Books: Miss Gibbie Gault
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Kate Langley Bosher >> Miss Gibbie Gault
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"Just like they make me now?"
"Do they?" Mary Cary looked down in the sober little face. "Then
cut it out, Peggy. If you don't like some people or the things they
do and can't change them, then keep out of their way. Don't be nice
to their faces and ugly behind their backs. That's the most rubbishy
thing in the world. There's plenty of room to stay apart."
"That's what you do, ain't it?"
"I?" The surprise in her voice was genuine. "Why, no. I don't
stay away from people."
"You didn't go to Mrs. Deford's party Wednesday."
Mary Cary turned to the child beside her. "Who told you I didn't
go to Mrs. Deford's party Wednesday?"
"Susie heard Miss Lizzie Bettie Pryor and Miss Puss Jenkins talkin'
about it in the store yesterday. Susie says they think she's just
air, and the way they lay out people when they're lookin' at hats
frightens her. They said they didn't blame you, for Mrs. Deford had
never let up on you since you been back. They said she's so crazy
for Miss Lily to marry Mr. John Maxwell that she's got him skeered
to death, and they believed that's the reason he went to Europe this
summer, and they reckon he's hidin' yet, as he ain't been down here
lately, not since last May, and this is the last of October."
"He's coming--" Mary Cary stopped abruptly, then she laughed. "It's
too splendid to talk about ugly things to-day, Peggy. Let's run to
the bottom of the hill and to the big sycamore-tree and then we'll
turn in the Calverton road and go home. You are going to stay with
me to dinner, and to-night Miss Gibbie is coming to tea, and
to-morrow--" She reached up and pulled a branch of scarlet leaves
from a maple-tree and shook them gayly in the air. "Oh, to-morrow
there's lots of things to be done. Here, give me your hand. When I
say three, we'll start."
Laughing, panting, glowing, they reached the foot of the hill and
then the sycamore-tree, and this time Peggy's face was as full of
color as Mary Cary's. For a moment they stood in the radiant sunshine
and let the air, crisp and fresh with the sting of autumn, blow on them;
then, still hand in hand, went singing down the road and on to Tree
Hill.
Some hours later Peggy was gone, and before the crackling logs on
the andirons in the library Mary Cary, on her knees, held out her
hands to their blaze and nodded to the dancing flames.
"It's so nice to have you, Fire. I love you! You are so warm and
cheerful and such good company. And you're such a good thing to
dream in and see pictures in and tell fairy tales to. You tell
fairy tales yourself. You can be very nice, Fire--but oh, your
ashes!"
With the tongs she turned over a log, and out of the willow basket
on the hearth took another and laid it carefully on the top. As it
sputtered and crackled she sat down on the rug and clasped her hands
over her knees, looking with half-shut eyes in the dancing flames,
unmindful of their heat or the burning of her face.
Presently she turned and looked around the room. Twilight had fallen,
and only the glint of firelight touched here and there familiar
objects, rested a moment lovingly on bit of brass, or flirted hastily
away from picture or chair; and as she watched its gleams dart in and
out she smiled softly to herself.
"Kisses!" she said. "You dear room! I love you, too!" Into space she
kissed her hand, then laughed at her childishness.
"Isn't it nice each season has its own things?" she said, talking to
the flames. "In the spring the apple blossoms were so lovely they
almost hurt. The trees, the birds, the flowers, everything was so
beautiful that I behaved as if I'd never seen a spring before. That's
the nice part of spring. It brings its newness every time, and I'm just
as surprised as if it were the very, very first. But I believe I love
the fall best. It makes you tingle so to do things; everything is worth
while, everything is worth doing, everybody is worth helping, and you
couldn't help enough to save your life!
"I'm so glad, too, the house is all fixed for the winter. Doesn't it
look pretty?" She glanced at rugs and curtains and chintz-covered
chair; at the bowls of brilliantly colored leaves of the top of
book-shelves and tables, and sniffed the pungent winter pinks,
step-sisters to the proud chrysanthemums in the hall, and again
she nodded her head.
"What a happy creature you ought to be, Mary Cary! You've got so
much; the chance to work, a dear home--"
"Dreaming! In front of the fire and dreaming again! Not the politest
of ways to meet your guests, and the front door open as usual.
Perhaps you don't know it, but in cold weather doors should be shut!"
"Heigho, Miss Gibbie!" From the rug Mary Cary scrambled to her feet
and threw her arms around her visitor's neck, giving her a sounding
kiss and a hearty hug. "I'm so glad you've come! You rode, of course,
but the wind has bitten you cheeks, and they've got apples in them as
red as mine were this morning. Hasn't it been a grand day? Peggy came
home with me and we took a long walk, and--"
"If you will stop talking and ring for Hedwig to take my things I'll
think more of your manners. You're getting as bad as Buzzie Tate. Some
of these days your breath will be lost. What's that I smell is here?
Winter pinks? Bless my soul if they're not the same kind I used to
pull as a child when I spent the day with Grandmother Bloodgood!"
She walked over to the desk and sniffed the flowers upon it. "The
very same. Down by the sun-dial they used to be--"
"That's where they are now. I love them. They are so plain and
unpretentious. Not a bit like chrysanthemums."
She helped Miss Gibbie off with her coat, untied the strings to her
bonnet, and took her gloves; then she examined the coat critically.
"You need a new one, Miss Gibbie. This one is downright shabby.
When you order your dresses in January you certainly must get a
new coat."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. I've only had that coat nine years
and it's got to last ten. I have two others, one heavier and one
lighter weight, and I seldom wear this. Have no idea of getting
another."
"But velvet rubs so, and you don't want people to talk as if--"
"Don't I?" Miss Gibbie sat down in the big chair Mary Cary had pushed
for her near the fire, and spread out the full folds of her black
silk skirt with deliberate precision. "How do you know what I want
people to do? My dear Miss Cary, only dead people don't talk. What
we say and what we do, what we wear and where we go, is cause for
comment in exact proportion to what we do not say and what we do not
do, what we do not wear and where we do not go, with those people who
do us the honor of spending their time in discussing us. Just eighteen
years ago this November my brain grasped the importance of fully
realizing this and the advantage of pleasing one person in this world.
To please all is impossible. I would deny no one the pleasure of
talking about me."
"It depends on what they say. I don't like people to say things about
me that aren't nice." She handed Hedwig Miss Gibbie's wraps. "I mean
if they aren't true."
"When I here things said about me that are not nice and are not true
I take a lawyer and go to see the person who has said them and call
for proofs. When not forthcoming I take away with me a piece of paper
testifying that said person has lied. I have two or three little
affidavits of that kind in my desk. Things said about me that are not
nice and yet are true I let alone, but the other kind--" She waved
her hand. "Were there fewer cowards in the world there would be fewer
gossips. But what's the matter with my coat? It isn't worn out, and
if I got a new one it would be of the same material and the same
shape. Not going to get a new one!"
"Are you always going to wear the same shape clothes?" Mary Cary put
a log of wood on the fire, then sat down on the rug at Miss Gibbie's
feet and smiled in her face. "Aren't you ever going to change?"
"Never! Why should I change? Brain cells weren't meant to be worn out
trying to decide between pink and blue or princesse and polonaise.
We have to wear clothes, a requirement of custom, but more time,
temper, character, and peace of mind, not to mention money, have been
sacrificed to them than to any other altar on this green earth, and
for what? Most women look like freaks. Their garments are travesties
on grace and comfort, and when not a pretence in quality are usually
a bad imitation of a senseless style. An old sheep dressed lamb-fashion,
especially if the old sheep is fat and over fifty, is hard to forgive.
When I was fifty I came to my senses, decided on a certain pattern for
my clothes, and have been wearing the same kind ever since. In January
and June I write to the dressmaker for what I want. One hour twice a
year and the work is done. What's the matter with me? Don't I look
nice?"
"Very nice. I like those full skirts gathered on to a fitted waist,
with your throat open and elbow sleeves. But you can wear velvet and
silk and beautiful lace, and fill the front of your dress with tulle.
Everybody can't. It takes--"
"Sense and system. You mean money; but the sloppiest-dressed woman
in town spends more than I do on clothes, very probably. Wastes it
in trash. I get a velvet dress once in five years. Two silks a year,
a few muslins, and there I am. Lace lasts forever, and nothing is
lost on trimmings. Lack of sense, lack of sense--" she waved her
beaded bag in the air--"is what's the matter with the world. Women
are slaves of custom; their most despairing quality is their cowardly
devotion to the usual and their sheepy following of silly fashions.
Woman's vanity and man's pampering of it are the cause of more trouble
in most homes than fires and pestilence. Man is to blame for it.
Through the ages he's been woman's dictator, and being too sensible
to wear petticoats and pink ribbons himself, but liking to see them
worn, he put them on woman and told her she was pretty in them. That
was enough. To please men is what some women think they were made for,
and to do it they're content. Women are such fools! What were you
dreaming about when I came in? Seeing pictures in the fire, of course.
What were they?"
"Guess!" Mary Cary put her arms on Miss Gibbie's knees and laughed
in the keen gray eyes. "But you'd never guess! I was thinking how dear
everything is here and how I love it. There isn't but one thing more
I'd like in the house. Just one. And I was wondering if you'd mind if
I had it. You knew poor little Mrs. Trueheart was dead, didn't you?"
"Yes, but you don't want her ghost, do you?" Miss Gibbie nodded
toward the face which had nodded toward hers. "Do you want a spook
in the house?"
"No--a baby--she left one five weeks old. Can I adopt it, Miss
Gibbie? Would you mind? Sometimes I get so lonely--I mean, I just
love a little baby, and this poor little thing hasn't any mother,
and its father drinks, and the oldest girl has more than she can do
for the other children." She gave a deep, eager breath. "I'd love a
little baby so, Miss Gibbie. I'd rather hold one in my arms and rock
it to sleep than dance all night, and I like to dance. I never did
understand how mothers could let nurses put their babies to bed. I
just love to hold them and squeeze them /tight!/ She pressed her
arms close to her bosom and, bending, kissed the hollow which they
made; then looked up again. "Would you mind if I took this little
Trueheart baby? Hedwig and I could take care of it and--"
Miss Gibbie leaned back in her chair; her eyes closed in hopeless
resignation, and her hands fell limp in her lap.
"Wants--to--adopt--a--baby! Trueheart baby--mother dead of
consumption and father death-proof--an alcohol inoculate! What sense
the Lord saw fit to give you, Mary, He seems at times to take away.
I thought time would help you, but you're still a child--still a
child."
Mary Cary shook her head. "I'm not a child; I'm a woman. But why
can't I have it? The cost wouldn't be much and I can afford it, and
I'd just love to have it." She held out her arms. "See," she said,
"they were meant to hold a baby, and they ache for one sometimes.
This is such a delicate little thing--it's a little girl. And I--once
there wasn't anybody to take care of me, and I had to be an--I don't
understand why you'd mind--"
"You don't, and I'm not going to try to make you. Some things are not
to be explained. Did you say we were to have tea? I always have my tea
at four, and it's nearly six. Where's Hedwig? She at least can
understand when I say I want Tea!"
Chapter XIX
THE TESTIMONY PARTY
"In the name of love and charity!" Miss Gibbie turned to the door
behind her. "What is it? Can't a person have one hour undisturbed in
this world? I'm not half through what I had to say, though evidently
through all I'll have a chance to say. What on earth! Is it Christmas
or the Fourth of July or--"
Mary Cary got out of the chair in which she had been sitting since
supper and went over to the window. "I don't know what it is. I
thought this was the twenty-ninth." She put her hands to her eyes
shielding them from the light, and looked through the pane of glass.
"There's a big covered wagon coming up the drive; it's at the steps."
She threw back her head and laughed. "Come quick and look! They're
piling out like rats from a trap. Did you ever! What in the world
is it? They're on the porch now. Hedwig has opened the door and--if
there isn't Mrs. McDougal with a great big something in her hands,
and Mr. Milligan, and Peggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Jernigan, and Jamie,
and little Minna Haskins, and Mr. Flournoy. What do you suppose it
is?"
Miss Gibbie got up and stood by the table in the middle of the room.
"The gods couldn't guess if Mrs. McDougal has anything to do with it.
Are they coming in?"
The question was answered by the tread of feet in the hall, and the
procession, headed by Mrs. McDougal, began to enter the library door.
On the threshold she stopped, bowing and smiling, in her hands a large
glass salver, on the top of which was an even larger cake elaborately
decorated in pink icing, in whose centre was stuck one tall white
candle which sputtered and blinked in the changing draughts. Behind
her a row of men and women, with a child occasionally between,
stretched to the hall door and into the porch, and for the first time
in her life Mary Cary could find nothing to say. She knew suddenly
what it meant.
Mrs. McDougal advanced and, with arms extended, made a profound
bow. "Miss Mary Cary, Our Friend! And Miss Gibbie Gault, Her
Friend! Good-evening!"
The precious burden was laid on the table, the candle straightened,
and also her hat; then she turned to the crowd behind with a
hospitable wave of her hand. "Come in, people! Come in! Those what
can't sit, must stand. Take this chair, Mis' Jernigan; she's been
sick, you know"--with a nod to Miss Gibbie--"and if you'll be excusin'
of my sayin' so for you, Miss Mary, I'll just say, make yourselves
to home the best you can while we say what we come for. Make yourselves
to home!"
"Oh, of course!" Mary Cary caught her breath. "Please pardon me. I
was so surprised to see you--and I'm so glad. Do sit down, Mrs.
Jernigan." She pushed the latter in a low easy-chair. "Bring some more
chairs, Hedwig. Get them anywhere. I'm so glad to see all of you. How
do you do, Mr. Milligan--and Minna." She stooped and kissed the child
holding tight a folded paper in her hand. "Did they let you come, too?
Isn't it nice?
"Ain't ever been out at night before since I was an orphan." Minna
gave a squeal of happy joy. "But I used to go to parties and thayters
and balls. I remember every one of them." She turned to Mrs. McDougal
excitedly. "Must I give it to her now?"
"No, you mustn't!" Mrs. McDougal grabbed the hand the child was
about to extend and held it tight. "'Tain't time yet, Minna; 'tain't
time yet. Mr. Milligan is master of ceremony and he'll tell you. You
keep quiet if you can. Here, Peggy, hold on to Minna; she'll pop if
you don't. How you do, Miss Gibbie? How you do?"
Miss Gibbie's hand was shaken heartily, but she was not permitted to
say how she did, for Mrs. McDougal had more to say herself, and with
a wink she went on: "We knew you was goin' to be here. Peggy told us.
I certainly am glad of it." She put her hand to her mouth and made
effort to whisper. "I ain't a fool, if I ain't edjicated. Brains
don't know whether they're high born or low, or whether they're male
or female, and they can take in more'n you think without bein' told.
I'm not forty, and mine ain't set yet. But set yourself down, Miss
Gibbie; set yourself down, while I go see if they're all in."
They were all in, twenty or more of them, and as Mrs. McDougal stood
in the centre of the room, counting with extended forefinger, Miss
Gibbie took her seat, and from her beaded bag took out surreptitiously
a small bottle of salts and hid it in her handkerchief. The room was
crowded and would soon be close, but an open window could not be asked
for. The salts must do.
For most of the unexpected guests chairs had been hastily provided by
Hedwig, and the few men standing were doing so from choice. As she
finished counting, Mrs. McDougal stepped back and stood by Mary
Cary's side.
"We are all here," she said. "Not a one was spilt out the wagon, but
'twas so crowded I was 'fraid some might be jolted off the ends. We
come in Mr. Chinn's undertakin' wagon." She nodded explanatorily to
Miss Gibbie. "He lent it to us, but not bein' built for picnics,
'twa'n't the best in the world to pack twenty-three shovin' people in,
bein' meant for just one still one; but my grandmother always told me
a lot of life was a makeshift, and if you couldn't do what you'd like,
then like what you had to do; and we had a lot of fun comin' out. Just
like Congressmen goin' to a funeral. But I reckon you wonder what we
come for?" This time she turned to Mary Cary. "We come to tell you
something. Mr. Milligan, he's goin' to preside, but before he begins
I just want to say that this is a sort o' birthday for Yorkburg, and
that's why the cake is here." She turned to it proudly, and her right
hand made a wide sweep. "We all help give it, and a lot more would have
helped if they'd known, but we didn't have time to tell everybody, and
if feelin's are hurt we can't help it. Never was a party somebody's
feelin's didn't get hurt."
She stopped and made a bow. "Miss Mary Cary and Miss Gibbie
Gault, maybe you don't know it, but this is the twenty-ninth day of
October, and just one year ago to-day you came back here to live
permanent, which is why there's one candle on the cake. It's been a
good year for Yorkburg and a better one for some of the people in it,
and that ain't always the case when returners come back, for most folks
who live in a place ain't much use to it, and the day after the funeral
is forgot. And knowin' there's a lot of hard licks in life, and no
matter how much you try to do for people they'll do you if they get a
chance, and say mean things about you--for there ain't nobody what
escapes the havin' of misjudgin' things said if they've got a mind of
their own and the will to do their way--we thought we would like to come
out here and tell you before you was dead that we sure do love you and
we thank you hearty for comin' back. You've done a lot for us, Miss
Mary, by just rememberin' we was livin' and comin' to see us like we was
folks, and like it was really true the Lord died for us as well as
others. Some don't seem to think so. You've helped us take hold of
ourselves, and though some of us ain't much to take hold of, still a lot
of people die slow of discouragement, and a cheerin' word beats the best
pill on earth. I ain't much on oratory, and not well acquainted with
fine speech. Plain English is all I can use, and the plain English of
all of us is we love you, and we thank you and we want you to know it.
My grandmother always told me if you had anything like that to say, to
say it while the person you think it about could hear. Dead people
can't. And 'tain't much use cryin' and handin' out their good qualities
after they're gone, like they was their clothes, for which they ain't
got any more need, because 'tis too late. And you can't sleep good when
you think of the things what's too late.
"But I ain't here to make a speech, just to bear testimony. This ain't a
party exactly, unless it's a testimony party, and if I don't set down my
tongue will run all night, bein' loose-jointed and good for goin' all
the time like most women's, and so I take my seat and turn the meetin'
over to Mr. Milligan. He's Irish, and an Irishman can talk a cabbage
into a rose any day. And when he's got a rose to talk about"--her hand
made a wide sweep--"his own tongue couldn't tell what it might say after
it starts. Mr. Milligan will come forward and begin the presidin'."
To loud applause Mrs. McDougal took her seat, and Mr. Milligan, in
obedience to orders, advanced and bowed, first to Mary Cary, then to
Miss Gibbie, and then to the room at large.
"It's the truth she's said, Miss Mary," he began, smilingly, "for she's
gone and expressed what I was going to say, and my tongue must tell of
something else. A man oughtn't ever to let a woman speak first. She'll
steal his thunder and leave nothing for him to say. He can't help her
speaking last. No law could prevent that, but first and last ain't
fair. She has told you why we're here, and I am only going to add that
anybody who takes a weed out of a place and puts in a flower ain't
lived in vain, and anybody who shows you where the sunshine comes from
and how to get it is the kind of helper the world is looking for, and
the person who can hearten you is the one who finds an open door in any
house. And you've done every one of them things, every one. Mrs.
McDougal has told you how the Mill-ites and the Factory-ites and the
Sick-ites and the Tired-ites and the--"
"Orphan-ites." It was Minna's shrill little voice that filled Mr.
Milligan's pause as he hesitated for another ite, and she shook the
paper at him excitedly.
"The Orphan-ites." He bowed toward the quivering child. "Mrs.
McDougal has told you what these feel, and thanked you for all the
them, and I am here as a member of Yorkburg's council to thank you
again for what you have done for the town in stirring of us up.
Everything you jolted us about is coming on well, and the public baths
at Milltown, the gift of your unknown friend, will make for godliness
next summer, if they don't do much in cold weather. And if we can get
hot water they may help the cause of righteousness this winter. We hope
we are going to keep you here forever, but as there ain't many marrying
men to match you in these parts it ain't impossible that in time you may
go away, and if that time should come 'twould be a sorrowful day for
many in this town. But if it should please you to stay single and live
with us we'll thank God for an old maid like you, and pray Him to make
more of your kind. The world needs 'em. And now Mr. Jernigan will speak
for the mill, and his son Jamie for the children, and Minna Haskins for
the orphans. Mr. Jernigan, ladies and gentlemen!"
As Mr. Jernigan came forward Mrs. McDougal pulled Mary Cary from
the table upon which she had been half sitting into the chair at her
side. "Set down, Miss Mary," she said in a half-whisper. "You look
like a pink peony turnin' purple. Anybody would think you warn't even
a sinner saved by grace, you're that abject. You ain't doin' nothin'
sinful. Set up and take your posies like a lady. You look like you're
takin' punishment, that you do!"
Mr. Jernigan's speech was largely lost between the clearing of his
throat and the blowing of his nose, and more time than words was used
in its delivery. But he managed to bring greetings from his
fellow-workmen, and, as he sat down, Miss Gibbie led the vigorous
applause which followed, and nodded encouragingly to his wife, who
had hung proudly and anxiously upon his disconnected sentences.
Next came Jamie, lame Jamie, who hobbled bravely forward on his
crutches, his little white face pinched by pain, full for once with
happy glow, and, as he placed them against the table, irresistibly
Mary Cary's hand went out to his and she held it tight.
"An original poem by Master James Jernigan," announced Mrs.
McDougal, half rising from her seat and waving her hand in
Jamie's direction. "Made up and writ by himself."
Jamie's head bowed, then he looked at his mother, flushed and
eager, whose lips were already making the movements of the words
he was to utter, then at the girl by his side, and, with another
bow, began:
"I'm just a little boy who's lame,
And couldn't used to walk a step.
But now I can, and I will tell
How me and my fine crutches met.
'Twas on a clear day and the bells they were ringing,
And I in my bed could hear the birds singing.
But I couldn't to church or to anywhere go,
For my legs couldn't walk, not to save my life.
And then Miss Mary she came in,
And said, 'Why, Jamie, 'tis a sin
You can't go out like other boys.
I'll go and get you some new toys.'
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