Especially it don't when Mis' Timothy Toplady is chairman of the
Entertainment Committee, or the Doin' Committee of whatever happens,
like she was that time. First, we found out they was plenty enough nun's
veilin' in the post-office store, cheap an' wide an' in stock an' all
the light shades; an' I bought all the dresses, noons, of the clerk, so
Silas wouldn't suspect--me not hevin' any husband to inquire around,
like they do. Then we hired the post-office hall, vague, without sayin'
for what--an' that pleased Silas that gets the rent. An' then we give
the invitations, spectacular, through the _Friendship Daily_ to the
Sodality's husbands, for the next Tuesday night. We could do it that
quick, not bein' dependent on dressmakers same as some. The ladies was
all goin' to make their dresses themselves, an' the dresses wa'n't much
to do to make. Nobody bothered a very great deal about how we should
make 'em, the principal thing bein' the colour; Mis' Toplady's was blue,
like the fashion-plate; Mis' Holcomb's pink, like the woman in the city;
Mis' Uppers' green, like the mayor's necktie, an' so on. I made me up a
dress out o' the spare-room curtains--white, with a little blue flower
in it, an' a new blue ribbon belt. But Mis' Sykes, she went to work an'
_rented_ a dress from the city, for that one night. That much she give
out about it, an' would give out no more. That woman loves a surprise.
She's got a rill pleasant mind, Mis' Sykes has, but one that does enjoy
jerkin' other people's minds up, an most anything'll do for the string.
"For all we thought we hed so much time, an' it was so easy to do, the
afternoon o' the party we went 'most crazy. We'd got up quite a nice
little cold supper--Mis' Hubbelthwait had helped us, she bein' still at
large, an' Threat fiddlin'. We planned meat loaf an' salad an' pickles
an' jelly, an' scalloped potatoes for the hot dish, an' ice cream an'
cake, enough in all for thirty folks: fifteen husbands an' fifteen
Sodality, or approximatish. An' we planned to go to the hall in the
afternoon an' take our dresses there, an' sly em' up and leave 'em, an'
put 'em on after we'd got there that night, so's nobody's husbands
should suspect. But when we all came in the afternoon, an' the
decoratin' with greens an' festoons of cut paper an' all was to do,
there Mis' Toplady, that was to make scalloped potatoes, hadn't got her
sleeves in yet, an' she was down to the hall tryin' to do both; an' Mis'
Holcomb, that was to make the salad dressing, had got so nervous over
her collar that she couldn't tell which edge she'd cut for the top. But
the rest of us was ready, an' Mis' Sykes's dress had come from the city,
an' we all, Mis' Toplady an' Mame too, hed our dresses in boxes in the
post-office hall kitchen cupboards. An' we done the decoratin', an' it
looked rill lovely, with the long tables laid ready at each side, an'
room for bein' a party left in between 'em.
"Mis' Toplady an' Mis' Sykes an' Mis' Holcomb left the hall about five
o'clock to go home an' lay out Silas's an' Timothy's an' Eppleby's best
clothes for 'em--the rest hed done it at noon. Mis' Hubbelthwait was
goin' over to the hotel to get some dishes out, an' I went with her to
help. The bar was to the back, where Threat set an' slep' an' fiddled,
an' Mis' Hubbelthwait was goin' to slip in still an' sly the dishes out
to me. A good many of the hotel dishes was her individual weddin'
presents, so she didn't think wrong of her conscience.
"We was all five hurryin' along together, rehearsin' all we'd got to do
before six-thirty, when we heard a funny sound. We listened, an' we
thought they must be testin' the hose. But when we got to Lyddy's shop,
where the street kitters off some in a curve, we looked ahead an' we see
it wasn't that.
"It's an automobile," says Mis' Toplady. 'My land,' she says, 'it ain't
only one. It's two.'
"An' we see it was. There come the two of 'em, ploughin' along through
the awful sand of Daphne Street, that was fit for no human locomotive,
unless ostriches. When the Proudfits are here, that's the only one in
the village with an automobile, they understand the sand, and they'd put
on the whole steam and tear right along through it. But strangers would
go careful, for fear they'd get stuck, an' so they got it, like you do.
An' them two big red cars was comin' slow, the dust like cloaks an'
curtains billowin' up behind. They looked quite wild, includin' the
seven folks in each one that was laughin' an' callin' out. An' by the
time they'd come up to us, us four ladies of the Sodality an' Mis'
Hubbelthwait was lined up on the walk watchin' 'em. They stopped an'
one of 'em hailed us, leanin' past his driver.
"'I beg your pardon,' he says, 'is this the street to the best hotel?'
"It was Mis' Toplady that answered him, rill collected. 'They's only one
street in town,' says she, 'an' they's only one hotel, an' that they
ain't now.'
"'Can you tell me how soon there will be one?' says the man. 'By
dinner-time, I hope.'
"We all felt kind of delicate about answerin' this, an' so Mis'
Hubbelthwait herself spoke up. 'Threat's drunk an' fiddlin', she says.
'They's no tellin' when Friendship Village will ever hev a hotel again.'
"Both automobiles was listenin' by then, an' though some of 'em laughed
out sort o' rueful, not many of 'em see the funny.
"'Gad,' one of the men says, 'how about the bird an' the bottle we were
to send back to Bonner, sittin' by his tire in the desert, a ways back?
Don't tell us there's no place,' he says, 'where we can find dinner,
twenty-one of us and the three chauf--' that word.
"Mis' Toplady shook her head. 'They ain't a place big enough to seat
twenty-one, even if they was the food to feed 'em--' she begun, an' then
she stopped an' looked 'round at us, as though she was thinkin'
somethin'.
"'Oh, come now,' says the man,--he was good-lookin' an' young, an'
merry-seemin',--'Oh, come now,' he said, 'I am sure that the ladies of
Friendship could cook things such as never man yet ate. We are
sta-arving,' he says, humorous. 'Can't you do something for us? We'll
give you,' he winds up, genial, 'two dollars a plate for a good,
home-cooking dinner for the twenty-four of us. What do you say?'
"Mis' Toplady whirled toward us sort o' wild. 'Is two dollars times
twenty-four, forty-eight dollars?' says she, low.
"An' we see it was, though Mis' Holcomb was still figurin' it out in the
palm of her other hand, while we stood gettin' glances out of each
other's eyes, an' sendin' 'em, give for take. We see, quick as a flash,
what Mis' Toplady was thinkin' about. An' it was about that hall, all
festooned with greens an' cut paper, an' the two long tables laid ready,
an' the veal loaf an' scalloped potatoes an' ice-cream for thirty. An'
when Mis' Sykes, that usually speaks, stood still, an' didn't say one
word, but just nodded a little bit, sort o' sad, Mis' Toplady, that was
chairman o' the Entertainment Committee, done like she does
sometimes--she took the whole thing into her own hands an' just settled
it.
"'Why, yes,' she says to 'em, rill pleasant, 'if you want to come up to
post-office hall at half-past six,' she says, 'the Friendship Married
Ladies' Cemetery Improvement Sodality will serve you your supper, nice
as the nicest, for two dollars a head.'
"'Good!' the men all sings out, an' the women spats their hands soft,
an' one of 'em says somethin' to the merry-seemin' man.
"'Oh, yes,' he says then, 'couldn't we all break into this hotel an'
floss up a bit before dinner?'
"Mis' Hubbelthwait stepped out towards 'em.
"'I was thinkin' of that,' says she. 'My husband,' she says, dignified,
'is settin' in the bar--practisin' his violin. He--he does that
sometimes, an' we--don't bother him. But the bar is at the back. I can
let you in, still, the front way to the rooms, if you want. An' I'll be
there myself to wait on you.'
"An' that was what they done, somebody takin' one o' the cars back for
the other car, an' the rest of us fair breakin' into a run toward
post-office hall.
"'My land,' says Mis' Toplady, almost like a groan, 'what _hev_ we
done?'
"It _was_ a funny thing to do, we see it afterward. But I tell you, you
can't appreciate the influence o' that forty-eight dollars unless you've
tried to earn money in a town the size o' Friendship Village. Sodality
hardly ever made more than five dollars to its ten-cent
entertainments--an' that for a big turn-out on a dry night. An' here was
the price of about nine such entertainments give us outright, an' no
extra work, an' rill feet-achin' weather. I say it was more than flesh
an' blood _or_ wives could stand. We done it automatic, like you
contradict when it's necessary.
"But there _was_ the men to reckon with.
"'What'll Timothy--an' Silas--an' Eppleby....' Mis' Toplady says, an'
stops, some bothered an' some rill pained.
"I judged, not havin' any husband to be doin' the inquirin', it wasn't
polite for me to laugh. But I couldn't hardly help it, thinkin' o' them
fifteen hungry men an' the supper et away from 'em, just William Nilly.
"Mis' Sykes, we remembered afterwards, never said a word, but only kep'
up with us back to the hall.
"Back to the hall, where the rest o' the Sodality was, we told 'em what
we'd done--beginnin' with the forty-eight dollars, like some kind o'
weapon. But I tell you, we hadn't reckoned without knowin' our
hostesses, head an' heart. An' they went in pell mell, pleased an' glad
as we was, an' plannin' like mad.
"The first need was more food to make up that supper to somewheres near
two dollars' worth--feedin' your husband is one thing an' gettin' up a
two-dollar meal is another. But we collected that all in pretty sudden:
leg o' lamb, left from the Holcombs' dinner an' only cut off of one
side; the Sykes's roast o' veal, the same; three chickens for soup the
Libertys hed just dressed for next day company dinner; big platter of
devilled eggs chipped in from Mis' Toplady; a jar o' doughnuts, a
steamer o' cookies, a fruit-cake a year old--we just made out our list
an' scattered to empty out all our pantries.
"By six o'clock we was back in the hall, an' all the food with us. But
nobody hed met nobody's husband yet, an' nobody wanted to. We didn't
quite know how we was goin' to do, I guess--but done is done, an' to do
takes care of itself.
"'Hadn't we ought to 'a' sent word to the men?' says Mis' Holcomb, for
the third or fourth time. 'I sneaked around so's not to pass Eppleby's
office, but I declare I feel mean. He'll hev to eat sauce an' plain
bread-an'-butter for his supper. An' most o' the men-folks the same.
'Seems though somebody'd ought to send 'em word an' not let 'em come up
here, all washed an' dressed.'
"'Well,' says Mis' Toplady, cuttin' cake with her lips shut tight an'
talkin' anyway, 'I kind o' thought--leave 'em come up. I bet they'd
rather be in it than out of it, every one of 'em, an' who knows they
might be some supper left? An' we can all--'
"An' at that Mis' Toplady faces round from cuttin' the cake: 'My land,
my land,' she says, sort o' hushed, 'why, doin' this, we can't none of
us wear our new dresses!'
"An' at that we looked at each other, each one sort of accusin', an' I
guess all our hearts givin' one o' them sickish thumps. An' Mis' Sykes,
her that hed been so still, snaps back:--
"'I wondered what you thought I'd rented my dress from the city for at
_Three Dollars a night_.'
"I tell you, that made a hush in the middle of the plannin'. We'd forgot
all about our own dresses, an' that was bad enough, with the hall all
hired an' everything all ready, an' every chance in the world of
everybody's husband's findin' out about the dresses before we could get
up another Sodality party, same way. But here was Mis' Sykes, three
dollars out, an mebbe wouldn't be able to rent her dress again at all.
"'I did want Silas,' Mis' Sykes says then, wistful, 'to see me in that
dress. Silas an' I have been married so long,' she says, 'that I often
wonder if I seem like a person to him at all. But in that dress from the
city, I think I would.'
"We was each an' all ready to cry, an' I dunno but we would hev done
it--though we was all ready to serve, too: coffee made, potatoes pipin'
hot, veal an' lamb het up an' smellin' rich, chicken soup steamin', an'
all. But just that very minute we heard some of 'em comin' in the
hall--an' the one 'ready' conquered the other 'ready,' like it will, an'
we all made a rush, part curious an' part nerves, to peek through the
little servin' window from the kitchen.
"_What_ do you think we saw? It was the automobile folks, hungry an' got
there first. In they'd come, women laughin', men jokin', all makin' a
lark out o' the whole thing. An' if the women wasn't, every last one of
'em, wearin'--not the clothes they hed come in, but light pink an' light
blue an' white an' flowered things, an' all like that.
"Mis' Hubbelthwait burst in on us while we was lookin'. 'They hed things
in their trunk at the back o' the automobile,' says she. 'They says they
wanted to floss up for dinner, an' floss up they hev. They look like
Lyddy's fashion sheets, one an' all.'
"At that Mis' Sykes, a-ceasin' to peek, she drops her tray on the bare
floor an' begun untyin' her apron. 'Quick!' she raps out, 'Mis'
Hubbelthwait, you go an' set 'em down. An' every one o' you--into them
togs of ours! Here's the chance to wear 'em--here an' _now_,' she says,
'an' leave them folks see we know how to do things here in Friendship
Village as good as the best.'
"Well, bein' as she had rented the dress, an' three dollars hed to be
paid out anyhow, an' bein' as she was president, an' bein' as we was all
hankerin' in our hearts, we didn't need much urgin'. We slammed the
servin' window shut an' set chairs against both doors, an' we whisked
out of our regular dresses like wild.
"'Oh, land--my land, the sleeves--the sleeves ain't in mine!' says Mis'
Toplady, sort o' glazed, an' speakin' in a wail. But we encouraged her
up to pin 'em in, which she done, an' it couldn't be told from stitches.
Poor Mame Holcomb's collar that wasn't on yet we turned in for her
V-shape, so's her dress was low, like the best. An' Mis' Uppers, that
was seasonin' the chicken soup like none of us could, her we took turns
in dressin' in her green. An' I'd got into my spare-room curtains,
somehow, just as Mis' Hubbelthwait come shoving at that door.
"'The men--the men!' says she, painful. 'They're all out here--Silas an'
Timothy an' Eppleby an' all. They've all heard about it--the automobiles
went to the post-office for their mail, an' Silas told 'em enjoyable
about Threat, an' the automobiles told him where they was goin' to eat.
An' they've come, thinkin' they's enough for all, an' they're out here
now.'
"Mis' Toplady groaned a little, agonized an' stifled, but rill firm.
'Tell 'em, then,' says she, 'to come back up here, like men, an'
_help_.'
"Then we heard a little rustle, soft an' silky an' kind o'
pink-soundin', an' we looked around, an' there, from where she had been
dressin' herself over behind the kitchen boiler all alone, Mis'
Postmaster Sykes stepped out. My land, if she wasn't in a white dress, a
little low in the neck, an' elbow sleeves, an' all covered solid as
crust with glitterin' silver spangles.
"'Let's tell 'em ourselves,' she says, 'come on--all of you. Let's take
out the first course, an' tell the men what we want 'em to do.'
"We made Mis' Sykes go first, carryin' high the tureen of chicken soup.
An' on one side of her walked Mis' Timothy Toplady, in blue, with the
wafers, an' on the other Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss, in pink, with
the radishes. An' neither one of 'em could hardly help lookin' at Mis'
Sykes's dress all the way out. An' back of 'em went the rest o' the
ladies, all in pink an' blue an' white an' pale green nun's veilin' that
they'd made, an' carryin' the water-pitchers an' ice an' celery an' like
that. An' me, I hung back in the kitchen watchin' an' lovin' 'em every
one--an' almost lovin' Timothy Toplady an' Silas Sykes an' Eppleby when
they looked on an' saw.
"Mis' Sykes set the soup down in front o' the merry-seemin' man for him
to serve it. An' then she crossed over an' spoke to Silas, an' swep' up
ahead of him in that spangly dress, the other ladies followin' an'
noddin' bright when they passed the men, an' motionin' 'em toward the
back o' the hall. An' back the men all come into the kitchen, followin'
as they was asked to do, an' orderly through bein' dazed. Silas an'
Timothy an' Eppleby was first, an' Mis' Sykes an' Mis' Toplady an' Mame
went up to 'em together.
"I'll never forget that minute. I thought the men was goin' to burst out
characteristic an' the whole time be tart, an' I shut both doors an' the
servin' window careful. An' instead o' that, them three men stood there
just smilin' a little an lookin' surprised an' agreeable; an' the other
husbands, either takin' the cue or feelin' the same, done likewise, too.
An' when Mame Bliss says, sort o' tremblin'--Eppleby bein' the gentlest
husband in Friendship Village, an' known to be: 'How do you like us,
Eppleby?' Eppleby just nods an' wrinkles up his eyes an' smiles at her,
like he meant lots more. An' he says, 'Why didn't you never wear that
dress before, Mame?'
"An' 'Well, Timothy?' says Mis' Toplady, sort o' masterful, an' fully
expectin' to hev to master. But Timothy Toplady, he just rubs his hands
an' looks at her sort o' wonderin', an' he says, 'Blisterin' Benson,
you look as good as the city folks, Amandy--all light, an' loose made,
an' stylish--'
"But Silas Sykes, he just stood lookin' at his wife an' lookin'. Of
course she _did_ hev the advantage, bein' her spangles shone so. An'
Silas looked at her an' looked, just as if her bein' his wife didn't
make him admire her any the less. An' Mis' Sykes, she was rill pink an'
pleased an' breathless, an' I guess she could see she seemed like a
person to Silas, the way she'd wanted to.
"It all went off splendid. The men stayed an' dished in the kitchen an'
helped carry away from the tables--the forty-eight dollars completin'
their respect--an' we ladies done the servin'. An' I tell you, we served
'em with an air, 'count o' bein' well dressed, like they was, an'
knowin' it. An' we knew the automobile folks appreciated it--we could
tell by the way they kep' lookin' at us. But of course we all understood
Mis' Sykes looked the best, an' we let her do all the most prominent
things--bringin' in the first dish of everything an' like that, so's
they could hev a good look.
"When it was over, the merry-seemin' man stood up an' made a little
speech o' thanks, rill courteous an' sweet, an' like he knew how to act.
An' when he was through we, one an' all, nudged Mis' Sykes to reply, an'
she done so, the two tables listenin', an' the Sodality standin' in
between, an' the Sodality's husbands crowdin' in both kitchen doors to
listen.
"Mis' Sykes says, rill dignified, an' the light catchin' in her
spangles: 'We're all very much obliged, I'm sure, for our forty-eight
dollars clear. An' we think perhaps you'd like to know what the money is
goin' toward. It's goin',' she says, 'towards the pavin' of the main
street of our little city.'
"Silas Sykes was lookin' out the servin' window like it was a box.
'What's that?' says he, more of him comin' out of the window, 'what's
_that_ you say?'
"An' they was a little wave o' moves an' murmurs all around him like
when somethin' is goin' to happen an' nobody knows what; an' I know the
Sodality caught its breath, for, as Mis' Toplady always says, the dear
land knows what men _will_ do.
"With that up springs the merry-seemin' man, his face all beamin', an'
he says loud an' clear an' drowndin' out everything else: 'Hear, hear!
Likewise, here an' now. I move that we as one man, an' that man's
automobile having lately come up the main street of Friendship
Village--do ourself contribute to this most worthy end. Get to work,'
says he. 'Think civic thoughts!'
"He slid the last roll off its plate, an' he laid somethin' in paper
money on it, an' he started it down the table. An' every man of 'em
done as he done. An' I tell you, when we see Mis' Hubbelthwait's bread
plate pilin' with bills, an' knew what it was for, we couldn't help--the
whole Sodality couldn't help--steppin' forwards, close to the table, an'
standin' there an' holdin' our breaths. An' the men, back there in the
kitchen, they hushed up when they see the money, an' they kep' hushed.
Land, land, it was a great minute! I like to think about it.
"An' when the plate come back to the merry-seemin' man, he took it an'
he come over towards us with it in his hand, an' we nudged Mis' Sykes to
take the money. An' she just lifted up the glitter part of her skirt an'
spread it out an' he dropped the whole rustlin' heap on to the spangles.
An' the rest of us all clapped our hands, hard as we could, an' right
while we was doin' it we heard somethin' else--deeper an' more manly
than us. An' there was the men streamin' out o' the kitchen doors, an'
Silas Sykes high in the servin' window--an' every one of 'em was
clappin', too.
"I tell you, we was glad an' grateful. An' we was grateful, too, when
afterwards they was plenty enough supper left for the men-folks. An'
when we all set down together around that table, Mis' Sykes at the head
an' the plate o' bills for a centrepiece, Mis' Toplady leaned back, hot
an' tired, an' seein' if both her sleeves was still pinned in place,
an' she says what we was all thinkin':--
"'Oh, ladies,' she says, 'we can pave streets an' dress in the light
shades even if we ain't young, like the run o' the fashion-plates. Ain't
it like comin' to life again?' she says."
XI
UNDERN
I have a guest who is the best of the three kinds of welcome guests. Of
these some are like a new rug which, however fine and unobtrusive it be,
at first changes the character of your room so that when you enter you
are less conscious of the room than of the rug. Some guests are like
flowers on the table, leaving the room as it was save for their sweet,
novel presence. And some guests are like a prized new book, unread, from
which you simply cannot keep away. Of these last is my guest whom my
neighbour calls the New Lady.
My neighbour and Elfa and Miggy and Little Child and I have all been
busy preparing for her. Elfa has an almost pathetic fondness for
"company,"--I think it is that she leads such a lonely life in the
little kitchen-prison that she welcomes even the companionship of
more-voices-in-the-next-room. I have tried to do what I can for Elfa,
but you never help people very much when you only try to do what you
can. It must lie nearer the heart than that. And I perfectly understand
that the magazines and trifles of finery which I give to her, and the
flowers I set on the kitchen clock shelf, and the talks which, since my
neighbour's unconscious rebuke, I have contrived with her, are about as
effectual as any merely ameliorative means of dealing with a social
malady. For Elfa is suffering from a distinct form of the social malady,
and not being able to fathom it, she knows merely that she is lonely. So
she has borrowed fellowship from her anticipation of my guest and of
those who next week will come down from the town; and I know, though she
does not know, that her jars of fresh-fried cakes and cookies, her fine
brown bread and her bowl of salad-dressing, are her utmost expression of
longing to adjust the social balance and give to herself companionship,
even a kind of household.
Little Child to-day came, bringing me a few first sweet peas and
Bless-your-Heart, Bless-your-Heart being her kitten, and as nearly pink
as a cat can be and be still a cat.
"To lay in the New Lady's room," she remarked, bestowing these things
impartially upon me.
Later, my neighbour came across the lawns with a plate of currant tarts
and a quarter of a jelly cake.
"Here," she said, "I don't know whether you like tarts or not. They're
more for children, I always think. I always bake 'em, and the little
round child fried cakes, too, and I put frosting faces on the cookies,
and such things. It makes my husband and I seem more like a family," she
explained, "and that's why I always set the dining-room table. As long
as we ain't any little folks running around, I always tell him that him
and I would be eating meat and potatoes on the kitchen drop-leaf like
savages if I didn't pretend there was more of us, and bake up for 'em."
Miggy alone does not take wholly kindly to the New Lady idea, though I
assure her that our mornings are to remain undisturbed.