Books: Miss Gibbie Gault
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Kate Langley Bosher >> Miss Gibbie Gault
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And when she came back the toys they were crutches
And a chair I could wheel myself in.
And now maybe I can play like other boys some day.
'Cause the pain is near 'bout well, and I can holler
when they play.
And for all little children who ain't here to say
They think she's just grand and a dear,
I will just say for all, if she marries at all,
We'll kill him if of her he don't take good care."
A stamping of feet and loud clapping of hands greeted this first
effort of a youthful poet, and, as he started to go back to his
seat, Mary Cary drew him to her and made him share her chair.
"Oh, Jamie, Jamie," she whispered, her face hidden behind the
tumbled brown curls, "how could you write such fairy tales! They
were beautiful verses, Jamie, but you know they were not true.
They--"
"Yes'm, they was." Jamie's head nodded affirmatively. "They was
true as truth. Look there--that little Minna Haskins is goin'
to speak."
Minna's time had come at last. In Peggy's lap she had been wriggling
through the other speeches, shutting her eyes at intervals and
repeating under her breath the words she was to say, and when her name
was called she ran forward joyously, holding tight in her hands the
precious document with which she had been intrusted. Arms at her sides
and heels together, she bowed, then shook the paper in the air.
"It's on here," she said, "what I'm going to say. A committee wrote it.
Three of the girls they learned it to me. And it's to be yours, Miss
Mary, forever and ever, because it's res'lutions." She held out the
paper, then drew it back. "I forgot--I wasn't to give it to you till
I was through. I'll begin." And like water out of a pitcher the words
poured forth:
"Whereas, it has pleased Almighty God to put in our midst a beautiful
young lady who once lived here herself and has never forgot about it,
and loves little children and does all she can to make them happy, and
don't like ugly clothes and the same kind of food and monot'nous living,
but believes orphans are just like other children inside and out except
they haven't fathers and mothers and anybody much, and she knows
how that feels, and,
"Whereas, she came back to this very old town, most all history and
some factories, and has helped a lot and got some things changed,
and gives parties and picnics now and then, and,
"Whereas--" She stopped suddenly and her voice fell. "Whereas
oughtn't to come there. There ain't but three whereases, because
Sallie Green copied them out of a paper when Mr. Joynes died, just
changing to suit a live person, and the last one comes way down.
Wait a minute!" She shut her eyes tight and mumbled rapidly to
herself, then looked up triumphantly. "And give picnics now and
then and makes us feel like human beings though she's right managing
at times and don't allow impertence, and,
"Whereas, we love her fit to die,
"Therefore, be it resolved that we will tell her so and tell her
she'll never know how much, and we thank her and thank her and thank
her.
"And a copy of these res'lutions is ordered to be spread on paper and
on her heart, and we will spread them on ours.
"Kitty Mountcastle
"Jessie Royall
"Margaret Potts
"And Me."
The last two words were emphasized by a low bow, then, turning, she
ran into Mary Cary's outstretched arms, and threw hers around her
neck.
"Oh, Miss Mary, I'm so glad I've said it, and I didn't miss but once.
Here they are!" The paper was thrust in her hand. "I didn't help
write these, but I wrote some once when my grandfather died. I
remember just as well--"
"Minna, Minna!" Mary Cary lifted the excited little face from her
shoulder and kissed her lips. "Your grandfather died before you
were born, but you remembered splendidly to-night. I don't see--"
"Pooh! That wasn't anything!" Minna's eyes were raised to the
ceiling. "All I've got to do is to hear a thing and I can say it.
I can say Shakespeare if you want me to."
Mary Cary got up. "Mercy, no! Don't say anything else if you love
me. Run back to Peggy and keep still for just a minute more." She
stood at the table, looking at Mrs. McDougal speaking to Hedwig,
who a moment later came back with a large knife and handed it to
her, and, as she took it, Mary Cary dropped back into her chair.
Flourishing the knife, Mrs. McDougal advanced to the cake, then turned
to the others sitting stiff and upright in their chairs, and bowed
again. "The ceremonies is over and the cake will be cut. And then
maybe you'll open your mouths and say something. You're settin' like
you're at a funeral. Then resolutions sounded like it, but you mustn't
mind them, Miss Mary"--she turned to the latter in a whisper--"they
didn't have much time to make up anything, and I asked Miss Samson just
to let 'em say something from their hearts, and they thought resolutions
was more dignified than plain every-day speech, and more respectful. I
asked for a testimony and for Minna Haskins to say it. She's such a
little devil and so fond of you. Maybe now you'd like to say something
yourself?" She rapped on the table for silence. "Miss Cary would like
to say something, and when she's through we'll eat."
For half a moment Mary Cary leaned against the library table, her hands
behind her clasping it with an intensity of which she was not conscious,
and for a moment more words would not come. Slowly the hot color
died out of her face and her lips quivered.
"No," she said, presently. "No. I can't say anything. When we feel much
we can say little, and I couldn't tell you how you have--have humbled
me; but I do thank you for your kind, kind words. It is not I you should
thank, however. I have done so little. I could have done nothing had it
not been for Yorkburg's friend. I had nothing to give but--"
"Love, which is what few have, judging by the sparse way it's handed
out." Mrs. McDougal stuck the knife in the cake and left it there,
then waved her hand. "Go on! Go on!"
"I had only--love to give when I came back, and love by itself can't
do what it would. It needs money to help. Money without love may not
be much, but love with money--" Her voice broke.
"Is hard to beat. Just tell you friend we thank him hearty, or her
if it's a her. When love and money married get, their children will
be great, you bet." Mrs. McDougal threw back her head, and her hearty
laugh was joined in by none more heartily than Miss Gibbie, who used
the opportunity to put her handkerchief to her nose and keep it there
awhile. "Bless my soul, if I ain't made a rhyme! Thirty-seven and never
did it before! Luck and accidents come to all, my grandmother used to
say, and when I speaks poetry on the spot it's both together. I'm real
proud of myself, that I am! That's all right, Miss Mary; don't you try
to say nothin'. We understand you, and we just want you to understand
us." She pulled her by the sleeve. "There's Miss Hedwig standin' in the
door lookin' at you. Goodness gracious! If she ain't gone and set a
spread on the dining-room table, and me ready to cut the cake this
minute! Looks like we're goin' to have a party, after all. Miss Mary,
you blow out this candle, and I'll light it again when we get in the
dining-room." She dropped her voice. "Here, get behind me and wipe your
eyes if you want to. Got a handkerchief? Ain't our eyes funny? Trickle
when there ain't a bit of sense in it. Are you through?" She lifted the
cake triumphantly. "My! but I'm glad I'm livin'! If there's anything I
do love in life 'tis a party, and I ain't been to one since I married
McDougal, and that's more'n nineteen years ago!"
Chapter XX
A SUDDEN CHANGE
Dull gray skies, a sobbing wind, and rain falling in monotonous
regularity greeted the day following the testimony party. The
contrast in temperature and condition was not cheerful, and as Mary
Cary stood upon the porch looking down the road which led to Yorkburg
she shivered in the damp, cold air, then breathed deeply that her
lungs might have their bath.
"It's between the twenty-four hours that all the changes in life
come, I suppose, but a change like this makes yesterday seem ages ago.
Was it really /yesterday/ Peggy and I ran like the King of France
down hill and up again? and just last night we had that dear, queer,
precious party?"
She sighed happily and began it walk up and down the porch. "It's too
bad John and Mr. Fielding should happen to be here together. John
despises Mr. Fielding. I don't wonder. When he shakes hands with me
I'm so afraid he'll hear me shiver I hold my breath. And yet he's a
very generous man. If I'd allow him he'd give me any amount needed for
any object. I'd as soon allow him to give me poison as a check for
library, or baths, or the asylum, or anything else in Yorkburg. I'm
sorry he's here, but I couldn't prevent his coming, not knowing he
intended doing so until he arrived. And John just wrote day before
yesterday he'd be here to-day. I haven't been very polite to Mr.
Fielding, but he has no reason to expect me to be polite. I've told him
I would never marry him and there wasn't the slightest use in coming
here, but I might as well talk to the wind. If for him there's to be
transmigration, he'll be a rubber ball next time. He's as persistent as
John--that is, as John used to be. For nearly six months John has
forgotten he ever wanted to marry me. I understand he and Lily Deford
have become great friends. Mrs. Deford never loses an opportunity of
telling me so."
She threw back her head and laughed. "Lily Deford! What on earth
does he talk to her about? Hand embroidery and silk stockings are Lily's
specialties, and she rarely gets beyond either in words or deeds. She's
a pretty little powder puff, and I'd feel sorry for her if she wasn't
so ma-ridden and spineless. But if John enjoys her--" She shut her
eyes tight, a trick caught unconsciously from Miss Gibbie, then turned
and went indoors. And in the hall Hedwig heard her humming cheerfully
as she put on raincoat and overshoes and made ready for a walk to town.
An hour later the meeting called in Mr. Moon's office to settle certain
matters relating to the recent planting of trees was over, and, leaving
the mills, Mary Cary turned into King Street. The driving rain of the
morning had slackened somewhat, but the street was deserted, the hour
being that of Yorkburg's dinner, and as she neared the upper end nothing
was in sight but a stray dog whose wet tail flapped in dejected appeal
for the door before which he stood to be opened.
"You poor thing!" She stooped and patted the shivering creature, "I've
felt sometimes like you look, but I hope I'll never look like you feel."
The door was opened, and with an extra flourish of tail and a yelp of
gratitude the dog disappeared, and again she started up the street.
Only the drip of the rain, the trickle of water in the gutters, and the
flap of the torn awning in front of the drug store broke the sullen
stillness, and then some distance ahead she saw a man and a woman,
under an umbrella held close to their heads, coming slowly toward her.
The slowness of their walk caught her attention, but the intentness of
their talk made them unconscious of her approach, and not until she was
quite near them was the umbrella held by the man lifted so that she
could see who he was. She stopped suddenly as if hit, and in her face
the color surged so hotly that the damp air stung.
"Why, Mary!" John Maxwell's umbrella dropped to the ground, and
with hat in his left hand he extended his right in frank joy at
seeing her. "What in the world are you doing out on a day like
this?"
"Enjoying myself." The hand held eagerly toward her was barely
touched. "How do you do, Lily? Are you out for fun, too?"
"Oh no! I'm out for--" She turned helplessly to the man beside her.
In his face the color had leaped as swiftly as it had in Mary's, but
in his it died as quickly as it came, and her cool greeting whitened
it. "I came out to get some embroidery cotton number thirty-six from
Simcoe's and met Mr. Maxwell coming from the inn. He was--"
"Fortunate to meet you. When did you get in, John? She asked the
question as if for the time of day, opened her bag, took from it her
handkerchief, and wiped her face. "I believe my umbrella leaks. My
face is actually wet."
"I got in yesterday afternoon. I went by to see Miss Gibbie and
heard she was spending the evening with you."
"So he came to see us. Wasn't it good of him?" And Lily, whose slow
brain was confused by an undefined something she could not
understand, looked first at one and then the other. "I wanted mam-ma
to send for Mr. Brickhouse so we could play cards, but she wouldn't
do it and went to bed by nine o'clock. Mam-ma never will play cards
with Mr. Maxwell; says he's too good a player. But won't you come in
some evening while he's here, Mary, and play with us? I'll get five
more people and that will make two tables. Mr. Maxwell is going to
stay some time."
"Is he?" Mary Cary fastened the buttons of her left glove, then held
her umbrella straight, as if to go on. "I'm sorry I can't come in for
cards while he's here, but I don't care for cards." She laughed
lightly and nodded. "Too bad I've kept you standing in the rain.
Good-bye!" and she started off.
"Hold on a minute, Mary!" Hat still in hand, John handed the umbrella
to Lily Deford and took a few steps behind her. "What time are you
going out this afternoon? I'll come by for you. May I stay to tea? I
must see you this evening."
"Must you?" She shook the rain off her umbrella. "I'm sorry, but I
have an engagement this evening."
He looked at her as if not understanding. "You mean I can't come?"
His face flushed, and a quick frown swept over it.
Her shoulders shrugged slightly, a movement she knew he disliked.
"If you perfer to so put it--that is what I mean."
His clear gray eyes were searching hers as if what he had heard was
unbelievable. "Your engagements must be very imperative. I have not
seen you for nearly six months and naturally my time here must be
short."
Mary Cary looked up, and the smile on her face was one he did not
know. "Short? I understood Lily to say a minute ago you would be
here some time."
"Lily knows nothing about it."
"No?" Again her eyebrows lifted. "She seemed to speak with
authority. But whether she did or not, it is hardly kind to keep
her standing in the rain. Don't you think you had better go back
to her?"
"I think I had." He looked down, and then again in her baffling
eyes. "You haven't on your overshoes. Your feet are soaking wet."
She too looked down. "I started out with them. Guess I left them
in Mr. Moon's office. Are you sure Lily has on hers?"
"I don't know whether she has or not. Lily can take care of her
own feet."
"And I of mine. Standing on wet ground isn't good for them.
Good-bye!" And with a half-nod she walked on up the street.
What was it? What was the matter with her? Her blood was pounding
through heart and brain, and the damp air on her face only added to
its burning. In her eyes was an angry light, and she bit her lips
lest they make movements of the words which sprang to them.
"Got here yesterday! Didn't come out, didn't telephone, spent the
evening at the Defords', and with Lily the first thing this morning.
Wants to see me this evening!" Her head went up. "I guess not. His
time will probably be short. With me it will certainly be short.
What did he come for if only to stay a little while?" In her face
indignation faded into incredulity and her lips curved. "To see the
little powder puff, I suppose! Well, he can see her. I'll certainly
not take his time. For nearly six months it has pleased him to stay
away, to write scraps of letters at long intervals, to send nothing,
do nothing that he used to do. And now he comes back and expects me
to receive him with outstretched arms. He expects wrong!"
She reached the Moon's gate, hesitated, and walked on. Lunch was to
be taken with them, but the sudden transition from expected
sensations to the unexpected made it best to stay in the cold air a
while longer, and without a look toward the house she passed it
hurriedly.
What was the matter with John? For ten years he had been the friend
who never failed--the friend to whom she could always turn and know
what to find; the one to whom subconsciously all things were
referred, and who, without always agreeing with her, always stood
by her. What was the matter with him?
Walking as if to catch a train, and yet without looking where she
was going, she turned into Pelham Place and neared Miss Gibbie's
house. Her eyes were upon it in indecision, and not seeing the
puddle of water ahead, she stepped into it and splashed well with
mud the low shoes and thin stockings she was wearing. The sudden
chill provoked her, and she looked down at her wet feet.
"Of course he saw I had on no overshoes. He always sees the things
I leave off and don't do and thinks I'm nothing but a child.
Suppose I am! What business is it of his whether I wear overshoes
or not? What business is it of his what I do or where I go or what
I say? We are nothing to each other!"
The thought stopped her. For a moment she shivered in the damp,
penetrating wind, then hurriedly passed Miss Gibbie's house. She
would not go in. No one must see her until she grew calmer. But
what was she angry about? She didn't know, only--only for weeks
she had been looking forward to John's coming. She had expected
him the first of October, but the month passed and he had not come.
Then came a hurried note merely saying he would reach Yorkburg on
the thirtieth, and the vague unrest of past days faded. She hadn't
been as nice to John as she ought to have been, had taken too much
as a matter of course perhaps, but this time she was going to be
really very good. There were many things to talk over, and she wanted,
too, to hear about his trip. She had visited Norway, but the stay
was short, and she would like to go again. She had honestly intended
to be very nice, and only a few hours ago she had talked with Hedwig
about supper, deciding on the things John liked best. And now--
She laughed, and for the first time in her life her laughter had a
bitter tinge.
"Good-morning! The girl worth while is the girl who can smile, when
the rain--"
She looked up. The man in front of her was blocking her way. He
touched his hat, but did not lift it, and at sight of him she
frowned. There were times when she loathed Horatio Fielding.
"Good-morning!" Her tone was short, then, a sudden thought occurring,
she changed it. "You evidently like to walk in the rain as much as I
do. Suppose you come out to tea to-night. I was going to telephone,
but this will save time." She started to pass on. "We have tea at
seven."
"I'll be there. In front of your fire is the place for me. But
can't I walk with you? You seem in an awful hurry this morning."
"I am. Have an engagement. Will see you to-night." And as if to
escape what was unendurable she hurried on, and again turned into
King Street.
"Two stories in half an hour is doing well for one who hates a lie
as nothing on earth is hated," she said under her breath, holding
the umbrella close down over her head. "A little more time and you
may lie without effort. You told John you had an engagement. I
thought I did, with him. And you had no more idea of telephoning
Mr. Fielding before you saw him than of telephoning the--I'd much
rather telephone the latter. He'd certainly be more entertaining
and far more polished. It isn't Mr. Fielding's dulness that is so
unpardonable, but his horrible cocksureness and insufferable assurance.
He doesn't eat with his knife, but only from obvious restraint, and
in an unguarded moment he'll do it yet. He could never be convinced
that if a woman had fine clothes and carriages and bejewelled fingers
and throat that she could wish for something else. To him a woman
is property." She drew in her breath. "After a visit from him I need
prayers and want incense. And I've asked him to eat John's supper
to-night!"
The wind had changed, and the rain, coming down in heavy, shifting
sheets, beat upon her umbrella with such force that only with
difficulty could it be held. Her feet were wet, loose strands of
hair, damp and breeze-blown, brushed in irritating tappings across
her face, and as she again neared Mrs. Moon's house she knew she
must go in.
Sarah Sue had seen her coming, and the door was opened when she
reached it. "What in the world made you go by here half an hour ago
instead of coming in?" she asked, taking the umbrella and helping
off with the raincoat. "I knocked on the window and called you, but
you didn't hear. Aren't your shoes wet? Soaking! Come right on up
to my room and put your feet on my fender and get them good and hot.
My slippers and stockings are too big, but you can keep them on
until yours are dry. I don't understand why you didn't come in
first."
Sarah Sue led the way up-stairs, followed by Mary Cary, who had
submitted to comments and questions and the off-taking of wraps
without reply, but halfway up the steps she stopped and turned
back.
"A package was left here for you just now," she said. "I'd better
give it to you before I forget." She took up the bundle on the
hall-table and came back with it.
"What is it?" Mary's voice was indifferent as she broke the
wrapping; then as she saw the writing on it she frowned. "It's
nothing--just my overshoes." She threw them down the steps and
under the table from which Sarah Sue had taken them.
Chapter XXI
THE RELEASE
On the fifteenth of each October the turkey-wing fan, rarely out
of Miss Gibbie's hands in warm weather, was put away in camphor,
and on that evening knitting-needles and white Shetland wool were
brought out. In a basket of rare weaving these materials now lay
on the library table near which Miss Gibbie sat, but as yet they
were untouched, for before the open fire her hands lay idle in her
lap. Every now and then she lifted first one foot and then the other
and put it on the fender, and presently she drew closer the tall
screen with its framed square of tapestried lambs and shepherdess
wrought by her grandmother's fingers many years ago. Placing it so
that her face might be protected from the scorching heat of the
dancing flames, she tilted it at the right angle, and then tilted
her head also.
"No use blistering my face because young people prefer to be fools!"
she said, presently. "And what fools! You might have known, Gibbie
Gault, you'd make a mess of it if you put your finger in a lovers'
pie. If life has taught you nothing else it has taught you to let
people do their own paddling, and yet at your age you tried to steer
a man in a way he didn't want to go. You thought it was the wisest
way, and in the end would bring him to the promised land, but your
mistake lay in not letting him fall overboard the way he preferred
to fall. A man would rather fail according to his own ideas than
succeed according to another's. And you certainly can't say this
little arrangement of yours concerning John and Mary has proven a
brilliant one. Of the three simpletons, just at present, you deserve
what's coming to you more than the other two, for better than they
you understand that women is an unknown quantity. Even her Maker
couldn't anticipate her behavior, and when she wills to torment a
man she has seemingly neither soul not sense. In your wise and
worldly advice to John you forgot Mary's possibilities of denseness,
and your meddlesome medicine has had the wrong effect."
She sighed queerly and changed the left foot on the fender to the
right, and again tapped the arms of her chair with the tips of her
delicately pointed fingers. "What a silly, sensitive little thing
this self-love, this pride of ours, is! And it's Mary's hardiest sin.
She wouldn't let the angels of heaven take her up to-day and put her
down to-morrow, and while she laughs at much in life, there are
certain things she doesn't smile at. A friend who fails in her eyes
isn't even in a class with toads. She has an idea that John is no
longer the friend of old. She does not say so, has apparently
forgotten he's living, rarely mentions his name, and doesn't know
that my old eyes see clearly how gayly miserable she is. I have
pretended to be blind, and have encouraged the idea that John was
interested in that pink-and-white offspring of Snobby Deford. What
a bunch of idiots we all have been, and I the biggest of all--the
biggest of all!"
At the library door Celia stood, hand on knob. "Mr. Maxwell is
here, Miss Gibbie. Will you see him?"
"I will." Miss Gibbie leaned back in her chair, put her feet on the
stool in front of it, and crossed her hands in her lap. "And bring
in tea at once."
"It is good of you to let me see you." John Maxwell bent over the
beautiful hand held out to him, but the boyish banter of other days
was gone. Before Miss Gibbie was no pretence, and his face was that
of a man who no longer has time to waste or the will for wasting.
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