Grandfather\'s Love Pie
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Miriam Gaines >> Grandfather\'s Love Pie
[Illustration: "AUNTEE, I'LL THINK OF SOMETHING--I PROMISE YOU I WILL."]
SECOND EDITION
GRANDFATHER'S
LOVE PIE
BY
MIRIAM GAINES
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
JOHN EDWARD WHITING
1913
JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY
INCORPORATED
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY
MISS MIRIAM GAINES.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED FATHER,
JOHN THOMAS GAINES,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED.
GRANDFATHER'S LOVE PIE
I.
"O, Auntee, what is it?"
The awed young voice paused at the threshold.
It was a sight the little girl had never witnessed before--she had seen
Auntee sad at occasional intervals, and a few times had looked upon
tears in the usually merry eyes of her beloved chum, but never before
had she beheld Auntee sobbing in such an abandonment of grief.
There was a very tender tie of love between these two--Alsie, the dear
little twelve-year-old daughter of an older sister of the family, and
Alice, the only remaining unmarried child of a household of many sons
and daughters.
The family circle had never been broken, however, and it was a household
where love prevailed, for although several members lived in far-away
homes, the flame of affection burned as brightly and the cord of love
bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their
sturdy Scotch ancestors into clans.
Auntee (for that was Alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many
happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a
somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at
her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she
again buried her face in the pillow with a sob.
After a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly
around the little namesake and tried to explain.
"I did not intend to burden you, Alsie dear, with my grief, but I feel
so sad and somehow I just couldn't keep it shut in any longer--it _had_
to come out. But I thought you were playing with your little friend
Margaret, and I knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand
which would surely keep her an hour."
"Auntee, are you so sad because dear Uncle James has gone away? You know
grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots
of us left to make you bright and happy."
"So there are, Alsie, and I will try to take courage in that thought,
for surely God wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon--so
soon." The last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was
unconscious of the presence of the child. Little Alsie's face became
white.
"O, Auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"--her voice faltered
and she finished in a whisper--"is worse?"
Auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily,
"No, dear child, no worse. But sit down with me and I will tell you all
about it. You must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however,
for we will have to be brave together." Then, sitting side by side in
the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many
joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet
the gaze of returned travelers, Aunt Alice related to young Alice the
story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told
her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father
and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south
bedchamber.
His health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his
broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had
never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was
hard for them--or, indeed, any other--to conceive that it was more than
a passing ailment, and would soon disappear. The family became vaguely
uneasy as the spring merged into the summer, and a plan was proposed for
the plump little five-foot "wifey" to take her big husband, the Captain,
on a long trip to the seashore and mountains.
The trip had been taken, but Captain Gordon's condition did not show
the improvement that the anxious members of his family had so earnestly
hoped to see, and after the return the busy little wife immediately set
about securing a couch for his office, for the invalid insisted that
he was able to resume his duties. She explained that "the Captain
might rest a little now and then from his labors," for the sturdy old
soldier would not for a moment entertain the thought of giving up his
work--the loved, chosen profession which he had followed so faithfully
and successfully since he came out--a gallant young officer of
twenty-three--from the Civil War, the sole survivor of the four members
of his household who had gone forth to fight for what was to be the
Lost Cause.
Everything at the office was made especially comfortable, for how
willingly would every one have spared the quiet, kind professor, who
combined so wonderfully strength and manliness with gentleness and
lovableness of disposition.
The experiment lasted one week--he came home at the close of the sixth
day and said quietly, "I must get a substitute until I am well enough to
attend to my work as it should be done." So the substitute was secured
and a consultation of doctors followed, with the result that a new line
of treatment had been adopted. A few weeks failed to bring good results,
so other treatments had been tried, until, a few weeks before, a skilled
specialist had ordered him off to the infirmary for a period of several
weeks.
The days spent here were days of great suffering, but grandfather was a
man of monumental patience, and no word of complaint passed his lips. It
was just at this time that a crushing blow had been dealt the hopeful,
cheery little wifey, who had always been laughingly termed "boss of the
ranch," "head of the house," and suchlike terms, but whose right to
these titles had never been disputed by the indulgent husband or devoted
sons and daughters, for her ready hand always carried with it relief,
and her merry laugh brought cheer and sunshine.
Her only brother had been stricken, and died within a few days, but the
brave little wife and mother had hidden her deep sorrow in her bosom,
and after a few days, only a smiling face was presented about the house.
When the allotted time at the infirmary had expired, the young doctor,
who had studied the case with such zeal and attended his patient with
the tender care of a son, brought him back to his home.
After having put her father to bed, to rest from the weariness of the
trip, Alice turned around to the waiting physician, a foreboding anxiety
in her heart, and tried to make her question quite natural:
"Well, doctor, how soon can your friend, the specialist, have father
well again?"
After a pause Dr. Emerson replied, "He will not continue on the case,
Miss Gordon."
"O, doctor, what do you mean? He has not given it up? I can not
relinquish hope--I won't."
"And I do not wish you to, Miss Gordon. Dr. Helm did not find your
father's condition to be what he had expected, but we are going to begin
at once a treatment that has been practiced with great success in
Germany, in cases like his."
Nothing more was said at that time between them, but the memory of that
conversation was indelibly printed on Alice's mind, and a long night of
the keenest anguish she had ever experienced, followed.
She thought, and thought, and thought, until the sounds from the
sick-chamber near by, would bring a flood of tender memories and her
pillow would be wet with tears.
It was thus that most of the night was spent. Toward morning she sank
into a deep slumber, but, when she wakened, a terrible leaden weight
seemed to oppress her, and it was several hours before the buoyant
cheerfulness, with which she was by nature endowed, could again assert
itself.
After several days and nights spent thus, Alice came to the wise
conclusion that the situation _must_ be faced, for obvious reasons.
After this decision was reached, she became more calm, and the next day,
without consulting any member of the family, slipped away to the doctor's
downtown office, and waited patiently until he was at leisure to see
her.
Dr. Emerson seemed a little surprised at her appearance, but said, "What
is it, Miss Gordon--what can I do for you?"
"I only came, Dr. Emerson, to say to you that I am now ready to hear
what you have to tell about my father. I want to know just how much we
may hope for--or how little." Her voice faltered, but she continued, "I
could not listen a few days ago when you suggested that Dr. Helm was not
able to relieve him, but tell me all now."
Perhaps it was because the kind physician felt sorry for the sorrowing
daughter, or perhaps it was because, personally, he cherished a deep
affection for the scholarly old gentleman on whom he was expending his
most earnest efforts, but whatever the reason, he told her in the
gentlest, kindest manner, enough to make her understand that the chances
were against her father's recovery. His concluding remarks, however,
were reassuring. "Please do not understand for a moment, Miss Gordon,
that I have given up hope. I do not agree altogether with Dr. Helm, and
I feel that we have good ground for expecting favorable results from the
treatment that we have recently begun."
After hearing the news, Alice returned home, to find a letter in which
was a small check from one of the loving family circle, to be spent in
a Christmas present for the dear sick one.
It had come to be a sort of habit in the family for a few of the
far-away members to send little sums to Alice at Christmas time, in
order that the presents should be such as would give service as well
as pleasure.
The carrying out of these commissions had always been a source of
delight to both big and little Alice, for did _they_ not know best of
all the individual needs and hopes of each member of the household?
Who, then, could so well plan and shop for the merry Christmas, which
was _always_ a success in the Gordon household?
Yes, a merry, happy season it had always been for, while all the
comforts of a refined home had ever been theirs, the provision of
these comforts had required constant economy and management on the part
of the busy little "wifey" of the house. As the former children had
grown up and flitted away from the home nest to establish families for
themselves, they had gradually come to realize that it was because of
_not having_ so many things that they were enabled to get such a degree
of pleasure from those gifts which just fitted the need, or perhaps
those gifts, for which the ordinary craving might be counted an
extravagance.
It had always been the custom for each one of the family to hang up his
or her stocking, and when the grandchildren began to appear upon the
scene, grandfather's big sock always held a conspicuous place among the
stockings of all sizes.
It was the remembrance of all these established customs that had caused
the entire breakdown of Alice's walls of self-control (which she thought
had been so well built), and when little Alsie found her there, alone
in her chamber, in such deep distress, it was not surprising that the
little maid was frightened.
This was the first time that Alice had ever confided to the child
anything that was, even, in a remote degree, depressing, but her heart
was so overwrought that she had poured out the whole sad story to the
little girl before time could be taken for consideration of the wisdom
of such a course. A flicker of doubt, however, came to her as she saw
the troubled look of the child deepen into an expression of pain and
perplexity, and she continued, half apologetically,
"I ought not to feel so discouraged, dearie, I know. I ought to be
brave, but when I tried to think what I _could_ get for dear father with
the checks that will surely be coming in to me, within the next two or
three weeks, I felt so utterly broken-hearted that I could do nothing
but cry." The child put her arms tenderly around the neck of her beloved
aunt, and gave her message of sympathy in mute kisses.
"I am completely at a loss to know what to do," said Alice, with
emphasis. "Here is Christmas, only a month distant--I have made no
preparation, for I have had no heart for it; we can not hang up the
stockings after the usual merry fashion, for it would be only a farce;
we should cry instead of laugh when we see them, so I feel almost
desperate to know _what_ to do. O, Alsie, can't we think of some plan
by which we may give dear grandfather a merry Christmas, especially
if it is to be his last with us?"
"Auntee, I'll _think_ of something--I promise you I will--and it will be
soon, too--perhaps by to-morrow--but anyhow by the day after, so trust
to me and let us both hope that grandfather will get better."
"I will, dear--I will. There! I feel more hopeful already. Don't you
remember, when you were a wee tot, and would come in and ask me for a
piece of cake? When I would say, 'Well, now, I wonder where grandma has
put that cake?' you would reply, so eagerly, 'Fink hard, Auntee--fink
hard.' You knew well that a real hard _think_ would bring results. Now
we must both 'think hard' and see if we can't produce a little genuine
Christmas cheer."
They parted with this compact, and when Alice, half an hour later,
walked into Captain Gordon's sick-chamber, a pleasant smile was on her
lips and her voice had regained its usual composure.
II.
A day or two passed with little change in the condition of affairs,
in the Gordon household, but on the third afternoon, following the
conversation between the two Alices, the younger one came in rather
suddenly, and announced, in a whisper, that she had an idea.
In a little while Aunt Alice had suggested a walk "for a breath of fresh
air," with the result that they were soon out together, alone, walking
in the lovely park which was close by.
"You see, Auntee," began Alsie, "it was this way--I tried and tried to
think of some celebration, which would make us all cheerful and happy at
Christmas, but the more I thought, the harder the problem seemed to get.
We couldn't have plays, for that would tire grandfather; a Christmas
tree would remind us all of last Christmas, when dear Uncle James
had such a beautiful one at his country place. It would make grandma
cry--and perhaps the rest of us, too--to remember that _that_ home had
been broken up by the loss of the father and husband. Altogether, I was
beginning to feel real discouraged. Mamma took me down town to lunch
with her to-day, and the waiter brought in such a big, luscious piece
of pie. You know, Auntee, I have always loved pie 'most as much as
grandfather. I began to think how long it had been since he had had
a single taste of pie, and yet he has never complained. I began to
wish--O, so much--that grandfather could enjoy that delicious bit of
pie. The tears came into my eyes, Auntee, and I said to mamma, 'If
grandfather could just eat this one piece of pie, mamma, I would be
willing to do without pie for the rest of my life.'
"It was then, Auntee, that the idea came to me. Couldn't we have a
Christmas pie for grandfather which, instead of having a filling of rich
custards or fruits, would contain all the cunning little presents that
we grandchildren could make for him?"
"Why, Alsie, what an idea! I've heard of the Jack Horner pie and other
varieties, perhaps, but who would have thought of the idea of a
Christmas pie of that kind! We'll certainly carry it out, for your
pretty idea was the offspring of an unselfish impulse, and a sympathetic
tear, and it surely will thrive and bear fruit."
"Let's see, Auntee--a pie must always be round, mus'n't it?"
"And this one will have to be big, too," replied Alice, "for there are
lots of us who want to have a finger in it. Those dear co-workers with
father, who have kept his sick-room so fragrant and beautiful with
flowers, must each be allowed a little space for a card of greeting.
In fact, Alsie, I think it would be a good idea to invite all his
most beloved circle of friends to send a little message of love, for
only the other day he said to me, 'There is nothing so acceptable to a
man lying on a bed of sickness as an offering of love--be it a message,
a flower, a visit, or a delicacy--it is delightful to be remembered.'"
"Well, Auntee, I'll see all the cousins within reach and write to the
others, and you do the same with the grown folks of the family, and the
rule must be that each is to put into the pie something that will please
grandfather or make him laugh."
"Fine, Alsie, fine. It's a good rule to make, for it's a '_Merry
Christmas_' we are striving for, and I don't believe our efforts will
fail if we put into them all the love and energy which the family say
you and I possess, in a like degree."
"We haven't much time to lose, either, Auntee, for we have lots to do
in the three weeks that remain to us. Now, as to business, what are we
going to make the pie-crust of--I mean what material will take the
place of the pie-crust, which you know is what holds the goodies?"
"It must be considerably stronger than the crisp, brittle crust which
Aunt Bettie brings to _our_ table," replied Aunt Alice with a laugh.
After a moment she continued, "I wonder if we couldn't get hold of one
of those hat-boxes which are made to hold the enormous 'creations'
we see every day in the milliners' shops, and on the heads of so many
pretty girls. We can make the effort, anyhow, and if we don't succeed
in finding just what we want, needles and cardboard are plentiful and we
can make a box to suit ourselves, for it must be at least twenty-five
or thirty inches in diameter and six inches high to hold the filling."
They walked slowly homeward, discussing various little points which
occurred to them along the way, until, when Alice walked back into the
front door of her home, what was her surprise and delight to feel that
the weight of the sorrow, which had so oppressed her, was lightened.
She felt almost buoyant in her eagerness for Christmas to come.
And now a busy season began. It was hard to think of anything suitable
for the invalid, for had not the loving hands of his wife and children
provided everything that might add to the comfort of the beloved head
of the household?
There was one little feature that had been overlooked,
however--grandfather possessed no foot-warmers. So Alsie's energies
were at once set to work on these articles, which were destined to be
"real comforts" in the weeks which followed Christmas.
The story of grandfather's pie was soon spread, not only through the
family, but also to a large circle of friends. Everybody was cautioned,
however, to keep the secret from Mrs. Gordon, for it was decreed that
the faithful little "wifey" (no one had ever heard the Captain address
his wife by any other name than _that_, which he had bestowed upon her
during their honeymoon) should share the surprise and pleasure with her
husband.
"Mr. Doctor, what are you going to put in the Christmas pie?" exclaimed
Alice merrily one morning, after telling the physician of the plan.
"I think I'll contribute the turkey," he answered with a smile. "A
turkey, of course, which won't take up too much space, and the dressing
I'll put in that turkey will be calculated to make any sick man well.
Do you understand?"
Alice didn't quite understand, but was willing to leave the matter in
his hands.
Little Jack was quite worried that he could think of nothing to make
grandfather laugh, and one day when he was in the sick-chamber he
blurted out, "Grandfather, what would you rather have me give you for
Christmas than anything else?"
The laugh came then--before time--for it explained to grandfather the
uneasy, doubtful expression which had enveloped the little lad's face
just previous to the asking of the question.
"Well, I'll tell you, Jack, what would please me more than anything
else--a perfect report from your teacher. If you could bring me this, on
Christmas Day, I would know that it meant hard work for a boy, who is as
fond of play and mischief as you."
Nothing more was said on the subject, but little Jack passed out of the
room with a stern resolution that that report should be forthcoming, and
when Aunt Alice was told of it she exclaimed enthusiastically, "O, Jacky
boy, you _must_ get that perfect report, even if it does mean hard work,
and we'll lay it in the very center of the pie, sealed up in the
prettiest Christmas envelope that I can paint."
III.
"Aunt Bettie, what are _you_ going to put in the pie? For you know
everybody must put in something to please grandfather or make him
laugh," asked Alsie, after detailing the plan to the dear old black
mammy, who had been grandmother's maid when she was a young lady in
the long years ago.
Aunt Bettie was considerably beyond sixty, but not many young "niggers"
could get around as lively as she, and no one, who had ever dined in
that household, could doubt her ability to cook the best meal ever
brought to a table.
"Nevah you min', honey--Aunt Bettie'll have somethin' fur de
occasion--it's a shame dat doctah won't let Captain Gordon hab no pie
nor nuthin', but makes him eat jest dem beat biscuits, when he likes de
soft ones so much de best. I'll be ready, chile, on de day 'fore
Christmas, so don' you worry yourse'f 'bout me."
"But you mus'n't make him anything that is bad for him, Aunt Bettie. He
can't eat the plum pudding, and other rich goodies like the rest of us,
you know, because he is too ill and the doctor won't allow it," answered
Alsie anxiously.
"I'll 'member _all_ dat," laughed Aunt Bettie reassuringly, as the child
departed from the kitchen, but a feeling of sadness came to the faithful
old soul as she recalled the festivities of the year before, when
Christmas dinner had been prepared for the whole family of children and
grandchildren, and the thought of how the dear head of the family had
enjoyed that occasion brought tears to her eyes.
* * * * *
Such conversations were being held every day, and the days were passing,
too, with astonishing rapidity, just as they always do when one is
deeply interested in some absorbing project.
Aunt Alice had been receiving, daily, numerous letters--several
containing checks--and little Alsie's correspondence had suddenly grown
to enormous proportions.
Uncle Dick came in one evening, and slipping a gold piece into his
sister's hand remarked, "_I_ can't think of a thing for that pie, Alice.
I'm sorry to be so stupid, but I'll have to ask you to take this and see
what your clever brain can do with it."
"O, Dick, it will make a grand 'plum' for the pie. I'll put it in, just
in this form, for I want all the money entrusted to me, as agent, to go
toward providing for father, comforts and luxuries, such as we might not
be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. And yet, it's almost
impossible to know exactly how to spend it just now," replied Alice.
After a little pause she added, "I believe I'll just put the gold pieces
and checks into a little box and label it, 'Fruit for the Pie.' My
biggest check may truly be termed a _peach_, and I can convert one or
two others into plums and raisins."
"I think I know of several plums that will be forthcoming if that's your
idea, sis--it's a capital one, too," answered Dick. "I confess I'm
getting quite interested in the contents myself, and two or three times
I've come near asking about the progress of the pie, before mother,
forgetting that she's to share in the great surprise."
"O, Dick, _do_ be careful, for we have arranged it all so nicely, and in
another week we'll be making up that pie, so don't spoil our plans now,
for how much more father will enjoy it if his dear little 'wifey' shares
the pleasure also. And, by the way, Dick, that reminds me of something
that must go in for mother. A few days ago, when I was sitting with
father, he directed me to get a trifling gift for mother, but with his
old-time humor he said, 'I believe the most acceptable gift that I could
make Wifey would be all the receipts of the bills that have come in, for
the little woman has worried considerably over the number and amounts. I
got in a pretty good check several days ago, but I'll not give any gifts
this year--the money must go to pay these extra expenses that have been
inevitable. I wish you'd see to it that Wifey has as big a bunch as
possible of receipted bills. It's the best I can do this year, and you
all understand.'"
"Wasn't it dear of him, Dick, and who but father would have thought of
making a joke of something, which might seem to some, only a trying
duty?"