Miss Gibbie Gault Part 2

on awful."

The ladies sprang to their feet with shocked and frightened faces, but it was Miss Gibbie who spoke.

"Poor William!" she said. "Poor William! Lizzie knew he could never eat sausage, and she had it this morning for breakfast!"

Chapter III

APPLE-BLOSSOM LAND

Several days had pa.s.sed since gentle William Pryor had at last found rest. Yorkburg recovering from its shock, took up once more the placid movement of its life.

Mary Cary opened her shutters and with hands on the window-sill leaned out and took a deep breath, then she laughed and nodded her head. "Good-morning sun," she said, "good-morning birds, good-morning everything!" Her eyes swept the scene before her, adsorbed greedily its every detail, then rested on the orchard to the right.

"Oh, you beautiful apple blossoms! You beautiful, beautiful apple blossoms!" She threw them a kiss. "And to think you are mine--mine!"

In her voice was a quivering little catch, and presently she dropped on her knees by the open window and rested her arms on the sill. Again her eyes swept sky and field, now glancing at the lawn of velvet green, now at the upturned earth on the left, the or hard on the right, the thread of water in the distance winding lazily in and out at the foot of low hills, and now at the sun, well up from the soft dawning of another day, and suddenly she stretched out her arms.

"G.o.d," she said, "G.o.d, I am so glad--so glad!"

For some minutes she knelt, her chin in the palms of her hands, her gaze wandering down the road to the little town less than a mile away, and presently she laughed again as if at some dear memory. It was so good to be among the old loved things, the straggling streets and shabby houses, the b.u.t.tercups and dandelions, and the friends of other days.

It was good, and out loud she said again: "I am so glad."

"Your bath, mein Fraulein."

She got up; the soft gown falling from bare shoulders stirred in the light breeze. She pulled the ribbons from the long braids of hair, and coiled them round her head, but she did not leave the window.

"All right, I'll be there in a minute." Then: "Hedwig?"

"Yes, mein Fraulein."

"Do you think I could have the day to myself? I have something important to do, and I can't do it if constantly interrupted. If any one comes, could you keep me from knowing it?"

"I think so, mein Fraulein."

The shadow of a smile hovered a moment on Hedwig's lips. "Does that mean all and everybody, or--"

"Everybody! Of course not Miss Gibbie, but everybody else. I shall not be at home, you see. I will be down in the orchard, and if Miss Gibbie comes bring her there, but never, never let any one else come there, Hedwig."

"I understand, mein Fraulein."

The door was closed quietly, and the girl now standing in front of her mirror looked into it first with unseeing eyes, then suddenly with critical ones.

"You must look you best to-night, Mary Cary. You don't want to go to that meeting. You don't like to do a lot of things you've got to do if you're to be a brave lady, but Martha knows nothing is accomplished by wanting only, and Martha is going to make you talk to those men to-night." She leaned closer to the mirror. "I wonder how you happened to have light eyes when you like dark ones so much better, and brown hair when black is so much prettier? You should be thankful you don't have to use curlers, and that you have plenty of color, but every now and then I wish you were a raging beauty, so men would do what you want."

Her brow ridged in fine upright folds as if thinking, then she turned, nodding her head in decision. "I will ear that white embroidered mull to-night. It is so soft and sweet and silly, and men like things like that."

Some hours later, household duties having been attended to, fresh flowers cut and the stable visited, the little vine-draped shelter made of saplings, stripped of branch but not of bark, and canvas-covered on the top, was the point of destination; but first she stood on the front porch and looked up and down the sandy road which could be well seen from the hilltop. No sign of life upon it, she turned and went through the hall to the back porch and down the steps to the orchard, in one hand writing-materials, in the other pieces of stale bread for the birds; and as she walked she hummed a gay little tune to whose rhythm she unconsciously kept step.

Many of the trees were old and bent and twisted in fantastic shapes-- some were small and partly dead, but most were fit for some festival of the G.o.ds; and as she went in and out among them, her feet making but slight impression on the moist springy soil, gra.s.s-grown and sprinkled with petals, pink and white, she stopped now and then and touched first one and then the other, for a swift moment laid her cheek on the rough bark as if to send a message to its heart.

From the shelter she drew out a rug, spread it close to her best-loved tree, then sitting upon it leaned against the trunk, feet crossed and hands clasped loosely behind her head. The chirp of sparrows and twitter of small birds, the clear song of robin and the cat-bird's call fell after a while unheeding on her ears, and the drowsy hum of insects was lost in the dreaming that possessed her. From the garden of old-fashioned flowers some distance off the soft breeze flung fragrance faint and undefined, and for a while she was a child again--the child who used to run away in the springtime and hide in the orchard, that she might say her prayers before a shrine of unknown name.

Presently she sat upright and opened her portfolio. "And now to think it is mine, Aunt Katherine, mine!" she began. "At last everything is ready, everything is finished, and I am in my own home. I am still full of wonder and unbelief, still not understanding how Tree Hill is my property. The quaint old house is not degraded by its changes, and already I love its every room, its every outlook; and if you and Uncle Parke and the children do not soon come I shall be of all creatures the most disappointed and indignant. I want you to see the beautiful things Miss Gibbie has done. Of course, Yorkburg doesn't understand; doesn't know why I am back, and why I am living alone save for the servants; and some don't approve. That the once charity child who lived at the asylum should now own Tree Hill is something of a trial, and that it could happen without their knowledge or consent is grievous unto them.

But they have been so good to me, all the old friends; are glad, they say, to have me back, and I am so happy to be back. There have been changes, but not many. The mills and factories have brought new people, some of the old ones have died, the little ones grown up, several have married and gone away to live, but it is the same sunshiny little place, and I love it. In the months spent with Miss Gibbie, waiting for Tree Hill to be made ready to live in, there was the restless feeling that belongs to temporary arrangement, but now I am home; here to live and work, and the only shadow is that the big and little Aldens are not here, too. And what a relief to Miss Gibbie to be once more by herself!

I couldn't keep people away, and I was constantly afraid she would take a broom and sweep them out. How she does hate to have people in her house unless she sends for them! Man may not have been meant to live alone, but Miss Gibbie was--"

The rustle of skirts made her look up, and quickly she was on her feet, her arms around her visitor's waist, cheek pressed close to cheek.

"Oh, dear, I am so glad you've come. I was going--"

"To choke me, crush me, knock me down and sit on me, were you?

Well, you're to do nothing of the kind. And it's too hot to embrace.

Stand straight and let me look at you. How did you sleep last night?"

"I don't know. Wasn't awake long enough to find out. Oh, Miss Gibbie, if you were a little girl I'd play all around the green gra.s.s with you!

Apple-Blossom Land is the place to play it in, and this is Apple-Blossom Land! And to think--to think that it is mine!"

"Why not? Why shouldn't what you want be yours? Heaven knows an old house on a hilltop, with some twisted trees on the side and cornfields at the back, isn't much to dance over; but things have in them what we get out of them, and if you will stop hugging me and get me something to sit on I will be obliged."

"Will the rug do?"

"Rug? How could I get up if I every got down? No. Get me a chair.

What are you out here for, anyhow? Bugs and bees and birds may like such places, but being a mere human being I prefer indoors."

"Then we will go in. I came out here so as to be not at home if any one came up to see me."

"Hiding, are you? If you don't want to see people, why see them?" She waved her turkey-wing fan inquiringly. "Nonsense such as this will force you on the roof, if you'd say your prayers in private, and you're making a bad beginning. Have you got that list of the councilmen? I want to see it again."

Mary Cary picked up her writing-materials, crumbled the bread and threw it to the birds, and, with arm in Miss Gibbie's, turned toward the house.

"It's on the library table. I've seen every one of them. I'm sure it's going to be all right."

"You are? That's because you are yet young. Never be sure a man in politics is going to do what he says until he does it. When he makes you a promise, just ask him to kindly put his name to it. I'm like a darkey--I've more confidence in a piece of paper with some writing on it than in the spoken word. Men mean well, and they'll promise a woman heaven or h.e.l.l to get rid of her, but you can't trust them. How about Mr. Chinn?"

"Hardest of all. He can't speak correctly, and has never been out of Yorkburg a week in his life. And yet he says we've got as good streets as we need, and he doesn't approve of all this education, anyhow."

"Naturally. People are generally opposed to things they know nothing about. Here, Hedwig, take my hat and bring me some iced tea--and next time your Fraulein hides in the orchard you can find her and not send me there."

Blowing somewhat from her walk, Miss Gibbie dropped in a chair in the hall, unfastened the strings of her broad-brimmed hat and handed it to Hedwig. Spreading out her ample skirts, she pulled off her white cotton gloves, opened the bag hanging from her waist, took from it a handkerchief of finest thread, and with it wiped her face. After a moment she glanced around. "A house knows when it is occupied. Sleeping here has given things a different air." She looked at the girl standing in front of her, hands clasped behind, and the turkey-wing fan stopped on its backward motion. "You are sure you will not be lonely? Sure you will not be afraid?"

"Afraid! I'm not just Mary Cary, I'm Martha Cary also. Martha has never been afraid, and Mary has never been lonely in her life. And I love it so, my little Harmony House! Oh, Miss Gibbie, you have been so good, so precious good!" The strong young arms reached down, and on her warm breast she drew the anxious face of the older woman, kissed it swiftly, then pushed her back against the cushions. "If only you would let me tell how good you've been!"

"If only you would behave yourself and get me some tea I would think more of you. There are many things I might forgive, but never the telling of my private affairs. Where is that list of City Fathers? Here, get me another chair. One feels like a kitty puss on a feather-bed in a thing of this kind. I prefer to sit like a human being."

With an effort she extricated herself from the depths of the big chintz-covered chair and took a tall straight one near the table on which Hedwig was placing iced tea and sandwiches, and as she reached for the tea with her right hand, she held out her left for the paper Mary Cary was bringing to her.

She glanced down its length, and for some moments drank her tea in silence save for an occasional grunt which was half sniff, half snort; then as she put down her gla.s.s and took up a sandwich she waved the paper in good-natured derision.