Jasper County Democrat, Volume 4, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 January 1902 — Grandma's Way [ARTICLE]

Grandma's Way

RANDMA HARRIS was wrapt l UWping up the delicious golden balls '*“ - *of her own make of butter in fragrant, snowy linen cloths, and mentally calculating what the butter and the cottage cream, and the four pair of fat chickens, and tlio half-dozen pumpkins, and the four barrels of Van Duyn apples ought to bring in the market when grandfather went to town in«the *>i* wagon the next day. And Just as she had about decided that, with good luck, they ought to be able to buy the piano for Bessie before spring, there came a step alongside, and she looked up, to see Frank Merrivale, tall, handsome, with his fall overcoat, wearing a rosebud and a spray of bovardla, and his soft felt hat pushed off his forehead. “Oh, it's you, is it, Frank?" grandma Harris said, patting a butter ball lovingly as she laid it beside a dozen others in the long, shallow basket. “It is I, grandma. What are you doing? Give me a taste—don't you know I used always to help you get the butter ready for market? I haven’t forgotten how to tell if it is salt enougli." “Of course ycu have forgotten since you have been such a tine city gentleman. Much you cure for anything down here in the country nowadays.” She twinkled him a look from behind her silver trimmed glasses, whose roguisliiiess slowly changed to solicitous concern as, for the first time since her “boy’ had been home to the farm for a month's visit, she noticed a paler look than site liked to see on Ills face, and a certain unhappy look in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Frank?" she finished, suddenly, laying down her last pat of butter, and looking steadily at him.

He answered her look with a little, forced laugh. “The matter—with me? Why, bless your dear old soul, grandma, there’s nothing whatever the matter with me. Don't I eat and sleep like a plowman?" “Do you, Frank? Honor bright, dear —isn’t there anything amiss with you?" “Not physically, at all events,” he ■aid, gayly. Then, as suddenly as gravely, he added, “I don’t mind telling you, grandma—it’s—Lulu Carroll." “Lulu Carroll! Has she been tormenting you, Frank? Tell me—-the whole truth, now mind,” she said, solemnly.

“There’s not very much to toll,” he ■aid, with another constrained little laugh. “She doesn’t care anything whatever about me, and l—can’t help making a fool of myself over her." Grandma Harris covered her butterrolls over carefully with crisp celery leaves, and then went on: “She doesn't care for you, eh, as much as you do for her? Is that it?” “That’s exactly it.” “Did she tell you so?” “Not in so many words, but all the same, I have been made uwaro of the fact”

“But, Frank, if- " He looked coaxlngly at lier, but she ■aw the paleness on bis dear face was even more pronounced than before, ns he gently Interrupted her: “Don’t let's talk about it, please. I didn’t mean to mention ber name to a living bouI; I’d rather endure my sorrow in silence, since It seems to be that Lulu Carroll has it in ber power to wreck my life for me. I was sure ■be loved me—but she don’t. And that's MU there is of it.”

And after that Grandma Harris went ®n counting ber eggs in silence, while ffrank leaned against the shelf and looked at ber. And then, after a few minutes, he went away, and grandma took off her spectacles and wiped the tears from her denr old eyes—for Frank was the apple of her eye; and ills happiness or misery delighted or wounded her to the very core of her motherly heart. “I dar-» say he’s no worse than other men,” she decided, after dinner that day. “They mostly do fall in love with the girl that is likeliest to lead ’em a pretty gait. I’ll put on my brown cashmere and Just run over and see how sister Carroll Is getting on, and borrow Lulu’s cream-cake recipe. Frank’s master fond of that creamcake of hers.”

And so, when Lulu Carroll came down from her own room, into the sunny, cozy sitting room, about three o’clock that same afternoon, she found her mother and Mrs. Harris enjoying a most comfortable chat over their bright knitting needles. She was such a pretty girl, slender and graceful, with big brown eyes and wavy golden-brown hair—grandma didn’t wonder a bit that Frank cared so much for her. “Oh, it’a Mrs. Harris,” she said, laughing, and showing her pretty white teeth and her dimples. “Yes, it’s me, sure enough. I wanted your cream-cake recipe, dear, and there seemed a good chance for me to get away for an hour or so, so I thought I’d run over myself after It. frank’* very fond of cream-cake—he won’t get much of it, either, poor fellow.” Lulu was copying her recipe off from “Common Sense,” but Mrs. Harris' keen eyes did not foil to see the little flush of color that surged up to the girl’s forehead at mention of Frank Merrivale's name. "How’» that?” Mrs. Carroll Inquired, Interestedly. “Why, didn't you know he was go-

ing back to New York next Tuesday? They don’t ever have any such creamcake there, you don’t suppose?” Lulu folded the neat little paper up and handed it to Mrs. Harris, who put it carefully awuy in her pocket. “Yes, Frank’s going back to the city this week, and I don't suppose we shall see much of him after this.” Miss Lulu laughed, and shrugged her pretty shoulders. “One would think Mr. Merrivale was going to emigru'e to the South Sea Islands,” she answered. “He might almost ns well'be going there, for all the good the nearness to New York will do us.” The air of mystery about the old lady was having a most electric effect. “Do tell, Mrs. Harris!” Mrs. Carroll said, laying her gray yarn stocking down. "if you’ll botli keep it a dead secret, I’ll tell you. Frank’s going to be married.” A momentary silence followed, only broken by the tic-tac of the eight-day clock in the corner, and the silvery little click of Grandma Harris’ needles. Then, although Lulu Carroll felt that her very pulses seemed stopping, that for her the sunlight was forever to be gloomiest shade, she managed to utter a strange, weird little laugh. “You don’t say Frank is going to be married! That Is Indeed news. Tell him I congratulate—him.” Mrs. Harris peered Innocently over her glasses at the sw'ect, pale face. “Just so I felt, Lulu—you and Frank ’d been supli good friends—and that’s why I think you ought to be told first. Sakes alive! It really can’t be four o’clock a ready—and me with a mile and a half to walk, and short-cake to make for tea!”

And the little old lady bustled off, while Lulu put on her red and brown blanket shawl and her little Derby hut with the scarlet wing, and rushed out into the crisp November air—somewhere, anywhere to be all. by herself, where she could try to realize all the sudden anguish and confusion that had come upon her. “It cannot be-it cannot be! Frank Merrivale to be married—oh! it can’t be true! *

And as she walked slowiy through the apple-orchard, rustling the fallen leaves as she trailed tl!h>ugh them, the big tears felt thick and fast from her sad eyes. Frank Merrivale lost to ner—and she loved him so! She had been so sure of him, so sure that when she condescended to cease her coquetries upon him she could whistle him back to her feet. To be married! With his handsome face, his pleading voice, bis passionate eyes—and not to her. With a heart-breaking little sob she leaned her sac? on her hands, and cried as only a woman can cry when she realizes that her true-love is gone—forever—and that too by her own act. When she heard rapid footsteps coming up the same narrow path by which she was going down through the or-chard-footsteps she knew so well, that thrilled her with jealous pain, for she recognized them before she had the courage to lift her fuee, all tear-stain-ed, flushed and wistfyl, yet prettier than ever to Frank Merrivale, as he passed her—with only a society smile on bis fate as he courteously yet coldly raised bis hat to her and—was passing Oil.

For Just one second it seemed to her that her temples, her throat, al] her pulses would burst, with the concentrated agony of the moment; should she— dare sli3— “Frank!" she said, scarcely above her breath, in a strangely timid, pitiful way. He turned instantly. “Did you speak?” “Frank! Is it true?” “True? Is what true, Lulu?" She trembled peyeptibly. “Don’t hesitate to tell me—don’t put off the news—l know I deserve to be punished so—but—you might have known It was I who loved you better than any other girl could! Oh, Frank —I know it Is dreadful for me to speak so-but I must—l shall die if I think you don’t know how much I love you—even if you don't want me!” He looked astonished. “I don’t understand you, Lulu.” Her lovely eyes flashed him a piteous, reproachful glance. “Frank!”—bitterly—“don’t seek refuge behind a pretense of Ignorance. I know, and you know, what I mean, but—but ” and she began to sob in a wholly unherolne-llke manner, “you might have known how much I loved you!”

And then, Frank’s eyes suddenly began to shine with a glad glory that had never been in them before, and he remembered what Grandma Harris had said to him, as he started off—“ Take my advice, boy, and if you happen to meet Lulu don’t let her think you’re on your Inconsolable.” "Lulu!—tell me that again—say it again—you love me!” “I do—l do—l do, Frank, but It’s too late now, since you’re going to be married so soon.” “I—married—darling? Not that I know of—until you have promised to have me. Will you, Lu?” And, with her head on his. breast. Lulu told him what Grandma Harris had said, “I understand It all plainly enough —it was a loving little strategem to catch Cupid, Lulu. Besides—am I not

going to married? Say, aren’t we? I don’t think we’;e very angry at Grandma Harris, are we?”

And Mrs. Frank never makes a cream cake for her liege lord but that she blesses the day his grandmothei came for the recipe.—The Housewife.