LIZE JANE.
But my happiness did not last long. Grandpa Harrington never thought
of my parasol again from that day to the day he died; and little witch
and try-patience though I was, I dared not remind him of his promise,
still less tell my mother about it.
It was hard to have my hopes raised so high, only to be dashed to
the ground; harder still to have to keep it all to myself, and see Fel
trip along under that sunshade without a care in the world. If she had
been the least bit proud I couldn't have borne it; but even as it was,
it wore upon me. Once I called out in severe tones, "Ho, little
lie-girl; got a pairsol too!" but was so ashamed of it next minute
that I ran up to her and hugged her right in the street, and said, "I
didn't mean the leastest thing. I love you jus' the same, if you
_have_ got a blue pairsol, and you may wear it to meetin', and I'll
_try_ not to care."
And now I come to the naughty story.
I could not always have Fel for a playmate; she was too delicate to
be racing about from morning till night as I did, and when she had to
stay in the house, I found other girls to romp with me. Sometimes,
especially if I felt rather wicked, I enjoyed Eliza Jane Bean, a girl
two or three years older than myself. There was a bad fascination
about "Lize." When she fixed her big black eyes upon you, she made you
think of all sorts of delightful things you wanted to do, only they
were strictly forbidden. Her father and mother were not very good
people, and did not go to church Sundays. They lived in a low red
house near the Gordons. You never saw it, children; it was pulled down
ever so long ago, and used for kindlings. People called the house "the
Bean Pod," because there were nine little beans in it beside the big
ones. Rattlety bang! Harum scarum! There was always a great noise in
that house, and people called it "the rattling of the beans." It was
well it stood on a corner lot, and poor old Mr. Gordon was so deaf.
Lize Jane used to come to our house for currants. My mamma did not
like to have me see much of her, but could not refuse the currants,
for our bushes were loaded. It seemed as if the family must have lived
half the summer on currants and molasses; for almost every night there
was Lize Jane with her big tin pail. It had holes in the bottom, and
the juice used to run out sometimes upon her dress; but it didn't make
much difference, for her dress was never clean.
One night she came for currants when they were almost gone. Mother had
been sick, and was very late about making jelly. She told Eliza Jane
she couldn't let her come any more after that night; the rest of the
fruit must be saved for our own use. Lize Jane said nothing, but she
rolled her black eyes round towards me, and I felt a little ashamed,
for I knew she thought mother was stingy, and that was why she rolled
her eyes.
I went into the kitchen, and said to Ruth,--
"Don't you want me to pick you a bowl of currants?"
Of course she did. She didn't know Lize Jane was there, or she
wouldn't have been so pleased and so ready to get me my sun-bonnet.
She had to reach it down from a hook in the ceiling. That was the
place where Ned hung it when he wanted to "pester" me; he did it with
an old rake handle.
When I was going anywhere to meet Lize Jane, I always felt as if I
was stealing raisins. I never exactly stole raisins; but when my
mother said I might go to the box and get two or three, I had
sometimes taken a whole handful. I knew by the pricking of my
conscience that that was wrong, and in the same way I knew that this
was wrong too. Mother was in the green chamber, covering an ottoman
with green carpeting, so she wouldn't see me from that side of the
house.
I ran into the garden, and, going up close to Lize Jane, began to pick
with all my might. "My bowl fills up faster 'n your pail," said I.
"Cause its littler," said she; "and besides, I'm picking 'em off the
stems."
"What do you do that for, Lize Jane? It takes so long."
"I know it; it takes foreverlastin'; but mother told me to, so'st I
could get more into my pail."
I opened my eyes.
"She told me to get my pail chuck full. She didn't use to care, but
now the currants are most gone, and she wants all she can get."
I said nothing, but I remember I thought Mrs. Bean was a queer
woman, to want our very last currants.
"Sh'an't you have your party before they're all gone?" said Lize Jane.
"What party?"
"Why, the one you're going to have."
I suppose she knew my heart was aching for one.
"I want a party dreffully," said I, "but mamma won't let me."
"Won't let you?" cried Lize Jane, in surprise. "Why, Fel Allen had
hers last week."
"I know it, and Tempy Ann made us some lemonade."
"Did she? I wish I'd been there," said Lize, pursing her lips. "But
Fel lives in such a monstrous nice house, and wouldn't ask me to her
party; that's why. Mother says I hadn't oughter care, though, for when
she dies she'll lay as low as me."
I did not understand this speech of Mrs. Bean's, which Lize Jane
repeated with such a solemn snap of her black eyes; but it came to me
years afterwards, and I think it the worst teaching a mother could
give her little child. No wonder Lize Jane was full of envy and spite.
"But you'll ask me to _your_ party, won't you?" said she, with a
coaxing smile.
"I can't, if I don't have one, Lize Jane."
"You're a-makin' believe, Mag Parlin. You will have one; how can you
help it, with a garden full of gooseb'ries and rubub?"
"And thimbleberries, too," added I, surveying the premises with a
gloomy eye. We certainly had enough to eat, and it was a very strange
thing that I couldn't give a party.
"Has your mother got any cake in the house?" added Lize.
"Yes, lots in the tin chest; but she never lets me eat a speck,
hardly," bemoaned I. I was not in the habit of talking to Lize Jane of
family matters; but she had shown so much good sense in saying I ought
to have a party, that my heart was touched.
"Your mother, seems to me, she never lets you do a thing," returned
Lize Jane, in a pitying tone. "Ain't you goin' to have a silk pairsol,
like Fel Allen's? I should think you might."
She had driven the nail straight to the mark that time. I could have
wailed; but was I going to have Lize Jane go home and tell that I was
a baby? No! and I spoke up very pertly,--
"Where's _your_ pairsol, Lize Jane Bean? You never had one any more 'n
me."
"No; but there's something I have got, though, better than that. Good
to eat, too. And I'll tell you what; if you'll ask me to your party,
I'll bring you some in a covered dish."
"What is it, Lize? Ice cream?"
For her face was wondrous sweet.
"Ice cream! How'd you s'pose I kep' that froze? No!" and the
bewitching sparkle of her eye called up luscious ideas. I could almost
see apricot preserves, pine apples, and honey-heart cherries floating
in the air. But why was it a covered dish? "Somethin' nuff sight
better 'n ice cream, but I shan't tell what."
"O, I wish you'd bring it to me in the covered dish, 'thout any
party, for my mother won't let me have one, Lize, now truly."
"Then you can't have the--what I was goin' to bring," said Lize Jane,
firmly.
"That's too bad," I cried; but it was of no use talking; she couldn't
be moved any more than the gravel walk, or the asparagus bed.
"Your mother ain't much sick, is she?"
"Not now," replied I; "her strength is better."
"Well, then, why don't you ask some girls to come, and she'll get 'em
some supper; see if she don't."
I was so shocked that I almost fell into a currant bush.
"Lize Jane Bean, what you talking about?"
"Why, you said your mother warn't sick."
"No, her strength is better, but she don't 'low me to do things, Lize
Jane Bean, 'thout--'thout she lets me."
"Of course not; but I guess she don't know you want a party so
dreadful bad, Maggie, or she _would_ let you. I don't believe your
mother is ugly."
"But she never said I might have a party, though."
"No, for she don't think about it. She ain't a bad woman, your mother
ain't, only she don't think. Your mother don't _mean_ to be ugly."
Lize Jane spoke in a large-hearted way, at the same time stripping
currant-stems very industriously. "She'd feel glad afterwards,
s'posing you _did_ have a party, I'll bet."
"O, Lize Jane, what a girl! 's if I'd do it 'thout my mother said I
might."
"O, I didn't mean a real big party; did you s'pose I did? I didn't
know but you could ask me and some of the girls to supper, and not
call it a party. We'd play ou' doors."
"O, I didn't know _that's_ what you meant. But I
can't,--'cause,--'cause."--
"Well, you needn't, if you don't want to; but I didn't know but you'd
like to see that--what I's going to bring."
"But I can't be naughty, and get tied to the bed-post," said I,
thoughtfully. "Is that what you's going to bring, something I never
saw in all my life, Lize Jane?"
"Yes, I'm certain sure you never."
And she made up another delicious face, that filled the air around
with sweet visions.
"And would you bring it if I didn't ask but--but--two girls?"
"No, I don't _think_ I could," replied Lize Jane, squinting her eyes
in deep meditation. "I don't hardly think I _could_; but if you had
four girls I'd bring it, and _risk_ it."
"Four 'thout you?"
"No, me 'n three more, if you're so dreadful scared."
That settled the matter. With my usual rashness I cried out,--
"Well, I'll ask 'em."