THE TESTIMONY PARTY
"In the name of love and charity!" Miss Gibbie turned to the door
behind her. "What is it? Can't a person have one hour undisturbed in
this world? I'm not half through what I had to say, though evidently
through all I'll have a chance to say. What on earth! Is it Christmas
or the Fourth of July or--"
Mary Cary got out of the chair in which she had been sitting since
supper and went over to the window. "I don't know what it is. I
thought this was the twenty-ninth." She put her hands to her eyes
shielding them from the light, and looked through the pane of glass.
"There's a big covered wagon coming up the drive; it's at the steps."
She threw back her head and laughed. "Come quick and look! They're
piling out like rats from a trap. Did you ever! What in the world
is it? They're on the porch now. Hedwig has opened the door and--if
there isn't Mrs. McDougal with a great big something in her hands,
and Mr. Milligan, and Peggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Jernigan, and Jamie,
and little Minna Haskins, and Mr. Flournoy. What do you suppose it
is?"
Miss Gibbie got up and stood by the table in the middle of the room.
"The gods couldn't guess if Mrs. McDougal has anything to do with it.
Are they coming in?"
The question was answered by the tread of feet in the hall, and the
procession, headed by Mrs. McDougal, began to enter the library door.
On the threshold she stopped, bowing and smiling, in her hands a large
glass salver, on the top of which was an even larger cake elaborately
decorated in pink icing, in whose centre was stuck one tall white
candle which sputtered and blinked in the changing draughts. Behind
her a row of men and women, with a child occasionally between,
stretched to the hall door and into the porch, and for the first time
in her life Mary Cary could find nothing to say. She knew suddenly
what it meant.
Mrs. McDougal advanced and, with arms extended, made a profound
bow. "Miss Mary Cary, Our Friend! And Miss Gibbie Gault, Her
Friend! Good-evening!"
The precious burden was laid on the table, the candle straightened,
and also her hat; then she turned to the crowd behind with a
hospitable wave of her hand. "Come in, people! Come in! Those what
can't sit, must stand. Take this chair, Mis' Jernigan; she's been
sick, you know"--with a nod to Miss Gibbie--"and if you'll be excusin'
of my sayin' so for you, Miss Mary, I'll just say, make yourselves
to home the best you can while we say what we come for. Make yourselves
to home!"
"Oh, of course!" Mary Cary caught her breath. "Please pardon me. I
was so surprised to see you--and I'm so glad. Do sit down, Mrs.
Jernigan." She pushed the latter in a low easy-chair. "Bring some more
chairs, Hedwig. Get them anywhere. I'm so glad to see all of you. How
do you do, Mr. Milligan--and Minna." She stooped and kissed the child
holding tight a folded paper in her hand. "Did they let you come, too?
Isn't it nice?
"Ain't ever been out at night before since I was an orphan." Minna
gave a squeal of happy joy. "But I used to go to parties and thayters
and balls. I remember every one of them." She turned to Mrs. McDougal
excitedly. "Must I give it to her now?"
"No, you mustn't!" Mrs. McDougal grabbed the hand the child was
about to extend and held it tight. "'Tain't time yet, Minna; 'tain't
time yet. Mr. Milligan is master of ceremony and he'll tell you. You
keep quiet if you can. Here, Peggy, hold on to Minna; she'll pop if
you don't. How you do, Miss Gibbie? How you do?"
Miss Gibbie's hand was shaken heartily, but she was not permitted to
say how she did, for Mrs. McDougal had more to say herself, and with
a wink she went on: "We knew you was goin' to be here. Peggy told us.
I certainly am glad of it." She put her hand to her mouth and made
effort to whisper. "I ain't a fool, if I ain't edjicated. Brains
don't know whether they're high born or low, or whether they're male
or female, and they can take in more'n you think without bein' told.
I'm not forty, and mine ain't set yet. But set yourself down, Miss
Gibbie; set yourself down, while I go see if they're all in."
They were all in, twenty or more of them, and as Mrs. McDougal stood
in the centre of the room, counting with extended forefinger, Miss
Gibbie took her seat, and from her beaded bag took out surreptitiously
a small bottle of salts and hid it in her handkerchief. The room was
crowded and would soon be close, but an open window could not be asked
for. The salts must do.
For most of the unexpected guests chairs had been hastily provided by
Hedwig, and the few men standing were doing so from choice. As she
finished counting, Mrs. McDougal stepped back and stood by Mary
Cary's side.
"We are all here," she said. "Not a one was spilt out the wagon, but
'twas so crowded I was 'fraid some might be jolted off the ends. We
come in Mr. Chinn's undertakin' wagon." She nodded explanatorily to
Miss Gibbie. "He lent it to us, but not bein' built for picnics,
'twa'n't the best in the world to pack twenty-three shovin' people in,
bein' meant for just one still one; but my grandmother always told me
a lot of life was a makeshift, and if you couldn't do what you'd like,
then like what you had to do; and we had a lot of fun comin' out. Just
like Congressmen goin' to a funeral. But I reckon you wonder what we
come for?" This time she turned to Mary Cary. "We come to tell you
something. Mr. Milligan, he's goin' to preside, but before he begins
I just want to say that this is a sort o' birthday for Yorkburg, and
that's why the cake is here." She turned to it proudly, and her right
hand made a wide sweep. "We all help give it, and a lot more would have
helped if they'd known, but we didn't have time to tell everybody, and
if feelin's are hurt we can't help it. Never was a party somebody's
feelin's didn't get hurt."
She stopped and made a bow. "Miss Mary Cary and Miss Gibbie
Gault, maybe you don't know it, but this is the twenty-ninth day of
October, and just one year ago to-day you came back here to live
permanent, which is why there's one candle on the cake. It's been a
good year for Yorkburg and a better one for some of the people in it,
and that ain't always the case when returners come back, for most folks
who live in a place ain't much use to it, and the day after the funeral
is forgot. And knowin' there's a lot of hard licks in life, and no
matter how much you try to do for people they'll do you if they get a
chance, and say mean things about you--for there ain't nobody what
escapes the havin' of misjudgin' things said if they've got a mind of
their own and the will to do their way--we thought we would like to come
out here and tell you before you was dead that we sure do love you and
we thank you hearty for comin' back. You've done a lot for us, Miss
Mary, by just rememberin' we was livin' and comin' to see us like we was
folks, and like it was really true the Lord died for us as well as
others. Some don't seem to think so. You've helped us take hold of
ourselves, and though some of us ain't much to take hold of, still a lot
of people die slow of discouragement, and a cheerin' word beats the best
pill on earth. I ain't much on oratory, and not well acquainted with
fine speech. Plain English is all I can use, and the plain English of
all of us is we love you, and we thank you and we want you to know it.
My grandmother always told me if you had anything like that to say, to
say it while the person you think it about could hear. Dead people
can't. And 'tain't much use cryin' and handin' out their good qualities
after they're gone, like they was their clothes, for which they ain't
got any more need, because 'tis too late. And you can't sleep good when
you think of the things what's too late.
"But I ain't here to make a speech, just to bear testimony. This ain't a
party exactly, unless it's a testimony party, and if I don't set down my
tongue will run all night, bein' loose-jointed and good for goin' all
the time like most women's, and so I take my seat and turn the meetin'
over to Mr. Milligan. He's Irish, and an Irishman can talk a cabbage
into a rose any day. And when he's got a rose to talk about"--her hand
made a wide sweep--"his own tongue couldn't tell what it might say after
it starts. Mr. Milligan will come forward and begin the presidin'."
To loud applause Mrs. McDougal took her seat, and Mr. Milligan, in
obedience to orders, advanced and bowed, first to Mary Cary, then to
Miss Gibbie, and then to the room at large.
"It's the truth she's said, Miss Mary," he began, smilingly, "for she's
gone and expressed what I was going to say, and my tongue must tell of
something else. A man oughtn't ever to let a woman speak first. She'll
steal his thunder and leave nothing for him to say. He can't help her
speaking last. No law could prevent that, but first and last ain't
fair. She has told you why we're here, and I am only going to add that
anybody who takes a weed out of a place and puts in a flower ain't
lived in vain, and anybody who shows you where the sunshine comes from
and how to get it is the kind of helper the world is looking for, and
the person who can hearten you is the one who finds an open door in any
house. And you've done every one of them things, every one. Mrs.
McDougal has told you how the Mill-ites and the Factory-ites and the
Sick-ites and the Tired-ites and the--"
"Orphan-ites." It was Minna's shrill little voice that filled Mr.
Milligan's pause as he hesitated for another ite, and she shook the
paper at him excitedly.
"The Orphan-ites." He bowed toward the quivering child. "Mrs.
McDougal has told you what these feel, and thanked you for all the
them, and I am here as a member of Yorkburg's council to thank you
again for what you have done for the town in stirring of us up.
Everything you jolted us about is coming on well, and the public baths
at Milltown, the gift of your unknown friend, will make for godliness
next summer, if they don't do much in cold weather. And if we can get
hot water they may help the cause of righteousness this winter. We hope
we are going to keep you here forever, but as there ain't many marrying
men to match you in these parts it ain't impossible that in time you may
go away, and if that time should come 'twould be a sorrowful day for
many in this town. But if it should please you to stay single and live
with us we'll thank God for an old maid like you, and pray Him to make
more of your kind. The world needs 'em. And now Mr. Jernigan will speak
for the mill, and his son Jamie for the children, and Minna Haskins for
the orphans. Mr. Jernigan, ladies and gentlemen!"
As Mr. Jernigan came forward Mrs. McDougal pulled Mary Cary from
the table upon which she had been half sitting into the chair at her
side. "Set down, Miss Mary," she said in a half-whisper. "You look
like a pink peony turnin' purple. Anybody would think you warn't even
a sinner saved by grace, you're that abject. You ain't doin' nothin'
sinful. Set up and take your posies like a lady. You look like you're
takin' punishment, that you do!"
Mr. Jernigan's speech was largely lost between the clearing of his
throat and the blowing of his nose, and more time than words was used
in its delivery. But he managed to bring greetings from his
fellow-workmen, and, as he sat down, Miss Gibbie led the vigorous
applause which followed, and nodded encouragingly to his wife, who
had hung proudly and anxiously upon his disconnected sentences.
Next came Jamie, lame Jamie, who hobbled bravely forward on his
crutches, his little white face pinched by pain, full for once with
happy glow, and, as he placed them against the table, irresistibly
Mary Cary's hand went out to his and she held it tight.
"An original poem by Master James Jernigan," announced Mrs.
McDougal, half rising from her seat and waving her hand in
Jamie's direction. "Made up and writ by himself."
Jamie's head bowed, then he looked at his mother, flushed and
eager, whose lips were already making the movements of the words
he was to utter, then at the girl by his side, and, with another
bow, began:
"I'm just a little boy who's lame,
And couldn't used to walk a step.
But now I can, and I will tell
How me and my fine crutches met.
'Twas on a clear day and the bells they were ringing,
And I in my bed could hear the birds singing.
But I couldn't to church or to anywhere go,
For my legs couldn't walk, not to save my life.
And then Miss Mary she came in,
And said, 'Why, Jamie, 'tis a sin
You can't go out like other boys.
I'll go and get you some new toys.'
And when she came back the toys they were crutches
And a chair I could wheel myself in.
And now maybe I can play like other boys some day.
'Cause the pain is near 'bout well, and I can holler
when they play.
And for all little children who ain't here to say
They think she's just grand and a dear,
I will just say for all, if she marries at all,
We'll kill him if of her he don't take good care."
A stamping of feet and loud clapping of hands greeted this first
effort of a youthful poet, and, as he started to go back to his
seat, Mary Cary drew him to her and made him share her chair.
"Oh, Jamie, Jamie," she whispered, her face hidden behind the
tumbled brown curls, "how could you write such fairy tales! They
were beautiful verses, Jamie, but you know they were not true.
They--"
"Yes'm, they was." Jamie's head nodded affirmatively. "They was
true as truth. Look there--that little Minna Haskins is goin'
to speak."
Minna's time had come at last. In Peggy's lap she had been wriggling
through the other speeches, shutting her eyes at intervals and
repeating under her breath the words she was to say, and when her name
was called she ran forward joyously, holding tight in her hands the
precious document with which she had been intrusted. Arms at her sides
and heels together, she bowed, then shook the paper in the air.
"It's on here," she said, "what I'm going to say. A committee wrote it.
Three of the girls they learned it to me. And it's to be yours, Miss
Mary, forever and ever, because it's res'lutions." She held out the
paper, then drew it back. "I forgot--I wasn't to give it to you till
I was through. I'll begin." And like water out of a pitcher the words
poured forth:
"Whereas, it has pleased Almighty God to put in our midst a beautiful
young lady who once lived here herself and has never forgot about it,
and loves little children and does all she can to make them happy, and
don't like ugly clothes and the same kind of food and monot'nous living,
but believes orphans are just like other children inside and out except
they haven't fathers and mothers and anybody much, and she knows
how that feels, and,
"Whereas, she came back to this very old town, most all history and
some factories, and has helped a lot and got some things changed,
and gives parties and picnics now and then, and,
"Whereas--" She stopped suddenly and her voice fell. "Whereas
oughtn't to come there. There ain't but three whereases, because
Sallie Green copied them out of a paper when Mr. Joynes died, just
changing to suit a live person, and the last one comes way down.
Wait a minute!" She shut her eyes tight and mumbled rapidly to
herself, then looked up triumphantly. "And give picnics now and
then and makes us feel like human beings though she's right managing
at times and don't allow impertence, and,
"Whereas, we love her fit to die,
"Therefore, be it resolved that we will tell her so and tell her
she'll never know how much, and we thank her and thank her and thank
her.
"And a copy of these res'lutions is ordered to be spread on paper and
on her heart, and we will spread them on ours.
"Kitty Mountcastle
"Jessie Royall
"Margaret Potts
"And Me."
The last two words were emphasized by a low bow, then, turning, she
ran into Mary Cary's outstretched arms, and threw hers around her
neck.
"Oh, Miss Mary, I'm so glad I've said it, and I didn't miss but once.
Here they are!" The paper was thrust in her hand. "I didn't help
write these, but I wrote some once when my grandfather died. I
remember just as well--"
"Minna, Minna!" Mary Cary lifted the excited little face from her
shoulder and kissed her lips. "Your grandfather died before you
were born, but you remembered splendidly to-night. I don't see--"
"Pooh! That wasn't anything!" Minna's eyes were raised to the
ceiling. "All I've got to do is to hear a thing and I can say it.
I can say Shakespeare if you want me to."
Mary Cary got up. "Mercy, no! Don't say anything else if you love
me. Run back to Peggy and keep still for just a minute more." She
stood at the table, looking at Mrs. McDougal speaking to Hedwig,
who a moment later came back with a large knife and handed it to
her, and, as she took it, Mary Cary dropped back into her chair.
Flourishing the knife, Mrs. McDougal advanced to the cake, then turned
to the others sitting stiff and upright in their chairs, and bowed
again. "The ceremonies is over and the cake will be cut. And then
maybe you'll open your mouths and say something. You're settin' like
you're at a funeral. Then resolutions sounded like it, but you mustn't
mind them, Miss Mary"--she turned to the latter in a whisper--"they
didn't have much time to make up anything, and I asked Miss Samson just
to let 'em say something from their hearts, and they thought resolutions
was more dignified than plain every-day speech, and more respectful. I
asked for a testimony and for Minna Haskins to say it. She's such a
little devil and so fond of you. Maybe now you'd like to say something
yourself?" She rapped on the table for silence. "Miss Cary would like
to say something, and when she's through we'll eat."
For half a moment Mary Cary leaned against the library table, her hands
behind her clasping it with an intensity of which she was not conscious,
and for a moment more words would not come. Slowly the hot color
died out of her face and her lips quivered.
"No," she said, presently. "No. I can't say anything. When we feel much
we can say little, and I couldn't tell you how you have--have humbled
me; but I do thank you for your kind, kind words. It is not I you should
thank, however. I have done so little. I could have done nothing had it
not been for Yorkburg's friend. I had nothing to give but--"
"Love, which is what few have, judging by the sparse way it's handed
out." Mrs. McDougal stuck the knife in the cake and left it there,
then waved her hand. "Go on! Go on!"
"I had only--love to give when I came back, and love by itself can't
do what it would. It needs money to help. Money without love may not
be much, but love with money--" Her voice broke.
"Is hard to beat. Just tell you friend we thank him hearty, or her
if it's a her. When love and money married get, their children will
be great, you bet." Mrs. McDougal threw back her head, and her hearty
laugh was joined in by none more heartily than Miss Gibbie, who used
the opportunity to put her handkerchief to her nose and keep it there
awhile. "Bless my soul, if I ain't made a rhyme! Thirty-seven and never
did it before! Luck and accidents come to all, my grandmother used to
say, and when I speaks poetry on the spot it's both together. I'm real
proud of myself, that I am! That's all right, Miss Mary; don't you try
to say nothin'. We understand you, and we just want you to understand
us." She pulled her by the sleeve. "There's Miss Hedwig standin' in the
door lookin' at you. Goodness gracious! If she ain't gone and set a
spread on the dining-room table, and me ready to cut the cake this
minute! Looks like we're goin' to have a party, after all. Miss Mary,
you blow out this candle, and I'll light it again when we get in the
dining-room." She dropped her voice. "Here, get behind me and wipe your
eyes if you want to. Got a handkerchief? Ain't our eyes funny? Trickle
when there ain't a bit of sense in it. Are you through?" She lifted the
cake triumphantly. "My! but I'm glad I'm livin'! If there's anything I
do love in life 'tis a party, and I ain't been to one since I married
McDougal, and that's more'n nineteen years ago!"