ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN.
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THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came to
Ballintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people,
and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of his
pretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thrifty
parents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow that
Mrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was fretting
grievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-haired
Donald.
"Lizzie, lass, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the old Scotchwoman,
when several weeks had gone by, and Lizzie was still very low. "Is it
fretting for your poor mother ye are? Do ye no believe that she's at
peace, Lizzie? And was her life such a bright one, that you'd want to
keep her at it for ever? Fie, lassie! I thought better of ye."
"I can't help crying, mother," said Lizzie. "It is not for her—indeed,
I would not bring her back, for her lot was a hard one, and she was a
broken-hearted woman. But, oh! Mrs. Anderson, I do feel so wicked; to
live here in plenty, with no more to do than what is pleasant to me,
and all of you so good to me, while poor Helen is slaving there night
and day, with no one to help her but old Katty, who is better able for
farm work than for house work. And all of them living so poorly—barely
enough to eat, and no hope of better times to cheer them. I sometimes
can hardly bring myself to eat a good dinner, for thinking of them."
"Hoots, child! Things are not so bad as that with them. You're low and
nervous, my dear, and think too much of it."
"Because I feel as if I ought to be there helping. I am the eldest,
you know; it is too much for Helen alone, and Agnes is only seven, and
Clarice has to be cared for as much as the baby."
"Poor child! I aye pity her the most, for you need only look at her to
know she'd help if she could. Well now, Lizzie, I tell you I honour
you for feeling like this. You're married to a man that has enough and
to spare, and you ought to help. It never struck me before—to my shame
I say it—but I see it plain enough now, and I'm the last woman in the
world to counsel you to show a cold heart to your own folk. You'd be
none the better wife for that. But let us lay our heads together and
see if there's no way you could help them."
"Oh, Mrs. Anderson, there is a way; but I hardly like to speak of it."
"Speak your mind, dearie. If it's any way feasible, I'll help you to
it; and if not, I'll tell you why, and it will go no further."
"You see, we have such nice comfortable rooms, and such plenty
of everything, milk and eggs and fruit, and all that is good and
nourishing. And I have plenty of time; it would be no trouble to me to
care for her. If I might have poor Clarice here for a long visit! It
would be such a relief to Helen, and so so good for Clarice; and it
would make me so happy."
"Do you know, that's the very thing that was in my own mind? It's a
most wise-like notion—far the best thing we could do for them. We could
bring her over in the big spring cart very easily. Then there's that
sofa the good-man would buy, and that I never could see the use of; and
no doubt the poor child would be better here with you and me to see
to her; and Helen will get on right well if Clarice is taken off her
hands."
"But do you really think, mother, that Mr. Anderson will allow it?"
"Lizzie, there's not a better man in Scotland—or out of it, which is
more to the purpose—than Andrew Anderson! A just man he is, and a kind.
He knows well that Donald is his right hand, and that if Donald is
content to live with us, it's but fair that he and his wife should have
their own way in their own affairs. And more than that, he's real kind
and tenderhearted; and once we have Clarice here, he'll be for spoiling
her well, you see if he won't. But he's certainly a wee bit touchy,
times; and so I'll advise you to leave the matter alone until I'll see
a good moment to get his consent. I won't forget it; and there's no
time lost, for we could not move her until fine summer weather, and
before that comes, I'll get Andrew's consent."
"Dear Mrs. Anderson, you are very good to me!"
"'Deed, and so I ought! My one son's wife—who'd I be good to unless
just to your bonnie self, my hinnie? So cheer up now, Lizzie, and don't
fret any more. We'll have Clarice on that sofa before long—mark my
words, we will."
Whether old Mr. Anderson was more "touchy" than was usual with him or
not, I do not know. Mrs. Anderson said that "lambing time was hard on
farmer's tempers." And after lambing time, there was sickness among
the cattle; and after that the grey mare had a fall, and cut her knee;
and all these circumstances gave Mrs. Anderson reason for delay. But I
suspect the dear old woman had made up her mind that Lizzie should not
undertake this additional work until after the birth of her baby, which
took place the last week in April.
Then more than a month passed before Lizzie could venture on so
long a drive; so that it was fine warm summer weather when at last
Donald, Lizzie, and baby set off in a vehicle known to the neighbours
as "Anderson's shanderadan," a queer nondescript carriage, with a
hood which could be made to cover the front seat, and a long kind of
waggonette seat behind, into which Mrs. Anderson put a feather bed and
a mattress, for the accommodation of Clarice.
"And mind you tell Helen, with my love, that she's not to take it amiss
that I sent yon basket along wi' ye, because truly Donald eats such
a hantle of food, that I'd think it a shame letting him take a young
housekeeper by surprise. And bring Clarice home wi' ye, Lizzie, lass,
or I'll not promise ye a welcome from me and my good-man."
Whereon her good-man grunted loudly, and was of opinion that between
himself and his wife, they had put the thing very well, and said all
that was needful.
Ballintra, if not a place where money was to be made, was surely a very
pretty place; and so Lizzie Anderson thought as she was driven up to
the door. The waters of the lovely Slaney—the only river, save one,
with which I am personally acquainted, that deserves the name of a blue
river; the other being either the Tamar or the Tavy, in Devonshire,
and I cannot remember which of these is brown and which blue,—the blue
waters of the lovely Slaney were glancing and dimpling in the summer
sun, and the steep lawn, which they both met and reflected, was of
the most exquisite green. A few fine old trees, beech, both green and
copper, shaded the house, and were dotted here and there over the lawn;
and the hawthorn, which was late that year, was still in full blossom.
The house was old-fashioned and irregular, much smothered in ivy, and
altogether it was a very pretty spot.
At the sound of wheels, little Agnes ran to the door, peeped out,
screamed with joy, and flew back into the parlour crying out,—
"Clarice, Clarice, here's Lizzie and Donald in the shanderadan, and
Lizzie's baby in a scarlet shawl!"
For the bit of colour pleased the child's eye, used only to the black
dresses of her sisters and herself; though when Agnes first put on her
mourning, she had felt a little important, the frock being actually
new, and not some one's dress cut down to suit her!
Lizzie, springing to the ground, carried her baby into the house. In
the parlour, she found Clarice, with her baby beside her, and her face
lighted up with joy and welcome.
"Oh, Lizzie, dear Liz," she exclaimed, "is that really you? I saw the
horse's head, and wondered what could be coming. Aymer and Guy are in
the fields, but Helen is only in the garden. Oh, Lizzie, show me your
baby, and kiss me. I'm so glad you have come!"
The baby was unpacked from among his shawls and blankets, and the two
infants were critically compared. The Egerton baby had black eyes, and
the Anderson baby had blue, otherwise they were somewhat alike.
Agnes danced with glee, exclaiming, "I'm his aunt, Lizzie! Clarice says
so. She says I'm just as much his aunt as Helen or herself."
"Very true, Aggie! But, stranger still, baby here is my baby's uncle,
just as much as Aymer or Guy."
But this was too much for Agnes. She sat down and stared gravely at the
two babies, uncle and nephew.
"I see Donald has gone round to the stable," said Lizzie. "Had I not
better go out to the garden and call Helen, Clarice?"
"Oh, not you; you must be tired after your long drive; Agnes will go."
"I have not finished my lessons, Clarice," said the child,
conscientiously.
"You must have a holiday, Aunt Agnes," Clarice answered, laughing. "Run
now, my dear, and tell the boys too; but find Helen first, for she will
not like to lose a moment of Lizzie's visit."
Agnes ran off, and Lizzie picked up the fallen book and said, "I didn't
know that Agnes had begun lessons."
"I began to teach her a year ago. Mother was very glad to be spared the
trouble, and we get on very well. She can read nicely, and write all
the letters, both capital and small ones. She is very quick, I think."
"Ah, that big work-basket," said Lizzie; "dear mother! It brings her up
before me. What have you in it, Clarice?"
"Oh, things to make and things to mend," said Clarice. "Helen and I
keep it going; we like to have everything just as she had it."
She drew out a half-knitted blue stocking, and went on with it as she
spoke. Then the sound of steps was heard, and Helen, Aymer, and Guy
arrived in rapid succession. Donald came in from the yard. Many were
the handshakings and kissings, Lizzie's baby coming in for a fair share
of the latter. He was handed round to be admired, and was admired,
though Guy hurt his sister's feelings by gravely proposing to prick a
mark on his own brother's arm, lest he should be carried off by the
Andersons in mistake.
Lizzie thought that Helen looked worn and overworked; and there was
an anxious look in her eyes which made her like her mother. But part
of poor Helen's present anxiety was her fear that Donald, when he saw
the dinner, would feel that he could easily eat it all himself! A very
unpleasant reflection for any housekeeper. However, her anxiety on that
score did not last long, for when Donald was setting off with Aymer and
Guy to look at the cows and sheep, Lizzie asked him to bring in the big
basket out of the shanderadan.
"Mrs. Anderson thought it wouldn't do to take you by surprise, and
expect you to have dinner enough for all, particularly as Donald has
such an appetite. So she sent this basket—I don't know what there is in
it, for she packed it herself."
"Everybody talks as if I was never done eating," said Donald Anderson,
gravely; "and I don't think, myself, that I eat more than other people."
His wife knew that he was only pretending; but little Agnes, fancying
that his feelings were really hurt, said softly,—
"You must want a great deal, Donald, because you're so dreadfully long!"
At which there was a general laugh, much to the speaker's confusion.
"Now that was very thoughtful of Mrs. Anderson," said Helen, as soon as
she could speak. "I was in such a hobble, and longing to find out if
Clarice could think of anything. For you must know, Liz, Clarice has
all the brains for both of us. I have feet, and she has brains."
"Clarice has feet, too, only she has no shoes," remarked Agnes.
"I was puzzling my head over the same question, and could think of
nothing but a huge rice pudding," Clarice answered, smiling at Helen;
"and that would be light food for a hungry giant."
"Come along, boys," cried Donald, making for the door. "Even Clarice
has a word to throw at me. I won't stay here another moment!"
"But, girls," exclaimed Lizzie, when the three young men were gone,
"don't tell me that you have come to not having enough to eat! Oh,
don't say that!"
"No, no, Liz there's always enough, I'm thankful to say; but it just
happened I had no fresh meat to-day, except enough for papa. To-morrow
is the day for the butcher's cart to come, and I took too little last
time. It is hard to hit it off exactly. Last time I took too much, and
some got bad!"
She was unpacking the basket as she spoke, and now said, with a laugh,—
"You'll have your rice pudding after all, Clarice! Look at this one,
what a beauty it is! And chickens, as fat as they can well be—all ready
roasted, too; and a huge ham—Aymer and Guy will shout when they see
that, for they say no one cures such hams as Mrs. Anderson's—and a
cheese, and the bottom of the basket filled with cakes and tarts. Look
at Agnes, how she opens her eyes!"
"Ah, Mrs. Anderson loves to make presents," Lizzie said, with a sigh.
It was very sad to her to see how her sisters rejoiced over things to
which she was so well used.
Old Katty was summoned to see the baby and his mother, and to assist in
carrying off the provisions.
Agnes was made happy with a plump bun, on which she had silently fixed
loving eyes, and in which she quickly fixed her little white teeth.
Then the babies woke up and had to be fed; after which, they went to
sleep in the same cradle, like the excellent babies they undoubtedly
were, and left the sisters leisure for a comfortable chat.
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