Read Ebook: Grandfather's Love Pie by Gaines Miriam

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 187 lines and 14780 words, and 4 pages

SECOND EDITION

GRANDFATHER'S LOVE PIE

MIRIAM GAINES

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED FATHER, JOHN THOMAS GAINES, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED.

GRANDFATHER'S LOVE PIE

"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 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.

"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 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.

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 , 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,

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.

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.

"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."

"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?"

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."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet