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
with reservations.
"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
subject.
"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
table-cloth.
"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
marry--anybody." 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
morning.
"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
of quieting."
"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 here--enough'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 husband."
"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
Clematis."
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
wisely invested.
"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
pin-cushion."
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 pink--"
The women interrupted him with a derisive cry of "Pink!" But while
Persis laughed, Mrs. Hornblower flashed upon her husband a look of
ineffable scorn.
"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
ulterior motive.
"I guess this is about as busy a time of year as any," commented Persis.
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
midair.
"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, Justin
Ware."
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. Only--only 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?
Where?"
"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,
"Clematis.
"Dear Madam--Yours 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.
"Yours truly,
"W. Thompson.
"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 time
being.
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
her face.
"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.