Books: Miss Gibbie Gault
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Kate Langley Bosher >> Miss Gibbie Gault
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And then the night in Cairo when Mary came in her room, sat on the
stool at her feet, and, crossing her arms on her lap, looked up in her
face and said they must go home. The holiday had been long and happy,
but more of it would be loss of time. And home was Yorkburg. A visit to
Michigan first, long talks with her uncle and aunt, and then whatever
she was to do in life was to be done in Yorkburg. There was a little
money, something her uncle had invested for her when she first went to
live with him, until she decided on some sort of work. She would teach,
perhaps, and she would rather it would be in the little town in which
she had found a home when homeless and without a friend. She was not
willing to live with anybody or anywhere without work. She was anxious
to be about it. When could they start?
"And of course I started. Started just when she said. Did just what
she wanted and some things she didn't. Trotted on back to the old
pasture-land where old sheep should graze, and here I am to stay until
the call comes. Whoever thought you'd come back to Yorkburg, Gibbie
Gault! Back to shabby, sleepy, satisfied old Yorkburg! Well, you're
here! Mary Cary made you come. She loves it, always wanting to do
something for it; helping every broken-down old thing in it; laughing
at its funny ways, and keeping straight along in hers. And for what?
To-morrow everybody will be talking about the meeting to-night. About
other things she's doing. Small thanks she'll get, and if you tell her
so she'll say if you do things for thanks you don't deserve them. Bless
my soul, if it isn't raining!"
A sudden downpour of rain startled her, and she sat upright; then, at
a noise behind, turned and saw Mary Cary coming in the door.
"Oh, Miss Gibbie, I could spank you! I really could! You aren't even
five years old at times. It has turned almost cold, and raining hard,
and here you are sitting by an open window!" She felt the gown of the
older woman anxiously. "I believe it's damp. If you don't get in bed
I'm going to--"
"Do what?" Miss Gibbie got out of her chair, threw off the mandarin
coat with its golden dragons, and kicked her slippers toward the door.
"What are you going to do?"
"Put you in it. Get in and let me cover you up! Are you sure you aren't
cold? Sure?"
"Sure." Miss Gibbie mimicked the anxious tones of the girl now bending
over and tucking the covering round her warm and tight. "What did you
come in here for, anyhow? Go to bed!"
"I knew you'd left the window open, and it has turned so cool. I was
afraid there was too much air." She stooped over and kissed her.
"Good-night! Don't get up to breakfast. I'll see you during the day."
With a swift movement she turned off the light on the candle-stand and
was gone, and under the covering Miss Gibbie hid her face in the pillow.
"Dear God," she said. "Dear God, she's all I've got. I'm an old woman,
and she's all I've got!"
Chapter VII
PEGGY
"Muther say, please, sir, send her four eggs' worth of salt pork, and two
eggs' worth of pepper, and five eggs' worth of molasses. And she say I
can have pickle with the last egg."
The eyes which had been critically searching the pickle-jar on the
counter as the eggs were carefully taken out of a basket looked
confidently in Mr. Blick's face, and a red little tongue licked two red
lips in quivering expectation of the salty sourness awaiting them.
"Please, sir, I'd like that one." A dirty little fore-finger pointed to
a long, fat cucumber lying slightly apart from its fellows. "That's the
one, Mr. Blick. No, not that one--/that/ one!" and the finger was
pressed resolutely against the jar. "And would you please, sir, give it
to me before you weigh out the things?"
"Oh, Peggy dear, what a little pig you are! The very biggest in the jar,
and such a wicked-looking pickle, Peggy! Why not get an apple,
instead?"
Peggy turned joyously at the sound of the voice behind her. "Oh, Miss
Mary Cary, I'm so glad it's you. I thought it was Miss Lizzie Bettie
Pryor!"
Mr. Blick laughed. The relief in Peggy's voice was so unqualified that
the man, standing in the door watching the little group, laughed also.
Miss Cary turned toward him. "This is Peggy, John--my little friend,
Peggy McDougal. Wipe your hands, Peggy, and speak to Mr. Maxwell,
who has come from New York to see Yorkburg, and--and the places he
used to know."
Peggy wiped her hands carefully on the handkerchief held out to her,
then advanced toward the man, still standing in the doorway, but now
with his hat in his hand.
"How do you do, Mr. John Maxwell from New York?" she said,
gravely; in her eyes critical inspection of the face before her. "I
know about you. Muther says you used to live in Yorkburg, but your
muther didn't like it. I hope you like it, and will stay a long time
and come again. Miss Mary Cary says it's nicer than New York."
John Maxwell took the offered hand as ceremoniously as it was given.
"Thank you! I do like Yorkburg, and I hope to come again." He laughed
amusedly in the upturned eyes which were searching his. "It is nicer
than New York. Miss Cary is quite right."
"New York's bigger, ain't it?"
"Yes"--hesitatingly--"some bigger. But I don't believe there's
anything there like you--"
"Plenty more here like me."
"How many?"
"Hundreds, I reckon. Yorkburg's most all children and old maids,
muther says. We've got nine children--four girls and five boys. The
last one was a girl, which would have made us even, but it died. Billy
give it a piece of watermelon rind to play with and it et it. But,
Miss Mary, muther /did/ say I could have a pickle, she did."
And Peggy turned to Miss Cary, anxious entreaty in her eyes.
"I don't want an apple--I want a pickle. And it won't make me sick.
There's seven of us to have a bite, and one bite wouldn't give anybody's
stomach a pain. Oh, Miss Mary, you ain't Miss Lizzie Bettie Pryor.
Please don't tell me not to get it. Please don't!" And the little
fingers twisted and untwisted in tragic intensity of appeal.
"I ought to tell you." Miss Cary looked doubtfully at the pickle-jar.
"But if you get it will you promise not to ask for another for a long,
long time? They are almost poisonous. Mr. Blick, I wish you wouldn't
keep them. They are such a temptation to the children. Isn't there
anything else you could keep instead?"
"Yes'm, plenty of things. But that's all I would do. I'd keep 'em. I
tell you times ain't like they was, Mary Cary, and if you don't sell
what people want to buy, they'll buy from the man who sells what they
want. And then what would Mrs. Blick and the babies do?"
Mr. Blick's bright little black eyes beamed first at Miss Cary and then
at the gentleman in the door, but, neither venturing an answer, he cut
off a piece of pork and wrapped it carefully. "Not being in the
missionary business, I have to meet the times, for if we don't stand up
we set down, and folks walk right along over us and don't know we're
there. I don't approve of pickle, or cocoanut, either, as for that"--he
tapped a jar filled with water, in which soaked broken pieces of the
fruit of the tree forbidden by most Yorkburg mothers--"but business is
business, which I ain't attendin' to or I'd be takin' your order 'stead
of wastin' your time." And again the black little eyes gleamed like
polished chinquapins sunk in a round red peach.
"Oh no! Peggy was here first and her mother is waiting for her. You give
her what she came for while I look around for what I want."
Mr. Blick, knowing further words were unwise, began patiently to do up
the eggs' worth of pork and pepper and molasses, and John Maxwell,
watching him to see in what proportions they would be meted out, grew
as interested as Peggy, whose shrewd little eyes had so early been
trained in weights and measurements that she could tell quickly the
number of eggs required for an ounce or quarter of half a pound of the
purchase to be made. Putting the packages in a basket, she turned; then,
remembering a final order, stood again at the counter.
"I forgot, Mr. Blick. Muther say won't you please send her nine of them
little blue-and-red-and-white birthday candles? She wants 'em for the
twins' birthday. It comes on the Fourth of July; they will be nine on
the Fourth, Washington and Jefferson will, and muther's been wanting
ever since they been born to celebrate their birthday, but suppin'
always happened; somebody was sick, or Wash and Jeff been fightin', so
she couldn't in conscience give 'em a party. But the last time 'twas her
fault--she mashed her finger; so she say she thinks she'll have it now
if'n it is May 'stead of July, cause there ain't nothing the matter, and
she knows there will be if she waits till the right time. She say she'll
send the eggs for the candles as soon as Grandpa Duke and Miss Florence
Nightingale lays 'em. She knows Mis' Blick likes their eggs best. It
will take a dozen, won't it?"
John Maxwell turned toward Miss Cary, his forehead wrinkled in
puzzled inquiry. "In the name of chicken-science, what is she
talking about? If I oughtn't to ask, don't tell me, but--"
"It's a new world I told you you'd be finding." Mary Cary laughed,
running her hand through a peck measure of black-eyed peas. "And
where but in Yorkburg will eggs serve for currency?"
"But when Grandpa Duke lays the eggs? What does she mean?"
"That the big black hen was a present from Mr. Duke, Mrs. McDougal's
father, and named in honor of him. All Mrs. McDougal's hens are
named--honorably named. Her roosters, also. But having few roosters
and admiring many men, she bestows on her lady chickens the names of
distinguished gentlemen. It's her only way of keeping in touch with
great people, she says. You must know Peggy's mother. She is one of
my good friends. Would you like to go to the party?"
Before he could answer: "Peggy!" she called--"Peggy, come here and
tell us when the party takes place."
Peggy, package-laden, came slowly toward the door near which Miss
Cary and John Maxwell were standing. The top end of the precious
pickle had been bitten off, and Peggy's face, wrinkled in distorted
enjoyment of its salty sourness, was endeavoring to straighten
itself before making answer.
"Oh, Miss Mary Cary, /will/ you come to the party? Will you?
There's going to be flags and poppers and lemonade and--and a lot of
things. Muther say she's been intendin' to give a party ever since
she's been married, but she ain't ever had a minute to do it in. The
reason she is goin' to give it to the boys is because they was born the
same day the United States was. They'll be nine on the Fourth of July
and the United States will be--" She shook her head. "I don't know how
old the United States is, but muther say being born when they was, and
being named for Presidents, she's bound to teach us patriotics, and a
party is the best way she knows of. She'd give it to me or Teeny if our
birthdays stood for anything, but they don't. I'm ten, goin' on eleven,
and ain't anybody yet remembered when my birthday comes."
Peggy was red in the face and out of breath. The eagerness of her
invitation had dried her throat, which needed moistening. Ducking her
head, she bit off the other end of the pickle and, in an effort to
swallow naturally, blinked furiously.
"That's all and no more," she said, nodding explanatorily at Miss Cary.
"I always take the two ends. They're toughest, and you can chew 'em
longest. The other children get the middle," and she put said middle
carefully between the pork and pepper. "If you don't want me to, I
won't eat another for--for how long mustn't I eat it, Miss Cary?"
"For six months." Miss Cary's voice made effort to be severe. "They
will ruin you. They really will. But run along and tell your mother
we are coming to the party. What time did you say it was to be?"
"I didn't say. Muther ain't said herself yet. She say out of nine you
can always count on suppin' happenin' that oughtn't, specially when five
is boys. But I reckon it will be about four o'clock, and she thinks
Friday will be the day. If muther can get 'em all washed and keep the
lemonade from being drunk up she will have it at four. If'n she can't
she will have it when she can. But please 'm, oh /please 'm/ be
sure and come!"
She started down the street, then turned, as if suddenly remembering,
and came back to the man still standing in the door, watching her with
amused eyes.
"Muther will be glad to have you come, too," she said, nodding gravely,
"Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?"
"Maxwell." And again the hat was lifted.
"Maxwell," she repeated. "I hope you will come, too. I don't know
whether muther knows you or not, but if you was Satan himself she
would be glad to see you--if'n you was a friend of Miss Mary Cary."
Chapter VIII
PEGGY'S PARTY
"Now, ain't I glad to see you! Come right along in and set down, unless
you'd rather set out. I'm that proud to have you here I'm right light
in the head, that I am!" and John Maxwell's hand was shaken heartily.
"Lord, what a big man you've gone and got to be! Your dotingest grandma
wouldn't have believed you would grow into good looks when you was
fifteen. You were the ugliest, nicest boy I ever seen at fifteen, and
look at you now! Look at you now!"
Mrs. McDougal stood off and gazed with admiring candor at the man
before her, and the man, laughing good-naturedly, seated himself on the
railing of the little porch and threw his hat on a chair at its far end.
"If I've changed it's more than you have. Just as young and gay as
ever," he said, nodding toward her, "and still a woman of sense and
discrimination. Nobody but you knows I'm handsome."
"I ain't sayin' you're an Appolus Belviderus. You ain't. But you look
like a man, and that's what many who wars pants don't. And good clothes
is a powerful help to face and figger. I certainly am proud to see you.
I certainly am!"
"And I certainly am glad to see you. I certainly am!" He bobbed his
head in imitation of Mrs. McDougal, whose words were always
emphasized by gestures, and laughed in the puzzled eyes of the girl
beside her, pulling off her long gloves. "Miss Cary asked me the
other day if I didn't want to know you. She didn't know you were a
friend of mine before you were a friend of hers. Remember those
apple-jacks I used to get from you? Bully things! Don't have anything
like that in New York."
"Don't have the same kind of stomach to put 'em in, I reckon. Anything
is good to boys and billy-goats, but edjicated insides is sniffy, they
tell me. Set down, Mary Cary. Here, take this rockin'-chair. Ain't
anything been spilt on this one, and it's the only one what ain't. I'm
that thankful nothin's caught on fire that I was thinkin' of settin'
down myself, but 'twon't be no use. Look-a-yonder! If that Bickles boy
ain't tied a pop-cracker to Mis' Jepson's chief rooster, and right on to
its comb! Hi, there! Don't you light that thing!" And Mrs. McDougal
waved vigorously with her apron in the direction of a small group of
stooping watchers, hands on knees and eyes eagerly intent.
The warning was too late. An explosion, a frantic crow from a once
lordly cock, a scurry to safer quarters, jeering cheers from heartless
throats, and then silence as Mrs. McDougal's waving arms were seen.
"Let me go down and see what they are doing," and Mary Cary laid
gloves and parasol on the chair, unpinned her hat and put it beside
them. "We were so late I was afraid the children would be gone. Look at
that little rascal tying two dogs' tails together!" Down the steps she
ran and across the yard, and as she approached there was a rush toward
her. Instantly she was the centre of a crowding, swarming group of
children, all talking at once, and all trying to see what she had come
to do, but as she raised her hand there was momentary stillness.
"Now I can set down." With a sigh of relief Mrs. McDougal took the
chair offered to Miss Cary, folded her arms, and began to rock, her
eyes fastened on the man still on the railing of the little porch,
but now with his back against a post and hands clasped over the knee
of his right leg.
"I can set down in peace for a few minutes anyhow," she went on, "for
as long as Miss Mary is out there things will go right. Some women is
born with a way to manage children. She was." She nodded toward the
yard. "Remember how she used to do those 'sylum children? Led 'em
into more mischief than all the rest put together, but she always led
'em out, and they were like sheep behind her. Loved her. That was it.
Ain't it funny the things folks will do for a person just on account
of lovin' 'em? And ain't it funny how you can't love some people to
save your life? You know you ought to, specially if they're kin, and
you try to, but you can't do it. The very sight of some folks makes
the old boy rise up in you, and you wish they was in--well, I ain't
sayin' where you wish they was. My grandmother always told me you'd
better keep some wishes to yourself.
"But there's one person in this town what makes me want to do to her
just what Billy Bickles did to that rooster just now. She's that
superior, and so twisty in the corners of her mouth, that I'm always
wishin' I could fix the kind of fall her pride's goin' to have some day.
Bound to have it, pride is. 'Ain't no law to hold it up any more than an
apple in the air, and both of 'em is got to come down. When folks pass
other folks what they know in the street, and don't any more speak to
'em than if they was worms of the dust, they think it's on account of
bein' who they are, and they don't know it's on account of bein' what
they is. Of course a person can't be blamed for bein' born a fool, but a
fool ought to know better than to be fooler than it's bound to be. I
don't mind Mrs. Deford not noticin' me, but Susie, who sells her all her
hats, says--"
"Mrs. Deford?" John Maxwell, who was only half listening, and who
had been watching the children, turned toward Mrs. McDougal. "You
mean Mrs. Walter Deford?"
"That's who I mean, though I don't see what she's called Mrs. Walter
Deford for, being as 'tis Mr. Walter Deford don't seem to enjoy her
company any more than I do. If he's been in Yorkburg for eight years,
nobody's heard of it. When she dies she oughtn't to be res'rected. In
heaven there'll be saints, born plain. She couldn't associate with them.
In hell there'll be blue-blooded sinners, and she can't mix with
sinners. The grave's the place for her, and won't anybody round here
weep when she's put in it. But Lord-a-mercy, what am I wastin' time
talking about an old teapot like her for? She's hurt Susie's feelin's
so often, Susie bein' like her pa, and not havin' much spirit, that
I get kinder riled when her name is mentioned. But my grandmother
always did say if you didn't like a person, spew them out of your heart
and shut your mouth. And here I am talkin' about a nothin', 'stead of
askin' you 'bout yourself. It's been a long time since I seen you. Them
other times when you've been down I ain't even had a chance to glimpse
you on the street, but the children told me, Susie and Hunt did, that
you was a New-Yorker all right, and you is that. I tell you good
clothes and an easy air don't hurt anybody." She nodded her head. "You
look like where you come from."
"Any difference in New-Yorkers and other people? Mind my
smoking?" He took a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighted
one and put the rest back. "In New York I tell people I'm from
Yorkburg. Could I have arranged it I would have been born here. Not
my fault I'm not a Virginian." He laughed, knocking the ashes from
his cigarette. "You've got a bunch of them. All those yours?"
She peered above the railing and counted. "Ain't but five of 'em mine.
The four oldest works. Susie stays in Miss Patty Moore's millinery
store, Lizzie lives with her grandpa, Hunt is at the woolen mills with
his pa, and Teeny helps Mrs. Blick with the children. The youngest is
twins, they're seven. The next is twins, too. They will be nine on the
Fourth of July, and over who was to be invited that I had to keep 'em
in bed all day yesterday, and not let it be their party at all. I told
'em 'twas Peggy's, but I'd do the invitin' myself. I didn't want that
Billy Bickles, but if I hadn't asked him there'd been trouble for me as
long as life. I know his ma too well. Don't reckon you ever knew Mis'
Bickles? She's one of them kind of women who's always seein' she gets
what's comin' to her, and takes what ain't. Her husband lives up the
country. He warn't much to leave: one of them lazy, good-natured kind
what always had a pain handy; and Mis' Bickles says she left him while
her family was small. Mis' Bickles says she left him while her family
was small. Mis' Bickles's got more sense than you'd think from lookin'
at her, and a tongue what tells all it knows and makes up what it don't.
It don't do to get that kind of a tongue down on you.
"Them two children over there"--she pointed vaguely toward the now
shouting group--"those two with red hair and red ribbons is Mr. Sam
Winter's little girls. I don't like 'em, but if there's any one woman in
this world I feel sorry for it's Sam Winter's wife, and so I invited
'em. Ain't they the ugliest, freckledest little things you ever saw?
Don't reckon you remember their ma, either? She used to stay in Mr. Pat
Horston's bakery and confectionery when you lived here. That's been--"
"Ten years ago this October."
"That's so. I remember it now like 'twas yesterday. Never will forget
the day your father died so sudden, just like Mr. Pryor, and everything
in Yorkburg seemed to stop. He was the kind of man who makes wheels
go round, and everybody thought when he died the shoe factory would
shut down and the 'lectric-light plant would go out; and people round
here say they would if you hadn't put your foot down and told your ma
they had to keep up. Sixteen was right young to be buttin' into business
matters, but some folks is born older than others, and I reckon you've
got right much of your pa in you. And that's what I told McDougal I
like about you. You knew what you wanted, and when you made up your
mind to do a thing, 'twould be death or you would win. And my
grandmother always did say, for winning, will was worth more than
anything else on earth.
"But I ain't asked you what kind of business you're in, or how you're
gettin' on in it, nor how your ma is. I hope she's well. And your
sister, too. They tell me she's married--"
"She is. Living in California. Got two children. Mother is very well,
thank you. She's abroad just now. I'm in the law business. I get my
bread out of it, but not much jam yet. You were speaking of Sam
Winter's wife just now. I remember her; used to sell us cakes and
pies, and so afraid she wouldn't get the change right she nearly
wore her fingers out counting on them. We used to borrow a big piece
of money--a dollar was big in those days--just to watch her face get
red when we'd tell her the change was wrong. Little beasts! Somebody
ought to have beaten us."
"That they ought. And somebody ought to beat Sam Winter every day
in the week. Ain't nothing I would like better than to have a whack at
him. I've often wished I was his wife for just five minutes. He'd be
jelly or I one when 'twas over. Some men need lickin'. Sam's one of
the kind who thinks when the Lord made woman He made her to be man's
footstool when she warn't anything else he needed at the time. Certainly
is funny how many people talk like they had a private telegraph-wire
running right up to the throne of God, and you'd think they had special
messages from Him from the cocksure way in which they tell you what
He says and means. And specially 'bout women. The Bible is a great
stand-by with some men when it comes to women. But I reckon women
has brought a lot of it on themselves. They ain't had a chance to fight
fair in life. Being mothers has made 'em stand a heap they wouldn't
otherwise. A woman will stand most anything for her children."
John Maxwell laughed. "You are looking at me as if I didn't agree
with you. I do. I know some men of the Sam Winter kind. And they
always get the wrong sort of wife. Now if Sam had married you--"
"He'd be dead or different by this time. There ain't much in life to be
sure of, but you can be sure of that. A woman is a human being, if she
is a female, and I ain't ever seen a male creature who had any respect
for a female one he could step on. And that's what poor, meek little
Fanny Winter lets Sam do, and of course he takes advantage. 'Tain't in
human nature for a man not to kick something every now and then what
sits at his feet all the time."
"Good Lord! He doesn't beat her?" John Maxwell turned suddenly, in
his eyes a queer light. "You mean he strikes her?"
Mrs. McDougal brought her chair closer to the railing. "I don't believe
those children are ever goin' home. Some come at three, and it's after
seven. They've et up all there was to eat, and drunk a washtub full of
lemonade, but that Bickles boy and Fuzzy Toone and Mineola
Hodgkins will stay till next week if I don't make 'em go. I believe the
little Winters is gone. Look at Peggy! Ain't she havin' a grand time?
I'm glad you and Miss Mary didn't come till the first rush-round was
over. There's been twenty-one of 'em here includin' of my five, and I
tell you when you get through feedin' and fillin' of twenty-one hollow
stomachs you're ready for rest. How many out there now?"
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