Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 164, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 July 1910 — At Seventeen or Seventy [ARTICLE]

At Seventeen or Seventy

By Jeanne O. Loizeaux

Bent and trembling. Grandma Simpson held her coarse, gray shawl more closely from the rough March wind, and trudged along in the slush, searching every Inch of the way for the little folded paper she had dropped. It was late twilight and her eyes were dim. Besides, she was afraid to go home—Liz, her daughter-in-law, was none too gentle. “I thought I was .holdin’ it tight,” Bhe said aloud, childishly, ‘‘but when 1 got to the store, it was gone. What’ll I do?” A step behind her made her step aside —whoever it was would want to pass. But old man Best did not pass. He stopped to peer kindly into the wrinkled face—this was the widow of his dead comrade. “Did you lose something, Mary? Aain’t it pretty raw for you to be out .with your rheumatiz?” He stopped and leaned on his cane, a bluff, brisk, kindly man a few years her senior. He lived a few houses farther along on the humble street; he owned his neat, sailor-like home, and was accounted rich because of his small pension, and because he paid no rent —that burden of the poor. He had seen little of Mary Simpson since she went to live with her son, John. Liz—John’s wife—was slatternly and the children noisy, which the old man could not endure. He seldom Went there; but now he saw trouble, a thing that called for help. “Did you, p’raps, find a paper?” Grandma Simpson asked, tremblingly. “Liz sent me to the store with John’s pay-check for the week —she was afraid to trust the children —and, somehow—l lost it. I dassen’t go home without it, William. I thought I was a-holding it tight, but it’s gone.” “Well, ain’t that too bad? And in this March wind, it must have blown off. It’s too wet to hunt for it —and too dark! I’ll tell you what you do — you go home; and I’ll turn out and hunt for it at first light for you. You tell ’em I will and it’ll be all right.” She shook her head, and he saw on her cheek the bitter, scanty tears of the old. He knew what ge and loneliness were, and tried to comfort her. "Tiou'll get your death o’ cold out here, and p’rhaps it’ll be found and returned in the mornin’—folks is honest about here." “It won’t be found,” she answered gloomily, “an’ ’ld rather die ’n hear what Llz’ll say! John ain’t home an’ -she’s tired an* cross. She’s got too much to do an’ I’m a burden even without losin’ money for ’em. An’ it does seem, though I hate complainin’, as if I never could stand her slack houseeepin’ an* the children’s noise. An’ there ain’t a corner I can call my own anywhere. Couldn't you go hack with me an* tell them It might have happened to anyone?” The old man turned immediately. “Of course I’ll go! No—wait. You come on to my house and I’ll stir up the fire and you can stay there and make some tea for yourself, and I’ll go along and tell them. Would that be easier? I know how It is to be blamed for losin’ things! I’ll tell them I found you huntin' for It and you had one o’ them spells with your head and I took you to my house. And when John gets home from town, he can come after you.” Grandma Simpson, brightening at thought of temporary freedom, followed him without a word. He led her into the trim, three-roomed house with the garden behind, where he had flowers in summer. He lit a bright, kerosene lamp, stirred up the fire in the kitchen stove and put on the kettle. “You get you some tea while I’m gone. What did Liz want from the store? You can tell me and I’ll get it and take it to her. Say Mary—why not? Yes; let me make it good! It’s fifteen dollars, ain’t it? I can’s well as not!” He stopped, a new thought in his head. His heart was sore. All year, he had been saving to visit-his daughter in Denver; and just today she had written him that her husband’s people had come and could he wait till next summer for his visit? The letter was kind, but it hurt. He would use some of the money to help Mary out ’ “They needn’t to know about the check at all, unless it’s found —David would have done as much for me,” he said of her dead husband. “We was always friends. What did Liz want?” Unbelieving joy lit the old woman’s face. Tidy and trim as a girl In her clean gray calico, she took off her shawl and warmed her hands at the fire. “You’re a good man, William! She wanted some sugar and potatoes, and bacon —and two loaves of bread. I can bake lovely bread, but she won’t let me! —my children never ate baker’s trade! I’ll get your supper while you’re gone.” The old man departed, and grandma, reveling in the clean and quiet of the little place, began with her old quickness, to ge the simple meal. She put potatoes to bake in the oven, found some baked beans to warm up, and a bit of steak to fry at the last minute, and made ready to brew the tea. She spread the red and white cloth and set the table daintily—Liz just slapped things on, anyway. But she put on only one plate and cup—if he should ask her to stay, she could aoo another. The neighbors might talk if she remained, but her soul longed for a long, leisurely meal, And a talk with some one her own

age, without the interruption of the children, or the half-contemptuous listening of Liz. William Best had gone to school with her and David. When she had done all that she saw to do, she smoothed her poor plumage with the alacrity of a bird, and sat down to wait, with her feet on the hearth. She would not drink tea till he came. What would he have to say? Would the check be found? She tried not to worry. When she had waited what she thought was an age, and had at last put the meat on to cook, she heard his step on the walk. He looked about a moment, then walked to the cupboard for another plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon. He put them on the table. You 11 have to stay to supper,” he said from the sink, Where he was Washing his hands. “I left word for John to come fetch you. I guess I bung.ed the job some. I took the things and the money, and told my little stories, but Liz-was considerable riled. Seems she sent Miry to the store to see what come of you, and you must a’ dropped the check in there, for they found it on the floor, biz said I was interferin’ and jawed some, but I stuck to it that you had much” aDd 1 611688 Bhe believes that Grandma was dishing up the *appetiz.sig meal and Liz’ wrath was not so clone that it worried her at the moAt least an hour or so °f Peace was hers, and she would enjoy it to the fullest. She made the tea and the two sat down to eat. guess perhaps you better stay here—for always, I mean, Mary. 1 here s enough for two, and I like a tidy woman like you about. There’s too many in that house—l don’t see how you’ve stood it so long—and too few in this. You come over here just to even things up!” t ‘‘ J ° hll ~ wouldn ’ t llke it—how could I- she stammered, with the perversness of woman, at seventeen or seve°y. re fusing to understand. If you married me, John couldn’t say nothin’, could he? He’s a goodenough son, but he’s at work, and you really have to live with his wife—besides, you know I always liked you, Mary, from a mite of a girl up, and even as David’s wife—an’ all. He wouldn’t mind my lookin’ after you, and it can’t be done any other way as I can see. Can it?” Mary Simpson shook her head; then she began to cry softly into her apron. He rose and patted her shoulder. “You needn’t say nothin’ to any of them, Mary? You go home with John and Monday mornin’ I’ll get a license and Preacher Cottrell and you can slip over here about noon and we’ll be married and no one can help it. What do you say?” The old lady dropped her apron and looked up at him. Txr.J.r 1 believe f’d like it real well, william. My little pension would help out some and I’ve always wanted a little garden and never had one since David died. It seems too good to be true.” William Best went back to his place at the table, content, and she poured him another cup of tea. Then, suddenly, she put her apron to her eyes again. \\ hat in tunket ails you, woman?” he asked, anxiously. “I —I ain’t fit,” she sniffed. “You—you’re good’s gold—l’ve known you all your born life, woman!” He waited for her to explain. “I mean—that I ain’t got a thing fit to be married in!” Even old man Best could not refrain a laugh at that. “You’re all alike—you women! You beat old White’s cattle! I Abet Eve cried for a white silk dress to be married in. Finish your Supper, woman, and I’ll, get my mother’s black silk out o’ that chest in the corner there. It’s good as new and you can take a tuck—or something in it. Father brought it home from sea, and it was the finest dress in the village in its time. She never wore it to speak of. It was too good. How’s that?” Then John knocked and entered, kindly, but rough, and took his mother home. And Grandma Simpson didn’t care in the least what her daughter-in-law might say—she could endure anything till Monday.