Other People's Business Part 14

"We really wore our hair in that style, didn't we?" he continued humorously. "And yet the thunderbolts spared us. And that cla.s.sy 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 att.i.tude. 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 crepe 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 s.e.xes, 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 a.s.surances 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sure him of her pleasure in the antic.i.p.ation 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.

CHAPTER XI

'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP

The night following Justin Ware's visit, Persis slept as soundly as a tired child. It was not that the interview had relieved her apprehensions nor in any way set her mind at rest, but after prolonged uncertainty, even the realization of one's worst forebodings may come as a relief. She slept late and rose more weary than when she went to bed. Yet in spite of that numbing sense of la.s.situde which clung like weights to her limbs, and for all her unaccustomed aversion to the thought of work, she knew her battle was won. Never again would she watch and listen and strangle at their birth, poor futile prayers for some a.s.surance that a man's heart was still hers.

As if some evil spell had been broken, she recalled with pangs of self-reproach various duties she had neglected, in her unwonted self-absorption. She had not even kept her promise to Doctor Ballard to see his obdurate patient. Persis realized how completely she had regained her poise when she chuckled over the plan which had suggested itself as she listened to Doctor Ballard's diagnosis of Mrs. Richards'

ailment.

"I'm so kind of headachy and restless that my sewing's bound to be a fizzle. I'll run in to see Charlotte this afternoon. It's a shame I haven't been there before. Don't know what the doctor'll think of me."

Considering that she was merely planning a little friendly call on a sick neighbor, Persis made her toilet with surprising care. In putting up her hair she again selected Annabel Sinclair as a model. She donned the gray crepe, a startling innovation, for in Clematis to wear a new dress on week-days, for any occasion less important than a wedding or a funeral, argued const.i.tutional extravagance. As a final step in her preparation she rubbed her cheeks violently with a rough crash towel, the resulting brilliant complexion successfully obliterating all traces of weariness, the flotsam and jetsam of anxious days and haunted nights. And then with a jauntiness remarkable under the circ.u.mstances, Persis departed, resolved by fair means or foul to distract the thoughts of Mrs. Nelson Richards from the occupancy of a reserved apartment in the Heavenly mansions.

Charlotte Richards had always been a pretty woman of that ethereal type of beauty that is not noticeably diminished by fragility. Persis, looking her over, estimated that the thirty pounds the doctor credited her with losing had been appreciably increased since he made his appeal for aid. At the same time, the dressmaker admitted with grudging admiration the effectiveness of the picture the invalid presented as she lay back in her rocking-chair, bright-colored pillows heaped about her, a slender figure in black, the wide blue eyes matched by the blue veins in the temples, and with violet shadows below. In the bright, prosaic little sitting-room she looked as out of place as a Raphael's cherub in a kindergarten, a creature unmistakably belonging to another sphere.

"Dear Persis," breathed Mrs. Richards, and extended a transparent hand.

"You'll forgive my not getting up," she added gently.

"Don't mention it." Persis' ringing tones had a heartiness which seemed plebeian contrasted with Mrs. Richards' subdued murmurs. "You look the picture of comfort in that big chair. I'd hate to have you disturb yourself."

The faintest imaginable shadow crossed the other's face.

"I have very little strength, Persis. Day by day I am growing weaker.

But don't think I am complaining. I am quite happy as I lie here picturing the glories of the New Jerusalem."

"I've found that rare beef was the best thing in the world for that kind of thoughts," responded Persis. "I buy the round and sc.r.a.pe it.

You can take it raw if it's ice-cold, but I like it best made into a ball and just scorched on both sides, enough to heat it through."

The invalid's smile was distinctly superior.

"You are trying to encourage me, Persis, but you have nursed too many of the sick not to see that I'm very near the river. Earthly remedies are of no avail," declared Mrs. Richards, who had the const.i.tutional incapacity of numberless people to speak of death and the hereafter, and yet remain simple and unaffected. "But I do not find the thought depressing. Far from it. My heart is light when I think of the joys that await me."

"I didn't know but on your husband's account you'd feel like making an effort."

Mrs. Richards sighed.

"Poor Nelson! Yes, my heart bleeds when I think of Nelson left in his loneliness. But it won't be for long. He will soon follow me."

Persis elevated her brows.