Produced by David Widger
THE LITTLE GRAY LADY
By F. Hopkinson Smith
1909
I
Once in a while there come to me out of the long ago the fragments of astory I have not thought of for years--one that has been hidden in thedim lumber-room of my brain where I store my by-gone memories.
These fragments thrust themselves out of the past as do the cuffs ofan old-fashioned coat, the flutings of a flounce, or the lacings of abodice from out a quickly opened bureau drawer. Only when you followthe cuff along the sleeve to the broad shoulder; smooth out the crushedfrill that swayed about her form, and trace the silken thread to thewaist it tightened, can you determine the fashion of the day in whichthey were worn.
And with the rummaging of this lumber-room come the odors: dry smellsfrom musty old trunks packed with bundles of faded letters and worthlessdeeds tied with red tape; musty smells from dust-covered chests, ironbound, holding mouldy books, their backs loose; pungent smellsfrom cracked wardrobes stuffed with moth-eaten hunting-coats,riding-trousers, and high boots with rusty spurs--cross-country ridersthese--roisterers and gamesters--a sorry lot, no doubt.
Or perhaps it is an old bow-legged high-boy--its club-feet slippered oneasy rollers--the kind with deep drawers kept awake by rattling brasshandles, its outside veneer so highly polished that you are quite sureit must have been brought up in some distinguished family. The scent ofold lavender and spiced rose leaves, and a stick or two of white orrisroot, haunt this relic: my lady's laces must be kept fresh, and so mustmy lady's long white mitts--they reach from her dainty knuckles quiteto her elbow. And so must her cobwebbed silk stockings and the filmykerchief she folds across her bosom:
It is this kind of a drawer that I am opening now--one belonging to theLittle Gray Lady.
As I look through its contents my eyes resting on the finger of a glove,the end of a lace scarf, and the handle of an old fan, my mind goes backto the last time she wore them. Then I begin turning everything upsidedown, lifting the corner of this incident, prying under that no bit oftalk, recalling what he said and who told of it (I shall have the wholedrawer empty before I get through), and whose fault it was that thematch was broken off, and why she, of all women in the world, shouldhave remained single all those years. Why, too, she should have lost heridentity, so to speak, and become the Little Gray Lady.
And yet no sobriquet could better express her personality: She waslittle--a dainty, elf-like littleness, with tiny feet and wee hands;she was gray--a soft, silver gray--too gray for her forty years (andthis fragment begins when she was forty); and she was a lady in everybeat of her warm heart; in every pressure of her white hand; in hervoice, speech--in all her thoughts and movements.
She lived in the quaintest of old houses fronted by a brick pathbordered with fragrant box, which led up to an old-fashioned porch,its door brightened by a brass knocker. This, together with theknobs, steps, and slits of windows on each side of the door, was keptscrupulously clean by old Margaret, who had lived with her for years.
But it is her personality and not her surroundings that lingers in mymemory. No one ever heard anything sweeter than her voice; in and nobodyever looked into a lovelier face, even if there were little hollows inthe cheeks and shy, fanlike wrinkles lurking about the corners of herlambent brown eyes. Nor did her gray hair mar her beauty. It was notold, dry, and withered--a wispy gray. (That is not the way it happened.)It was a new, all-of-a-sudden gray, and in less than a week--soMargaret once told me--bleaching its brown gold to silver. But thegloss remained, and so did the richness of the folds, and the wealth andweight of it.
Inside the green-painted door, with its white trim and brass knocker andknobs, there was a narrow hall hung with old portraits, opening into aroom literally all fireplace. Here there were gouty sofas, and five orsix big easy-chairs ranged in a half-circle, with arms held out asif begging somebody to sit in them; and here, too, was an embroideredworsted fire screen that slid up and down a standard, to shield one'sface from the blazing logs; and there were queer tables and old-goldcurtains looped back with brass rosettes--ears really--behind whichthe tresses of the parted curtains were tucked; and there were more oldportraits in dingy frames, and samplers under glass, and a rug whichsome aunt had made with her own hands from odds and ends; and a hugework-basket spilling worsteds, and last, and by no manner of meansleast, a big chintz-covered rocking-chair, the little lady's veryown--its thin ankles and splay feet hidden by a modest frill. There wereall these things and a lot more--and yet I still maintain that theroom was just one big fireplace. Not alone because of its size (and itcertainly was big: many a doubting curly head, losing its faith in SantaClaus, has crawled behind the old fire-dogs, the child's fingers tightabout the Little Gray Lady's, and been told to look up into the blue--alesson never forgotten all their lives), but because of the wonderfuland never-to-be-told-of things which constantly took place before itsblazing embers.
For this fireplace was the Little Gray Lady's altar. Here she dispensedwisdom and cheer and love. Everybody in Pomford village had sat in oneor the other of the chairs grouped about it and had poured out theirhearts to her. All sorts of pourings: love affairs, for instance, thatwere hopeless until she would take the girl's hand in her own and smoothout the tangle; to-say nothing of bickerings behind closed doors, withtwo lives pulling apart until her dear arms brought them together.
But all this is only the outside of the old mahogany high-boy with itsmeerschaum-pipe polish, spraddling legs, and rattling handles.
Now for the Little Gray Lady's own particular drawer.
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