Books: Miss Gibbie Gault

K >> Kate Langley Bosher >> Miss Gibbie Gault

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"Which you won't do long if you go out in weather like this. I've never
seen such a storm in November. Are you sure your stockings aren't
wet?"

Miss Gibbie, in her big chair on the opposite side of the fireplace,
looked at Mrs. McDougal half irritably, half perplexedly. To walk from
Milltown to Pelham Place in a heavy snow with no overshoes and no
umbrella was just like her. She shouldn't have come, and yet Miss
Gibbie was not sorry she had come. There were times when Mrs.
McDougal's chatter was unendurable, but others when her philosophy of
life had a common-sense value that systems of belief and articles of
faith failed to supply. To-day was one of the latter times. She was
rather glad to see her. Leaning forward, she repeated the question:
"Are you sure your stockings are not wet?"

"Sure as I'm a sinner." Mrs. McDougal held up first one shoe and then
the other. "Just the soles were wet, and their sizzlin' don't mean
anything. They're an inch thick, them soles are. Them's McDougal's
shoes." She held her feet out proudly. "I always did say, Miss Gibbie,
if you couldn't have what you wanted in life, for the love of the Lord
don't whine about it, but work it off and get a smile on! I'd a heap
rather have a telephone in my house and just step up to it and call for
one of them takin cabbys, like we saw at Atlantic City, and come
a-scootin' and a-honkin' up to your door and step out superior and send
up a card with Mrs. Joel B. McDougal on it than to put on two pairs of
McDougal's socks first, and them pull away at his shoes and wrap my legs
in newspapers to keep my skirts from slushin' of 'em. I'd a heap rather
done that. But a lot of life ain't what we'd rather. It's what is. And
my grandmother always told me there warn't nothin' in life what showed
the stock you come from as the way you took what come to you. I never
did have no use for a whimperer. Of course, I'm plain. Born Duke and
married McDougal, but whenever I get in a fog and can't see clear, and
so tired out I can't eat, and plum run down, I say to myself, 'Your
folks ain't ever flunked yet, and you keep your head where the Lord put
it.' He put it up. Folks see me laugh a lot. I do. I couldn't learn to
play on the painer, though I'm clean crazy about music. I couldn't learn
none of the things I yearned for inside, so I said to myself, 'You learn
to laugh, laugh hearty.' And somehow it's helped a lot, laughin' has.
There's many a time I done it to keep tears back. Ain't nobody but has
tears to shed some time or other. But 'tain't no use in keepin' a tank
of 'em to be tapped at every slip up. When I get so I can't keep mine
back any longer I goes to the woodhouse and locks the door and has it
out. But that's just when I'm tired and there don't seem nothin' ahead.
I tell the Lord about it. Tell Him there ain't nothin' human can help.
Just Him. And if He don't, I'm done for. Ain't ever been a time yet that
when I come right down to it and says, 'Lord, I need You,' that the help
ain't handed out. I mean help to take hold again and keep on laughing. I
don't ask for automobiles and a brick house and fur coats and
plum-puddin's. Never did think the Lord was in that kind of supply
business. But when I says, 'You and Me got to fight this thing out,' He
ain't ever gone back on me yet. Yes'm, these here is McDougal's shoes. I
was thankful enough they was in the house to put on. I always was lucky,
though. But just listen at me a-runnin' on worse'n Mis' Buzzie Tate. And
I ain't even answered your question as to what I come for. Maybe it's
because I'm not sure how you'll take it."

Miss Gibbie leaned over and with the poker broke a large lump of coal,
making it blaze and roar in licking, outleaping flames. "What is it?
I'm not dangerous, I hope."

"No'm, you're not dangerous." Mrs. McDougal straightened her now
dry skirt. "But you might think I was audacious, which is what I am, I
reckon. I don't mean nothin' like that, and I ain't got no more use for
familiarity than you have, but my grandmother always told me if you
heard anything kind about a person 'twas your business to pass it on
same as unkind things is passed. And I just want to tell you that the
day I was takin' them eggs around, the day Mr. John told me in words
what I'd long known without 'em, as to who Yorkburg's friend was, I
heard so many downright gratitudes and appreciations along with the
surprise and the raisin' up of hands and eyes that I wonder your ears
didn't burn plum off. I ain't sayin' 'twas fulsome praise they chucked
at you. It warn't. You ain't the kind what folks is free with. You can't
help it, never havin' been thrown much with back-yards and acquainted
chiefly with the parlor. But all that's wanted is the chance to love
you. They know you're their friend. You've proved it by acts, instead of
words, the usual way, and if'n you could see fit to sometimes pay a
visit when Miss Mary goes away--"

She stopped. Miss Gibbie pushed her chair back farther in the shadow,
and with her hand shaded her face. For a long moment there was
silence, then Mrs. McDougal examined carefully the soles of her shoes,
after which she took up her hat and smoothed the breast of the once
sniffy duck.

"I ain't a-goin' to say anythin' about Miss Mary's leavin' Yorkburg,"
she said, presently, "except this--I had to go to the woodhouse about
it and get plum down on my knees and own up I was cussin' mean and
selfish not to be smilin' glad she and Mr. John were goin' to get
married. They're young, Miss Gibbie, and it's nature for young folks
to love each other and go hand in hand through life. Me and you both
is thankful his hand is for her and hers is for him. But your heart
can be thankful and ache, too. If you'll be excusin' of my seemin'
free, I just wanted to tell you yours ain't the only one what's had a
great big, heavy, lovin' somethin' on it right here"--she put her
closed hand on her breast--"ever since we heard the news. And it's
because of that lump we ain't ever goin' to let her know we're anything
but joyful. We want that weddin' to be a regular bunch of bells.
Christmas and Easter and marriage all in one. She do look sometimes as
if it will break her heart to go away and leave all she loves so here,
and particular you. She don't let me speak of it, but I told her it was
the lot of woman to follow on, and, of course, if she'd let herself be
beguiled into lovin' a man she'd have to yield up a heap for the pleasure
of his company. Never did seem to me matrimony did their name and their
home and their friends and their kinfolks and their wages, if they work
for a livin', and take what's given 'em for the rest of their natural
lives. No'm. I ain't never seen where marriage did much for women. I
never had a beau. I warn't but seventeen when McDougal asked me to marry
him, and, not havin' a bit of sense, I said yes. That's all the courtin'
there was. If ever I'm a widow I bet words said to her every now and
then, even if she knows they ain't so."

She got up and, before the mirror over the mantel, pinned on her hat,
getting it, as usual, on the side. Taking up her coat, she felt it to
see that it was dry, and again nodded at the lady in the chair.

"I tell you customs is curious, Miss Gibbie, and, bein' man-made mostly,
ain't altogether in favor of females. But neither is life. Life has got
a lot in it what ain't apple-blossoms and cherry-pie. You think you've
got things like you want 'em; you peg away for this and you beat around
for that, and, just as you're gettin' ready to set down and enjoy
yourself, up comes somethin' you warn't a lookin' for and knocks the
stuffin' clean out of you. I found out a long time ago 'twas all
foolishness, this waitin' to enjoy yourself, and I says to myself, says
I, 'Look here, Bettie Frances Duke McDougal, if there's any little
forget-me-nots along the road, you just pick 'em up and make a posy.
Don't be waitin' for American Beauties to pull.' I never cared much for
American Beauties, anyhow. I ain't ever had one, but a whole lot of
things don't give pleasure after they're got. Well, good-bye, Miss
Gibbie. I certainly have enjoyed seein' of you. I told somebody the
other day that for sense and wisdom and the learnin' in books there
warn't your match on earth. Just to hear you talk is an edjication, and
I sure do enjoy myself whenever I see you. I hope you don't mind my
comin' to-day?"

Miss Gibbie, who had risen, held out her hand. "No," she said. "I am
glad you came. I may have to send for you pretty often this winter. You
can help me--you and Peggy. Tell Peggy she must come and see me."

For an hour, two hours, Miss Gibbie sat before her fire, hands in her
lap, eyes unseeing, bent upon the curling, darting flames. One by one
days of the past year come before her, stopped or passed on according
to their memories. The long talks with Mary of late repeated themselves,
and she felt again the warm, young arms about her as she was told that
which she knew so well. John's hands, too, seemed again to hold hers as
he asked for the promised blessing, and when he bent and kissed her
she had laughed lightly lest her heart give sign of its twisting,
shivering hurt.

Suddenly her face fell forward in her hands. "So many lonely people in
the world," she said, under her breath, "so many people in Lonely Land!
Nobody to wait for when the day is done. Nobody to go to when
darkness falls!"

After a while she got up and walked over to the window and stood
beside it. The early twilight had become night, but the first snow of
the season showed clearly in the unbroken whiteness of lawn and long,
straight street and roofs of seeming marble. The burdened branches of
crystal-coated trees swayed in the wind, and here and there, in the
light cast from tall poles at long intervals apart, they gleamed in
dazzling brilliance and flashing sheen. Past streets and houses on to
open fields, her eyes, through the whirling, fast-falling snow,
followed the Calverton road which led to Tree Hill, and in the
darkness she saw the lights in the house twinkle faintly in the
flake-filled air.

Drawing the curtains farther aside, she stood close to the window and
pressed her face upon it. Behind the house and below the apple orchard
at a snow-covered mound she was now in spirit, and under her breath
she made effort to speak bravely.

"A lonely old woman, Colleen. A lonely old woman, but the old must
not get in the way of the young. Your eyes have been upon me. You've
made me remember youth comes but once, and life--is love."

The opening of the door made her turn quickly. Snow-covered, faces
flushed with the sting of biting wind, vivid and full of glow, they
stood before her--Mary and John.

"I had to see you." Unfastening the fur coat, Mary handed it to John,
then threw her arms around Miss Gibbie. "Are you sure you are
perfectly well? This morning you seemed to have a little cold, and I
couldn't--"

"--Rest until she saw for herself how you were to-night." John put the
coat on the chair. "I told her I'd come and see you, but that wouldn't
do."

"Of course it wouldn't!" Again the face held between her hands was
searched anxiously, and her eyes lighted with glad relief. "I was so
worried. I'm never going to let anybody see for me how you are. I'm
going to always see for myself!"

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