SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT
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 the conversation.
"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
door.
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
earlier.
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
his mistake.
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 that
point.
"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 woman.
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
taste.
"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 only--let'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
Leveridge yet?"
"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 it?"
"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
to call."
"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.