MEN AND HUSBANDS
When Mrs. Burnham reached the house in which Miss Gibbie lived she
hesitated for a moment, hand on the gate, then opened it and walked
slowly up the brick box-bordered path to the steps of the pillared
porch. The door was open, and inside was Miss Gibbie, the morning
paper in her hand.
A quick, absorbing glance took in each detail of the well-kept
grounds, the beds of old-fashioned flowers, the fine old trees and
stately house, but not until the porch was reached did she look
toward the open door.
As she neared it she lowered her parasol, and at its click Miss
Gibbie's eyes peered over the top of the paper and looked at her.
"Good-morning! May I come in?"
Miss Gibbie put the paper on the chair by her side, took off her
glasses, wiped them, put them back, and again looked at her visitor.
"Not until I look at you for half a minute," she said. "Raise that
parasol and stand just where you are. There! That's right! In the
doorway you look like a Roisart I saw some years ago in France.
I wanted to buy it, but the man imagined I was one of those fool
Americans who value a thing according to its price, and charged
what he thought he could get. He got nothing. Come in. Do you make
you own clothes?"
"I make my summer ones." Mrs. Burnham's face lighted with
amusement, and, as she took the chair Miss Gibbie pushed toward
her, she brushed back the stray strands of hair the breeze had
blown across her face, and fastened them securely.
"I told some one the other day you were an illustration of what
I have always contended, and that is a woman can look well in very
inexpensive clothes if she has sense enough to get the right kind.
I hear you have a good deal of sense."
"I have in some things." Mrs. Burnham laughed and took the fan
Miss Gibbie held toward her. "I've shown it to-day by coming to
see you. Of course I shouldn't, according to regulations, as you
won't come to see me, but I wanted to see you and so I came. Do
you mind--that I have come?"
The sweet, fine face of the questioner flushed and, at sight of
it, Miss Gibbie smiled, then tapped it with the tip of the
turkey-wing fan.
"I am glad you have come. You are so fresh and cool in that white
dress it's good to look at you. Did you go to the lecture last night?
I hear the Mother's Club is made up of old maids and childless married
women; but as they're the only ones who know anything about children
nowadays, it's very proper they should issue edicts concerning them.
What was the lecture about?"
"'Lungs and Livers.' and it was fine. It really was. How to breathe
properly and how to make your liver behave itself are things few
understand, according to Doctor Mallby. I love to hear him. He gets
so mad with ignorance and stupidity. You would have enjoyed him."
"I never go to organ recitals." Miss Gibbie waved her fan as if to
brush away unpleasant suggestions. "Have you seen anything of the
Pryors lately? Some one told me Lizzie Bettie was trying to make
her mother and Maria go away. The whole business ought to be
separated from each other. Nothing so gets on your nerves as seeing
from each other. Nothing so gets on your nerves as seeing the same
sort of faces day after day. And of course they wouldn't think it
proper to smile under three months at least.
"They certainly seem to be grieved by their father's death. I had
no idea how many people loved Mr. Pryor, or how--"
"Little his family guessed it. They took William for granted, like
they take everything else in life. And now it's too late to let him
know how they loved him. My dear"--Miss Gibbie leaned forward
suddenly--"you love your husband? Then tell him so. If he is a good
husband tell him that also. There's nothing a man can stand so much
of as praise. A woman can make a good husband out of almost any kind
of man if she will just go about it right."
"But suppose she doesn't know how? It takes a long time for
women to understand men."
"Do they ever?" Miss Gibbie's penetrating eyes were losing no shade
of the color rising slowly in Mrs. Burnham's face. "But isn't it
because they spend so much time wondering why men don't understand
them? The best of men, you believe, are selfish? They are. I am not
one of the people who thinks the Lord did such a mighty work when He
made man, but if a woman can make up her mind to marry him, it is
generally her fault if she doesn't keep his love to the end--"
"Oh, I don't think so!" Mrs. Burnham's voice was vehement in protest.
"Of course you don't. You are a married woman. I am not. I did not
say always. I said generally, and I mean what I say. My dear"--again
Miss Gibbie leaned forward--"I have been young and now am old, and I
have watched many lives. With only occasional exceptions a woman has
just about the kind of husband she makes the man she marries become."
"I don't think that, either. A man's character is supposedly formed
before he marries; and, besides, a woman ought not to be required to
make the kind of husband she wants. She certainly can't make him
intelligent, or brilliant, or able, just because she wants him to be."
"I never said anything about making a husband intelligent or brilliant
or able. Many miserable wives have husbands of that kind. Any woman
of sense wants a man of sense--but most of all she wants to be his
first thought in life. And when she isn't it's usually because of
selfishness or sensitiveness or stupidity on her part."
"But look at the men who are--who are--"
"Who are what?" Miss Gibbie's eyes met Mrs. Burnham's steadily.
"Unfaithful? And why? Oh, I know some men should be burned up
like garbage taken from the kitchen door, but I'm talking now of
the man who starts right, starts loving his wife. If there's anything
in him she can make more. The more may not be much, but it's better
than the less."
"But how?"
"My dear madam"--the turkey-wing fan made broad and leisurely
strokes backward and forward--"you and asking me concerning that
with which I have no experience, merely an opinion. I never felt
equal to assuming the responsibility of a man, not was I sure the
reward was worth the effort. But listen!" The fan stopped. "Had I
been willing to marry I should have felt the blame and shame were
mine had I not kept the love my husband gave me and increased it
with time."
Mrs. Burnham leaned forward. Her hands unconsciously clasped tightly.
"Tell me," she said, "how can one do it?"
"In what way, you mean? How should I know? Besides, it would
depend on how much the wife loved her husband, how much she
wanted to keep his love. The ways would be as varied as the types
of man to be dealt with. I've never seen a man who valued anything
he got too easily, anything that held itself cheap, and the woman
who doesn't inspire some reverence--"
"But you said just now the woman ought to tell her husband how
much she loved him."
"Did I? I thought I said she ought to tell him she loved him. Men
love to pursue. Something still to be won, something that may be
lost, is something he should never forget. Neither should she. I did
say just now a man could stand a full amount of praise. I've known
good husbands made of mighty unpromising material. A woman of tact
and judgment can do much with little. I've seen them do it."
She leaned back in her chair, and in her keen gray eyes was a
gleam of the gay twinkle of her youth.
"It isn't bad judgment to make a man believe he is something. He
is by nature inclined to it, and a little encouragement is good for
most people. So is a better understanding. Most miserable marriages
come from misunderstanding, with pride and stubbornness as its cause.
I once know a girl, a very wealthy girl, whose health failed shortly
after she married. Her husband was young, gay, selfish. Got to leaving
her, and she was too proud to let him see she cared. He thought she
didn't care, thought her absorbed in herself. One night, coming in late,
he saw a light in her room and called good-night on the way to his. She
had kept the light, a gas-lamp, by her side, hoping he would come in.
There was something she wanted to say, so she wrote in the note she
left, but when he passed by she wrote the note, turned her face to the
lamp, put out the light and turned on the gas. The next morning they
found the note in her hand."
Mrs. Burnham drew in her breath. "How horribly he must have felt!"
"He did. Didn't marry again for thirteen months. The next wife was
sensible. There was no more suffering in silence. As her husband he
walked upright forever after."
Mrs. Burnham twisted her handkerchief around the handle of her fan.
"I feel so sorry for a man when he loses his wife."
"You do what?" Miss Gibbie's voice was little less than a shriek,
and she sat upright, her fan at arm's-length.
"Feel sorry--" The look on Miss Gibbie's face stopped her and her
own flushed. "Yes, I do," she protested, bravely. "Men are so
helpless and they seem so bewildered."
Miss Gibbie lay back, relaxed and limp, her eyes closed. "My dear
child, you are younger than I thought." Her eyes opened as
significantly as they had closed, and the turkey-wing fan tapped
one pink cheek and then the other.
"My dear, don't worry over widowers. For the first six weeks
they are doubtless troubled. They don't know where their clothes
belong and they can't find their shoes, and they're learning a great
many things they didn't know. But man is recuperative and philosophic.
Oh, I don't mean all men. All men are no more alike than all women,
only aliker. But you've probably never watched widowers carefully. I
have. The transformation that takes place in the ex-husband is something
like that in little boys when they first begin to notice little girls.
Both use more soap and water, both brush their hair and their clothes
more carefully, and select their cravats with more caution, and there
isn't a piece of femininity that passes that isn't looked at with
speculation in the eye."
She waved her fan with a comprehensive sweep. "Even the most
modest of released husbands get inflated. Of course if there
are children there are complications, but a woman generally
attends to complications. Haven't you ever noticed the way a
first-year widower walks? In his own eyes he's a target, and those
eyes are always roving to see who is looking his way. He's right,
for a good many women look. Men have a large capacity for loving,
and many of them deserve another chance at happiness."
Mrs. Burnham opened her handkerchief and wiped her lips. Somehow
it was shocking, but Miss Gibbie's voice was beyond resistance.
"But surely you think men grieve?" she began.
"Of course I do. Some of them wouldn't change if they could, and
all of them hate interruptions. But men are sensible. With them
something ended is over, and you can't do business with a broken
heart. And business is what man is made for. Business and
pleasure."
"I don't think men forget." In Mrs. Burnham's eyes was the
far-away look that meant the memory of other days.
"Perhaps they don't. Just cease to remember. Whichever it is, I
approve of it, envy it. There are many admirable qualities in men.
As I said just now, the average man will make a good husband if he
has any encouragement, and all a woman has the right to ask of him
is to think of her in life. Men are not much on memories. They want
something definite and tangible, and memories are poor company for
any one."
Mrs. Burnham looked up. The banter in Miss Gibbie's voice had
changed to bitterness, but it was gone as quickly as the shadow
that flitted for a moment over her face.
Miss Gibbie pushed back her chair, opened the bag hanging from
her belt, and took from it a handkerchief of finest thread.
"Speaking of company reminds me of Mary, whose uncle and aunt,
three children and nurse went home yesterday. She's been like a
bird since they've been here. Sang in her sleep one night, she
was so happy to have them. But six extra people for three weeks
is wearing on flesh and blood, no matter how much you love them,
and she's pretty tired. I understand you and Mary are good
friends. How did it happen?"
"She made it happen. It was when my baby died." Mrs. Burnham
hesitated and her face whitened. "I don't think I could make
any one understand what she was to me them. When we came to
Yorkburg I was an entire stranger, and for some weeks I met no
one except the members of my husband's church. Many of the latter
are dear and lovely, but the most interesting from a--"
"Human standpoint. Go on!"
"From a human standpoint were the mill people, the factory people,
the plain people, to whom Mr. Burnham is giving his life, and it
was in connection with what Miss Cary was doing that we met her.
At first I could not do very much to help, and Mr. Burnham was so
busy and so interested he didn't know how lonely I was--"
"Of course. So busy making people good he had little time to make
his wife happy. And not for the world would you have let him seen
you were lonely. Been selfish, wouldn't it?"
"Wouldn't it have been?"
"Selfish? No. Sensible. My dear, there are some men whose heads
have to be held while an opening is made with a gimlet before they
will take a thing in. You husband is doubtless a good man, but
doubtless also dense. How long before your baby was born did you
come to Yorkburg?"
"Four months. We had been married six years and I was so happy over
its coming that I wanted to help in everything, and tried to do too
much. When we got to Yorkburg I had to be very quiet and the days
were very long. Miss Cary was one of the first persons who called
on me, and several times she took me to drive. Then the baby came.
I was very ill for two weeks and was just beginning to get better,
when suddenly the baby died."
She stopped. Her handkerchief, twisted into a tight cord, was
knotted nervously. "I can't talk of it. I had waited so long, I
wanted a child, a little child of my own, that there was nothing
I would not have suffered. But to go down into the valley of the
shadow--and come back with empty arms--" She drew in her breath,
but her eyes were dry. "Even Mr. Burnham didn't understand. He
was distressed and disappointed, but because I got well nothing
else seemed to matter much. But he didn't know--no man can know--
the awful ache in your heart, the awful emptiness of your arms
when your baby is taken out of them. One day everything in me seemed
to stop. I couldn't feel, or think, or talk. Mr. Burnham must have
been frightened, for he got up suddenly and left the room. After a
while he came back, then left again, and a few minutes later the
door opened and closed, and Mary Cary was inside. As she came
toward me I saw she had on no coat or hat. And then she was on her
knees by my bed, and I was in her arms and held close to her heart.
"Oh, I can't tell--" Her voice broke in a half-sob she tried to
smother. "No one can ever know what it meant to me, but I knew
she understood, and suddenly the something that had been tight
and cruel snapped, and for the first time tears came."
"I understand, child. I understand." Miss Gibbie patted the
twisting hands softly. "Every woman has a corner in her heart she
keeps covered. And the thing in life that's hardest is to hold your
head up and smile and hide the ache. But it must be held up. That's
the woman's part. I'm glad you and Mary are good friends. She tells
me you and Mr. Burnham have been a great help to her, and she needs
the help you and he can give. I'm about as much use as a shoestring
for a buttoned boot. Never could stand smeary people with bad teeth.
But possibly I wouldn't take a bath every day, either, if I didn't
have a clean tub and hot water, with good soap and towels. Mary says
I wouldn't. And if I had to cook, and mind babies, and make clothes,
and live with a tobacco-chewer and pipe-smoker, and get up before
light and hurry him off to a factory, and wash and dress the children
for school, and then clean and cook some more, maybe I wouldn't be--
quite like I am now. Maybe I wouldn't--"
"I am very sure of it." Mrs. Burnham's laugh was half a sigh. "Poor
people make us dreadfully mad at times, and we call them shiftless
and improvident and lazy, and some of them are. They are ignorant
and untrained. But the woman who is doing the hardest, bravest work
in the world to-day is the wife of the workingman, struggling to be
respectable and make her children so on wages that often aren't human,
much less Christian. When I build a monument it's to be to 'Unknown
Mothers.'"
She got up and pushed back her chair. "When are you going away,
Miss Gibbie? I'm so glad you are making Mary go with you." She hesitated
and with the tip of her parasol outlined the pattern of the rug at her
feet.
"Miss Puss Jenkins came to see me night before last and she said such
queer things she'd heard." Again she hesitated, and in her face the
color rose to the roots of her hair. "I don't suppose I ought to speak
of it, but when any one says anything about Mary I get so hot I'm not--"
"What did Puss say?" Miss Gibbie sat upright and the fan in her hand
was still.
"She didn't say anything herself, but it was what Mrs. Deford said
that--"
"What did Mrs. Deford say?"
"Miss Puss said she practically admitted her daughter Lily was engaged
to Mr. Maxwell, though you'd tried your best to get him for Mary." She
stopped. "I didn't mean to tell that. It's too silly to be repeated."
Miss Gibbie lay back in her chair and covered her face with the turkey-
wing fan, and from behind it came laughter such as Mrs. Burnham had
never heard from her before. "John engaged to Lily Deford! To /Lily
Deford!/ My dear, he'd much rather be engaged to me. Lily's mother
goes with Lily." She put down the fan and wiped her eyes. "Poor
Snobby! I've tried to get John for Mary, have I? And she has tried to
get him for herself, has she? Though this you don't tell me. I'm
afraid as a purveyor of gossip you will never be a success. Puss is
a past-master. On your way home just stop at her house, will you,
and tell her I want to see her at once."