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
disquieting force.
"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 Persis--I 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.
"Sincerely yours,
"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
satisfying it.
"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
existed.
"My Dear Miss Dale--A 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, Cleveland.
"Yours truly,
"Enid Randolph.
"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 things."
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
recovery.
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
in."
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?"
"Dinner?"
"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 anticipation.
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?"
"I--well, 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
rich."
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 am
rich."
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 sanity.
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
I mean."
But Joel did not know. "Checked gingham! I never heard such crazy
talk."
"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 heavy-eyed.
"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
surprise.
"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 says--Enid's the girl, you know--a 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.
"I--I 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."