be of a real affectionate disposition. Young Mr. Thompson passed the
comment over without remark.
They gave me the letter at the office. It was pretty near a month
after it was written and I judged the two of them had seen each other
before that, and one lost letter wouldn't matter. And then it occurred
to me that I'd have a little fun with Molly. Get me?
Persis' look indicated understanding rather than approval.
You can't think worse than I've said to myself a thousand times. I
put the letter in my pocket, and I had it all figured out how she'd
find it and ask me about it, and then read it and be angry for about
half a minute. And I took it for granted that I was going to be right
there to explain and that I'd have the laugh on her before she had the
chance to get to feeling real bad. It looked awful funny to me. It's a
great thing to have a man-size sense of humor.
Persis was too interested to smile.
Then the weather got warm and I changed to another suit and forgot
to change the letter. I'd laid several little plots to help her to find
it, like sending her to my pocket for postage stamps, but she didn't
fall to 'em, and finally the letter got to be an old story. I pretty
nearly forgot all about it. When she did find it, I was off on a trip
and she'd talked the thing over with all the old women in the
neighborhood before I got back. He ran his fingers through his hair.
Explain! Well, she thinks it's a mighty slim story, and the deuce of
it is that she's right. Any dam fool could make up a better one.
I b'lieve you could have done better yourself, Persis suggested
smoothly, if you'd been in the story business.
The young fellow looked at her, and a quick flush swept to the roots
of his hair.
That sounds, he began breathlessly, that sounds as if you took
stock in me in spite of the way things look.
I've lived long enough to know that looks are deceiving whether
you're talking about women or just things. Persis studied the address
again and compressed her lips. See that this letter don't get lost,
strayed or stolen, she directed, with that instinctive assumption of
authority which is the badge of the competent. We might find it useful
in clearing things up.
The young man's ruddy color rose again. Then you think he
faltered and broke off.
I think that when folks act fair and square, their lives ain't
going to be ruined by a little mistake. Of course it's going to be
cleared up. Careful, Mr. Thompson. You seem to be stepping on a lot of
money. And it must belong to you, because I can't afford to carpet my
room with greenbacks.
His answering laugh showed the contagion of her optimism. Young Mr.
Thompson picked up his money and paid his bill, I'm going home and
coax Molly into putting on that new dress, he declared boyishly. It's
the first dress I ever bought for her, and I'm crazy to see how she
looks in it.
Persis approved the suggestion. But don't be discouraged if she
needs a lot of coaxing. It's as natural for women to primp and fuss and
fix their hair up pretty ways when they're feeling happy as 'tis for
plants to put out leaves in the spring. But heavy hearts are like
winter weather. If you want any blossoms in December, you've got to
work for 'em. She wrote received payment beneath Mr. Thompson's bill
and went to the secretary for the change. Young Mr. Thompson pocketed
his forty-five cents and detained the hand that tendered it.
Look here, Miss Dale, he said, you've braced me up wonderfully. I
feel more like a man and less like a feather-bolster than I did when I
came in. I wonder if you couldn't He hesitated and pressed her
fingers persuasively. Couldn't you manage to drop a hint to Molly
about appearances being deceptive, you know.
I'll say more than that before I'm done with her, Persis promised
briskly. And they shook hands over again, and young Mr. Thompson
departed with an alert step that argued a corresponding lightness of
heart. And because Persis Dale was a woman of action, she sat down at
the secretary and penned a letter to a total stranger, to Mr. W.
Thompson, care of the Hollenden Hotel, Cleveland. The letter itself was
brief and to the point.
I should like to know if you are expecting word from a young woman
named Enid. In case you are, kindly communicate with the undersigned.
Brief as the letter was its composition took some little time. The
deftness which characterized Persis in most of her work, did not extend
to her epistolary efforts. She was still puckering her forehead over
the page when Thomas Hardin knocked. The door was ajar and glancing
over her shoulder, she called to him to enter.
You'll excuse me for not getting up, Thomas. When once I sit down
to an ink bottle, I stick to it till I finish. I'm in a hurry to get
this letter off to-night. She wrote the address and dried the ink by
moving the paper gently back and forth.
Thomas' face showed relief. He had come prepared to make a painful
disclosure and the brief period of waiting was as welcome as similar
postponement to the possessor of an aching tooth who calls at the
dentist's office and finds the practitioner busy. But as Persis
immediately proceeded to fold the letter and seal the envelope, his
respite was brief.
Persis, did you know there was insanity in my family?
Persis, applying a crumpled stamp to the tip of her tongue, started
violently. Good gracious, Thomas, no! I never heard it mentioned.
I thought maybe 'twas my duty to speak to you about it. It was my
great-uncle, Captain Silas Hardin. He was my father's uncle, and he
Why, I know all about him, Thomas. How he was shipwrecked off in
the Indian Ocean somewhere and floated around on a raft, and the
different ones got crazy with the heat and thirst and all and jumped
overboard. And it was an English ship that found the old captain, and
he was just raving when they took him aboard. I can remember him when I
was a little girl. There was a blue anchor tattooed on his hand, and I
thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world. But then he was
as sensible as anybody.
Yes, he was all right in his later days, but when he first came
home from England, he had lots of queer ways about him, I've heard my
mother say. And as long as he lived, he'd stand off and stare at the
corner of the room where there wasn't nothing with his eyes kind of
fixed, and it was enough to make your hair rise up to look at him.
I don't wonder, poor soul. I guess if we'd seen what he had,
there'd be times when it would all come back to us. By the way, Thomas,
seeing as you go right past the post-office, I'll ask you to mail this
letter. I want it to be sure to get off the first mail.
Thomas tacitly accepted the commission by holding out his hand for
the letter. Then he read the superscription. W. Thompson! Why, there's
a W. Thompson in Clematis.
This, replied Persis, and the confidence of her tone would have
warmed the heart of young Mr. Thompson, this is a different one.
Thomas waited to hear more, but no further particulars were
vouchsafed. He felt mildly aggrieved. Didn't know you had
acquaintances in Cleveland, he suggested by way of a stimulus to
I haven't many. Persis compressed her lips, and Thomas looked
again at the envelope. The sense of elation due to the discovery that
Persis was disposed to regard the insanity of Captain Silas Hardin
lightly, was eclipsed by a new anxiety. Persis had friends of whose
existence he was unaware. She corresponded with men in distant cities.
These apparently trivial facts took on greater import as he mused. His
own chances to win her, dishearteningly small at the best of times in
view of his checkered record, suddenly sank below the level of
insignificance and ceased to exist.
He looked across at Persis on the other side of the table. She had
picked up a piece of sewing, but her look of absorption showed that her
trained fingers were doing their work without the supervision of the
brain. Nor could he flatter himself that her thoughts were of him. He
was a modest man, but for the moment he resented with bitterness the
self-evident fact that she was temporarily oblivious to his presence.
He got to his feet, pushing back his chair noisily. Maybe I'd
better be going, so's your letter will be dead sure to get to the
post-office on time, he said, his voice harsh with disappointment.
Persis stooped to bite a thread. Thank you, Thomas, she answered
placidly. I'll be easier in my mind when I know it's mailed.
CHAPTER VIII. EVE AND THE APPLE
Joel was aggrieved. For the second time in a month his sister was
planning to desert him. Putting the claims of an unborn infant before
his comfort, Persis had basely abandoned him to the wiles of Susan
Fitzgerald. And now she had agreed, though reluctantly, to do a day's
work for Mrs. Hornblower at the latter's home. That thrifty housewife
had urged a lame knee as her reason for requesting Persis to depart so
radically from her usual custom, and Persis had accepted the excuse
Fact is, Lena Hornblower can never get it into her head that I'm a
dressmaker and not a sewing girl, Persis confided to Joel at the
breakfast table. I'm not saying that her knee ain't lame, but I guess
if she can stand up to be fitted, she'd be equal to getting in and out
of a buggy. Lena Hornblower's always looking for a chance to save a
penny. She's got an idea that it's bound to be cheaper to have your
sewing done at the house. All I can say, concluded Persis, buttering
her toast, is that she's going to find herself mistaken.
Joel's abstracted gaze indicated a total lack of interest in the
I've been thinking, he remarked with that suavity of manner as
prophetic of a storm as thunder-claps in July, that I might as well
get me a room somewhere in the neighborhood. There's no sense in making
a pretense that you're keeping house for me when you're gadding and
gadding, here to-day and to-morrow off the Lord knows where. If I had a
comfortable room, somewheres, continued Joel, with the noble
resignation of conscious martyrdom, and a little stove so's I could
get my meals, then I'd know just what to expect, and I wouldn't have to
ask no odds of nobody.
Persis had listened to similar propositions before. It was a
perennial threat which in the passing of years had lost its power to
terrify. Yet with the inevitable feminine impulse to smooth the
feathers of ruffled masculinity, she began, When I drove by Susan
Fitzgerald's yesterday morning
Joel set down his coffee cup with an emphasis that splashed the
That'll do, Persis. I'll tell you once for all that I won't have
that woman here. I can go hungry if it comes to that, but I won't stand
for your putting that old maid up to set her cap for me.
Goodness, Joel, Susan hasn't any reason in life to want to
marryanybody. Persis had come very near an uncomplimentary
frankness, but her native tact had suddenly asserted itself and made
the statement general.
Joel smiled satirically.
Maybe you know better'n I do about that, and then again, maybe you
don't, he replied darkly. Then with a reversion to his air of injury,
he added: Here's Hornblower come for you already.
As a matter of fact, the thrifty Mrs. Hornblower had despatched her
husband for Persis at the earliest hour permissible, resolved to prove
the economy of her scheme by adding to the activities of the day at
both ends. Persis, quite aware of her patron's purpose, smiled
comprehendingly and proceeded to clear the table without undue haste or
excitement. Mr. Hornblower had waited full thirty minutes before she
came lightly down the path and with unruffled serenity bade him good
Sorry to keep you waiting, but you were half an hour ahead of the
time I said.
Robert Hornblower, who had that repressed and submissive air not
infrequent in husbands whose wives make a boast of their womanly
subjection, mumbled that it didn't matter. As he helped her to her
seat, Persis noticed that he had lost flesh since she had seen him
last, and that some plow-share, sharper than that of time, had deepened
the furrows that criss-crossed his sagging cheeks. How're the crops
coming on? she asked, as she settled herself beside him.
Fine! Mr. Hornblower spoke with a lack of reserve unusual in his
pessimistic profession. Potatoes ain't quite up to last year, but the
corn crop's a record breaker.
Mis' Hornblower's knee trouble her much?
Well, no, not to say trouble. Mr. Hornblower plucked his beard
with his disengaged hand and cast a thoughtful glance at his companion.
She's a little oneasy in her mind though, Mis' Hornblower is. She's
got an idea in her head and it keeps her as oneasy as a flea. If she
should open up to you, maybe you'd see your way to say something kind
But what's she got to worry about?
That's what I say, said Mr. Hornblower, gesturing with his whip.
We're comf'table and prosperous, ain't we? Maybe there's a way to get
more. I don't say there ain't. But what's the use of more, when you've
got enough? The house suits me just as 'tis, and my victuals suit me,
and my friends that I've summered and wintered with, forty years and
over, they suit me, too. What do I want of a villa, or of trips to
Europe, where the folks talk all kinds of heathenish gibberish instead
of good United States!
But I don't see how
Maybe she'll open up to you, repeated Mr. Hornblower, lowering his
voice though such a precaution was obviously unnecessary. Mind I don't
say it ain't a pretty scheme. Anyhow, it looks good on paper. But with
me the point's just hereenough's enough.
Persis found Mrs. Hornblower more communicative than her spouse. As
all roads lead to Rome, so, with Mrs. Hornblower, all topics of
conversation led directly to the subject uppermost in her thoughts. The
inevitable discussion of the prevailing modes led by a short path to
Persis' full enlightenment.
I want it fixed real tasty, Persis, for all it's not a new dress.
I've had it going on four years, but I've been sparing of it and
careful, so it's not like a dress you wear for getting supper and for
trailing round in the yard after the dew falls. Robert's always been
fond of this dress. I s'pose I'm kind of foolish to humor him so, but
I'm always careful about consulting his tastes. Seems as if a wife had
ought to be satisfied if she dresses in a way that pleases her
Sometimes I've thought, replied Persis, as she turned the pages of
her latest fashion magazine, that when it comes to women's clothes,
men don't know what they do like. If a man goes with his wife to buy a
hat, nine times out of ten, he'll pick out the worst-looking thing in
the shop, and then he'll wonder why she's falling off in her looks.
Now, Mis' Hornblower, what do you think of this pannier style? Taking
out the extra fulness from the back and using it in folds, I could hide
where it's getting worn on the seams.
I s'pose we'd have a better choice of styles by waiting for next
month's book, said Mrs. Hornblower, regarding the model Persis had
indicated with an evident lack of favor. But my plans are so unsettled
that I want to hurry through my dress-making. I dare say you've heard
we're likely to leave Clematis 'most any time.
I'd heard it hinted, but I didn't take much stock in it. Clematis
would be sorry to lose you, and it would be pretty hard on you leaving
Mrs. Hornblower smiled. Oh, I haven't a thing against Clematis,
Persis. Robert says that of course it doesn't give a man any kind of a
chance to make money and I guess he's right. I believe in leaving such
things for the men-folks to settle. These new-fangled women who are
always setting up to know best and saying what they will do and what
they won't do, can't have much of an opinion of the Bible. I'm sure it
says as plain as the nose on your face 'wives obey your husbands,' and
'where thou goest I will go.'
Persis scrutinized the back breadths of the lavender foulard. But
Ruth was talking to her mother-in-law, she objected, off her guard for
the instant, since only the death of Mrs. Hornblower senior, had ended
the hostilities between herself and her son's wife. Then regretting her
tactless words, she hastened to say, Don't you think that when a man
gets to Mr. Hornblower's age, he does better in work he's used to than
if he tries his hand at something new? It's easy enough transplanting a
sapling, but an old tree's different.
It all depends, replied Mrs. Hornblower coldly, piqued, as Persis
had feared, by her reference to the delicate subject. But her desire to
dazzle the plodding dressmaker with visions of her future prosperity,
proved too much for her resentment. And soon, as they ripped and
basted, Mrs. Hornblower was dilating on the unparalleled opportunity
for wealth furnished by the Apple of Eden Investment Company. She
quoted freely from its literature and outlined, with more or less
detail, the care-free and opulent existence upon which the family of
Hornblower would enter when the farm had been sold and the proceeds
It's a disappointment to me that the whole thing isn't settled and
done with by this time. But I always leave Robert to decide such
matters, and Robert thought 'twas best to wait till Mr. Ware's visit.
Ouch! My goodness gracious, Persis! You must take my arm for a
This time Persis' contrition was not assumed.
I'm awfully sorry, Mis' Hornblower. The lining's so thin. I'll have
the sleeve off in a shake before it gets spotted.
That'll have to be bandaged, exclaimed Mrs. Hornblower, surveying
her injured arm in the mirror with a not unnatural annoyance. A little
prick is to be expected now and then when you're dress-making, but this
was a regular jab. I don't know what ails you, Persis. Looks like your
mind must have been running on Thomas Hardin.
Persis' unwonted humility was disarming, and by dinner-time Mrs.
Hornblower was sufficiently recovered to be patronizing.
Of course this foulard is a sort of make-shift, you might say,
Persis. It'll do me till I have a chance to get something real
up-to-date and dressy in Paris.
Persis, laying down her work as the clock struck twelve, had no
reply to make, and Robert Hornblower, whose punctuality at meals was
notable, a characteristic shared by all henpecked husbands, entered the
house at that moment, casting a quick glance at his wife's face as a
sailor watches the sky for signs of a squall.
We've spent the morning fixing up your favorite gown, so as it'll
be pretty near as good as new, Persis informed him, as she accepted a
well-filled plate at his hands. Then as the farmer looked a little
blank, she directed his attention to the renovated lavender foulard
hanging over a chair.
Mr. Hornblower's expression was still vague. Oh, you mean that
The women interrupted him with a derisive cry of Pink! But while
Persis laughed, Mrs. Hornblower flashed upon her husband a look of
As if I'd ever wore pink or ever would, a color for children.
Them bright colors is all one to me, said the unhappy Mr.
Hornblower, proceeding with fatal facility to make a bad matter worse.
They're all too kind of flashy. Now, my mother used to have a dress,
he continued, meeting Persis' sympathetic gaze, that suited me down to
the ground. Satin, it was, or maybe 'twas silk or velvet. Anyhow, it
looked rich. And it was sort of silvery, and then again, darker'n
silver and sort of ripply and shiny
Robert ain't very well posted on names, said Robert's wife with
deadly calm. But he knows what he likes, same as most men, and that
lavender foulard has always been his special favorite. His special
favorite, she repeated sternly, as she met her husband's wavering eye.
Oh, the lavender foulard! exclaimed Mr. Hornblower, with an
unsuccessful attempt to give the impression that only at that moment
had he discovered what they were talking about. The lavender foulard,
to be sure. He cut himself an enormous slice from the boiled beef and
bowed his head over his plate, as if offering thanks for an excuse to
retire gracefully from the conversation.
But this did not agree with Mrs. Hornblower's intentions. Tired,
ain't you, Robert? Her solicitude was so marked as to suggest an
I guess this is about as busy a time of year as any, commented
And Mr. Hornblower, having now reached a point in his struggle with
the boiled beef where he could make himself intelligible, began
ponderously, Oh, as far as that goes
Robert realizes that he ain't as young as he was, said Mrs.
Hornblower, taking the words from his mouth. While he's not an old man
yet, he feels that he's done his share of work. If there's a good time
waiting for him, he means to get to it before he's so old it won't do
him any good.
Sometimes I think, observed Persis sententiously, that enjoying
one's self's a good deal like jam. You spread it on bread and butter,
and you can eat a sight of it. But if you set down to a pot of jam and
nothing else, it turns your stomach in no time.
The sudden illumination of Mr. Hornblower's heavy features indicated
that he had grasped Persis' metaphor. He broke out eagerly. Now,
that's just what I was saying to my wife. If a man
Robert looks at it this way, explained Mrs. Hornblower, deftly
cutting in. He says he couldn't enjoy himself just idling, but he
don't look on travel and improving his mind in that light. Robert feels
that enlarging your horizon, and getting culture and polish is a part
of anybody's duty. Robert feels real strongly on that subject,
concluded Mrs. Hornblower, looking hard at her husband, as if defying
him to deny it.
The worm made a visible effort to turn. Whatever you may say about
Clematis, said Mr. Hornblower, apparently with the full intention of
paying an impassioned tribute to his native town. But again the
supports were cut from beneath his feet, and he was left dangling in
Robert thinks as well of Clematis as anybody, Mrs. Hornblower
acknowledged generously. He's got a real fondness for the town. But as
he says, the world's a big place, and it don't stand to reason that all
of it that's worth seeing is right under our noses. Robert says that
some folks who think they're so dreadful patriotic are nothing in the
world but narrow.
For a moment Mr. Hornblower seemed tempted to take up the gauntlet
with himself, challenging his own forcibly expressed convictions. And
then as if realizing the uselessness of such an attempt, he sighed
heavily and sought consolation in the gravy. And Mrs. Hornblower
demonstrated the sweeping character of her victory by saying
plaintively: Of course a woman always feels breaking off old
associations the way a man can't understand. Robert laughs at me. He
says he b'lieves I fairly get attached to a mop I've used and hate to
change to a new one. But a woman can't be a good wife, Persis, and
think of herself. She's just got to set aside her own feelings and
preferences, and look at what's best for her husband.
It was characteristic of Mrs. Hornblower's shrewdness that supper
was always late when she had a dressmaker in the house. The fire
refused to draw. A scarcity of eggs necessitated a change in her plans
for supper, and the new menu invariably demanded more time than that
originally decided upon. Persis, left to herself, and thoroughly
understanding the purpose back of these various delays and
postponements, smiled grimly, yet not without a certain reluctant
admiration, and retaliated by sewing more and more slowly. And for the
hundredth time that day, her thoughts returned to Mrs. Hornblower's
careless reference to a prospective visit. Mr. Ware! Could she have
meant Justin? His connection with the apple company made this seem
almost certain, and yet it was inconceivable that Lena Hornblower
should refer to his coming with such nonchalant certainty when she
herself was in the dark. Persis' capable hands dropped to her lap. For
the minute she was a girl again, parting from the boy who loved her,
lifting her tear-wet face for the comfort of his kisses. Twenty years!
Twenty long hard years! And now Justin Ware was really coming home.
She put the question bluntly to Robert Hornblower as he drove her
home after dark. Your wife said something about a Mr. Ware's coming
here before long. I used to go to school with somebody of that name,
The depressed and silent Mr. Hornblower roused himself.
It's the same one. The Wares never had nothing, but I guess this
here Justin has cleaned up a lot of money. Don't follow that everybody
could do the same in his place, though. Some folks have the luck, and
some have got the pluck, and some have both. He sighed. Of course you
understand, Persis, that Lena wants me to do exactly as I think best.
Onlyonly when a woman gets her heart set on a thing, a man feels like
a brute to think of having his own way.
Yes, Persis said gently, I understand. And then with more
optimism than she felt she added: Maybe something will happen so
she'll look at it different.
Thomas Hardin and Joel were awaiting her in the unsocial silence
characteristic of their sex when no feminine incentive to
conversational brilliancy is at hand. Thomas' eyes kindled as he said
good evening. Joel, after two meals in which he had fended for himself,
looked more than ever like an early Christian martyr. There's a letter
come for you, he said with marked coldness.
Persis whirled about, a wild foolish hope in her heart. A letter?
On the mantel, next the clock! Joel's eyes followed his sister as
she crossed the room with that quick light step, so reminiscent of
girlhood. She pounced upon the letter and even her brother's eyes,
dimmed by life-long self-absorption, could see that her face fell.
I didn't know you knew anybody in Cleveland.
Cleveland. In some mysterious manner, Persis' animation had
returned. The confirmed meddler has one thing in her favor, that
whatever the crisis of her own fortunes, there are always the affairs
of other people to distract her thoughts. She dropped into a chair by
the lamp and read the brief letter with breathless interest, too
absorbed even to apologize.
Miss Persis Dale,
Dear MadamYours of the 12th inst. received. I am at a loss to
understand your very extraordinary inquiry, unless by some chance a
letter intended for me has fallen into your hands. In that case I am
enclosing stamps to have it forwarded by special delivery. I hardly
need remind you that it is a serious offence in the eyes of the law to
retain mail which is the property of another person.
Hollenden Hotel, Cleveland, Ohio.
Joel stared at his sister as she read down the page, her color
rising, a curious, triumphant little smile playing about her lips.
Thomas glowered at the floor. So this answer to the letter he himself
had posted, was responsible for that look on her face.
I guess I'll have to be going, he exclaimed, getting to his feet
with the conviction that he had borne all that was possible for the
Persis glanced up in surprise. Already, Thomas? Well, give my love
to Nellie when you see her. She crossed the room and placed the letter
in her writing-desk, that triumphant smile still transforming her face.
It might have brought comfort to Thomas' heart if he had seen her an
hour or two later, for the smile had disappeared. She stood before the
plush-framed photograph upon the mantel, a strange wistful wonder on
Oh, Justin, she whispered as she looked. Oh, Justin, Justin! She
put out her hands as if for all their capable strength they felt the
need of a comforting touch. And then the amiable young face smiling
back at her, blurred before her wet appealing eyes.
CHAPTER IX. A DAY TO HERSELF
Persis had resolved on a new gown.
The livelier iris which in spring changes on the burnished dove,
reveals nature's universal tactics. On looking over her wardrobe after
her day at the Hornblower farm, Persis had been appalled by its
manifest shortcomings. The black mohair, held to the light, betrayed an
unmistakable greenish tinge. The navy blue was long since out of style.
As for the wine-colored henrietta, it had never been becoming. The
material had been presented Persis by a customer who had unexpectedly
gone into mourning, and she had made it up and worn it with much the
emotion of an old-time penitent in his hair-cloth shirt. And yet in
twenty-four hours the mohair had not become perceptibly greener nor was
the blue more strikingly passée. It was Persis herself who had changed.
As she stood before the mirror, fitting her own lining, she defended
her course as the wisest women will do, though when judge, jury and
advocate are all one, the verdict is a foregone conclusion. She
tightened the seam under her arm, used the scissors discreetly here and
there, and continued to argue the point, though there was none who had
a right to question or to criticize.
It's bad policy for a dressmaker to go around shabby. It's like a
doctor with an invalid wife and sickly children. And anyway, I haven't
had anything new for over a year, unless I count that blue chambray
wrapper. As little as I spend on clothes, I guess when I do want a new
gown it's nobody's business.
The argument was plausible, convincing. Any listener who had been on
the point of accusing Persis of extravagance, must have humbly
acknowledged his mistake and begged her pardon. But Persis had a harder
task than to convince an outsider that she needed an addition to her
wardrobe. She was striving, and without success, to alter her own
uneasy conviction that the prospective visit of Justin Ware was
responsible for her novel and engrossing interest in her personal
Persis, studying her reflection in the mirror, directed the point of
the scissors toward her throat as if deliberating suicide. I wonder,
she mused, how 'twould look to have it turn away at the neck in a V.
'Tisn't as if I was sixty.
The scissors, obedient to the suggestion, snipped a cautious line
directly beneath Persis' chin. The cambric was folded back to give the
desired V-effect, and Persis' countenance assumed an expression of
complacence altogether justifiable. Then at this most inopportune
moment, Joel entered.
Persis, have you seen my bottle of Rand's Remedy? Joel had reached
the stage, perhaps the most dangerous in his unceasing round, when he
was ready to accept implicitly the claims made for every patent
panacea. He dosed himself without mercy. He had a different pill for
every hour, pills for promoting digestion, for regulating the heart
action, for producing flesh. He swallowed weird powders, before and
after meals. He took a wine-glass of a sticky unwholesome-looking fluid
before retiring. Every periodical that came into the house he scanned
for advertisements of proprietary remedies, and his manner sometimes
suggested a complete willingness to contract asthma or sciatica in
order to have an excuse for testing the cures so glowingly endorsed.
The spectacle of his sister, becomingly arrayed in the lining of the
new gown, temporarily eclipsed the claims of Rand's Remedy. Joel came
to a jerky halt and stood open-mouthed.
Dress-goods must be getting expensive. Having convinced himself
that his eyes had not deceived him, Joel relieved his feelings by heavy
sarcasm. It's a pity you can't afford cloth enough to cover you. I
guess it's true that modesty's getting to be a lost art when a woman of
your age will flaunt around
The goaded Persis spoke to the point. Seems to me I remember not so
very long back when you were taking a constitutional out on the front
lawn without much more'n a bath-towel between you and the public.
What are you talking about? Joel reddened angrily. I'm a man,
Well, we won't discuss that, seeing it's nothing to do with the
case. But I will say that the very men who make the most fuss about
women's dressing immodest, wouldn't mind riding through town on a band
wagon with nothing on but a pair of tights. And I think they'd be in
better business looking after the beams in their own eyes.
That sort of thing is meant to allure. Joel pointed an accusing
finger toward the V-neck. It's 'stepping o'er the bounds of modesty,'
as Shakespeare says, to entice your fellowmen.
The jaw-bone of that ass that Samson killed a thousand Philistines
with, returned Persis severely, ain't to be compared for deadliness,
it seems, with a woman's collar-bone. Looks to me as if 'twas high time
to stop calling women the weaker sex when it takes so little to bring
about a man's undoing. I've known plenty of foolish women in my time,
but the most scatter-brained, silly girl I ever set my eyes on could
see any number of men with their collars off and their trousers rolled
up and not be any more allured than if she was looking at so many
gate-posts. You men have certainly got to be a feeble sex, Joel. The
wonder is you don't mind owning up to it.
'Vanity of vanities,' taunted Joel from the doorway, 'all is
vanity.' He withdrew hastily, carrying with him the uneasy conviction
that he had come off second-best in the encounter. And Persis, her
cheeks hot with indignation, cut the V-neck a good eighth of an inch
lower than she had intended.
In spite of this inauspicious beginning, she was presently singing
over her work. There was something distinctly exhilarating in the idea
of devoting a week to her personal needs, keeping her customers
waiting, if necessary, though she hardly thought this probable, as the
season was still slack. And the elation of her mood reached its climax
when Annabel Sinclair sent Diantha down to say that she wished her
black net made over, and was in a hurry. Persis had heard nothing from
Annabel since Diantha had worn home her first long dress. And though
she had reckoned on the probability that the opening of the fall season
would bring her irate patron to terms, Persis experienced vast
satisfaction in returning a nonchalant reply to the peremptory message.
Can't do a thing just now, Diantha. Next week, Friday, if your
mother hasn't got anybody else
Oh, she won't get anybody else, Miss Persis. Nobody else would suit
Diantha looked taller and more mature than ever in a plain, loosely
fitting blue serge. Persis appraised it with judicial eye. Ready made,
ain't it, Diantha?
The girl blushed tempestuously, Yes, father bought it for me in the
city. Mother said That other dress, you know
Yes, I s'pose your mother thought we'd ought to have consulted her,
instead of going ahead. Well, tell her I'm busy for the rest of this
week, Diantha, and for next, up till Friday.
If this were a dismissal, Diantha failed to accept it. She perched
on the arm of the big chair and watched with fascinated eyes the heavy
shears biting their way through a filmy fabric of a delicate gray
shade. How pretty! Diantha murmured. Then with more animation. Thad
West says you're the best dressmaker anywhere around here. He says that
you could make lots of money in the city.
I'm quite set up by his good opinionseeing he knows so much about
it. That Persis' dry retort veiled sarcasm was far from Diantha's
thought. She continued guilelessly.
He's got such good taste, Thad has. Don't you think men have better
taste than women, Miss Persis? All women care about is following the
styles, and men think whether the way you do your hair is becoming or
not. If a thing isn't pretty, they don't care a bit about its being
Persis glanced up from her cutting. She had noticed this phenomenon
before, the impulse of the girl who feels a proprietary interest in
some particular male, to indulge in sweeping generalities concerning
the opposite sex. When Persis had schemed to bring about the dramatic
encounter between Thad West and the Diantha newly emerged from the
chrysalis stage, she had but one end in view; to show the young man the
essential absurdity of any sentimental acquaintance between himself and
the mother of this blooming maid. With a vague uneasiness she realized
the possibility that she had overshot the mark.
I think Thad dresses beautifully himself, Diantha purred on. When
you're little you can't see but what men's clothes are all alike. Isn't
that funny? Now, Thad's neckties
There was a heavy step upon the porch, and Persis was spared further
harrowing details. Oh, it's the doctor, Diantha cried, with a sigh
for her interrupted confidences. Is anybody sick?
Nobody here, said Persis, and she echoed Diantha's sigh. The
doctor's appearance suggested that she might be needed to act as nurse
in some household too poor to pay for professional care. For a dozen
years the old doctor had called on her freely for such gratuitous
service, and his successor had promptly fallen into a similar practise.
At this juncture Persis felt a most unchristian reluctance to act the
part of ministering angel in any sick room. Nothing adds to a woman's
apparent age so rapidly as working by day and caring for the sick at
night. Persis had seen herself, on more than one occasion, take on ten
years in a week of such double duty. And just now she wanted to appear
youthful and pretty, not haggard and worn. She greeted the doctor less
cordially than was her wont for the reason that in her heart she knew
she must do whatever he asked.
Doctor Ballard shook hands with Persis, nodded casually to Diantha
and waited openly for that ingenuous young person to take her
departure. As the door closed behind her, he dropped into the armchair
she had vacated, crossed his legs and sighed.
Miss Persis, I'm up a tree. I want some advice.
You're welcome to all I've got. Persis, regretting the reserve of
her greeting, beamed upon him affectionately.
Did you ever know a woman to die just because she'd decided that
was the proper caper?
Trouble? Persis questioned laconically.
Lord, no! Everything comfortable. Husband who worships her. As far
as I can diagnose the case, it's a sort of homesickness for the pearly
Kind of as if she'd got disgusted with this world, suggested
Persis, with one of her flashes of intuition, and wanted to get some
place where things would be more congenial.
You've hit it to a T. Now, what I want to know is this, can people
keep up that kind of nonsense till they die of it? I've got a patient
right now who's lost thirty pounds by it. She won't eat. She won't make
an effort. She sits around smiling like an angel off on sick-leave, and
the same as tells me I can't do anything for her because she's wanted
over the river. Husband's about crazy.
What's her name?
Professional caution did not seal Doctor Ballard's tips. In many a
sick room, by more than one deathbed, he and this keen-eyed woman had
come to know each other with a completeness of understanding which even
wedlock does not always bring. It's Nelson Richards' wife, he said
without hesitation, nor did he ask her to respect his confidence.
Yes, I mistrusted it was Charlotte Richards. Goodness has always
been Charlotte's specialty, so to speak, the kind of goodness, Persis
explained carefully, that ain't good for anything in particular. And
she's lost thirty pounds?
I'd stake my professional reputation, said the doctor vehemently,
that nothing ails that woman except that she thinks Heaven would be a
better background for her saintliness than earth. The question is
whether she can carry it to the point of suicide.
Of course she can, if she wants to. I've seen it happen more'n
once. The thing to do is to give her a reason for wanting to stay on
earthto look after things. Persis stood motionless, the hand holding
the shears extended in a fashion suggesting Lady Macbeth. A spark of
light illumined her meditative eyes.
Well? said the doctor hopefully. He recognized the signs.
I won't say that I haven't got an idea, but it'll bear thinking
aboutPersis' favorite formula. I'll try to find time to drop in and
She doesn't need cheering, you understand, said the doctor. She's
as cheerful as the devil himself. 'A very bad night, doctor, and the
palpitation is worse. This morning my Heavenly home seems very near.'
He mimicked Mrs. Richards' sanctimonious tones with a skill which won
even from the abstracted Persis the tribute of a smile.
No, I won't try to cheer her, she promised. Stirring up, not
cheering up, is what Charlotte needs. And I don't say but what I've got
an idea. I can't spare any time for a few days, though, Doctor. I need
to do some sewing for myself, and I'm going to do it, come what may.
Vain boast. Persis was washing the dishes after the midday meal when
Joel entered the kitchen to announce a caller. It's the Chase girl,
Mildred I think her name is. Anyway, it's the oldest one. And I guess
she wants a dress made. She's got a bundle under her arm.
Persis thought this unlikely. Those Chase girls make their own
clothes and do pretty well at it, too. I've often wanted to give 'em a
few hints about the shoulder seams, but except for that, they look real
shipshape. And anyway, I can't do anything for a week yet. I'm going to
attend to my own sewing.
Mildred Chase greeted Persis with a smile so radiant as to give a
misleading impression of comeliness. She shook hands with the
dressmaker, apparently struggling against an impulse to fall on her
neck and kiss her. Persis, whose acquaintance with the girl was
comparatively slight, viewed those indications of overmastering
affection with perplexity.
Mildred did not wait to be questioned. Her volubility suggested that
she could not have withheld information if she had tried.
Oh, Miss Dale; I've got the greatest news to tell you. You'd never
guess in the world. I'm going to be married.
Well, all I can say is, Mildred, that it's not the most surprising
news I ever heard, Persis answered kindly. There was something
pleasant in the sight of this flushed, happy young creature who only
the other day had been a dull heavy-eyed girl and soon would be a dull
heavy-eyed wife. It was her little hour, her transient spring-time.
Persis choked back a sigh.
Mildred was fumbling at the parcel in her lap. I've always said one
thing, that if ever I got married, Miss Dale was going to make my
wedding dress. I can sew well enough for ordinary clothes, but a
wedding dress is sort of special. That calls for a regular dressmaker,
and there ain't but one dressmaker in Clematis that counts.
When's the wedding to be? Persis asked. A sudden sinking of the
heart foretold the answer.
It's a week from Saturday. It's so sudden that I can hardly believe
it myself. We didn't think we could be married for a year, anyway, but
Jim got a raise unexpected. They're going to send him West, and he's
bound I shall go when he does.
The parcel was unwrapped at last, its shimmering white contents
contrasting with the girl's shabby dress and work-roughened hands, much
as the dreams of the wedding-day contrast with the hard realities that
follow. Persis looked, hesitated, thought of the filmy gray, just cut
and awaiting basting, thought of the hopes that linked the present with
her lost girlhood, and ended as she had always ended, by unselfish
It's pretty goods, she said, touching it lightly with the tips of
her fingers. Andand there's nothing I like better to make than
wedding clothes, my dear.
Certain important details came up for discussion, interrupted
frequently by the outgushing of Mildred's artless confidences, to all
of which Persis listened patiently. And when the girl took her
departure, the impulse which had manifested itself on her arrival
proved too strong to resist. She kissed Persis good-by, and Persis
returned the kiss.
The rudimentary beginnings of a new gray gown were bundled together
and tucked away to wait their fate, while Persis worked till a late
hour on Mildred Chase's wedding dress. But tired as she was, with that
undercurrent of depression which sometimes most unjustly is the
attendant on generous sacrifice, she found time to write a letter to a
gentleman named Thompson, in care of the Hollenden Hotel, Cleveland.
Mr. W. Thompson:
Dear SirYours received. Nothing could be further from my wish
than to keep anything that belongs to somebody else, but you can
understand that I don't feel like sending a young lady's letter to the
first man who happens to ask for it, especially as Thompson is not what
you would call an unusual name. If the young lady who wrote the letter
will drop me a line asking me to forward it to you, I'll be happy to
oblige her. She won't even have to write any thing but her first name,
unless she likes.
P. S. If the young lady will tell me your full name, when she
writes, it will make you a lot surer to get the letter. W. Thompson is
a name that fits lots of people.
This epistolary weight off her conscience, Persis went up-stairs to
bed, and for the first time in twenty years, she went without a good
night to the photograph in the blue plush frame.
CHAPTER X. SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE
Justin Ware arrived in town the day Persis finished Mildred's
wedding dress. She heard the news from Joel, who had been at the
station when the train came in. This was not a happy accident, nor was
it intended as a spontaneous welcome to the returning son of Clematis.
Year in and year out, except when the state of his health prevented,
Joel kept a standing engagement with the four-twenty train, and few
left town or entered it without his knowledge.
He's filled out considerable, Justin Ware has, but except for that
he hasn't changed much. Got a seal ring and silk lining to his
overcoat. He ain't what you call a flashy dresser, but he lays it all
over the young chaps like Thad West who think they're so swell.
Persis listened without comment. She had worked unusually hard that
week, and the tired lines of her face acknowledged as much. She set
them at defiance in a peculiarly feminine fashion by dressing that
evening in the unbecoming henrietta and doing her hair in the plainest,
most severe fashion. At half past seven Thomas Hardin came.
That Ware feller is going to put up at the Clematis House. He's a
big bug all right. Wanted a private setting-room, he did, Thomas
chuckled. Guess he's the sort that can't remember back further than he
feels like doing. Old man Ware's private setting-room was a keg o'
nails in Sol Peter's store. Nobody else ever thought of taking that
particular keg. Stood right back of the stove, I remember. You never
caught old man Ware putting on any airs.
Justin and me was always the best of friends, said Joel, puffing
out his thin chest pompously, as if he felt himself vicariously honored
by Mr. Ware's tendency to exclusiveness. We took a shine to each other
when we were little shavers. As Addison says:
'Great souls by instinct to each other turn
Demand alliance, and in friendship burn!'
Yes, sir, it was a real David and Jonathan affair. That's his
picture upon the mantel now.
Thomas Hardin turned his head. 'Tis so, he assented. Hasn't
changed such an all-fired lot only now he looks as if he'd cut his
wisdom teeth quite a spell back. His gaze wandered to Persis, silently
basting the breadths of a gray crêpe skirt. You must have been
acquainted with him, too, he said politely, striving to include her in
Yes, I knew him. Persis did not lift her eyes.
All the family knew Justin, Joel explained. Him and me being such
friends, he was in and out of the house same as if he belonged here. I
didn't speak to him to-day, because I never was one to cheapen myself
by doing my visiting on a depot platform. We'll have plenty of chances
to talk over old times.
'There is nothing can equal the tender hours
When life is first in bloom.'
It seemed to Persis during the next two days that wherever she
turned she heard of Justin Ware. There was no escaping the subject.
Without question Justin's business methods were the acme of up-to-date
effectiveness. An outbreak of war could hardly have stirred the town to
more seething excitement than the advent of this well-dressed young man
with his self-confident air and full pocketbook. Clematis was
apple-mad. The Apple of Eden Investment Company and its optimistic
promises eclipsed in interest the combined fascinations of politics and
scandal. The groups in those local lounging-places, which in rural
communities are the legitimate successors of the Roman forum, passed
over prospective congressional legislation and Annabel Sinclair's
latest escapade in favor of apple orchards. The statistics which fell
so convincingly from Ware's lips were quoted, derided, defended,
denied. The hardest argument the objectors had to encounter was Ware
himself. The atmosphere of prosperity surrounding him, his air of
familiarity with luxury, could not be offset by logic. The program of
the Clematis Woman's Club was fairly swamped by the eagerness of the
members to question Mrs. Hornblower as to the possibilities of profit
in this form of investment. Persis, who had come to the meeting late,
went away early while the discussion was at its height and missed a
paper by Gladys Wells entitled, No Knot at the End of the Thread.
Persis Dale was not lacking in self-respect. But for twenty years
her self-respect had been identical with her loyalty. She could not
fancy the one arrayed against the other. She clung desperately to the
hope that Justin would explain. For half her lifetime she had found
excuses for his silence, and the habit was too strong to be smothered
overnight. But even her prejudiced tenderness recognized the
insufficiency of the grounds on which she had exonerated the lover of
her girlhood from blame. It was no longer possible to judge his faith
by her own, scorning all doubt of him as she would have scorned the
grossest of temptations. She could have borne the news of his death
without outward evidence of emotion, but this bewilderment and
uncertainty taxed her strength almost to the breaking point. Through
the days, with the help of her work, she kept herself so well in hand
as almost to believe that the victory was lasting. But as the dusk
settled down, the old questioning began. Would he come? Could he stay
away longer? He had been in town five days without seeing her, six
days, seven. Against her will and her judgment, she found herself
waiting, listening, hoping. Footsteps echoed outside, lagging feet,
reluctant to leave comfort behind, swift feet, hurrying to keep some
tryst with joy. She heard them pass and repass while her pulses leaped
with a hope she knew to be folly, and then steadied to the old
monotonous beat. She grew to hate the face of the tall clock in the
corner ticking off the seconds glibly, leering as the time grew late,
as if it alone knew her secret and mocked her disappointment. Thomas
Hardin, coming in on one or two occasions, had exclaimed at the sight
of her colorless face. Ordinarily she knew his step, but now her
strained nerves misinterpreted the most familiar sights and sounds.
If the days were hard, the nights were torture. Even that poor,
tormenting, futile hope that left her sick and shaken was better than
hopelessness. There were no stars in the darkness that brooded over her
heart after the sun went down. As she lay with clenched hands, counting
the ten thousand woolly sheep whose agility in overleaping an
obstructive wall is for some mysterious reason assumed to be soporific
in its influence, she was conscious of a sort of terror of the thoughts
lurking in ambush, ready to spring out upon her if she were off her
guard for an instant. It was useless to tell herself that she was no
poorer than before, that nothing had changed. In her heart she knew
better. She had worked on through the gray years, facing a colorless
future, without a word from her one-time lover, to tell her that he
lived or ever thought of her, and yet a dream, too vague and illusory
to be named hope, had been her stay and solace. Now as she stared
wide-eyed into the dark, she asked herself what was left.
It was no wonder that the gray crêpe grew apace. For the first time
in her well-disciplined life, Persis gave up the struggle with
refractory nerves, left her bed night after night and sewed till
daybreak. For whatever might fail, her work was left, that grim
consoler, who, masking benignity by a scowl, has kept ten million
hearts from breaking.
The gown was finished at daybreak, one bright October morning, and
that evening Persis tried it on, in the apathetic mood that mercifully
relieves tense feelings when the limit of endurance has been reached.
It was late, according to Clematis standards. For almost twenty-four
hours that dreadful, unbeaten hopefulness would be quiescent. Thomas
Hardin had come and gone. Joel was in bed. Persis Dale put on her new
gray gown and scrutinized herself in the mirror. She had lost interest
in her personal appearance, but her professional instinct told her that
the dress was a success.
It would be real becoming if my hair wasn't strained back so. A
dress can't do much for you when you look like a skinned rabbit, all on
account of your hair. She recalled the coiffure in which Annabel
Sinclair had presented herself the previous day, and loosening the coil
of her hair, as glossy and abundant as ever, she imitated with a skill
which surprised herself, Annabel's version of the latest mode. She was
studying the effect when some one knocked.
It was quarter of nine. It occurred to Persis that some one of the
neighbors must be ill. There seemed no other explanation for such a
summons at that hour. She crossed the room hurriedly and opened the
A man stood outside, and after a moment of hesitation he entered,
putting out his hand.
Good evening, Miss Dale. I hope you haven't forgotten me.
Persis recalled afterward with the amazement self-discovery so
frequently entails, that the one thought for which her mind had room
was an intense thankfulness that she had arrayed herself in the gray
dress. That emotion was infinitely removed from vanity. The new gown
had become an armor. Except for its aid she would have been at too
great a disadvantage in this encounter.
The hand she extended was quite steady. Of course I haven't
forgotten you, Justin. Won't you sit down?
Justin pulled up a chair for her before seating himself. He had an
impulse to gain time, the result of being taken by surprise. This was
not quite the Persis he had expected to find. In recalling that early
affair of the heart with the indulgent smile its absurdity demanded,
Justin's imagination had drawn an unflattering sketch of the object of
his boyish devotion. But his first glance told him that Persis Dale was
still a good-looking woman, with an unmistakable dignity of manner,
and, surprising as it seemed, some commendable ideas as to dress. His
eyes dwelt on her with approval. He really wished he had called
They talked for a little of the most obvious matters as old friends
will, meeting after many years. He was less at ease than she, and asked
her permission to smoke, finding the manipulation of his cigarette a
help in concealing if not overcoming his unwonted sense of
embarrassment. The talk turned presently to common acquaintances,
dangerous ground, he realized, though he asked himself what other
interest they had in common. Persis was able to give him considerable
information concerning friends, some of whose very names he had
forgotten. She left him to direct the conversation as he would. He
reflected that she was more quiet than he would have expected to find
her, more reserved, but by no means a woman to laugh at. That had been
He was lighting his second cigarette when he caught sight of the
plush-framed photograph. He stared till his match went out, and rising,
crossed the room. As he scrutinized the likeness of his callow self, he
gave way to laughter, his first spontaneous expression of feeling since
he entered the room.
Upon my word, Persis, he cried gaily, using her name for the first
time and seemingly unconscious that he had done so. It's been
extremely charitable of you to give this jay house-room for so long.
He scratched another match, lit his cigarette and laughed again. I
wonder if I could have been such an unconscionable donkey as I looked.
Persis moved slightly in her chair, but failed to reassure him on
We really wore our hair in that style, didn't we? he continued
humorously. And yet the thunderbolts spared us. And that classy thing
in ties! By jove! Persis, you'll have to make me a present of this for
old times' sake. This pretty picture of smiling innocence gets on my
nerves. I shall feel easier when it has been consigned to the flames.
From the armchair Persis spoke. Her voice was low and distinct.
Let that picture alone.
The accent of authority was unmistakable. Justin Ware turned, and
stood transfixed by what he saw. Persis' cheeks were crimson, her eyes
ablaze. His astonishment over the discovery that she was angry, blended
with surprised admiration. Persis in a fury was almost a handsome
He went back to his chair, a trifle uncertain as to the next move.
He had made a study of women, too, but this country dressmaker baffled
him for the moment. Her heated defense of his picture would have
suggested a conclusion flattering to his vanity had it not been for the
incongruous fact that seemingly her anger was directed against himself.
There was a piquant flavor to the situation gratifying to his epicure's
It's good of you to stand up for the fellow, Persis. You always
were kind-hearted, I remember. But really isn't this stretching charity
too far? Such a Rube is meant to be laughed at. There's nothing else to
do with him. And to think that he and I were one onlylet's see, how
many years has it been?
We won't talk about that picture any more.
He regarded her humorously through the haze of smoke. And why not?
He's a friend of mine. I don't care to have him laughed at!
But you forget my relation to the gentleman, my dear Persis. If any
one should be sensitive, it surely is I.
You've nothing to do with him, Persis declared, biting off her
words in peppery mouthfuls. You're as much of a stranger to him as you
are to me. We'll just let him alone. There's things enough to talk
about, I should hope, without making fun of that poor boy.
Suppose I give you one of my late photographs in exchange for the
cherub with the curly locks.
I don't want it.
Justin was a trifle taken aback. He had hardly made the offer before
he had accused himself of indiscretion. To be sure Persis was taking a
very proper attitude. She showed no inclination to presume on the
sentimental phase of their former acquaintance. She had said distinctly
that they were strangers. And yet it was as well to be guarded. The
bluntness of her retort gave him an almost rueful conviction of the
needlessness of caution.
The flame of Persis' anger had burned itself out almost immediately,
but the red embers still glowed in her eyes, and her cheeks were hot.
She changed the subject with no pretense at finesse: You seen Minerva
I don't seem to recall any one of that name.
She was Minerva Bacon, and she married Joe Leveridge, old Doctor
Whitely's nephew. You must remember him. Quiet sort of boy with a cast
in his eye.
Oh, yes. I remember the fellow now. His name was Leveridge, was
Yes. He died six or seven years ago. He left Minerva comf'tably
fixed, judging from the mourning she wore. When a widow's crêpe veil
reaches to her heels it's pretty sure her husband left her some life
insurance. You been to the Sinclairs' yet?
Why, yes. Justin looked a little guilty. As a matter of fact he
had found time to drop in to see Annabel more than once. I met Mrs.
Sinclair on the street near the hotel one afternoon, and she asked me
That's why she was in such a hurry for the net, thought Persis.
Aloud she said: Her Diantha is an awfully pretty girl, as much of a
belle as ever her mother was.
No? I haven't happened to see the girl, but it's hard to think of
Mrs. Sinclair as the mother of a grown daughter.
Ware realized with amazement that he would not again be allowed to
broach the subject of the photograph. He had that fondness for playing
with fire which so frequently survives in the adults of both sexes, and
he gave the conversation a semi-sentimental twist more than once, only
to be brought back sharply to practicalities by the lady in gray. There
was no doubt that Persis meant to be mistress of the situation.
I shall see you very soon again, he said, as he shook hands for
good night. He would probably have said this in any case, such
consolatory assurances being instinctive with him, but for a wonder he
meant it. He had looked forward to this meeting with reluctance and had
only made the call because even his complacent conscience had assured
him that to omit it would be inexcusable. And virtue had been
unexpectedly rewarded. He had enjoyed himself. He wanted to call again.
Good night, said Persis, and neglected to assure him of her
pleasure in the anticipation of his speedy return. She withdrew her
hand. Good night, she repeated. And if she recalled their last
parting in that very room, she was not sure whether the contrast was a
ground for laughter or for tears.
CHAPTER XI. 'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE
The night following Justin Ware's visit, Persis slept as soundly as
a tired child. It was not that the interview had relieved her
apprehensions nor in any way set her mind at rest, but after prolonged
uncertainty, even the realization of one's worst forebodings may come
as a relief. She slept late and rose more weary than when she went to
bed. Yet in spite of that numbing sense of lassitude which clung like
weights to her limbs, and for all her unaccustomed aversion to the
thought of work, she knew her battle was won. Never again would she
watch and listen and strangle at their birth, poor futile prayers for
some assurance that a man's heart was still hers.
As if some evil spell had been broken, she recalled with pangs of
self-reproach various duties she had neglected, in her unwonted
self-absorption. She had not even kept her promise to Doctor Ballard to
see his obdurate patient. Persis realized how completely she had
regained her poise when she chuckled over the plan which had suggested
itself as she listened to Doctor Ballard's diagnosis of Mrs. Richards'
I'm so kind of headachy and restless that my sewing's bound to be a
fizzle. I'll run in to see Charlotte this afternoon. It's a shame I
haven't been there before. Don't know what the doctor'll think of me.
Considering that she was merely planning a little friendly call on a
sick neighbor, Persis made her toilet with surprising care. In putting
up her hair she again selected Annabel Sinclair as a model. She donned
the gray crêpe, a startling innovation, for in Clematis to wear a new
dress on week-days, for any occasion less important than a wedding or a
funeral, argued constitutional extravagance. As a final step in her
preparation she rubbed her cheeks violently with a rough crash towel,
the resulting brilliant complexion successfully obliterating all traces
of weariness, the flotsam and jetsam of anxious days and haunted
nights. And then with a jauntiness remarkable under the circumstances,
Persis departed, resolved by fair means or foul to distract the
thoughts of Mrs. Nelson Richards from the occupancy of a reserved
apartment in the Heavenly mansions.
Charlotte Richards had always been a pretty woman of that ethereal
type of beauty that is not noticeably diminished by fragility. Persis,
looking her over, estimated that the thirty pounds the doctor credited
her with losing had been appreciably increased since he made his appeal
for aid. At the same time, the dressmaker admitted with grudging
admiration the effectiveness of the picture the invalid presented as
she lay back in her rocking-chair, bright-colored pillows heaped about
her, a slender figure in black, the wide blue eyes matched by the blue
veins in the temples, and with violet shadows below. In the bright,
prosaic little sitting-room she looked as out of place as a Raphael's
cherub in a kindergarten, a creature unmistakably belonging to another
Dear Persis, breathed Mrs. Richards, and extended a transparent
hand. You'll forgive my not getting up, she added gently.
Don't mention it. Persis' ringing tones had a heartiness which
seemed plebeian contrasted with Mrs. Richards' subdued murmurs. You
look the picture of comfort in that big chair. I'd hate to have you
The faintest imaginable shadow crossed the other's face.
I have very little strength, Persis. Day by day I am growing
weaker. But don't think I am complaining. I am quite happy as I lie
here picturing the glories of the New Jerusalem.
I've found that rare beef was the best thing in the world for that
kind of thoughts, responded Persis. I buy the round and scrape it.
You can take it raw if it's ice-cold, but I like it best made into a
ball and just scorched on both sides, enough to heat it through.
The invalid's smile was distinctly superior.
You are trying to encourage me, Persis, but you have nursed too
many of the sick not to see that I'm very near the river. Earthly
remedies are of no avail, declared Mrs. Richards, who had the
constitutional incapacity of numberless people to speak of death and
the hereafter, and yet remain simple and unaffected. But I do not find
the thought depressing. Far from it. My heart is light when I think of
the joys that await me.
I didn't know but on your husband's account you'd feel like making
Mrs. Richards sighed.
Poor Nelson! Yes, my heart bleeds when I think of Nelson left in
his loneliness. But it won't be for long. He will soon follow me.
Persis elevated her brows.
Well, no, Charlotte. Don't deceive yourself about that. Nelson will
feel your going, and for a time he'll take on something terrible. But
he won't die of it. He comes of good long-lived stock, Nelson does, and
though he's no boy, he's likely got twenty-five or thirty years ahead
of him. And that brings me around to what was in my mind when I came
She relapsed into silence, studying a figure in the carpet, and
apparently not quite certain how to continue. Well? questioned Mrs.
Richards, and for the first time during the interview there was a
querulous note in her voice.
It's about Nelson's future. Of course, as far as you're concerned,
there's no reason to worry. There's some folks that are naturally
constituted to enjoy Heaven, and there's others who seem to belong to
this earth. Nelson's one sort and you're another. This time her pause
Well? Mrs. Richards prompted feverishly. Go on.
I really don't know, Charlotte. Maybe I've been a little mite
impulsive speaking out this way. Perhaps I'd better not say anything
Anything more? You haven't said anything yet, as far as I can see,
returned Mrs. Richards tartly. Don't be mysterious, Persis.
Well, for some days now, I've been deliberating opening up my mind
to you. They do say that folks that are kind of on the border-line
between the two worlds, can see things plainer than other people. But I
won't say another word unless I get your solemn promise that what I
tell you don't go any further.
Of course I shall respect your confidence, Persis. Mrs. Richards
swallowed impatiently. I always tell Nelson everything, but except for
But Nelson's the very last one I want to hear this. Never mind,
Charlotte. I see it was a crazy idea, my coming over this afternoon. I
don't know what got into me. We won't talk about it any more. Did those
dahlias grow in your garden, Charlotte? They're the finest I've seen
Persis Dale, you certainly can be an aggravating woman when you
try. What about Nelson?
Do you promise you'll never breathe a word to any soul alive, least
of all to Nelson himself?
Mrs. Richards hesitated. But curiosity was not altogether foreign to
her saintly nature, and Persis' reluctance to impart the confidence
naturally increased her desire to hear it. I promise, she agreed,
with an effort to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
Well, then, this is what I was coming at. Of course I see that as
you lie here you're bound to be thinking about Nelson, and worrying
over what's going to become of him while you're enjoying yourself on
the other side.
That is all arranged, Mrs. Richards interrupted. His sister Hetty
is coming to keep house for him.
Hetty's no kind of companion for Nelson. He's a man who likes
cheerful company, and Hetty's what I call a natural widow. You know
some folks are born that way. They kind of hang crêpe on everything
they touch. Hetty drizzles tears as easy as a sponge.
Well, really, Persis, as long as Nelson and I are satisfied with
the arrangement I don't know as you have any call to trouble yourself.
Persis met the invalid's irritated protest with an air of disarming
Of course you wouldn't see, and that's just what I'm coming at. I
suppose Nelson has told you that he and I had a little boy and girl
affair when we was both of us too young to know our own minds.
Mrs. Richards' incredulous gasp indicated with sufficient clearness
that she had not been favored with her husband's confidence regarding
that chapter in his past.
You and Nelson?
Yes. Now, I don't mean, Charlotte, that we was ever engaged. Mother
thought I was too young to have steady company, and Nelson was just a
boy, and he took her snubbings to heart more'n he would have done if
he'd been older.
He's always given me to understand, said the wife with dignity,
that I was the only woman he ever cared for.
I guess they generally say that, don't they, Charlotte? It's kind
of like the 'honor and obey' in the marriage service. Women say it when
they know they can't honor and they won't obey. It's just
a form. But as far as Nelson goes, explained Persis thoughtfully, I
dare say he could fix that up with his conscience without any trouble,
seeing our sweethearting never got beyond a few kisses at the gate. He
did give me a ring once, but 'twas nothing but carnelian. Land! Who'd
think of that twice?
Mrs. Richards, breathing hard, had no comment to offer on that
Now the case is just this. Persis spoke briskly. After you're
dead and gone, Nelson's bound to marry again. A widower just can't help
himself. What with all the women scheming to catch him, he's got about
as much chance as a potato-bug turned loose in a chicken-yard. Queer
thing, the difference between bachelors and widowers, mused Persis,
straying temporarily into generalizations. By the time a bachelor's as
old as Nelson, the women have kind of given up on him. But if a man's
been married once it proves that he's got a soft spot somewhere, and
all that's needed is for them to keep on trying till they find it. But
as I was saying. Charlotte, I thought that it might ease your mind to
know that he ain't going to be allowed to throw himself away. While I
don't want to seem boastful about it, I don't mind saying to you that
there's not another woman in the town who would stand any show
alongside me, if Nelson was free to pick and choose. And I'll give you
my solemn promise that he shan't put anybody in your place that you'd
be ashamed to acknowledge for your husband's second wife.
Forgetting her pitiful lack of strength, Mrs. Richards sat erect,
her hollow cheeks aflame.
Persis Dale, have you got the nerve to sit there and tell me to my
face that you're going to set your cap for my husband after I'm dead?
Now lie down, Charlotte, till I explain. Persis' soothing tone
suggested readiness to excuse the natural peevishness of an invalid.
You mustn't go to exciting yourself, and hastening the end.
Mrs. Richards promptly resumed her recumbent position.
I've talked plain to you, Charlotte, Persis said, because you're
not of the same clay as most women. You've always been wrapped up in
celestial things since you was a girl. But a woman can't live with a
man as long as you've lived with Nelson and not feel responsible for
him. And I've told you this so there won't be a single shadow on your
mind these last days. I'll look out for Nelson. She spoke with the air
of one accepting a sacred trust.
I never heard of such a thing, breathed Mrs. Richards from the
Of course while you were living, Charlotte, Persis continued, as
if the release so cheerfully anticipated by the invalid had already
been consummated, I never should have allowed myself to think of
Nelson twice. But I own I've blamed my mother more than once for
sending him about his business the way she did. Nelson is a man in a
thousand, steady and affectionate and a careful provider. If he's been
so good to you, Charlotte, just think what the second wife has reason
In muffled tones Mrs. Richards confided to the pillow that never in
all her lifeand seemed unable to proceed further.
Well, I must be going. Suiting the action to the words, Persis
rose. Send for me any time, Charlotte. Ever since I heard about your
state of health, I've felt drawn to you, same as if you were a sister.
Mind, I'll drop my sewing and everything any time you want me. And as
for Nelson's future, don't you give yourself an anxious thought about
Good-by, said Mrs. Richard's faintly, and closed her eyes. And
with a commiserative glance in which lurked a spice of humor, Persis
withdrew. At the door she encountered Nelson Richards hurrying home
early from his work to spend as much time as possible with his wife.
Anxiety had left its signature on Nelson's jovial face. He walked with
dragging step and drooping shoulders, apprehension counterfeiting age.
But at the sight of Persis he roused himself from his customary
Hello, Persis. Well, I declare you're a sight for sore eyes. He
regarded her with frank admiration, an unconscious tribute to the
effectiveness of the gray crêpe. Looks like you was renewing your
youth, he continued with heavy gallantry. Ain't seen you look so
handsome since you was sixteen.
Persis had not invented the episode of Nelson's boyish admiration.
In all important details she had held rigidly to the truth, though it
is doubtful whether those innocent, sexless kisses at the gate had been
recalled in the past dozen years by either party to the transaction.
But it was true that Nelson Richards had always had a warm spot in his
affections for his first sweetheart, and the cordiality of his greeting
was by no means perfunctory.
Persis smiled upon him kindly.
Thank you, Nelson. Wish I could say as much for you, but to tell
the truth, you look to me a little peaked.
Well, I have felt better. He lowered his big voice discreetly.
Fact is I'm worried pretty near to death over Charlotte. What do you
think about her, Persis? Doctor says he don't find nothing out of shape
with her organs. Looks as if she'd ought to pick up, don't it?
He swallowed hard as he put the question, his eyes eloquent with
dumb misery, and Persis laid a friendly hand upon his arm as she
answered with reassuring certainty: Don't you worry, Nelson. I feel it
in my bones that Charlotte's going to be better before long.
I'd as soon take your say-so as any doctor's. The big man looked
at her gratefully. Come in as often as you can, Persis. There ain't
nobody we'd rather see.
He tramped into the house, armed in his splendid masculine
obtuseness, stooped to kiss his wife's hot cheek, and said, as was
inevitable, the last thing he should have thought of saying.
Saw Persis Dale out here just now, and I'll be darned if she ain't
getting better looking every day.
I can't see that that's enough to excuse profanity, said Mrs.
Richards witheringly. Persis Dale is a coarse scheming creature. Then
as her husband burst into astonished protests, she showed signs of
Oh, of course you'll stand up for her. I wouldn't have expected
anything else. You go out to the ice-chest, Nelson Richards, and heat
up that cup of beef tea you set away last night. Left to herself she
lay back upon the pillows, gazing at the ceiling with vindictive eyes.
As long as she hasn't got the decency to wait till I'm in my
grave, said Mrs. Richards tearfully, I'll fool her. I'll show her
there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.
CHAPTER XII. A CONFESSION TOO MANY
People were talking. That system of wireless telegraphy which
ante-dates Marconi's invention by ten thousand generations, had done
effective service. In the remotest farm-houses it was known that Justin
Ware had called on Persis Dale twice within a week. He came between
half past eight and nine, so said reliable rumor, and the lateness of
the hour of his arrival as well as of his departure, made only too
plain the relaxing influence of city life on country-bred standards.
Annabel Sinclair heard and turned faint and sick, so closely does
jealousy counterfeit love. As far as Justin Ware was concerned, the
news of his untimely death would have affected Annabel less than the
information that the chops had not been sent from the butcher's in time
for dinner. But he was a man and that he should choose to spend two
evenings in a week with another woman, after she had given him to
understand that his society would be agreeable to herself, argued a
decline in her powers of fascination. She told herself that she hated
Persis, that she hated Justin, that she loathed life and the miserable
business of being a woman, and she ended by finding pretexts for daily
excursions past the Clematis House, always arrayed in the most fetching
street costumes. When on the third day she encountered Justin, that
gentleman responded gallantly to her pensive tender reproach. His was
no Jericho heart, to demand a seven-day siege. He had found Persis Dale
unexpectedly interesting, but Annabel was unexpectedly pretty, and a
liking for pickles does not preclude a taste for sweets.
Thomas Hardin's married sister, Mrs. Gibson, heard the news with
consternation. She had long been aware of the state of her brother's
affections, this indeed arguing no especial insight, since an infant in
arms would have possessed sufficient intuition to read the heart of the
guileless Thomas. Mrs. Gibson had regarded Persis in the proprietary
light of a prospective sister-in-law, even going so far as to criticize
her with the frank freedom which is the prerogative of kinship. When
the first rumor of Justin's attentions reached the good woman's ears,
she made a hurried trip to town for the sole purpose of interviewing
As good luck would have it, business was slack at the moment of her
arrival, and Thomas left two lanky country-women to the care of his
assistant, and followed his sister to a dingy space in the rear which,
primarily serving as a store-room, was also by virtue of a certain
gloomy privacy, peculiarly adapted to the discussion of a subject of
Mrs. Gibson dusted a chair with needless ostentation and then
focused her regard on her brother who stood before her a self-confessed
culprit, conscious guilt as manifest in his attitude as in the flaming
confusion of his face.
Thomas, what's this I hear about Persis Dale?
I don't know, Nellie. What have you heard?
Mrs. Gibson's glance expressed her scorn of the evasion.
Is it true that Justin Ware is going with her?
Why, I've heard, Nellie, that he's been over there once or twice.
Old friend of Joel's, explained Thomas, with a futile effort to speak
Fiddlesticks! If I thought you really believed that any man would
walk from the Clematis House out to the Dale place for the sake of
hearing Joel Dale talk about the latest cure-all, I'd be ashamed to own
you for my brother. If he goes, he goes to see Persis. Now, what do you
mean to do about it?
Nellie, I haven't any right to interfere. If she wants Justin
Ware's company it's her own business. She's not beholden to me.
No, snapped Mrs. Gibson. And why ain't she? Because you've been
shilly-shallying along as though 'twas her business to pop the
question. You men are getting nowadays so you can't do a thing for
yourselves, you just hang back and leave us women to do it all.
Thomas squirmed like an impaled beetle. Guess I'd better go back
into the store, Nellie. George means well, but he hasn't much of a
Thomas Hardin, you stay where you are till I'm done with you. Now
tell me straight. Have you ever asked Persis Dale to marry you?
Well, Nellie, to be candid, I never have got really to the point. I
want her to know the worst about me first. I wouldn't take her in for
all the world, and then have her sorry afterward.
Take her in! Of course, you'll take her in. If all men stopped for
that, weddings would have gone out of fashion long ago. And it's well
for women's peace of mind that they don't have to know the worst about
the men they marry. I'm ashamed of you, Thomas! To think you've got no
more gumption than to stand around like a ninny and let that city man
walk off with the woman you've always wanted.
If she'd rather marry Justin Ware, Thomas began and failed to
finish his sentence, his voice strangled by his inward anguish. His
Good lord! Thomas, a woman's going to marry the man that asks her.
By all accounts that Ware won't be mealy-mouthed. If he wants her,
he'll not stand back and let another man have the first say.
There was a reasonableness in this presentation of the case which
impressed Thomas as his air of irresolution showed.
Then you think I've got a chance, Nellie?
His sister groaned her exasperation. You had all the chance till
this Ware turned up. Of course when a woman's got a choice it makes a
difference. But there's nothing gained by holding off and letting him
have everything his own way. If you don't ask her, of course she'll
take him, provided she gets the chance. And if you do ask her, she may
take you. So you won't lose anything by trying.
As a result of this plain unflattering counsel, Thomas Hardin
dressed that evening with unusual care, and with the approach of
darkness turned his face toward his familiar goal, his emotions
befitting a participant in the charge of the Light Brigade. His throat
was parched, his heart hammered. While absolutely certain that Persis
was aware of his aspiration, the thought of expressing it, of making a
formal offer, was distinctly terrifying. And moreover there was a
disagreeable preliminary that must receive attention, the confession of
another of those misdemeanors of his past, as irrepressible a brood as
hounded poor Macbeth. The episode dated back to his twentieth year,
when Annabel Sinclair was just waking up to the knowledge of her beauty
and the power it gave her over the susceptible sex. Thomas blushed to
recall how ignominiously he himself had capitulated.
Fate was on his side that evening. Joel was absent. Persis was kind.
She sat by the lamp stitching, and the inevitable suggestion of
comfortable domesticity was in itself an inspiration. He thanked Heaven
for her lowered gaze, confident that if he were forced to meet her
candid eyes, he should never find courage to begin.
Persis, there's something I want to tell you. It ain't pleasant to
speak about it, but I think it's one of the things that ought to be
said beforeI mean I'd be a good deal easier in my mind if you knew
all about it.
I don't believe it's anything so very bad, Thomas, Persis said
with unaccustomed gentleness.
Well, I don't know. She was so pretty and cute that it sort of went
to my head, but that's no excuse.
Who was pretty?
Persis let her work fall. Her eyes met her lover's with a challenge
that did not tend to lessen Thomas's confusion.
Well, Persis, you've a right to know. Of course I wouldn't mention
it to anybody else. Not that she was a mite to blame, interpolated
Thomas with instinctive chivalry, for it was all my fault from start
to finish. Itit was Stanley Sinclair's wife.
Absorbed as he was in relieving his conscience of its intolerable
load, it did not occur to Thomas to emphasize the fact that on the
occasion when he had played so culpable a part, Annabel still bore her
maiden name. It was a good two years before the dignified Stanley
Sinclair had recognized in the giddy, shallow, little beauty, the
fitting mate for his staid maturity. And that his failure to make this
point clear might lead to a serious misapprehension on Persis' part,
failed to present itself as a possibility to the honest blunderer.
Well? Persis' tone was crisply interrogative. What happened?
Why, she looked so like a kitten, Persis, that you can't hardly
help petting, that I put my arm around her. And I He cleared his
throat, his eyes, fortunately for his resolution, fixed upon the floor.
Well, I might as well make a clean breast of it. I did kiss her. Of
course I ought to be ashamed
Yes. Persis agreed icily. You ought.
She had listened with a sort of sickened revolt to Thomas' stammered
confession. Nothing that Annabel Sinclair could do would surprise her,
nor did she wonder when boys of Thad West's age yielded to her lure.
But that this man, this staid, stanch Thomas, on whom she had counted
more implicitly than she knew, should have proved so easy a victim
shook her native faith in humankind. All men are alike, thought
Persis, in her haste betrayed into one of those sweepingly unjust
generalizations such as King David penitently acknowledged.
Thomas' eyes came up from the carpet at her tone. He looked at her
with a sort of terror. The fixed sternness of her face made her seem a
stranger. Little as he had relished the idea of acknowledging his
bygone weakness, he had not dreamed of a result like this.
For a moment he gazed at her with dumb appeal, then faltered: I
waswas afraid you'd be disgusted with me, Persis.
He swallowed hard as if her answer were a mouthful that resisted
mastication. For a little they sat silent. Persis picked up her work
and resumed her sewing with a brave show of indifference though the
seam ran into a blur before her eyes. And at last Thomas spoke.
I'm sorry you take it this way, Persis, but it couldn't be helped.
I had to clear up things beforeI didn't feel it would be fair to ask
you anything that would bind you till you knew the worst about me. And
There was another long silence. Then Thomas found himself upon his
feet, feeling for his hat, groping like a blind man.
Good-by, Persis. I wish I'd been a better man. But the fact is I
ain't fit to tie your shoe-strings, and that ends it. Good-by.
He held out his hand, a formality unprecedented. She realized that
he meant it for good-by, not good night. Some perversity kept her eyes
upon her work, her hands occupied.
The door creaked ajar. There was a pause. It closed reluctantly. She
heard him stumble at the steps, go haltingly down the path. She stabbed
the fabric in her hand with her needle as if that minute tool had been
Men are all alike, repeated Persis, the tears running down her
cheeks. But there's a difference in women. And the Annabel Sinclair
kind, with brains enough to keep 'em from being downright bad and not
enough conscience to make 'em good, are the worst of the lot. If the
devil couldn't count on their help in laying traps for good men, he'd
be dreadful handicapped.
She swept the tears from her cheeks with a swift gesture, swallowed
those which had not yet fallen and fell to sewing frantically for there
were steps outside. But the late caller was not Justin Ware as for the
moment she had feared, but Mrs. West entering with the ponderous
dignity inseparable from two hundred pounds avoirdupois. Persis rose
hastily and pulled forward the big armchair, her action due to a
well-grounded fear for her furniture in addition to the impulse of her
Set down, Mis' West. You're looking first-rate.
If I am it's more than I feel, the stout woman returned in a
hollow voice. I'm so worried about Thad that I wonder there's anything
left of me.
Persis, politely forbearing to call attention to the fact that
enough of Mrs. West remained for all practical purposes, regarded her
friend with kindly concern. My, is Annabel Sinclair pestering that boy
yet? I thought
Persis, it's not Annabel now. It's the young oneDiantha.
Oh! Persis resumed her sewing, with heightened color.
Yes. I used to think he was as crazy about that woman as anybody
could well be, but that wasn't to be named in the same day with the
state he's in now. He goes around as if he was in a sort of daze.
Sometimes I have to ask him three times over if he'll have another
helping of pie.
Well, it may not be sensible, Mis' West, but it's nature. I guess
there's nothing to do except put up with it.
But, Persis, she's so young.
She's younger than her mother, that's sure. And that's in her
And she's Annabel Sinclair's daughter.
Well, that's better'n if she was somebody's wife.
It's easy for you to make light of it, Persis. But if he was your
boy Mrs. West produced a voluminous handkerchief from about her
person, hid her face in its folds and sobbed.
If he was my boy, Mis' West, I guess I'd act as foolish as other
mothers. But seeing he ain't, I can look at the affair kind of detached
and sensible. I don't suppose you're especially set up over the idea of
Diantha Sinclair for a daughter-in-law, but if mothers picked out wives
for their sons, there'd be mighty few girls who'd pass muster, and the
balance would have to settle down to be old maids.
It isn't that I don't think anybody's good enough for Thad, said
Mrs. West in hasty disclaimer. I can see his faults fast enough.
Yes, you can see his faults, and you can excuse 'em, too. That's
what being a mother means. And you can see Diantha's faults, and you
can't excuse 'em without a struggle. Yet she's as pretty as a pink, and
a sweet-dispositioned girl, too. She's a long ways yet from being a
woman, but as far as I can see, she's started in the right direction.
I'd hate to think of my Thad leading the life Stanley Sinclair's
had to for the last fifteen years, said Mrs. West with feeling.
Well the cases ain't the same. When youth mates with youth, there's
hopes of them learning their lessons together and not making such hard
work of it, either. But what can you expect when a man along in the
forties decides it's time for him to settle down, and ties himself up
to some giddy young thing, so brimful of life that it's all she can do
to keep her toes on the ground. It's like hitching up a colt with some
slow-going old plug from a livery stable. YOU drive 'em that way, and
either the colt's spirit is going to get broken, or else the plug will
travel at a good deal faster clip than he likes.
Mrs. West's attention had plainly wandered during Persis' homily.
Beats all how that girl grew up all in a minute, so to speak, she
Persis gave her entire attention to her work.
It don't seem any time since I was here and she came in to ask
about some sewing of her mother's. Her dress was up to her knees, and
her hair hanging in curls. Except for being tall she looked about ten
years old. And the next thing anybody knows, she's a young lady with
all the airs and graces.
Persis preserved a guilty silence.
I didn't know but you might have some idea, Mrs. West suggested
hopefully, You know you agreed to see what you could do about Annabel,
and then Thad got tired of her all at once, so there wasn't any call
for you to interfere.
With a determined shake of her head, Persis declined the new
No, Mis' West. I'm not going to have a finger in this pie, and I
advise you to let the young folks alone. If you don't want him to marry
her, your one chance is to leave 'em be. And if they do make a match of
it, either one might have done worse.
While Persis gave no hint to her caller of her own complicity in the
situation Mrs. West deplored, at the bar of her own conscience she made
no effort to disclaim the responsibility. It helped to ease the hurt
due to the revelation of Thomas' weakness to busy her thoughts with
If they do take each other it's got to be for better instead of
worse. I made that match without meaning to, but as long as I had a
hand in it, I'm going to see that both of 'em behave.
CHAPTER XIII. THE MAIL BAG
I should 'most think you'd have to give up the dressmaking business
or else hire a secretary. It takes considerable time to attend to such
a correspondence as you're getting to have.
Joel slammed a bunch of letters down upon the table, his ill-temper
expressing itself as naively as that of a child. Nor was its occasion a
mystery to his sister. Numerous letters marked the recipient as an
individual of consequence. Joel's mail was limited to communications
from the distributors of quack remedies to whom he had communicated his
symptoms in accordance with instructions set forth in their
benevolently inquisitive advertisements. When Persis received several
letters on the same mail, the possibility that he might be a person of
secondary importance in the establishment presented itself to Joel with
Like enough they're from some of my customers asking when I can
spare 'em a little extra time, Persis suggested soothingly.
No, they ain't. Least ways some of 'em are from men. And I must
say, Persis, it don't look well, your carrying on a correspondence with
two or three men-folks and your own brother not know anything about it.
As the poet says:
'A lost good name is ne'er retrieved.'
Who's this that's writing you from the Clematis House, anyway?
I haven't looked to see, Persis replied dryly, but her comely face
took on color.
Looks bad when a man right in the same town's ashamed to say what
he's got to say to your face. Has to seal it up in an envelope. If you
were a little readier to ask advice, Persis, it would be better for
you. You women, sheltered and guarded all your lives, ain't expected to
know much about the world, and if you just won't seek counsel from them
that's able to give it, of course some unscrupulous rapscallion is
going to make fools of you.
Well, Joel, Persis promised with unimpaired good humor, if I ever
get in a tight place where I need your advice, I'll ask for it. But
she made no move to investigate the contents of the promising pile upon
the table, and without attempting to mask his umbrage, Joel withdrew
his offended dignity to the porch. Even then, in splendid refutation of
the theory that curiosity is the cardinal vice of her sex, Persis
completed the task on which she was engaged before putting herself in a
position to answer Joel's inquiry as to the identity of the
correspondent using the stationery of the Clematis House.
It was her first letter from that source for many a year and she
scrutinized the address long and thoughtfully. I shouldn't even have
known his handwriting. If anybody'd told me that six months ago, I'd
have laughed in his face. But now instead of laughing she sighed, and
her face remained grave throughout the reading of the communication.
Dear PersisI am unexpectedly called out of town and shall not be
able to see you Thursday as I had expected. I do not think, however,
that I shall be away more than six weeks or two months at the longest.
There are some good business prospects here, which I have not as yet
brought to a satisfactory termination, but apart from that, the
temptation to see more of my old friends is too strong to be resisted.
J. M. W.
I guess he means the Hornblowers, by 'business prospects,' mused
Persis, and replaced the letter in its envelope. For Mrs. Robert
Hornblower's anticipations of a life of luxurious ease had been
temporarily thwarted by the unexpected and unprecedented opposition of
her hitherto compliant husband. Even a worm will turn. Robert
Hornblower, after a lifetime of meek submission, had suddenly become
contumacious and unruly. The wifely authority, exercised so long under
another name, had as yet been powerless to bring him to the point of
disposing of his farm. The man had aged under the strain, had lost
flesh and color, along with sleep and appetite, and yet to the surprise
of his acquaintances and his own secret amazement, he had proved that
he had a will of his own by stubbornly reiterating his refusal to be
coerced into acting against his best judgment. And while Mrs.
Hornblower was confident of ultimate victory, it was not easy for her
to forgive her husband for delaying in so unjustifiable a fashion their
entrance into the Promised Land.
The second letter to receive Persis' attention was addressed in a
hand which, like Justin's, seemed hauntingly familiar. Persis studied
the post-mark with the result of piquing her curiosity, rather than
Warren, New York. First time I ever heard of that place to my
knowledge. Beats all how folks can know your name, when you hadn't even
found out that their town was on the map. With a mounting and
pleasurable sense of her own importance, Persis opened the letter and
looked first at the signature of the writer. Then with an exclamation
of interest, she gave herself to the perusal of the communication,
forgetting Justin Ware for the moment as completely as if he had never
My Dear Miss DaleA friend of mine, Mr. Washington Thompson, has
asked me to write requesting you to forward him at once a letter of
mine which has come into your possession though I am at a loss to
understand how. I have told Mr. Thompson that after all this time the
letter is perfectly worthless, but he does not seem to be of that
opinion. Accordingly I am troubling you by this request. Mr. Thompson
will be at the Munroe Hotel, Cincinnati, from the twelfth to the
fifteenth, and for the week following at the Hollenden Hotel,
Warren, New York.
Persis sprang to her feet and ran out upon the porch. The irate
Joel, nursing his wrongs in dignified silence, experienced a new sense
of injury at the sight of her radiant face.
Joel, when you happen to pass young Mis' Thompson's I want you to
stop and tell her that I've got a piece of goods here that maybe
belongs to her. Ask her if she'll come in the first time she's by. You
might say, Joel, that I'd be much obliged if she'd make a point of
coming soon, as I have a general cleaning up along about this season,
and I like to get rid of all the odds and ends that are cluttering up
Nothing in Joel's expression indicated that he had even heard the
commission, but his look of gloomy abstraction did not deceive his
sister who was perfectly aware that he understood her request and would
take a certain satisfaction in executing it. She returned to her mail,
making short work of an advertisement of a new substitute for silk
linings and another which offered a fashion periodical at bargain
prices. The last letter in the pile again aroused her curiosity, for
the upper left-hand corner bore the legend, Delaney and Briggs,
Attorneys at Law.
Lawyers, too. Well, I don't blame Joel for feeling exercised. She
recalled the implied threat in a recent communication from Mr.
Washington Thompson regarding the return of his property, and the
thought crossed her mind that possibly he had invoked legal aid for its
She was standing as she began to read. Half-way down the page she
uttered an exclamation and staggered to a chair. She finished the
letter, laid it down, took it up again and reread it. Then rising, she
busied herself with various tasks about the room, doing over several
things she had already completed and ignoring some obvious needs. This
accomplished, she read the letter for a third time and brought out her
sewing. After five minutes of desultory work, she folded the garment
and laid it away. For the next two hours she might have served as a
study of contemplation. Her chin upon her hands, her eyes musing, she
sat motionless, almost rigid, as the big clock ticked off the seconds.
Joel shuffled into the room on the stroke of twelve. Mis' Thompson
says she'll likely go by sometime to-day or to-morrow and she'll stop
Persis did not reply, and for the first time Joel noticed his
sister's unusual attitude. He looked at her and then at the clock.
Ain't dinner ready?
Yes, dinner! What ails you? You act as if you'd never heard of such
a thing as meal-time.
I didn't think it was time for dinner yet, Persis answered,
rousing herself. Again Joel inspected her sharply.
Haven't you been sewing this morning?
No, I did start, but I didn't feel like keeping it up.
Joel's face expressed mingled concern and amazement. That Persis
should sit idle a morning from choice was extraordinary enough to be
alarming. Don't you feel well?
Me? Oh, yes, I'm all right. Persis went into the next room and
began her preparations for the meal. It took her longer than usual.
Joel watched the clock with frowning vexation, but some quality
abnormal and vaguely disquieting in his sister's manner kept him from
putting into words the impression that a man who is kept waiting a full
hour for his dinner is hardly used.
His mood softened when at length appetizing odors diffusing
themselves through the house, indicated that the pot roast of day
before yesterday which under Persis' thrifty management had as many
final appearances as a prima donna, was soon to grace the table
as an Irish stew. Joel dearly loved that savory concoction, and though
he was on his guard against allowing her to suspect the fact, he
privately placed his sister's dumplings on a par with Addison's poems.
Forgetting both his grievance of the morning and his later anxiety, due
to Persis' singular conduct, he gave himself up to cheerful
The problem which for generations has exercised the wits of amateur
debaters was settled satisfactorily in this instance, at least. The
joys of anticipation far exceeded the pleasure of realization. Joel
took one swallow of the stew and dropped his spoon with a splash.
What in Sam Hill! What kind of a mess do you call this?
Persis took a hasty sip, looked incredulous and sipped again. Slowly
the shamed blood crept to the roots of her hair. Yet she spoke with a
self-control fairly brazen.
Looks as if I'd made a mistake and put in sugar instead of salt.
Joel's gaze swept the table, hawk-like in its searching eagerness.
Where's the dumplings?
Iwell, I declare, I forgot the dumplings.
He experienced a chill of actual terror. This was his sister Persis,
Persis the practical and reliable, this woman who sugared the stew, and
allowed the chef-d'oeuvre of the dinner to slip her mind. He was
immediately aware of a singular flush staining her cheeks, a feverish
glitter in her eye.
The gentleness of his comment took her by surprise. I guess,
Persis, it was only that you was thinking of something else.
That was it, Joel. She hesitated, then moved by his forbearance
spoke out plainly. I was thinking, Joel, how it would seem to be
Again his heart jumped. Such vague vain wishing, so characteristic
of many women, was absolutely foreign to his sister's temperament. He
could not remember the time when she had overlooked the present
satisfaction, however poor and meager, in favor of some joy of fancy.
I wouldn't let my mind stray off to such things, he said uneasily.
Well, Joel, I guess I'll have to face it. The fact is, you see, I
Her words fell like a thunderbolt, confirming his worst fears. He
sat aghast, unable to decide whether Persis had lost her mind, or this
was the delirium incident to some acute seizure. In tones of such
unnatural gentleness that his sister started as they fell on her ears,
he offered the only suggestion which occurred to him at the moment.
Hadn't you better go lie down, Persis?
Me? Why, I feel all right.
Well, even if you do, lying down won't hurt you. It's the best
thing known to lengthen life. You'd ought to take better care of
yourself, Persis. Half an hour a day
His sister interrupted him with a burst of laughter in which his
preternaturally acute senses detected the wildness of mania.
Joel, I know what ails you. You think I'm taking leave of my
senses. It does sound that way, I own, for a Dale to be talking about
being rich. I don't mean the Vanderbilt kind of riches, you know, but a
nice little income so I can keep a servant girl and never do any more
sewing and maybe buy an automobile.
Persis Dale, exclaimed Joel, you're as crazy as a June bug.
Look for yourself, then. Persis turned to the secretary where she
had placed the letter she had received that morning. She felt more like
herself than at any time since she had perused the contents of that
final astonishing communication. In combatting Joel's incredulity, she
was able to set at rest certain disquieting doubts of her own as to her
Joel's jaw dropped as he read. Mrs. Persis Ann Crawford. Why, that
must mean Aunt Persis.
Sure. The one I was named for. And I guess it's a good twenty-five
years since we've had a line from her. She laughed a little
hysterically, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. I don't s'pose
I'm crying because she's dead, seeing I took it for granted that she'd
passed away years ago. And yet all the time to leave me her money.
Ain't life the funniest mix-up. Yesterday I couldn't have afforded so
much as a sick-headache. And now if I want a run of typhoid fever or my
appendix cut out, it's nobody's business.
Joel laid down the letter with a gulp. The impression uppermost in
his mind was the singular blindness of fortune in selecting the
recipients of its bounty.
It's a good deal of a responsibility for a woman, he said
ruefully. Seeing I'm the oldest, it's rather odd Aunt Persis Ann
didn't realize that I was the proper one to inherit. But I guess she
thought it was all in the family, and you'd be guided by my advice.
Persis' answer was irrelevant. Joel, seems to me that so far my
life's been for all the world like a checked gingham, if you know what
But Joel did not know. Checked gingham! I never heard such crazy
Made up of the same little things, all just alike, Persis
explained patiently. And nothing especially bright or cheerful about
any of 'em. I've a feeling as if I'd like a splash of color now, velvet
as green as grass and fire-red satin.
Sounds as if you had the Scarlet Woman in mind, Joel said
disapprovingly, and before Persis had time to explain, young Mrs.
Thompson had knocked. She was a sorry figure for a wife of less than a
year's standing, a drooping little woman, pale, listless and
Mr. Dale said something about your having a piece of my goods, she
explained with such an effect of indifference that Persis wondered she
had taken the trouble to call. Then her gaze went to the table and the
untouched meal. I'm afraid I've interrupted you.
Not a mite, Mis' Thompson. Walk right in! Joel! Persis'
authoritative glance in her brother's direction indicated the propriety
of his withdrawal. Joel rose reluctantly. It was not a fitting that was
in prospect nor even a discussion of styles where questions might arise
which could not suitably be debated before one of the opposite sex. But
since Persis only wished to return the young woman a piece of goods
that had been overlooked when her dress was sent home, Joel felt not
unreasonably that he might have witnessed the transaction without
offending the most rigid notions of what was seemly.
Persis searched in her piece-bag and produced an infinitesimal scrap
of green voile. Young Mrs. Thompson accepted the offering with evident
Yes, that's my goods, she acknowledged. But it's so little, I
don't see how I can use it.
You never can tell when a scrap like that will come in useful,
Persis declared convincingly. And by the way, Mis' Thompson, I wonder
if your husband happens to have handy that ridiculous letter that was
meant for another Thompson.
The worthless scrap of green dropped from the young wife's shaking
hands. Why, what makes you think
That letter, Persis explained steadily, was written to a Mr.
Washington Thompson. I don't wonder he shortens it to a W., do you? To
have Washington for your first name must be a good deal like having the
Washington monument in your front yard, sort of overpowering. Of
course, as Enid saysEnid's the girl, you knowa love-letter as old
as that ain't of no real use. Love-letters and eggs are a good deal
alike. You can keep 'em in cold storage month in and month out, but
while they don't exactly spoil, they ain't the same as fresh ones.
Persis was talking to give the little woman time. From the
pigeonholes of her secretary she produced the letters she needed, and
meanwhile kept a wary eye upon the camphor bottle, always within reach
for the benefit of sensitive patrons likely to succumb to the ordeal of
fitting. To judge from young Mrs. Thompson's colorless face, she might
need it at any moment.
I own I kind of interfered with what was none of my business,
Persis acknowledged with as pleasing a frankness as if such
interferences were not in line with her normal activities. But I kind
of worried over having a love-letter wandering around that way and not
getting where it belonged. That might make lots of trouble.
But who was 'Her'? demanded young Mrs. Thompson wildly. And
Persis, whose sense of responsibility for her kind extended even to her
unknown correspondents, looked grave as she answered.
Dearie, I don't know. But I'm sure of one thing, that it wasn't
you. Here's his letter to me, madder'n a wet hen, he was, too. And
here's hers. You see it's the same writing as the one your husband has;
I'm glad she wrote her name right out plain, because I said particular
that the 'Enid' would be enough.
Then Persis dropped both letters and caught Mrs. Thompson in her
arms. The younger woman was small and slender, and under the stress of
excitement Persis lifted her to the couch as easily as if she had been
a child. Then she sprinkled the white face with water from the pitcher
on the table and brought the camphor bottle into play, all the time
murmuring words of endearment and sympathy whose restorative effect was
possibly not second to that of her other remedies. Young Mrs. Thompson
returned to consciousness to hear herself called a lamb and a poor
dear. She opened her heavy eyes and gave back a rapturous smile to the
other woman's comprehending gaze.
II don't believe I ever was so happy, murmured young Mrs.
Thompson. Then he did leave it in his pocket just for a joke. And, oh,
dear Miss Dale, if it's a girl I'm going to call her Persis.
CHAPTER XIV. AN ACQUISITION
The Dale homestead was undergoing repairs. For years Persis had
patched up the roof when it leaked and papered with her own hands such
rooms as had become too dingy to be longer tolerated. Now she was
giving free rein to her exuberant fancy in the matter of improvements.
A telephone had been installed in the house the day following the
communication from the legal advisers of the late Persis Ann Crawford
and this in spite of Joel's passionate protests.
May be a hoax for all you know. Better wait till the money's in
your hand before you run into extravagance piling up debts for us to
work off later. I guess it's a true saying that if you put a beggar on
horseback, he'll ride to the devil.
Within a week the innovations had reduced him to a condition of
disapproving dumbness. Paperhangers and plasterers had taken possession
of the old house. The roof was being reshingled. The new electric
lights gave to each successive evening an air of festive brilliancy.
The sagging porch was in process of reconstruction. It was the dull
season from the builder's standpoint, and Persis had no difficulty in
securing workmen in sufficient numbers to hurry the work with what
seemed to herself, as well as to Joel, almost magical despatch. A
generous check deposited to her credit in the Clematis Savings Bank had
relieved Joel's earlier apprehensions. The bequest was no hoax. But his
constitutional parsimony rebelled against the outlay as if each
expenditure had meant want in the future. While his dignity demanded
that he should cease the protests that were disregarded, his air of
patient martyrdom expressed his sentiments with all the plainness of
The feminine half of the population of Clematis was in despair. For
Persis Dale had announced with every indication of finality that after
she had finished the gowns in hand, her career as dressmaker would
immediately terminate. Mrs. Robert Hornblower, bitter because Persis'
fortune had materialized before her own, commented freely on the fact
that Persis Dale hadn't the strength of mind to come into money without
beginning to put on airs. Mrs. Richards, who was so far convalescent
that she had been able to attend divine worship the previous Sabbath,
rolled her eyes Heavenward and deplored the effects of pomps and
vanities on certain constitutions. Even so true and tried a friend as
Mrs. West was driven to remonstrate.
I don't say that you ought to work the way you've done all your
life, Persis, rushing from one dress to another, fit to break your
neck. But it does seem as if after always being busy you couldn't be
real happy to settle down to idleness.
I guess I wasn't cut out for a butterfly, Mis' West, even if I'd
got started in time. I'm not afraid but what I can find plenty to do.
As far as the sewing goes, I feel like a man I read of who laid a wager
he'd eat a quail a day for thirty days. Well, he got along fine. Didn't
seem to mind it a bit. When it came the twenty-fifth day and everybody
was congratulating him on making his money so easy, he up and quit. 'No
use, boys,' he said, when they began to tell him what a fool he was.
'I've just naturally got to the stopping-point.' And it's the same with
me. I've done my sewing and haven't fretted over it, though when I
think of the millions and millions of stitches I've taken in twenty
years, I wonder I haven't turned into a sewing-machine. But I've got to
the stopping-point now. It's more'n likely I'll buy my own clothes
ready-made, after this.
In a month's time the old house was transformed beyond recognition,
the fresh paint of the exterior holding its own bravely against the
pretensions of the fresh paper and new carpets within. Thomas Hardin
had sent to Boston for those carpets, the patterns in stock not
satisfying Persis' exacting ideas. The transaction had been conducted
with businesslike despatch on both sides, though on one occasion Thomas
relaxed his dignity sufficiently to say, Guess you're going to look
pretty fine up there.
Persis dryly admitted the prospective improvement. Some folks can't
bear to part with what's old, but I own I've got a liking for new
things. When I can afford a change, I'm glad to have it.
Friends the same as carpets, Thomas thought with a little
bitterness for which he at once reproached himself. For, after all,
Persis' friendship had been stanch and steadfast till his own
confession had disclosed his unworthiness. He atoned for his momentary
lapse by making her a substantial discount on the linoleum she wanted
for the kitchen.
The seal of silence Joel had placed upon his lips was broken when
the question of engaging a servant girl came to the fore. Ain't you
going to leave yourself nothing to do? he demanded wildly. Then with a
cunning for which few would have given him credit. You'll get as fat
as Etta West sitting around all day and being waited on.
Persis listened unmoved, her rather enigmatic smile suggesting that
she clearly foresaw a way out of that difficulty.
I'm not afraid but what I can find enough to keep me busy. Besides,
I need a servant girl to look after things when I'm away.
Away? Are you going away?
I'm going whenever I happen to feel like it. And the first time'll
be next week, Monday.
Persis, where are you going?
To the city for a week or so.
Joel deliberated. He rose and paced the room, halting at length in a
dramatic posture, face to face with his sister.
Persis, I've got no love for the city as you well know. As the poet
says, 'God the first garden made and the first city, Cain.' But I'm
ready to sacrifice myself for what's best for you. I'll go along.
Persis regarded him without any indication of fervent gratitude for
the sacrifice so nobly announced.
It's good of you, Joel, but it won't be necessary.
He waved her protest away with a dominating gesture.
It is necessary. It won't do to turn a woman like you loose
in a city like Boston. As long as you didn't have any money, it wasn't
so much matter. But now there'll be folks to sell you gold bricks, and
when you unwrap 'em, they won't be nothing but plain ordinary bricks
They can't sell me bricks if I won't buy 'em, Joel.
You don't know what they can do. You never went up against a
professional sharper. Women ain't any match for that kind. They'll
probably give me a bed at the hotel that hasn't been used since
sometime last winter, but never mind. I'm going along to protect you.
Joel! Persis' tone for all its gentleness showed plenty of
decision. Thank you, but this time I don't want you.
Some other time when you feel like running up to the city for a few
days, we'll go together. But just now I've got some business to attend
You mean I'd be in the way?
Persis. Joel spoke in heart-broken accents. I guess the Good Book
ain't far wrong in calling money the root of all evil. Up till you come
into this prop'ty, you was all a man could ask for in a sister. Like
many another, Joel found his blessings brightest in retrospect. But
now you're as set as a post and as stubborn as a mule. It's pretty
dangerous, Persis, when a woman gets the idea she knows all that's
worth knowing. As the poet says, 'A little learning is a dangerous
thing.' I feel in my bones that there's trouble coming out of this
wild-goose chase of yours.
It was not characteristic of Joel to keep his grievances secret.
Wherever he went for the next few days, he fairly oozed reproach and
resentment. And on the Monday when Persis took the ten o'clock train
for Boston it was generally understood that she had declined the
pleasure of her brother's company and was bent on an errand whose
nature she alone knew.
She'll put up at a hotel, I suppose, said Mrs. Hornblower. She'll
have to, for there's nobody in Boston she knows well enough to visit. A
single woman staying alone at a hotel sounds dreadful improper to me.
Robert would never allow me to do such a thing, never for a minute. And
nobody even knows what she's gone for.
But Annabel Sinclair thought she knew. I shouldn't wonder, she
told Diantha, if when Persis Dale gets back we'd see startling
Her confidential tone was balm to Diantha's spirit. For since the
daughter's sudden leap into maturity, the relations between the two had
been strained, the instinct of sex rivalry overmastering such shadowy
maternal impulses as had outlived Diantha's babyhood. The girl
responded eagerly to the advance.
Yes, I shouldn't wonder if she'd have lots of new clothes.
She'll need more than clothes to make her presentable, and she
knows it, too. Annabel's voice was rasping. They have beauty-shops in
the cities, you know, where they fix over old women who want to look
young, skin off the wrinkles and all sorts of things. She flashed a
glance at the mirrorthere was always a mirror convenient in the
Sinclair establishmentand smiled with malicious enjoyment. Annabel
did not need skinning.
Diantha edged away with sudden distaste. I don't think Miss Persis
would do anything like that, mama.
Why not? Her mother spoke fiercely. It's the sensible thing to do
when you need it. After her good looks are gone, there's nothing left
for a woman. The bitterness of a participant in a losing fight flung a
black shadow across her fairness. For defy Time as she would, the day
must come when he would triumph. She looked again at herself in the
mirror as if already he had stolen the bloom from her cheek and the
gold from her hair and shuddered at the thought of what must be.
Persis had said to her brother that she might be away a week. On the
sixth day came a brief note to the effect that her business was not
quite finished and that she would let him know when to expect her.
Another week went by, and one afternoon Joel received his first
He stood staring at the sinister brown envelope with its black
lettering, and a chilly fear clutched his heart. One catastrophe after
another suggested itself, each to be discarded in favor of another more
appalling. Persis had lost her money. She had met with an accident. She
was dead. His bony hand shook till the envelope rattled, and the small
boy who had brought the message eyed him with curiosity.
The question was reassuring. It suggested that Persis was still to
be reached by mundane means of communication. Joel regarded the lad
Say, son, do you know what's in this?
Naw! The boy's tone showed impatience tinged with contempt. Why
don't you look and see for yourself?
The suggestion seemed reasonable, and Joel followed it. The
typewritten enclosure blurred before his eyes, and so strong is the
force of apprehension that he seemed to see words of ominous import
staring up at him through the confusion. Then the mist cleared and his
forebodings with it.
Home on four-twenty train not necessary to meet me tell Mary to
have plenty for supper.
Joel felt the sense of grievance which is the almost inevitable
sequel to groundless fears. There's no answer, he told the boy
gruffly. The urchin sidled away and Joel stood rigid, regarding the
slip in his hand. His first move was to count the words. Seventeen!
Joel groaned. What extravagance. If she had said unnecessary instead
of not necessary there would have been a saving of one to begin with.
And the closing injunction might have been omitted altogether. Tell
Mary to have plenty for supper. What an extraordinary request to
telegraph from the city of Boston. Could it be that in the metropolis
of New England she had lacked for food to satisfy the pangs of
So absorbed did he become in attempting to solve the riddle that he
almost forgot to impart the contents of the telegram to Mary. The
fresh-colored farmer's daughter who had found life extremely monotonous
without the vivacious presence of her mistress, heard the news with
elation and showed no surprise over the concluding request.
I've heard how they feed folks in them city places. Ma's cousin was
a waiter in a Boston boarding-house onct, and she says she was fairly
ashamed to set before folks the little dabs that was served out, for
all the world like samples. I guess after two whole weeks of that kind
of food, Miss Dale's good and hungry.
Joel noticed with irritation that Persis had carried her
independence to the point of suggesting that it was not necessary for
him to meet her, though she was well aware that his presence at the
station when the four-twenty train came in, had taken on almost the
sacredness of a religious rite. Looks as if she wasn't in any dreadful
hurry to see me, Joel mused. It occurred to him that it would be a
fitting return for Persis' perverseness for him to retire to his room
and refuse to leave except at her humble and reiterated entreaty. It is
unfortunate that so often the course of conduct consistent with one's
dignity involves a painful sacrifice. As train-time drew near, Joel
realized that he would not be equal to the ordeal of absenting himself,
even for so worthy a cause as to teach Persis a much-needed lesson.
There was the usual number of loungers on the station platform, and
Joel was soon surrounded by an interested circle. As the brother of a
woman of property, he had acquired a certain vicarious importance in
the last few weeks. Information as to what Persis was doing, or about
to do, was sought eagerly in all directions, and Joel's vanity was
flattered at finding himself the center of attention, even though in
his heart he was well aware of the reason.
Sister having a good time up to Boston? inquired a florid man, who
despite the chilliness of the late fall day was in his shirt-sleeves.
The uncertainty in Joel's mind as to whether Persis had spent her
time attending the theater or in the surgical ward of a hospital,
caused him to evade a direct answer.
Oh, so-so. I'm expecting her home on this train.
The countenances of the group brightened. Some of them had come a
long distance to await the four-twenty train. Pressing work was on the
consciences of several. It was agreeable to know that their sacrifices
were not thrown away. They would see Persis Dale step off the train and
would be able to tell their wives at supper whether, as far as their
obtuse masculine powers of observation had been able to determine, she
was arrayed in the spoils of city shops.
The train screamed at the crossing half a mile below and made its
appearance with the usual accompaniments of smoke and rattle.
Passengers looked with weary interest at the crowd on the platform, and
the crowd on the platform watched eagerly for alighting passengers. A
farmer living in the vicinity left the smoking-car to be given scant
welcome, for the lookers-on were anticipating something more
impressive. A fat old woman with a basket and a couple of shawl-straps
was also coldly received. Then some one caught Joel's arm with an
exclamation, muffled but profane.
There was a parlor-car at the rear of the train, a concession to the
passengers for Montreal. From this a rather striking procession was
descending. It was led by a dark handsome boy about twelve years of
age, while a fair girl, a little younger, followed behind. Another boy
and then another girl, smaller and chubbier than their predecessors,
were next to receive the assistance of the obsequious porter. And
lastly he gave his attention to a woman who carried a baby in her arms.
The woman wore a hat and coat new to Clematis, but there was something
not unfamiliar in her erect carriage, and the capable fashion in which,
she directed the movements of her little flock.
Straight ahead, children. Algie, you walk right toward that hack
with the two gray horses, and the rest of you follow Algie. Well,
here's Uncle Joel come to meet us.
Some one pushed Joel forward. With his jaw dropping and his eyes
protruding, he looked like a criminal urged on toward the scaffold
rather than a man of affectionate disposition welcoming home a family
circle unexpectedly enlarged. The hoarse gurgle which escaped his lips
might have gassed for a greeting, or it might have presaged an
Well, Joel. Persis nodded affably, at the same time patting the
baby which, frightened by the proximity of so many strange faces, was
beginning to whimper. As long as you're here, you might as well see
about our trunks. Give Uncle Joel the checks, Algie. No, not that
pocket. You put 'em in the right-hand one.
The crowd surged nearer and a piping voice made itself heard above
the confusion. Miss Dale, looks as if you was going to have lively
times with all that company.
Persis cast a benignant gaze in the speaker's direction. She had
never held curiosity in low esteem as do the more rigid moralists,
acknowledging indeed, her full share of that characteristic. And
moreover she was quite willing that her old friends and neighbors, the
most of whom had congratulated her so heartily on her recent good
fortune, should know of her latest acquisition.
I guess we'll have a lively time all right, Mr. Jones, but these
children ain't what you call company. I adopted the whole lot up to
Boston, and every one of the five's a Dale, as hard and fast as the law
can make 'em.
CHAPTER XV. A WOMAN AT LAST
Even if Joel's command of English had enabled him to express himself
freely regarding his sister's latest acquisition, the opportunity was
not immediately forthcoming. The demonstrations of five excited
children, introduced into an environment entirely unfamiliar, proved
absorbing to all the household. With the exception of the baby who
clung shyly to Persis, refusing to leave her side, the new
reinforcements to the Dale family at once organized exploring
expeditions about the premises. Little feet clattered on the stairs and
shrilly sweet voices announced discoveries from garret to cellar. Joel,
who had improved the first opportunity to withdraw to his own room,
pushed the heaviest chair against the door in lieu of a key and sat in
the chair. And though his knob rattled a number of times, the
investigations of the juvenile explorers ceased at his threshold.
When the summons of the supper-bell sounded through the house, Joel
was uncertain whether to indicate his displeasure by remaining in his
room or to present himself as usual, allowing Persis to see with her
own eyes the condition to which her selfishness had reduced him. He
decided on the latter course, not so much as a concession to his
appetite as because he feared that in Persis' present absorption, his
absence would hardly be noticed. Wearing the expression becoming one
stricken by the hand of a friend, he left his room and faced the
The dining-room table had been extended to a length which carried
his thoughts back to his childhood. The baby, a frail-looking child,
between two and three, had not yet attained the dignity of a place at
the table but sat in a high-chair at Persis' left and drummed with her
spoon upon the adjustable shelf which served the double purpose of
keeping her in place and supporting her bowl of bread and milk. The
renaissance of the high-chair was responsible for a curious surge of
emotion through Joel's consciousness. Persis herself had once occupied
that chair and for a moment his sister's matronly figure at the head of
the table was singularly suggestive of his mother. He dropped into his
place with a hollow groan.
Has he got a stomach ache? inquired five-year-old Celia from the
other end of the table. The echoing whisper was distinctly audible.
Betty, ten years old, pink, prim and pretty, blushed reproachfully at
her new foster sister, while Mary, who was just bringing in the milk
toast, was agitated by a tremor which imperiled the family supper.
Sh! Persis temporarily subdued the outbreaking of her new
responsibilities by a lift of the eyebrows, and began to serve the milk
toast with lavish hand. Joel waved away the plate Mary brought him.
I can't eat that truck. Truth is I haven't got a mite of appetite,
but just to keep up my strength I'll take a soft-boiled egg. I've got
to have something sustaining.
Two eggs, Mary, said Persis to her hand-maid. And give 'em just
two minutes and a half. The order failed to attract the attention of
Celia, absorbed at the moment in allaying the pangs of appetite. It was
not till the eggs were brought in and placed by Joel's plate that the
irrepressible infant was roused to the realization of the enormity of
the situation. She dropped her fork with a clatter.
Oh, Aunt Persis, see what they've gone and done.
What is it, child?
You said that little chickies came out of eggs. There was no
further pretense of whispering on Celia's part. Her voice rose in a
tragic wail. And now he's going to eat up those eggs, and I wanted to
save 'em to make chickies of. Oh, dear, dear!
'Tain't the right time of year for chickens, dearie, Persis
explained soothingly. We'll have plenty next spring. But Joel glanced
at the objects which had called out Celia's protest with an air of
It's enough to take away a hearty man's appetite, he complained.
I guess if my victuals are going to be grudged me, I'd better eat
Don't gobble, Malcolm, said Persis, ignoring her brother's burst
of ill temper and addressing the little lad on her right. And tuck
your napkin under your chin so you won't get anything on your blouse.
At this point the tactful Betty created a diversion by inquiring,
When shall we start going to school, Aunt Persis? Monday?
Looks to me as if to-morrow'd be the best day. It's my idea that if
a thing's worth starting at all, you can't start too soon. Some folks
save up their good resolutions for the first of the year, but it's a
better way to begin right off as soon as you think of it. And then when
the New Year comes, you're just that much ahead.
I'm going to study awful hard, declared Algie, with an air of
putting this good counsel to immediate application.
Well, I'm not, announced Malcolm with equal decision. And then as
Betty emitted a protesting and shocked murmur, he explained: Of course
I'll study some, but I've got to save the most of my strength for
playing football when I'm big.
Joel pushed back his chair and took his egg cup from the table.
I guess I'll go to my room, Persis, he said in a hollow voice.
Maybe up-stairs where it's quiet, I'll be able to eat a little. And
to-morrow you'd better have Mary make me some beef tea. I've got to
have something to keep up my strength. Slowly and solemnly he mounted
the stairs, convinced by the increased animation of the voices in the
room below that his departure had not cast an irreparable gloom over
the cheerful spirits of the diners.
This time he did not feel it necessary to barricade the door. Indeed
he left it a trifle ajar, and so was party to the cheerful confusion of
getting the children to bed. The babyAmaryllis was her impossible
name, though she looked too fragile to sustain its weightwas to share
Persis' quarters. The two older girls occupied the chamber adjoining.
The two boys had been assigned to a snug little room on the other side
of the hall.
Close by me so I can hear every mite of their rowdy-dow, Joel
thought with bitterness. But in spite of himself he listened. The
children were calling to one another across the hall. Apparently their
previous acquaintance had been slight, and in addition to the
excitement of finding themselves in a new environment, they were
experiencing the more intoxicating novelty of becoming acquainted all
at once with a fair-sized contingent of brothers and sisters.
'Most ready for bed, children? Persis' voice sounded rich and
deep, contrasting with the piping chatter. Time you was asleep, for
to-morrow's a school day. And you've got to say your prayers yet.
I said mine on the train coming down, explained Malcolm with his
quaint drawl. Thought I might as well save the time as long as there
wasn't anything else to do.
I've got a new prayer to say, announced Celia, flashing into the
hall, a diminutive apparition, white-clad, with twinkling pink feet.
It's this way:
'Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.'
I think I can teach you a nicer prayer than that, Persis said
serenely, while the older children laughed with the vast superiority of
their wider knowledge. Joel uttered an exclamation of horror.
Children are natural blasphemers. Persis ought to take that little
limb [Transcriber's note: lamb?] in hand. If she don't know the
difference between Mother Goose and praying, she ought to be taught
quick. Old Doctor Watts was in the right of it.
'Lord, we are vile, conceived in sin,
And born unholy and unclean.'
The murmur of conversation in the adjoining rooms died away. Once or
twice after quiet descended, a little voice spoke out like the chirp of
a drowsy bird, brooded over by mother wings. Persis went softly down
the stairs. Joel waited long enough to make his advent impressive and
She sat as he had seldom seen her, thrown back in the roomy recesses
of the big easy chair, her hands lying loosely in her lap. Her attitude
suggested the relaxation following fatigue. Her eyes were half closed,
her lips smiling. An indefinable rapture radiated from her. All her
life Persis Dale had been a resolutely cheerful person. But that
consistent, conscientious optimism was as unlike her present lightness
of heart as the heat of a coal fire, carefully fed and tended, differs
from the gracious warmth of June.
Singularly enough the sight of her satisfaction stirred her brother
to instant indignation. Up to this moment a sense of grievance had been
upper-most. Now he found himself shaken by hot anger. The instinct of
the male to dominate, outlasting the strength which sustains and
protects, spurred him on to have his way with her, to master this
madness which threatened the peace of his life.
Persis, he began in a loud angry voice, what's the meaning of
this piece of tom-foolishness?
She opened her eyes and looked at him. After her two weeks' absence,
their longest separation in twenty years, she saw him almost as a
stranger would have done, a slight, undersized man with a bulging
forehead which told of nature's generous endowments, and the weak chin,
explaining his failure to measure up to the promise of his youth. His
disheveled hair and burning eyes gave an unprepossessing touch to the
picture. But the maternal feeling, always uppermost where her brother
was concerned, had been intensified by the children's advent. Persis
felt for the moment the indulgent disapproval of a mother toward an
Why, Joel! Her voice, with its new depth and richness, caressed
the name it uttered. What's foolish about it?
The gentleness of her answer misled him. He felt a sudden thrilling
conviction of his ability to bring her to terms.
What's foolish about it? What ain't foolish, you'd better say.
Looks to me as if you'd taken leave of your senses. Filling up the
house with pauper brats.
The blood went out of her face. The smile lingered, but it had
become merely a muscular contraction, like the smile on dead lips. The
soul had left it.
Yes, she said steadily. It's true they're poor. But it's not for
you to fling that in their faces. A man who's lived on his sister's
earnings for twenty years.
He was dumb for a moment, wincing under the taunt but lacking words
to answer. He was not without reasonable qualities, and reason told him
he had taken the wrong track. The change in his voice when he spoke
again would have seemed ludicrous had she been in a mood to be amused.
See here, Persis, you've got a chance now to take things easy.
You've worked hard, he admitted patronizingly, and you've earned a
right to enjoy the rest of your life. Now, see how silly 'twould be to
saddle yourself with looking after a pack of children. It's no joke, I
can tell you; bringing up five young ones, nursing 'em through measles
and whooping-cough and the Lord knows what, and never being sure
whether they'll turn out good or bad. Maybe you think I'm prejudiced,
but I'll bet you anything you like that at this minute half Clematis is
wondering whether you're clean crazy or what.
Under his conciliatory address her first anger had cooled. A little
half-contemptuous smile curled her lips.
It's a funny thing, Joel, you've known me for quite a
spellthirty-seven years, the sixth of Octoberand you haven't found
out yet that I'm not looking for an easy time. My idea of Heaven ain't
a place where you can sit down and fold your hands.
I s'pose you'd rather stick at home and fuss over other folks'
children than travel. You used to be crazy about foreign places, Roosia
and Italy and Egypt. Joel's eyes kindled with an unholy light as he
repeated the magic names. A bystander might have been reminded of
another tempter showing the kingdoms of the earth as a lure.
Time enough to travel, Persis said laconically, when my family is
Giving up all the peace of your home, all the quiet
Stillness isn't peace, Joel. There's quiet enough in the grave, if
that's what you're after. I don't want the hush of the tomb around
here. I want little feet tripping up and down and little voices
calling. Seems to me as if this old house had come alive since I
brought these children into it. And I've come alive myself. It's what I
always wanted, a family of children. I gave it up like I've given up so
many things, but I've got it at last, thank God.
Persis, Joel remonstrated in shocked accents, it's not becoming
for a single woman to say things like that. Wanting children, indeed.
If you weren't my sister I shouldn't know what to make of such talk.
She leaned toward him, her hands on her knees. Her gray eyes, warmed
almost to blue by joy and tenderness, were steely as she faced him.
Joel, you don't take it into account that the Almighty didn't make
old maids. He made us just women, and the hunger for children is
nothing more to be ashamed of than the longing for food and drink. I'm
not accusing Him either, when I say that life isn't fair to a lot of
us. It hangs other people's burdens on our backs, and they weigh us
down till we haven't the strength to take what is rightfully ours.
These children had ought to be mine. My blood ought to be in their
veins. It's too late for that, but it's not too late for everything.
What would Aunt Persis Ann's money be worth to me if all it meant was
that I could fix up the house and leave off making dresses for other
folks and travel around and see the world? It's done more than that.
It's made up to me for being cheated out of my rights. It's made me a
woman at last.
Up-stairs sounded a fretful wail, a sharp little note, piercing the
quiet evening with its suggestion of discomfort or alarm. In an instant
Persis was on her feet. Again her face was luminous. Suffused with a
transforming tenderness, it lost its stern lines and became radiantly
youthful. Blue misty shadows veiled the steely light of her eyes.
The baby's crying, she said, and left him swiftly. And Joel, with
a bewildered sense of enlightenment carried to the point of dazzling
effulgence, clapped both hands over his throbbing head.
Well, he gasped, I'll be jiggered! Looks like you can live in the
same house with a woman from the time she's born till she's gray-headed
and not know her any better than if you'd met her once at a
Sunday-school picnic. To think of Persis with all those feelings
bottled up inside her for the last twenty years. As the immortal
'Who is't can read a woman?'
CHAPTER XVI. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO
The morning following the heterogeneous accession to the Dale
family, Joel did not leave his bed. Whether his disability was in part
or altogether due to a desire to open his sister's eyes to the result
of her lack of consideration, Joel himself could not have told, the
correct interpretation of one's own motives being the most complex of
the sciences. It really seemed to him that he felt very ill and he
found a somber satisfaction in reflecting that in the event of his
death, Persis would realize her appalling selfishness. 'Twon't come
much short of murder, he thought with gloomy relish.
Joel's periods of invalidism had been too frequent and prolonged for
this sporadic attack to upset the peaceful order of the household.
Persis attended to his needs with her usual matter-of-fact kindness,
though he suspected that her thoughts were with the new claimants on
her interest and found therein fresh fuel for his grievance. Later when
he called his sister in the feeble voice of the moribund and learned
from Mary that she had gone out to enter the older children in school,
he felt himself a much injured man. But this melancholy satisfaction
was brief, for Persis was back in half an hour, looking in at his door
to ask cheerfully if there was anything he wanted. Nothing I'm likely
to get, replied Joel and turned his face to the wall.
Then, too, the house was quiet. Occasionally the baby's fretful
voice reached his ears or Celia's bubbling, irrepressible laughter; but
the tumult on which he had counted confidently as a factor in his
discomfort was lacking. At noon, indeed, the older children came in
with a shout, brimful of communications too important to wait, so that
the three all talked at once, each voice upraised in a laudable
endeavor to drown out the other two. But just as Joel was telling
himself that it was intolerable, enough to drive a man out of his seven
senses, the announcement of dinner produced an agreeable lull in the
uproar. And when the baby was taken upstairs for its nap and Celia
cautioned to discretion, the quiet became even more profound. Joel
found it necessary to prod his sense of grievance to keep it in action.
He had been awake much of the preceding night, brooding upon his
wrongs, and weariness at length asserted itself and he fell asleep. He
woke with a thrilled consciousness of a light touch on his forehead and
for a moment he thought himself a child again, with his mother bending
over him. Demonstrativeness had never been a Dale characteristic.
Indeed the traditions of the community discouraged manifestations of
affection as an indication of weakness, but few mothers as they stand
beside their sleeping children can resist the sweet temptation to kiss
the little unconscious faces. And Joel Dale, prematurely aged, selfish
and embittered, woke nearer his childish self, and nearer Heaven, than
he had been in many a year.
For a moment he lay bewildered, then opened an eye. An elfin voice
beside him commented on the fact. Half of you's awake and half asleep.
Ain't that funny?
Joel's two eyes came into action long enough to perceive Celia,
sitting in a chair drawn close to the bed. Her sturdy legs were
crossed, her hands folded. She looked dangerously demure.
I gave you a kiss when you was asleep, a pink one. Do you like pink
Pink? he repeated, too startled by the choice of adjectives to
realize how long it had been since any one had kissed him.
Aunt Persis let me have some jelly, Celia explained. I like to
lick my lips off, but I didn't so I could give you a nice pink kiss.
He put one hand hastily to his forehead, thereby verifying his worst
suspicions. It was sticky. Joel groaned.
Want me to 'poor' you? the fairy voice inquired with an accent
indicating a sense of responsibility. A small hand moved over his
unshaven cheek. Poor Uncle Joel! Poor Uncle Joel, cooed Celia. She
interrupted her efforts to ask with interest, Do you like your skin
all prickles? Mine ain't that way, and proved her statement by laying
a cheek like a rose-leaf against his. Joel shrank away gasping.
Want me to tell you a story? Celia did not wait for Joel's assent.
The ministering hand nestled against his cheek; she drew a long breath
Once when I was a little girl, there was a giant lived up by my
house. And he was an awful wicked giant, and he used to bite people's
heads off. And he wanted to fight everybody, and everybody was scared
'cept just me. She paused, overcome by the contemplation of her own
heroism. Wasn't that funny? Everybody was 'fraid 'cept a teenty,
Joel lay staring at his entertainer, his expression suggestive of
such excitement, not to say horror, that the narrator apparently found
And the old giant kept a-talking and a-talking and a-biting and
a-biting. And one day I took my bow'n arrow No. She corrected
herself sternly, with the air of one who refuses to deviate ever so
slightly from the strict facts. I took my sling and some stones I
found in the brook
Joel suddenly realized his responsibility as a mentor of youth.
Look here! Look here! I can't have such talk. You're making that up
out of your own head. You never lived near a giant, and I don't believe
you ever had a sling.
Oh, yes, I had a sling, Uncle Joel, and once I shooted a bear with
itand a Indian.
I guess you haven't been very well brought up, rebuked Joel, who
like most people of his type was quite unable to distinguish between
the gambols of the creative imagination and deliberate falsifying.
Don't you know where little girls go when they tell lies?
I knew a little girl once who telled lies, admitted Celia, her
shocked accents indicating her full appreciation of the reprehensible
character of the practise. And she went to the circus. Her uncle took
From under the bed clothing came a peculiar rasping sound like the
grating of a rusty key in a lock long unused. It was no wonder that
Celia jumped, though she was considerably less startled than Joel
himself. He had laughed, and more appalling still, had laughed at
unmistakable evidences of natural depravity which by good rights should
have awakened in him emotions of abhorrence.
It would be pretty serious for me to backslide now, considering the
state of my health, reflected Joel. He attempted to counteract the
effects of that indiscreet laugh by a blood-curdling groan, and this
demonstration caused Celia to repeat her calming ministrations,
smoothing his rough cheek with velvety hands, and inadvertently poking
one plump forefinger into his eye. Joel blinked. He could easily have
ordered her from the room, but he did not exercise this prerogative. He
was vaguely conscious of an unwarranted satisfaction in the nearness of
this pixy. Her preference for his society flattered his vanity. He
observed her guardedly from the corner of his eye. Undoubtedly she was
a very naughty little girl who told wrong stories and was painfully
lacking in reverence. But at the same timeJoel chuckled again, his
vocal chords responding uncertainly to the unfamiliar promptingat the
same time she was cute.
At the supper table the evening before for all his gloomy
abstraction, Joel had noticed Betty's engaging prettiness and had
thought apropos of Celia, Persis never picked that young one
out for her looks. Now through half closed eyes he studied the small
piquant face and found his opinion altered. Celia was not pretty. Her
straight black hair, just long enough to be continually in her eyes,
was pushed back for the moment so as to stand almost erect like a
crest. Her small nose had an engaging skyward tilt. She was dark and
inclined to sallowness. But the twinkling black eyes under the level
brows would have redeemed a far plainer face. Had Joel been of a poetic
temperament he would have compared Betty to a pink rose-bud, and Celia
to a velvety pansy, saucy and bewitching.
Mary, coming up the stairs with a bowl of broth, stood in the
doorway petrified. Under her spatter of freckles, her comely face was
Miss Dale thought She seemed unable to proceed and stood
swallowing. Celia straightened herself with a jerk.
Oh, goody! We'll play tea-party, Uncle Joel. No, we'll play mother.
You're my little sick boy, Uncle Joel, and I'll feed you. Give that to
Like a person hypnotized Mary advanced and delivered the steaming
broth into Celia's extended hands. Setting the bowl firmly on one knee,
Celia ladled out a generous spoonful.
Open your mouth, darling, and swallow this nice broth. It'll make
mama's little boy a big strong man.
The soup-spoon journeying in Joel's direction tilted dangerously.
Half the contents splashed upon his cheek and ran in a greasy dribble
down his neck. The remainder distributed itself impartially in the
vicinity of his mouth, a few tantalizing drops finding their way
between his parted lips.
Land alive! Mary made a horrified forward rush. You're a-drowning
Mr. Dale. And look at you, wasting that nice soup, too.
Joel frowned and Mary drew back abashed, quailing before his
I guess if I was being drowned I'd have the sense to mention it.
And nobody's going to the poor-house because a little soup gets
spilled. Some of the professions are pretty crowded, Mary, but there's
one where there's room at the top and at the bottom, too, and that's
the one of minding your own business.
Poor Mary blushed till her proximity to things inflammable would
have awakened justifiable fears of a conflagration. Joel gave his
attention to his self-appointed nurse. Steady now! Better take a
little less to start with. That's right. Now steer her straight.
The second spoonful reached its destination without serious
accident. Celia watched her patient as he swallowed and forgot the rôle
she had assigned herself.
Is it good, Uncle Joel?
Uhuh! Pretty fair. Joel felt for his handkerchief and wiped the
moist corner of his mouth.
I'm going to taste it. Celia tilted the spoon to her own lips and
sipped with appreciation. Uncle Joel, she said thoughtfully, if
you're afraid this'll spoil your appetite for supper, I'll eat it.
Again Joel chuckled. This made the third time in swift succession,
and practise was giving him surprising facility. But unwarned by past
experience, Mary put in her word. Poor Mr. Dale hasn't eaten scarcely
a mouthful to-day, and here you've had bread and jelly since dinner.
Joel's unaccustomed smile was at once obscured. Mary, a
considerable spell back a wise man said, 'Every fool will be meddling.'
If you aren't familiar with the author, Mary, it would pay you to read
him. Again he gave his attention to Celia. We'll share this, turn and
turn about, he compromised. First you have a spoonful and then me.
Mary withdrew unheeded. Though tremendously in awe of the
impecunious and futile Joel, Mary felt no sense of diffidence where the
efficient Persis was concerned, and at once went to find her. But
Persis, who sat in one of her new bay-windows, the baby on her knee,
was entertaining Mrs. West, while her benignantly maternal eyes watched
three children playing outside.
I declare you could have knocked me down with a feather, Persis,
when I heard it, Mrs. West declared, her portliness rendering the
figure of speech extremely impressive. I wouldn't have thought queer
of one or even two, but a whole family.
A family's what I've always wanted, Persis returned with the
cheerfulness of a woman whose life-long dream has come true. And if I
could have found enough of the sort I was after, I'm not sure I'd have
stopped short of a round dozen.
It's a responsibility, sighed Mrs. West They're kind of like
playthings to you now. You'll feel it later.
Persis looked at her with kind eyes. I haven't added any new
responsibility in taking these children, Mis' West. It was there just
as soon as the money and leisure came to me, and I've made a start
toward meeting it, that's all. We don't make our responsibilities; we
just wake up to 'em.
I must say you take to it like a duck to water, acknowledged Mrs.
West in conciliatory accents. Some women are just as unhandy with a
baby as a man. Sophia Warren's one. Once or twice I've seen her holding
that Newell baby that lives next door, and she looked as stiff and
scared as if she was setting for her photograph.
She leaned forward to watch the frolicsome children from the window.
They're real nice-looking, Persis, I will say that. One, two, three
and the baby's four. Somebody said five.
With a start Persis recalled the suspicious peace which for some
time past had pervaded the establishment. There's another, she said,
too little for school. Mary! Mary, do you know where Celia is?
Mary approached. Her consciousness of being a bearer of important
tidings communicated itself in some indefinable fashion to the other
women. They looked up, alert on the instant.
Celia's setting up in Mr. Joel's room. Mary gave her great news
deliberately as if to enjoy the full flavor.
Persis started to her feet. Mrs. West raised her hands with an
Has he got one of his bad spells? she demanded. And that child in
his room. Well, fools rush
She's playing he's her little boy, explained Mary, making the most
of the sensation of being an actor in a real drama. She fed him his
soup and slopped him, but he took me up sharp when I tried to stop her.
He acts as if she's got him clean bewitched.
Well! exclaimed Mrs. West, as Persis looked at her dumbly. I
never expected to live to see that Scripture fulfilled. The wolf and
lamb lying down together and a weaned child in a cockatrice's den.
Are you sure he wasn't angry? asked Persis, still a little pale
Go and see for yourself, Miss Dale, if you don't believe me. When I
tried to stop her eating a good half of that broth, and chicken as high
as 'tis, he the same as called me a fool for meddling. But you'd better
go up-stairs. You won't be satisfied till you've heard for yourself.
In that Mary spoke truly. Her story was too incredible to be
accepted without investigation. Persis' incredulity did not desert her
till half-way up the stairs she was met by a child's voice, fond and
Uncle Joel, ain't God cruel to make some dogs without tails?
And then as her brother's unfamiliar laugh reached her ears, Persis
turned and went softly down the stairs.
CHAPTER XVII. ENID
If Persis Dale's extraordinary action in adopting a family en
masse had stirred Clematis from center to circumference, that
agitation was trivial in comparison with the flutter produced by Joel's
capitulation. Mrs. West, backed up by Mary, told the news to auditors
frankly incredulous who yet were sufficiently impressed by her
sincerity to resolve on looking into the thing for themselves.
Consequently the Dale homestead became a magnet for the curious, and
many a skeptic came and went away convinced that the day of miracles
As a matter of fact Joel's surrender was in accord with the most
elemental of psychological laws. With the characteristic caprice of her
sex in matters of the heart, Celia had taken a violent fancy to this
pale-blooded hypochondriac, and made no secret of the fact that she
regarded him as her especial property. Nothing is so flattering to the
vanity as the preference of a child, that naive, spontaneous affection
to which it is impossible to impute mercenary motives. And Joel had
responded by becoming Celia's abject slave. He ignored the other
children for the most part, seldom betraying, unless perhaps by an
impatient gesture or a frown, that he was aware of their existence. But
his eyes were always on Celia, and when she spoke, he listened.
As was to be expected, that morsel of femininity improved every
opportunity to parade her conquest. She took Joel to walk, holding
tightly to his hand and entertaining him with an outpouring of those
quaint fancies which have been the heritage of childhood from the
beginning and yet always seem to the older generation so marvelously
new. She inveigled him into playing whatever rôle she assigned in
fantastic dramas of her own creation. He was Celia's father or her
little boy as the whim took her, the wolf which devoured Red Riding
Hood's grandmother, or the hapless old lady herself, attacked
ruthlessly by Celia as wolf. Crawling on all fours he played elephant,
or with the handle of a basket between his teeth, he submitted to be
patted on the head and addressed as Towser. Persis looked on with a
wonder that never lost its poignancy. That the self-centered Joel
should succumb to the innocent spell of childhood had never entered her
calculations, and she reproached herself that she had so little
The comments of Persis' acquaintances were characteristic. Mrs.
West, on the occasion of a second call, hinted her anxiety regarding
the future of the impromptu family. When you pick children up that
way, you can't tell how they're going to turn out.
And when you bring 'em into the world, remarked Persis dryly, and
rear 'em yourself and never let 'em out of your sight when you can help
it, you don't know how they're going to turn out either. There was in
her manner an ingenious suggestion of having in mind the recent
heart-broken confidences of Thad's mother, and Etta West blushed hotly
and changed the subject.
Mrs. Robert Hornblower looked upon the acquisition as practical
rebellion against the decrees of Providence. In Persis' presence, she
said little, having a sincere respect for her ex-dressmaker's gift of
repartee. But to Mr. Hornblower, she expressed herself in no uncertain
If it's the Lord's will for a woman to raise a family, it stands to
reason He'll send her a husband. This snapping your fingers in the face
of the Almighty and gathering up children from here and there and
anywhere, looks downright impious.
Seems to me, began Mr. Hornblower in mild expostulation, that
Yes, I know, Robert, interrupted the submissive wife. I feel just
as you do. It's always been Persis Dale's greatest fault to imagine
that she's a law unto herself. But this time she's overstepped the
Those children are orphans, exclaimed Mr. Hornblower, his
complexion becoming apoplectic. And if
In another instant he would have spoken his mind. Only by raising
her voice so his next words became inaudible, did his wife avoid that
I don't wonder you're shocked, Robert, said Mrs. Hornblower, to
think of her bringing into Clematis children of nobody knows who, to
grow up with our own boys and girls and as like as not lead 'em astray.
All I can say is that Persis Dale may have a lot to answer for some
Though Mrs. Hornblower's stand was somewhat extreme she was not
without her supporters. Thomas Hardin's sister, Mrs. Gibson, declared
with unconcealed rancor that Persis would have done better to think
about getting a husband before interesting herself in securing a
family. Mrs. Richards, with sanctimonious rolling of her eyes, admitted
that she had recognized long before an inherent coarseness in the
character of Persis Dale. Others like Annabel Sinclair exclaimed over
the folly of burdening one's self with juvenile responsibilities when
free to seek distraction wherever one pleased.
Diantha did not agree with her mother. Ever since the memorable
occasion when, with the dressmaker's connivance, she had startled
Clematis by growing up between noon and supper-time, she had been one
of Persis' attendant satellites. But after the advent of the children
she fairly haunted the establishment. She dropped in after breakfast to
announce that Miss Perkins credited Algie with having the best head for
arithmetic of any boy in her room and came again at noon to suggest
taking Malcolm and Celia for a walk. But though she distributed her
favors with creditable impartiality, she found the baby peculiarly
fascinating. And rather to Persis' surprise, the frail and fretful
little creature, who looked askance even at the kindly Mary, fell under
the spell of the girlish beauty and always had a smile for Diantha.
Goodness, child, you do look grown up, Persis exclaimed abruptly
one afternoon, as she glanced at the pair snuggled in the depths of the
armchair, Diantha had flung her hat aside. Her face was dreamy as she
looked down at the little head against her shoulder. All her girlish
coquetry, every trace of juvenile mischief, the occasional flashes of
petulance which told that she was her mother's daughter had vanished.
She looked a brooding madonna.
Ordinarily Diantha would have fluttered at the compliment. In her
present preoccupation, it drew from her only a thoughtful smile.
She's going to sleep, she said, an exquisite softness in her
voice. How nice and heavy their heads feel when they're sleepy, Miss
I'm going to adopt a lot of children some day. I always was crazy
to have a crowd around. The way I've prayed for a sister, sighed
Diantha, her face temporarily overcast. And then brightening: When I
get old enough to do as I please, I'll make up for it.
Persis, studying the rapt young face, made no immediate reply. Her
sense of guilty complicity in Diantha's precocious womanhood distracted
her attention from the girl's resentful speech. Apparently her silence
proved stimulating to Diantha's impulse toward confidences.
Do you know the latest notion mother's got in her head?
She wants to send me off to school somewhere. She talks to father
and talks to him, till I'm afraid she'll tire him into it. Thad West
says any woman can get her way if she never stops talking about it.
Persis regarded her keenly and Diantha's color rose. For no apparent
reason her blush became a conflagration.
I didn't know you and Thad had much chance to talk things over
They won't let him come to the house. They say I'm too young.
Diantha laughed mockingly. And mother was only a little older when she
married father, and she was engaged twice before that.
I suppose you keep on seeing him just the same.
Course I do.
Persis mused. Diantha was wrong, undoubtedly, and yet more sinned
against than sinning. Cautions and expostulations were unavailing with
this spirited young creature, smarting under continued injustice and
seeing with her uncompromising clearness of vision the selfish jealousy
which would keep her out of her birthright indefinitely. You want to
be real careful, Diantha, said Persis, realizing the futility of her
words. Thad's a nice boy and you're a nice girl, but it don't look
well for young folks to be meeting on the sly.
She tried but with little success, to exercise a certain supervision
over Diantha that winter. Though the children came down with measles
one after another, and Joel had an attack of rheumatism which kept him
a prisoner in his bed for seven weeks, it seemed to Persis that Diantha
was never really out of her mind. She was surprised on the other hand
to find how little Justin Ware was in her thoughts. Instead of
returning to Clematis in a few weeks as he had intended, he had been
called West unexpectedly. He had not written Persis to apprise her of
his change of plans, and she heard of it only through Mrs. Hornblower.
And the astonishing part was that she heard it with scarcely a pang.
She had discontinued her practise of saying good night to the
photograph in the plush frame with Justin Ware's return, but sometimes
when the house was still, she took her stand before it and studied the
pleasant, immature face intently, as if trying to read from its
ingenuous smile a solution of some inward perplexity.
The measles and the winter ran their course together. The children
ventured out and the daffodils ventured up. Joel hobbled about with a
cane and took Celia in search of violets. The baby who had come very
near dying, decided apparently that since recovery was in order she
might as well make a thorough job of it and began to grow fat and
sweet-tempered and to acquire dimples. And Persis made the pleasing
discovery that in the months during which she had been a woman of
property, she had not spent her income and resolved at once on
rectifying this needless opulence.
I've done considerable plodding in my time, I wouldn't mind a
little skimming for a change, thought Persis. Next to a family she had
long craved an automobile. The surplus of her income was sufficient for
the purchase of one of the cheaper grades of cars. Persis decided on a
visit to the city, with a view to making this investment.
I'm a little seedy with being shut in so much this winter, and a
trip will do me good whether I buy an automobile or not. Mary's mother
will come and stay with her and help out with the children. And if Joel
wants to go along, he can. But apparently the protective impulse which
had moved Joel to offer his company on the occasion of her previous
visit had waned during the winter. He declined the invitation without
It was proof enough of Persis' temperamental youthfulness that she
reached the city with as keen a sense of adventure as if she had been a
runaway boy following a circus. She went to the modest hotel she had
patronized the previous fall and was surprised and flattered when the
clerk called her by name.
Gives a body a home-coming feeling, that does, remarked Persis, as
she wrote the cramped signature which so poorly represented her robust
personality. I don't see how you can remember everybody, with folks
coming and going all the time.
There are some people it's easy to remember, replied the clerk
gallantly and at the same time with sincerity. Whatever else time
erased from the tablets of his memory, he would never forget Persis,
and her acquisition of a family. Then he looked at her interrogatively,
for Persis had jumped, blotting the register.
You'll have to excuse me. Persis reached for the blotter. I saw a
name I know and it sort of took my breath. There were but two
signatures on the page besides her own, the names of Mrs. Honoria Walsh
and Enid Randolph, both of Warren, New York.
I'll give you room forty-two, said the clerk, taking a key from
the hook and nodding to a watchful lad in uniform. Mrs. Walsh and her
niece Miss Randolph are on the same floor. If they are friends of
No, I wouldn't say that, Persis interrupted. It's just that I've
heard of 'em before. As she left the elevator on the second floor, two
women glided past her, one the portly widow with abundant crêpe who is
not easily differentiated, the other a stately girl with blonde hair
and a scornfully tilted chin. Instinct told Persis that the latter was
She enjoyed her first day vastly. She drove some two hundred miles
in machines of different makes and listened with keen interest to the
arguments proving conclusively that each was superior to all others.
Night found her tired, a little homesick for the children, but still
happy, nevertheless. She finished her dinnera good dinner as became a
woman of meansand went into the little writing-room off the parlor
with the intention of jogging Mary's memory regarding the baby's diet.
There was but one person in the room, a young woman with fair hair
busily engaged in writing.
Persis sat down at the next desk. She was aware of a marked
acceleration of the pulse which to her temperament was far from
Excuse me, but isn't this Miss Enid Randolph?
Yes. The young woman looked up from her letter. Though her hair
was light, her brows were dark and her air distinctly distant.
I've always wanted to meet you. Persis spoke with unabashed
friendliness. I've been interested in you for quite a spell. My name
is Dale, Persis Dale.
Miss Randolph lifted her fine eyebrows, but offered no further
comment on this interesting circumstance.
Perhaps you'll remember, Persis continued briskly, that we've had
a little correspondence. At least you wrote me about a letter of yours
to a Mr. Wash
I remember the incident clearly, said Miss Randolph. For all her
chilling air, she glanced toward the door to assure herself that they
were not overheard. It is true I wrote you, she continued with a
hauteur which would have reduced a less buoyant nature to instant
dumbness. But I hardly see that this constitutes a ground for
considering ourselves acquaintances.
So far from being crushed, Persis smiled. And there was something so
frankly spontaneous in her look of amusement, that the young woman
Bless you, I know it wasn't a letter of introduction, Persis
assured her with unimpaired good humor. But I've always wanted to tell
you that when you wrote me that time, you did a lot of good without
knowing it. Love-letters seem to me like firearms. In the proper hands
they're real useful, but if the wrong people get hold of 'em it's bound
to make trouble. At least that was the way with the one you wrote Mr.
For the second time Miss Randolph looked toward the door, and when
next Persis saw her eyes they were appealing rather than disdainful.
The letter by mistake was sent to a young man who lives in
Clematis, Persis continued. His name is Thompson, and W. Thompson, at
that. He thought it such a joke that he put it in his pocket for his
wife to find. Didn't know 'twas loaded, you see. And when she did find
it and he explained, she didn't believe him. I don't know as anybody
believed him but me, but it seemed such a silly explanation for a
sensible man to make up that I felt pretty sure it must be true.
Miss Randolph put down her pen and gave herself up to the business
If I could tell you how that little woman looked, declared Persis,
it would just make your heart jump to think it was you that helped
her. Only six months married, she was, too. Well, I took a risk and
wrote to Mr. Thompson, Cleveland, and when I got his letter I knew
everything was all right. But I wasn't sure of proving it to young Mrs.
Thompson. After a woman's brooded over a thing as long as she had, with
her neighbors egging her on to do something desperate, she's not going
to be convinced with anything short of downright proof. But between
your letter and Mr. Wash
I don't see, interrupted Miss Randolph quickly, that she has
anything to thank me for. You certainly deserve all the credit, Miss
Dale, for clearing up the mystery.
Well, they were grateful all right, Persis smiled reminiscently.
The baby's six weeks old now, and her name is Persis Dale Thompson.
And they're both about as happy as any folks you're likely to see till
you die and go to Heaven. But I couldn't have done anything without
your help, and I wish I thought you was half as contented as I know
Really, said Miss Randolph, with an unsuccessful attempt to
duplicate her earlier reserve, it is impossible for me to see
Yes, I know. Persis leaned toward her, speaking with a vehemence
that swept the feeble expostulation aside. But just because I never
set eyes on you before ain't any reason why I shouldn't want you to be
happy. I've laid awake nights thinking about that letter of yours, so
loving and so sorrowful. Dearie, if love pulls you one way and
conscience the other, there's only one thing to do and that's the right
Really, began Miss Randolph, and then her eyes unexpectedly
filled, quenching the incipient fire of her indignation. She had
recourse to her handkerchief and Persis patted her shoulder, and in
that instant the two were friends.
You don't quite understand, explained Enid in a muffled voice.
'Tommy' isn't married. 'Her' is auntie.
Persis drew a sigh of such unmistakable relief that the girl looked
at her amazed. The older woman's face was shining.
Well, that's a weight off my mind, she smiled. Nothing but your
aunt. Thank goodness.
A weight off your mind! Enid repeated. But you didn't know me.
No, but I knew you were a young thing in trouble, and that 'Her'
gave me many a bad minute.
Enid's fingers reached gropingly toward her new-found friend. Their
two hands clasped and held fast.
Auntie took me when I was a little girl. I was an orphan. She's
been everything to me, and she adores me. But she doesn't like Tommy.
She hasn't anything really against him except that he's poor. It
would kill her to have me leave her to marry him. I can't bring myself
to do it. And yet I can't bring myself to give Tommy up. She was
crying in earnest now, and the clasp of Persis' hand tightened.
You can't and you oughtn't. There's too much sacrifice of love
these days. Young fellows instead of having homes of their own are
supporting two or three grown-up sisters and getting crabbed and
bitter. And girls the Lord meant for wives and mothers stay at home
because the old folks don't want to spare them. Nine times out of ten
it's like Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and there's a he-goat somewhere
round in the bushes that would do just as well.
But it would seem so dreadfully ungrateful to disappoint her,
gasped Enid Randolph with the air of one who longs to be disproved.
After she's done everything for me.
Bless you, child, if you love and are sure of him, the mother who
bore you wouldn't have a right to say no. And what's more, if you're
sensible enough to go your own way, she'll probably end up by thinking
he next thing to made the world and taking all the credit for the
match. You're twenty-one, of course.
Then I wouldn't have any more of this underhanded business. Talk it
out with your aunt, and unless she can show you good reasons for giving
up your young man, you've got the best reason in the world for taking
Enid deliberated. Then very slowly she tore her letter to bits.
I was saying good-by to him foreverfor the twenty-ninth time.
She smiled somewhat palely. But I rather think, Miss Persis Dale, that
I'll take your advice.
CHAPTER XVIII. A STALLED ENGINE
Well, I don't expect to be any nearer flying till I get to Heaven
and they fit me to a pair of wings. I might try a little jaunt in an
air-ship some day, but I don't feel as if I'd relish that for a steady
diet. For this world, an automobile is plenty good enough for me.
Not for many a year had Persis been possessed by such a sense of
buoyancy and youthfulness. The road lay straight and smooth before her.
The little car, obedient to her strong capable hand, spun along the
shining track, counterfeiting by the swiftness of its motion the breeze
lacking in the languid spring day. Persis had laid aside her hat, and
the rush of air ruffled her abundant hair and rouged her cheeks. As a
matter of fact, Persis was not so near flying as she thought. In the
most conservative community, there would have been little danger of her
arrest for exceeding the speed limit. But to one accustomed to the
sedate jog-trot of farm horses taken from the plow to hitch to the
capacious carry-all, the ten-mile-an-hour gait of the new motor seemed
The day had the deceptive stillness by which nature disguises the
ferocious intensity of her spring-time activities. Bird, beast and
insensate clod all felt the challenge of the season. Persis had
responded characteristically by cleaning house from six o'clock till
noon and making a dress for Betty in the interval which less strenuous
natures devote to afternoon naps. And now that Celia was off somewhere
with Joel, and Betty had promised to look after the baby, and the boys
had received permission to inspect a family of puppies newly arrived in
the neighborhood, Persis was scurrying hither and thither with all the
ebullient light-heartedness of a girl let out of school. She had
startled the staid residents of Twin Rivers, where the spectacle of a
woman driving a car ranked in interest second only to a circus parade.
She had frightened two horses and narrowly escaped running over a
chicken. And now she turned her face homeward, with the deliberate
intention of ignoring the approach of supper-time and inviting young
Mrs. Thompson to take the baby out for an airing. At no other time of
the year would Persis have considered being late to supper for no
reason except that she was loath to shorten her pleasure. Without doubt
the momentous interview between Mother Eve and the most subtle of
beasts occurred in the spring when the moral defenses need
Against the deepening gold of the west, a black speck showed,
emerging rapidly into distinctness as the vehicles approached. The
slower-moving of the two was still at too great a distance for Persis
to distinguish its occupants when she began to slow down, her dread of
causing an accident through frightening some one's horse counteracting
her unwonted feeling of irresponsibility. The car had come almost to a
standstill when out of the recesses of the still distant buggy Persis
caught a flash of pink. She had the trained eye for color
characteristic of her profession. And this peculiarly trying shade of
pink she always associated with Diantha Sinclair, who had an audacious
fondness for testing her flawless coloring with hues capable of turning
the ordinary complexion to saffron.
Prompt action is characteristic of the intuitive. Logic takes time.
Persis never attempted to account for the unreasoning certainty which
on occasion took command of her actions. It was impossible for her to
recognize Diantha's companion or to know indeed, that the opalescent
flash of pink stood for Diantha's nearness. Yet she was sure of both
things and of much besides. And with her conviction that the case was
serious, an adequate plan of action instantly presented itself.
The car stopped with a jerk, and in the middle of the road, so that
the on-coming driver would have to exercise caution in passing. The
panting engine became silent. Persis alighted. She made several tours
of inspection of her property, her face expressive of gravest concern.
Occasionally she touched a screw or lever tentatively and then shook
her head. Finally dropping on her knees in the dust, she thrust her
head between the wheels and gazed inquiringly at the bottom of the car.
Thus occupied she was too engrossed to notice that the thud of horse's
hoofs was coming very near. Suddenly the sound ceased.
Why, cried a girlish voice, it's Miss Persis.
Persis gave up her unavailing scrutiny and climbed slowly to her
feet. As she dusted her knees, she welcomed the occupants of the buggy
with a fine blending of surprise and relief.
Well, I venture to say I know just how ship-wrecked folks feel when
they're off on a raft in mid-ocean and they sight a sail. Ain't this a
funny fix, half past four in the afternoon and me ten miles from home?
And to make it worse I wrenched my knee a mite cleaning house this
morning. This last statement was strictly accurate though her limp as
she advanced toward them was exaggerated. I don't know what I'd have
done, declared Persis, if you hadn't happened along.
Diantha's face reflected the pinkness of the gown which had betrayed
her. Thad West looked frankly sulky and quite at a loss.
That's the worst of those dog-goned things, he exclaimed, scowling
at the object blocking his way. They're always giving out just when
you need them most. I wouldn't take one as a gift, he added savagely,
and only the enthusiastic motorist will understand what it cost Persis
not to refute his words on the spot.
Have you tried everything you can think of to make it go, Miss
Persis? Diantha asked, her troubled tones indicating how much she took
to heart her friend's misadventure.
Persis' glance implied affectionate appreciation.
Well, you see, dearie, they gave me lessons in the city on how to
run a car, but I suppose it's too much to expect that I'll know
everything about it right off from the start. I dare say some real
smart person could fix it in a jiffy. She was so certain on this point
that she quaked for fear Thad might begin experimenting, but that young
man's confidence in his mechanical ability was luckily limited. He sat
scowling and twisting the lines in his hands, while his horse looked
back over its shoulder as if it shared its master's impatience of the
I didn't relish the idea of setting here in the road all night,
explained Persis, still with an air of relief. Seems fairly
providential your coming along in the nick o' time.
Fact is, said Thad sullenly, we're not going home for a while.
Well, I'm in no real hurry, Persis returned obligingly. If the
children get hungry, Mary'll feed 'em. They're all too little to worry
if I'm not home on the minute, and Joel ain't the worrying kind.
Truth is, Miss Persis, exclaimed the goaded lad, it isn't what
you'd call convenient for us to take you along this evening.
Thad! cried Diantha in accents of unutterable reproach.
Well, I don't mean to be impolite, but it's not convenient and you
Thad West, Miss Persis is just about my dearest friend in Clematis.
And if you think I'm going to leave her here alone ten miles from home,
with an automobile that won't goand getting darkand a lame knee
Well, of course if you feel that way about it, returned the
unhappy young man, there's nothing more to be said. But you know
I guess I'd better light my lamps before I leave, remarked Persis
briskly. She attended to that little matter and hobbled toward the
buggy. Thad alighted and assisted her to climb in with so poor a grace
as to make her suspicions an absolute certainty.
Now, children, Persis settled herself and slipping an arm deftly
behind Thad's back, she took Diantha's slim hand in hers, I never was
one to be a kill-joy. You drive round as long as you feel like it and
don't mind me, no more'n if I was a coach dog running on behind.
Thad! exclaimed Diantha in peremptory fashion. I'm going to tell
Just as you think best, replied young Mr. West, who bade fair to
find this a convenient stock phrase.
Diantha's hand gave that of Persis a tremulous pressure, suggestive
of fluttering nerves. Miss Persis, she said in a thrilling
half-whisper, we're going to be married, Thad and I.
Persis returned the squeeze. I thought as much, dearie. I've seen
you look at him and him look at you, and that made it plain enough to a
body with eyes. And I'm glad to hear it. For all I've missed it myself,
I believe marriage is about the best thing there is. Thad's got his
faults and you've got yours, and it stands to reason you're going to do
better at mastering 'em if each helps the other, than if you struggle
along alone. There's nothing easy about marriage except for lazy folks
and cowards, but things that are hard are the only ones that pay. Some
people will tell you it's a risk, and so it is, but most things are
when you come to that. I believe in getting married and in early
marriages, too, and so I'm glad to know that some day you and Thad
Thad West gave his horse a quite unnecessary cut with the whip. In
the voice of a dying zephyr, Diantha interrupted.
You don't understand, Miss Persis. It isn't some day. It's to-day.
We're running off to be married.
Oh! Persis' hold on the fluttering little hand tightened. Her
silence seemed to imply reflection.
Well, that puts a different face on it. I suppose it's because I
think so much of marriage that I hate to have it mixed up with things
that are underhanded. My idea of husband and wife, you see, is just two
folks helping each other to make a better man and a better woman,
instead of backing each other up in lying
Lying! exploded Thad. Who's going to do any lying?
Diantha's not eighteen yet, and you haven't got her parents'
permission for her to marry you. The only way you can manage it is to
lie about her age and start your new life with that hanging over you.
And all because you can't wait one little year. Looks like Thad's
afraid he will change his mind about Diantha, and Diantha's in a hurry
for fear she will find somebody she likes better'n Thad.
Two vehement protests mingled in inextricable confusion. They won't
let me see her except on the sly, cried Thad, making himself heard at
last. They've said I wasn't to come to the house. And I won't stand
Of course you won't, Persis agreed. That's past all reason that
two young people dead in love with each other aren't to have a chance
to do their courting. That's got to be different.
But father won't have it.
To-morrow I'm going to drop in and have a talk with your father.
I'm not afraid of obstinacy in a man that's got ordinary sense
somewhere in the back of his head. It's the brainless sort of folks
that can't be moved after they've once got set. Stanley Sinclair knows
enough to listen to reason. And he's got to do it.
But mother, began Diantha, and then sobbed. His face sternly set,
Thad gulped. Even the self-contained Persis found her eyes moist.
Yes, child, I understand. I knew your mother before you were born,
and I'll own that we're likely to have a little trouble in that
quarter. But when folks have common sense and everything else dead
against 'em, there's nothing for 'em to do but give up. Sometimes I've
felt, Persis added thoughtfully, as if I'd just enjoy a real plain
talk with your mother.
If we go back now, stormed Thad, it'll be the same story over
again next year. They're never going to let me marry Diantha unless I
run off with her.
Next year she'll be of age and her own mistress, and you'll have no
cause to run. Diantha's the sort of girl that ought to be married in
church with bridesmaids and the wedding march and pews full Of folks
looking on. 'Tain't only about once in a generation that a bride as
pretty as Diantha comes along, and the idea of marrying her in some
minister's back parlor, with the student lamp turned low to save oil
and the servant girl called in for a witness, is a plain case of
casting pearls before swine. Not that I've got anything against
ministers, Persis added, in hasty amends to the cloth.
The weeping Diantha was sobbing less violently. Persis was sure she
was giving close attention. Possibly Thad was impressed by the same
view of the case, for he spoke with the aggressive confidence of one
who feels that his cause is imperiled.
Church wedding! Makes me laugh to think what Diantha's mother would
say to that.
Well, if they won't give Diantha a wedding next year, I will. And
it'll be the kind, Persis promised solemnly, that'll make Clematis
sit up and take notice.
Neither of the lovers spoke. Gazing down the winding road with the
dreamy air of one who sees beautiful visions, Persis broke the tense
I've given up dressmaking for good, but there's one dress I'm
willing to break my rule for, and that's Diantha Sinclair's wedding
gown. I've got a picture of it in my mind's eye, if the styles don't
change too much between now and next June. And if anything could make
Diantha look sweeter than she does now, 'twould be that wedding dress.
And the making of it ain't going to cost her a cent.
Diantha leaned behind Thad's back and left a damp kiss on her
friend's forehead. Persis knew her battle was won. Thad knew it too,
and a hollow groan escaped him.
By the way, Thad, I'm going to arrange with Mr. Sinclair to let you
call on Diantha twice a week, and if you should happen to feel like
seeing her between times, she's pretty likely to be at my house along
in the afternoon. If you should drop in 'most any day about four
o'clock, you'd probably find her. And now s'pose both of you come home
with me for supper. I'll telephone Diantha's folks where she is, so
they won't worry.
I thinkI think that'll be awfully nice, don't you, Thad? said
And the loser in the unequal contest surrendered without a blow as
he answered, Just as you say.
Persis had not overestimated her persuasive powers. She actually
brought the Sinclairs to agree to the liberal terms she had promised
the young people. The hauteur with which Stanley Sinclair received her
at his office the following day, and the explicitness of his statement
that he was not anxious for her advice concerning his domestic affairs,
proved unavailing before Persis' matter-of-fact bluntness. Anger
availed him little since she remained cool. His irony rebounded
harmless from her absolute certainty of being in the right. Forced to
retreat step by step, he ended by conceding all that she demanded for
the lovers. If he had an air when he bade her good morning, of
resolving never to forgive her, the knowledge that she had gained all
she came for imparted an unfeigned cordiality to her farewell.
The interview with Annabel was briefer and more dramatic, but quite
as conclusive. As she pondered on the success that had attended her
efforts, Persis indulged in brief philosophy.
Anybody's at a terrible disadvantage that's afraid of the truth.
Now, it doesn't worry me a mite to have Annabel call me an old maid,
but if I tell her she's thirty-eight she feels worse than if I'd stuck
a knife into her. Annabel makes me think of those squirming things that
live under stones. All you have to do to bring 'em to terms is to turn
the stone over and let the light in on 'em. It beats all how Annabel
will scramble to get away from the truth.
The man commissioned to bring home Persis Dale's car relished his
task enormously. He told every one that there wasn't a thing the matter
with the machine. She had just stalled her engine and didn't know
enough to get it started again. All Clematis enjoyed the joke, Persis
CHAPTER XIX. A DEFERRED INTERMENT
Except for the clerk at the Clematis House the first person to
welcome Justin Ware on his next return to his native town was Annabel
Sinclair. She wore a little white veil, vastly becoming, but masking a
tragedy, since she thereby acknowledged the deterioration of her
complexion. The dramatic encounter took place one block from the hotel,
and Annabel clasping her gloved hands uttered the single word; You!
The greeting, abrupt in type, is anything else on the lips of a
woman who has studied the possibilities of that monosyllable. On
Annabel's lips it expressed incredulous wonder, gentle reproach and
strong feeling held in check by womanly modesty. No man can rise
superior to this subtle flattery. Justin greeted her as if she were the
woman of his dreams.
It's really youafter almost a year. The reproach was uppermost
in her voice now, but she mitigated its severity by allowing him to
retain possession of the hand he had seized.
It has been a long yearfor me, replied Justin, and the rival
artist thrilled with responsive admiration. For his manner said as
plainly as words that throughout those dragging twelve months one
thought had possessed him, the desire to see her again.
Were you on your way home? May I walk with you? He asked the favor
with deferential tenderness. She granted it with an effective flutter
of the lids. Each, realizing the other's proficiency in the game, was
spurred to emulation.
And then abruptly the curtain dropped on the play, for at the first
street corner, an automobile barked a warning. Justin, who had
gallantly taken his companion's arm, the better to assist her in the
perils of the crossing, raised his eyes and at once lost interest in
Annabel Sinclair and her kind.
The woman driving the car to all appearances had not recognized him,
her absorption preventing her from differentiating the human species
beyond the broad classification of those likely to be run over and
those in no such danger. Her color was high, and her face despite a
grim intentness indicated keen satisfaction. A handsome boy sat beside
her, and Justin had a confused impression of a number of other children
in charge of a buxom girl on the back seat. He stood motionless gazing
after the flying car and oblivious to Annabel's resentful glances.
Well, good afternoon if you've decided to spend the rest of the day
on the street corner.
Justin roused himself. But he had lost heart in these amateur
Whose car is Persis Dale driving?
Her own. A year brings changes, you see, Mr. Ware. The car and the
children all belong to her.
What! he shouted. His first not unnatural idea was that Persis had
become the wife of a prosperous widower, and he was astonished at the
pang for which this thought was responsible. Resentfully Annabel
recognized the difference between the voice of real emotion and
Her lips curled as she allayed his consternation. She came into a
little moneyan obliging aunt died, I believe. Pity it hadn't come
early enough to do her some real good. She patched up her old house,
and adopted five or six orphan-asylum kids, and I suppose the poor
thing thinks she's having a good time. Even to the most prejudiced eye
Annabel could not have looked beautiful at that moment. The venom that
poisoned her spirit, disfigured her face like a scar. Hag-ridden by
those unlovely twins, jealousy and hate, she looked for the instant
Justin did not notice. He was absorbed in gleaning from her all
possible information as to the change in Persis' circumstances and
quite indifferent to the emotions of his reluctant informant. With the
relentlessness of the thoroughly selfish, he continued his
cross-examination till Annabel's mind seemed to herself a squeezed
orange. She felt something like terror mingling with a sense of
physical exhaustion. It always frightened her to find herself unable to
keep a man's attention focused on herself when she had him to herself.
When shall I see you again? she asked, as she approached her home.
Had the interview continued with the dramatic intensity of its
beginning, she could safely have left him to ask that question. Under
the circumstances she did not dare.
I'm not quite sure. I have some business that has hung fire an
unconscionable time, and ungallant as it seems, we twentieth century
fellows have to put business before pleasure. He smiled propitiatingly
and therein lay the sting, that he did not even take the trouble to
conceal that he was trying to appease her. Their parting sank to the
level of the commonplace for he shook hands hastily, and her look of
appeal flattened itself ineffectively against his preoccupation.
A little skilful quizzing of the hotel clerk confirmed in every
detail Annabel's remarkable story, and in his own room Justin sat down
to think the matter through to a conclusion. The renewal of his
acquaintance with Persis Dale nearly a year earlier had enlightened him
as to the tenacity of certain impressions he had thought obliterated
long before. The girl he had loved in his callow youth and had
forgotten, still retained something of her old fascination for him. A
year earlier this discovery was responsible for an amused wonder at
himself, coupled with a realization of the need of caution. Now common
sense took sides with his lingering fondness. Persis Dale, with a
comfortable little fortune added to her unique personality, had become
distinctly desirable. She was a woman with an infinite capacity for
surprises, which meant that she would not bore the man she married,
unduly. With a little metropolitan polish added to her native
cleverness she should be able to give a good account of herself
socially. The children were a drawback of course, but there must be
some way of getting rid of an adopted family of which one tired. And it
was quite impossible that Persis' fondness for the little ones she had
picked up the other day, so to speak, would prove a serious rival to an
affection which had been a vital factor in her life for more than
By supper-time he had made up his mind. With a little sigh for the
freedom he was relinquishing, he resolved on matrimony. He had always
intended to marry somebody and domesticity with Persis promised at
least commonplace comfort, something Justin was the last man on earth
to despise. With the children disposed of, Joel sent adrift and Persis'
money wisely handled, there was no reason why they should not get on
better than the majority of married people. Justin ate an unusually
hearty supper as if to fortify himself for his wooing.
He had made up his mind to ignore the change in Persis'
circumstances that his call might seem a spontaneous tribute to her
personal attractions. But the change in the house and its furnishings
was so pronounced that he judged it bad policy to pass it over without
comment. I thought for a minute I'd come to the wrong house, Persis,
and I felt positively alarmed about myself. I knew if I couldn't find
the Dale place blindfolded, I needed the services of a nerve
specialist. He laughed a little with an air of catching himself up
before he had said too much, something he had found effective with many
She smiled upon him gravely. It was the improvements that mixed you
up, I suppose. There was a spot on the ceiling of mother's room where
the rain leaked through the winter she died. After the papering was
finished I missed that spot as if it had been human. Time and again
when I went into that room I'd jump as if I'd got into somebody else's
house by mistake. Her voice lost a subtle pensive quality as she
added: But the new furniture ain't the best of the changes, Justin. I
wish I could show you the children, but they're all in bed and asleep.
I'm not sure I'm sorry. Justin's voice was low and caressing.
It's always been hard for us two to have any time alone. I used to
wonder when I came here who would be sitting by and listening to every
word we said, your father or your mother or Joel or some other young
fellow who'd discovered the most charming girl in Clematis. If fate has
granted us an evening to ourselves at last, let's be thankful.
He thought it a very fair beginning. The reference to their early
love affair could not fail to soften her. The implication that the
interference of interested third parties was responsible for keeping
them apart was cleverly done. It was a distinct surprise at the end of
an hour to find himself no further along than at the start. Justin had
no intention of offering his hand and heart to any woman without a
reasonable assurance of a rapturous acceptance, and singularly enough,
he was far from certainty. He had been making love in a restrained and
subtle fashion for the better part of an hour and was ready for an
avowal of his devotion as soon as Persis showed any intention of
meeting him half-way. But up to this point, she had skilfully disguised
any such intention, and while showing no displeasure at the sentimental
tendency disclosed in his remark, had so persistently injected a
tincture of matter-of-factness into the conversation that he seemed as
far as ever from coming to the point. With it all, her air was
friendly. He suspected her of playing with him, taking her revenge by
keeping him in doubt overnight.
Resistance seldom detracts from a woman's value in a man's eyes.
When Justin rose to go he was almost ready to believe himself in love.
He was a little angry, slightly amused and more in doubt as to her
state of mind than he often felt regarding his opponents in the eternal
duel. When Persis gave him her hand for good night he held it in both
his own for a moment and raised it to his lips. The curious rekindling
of a burned-out tenderness, due to her lack of responsiveness, gave the
act an effect of sincerity which impressed him, even while he thrilled
with honest passion, as an excellent move.
He looked into her eyes and found them gravely contemplative.
Justin, she said, there's something I want to speak to you about if
you're not in a hurry.
He tingled with triumph. Women were all alike. She could play the
coquette for an hour, but she could not let him leave her till she had
heard the words he had been trying all the evening to speak. He put
down his hat. You know of course, he said with an air of repressed
feeling, that I am at your service now and always. And as her eyes
fell he laid his hand on hers.
It was not easy to restore the balance, but Persis did it. The
property my aunt left me, she began in her most matter-of-fact voice,
brings me a pretty fair income, but nothing's good enough as long as
it might be better. Only yesterday I got an offer of ten thousand
dollars for some water-works stock in a place out West where Aunt
Persis Ann lived for a good many years.
Justin put his hands in his pockets, the character of her opening
rendering sentimental advances ludicrously inopportune.
Have you any idea what income you get from that stock?
Last year it was a thousand and fifty dollars.
Why, that's over ten per cent. on what the fellow offers you,
Justin exclaimed, and Persis nodded.
Yes, about ten per cent. And in the Apple of Eden Investment
Company I'd be guaranteed twenty-five per cent. by the tenth year, with
a good chance to double my money even before that. I didn't stop you to
ask your advice, Justin, for I can see you'd feel a little delicate
about urging me to invest in your company. But what I've heard from
Mis' Hornblower makes it plain enough that the best thing for me to do
is to turn my property into cash as fast as I can and put every penny
Justin crossed his feet, reflecting impatiently that it was high
time for Persis Dale to have a husband. His elation over all that was
implied by her consulting him on so personal a matter, was almost lost
in his feeling of annoyance. This made it plain that he must lose no
time, but marry her offhand. What with her penchant for orphans and for
foolish investments, she would make ducks and drakes of her fortune
unless a man peremptorily took the helm.
It would be a pity to be precipitate, Persis. An investment that
pays ten per cent. isn't to be sneezed at nowadays. And this fellow's
offer just now looks as if the stock wasn't in any danger of
He glanced at her and was annoyed to find her face stubborn. Had she
been the type of woman to accept masculine counsel as akin to divine
guidance, his task would have been easier. Her evident lack of yielding
forced him to take a superior tone.
My dear girl, you will admit that I am a little better versed in
business matters than you are. And my advice is to hold on to your
stock unless you should have a better reason for selling than appears
Ten per cent. looks pretty well alongside the Savings bank, I'll
admit. But why shouldn't I get twenty-five? I've got these children to
educate. I can use considerable more than if I just had myself to think
He gulped down his vexation, Raising apples is a science, Persis.
The weakness of the American investor is to imagine that he can do
whatever any other fellow has done. Because some horticultural shark
doubles his money on his orchard in a banner year, you fancy you can do
the same every year.
Gracious, Justin! I'm not going into apple-raising. I've got my
hands full enough without that. I'm going to leave the company to run
my orchard for me. All they ask is twenty-five per cent of the net
profits, but you know that without my telling you.
And suppose there comes a year like 1896, when apples didn't bring
enough to pay for the barrels they were packed in? You can't count on
top-notch prices every season.
No, but I can count on the company's guarantee.
An oath, a tribute to her obstinacy, winged through his brain. In
his exasperation he forgot caution.
There's nothing to hold us after you've become the owner of the
property. If we find that running your orchard isn't profitable, as we
might easily do after one or two bad seasons, we could slip from under,
and you could use the guarantee as you call it, for curl papers. That's
all it would be good for.
He was glad to see that he had shaken her foolish stubbornness at
last. She caught her breath like one jerked back from an unrealized
danger by a friendly hand.
II guess it's lucky I consulted you, Justin. It's foolish for a
woman to think that she's up to all the tricks in business nowadays.
The slight trembling of her hand tempted him to kiss it, though he
compromised by merely taking it again.
If I've helped you a little, Persis, dear girl, I'm very happy. I
only wish you were willing to make use of me always. His hope that
this was the psychological moment was dashed when ignoring the
attempted caress, she grasped his hand and shook if vigorously.
Good night, Justin. Thank you for setting me right in that matter.
I believe that's the baby starting to cry. I'll have to hurry up before
she rouses the house.
But she got no farther than the foot of the stairs on this errand,
and Justin, letting himself out, gave voice to the oath he had thought
more than once that evening. Persis stood listening as he made his way
down the walk, but up-stairs all was still. She returned to the
living-room rather slowly. Through all the various changes in the
household, indicative of increased prosperity, the photograph in the
blue plush frame had triumphantly retained its post of honor on the
mantel, a landmark of constancy. Now she took it up with hands that
It's not that I've got anything against you. She addressed it as
if there were an intelligence back of the vacuous pleasantness of the
young face. It's only that there's not any you and hasn't been for I
don't know how long. It's so much deader than death, all ashes to ashes
and dust to dust and the spirit turned into something different. And
then Justin's hopes would have soared high had he seen her, for she
kissed the lips that smiled at her, a strange kiss in which pity
blended with forgiveness.
Holding fast to the blue plush frame, Persis passed through the
house to the woodshed, found a trowel among the garden tools, and then
made her way into the night. The sky was overcast, hiding the stars,
but the flitting fire-flies outlined strange constellations against the
velvety darkness. Persis groped her way through the dewy grass toward
the syringa bush, guided as much by the odor of blossoms as by sight,
and falling on her knees used her trowel industriously for many
minutes. And when the grave was deep enough, she laid the plush frame
into its recesses, hiding the smile she once had loved with heaped-up
earth. Since so many of her girlish hopes were covered by that same
earth, it is not strange that her tears fell upon the little mound.
I'm going to miss that picture same as if it was alive. It was
always smiling so cheerful that it cheered me just to look at it. But
when a thing's dead, it ought to be buried, and as it is, I guess this
funeral is pretty near twenty years behind time.
CHAPTER XX. CHECKMATE
In spite of the lack of success which had attended his tentative
wooing, Justin Ware slept soundly, woke cheerful and made a comfortable
breakfast. Over his coffee and pancakes he outlined not the plans for a
systematic siege of Persis' affections, but the maneuver through which
he hoped to carry the Hornblower citadel by storm. He had used no
meaningless figure of speech when he assured Annabel of his practise of
making pleasure secondary to business. Robert Hornblower's resistance
had piqued and baffled him, the more as he knew that Mrs. Hornblower
was his uncompromising ally. Indeed his presence in Clematis at this
juncture was due to a letter from this invaluable colleague, casually
mentioning that her husband had received an offer for the farm which
she wished he might be induced to accept. While I leave all such
matters for Robert to decide, as I consider to be a wife's plain
duty, wrote Mrs. Hornblower, with a lavish use of italics, I have not
hesitated to tell him that I think his closing with the offer is for
the best interests of us all. And Justin had interpreted the
communication to mean that his confederate believed the day of victory
He finished his breakfast at an early hour, judged by metropolitan
standards, selected the most promising animal from the sorry exhibition
of horse-flesh in the local livery and drove out to the Hornblower
farm, smoking on the way a better cigar than could be bought in
Clematis, and feeling unusually well satisfied with the world and
himself. His failure to bring the Hornblower affair to a successful
conclusion had annoyed him, not so much because of the importance of
the transaction, as because his professional pride was hurt at finding
himself unequal to the task of convincing a henpecked old man. From the
tone of Mrs. Hornblower's letter he was confident this failure was
about to be retrieved, and that Persis would prove amenable to his
flattering advances, could be taken for granted. On one point he must
be firm. From the beginning he must assume the necessity of her
renouncing her recently acquired family. He could say and with truth
that children made him nervous. But to postpone the settlement of the
difficulty until after the wedding would be a fatal blunder. When women
felt sure of a man, they sometimes developed a disagreeable tenacity in
holding to their own way. Altogether on this early morning drive,
Justin's difficulties dwindled almost to imperceptible points while his
blessings loomed large, a state of mind we are assured, most favorable
Mr. Hornblower came from the barn as he drove up and greeted him
with successfully disguised cordiality. But a glance convinced Justin
that the long siege was nearly at an end. In the pouches under the
man's weary eyes, in a certain sagging of his lower lip, in an
indefinable air of being beaten, Justin read the signs of approaching
Mis' Hornblower is in the house. I guess you'd better see her this
morning. I'm pretty busy for visiting.
I won't keep you long, Mr. Hornblower. I just want to lay a
proposition before you that's sure to interest as good a business man
as you are. Justin waited while the farmer tied the horse, and then,
slipping his hand through the old man's arm, guided him dexterously
around the house. Robert Hornblower yielded like one hypnotized, an
expression of rigid horror on his face as if while seeing some peril
immediately ahead, he found himself unable to avoid it.
Mrs. Hornblower sat in a rocking-chair by the window, tapping the
floor with her heel as the chair swayed, and nervously smoothing
imaginary wrinkles from an immaculate apron. Justin took a step toward
her, then stopped with an awkward jerk. Early as he was, another caller
was ahead of him. In the opposite corner, grim and unsmiling as fate,
sat Persis Dale.
Justin realized his own embarrassment with angry wonder. He had the
emotions of a boy caught in a foray on the preserve closet. Good
morning, he said, and was shocked by the startled suspicion of his own
voice. He carried out his original intention of shaking hands with Mrs.
Hornblower, though without his customary grace of manner, and then
turned to go through the same ceremony with Persis, but her tightly
folded arms gave little encouragement to this design. He compromised by
taking a chair near her and saying pleasantly, You're an early
I calculated you'd be here as soon as you got done your breakfast,
Persis replied, and left him to interpret the ambiguous remark as he
Justin's career had not been of a sort to cultivate undue
sensitiveness. A moment sufficed to make him master of himself. I came
out to discuss a little business proposition with Mr. Hornblower, he
explained carelessly. But I don't want to interfere with the enjoyment
of you ladies. Some other time
Don't mind me, interposed Persis. Mis' Hornblower and I haven't
anything special to talk about. We're interested in your business
proposition, both of us.
I don't know as I care to hear it, interrupted Mr. Hornblower,
speaking with a certain wildness, an indication that he had almost
reached the limit of resistance. His voice was shrill and unnatural.
All I want is to be left in peace on the farm where my father lived
and died before me.
Robert, said the submissive Mrs. Hornblower witheringly, I'd be
ashamed to talk as if I'd been born an oyster instead of a man.
Of course, Mr. Hornblower, Ware began soothingly, I should be
very unwilling to over-persuade you. If my proposition does not commend
itself to your own good judgment, you are perfectly justified in
turning it down. Or if you are not in the mood for talking business
to-day, some other time
There's no time like the present, said Persis Dale. And if you
don't like what he's got to offer, you can say no, Mr. Hornblower, and
stick to it. Your no is as good as his yes, I'm sure,
when it's your business that's being talked of.
She had suddenly become the dominant figure in the room. Mrs.
Hornblower glanced at her uncertainly. The promoter smiled
propitiatingly. The old man shuffled toward her with an evident hope
that through proximity he might profit by her sturdy strength.
I don't mind listening, Persis, he said tremulously. I'm a
reasonable man. What I object to is being nagged and badgered as if I
didn't have a right to say my soul was my own.
I'm sure, Mr. Hornblower, Ware interrupted, that Miss Dale will
tell you that I have no wish to hurry you into any decision you will
regret. In our business, satisfied patrons are our best asset. I only
want to call attention to a little matter that may have escaped your
attention and then leave you to think it over. Though his remarks were
addressed to the farmer, his appealing gaze was fixed on Persis. He was
disagreeably uncertain as to her attitude. Possibly she had come with
the purpose of doing him a favor. And possibly But he dismissed the
alternative before it had taken shape in his thoughts. On the evening
before he had made plain his willingness to take up their acquaintance
just where it had left off, twenty years before. And if he knew
anything of women, nothing would induce her to imperil the renewal of
In spite of this conviction his manner showed embarrassment as he
began his explanation. The smooth phrases he had used so often that he
could have spoken them in his sleep came readily to his lips, but even
to himself they sounded hollow and unconvincing. He was embarrassed
too, by Persis' tendency to ask questions, to inform herself as to
every detail of the plan he was unfolding. So persistent was she in her
cross-examination, that Mrs. Hornblower showed signs of irritation.
Goodness, Persis, it ain't necessary for Mr. Ware to go into all
those points. It ain't as if this was the first time we had ever talked
over the matter.
It's just as well to have things plain, Persis replied
imperturbably. Justin noticed that she looked less youthful and comely
than on the occasions when he had previously seen her. She had the gray
and care-worn look excusable in a woman approaching the fortieth
mile-stone who has spent a wakeful night. He was conscious of a sense
of annoyance in noting the distinctness of the triangle formed by her
firm mouth and the lines that slanted obliquely back from its corners.
Her persistence, too, troubled him. He was well aware that there is no
more serious flaw in a wife than the habit of asking questions.
In spite of interruptions he finally finished his story and folded
the papers from which he had used certain figures to give his
statements an authoritative air. Mr. Hornblower squirmed uneasily,
looking at Persis as if appealing for help.
As I said before, Mr. Hornblower, Justin assured him with an air
of gentle consideration, I am not at all desirous of hurrying you in
the matter. If you prefer to think over what I have said, and then when
you reach a decision
I don't see, exclaimed Mrs. Hornblower, from her seat near the
window, why it shouldn't be settled to-day. We've got a good offer for
the farm now, but if Robert keeps Mr. Jeffreys hanging by the gills,
the chances are that he'll satisfy himself somewhere else. And it isn't
as though we hadn't talked this over from A to izzard.
You've got to make up your mind sometimes, Persis Dale
corroborated her. I always feel as if 'twas a relief to get a thing
Mrs. Hornblower who up to this moment had seemed to regard Persis'
presence as an affront, smiled upon her almost affectionately. Robert
Hornblower had an air of feeling himself deserted. Justin was not sure.
But before you get the thing all settled and signed, Persis
continued smoothly, there's one little thing I'd like to have Mr. Ware
explain. If, this investment is such a good thing for you, why isn't it
just as good for me?
A tense silence followed which Mrs. Hornblower broke. For you? She
pushed her spectacles up on her forehead as if she found the lenses an
obstruction to vision rather than an aid. Have youhave you been
thinking of putting any money into apples?
I asked him last night about investing ten thousand dollars in this
company. He talked against itstrong. He gave me to understand that if
I was getting ten per cent. on my money I was lucky.
Justin sat with his eyes on the floor, making no effort to explain.
It was checkmate, and he knew it. The love of his youth had played with
him, tricked him, used him for her purposes even while he believed her
on the point of capitulation. It was small consolation at that moment
to realize that greater men had lost greater stakes through that little
illusion of being irresistible to the sex. He turned sick with
humiliation, hot with hate. He had prided himself on his
sophistication, and this country woman had laid a trap for him into
which he had obligingly blundered. To attempt an explanation would be
Ten per cent.! Mrs. Hornblower's voice rose shrill and frightened.
Why, in the Apple of Eden Investment Company
Yes, I reminded him about the twenty-five per cent. by the tenth
year, and he laughed at me. Said the guarantee you set such store by
might as well be used for curl papers, if the company got sick of its
Why don't you say something? Mrs. Hornblower turned on Justin
furiously. What do you mean by letting her run on in this crazy
fashion and never wagging your tongue? Underneath her anger sounded a
note of despair. No one who knew Persis Dale ever doubted her absolute
truth. And unless she had lied the thing was beyond explanation.
Before Justin could reply, Robert Hornblower was on his feet.
Another startling transformation had come over the old man. Years and
decrepitude fell from him like a discarded garment. As he advanced upon
Justin, his fists clenched, he actually looked a formidable figure.
You get out of my house, you sneaking lying swindler. You clear out
and never open your head to me one word about your damned old company
Robert! shrieked Mrs. Hornblower in hysterical protest.
Ware rose with as much dignity as the situation permitted. Few men
can feel themselves the target of the scorn of three honest people and
not wince, and Justin, whatever his weaknesses, did not lack
If you wish to accept Miss Dale's version of the matter, it is
immaterial to me. I have given you more time than I could well afford
to spare so small an investment, because I remembered you as my boyhood
friends. I shall be glad to drop the matter. And then, quite against
his will, he looked at Persis.
She sat straight and pale, her eyes steely, her lips grim. And once
he had kissed those lips, and those contemptuous eyes had poured into
his, faith and love unstinted. As he stumbled toward the door, the
thought crossed his mind that the boy who had won the love and respect
of Persis Dale was not the poor dolt he had thought him. The years had
brought loss as well as gain.
Good morning. He made an effort to speak with his customary easy
self-possession, and Mr. Hornblower's answer was to slam the door upon
him. Good riddance to damned bad rubbish, he roared.
Robert! screamed Mrs. Hornblower. Profanity at your age. Twice in
Hold your tongue!
The mental collapse of Mrs. Hornblower was physically evident.
Flabby and shaken, she sat looking with unfeigned terror at her
metamorphosed lord and master. And Mr. Hornblower, puffing out his
chest, looked very much like the oldest son of the individual he had
appeared an hour previous.
I've got a word to say to you, Lena, remarked the reconstructed
Mr. Hornblower. Women are all right when they keep their place. After
this I want to have it understood I'm not going to have any
interference in my business. He walked to the door and turned for a
parting defiance. Damned if I will.
Mrs. Hornblower's attack of hysterics occupied Persis till noon. She
looked pale and heavy-eyed as she alighted from her car at her own
door. She was about to enter when an object on the lawn caught her eye.
Tacked to an upright stake driven into the turf, was a flapping piece
of brown paper on which appeared straggling letters, executed in
I will not klene my teth agen onles I get a nikle a weak
Persis read this defiance twice, and her lips twitched. She turned
toward the house, but by this time the children had espied her and
shriekingly descended upon her, like the plagues of Egypt, thought
Mary, watching from the window.
What makes you look that way? cried Celia, clutching Persis' hand.
I don't like it.
What way, child?
As though you was a widow.
Persis laughed, thereby diminishing her resemblance to the mourner
of Celia's fancy. With a child holding fast to each hand, and the
others prancing about her and getting underfoot like so many kittens,
she made her way indoors. Children been good, Mary?
Why, yes'm, Mary admitted with reserve. I gave Algie that cough
mixture same as you said, and Malcolm he kept coughing fit to tear his
throat to pieces. Betty says he likes the sirupy taste. And Celia
teased the baby kissing her till she got her crying.
I like the taste of the baby, remarked Celia, who had lent an
attentive ear to the account of the family misdemeanors. It's like
tooth powder, the pink kind.
A letter came for you, Miss Dale. Now, my gracious, what's happened
to it? I put it right here on the table.
CHAPTER XXI. DE PROFUNDIS
In the unabashed pursuit of pleasure into which Persis had plunged,
Joel was a half-hearted participant. His life-long habit of standing
scornfully aloof while his fellow beings strove to enjoy themselves,
proved no match for Celia's artless appeals. Please come, Uncle Joel,
she would, coax. It's lots more fun with you along. And to the open
amusement of his neighbors and his sister's ill-concealed wonder, Joel
submitted to long automobile rides, to briefer excursions on the river
and lake and to eating picnic luncheons with his back against a tree
and on his face an expression conveying his unshaken conviction that
there were ants in his sandwich. It is unlikely that Joel's presence on
these occasions added in any marked degree to the general hilarity, but
Celia's satisfaction was unmistakable. She always sat beside him with
an air of proprietorship, digging her sharp little elbow into the
sparse cushioning of his lean thighs or when weary, dropping her frowsy
head against his shoulder with an engaging certainty that it was there
for that very purpose. Like many another who has defied capture till
after middle life, Joel atoned for past immunity by the thoroughness of
But on this particular August morning, when an all-day expedition
had been planned to Huckleberry Mountain, Joel revolted. Whether he had
really been surfeited with picnics, or only feared that he might grow
to enjoy such puerile forms of entertainment, and so lose some of the
austere dignity which had hitherto distinguished him, it is certain
that he came down to breakfast with his mind made up. Even to Celia's
coaxing he was adamant.
You mustn't tease Uncle Joel any more, Persis finally admonished
the child. You don't want him to go if he wouldn't have a good time.
And to her brother she added, You'd better go to the hotel for your
Oh, I can pick up something that'll do me for a dinner, Joel
replied with his old keen relish for playing the martyr. And then
Celia, dropping her oatmeal spoon, lurched forward in her chair and
imprinted a milky kiss upon his coat sleeve.
I'll get Uncle Joel's dinner, Celia murmured. I'll take care of
But you're going on the picnic.
No, Aunt Persis, Celia resumed an upright position with a
suddenness that endangered her half-emptied bowl of porridge. I don't
like picnics 'thout Uncle Joel. I'd rather stay with him.
Joel groped for the toast. The plate was directly in front of him,
but he could not see it for a blinding rush of tears. Never in his life
had he known such sweet elation, never such humility. There is an
irresistible flattery in the preference of a child. Except for the love
of his dead mother and for his sister's affection, the latter a curious
blending of duty and traditional sentiment which would have kept on
working automatically whatever he might have done, Joel had never
inspired a single unselfish attachment until Celia came into his life.
The thing was overwhelming. His hand shook till his fork clattered
against his plate. What was he to have won the heart of a child?
In the two hours that elapsed before their departure, he suffered
agonies of apprehension that Celia would change her mind. Scraps of
cynical comment on the fickleness of her sex, some of them dating back
to Virgil and Juvenal, flitted through his memory and stung like
gad-flies. After winning such honor, after Celia had elected to remain
with him, he felt himself unable to endure the ignominy of having her
reconsider. While Mary made the beds, and Persis packed the luncheon in
the kitchen, and the children raced about getting in one another's way,
and prolonging the preparations they were desirous of hastening, Joel
waited in a cold sweat, half realizing the absurdity of his misgiving,
but quite at its mercy. He knew that if Celia changed her mind at the
last minute and departed with the others, life would not be worth the
But the elf-like little creature showed no signs of vacillation.
After rendering valuable assistance in getting the others ready,
including the feat of breaking a fruit jar containing the lemon juice
and sugar, she came and stood at Joel's side, serenely contemplative
and content. Even toward Celia Joel had never been demonstrative. But
as the picnic party took possession of the machine, and half a dozen
hands waved a farewell, he slipped his arm about the child's shoulders
and drew her to him. The day was edged with gold. The warm August
sunshine seemed to reach the very depths of his heart. He had a
confused impression that he had done life an injustice.
Tell me a story, Uncle Joel, commanded Celia, nestling closer.
Tell me about Miranda and Ariel and that horrid old Caliban. For to
reduce Shakespeare to the juvenile comprehension had been one of the
tasks imposed on Joel by his new fealty, nor did it seem to him, as
once it might have done, a base perversion of the matchless creations
of the English tongue that in diluted and modified form, they should
interest and entertain a little maid of six.
The morning was a long rapture for the two strange comrades. Joel
told stories till Celia tired of a passive rôle and entertained him
with some of those flights of fancy compared with which the most
audacious attempts of the adult imagination seem tame and groveling.
Then they took a walk, hand in hand, after which Celia discovered that
she was hungry and a raid was made upon the pantry. Perhaps nothing so
conclusively proved the completeness of Joel's subordination as the
overthrow of his dietetic theories. The first course of their meal was
bread and molasses and it wound up with honey and ginger snaps.
By this time the sun had taken full possession of the front piazza,
and Joel pulled his chair around to the shady north side of the house
and sat there in after-dinner tranquillity while Celia played about on
the lawn. Joel's eyes followed every movement of the quaint little
figure. He remembered with wonder that other people thought Betty the
prettier of the two girls. To him that small piquant face with the
unruly hair, the straight black brows and the wonderful kindling eyes,
embodied all that was beautiful. His selfish middle-aged heart ached
under the strain of accommodating this wealth of sweet swelling
Celia had wandered across the grass toward the clump of maples which
once had shaded the big barn erected in Joel's youth and never rebuilt
after the fire. She turned to kiss her hand, and he kissed his back,
the first time in a matter of some five and thirty years that his
dignity had so unbent. The realization that the act would prove highly
diverting to his neighbors caused him to glance anxiously toward the
road. But the white ribbon of dust was undisturbed by vehicles, and his
mind relieved, he looked again for Celia.
A full half minute he stared incredulously, looking this way and
that, wavering between startled apprehension and a conviction of his
own folly. For Celia was nowhere to be seen. The grass over which her
little feet had twinkled as he turned his head, rippled in the wind and
gave no sign. The child had not had time to reach the trees, behind,
whose trunks her slight form might easily be concealed. And then as
Joel told himself that he was a fool, a faint wailing cry brought him
to his feet.
He was running before he had time to formulate his fear. And then a
startling memory spurred him to more desperate haste. He recalled the
old well by the barn, boarded over years before and later so concealed
by the encroachment of grass and weeds that its very existence had been
forgotten. But time had taken its toll even from the stubborn oak, and
at last it had yielded under a child's light weight. Joel knew it as he
ran, but the sight of the splintered irregular opening, across which
the clover heads nodded serenely to one another, gave a poignant
anguish to his realization. He tore the rotting planks aside, and
looked as it seemed, down into unrelieved blackness. Then his
sun-dazzled vision adjusted itself to the gloom and he saw the dank,
slime-covered stones that formed the sides of the well, and below the
black gleam of water and something pink and white, that struggled and
went under, and showed again.
Celia, Celia! Joel shouted. Don't be scared. Uncle Joel's
He had been a coward all his life. In his boyhood he had shrunk away
from risks which to Persis were exhilarating and delightful. The ill
health of twenty years had tended to confirm and increase that native
weakness. Yet at this supreme moment no thought of his own danger
crossed his mind, The saving of Celia was all.
He kicked off his slippers and gripping the curb for support,
lowered himself into the pit. A rush of cold air like a breath from an
open grave enveloped him. Finding foothold in the crevices of the green
damp stones, digging his fingers into slimy crannies, panting,
slipping, bruising his flesh without feeling the hurt, this frail
hypochondriac went to the aid of the child who somehow had blundered
into his heart.
The water in the well reached Joel's arm-pits as he stood on its
bottom and lifted Celia to his shoulder. She clung to him for a little
with a suffocating grip, strangling, sobbing, panic-stricken. And as he
strove to soothe her, for the first time fear laid its cold hand upon
him. He looked up to the circle of blue sky so terrifyingly distant and
it seemed incredible that he could ever have made that precipitous
descent. Unencumbered he had accomplished the miracle, but he knew he
could never climb back to the warm peace of the upper air with Celia in
The child's sobs were quieting. She was perched upon his shoulder,
her arm wound tightly about his neck. Even at the moment when all the
tragic possibilities of the event crowded on his mind, he felt the
tremor of her rigid little body and thought anxiously that Celia was in
danger of taking cold.
With an effort he took a grip upon realities. Gently he loosened the
pressure of the child's encircling arms.
Celia, honey, don't hold Uncle Joel so tight. He's got to get
breath enough to holler, so somebody will come and take us out of
He had shouted till he was hoarse before he realized his folly.
There were no neighbors near enough to hear his cries. The sensible
thing was to husband his strength till some vehicle passed and then
call lustily. Again he addressed the child.
Celia, dearie, keep your ears open. When we hear wheels coming,
we'll holler for all we're worth.
They listened till they heard upon the road the rhythmic foot-beats
of horses, and the rattle of some farmer's wagon rumbling homeward from
the village. Then together they screamed for help. But the hoofs went
on beating their tattoo till the sound grew faint, and the rattle of
the wagon died in the distance. Again and again the sound which told of
human nearness woke hope in their hearts only to die in the ensuing
Uncle Joel, Celia wailed, I'm co-old. Her sobs echoed uncannily
as if the well were filled with the ghosts of weeping children. Again
he gazed at the disk of blue sky overhead. He seemed to himself to be
viewing it from some indeterminate half-way house between life and
death. And yet of the two, the invisible world seemed nearer than the
earth roofed over by that placid sky.
As time passed his suffering became acute. The weight of the child
on his shoulder was an increasing torture. The cramped arm raised to
hold her secure was racked by intolerable pain. The chill of the water
was paralyzing. His heart labored. His breath came with difficulty.
Celia seemed to be relapsing into an unnatural drowsiness. Her body
sagged lifelessly. He found it necessary to stand close to the side of
the well, that the wet stones might help to support her weight.
There was only once he prayed, unless his struggle be counted as one
long prayer. But when his appeal found words, it was less a petition
than a suggestion. She's so little, Lord, for it to end here, and
she's had a hard time so far. The fun's just beginning. It showed no
lack of wisdom, perhaps, that his prayer ended there.
His mind must have wandered a little later. It seemed as if his
mother were beside him, encouraging him as she had done long before in
his boyhood when he had wrestled with a difficult task. And then he was
out in the woods with a crowd of his boyhood companions and the wild
geese were flying south. Honk! Honk! Honk! Guess that's why it's so
cold, Joel said, addressing the shadowy assembly. Winter's coming.
The sound of his own voice brought him back to reality. What he had
heard was the horn of Persis' car. She had returned. And the love of
life woke in him and gave him strength to scream lustily again and
As the children scrambled out upon the grass, all talking at once,
Persis lifted an authoritative hand. Hush! I thought I heard some one
I don't hear nothing, Miss Dale, said Mary tranquilly. Persis
again enjoined silence. As her gaze swept uneasily over the peaceful,
familiar scene, her eyes were arrested by one of the rotting boards
which had formed the cover of the unused well.
Joel, wrenching it from its place, had flung it out into the clover.
It had not been there that morning, Persis knew.
She ran toward it with a conviction of calamity which only took
concrete form when she heard her brother's call issuing from the depths
of the earth.
The well, she cried with self-accusing anguish. The old well.
But when she stood by its edge and sent her voice ringing down into its
depth, it was steady and strong.
I'm going for help, Joel. 'Twon't be much of any time now. Just a
Mary and the children had never seen the Persis who came running
toward them. They shrank back from her stern presence, half afraid.
Mary, take the children into the house and keep them there. Call up
the doctor and tell him to get here as quick as he can. And have that
coil of new rope that's in the shed ready for me by the time I'm back.
She had leaped into the machine while she was giving her orders. It
described a dizzy circle in the grass, shot down the driveway, and sped
screaming along the dusty road. Before the trembling Mary had had more
than time to discharge her commissions the car was back with half a
dozen strong men, harvesters from the farm just below, crowded into the
seats. And when Doctor Ballard turned his sweating horse up the drive
half an hour later, Joel and Celia were between hot blankets, and
stimulants had already stirred their sluggish blood.
It was eight o'clock before the doctor left. I've got to see the
Packard boy, or I wouldn't go. I'll come back and stay the night
Persis nodded. I'd feel easier to have you in the house. There
won't be no need for you to lose your sleep. The spare room's all made
Some twenty minutes later Joel roused and spoke. His respiration was
hurried and articulation difficult.
She understood the syncopated sentence.
Celia's doing fine, the doctor thinks. She's got a little
temperature, but a child's likely to have fever for any little thing.
He waited some time before putting the next question, rallying his
strength for the ordeal of speech.
Don't s'pose'twould do for meto see her?
Persis looked at him with a curious tightening of the lips, in her
eyes an unaccustomed blending of tenderness and pride.
You shall see her, if you want to, Joel. 'Tain't going to hurt
herto speak of.
From the room across the hall she brought Celia, a chrysalid child,
sleeping heavily, closely wrapped in an old plaid shawl, and laid her
on Joel's bed. Celia's thatch of black hair fell untidily across the
pillow. The fever gave her olive skin an unwonted color. Joel made an
ineffectual effort to lift his arm. Then as he desisted, sighing, his
sister gently lifted his hand till it touched the hot fingers of the
They'resuch littlethingsPersis. His labored breath made
speech fragmentary. It's funny, howthey fill upall the room ina
Yes, I know, Joel. But I guess maybe you'd better not talk.
Makes me think ofwhat the Good Book says, Persis. 'A little
He did not finish the quotation. After Persis was sure that he was
asleep, she carried Celia back to her bed and renewed her watch. The
doctor came in about ten o'clock and stood for a little with his
fingers on his patient's pulse.
You'd better not lose your sleep, Doctor, Persis suggested,
glancing at the weary young face. You go into the spare room and I'll
call you if I need you.
I'm not tired, the doctor answered. I'd as soon sit here for a
while. But he did not meet her eye.
It was an hour later when the struggling breath lengthened into a
sigh, deep-drawn and profound, irresistibly suggestive of untold
relief. The doctor was at the bedside instantly, but after a moment he
laid the limp hand gently down and turned away.
Persis sank upon her knees, putting her hands over her face down
which the tears were streaming, those strange illogical tears which are
life's tribute to death, however it may come. Yet even while she wept,
phrases of thanksgiving sang melodiously through her brain and echoed
in her heart. For to this brother of hers it had been given to redeem a
life of weakness and failure by a single heroic sacrifice and to die a
CHAPTER XXII. EAVESDROPPING
The winter following Joel's death was unusually severe and to Persis
seemed well-nigh endless. Though Celia had escaped the attack of
pneumonia anticipated by the doctor, her long hours of exposure,
coupled with the shock, had told on the sensitive child, and it was
months before she seemed her usual blithe, audacious self. Without
question Celia sorely missed her vanished play-fellow, and Persis, who
had postponed her entering school for another year, because she did not
feel that the child was strong enough for the confinement of the school
room, sometimes doubted her own wisdom and was half convinced that the
companionship of other children and the distraction of Celia's thoughts
would have proved sufficient advantage to counterbalance all drawbacks.
The others of Persis' flock with occasional digressions varying in
seriousness from chilblains to croup, maintained as satisfactory a
health average as the mother of a young family can expect.
After the unprecedented severity of the winter the spring came
early, as if nature had repented her harshness and had set herself to
make amends. The sparkle came back to Celia's eyes and the lilt to her
voice. The children who had been models of deportment while the cold
lasted, developed a frisky unruliness, resulting in Malcolm's playing
truant and Algie's coming home with a black eye, trophy of his first
fight. Persis was too thankful over being able to raise every window in
the house and have the sweet spring air flooding in upon her, to take
these enormities very much to heart. Indeed, she was almost too busy to
deal with the culprits as they deserved.
After two years in which she had hardly touched a needle, except for
the children's little garments, Persis was again busy dressmaking. For
she had not forgotten her promise to Diantha Sinclair, and Diantha's
wedding-day was approaching, simultaneously with her eighteenth
birthday. Backed up by Persis, Diantha had declared her intentions and
put in a plea for a church wedding. And when her mother stormed and
threatened, Diantha made her defiance.
Oh, very well, mama. Only I'm going to be married in church. And if
you won't give me a wedding, Miss Persis will.
In a frenzy Annabel appealed to her husband. Since he felt as keenly
as she in the matter of what he called Miss Dale's unwarrantable
interference, their mutual indignation was actually proving a bond
between that ill-mated pair. Since Persis had committed the
indiscretion of reminding her of her age, Annabel had never spoken to
her quondam dressmaker, and even such a crisis as the present could not
bring her to the point of submitting to another interview, in which she
might hear other truths equally unwelcome. If was her husband who faced
Persis listened unperturbed while he stated his grievance. Mr.
Sinclair, if it hadn't been for me that girl of yours would have been
married a year ago. It would have been a runaway match if I hadn't
coaxed her into giving up and waiting until she could marry with the
law to back her up in doing as she pleased. I made Diantha some
promises then, and I'm going to keep 'em.
Your conscience is too tractable, I suppose, to trouble you over
setting a young girl like Diantha against her parents.
Persis regarded him with a slow smile, the significance of which
Sinclair plainly had no difficulty in understanding. He flushed to the
roots of his whitening hair.
Mr. Sinclair, when a girl's happy at home, I do think it's a pity
for her to jump into being a woman at eighteen. More'n one I've coaxed
into waiting. But when a girl's disposition is wearing thin through
bickering and nagging day in and day out, the sooner she's in a home of
her own the better.
I am glad you are ready to guarantee the success of this affair for
which you are so largely responsible, remarked Mr. Sinclair. This was
more of a home-thrust than he knew, but Persis did not wince.
As for guaranteeing that anybody's going to be happy anywhere, Mr.
Sinclair, only the Almighty can do that. My idea is that Diantha has a
better chance with a young man who loves her than with a mother who is
jealous of her and a father who hasn't got the courage to take her
If you're going to fall back on vilification, Miss Dale, remarked
the other participant in the dialogue, plainly in a towering rage, the
sooner this interview terminates, the better.
Well, Mr. Sinclair, I guess you're right about that. Talking things
over won't convert either of us. And you understand, continued Persis,
following her caller to the door, that you're not to feel driven to
give Diantha a church wedding. Only if you don't, I will.
It was due to Persis' effective championship that Diantha's wedding
bade fair to prove what the reporter of the Clematis Weekly News
called A social event of almost metropolitan importance. There were
to be bridesmaids and ushers and a best man. Admission to the church
was by card, and the ensuing reception at the home of the bride's
parents was scheduled to set a new pace for Clematis society. And while
Annabel, inwardly raging, struggled to put a bold face on her defeat,
Persis was busy with the gown she was resolved to make her masterpiece.
The children were not allowed to enter the room where the work was
progressing, though they sometimes took awe-stricken peeps through the
crack at the mysterious, sheet-draped object suspended from hooks, and
in the twilight taking on an aspect distinctly ghostly. It was
necessary, too, to carpet the floor of the workroom with sheets when
Diantha had a fitting, all of which added enormously to the romance and
mystic glamour inevitably connected with a wedding dress. The children,
with whom Diantha had always been a prime favorite, instead of rushing
tumultuously to meet her, now stood off when she presented herself, and
looked her over, as if like the dress in Persis's workroom, she had
become enveloped in mystery.
Mingled with the scraps of white satin which littered the floor were
scraps of black silk. After the wedding-day had been fixed upon, the
mother of the groom swept down upon Persis, wheedling and peremptory by
Persis Dale, I don't care if you are worth enough to buy and sell
me twice over, you've got to make me a dress to wear to my boy's
wedding. It's no use for you to shake your head, Persis, I ain't had a
waist-line since you went out of business. And when I think how Annabel
Sinclair's going to be rigged out, I'm worried for fear Thad will be
ashamed of me. They say she's going up the city every week for
fittings, just as if she was going to be the bride 'stead of Diantha.
It was clearly reprehensible in Mrs. West after throwing herself on
Persis' sympathy and carrying her point, to be late to a fitting.
Persis, who planned to clear the cobwebs from her tired brain by an
exhilarating spin in her car at four o'clock, had appointed two for
Mrs. West to try on the black silk. By quarter past she was fidgety,
and as the clock struck the half hour, she waxed indignant.
Now, Etta West needn't think I'm going to put myself out to make
her dress if she can't keep her appointments. Folks that ask favors
ought to be particular not to make any more trouble than they can
Another ten minutes of waiting quite exhausted Persis' store of
patience. She stepped into the kitchen where Mary's sister was helping
Mary with the extra work due to Persis' engrossing activities.
Keep an eye on Celia and the baby, girls. If they say they're
hungry try 'em with bread and butter without any sugar. I'll probably
be back before the rest get home from school, but if I'm not here, tell
'em not to go away. We'll have a good ride before supper.
The West dwelling had that look of peaceful complacency
characteristic of well-ordered establishments in mid-afternoon. Persis
entered by the unlocked kitchen door, carrying Mrs. West's skirt over
her arm. Mis' West, she called challengingly, Mis' West. And then
as the silence remained unbroken, she found her irritation evaporating
in anxiety. Could anything be wrong? Mis' West, she called again at
the foot of the stairs, and an observer could have argued from her
altered voice a corresponding psychological change.
A sound answered her, something between a grunt and a groan, and
sufficient to send her scurrying up the stairs with a marked
acceleration of the pulse. Her vague foreboding took shape when as she
reached the upper hall, she caught sight of a prostrate figure,
partially visible through a half-open door. A stroke! thought Persis,
and the black silk slipping from her arm, dropped in an unheeded heap.
The recumbent figure did not move as Persis flew down the hall, but
as she entered the room, the head stirred slightly as if to look in her
direction. Persis dropped upon her knees.
Can you understand me, Etta? she spoke with terrifying gentleness.
Don't be a fool, Persis Dale. The vehemence of the rejoinder was
startling. Why shouldn't I understand?
Then it's just a fall, is it?
Mrs. West hesitated before replying. No, she returned in a tone of
marked irritability, I didn't fall.
Then what's the matter?
I didn't say there was anything the matter, did I? Mrs. West's ill
humor seemed to be gaining on her. I s'pose if a body wants to lie
down for a whilein her own roomafter her day's work is doneher
neighbors haven't any real call to make a fuss.
The amazed Persis continued in a kneeling position, her bewilderment
rendering her incapable of movement.
You mean that you're lying herebecause you like it?
On a warm day, said Mrs. West with dignity, a floor's cooler than
a bed and it saves mussing the spread.
Persis studied her thoughtfully. I can't say you look cool, Mis'
West. I guess I never saw you so fire-red as you are at this minute.
But if that's your idea of having a good time, why, every one to his
taste, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow.
She rose with a dignity that matched Mrs. West's own and moved
toward the door. Maybe you remember that you had an appointment for a
fitting at two, she suggested coldly, I brought your dress over, but
of course if you're busy enjoying yourself
Persis Dale, cried Mrs. West, her voice breaking, I didn't think
you had it in you to be so hard-hearted.
Slowly Persis retraced her steps. Her prostrate friend was weeping.
Large impressive tears rolled slowly over cheeks whose fiery hue
suggested the possibility that each drop might immediately be converted
Mis' West, began Persis in a tone of strained patience, will you
please tell me if you've taken leave of your senses or what?
Mrs. West's tears flowed faster. Hysterical tremors agitated the
recumbent mass. II can't get up, she exploded at length, in
seemingly reluctant confidence.
Can't get up? But how did you get down?
PersisII was rolling.
To reduce, Persis. My cousin Aggie said she took off twenty pounds
in ten weeks rolling half an hour a day. And I thought it was worth
Persis suddenly averted her face.
Don't laugh, Persis. It may be funny for a man to be fat, but it's
a tragedy for a woman. I've been thinking how Annabel Sinclair will
look at that wedding, with a figure like a girl of twenty-one, and it
didn't seem as if I could stand two hundred and twenty-six. But if
rolling's a cure, I guess I started too late.
Why can't you get up, Mis' West? inquired Persis, regarding the
prostrate woman with a becomingly serious countenance. You haven't
wrenched yourself, anywhere, have you?
Not that I know of, Persis. I didn't hear anything snap. I guess
I'm stalled, like a horse. Maybe if I wasn't quite so near the couch I
could manage. If Thad or his father get home before I'm up, I'll never
hear the last of it.
Realizing that her friend's apprehension was well grounded, Persis
brought her strong muscles and resolute will to bear upon the problem.
She had lifted many a sick patient too weak to turn upon his pillow,
and she knew the trick of making every ounce of energy count. Inspired
by her example, Mrs. West put forth all her strength and as a result of
their combined efforts she rose with ponderous slowness into a sitting
position. The rest was easy. With Persis boosting and panting
encouragement, the unhappy exponent of other people's theories regained
her feet and tottered to a chair.
Goodness, gracious, Persis, I'm as limp as a wash-rag. No more
rolling for me, not if I get up to three hundred pounds. She looked at
her friend appealingly. Don't ask me to stand up and be fitted,
Persis. There's no more starch in my knees than if they were pieces of
Persis made haste to disclaim any such intention. What you want is
a fan, Mis' West, and a cup of tea, to quiet your nerves down. You've
got to get braced up before Mr. West comes in, or he'll be at you to
find out what the trouble is. And when a man gets a little joke like
this on his wife, he's bound to make it last the rest of his natural
Leaving her friend to compose herself, Persis hurried to the kitchen
and brewed the restorative cup of tea she had recommended. As she
carried it to her patient the telephone lifted up its voice.
Mrs. West counted the rings. One, two, three, four. That's Nellie
Gibson's call, Persis. I wish you'd listen and see if you can find out
if Josephine Newhall has got there yet. Nellie's been talking of that
visit all winter.
Persis complied unhesitatingly. In Clematis no kill-joy had arisen
to question the propriety of listening to the conversation of the other
subscribers to a party line. It was the universal understanding that
one of the foremost if not the chief advantage in having a telephone,
was the gratification to be derived from overhearing the confidences of
one's neighbors. To have denominated this eavesdropping, would have
aroused general indignation.
Persis took down the telephone without a qualm and instantly
recognized the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Gibson, Thomas Hardin's
sister. She was speaking more loudly than is necessary in such
conversation and with a seeming lack of amiability.
Well if you won't come to supper to-night, when will you come? Set
a time right now.
Really I don't know, Nellie. Persis started as the gentle
deprecating tones reached her ears. I'm pretty busy at this season. I
guess I hadn't better say
Fiddlesticks and folderol! I know just how busy you are. I guess if
Persis Dale hadn't thrown you over like a worn-out shoe, you'd have
found time enough to get over to see her every blessed night of the
It was clearly the moment for Persis to hang up the receiver.
Regrettable as it is to record, she listened with a seeming accession
of interest for Thomas' reply. But his only answer was a discreet
When you talk of being busy, Mrs. Gibson continued witheringly, I
know what's in your mind. You mean you won't come to this house while
Josephine is here.
Still silence on the part of Thomas.
Thomas Hardin, his sister burst out, why don't you say something?
I can stand a man that takes the roof off when he's mad lots better
than the kind that shut up like clams. Are you coming to supper this
week or not?
No, Nellie, I guess not.
You mean you're not coming near the house while Josephine stays? Be
a man. Speak out plain.
Nellie, said the goaded Thomas, acting on her counsel, I haven't
got a thing against any friend of yours, but I'm tired of your
Match-making! Mrs. Gibson repeated, like most who adopt that most
thankless of the professions ready on the instant to repudiate it.
Yes, Nellie, I'm not a suspicious man, but a child in arms could
see through your little game. I dare say you mean it kindly, but when a
man's not looking for a wife, it's embarrassing to have first one woman
and then another thrown at his head.
I suppose, commented Mrs. Gibson acridly, you'd rather end up
your days a pitiable old bachelor, mooning over the woman who played
with you for a dozen years and threw you down at last.
If she threw me down, 'twas because I deserved it.
Deserve nothing. You haven't the sense to go in when it rains,
Thomas Hardin, and a week-old kitten would beat you for gumption. But
for all that, you're a long sight more of a catch than most men.
This impassioned tribute apparently left Thomas dumb. Mrs. Gibson
followed up her advantage.
I suppose you'd rather set in meeting and look at the back of
Persis Dale's bonnet than to have a nice wife of your own in the pew
Well, since you ask me, Nellie, I would.
She's made you a laughing-stock. She don't care any more for you
Of course she don't. Why should she? A woman like her.
Then I wash my hands of you. Mrs. Gibson's voice suggested tears.
Thank you, Nellie, Thomas returned gratefully, and his sister's
receiver slammed into the hook. Thomas followed suit, and last of all,
Persis Dale, after assuring herself that she was not likely to hear
more, returned the receiver to its place and went to satisfy her
Well? Mrs. West had emptied her teacup and the soothing effects of
the potion showed in her altered voice.
Yes, Josephine's there, Persis replied to the elliptical inquiry.
But I gathered from something that was let drop that maybe she
wouldn't stay long. So if you want a visit with her you'd better not
waste any time.
CHAPTER XXIII. WEDDING BELLS
The wedding dress was finished and a success.
I guess it'll have to be my valedictory, Persis said with
ill-concealed elation. I'm never going to beat that if I dressmake
till I'm a hundred. As for Diantha, her ecstasy implied that whatever
the risks attached to the matrimonial venture, they were abundantly
offset by the privilege of arraying one's self in habiliments of such
But of the two, the girl's happiness was the least overcast. Diantha
did not realize the pathos of her ability to leave her home without a
pang. Since tears are only the reverse side of joy, the bride who says
farewell to her girlhood dry-eyed is a legitimate object of sympathy.
Diantha's unclouded happiness was significant of all that her youth had
But Persis' satisfaction was superficial. Underneath her stubborn
cheer, her genial vivacity, self-reproach was astir. While she listened
to the outpourings of Diantha's ardent confidence and laughed over the
children's naive inquiries regarding the approaching and stupendous
event, she stood a prisoner at the bar of her conscience, summoned to
defend herself against the charge of injustice to a friend. And the
more she pondered the question, the more advisable it seemed for her to
plead guilty and throw herself upon the mercy of the court.
She recalled in extenuation of Thomas's offense that his confession
had been strictly voluntary, prompted only by his own sense of honor.
He might have retained the confidence and friendship he valued above
all else, simply by holding his peace. Moreover his provocation had not
been slight. She looked so like a kitten, he had said of Annabel.
Persis knew the look he meant, that inimitable blending of challenge
and retreat, shyness and daring so commingled as to be most
provocative. Of course he was no match for Annabel, poor honest Thomas.
It's the good men they make the quickest work of, thought Persis,
turning restlessly on an uneasy pillow. It never would have entered
Thomas' head, to think any harm of a married woman. A different kind of
man would be on his guard against her and against himself, too. It came
on Thomas like a thunder-clap out of a clear sky.
Having reached the point of leniency toward her one-time lover,
severity with herself was a natural sequence. 'Tain't as if I was a
girl, Persis owned, in sorrowful compunction. I'd ought to know what
men are by this time, and that the best of 'em need to be braced up by
some good woman's backbone. She could not escape from the painful
conviction that she had failed her friend. He had turned to her for
help and her hurt pride had rendered her oblivious to his need.
And pride was still to be reckoned with. Even now when she realized
her fault, she shrank from extending the olive branch. Thomas loved her
and had always loved her. The episode of Annabel Sinclair had not
altered his loyalty by so much as a ripple on the surface. And yet to
show by a lifted eyelash or a hand held out that she was ready to let
bygones be bygones seemed among the impossibilities. The generations of
dumb women whose blood ran in her veins stretched out ghostly hands to
hold her back from frankness. That was a woman's lot, to endure
silently and leave the initiative to the man.
June came and found her vacillating and uncertain. Mystic
fragrances, still whispery nights, dewy mornings, gay with flowers,
were flung into the scale. And when Diantha's wedding was but two days
off, Persis suddenly capitulated.
I've always said that folks who'd let their lives go to smash for
want of speaking out deserved all they got. And now it looks as if I
was that sort of a fool myself. Algie! Apparently apprehensive that
common sense would again yield the field to tradition, she flew: to the
window. Algie! she shrieked.
The boy came on the run. Something in Persis' voice made him aware
that the occasion did not admit of trifling.
Algie, jump on your wheel and ride down to Mr. Hardin's store. Tell
him that if it's convenient I'd like to see him this evening. Quick
Algie's obedience was instantaneous. With compressed lips Persis
watched his vanishing figure, her color coming and going.
Well, so far, so good. I guess now I've got up my courage to send
for him I can leave the rest to luck.
Thomas came that evening, extremely self-conscious in a new suit,
his air of unwonted elegance heightened by a fresh shave and with his
shoes polished into almost immodest prominence. The children, in spite
of their aggrieved protests, had been sent to bed with the chickens.
Mary had been despatched to young Mrs. Thompson's on an errand, and the
two had the house to themselves. Thomas waited for Persis to explain
her summons. As she rendered him no assistance, he took the
responsibility of steering the conversation.
I looks pretty fine round here, Persis. Shouldn't hardly know the
Well, there have been lots of changes, Thomas, Joel gone and all.
Five children in a house change things without anybody to help 'em.
They're nice-looking children, too. That oldest boy, Algie, takes
He'll be better-looking when that cut on his lip heals up. He got
hurt in a fight the other day, the second he's had in three months. I
wanted to ask you what you thought I'd ought to do when he gets to
Thomas' heart went down with a thud. So this was why she had sent
for him, to consult him regarding the training of the boys. He had not
known how her summons had inflated his hopes until this sickening
collapse. It was only by an effort that he rallied his thoughts
sufficiently to answer.
Well, I wouldn't worry about that if I was you, Persis. Seems like
all young things was taken the same way. Puppies are always squabbling,
but 'tisn't that there's any hard feeling. They just want to try their
teeth. Seems to me I'd be pretty worried over a boy who never wanted to
Persis listened appreciatively. Thank you, Thomas. It's a good
thing for a woman who's bringing up a pair of boys to get a man's point
of view now and then. I'm afraid I've kind of neglected those children
this spring. I've been so taken up with Diantha Sinclair's wedding.
She'll be a mighty pretty bride, observed Thomas, striving
manfully to do his part in the conversational see-saw. She looks a lot
like her mother when He broke off, overwhelmed by the realization
that he had introduced the one topic which should never have been
mentioned between Persis and himself. Choking with mortification,
turning deeply crimson as all the blood in his body seemed rushing
toward his brain, he sat motionless, an unhappy martyr consumed in the
fires of his own sensitiveness.
But something had given Persis a clew. She leaned forward, quite
forgetful of her recent shrinking.
Thomas, you remember what you told me about Annabel Sinclair the
last time you were here?
Lord! he panted, but her gaze held him mercilessly. I'm not
likely to forget it.
What I want to know is this. How old was Annabel whenwhen you
Thomas drew out his handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead.
Why, I s'pose she was fifteen or sixteen. She wasn't as tall as
Diantha is, and I guess she was a few years younger.
Persis did not reply. When he ventured to look in her direction, she
was regarding him with strange dilated eyes.
Thomas, you said she was Stanley Sinclair's wife.
Well, she is, isn't she? Why, you don't mean
He interrupted himself, his look changing. What kind of a man d'ye
think I am, Persis Dale? he challenged her angrily. If you've known
me all your life and think I'm the sort to be carrying on with other
men's wiveswell, I guess I'd better be going.
He got to his feet and then sank helplessly into a chair. He had
never seen Persis cry before. He had not realized that she could cry.
Yet without doubt those were tears upon her cheeks.
But if crying, Persis was smiling, too. His heart fluttered, and
performed some extraordinary gymnastic feat, when she held out her
Thomas, I was in the wrong, I'll own it. I never favored jumping at
conclusions and less than ever now. Maybemaybe if I hadn't thought so
much of you, I'd have been slower to think evil.
He did not trouble himself with the feminine lack of logic indicated
in her closing words. He had clasped her hand in both of his and was
holding it last, as if he never meant to let it go.
PersisPersis, you weren't fair to me in that, but I don't lay any
claim to being all I'd ought to be. There's no end of things you'd have
to forgive. I don't know as I've ever told you about the time Ed
Collins and I
A movement on the part of Persis' disengaged hand checked his
Thomas, she protested while she smiled, if you own up to any more
things, I declare I believe I'll have to even up by telling you how old
I am. And that's one thing a woman don't like to mention, except, of
course, to her husband.
Two days later Diantha Sinclair was married at eight o'clock in the
evening. The church was crowded. Wide-eyed girls took in every detail
and dreamed of acting the star rôle on a similar happy occasion.
Complacent matrons, in their Sunday best, exchanged voluble comments.
The wedding party was a trifle late, and the guests were all early
which gave opportunity for soul-satisfying gossip.
Ain't those flowers lovely! I never saw anything to beat 'em except
maybe, at Elder Larkins' funeral. They say Persis Dale went over to the
Lakeview florist's in that car of hers and brought back flowers enough
to fill a wash tub.
Mis' West looks real nice in that new black silk. There's nothing
like black for toning down a fat woman.
There's Eddie Ryan in a dress-suit. Wonder if it's his'n or just
borrowed. It hangs kind of baggy. Shouldn't wonder if his cousin up to
Boston let him take his.
Annabel Sinclair's slight girlish figure was the center of interest
until the entrance of the bridal party. She must have guessed how the
tongues were wagging but her color did not fluctuate under the ordeal.
At last Annabel had come to the point of assisting nature. The carmine
had been applied with artistic restraint, and she had never looked
lovelier, but her happiness in her beauty had vanished. To retain the
admiration which was the breath in her nostrils, she must henceforth
resort to artifice, covering up and hiding what would sooner or later
be revealed in spite of her. She was not thinking of Diantha as she sat
looking straight before her but only of her own hard fate.
Annabel Sinclair might be the bride herself, remarked one kindly
matron on the other side of the church. Beats all how she keeps her
Ain't that a handsome dress, though, sighed her companion. She
had it made in the city. But Persis Dale made Diantha's dress, and
somebody who saw it, told me it was the handsomest thing she ever
clapped her eyes on. Persis Dale sets everything by that girl.
If the occupants of the pews enjoyed the long wait, not so Thad
West. Pale and perspiring, he looked more like a patient about to be
conveyed to an operating table, than a bridegroom on the threshold of
What do you s'pose is wrong, Scotty? He clutched the arm of the
friend selected to stand by him in this ordeal. It's way past time.
Oh, well, girls are always late, returned Scotty with soothing
intent. Thad thought wrathfully that it was all very well for him to
take that tone. He wasn't going to be married, hang it.
Ring all right, Scotty?
Sure thing. But in spite of the prompt assurance the best man's
hand went to his waistcoat pocket and fumbled a long nervous minute
while the perspiration trickled down Thad's spine. And then young Scott
felt in the other pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. Here 'tis.
You want to keep better track of your dates than that, exclaimed
Thad angrily. You'll queer everything if you go feeling around in all
your pockets when he's ready for the ring. His voice took on a tone of
appeal. Haven't you got an extra handkerchief, Scotty? If I keep on at
this rate, my collar
You just keep quiet and I'll mop you up a bit, returned the
obliging Scotty, but his friendly ministrations were interrupted by a
blood-curdling whisper from the bridegroom.
My God, here they come.
There was no doubt about it. The little organ was wheezing out the
wedding march as if it meant to be equal to the occasion if this proved
its swan-song. The ushers were advancing up the aisle two by two. With
drooping heads and measured steps, the bridesmaids followed, and then
came Diantha on her father's arm. The little flutter that went over the
waiting assembly was chiefly an involuntary tribute to her girlish
grace and beauty, though the dress, too, came in for its share.
Might have been bought in Paris for all anybody could tell, was
the assurance passed from lip to lip. Clematis was proud of that
Stanley Sinclair, very straight and handsome as he moved up the
aisle, looked down on the bright head near his shoulder and remembered
that other girl who twenty years before had come up the church aisle to
meet him at the altar. He had learned long before to sneer at his own
lost illusions, but singularly enough, never until this moment had it
occurred to him to wonder what her dreams might have been that far-away
June day. To his discomfiture the query brought a pang, and he had
thought himself beyond such weakness. The petrified heart has a certain
advantage over that of flesh, though possibly the ache which proves it
human is a ground for felicitation.
Ten minutes later Thad was wondering what he had been afraid of.
Why, it was nothing. He could hardly believe that a matter so momentous
could be disposed of in so few minutes. And yet it was true, and
Diantha's little hand was in his, to have and to hold till death did
Diantha's composure throughout the ceremony had suggested that being
married was an every-day matter to a person of her wide experience. Her
poise and self-possession were the occasion of wondering comment among
the many who were hardly able to realize even now that she had really
grown up. It was not till the reception, when Persis with Thomas
following bashfully in her wake came up lo proffer her good wishes,
that Diantha relapsed into youthfulness. She flung her arms about her
old friend's neck and kissed her tumultuously.
Darling Miss Persis, how perfectly lovely you look! Did you get
that beautiful dress just for my wedding?
The composition of Persis' reply apparently took a little time. She
did not speak for a minute.
Yes, I made it for your wedding, she returned at length. But I
used it for my own, too. Thomas and I slipped over to the minister's
after supper and got married. So we'll both wish each other joy, my
It was a shock of course, but Clematis was getting used to that
where Persis was concerned. And Mrs. Hornblower voiced the feeling of
more than herself when she commented on the affair at the next meeting
of the Woman's Club. Persis was not present. She and Thomas had gone on
a wedding trip to the seashore, and taken all the children.
It's a kind of back-handed way of getting a family, said Mrs.
Hornblower. Picking up one child here and another there, and then
winding up with a husband. But I must say it'll take a load off my mind
to see a man at the head of Persis Dale's pew.
CHAPTER XXIV. FAIR PLAY
The late October sunshine poured its prodigal gold into the little
room of which Annabel Sinclair was the sole occupant, and as its single
door and window were both closed, the resulting temperature was
suggestive of mid-July. The room itself was plain and bare. The cottage
Thad West had purchased the year following his marriage was needlessly
spacious for the immediate requirements of the two young people and for
that reason, several of the rooms had been left unfurnished or nearly
so, until time should justify Thad's foresight. As a rule Annabel had a
feline instinct for comfort, selecting the easiest chair and the
pleasantest outlook almost unconsciously. To-day her discomfort and the
convent-like austerity of her surroundings failed to impress her. She
was hardly aware of them.
She was not in her daughter's home of her own volition that October
morning. She had yielded as the most self-willed must on occasion to
the assumption of her little world that this was the place where she
would wish to be. But the first glimpse of Diantha had convinced her
that her shrinking recoil had been well-grounded. Diantha, deadly pale
and yet with little flickering, unsteady smiles, Diantha, quiet and
self-possessed, with nothing but those white cheeks to show how flesh
and spirit shrank from the approaching ordeal, was terrifyingly a
stranger. But that she was a woman there could be no doubt. And this
woman, soon to be a mother, was her child.
The little, bare, remote room seemed a refuge. Annabel closed the
door and would have locked it, but the key was missing. She sank into
the single chair, her face storm-swept, transformed by her emotion
almost beyond recognition. The natural assumption would have been that
she was enduring vicariously the suffering of her daughter, bearing for
the second time the pangs that had given Diantha life. As a matter of
fact, Diantha's pain and peril were remote from her mood. Her mind had
room for one thought: Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!
As she stared before her, hand gripping hand, her bloodless lips
moving inarticulately, she saw the monstrous folly of her
self-deception. She had played at youth, listened to the love-making of
undeveloped boys whose mother she might have been, and made herself
believe that she could cheat Time. And Time, too, had had his fun. For
the moment it almost seemed to her that her girlish prettiness had been
his merciless concession to add to the spirit of the game, as a cat
lets a mouse run with a sense of recovered freedom, only to pounce
And now she was to be a grandmother. She made a futile effort to
face the thought, to adjust her idea of herself to so astounding a
development. But it was like the effort to imagine herself belonging to
another race, Ethiopian or Oriental. It was unthinkable. She had a
clearly defined conception of grandmothers, persons with a generous
waist-line and white hair. Undoubtedly they were useful people in their
way, and worthy of regard. But she found it impossible to realize that
she herself might belong to their number.
As if recalling some experience far distant, she fell to reviewing
the events of the previous evening. Her caller had been a young fellow
with a carefully nurtured and on the whole a promising mustache and
with a lurid taste in socks. She had enjoyed the call. The boy's crude
efforts at veiled sentiment, his languishing glances had been incense
to her vanity. But to-morrow! How is your little grandchild, Mrs.
Sinclair? he would say. Or no! He would not say it. He would not come
again. He must realize, as she was doing, the absurdity of their
acquaintance. He would laugh at the old woman who had painted her
cheeks that she might look a girl and had let him kiss her hand as
though granting a priceless favor. Annabel moaned faintly as she
writhed. Every one would laugh. Every one must have been laughing for
years over her silly pretenses.
She did not know how long a time had elapsed before heavy footsteps
creaked down the hall. She shuddered and her body stiffened. The knock
was twice repeated before she could utter an audible, Come in.
Mrs. West pushed the door ajar and started violently as her eyes
fell on Annabel. As not infrequently happens with women who preserve an
unnaturally youthful appearance, under the stress of deep emotion,
Annabel had aged years in an hour. It was a moment before Mrs. West
could recover herself.
I've made us a cup of tea, Mis' Sinclair, and set out a light
lunch. We'll both feel better for a bite.
Annabel shook her head. I don't wantanything. It took an effort
to stifle a frenzied appeal to be left to herself.
This was far from Mrs. West's thoughts. She creaked into the little
room, her ample proportions making it seem more cramped and small than
ever, and patted Annabel's shoulder.
Oh, come now, Mis' Sinclair, I know just how you feel.Never was
boast vainer.But Diantha's going to come through this all right.
She's young and she's strong. The doctor says she's got everything in
Annabel's answer was a vague uncomprehending stare. Then she began
to understand. Mrs. West supposed her consumed with anxiety for her
daughter's safety, whereas the possibility that Diantha might die had
hardly occurred to her. She found herself wondering if she were unlike
all other women, an abnormality in her selfishness. In the larger
matters Annabel had remained contemptuously indifferent to the opinion
of her sex, though she would have found their criticism of her personal
appearance disquieting. But now she was conscious of an unaccustomed
sense of relief that Mrs. West could not read her thoughts.
I don't wantanything, she repeated mechanically, and Thad's
mother departed with obvious reluctance. In five minutes she was back
with a cup of tea which Annabel swallowed in hopes of thus purchasing
immunity from further kindly attentions. And Mrs. West, bearing away
the empty tea-cup, carried too, a better opinion of Annabel Sinclair
than she would have believed possible.
I never thought she cared anything much for Diantha, she told
Persis who had dropped in several times during the day to see how
matters were progressing. But I must say, I did her an injustice.
She's been pretty nearly crazy all day. She looks like a ghost.
Well, she's Diantha's mother when all's said and done, Persis
responded. Happiness makes for tolerance. With all her charity for the
wrong-doer, Persis had made an exception of Annabel Sinclair. But now
the years of fatness, following instead of preceding the lean years,
the overflowing fulness of her heart and life had taught her new
indulgence. She was capable of believing that there was good in the
The afternoon dragged cruelly. Now and then some faint sound reached
Annabel, vaguely suggestive of the battle which must be waged for every
new existence, and each time the sagging body of the woman stiffened,
and her breath grew hurried. Once Thad passed her window, his young
face set and white, and his eyes reddened as if from weeping. Annabel
shrank away fearful that his glance might fall on her, but the fixed
eyes of the young husband saw only his wife's girlish face as he had
seen it last, colorless, quivering, undaunted.
It was not far from four o'clock when the sound of hurrying feet
quickened Annabel's lagging pulses. A door shut quickly and then
another. Some one was hurrying down the hall; some one who brought
news. Annabel found herself on her feet. And then, instinctively she
caught at the back of her chair to support herself, for the floor was
undulating and the sunny room had grown dark.
Out of the shapeless blur in which her surroundings blended, a face
took shape, the face of Mrs. West, wet with tears and radiant with
smiles. It was she who had sped so lightly down the long hall as if joy
had given wings to her feet.
It's a boy! She laughed out the three exultant words and hurried
back to some interrupted task. Annabel continued to stand. When at
length she released her grip of the chair, her fingers were numb and
stiff. The thought crossed her mind that now she was at liberty to go
home, since her grandson had come into the world, but the effort seemed
beyond her strength. She sank into the chair again, half closing her
eyes. The poignant pain of the past hours had changed to an
overwhelming listlessness. She was too tired to think any longer, too
tired even to suffer.
A brisk knock at the door roused her from her apathy sufficiently
for a resentful wish that they would leave her to herself. Then the
door opened and Persis entered. Her face wore the look that had
impressed Annabel on the face of Mrs. West, that look of supreme
satisfaction, blended with a curious, vicarious pride, and with it all,
something that told of tears held back. Annabel's eyes went from that
radiant look to the shawl-draped bundle in Persis' arms. She put out
her hand as if to ward off a danger.
Persis halted, gazing in consternation at the wreck of Annabel. In
that shallow face the record of mental anguish was so unmistakable that
the other woman felt a pang of self-reproach.
Here I've been leaving this poor little bundle of nerves to fight
this thing through all alone. I'd ought to have known she'd be scaring
herself into a conniption. As a reaction from the severity with which
she dealt with her own thoughtlessness, Persis' voice, in addressing
Annabel was as tender and caressing as if she strove to soothe a
Well, Mis' Sinclair, your worry's over. Diantha came through this
fine, and before we know it, she'll be up and about and as lively as a
cricket. But it's been a hard day for you same as for the rest of us.
The Lord asks a good deal of women, to help Him keep this old world
a-going, but He's got His own way of making it up to 'em.
As if to give point to her words, Persis' eyes dropped to the bundle
in her arms. She came a step nearer.
I s'pose, of course, you're glad it's a boy. I don't know why it
is, but you just can't help feeling tickled when the first baby's a
boy. Nine pounds, too. That's a grandson to be proud of.
Don't! Don't! I don't want to see it.
Annabel's cry was involuntary, wrung from her by the realization of
Persis' purpose. And Persis who had lifted the shawl that concealed the
little face, let it fall again and stood staring.
You don't wantto see the baby?
The revulsion indicated by Annabel's attitude was a sufficient
answer. Persis crossed to the cot-bed and sat down. If there was a
person on earth she cordially detested, it was Annabel Sinclair, yet
the conviction that this poor counterfeit of a woman was in need of
strength and sympathy was sufficient to thrust that old dislike into
I guess to-day's been pretty trying to your nerves, Mis' Sinclair.
But you'll feel better if you take a look at this nice boy. I've seen a
good many of 'em first and last, and I told Diantha I'd never set eyes
on a finer baby.
A curious distortion of Annabel's face broke off Persis' eulogy.
Are you feeling sick, Mis' Sinclair? she asked in real alarm,
thinking that she would never have given Annabel credit for this excess
of material solicitude.
Sick? Yes, I'm sick of everything. I'm glad that child's a boy.
Those people that drown the girl babies like kittens, are in the right
of it. No woman ought to live beyond thirty.
Some of us, remarked Persis, recovering herself with difficulty,
would have missed a good deal at that rate. But her lips curled
slightly. She was beginning to understand and to acquit herself of past
Annabel had reached a point where speech was a necessity. For years,
she had returned Persis' dislike with the added venom of a small
nature. But at this moment, when an outpouring of confidence seemed
essential, she knew there was no one to whom she could speak so freely
as to this woman she had hated.
Life's cruel, cruel! It promises us women everything. And then it
cheats us and tricks us and takes away all that it gave, one thing
after another. It's like bleeding to death, losing your beauty little
by little, fighting your hardest and knowing you've got to be beaten in
the end. When I was a child in bed I used to think I heard footsteps
coming along the hall, slow and stealthy, and I'd lie there trembling
and quaking, afraid to open my eyes. That's the way I've been listening
to old age, creeping on mefor the last ten years.
And if only you'd got your courage up to opening your eyes when you
were a little, trembly thing, scared of those footsteps, like enough
all you'd have seen beside your bed was your mother smiling down on
Annabel looked at the speaker without replying. Her look offered
little encouragement for Persis to continue, but she needed no such
You talk about life's being cruel. Why, you poor little soul, you
don't know what life's like. You've never given it a chance. You
haven't played fair.
For years Persis had acknowledged to a desire to give Annabel
Sinclair a good talking to. On various occasions she had uttered
truths that had cut like knives. She had the same truths to utter now
but the spirit had altered.
I guess every girl that was ever born liked to have men courting
her and ready to fight one another for a kind word from her. That's
nature. But it ain't nature to have it last, Mis' Sinclair. And that's
where you made your mistake. You wanted to keep right on pretending it
was May after it got along to August or so.
Something she saw in the poor harassed face caused her to change her
position slightly, so that she could pat the listless hand of Diantha's
mother while she spoke.
Life ain't cruel, you poor soul! It comes along with both hands
full. It says to the little girl, 'Come, drop that doll-baby, I've got
something better than that. Here's a lover for you.' And then it says
to the girl that's picking and choosing among her beaux, 'Drop that
flirting, I've got something better for you. Here's a husband and a
home!' And so it goes. Instead of getting poorer all the time, we're
She looked at Annabel tentatively. She was not altogether sure that
her eloquence was having effect. But as Annabel sat in an attitude of
expectancy, her face turned toward her monitor, though her eyes were
downcast, Persis tried again.
I don't say Thomas and I haven't missed a lot, I'm not belittling
youth and its love and its hopes. But I do say that I wouldn't change
this last year of my life for any that might have been. Why, when I
wake up in the morning, my head's full of the children, thinking of 'em
and planning for 'em and sometimes worrying about 'em. It needs a
little tart taste, sometimes, to bring out the sweet. Thomas and I have
spent hours, trying to decide whether we'll make a doctor out of Algie,
or a civil engineer, and we know both of us, that when the time comes,
he'll take the bit in his teeth and do as he likes. Only it's such fun
planning it out. When I look back five years or ten, or twenty, for
that matter, and see how my life has filled up and widened out, I feel
real sorry for that little, young, silly Persis Dale who thought she
was so happy and knew so little about it. If life takes with one hand,
Mis' Sinclair, it gives with two, only you'll never find it out as long
as you grip tight to what you've got.
She looked down on the bundle in her arms, and again her face was
irradiated by a vivid tenderness, almost as if she had been mother of
Now, here's a case in point, Annabel Sinclair. Right here in my
arms is a little lump of joy that ought to fill up your cup of
happiness so full that it would spill over. Seems to me if this little
mite belonged to me, if I knew my blood was in his veins, this town
wouldn't be big enough to hold me. I love my five, dear knows, but
there's a hurt in thinking that I'm never going to see the Dale
stubbornness cropping out or any of the Hardin ways. But you haven't
got that little nagging hurt to take off your joy, like a pinch in a
pair of new shoes. It's all along of you that this boy's here.
As if dominated by the stronger will, Annabel's eyes turned toward
the bundle. And inwardly praying that this was the moment for her
coup d'état, Persis started to her feet.
I b'lieve that's Thad calling. 'Fraid like as not, that I'm going
to kidnap his son and heir. You hold the baby, Mis' Sinclair, till I
see what's wanted.
She had tucked the baby into the curve of his grandmother's arm
before Annabel could protest, and she left the room without looking
back. Annabel, breathing fast, stared down into the little red face
against her shoulder. Such a queer little face, wrinkled with the
ponderous wisdom of the world it had so lately quitted, placid through
ignorance of the new life into which it had entered. She could not turn
away her eyes. And this being, newer than the morning paper and yet
ancient as man, was flesh of her flesh.
The little, tightly clenched fists attracted her as irresistibly as
the face. She surprised herself by poking one tentatively, and when the
fingers opened and closed about hers, her lips parted as if to cry out.
She had not dreamed that there could be such tenacity in those wee
fingers. It was uncanny to be thus gripped by a creature so intensely
new. And Persis had said that this was one of Heaven's good gifts, a
joy that might brim life's cup over.
The door opened and she raised her eyes. Her husband stood there,
gravely intent. She had never looked less beautiful than in her pale
disorder, but the pathos of her drooping figure and bewildered face
touched him strangely. Or perhaps it was the child in her arms.
It's holding to my finger, Stanley! See! Annabel's features
twisted in a strange distorted smile. Our little grandchild.
He moved nearer. For all his efforts, he found it impossible to make
his voice altogether matter-of-fact.
You've had a hard day, I'm sure. You'd better speak to Diantha and
then let me take you home.
She rose to her feet unsteadily, holding the child with the peculiar
awkwardness of the woman in whom the maternal instinct is lacking. But
as she passed on before him, her husband saw that the tiny hand still
curled tendril-like about her finger.