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
appearance.
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,
ain't I?"
"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
her."
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 opinion--seeing 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
stylish."
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
gates."
"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
earth--to 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
about"--Persis' favorite formula. "I'll try to find time to drop in
and see Charlotte."
"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
surrender.
"It's pretty goods," she said, touching it lightly with the tips of her
fingers. "And--and 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 Sir--Yours 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.
"Yours truly,
"Persis Dale.
"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.