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 the enemy.
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
part."
"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
turns.
"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 help."
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 while--in her own room--after her day's work is done--her
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 here--because 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
into steam.
"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. "I--I can't get up," she exploded at length, in
seemingly reluctant confidence.
"Can't get up? But how did you get down?"
"Persis--I--I was rolling."
"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
trying."
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
string."
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
life."
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
world."
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
silence.
"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."
"Match-making!" Mrs. Gibson repeated, like most who adopt that most
thankless of the professions ready on the instant to repudiate it.
"Me!"
"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 beside
you."
"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
friend's curiosity.
"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."