Every child goes through a period where they think their parent (or grandparent) couldn't possibly understand them because they couldn't ever have been a child--just-like-them. The 1901 child was no different, especially when standards of perfection were held so high back then.Elizabeth did not love her grandmother. She had even decided, after careful consideration, that she positively disliked the sound of her name. This is a strange thing to have to tell of a nice little girl, for Elizabeth was a nice little girl in spite of all conclusions to the contrary, and, indeed, was as much shocked at herself as any one else could be.
But I must explain to you how it happened. Elizabeth had never seen her grandmother. Her portrait, which hung on the sitting-room wall, was that of a beautiful woman with great soft eyes and shining hair. She was dressed in gray satin, and wore a kerchief of delicate lace over her white shoulders.
Aunt Clarissa had the dress still, folded away upstairs in a camphor-wood trunk, and had shown it to Elizabeth more than once, when she had been an unusually good girl.
So Elizabeth had every reason to believe that her grandmother's appearance had been all that could be desired, and from what she had been told of her character, it was evident that she had been in that respect also a paragon of excellence, uniting in her single person all the virtues possible to womankind. And that was where the trouble lay. Since her earliest infancy Elizabeth had had her grandmother held up to her for imitation, a shining, brilliant example of impossible perfection. Sometimes the little girl almost felt sorry for her, when she thought how miserable her life must have been.
For her grandmother was always industrious and neat. She never soiled or tore her clothes. She always knew her lessons. She was always polite and respectful to every one, never noisy or getting in people's way, or asking questions when they had no time to attend to her.
She always took the most uncomfortable seat, the smallest apple, and the shortest stick of candy. She had done everything that a person naturally would not want to do, and had had it all carefully handed down for the discomfiture of her unfortunate descendants. Elizabeth argued that it was not fair.
Of course if any one wanted to be so uncomfortably perfect themselves, that was their own business, but they had no right to insist that others should follow their example. Still, Elizabeth had faithfully tried, for with Aunt Clarissa always at hand to point out her failures and remind her of her duty, it was not possible to forget or neglect it for long at a time.
Not that Aunt Clarissa was unkind, or even meant to be discouraging, but the more devotedly she loved her little niece, the more she wished her in all things to be as perfect as it was possible for human nature to be. With this end in view, there was no better example for her imitation than the beautiful grandmother for whom she was named.
She never dreamed how tired Elizabeth had grown of the endless tale of the ancestral virtues. She never guessed that the little girl was hesitating on the verge of revolt when she left her that summer afternoon in her little chair by the window with her work in her lap.
Miss Clarissa had to go to a meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society. It was held at the minister's house, and there were some important subjects to be discussed. She was sorry to leave Elizabeth all by herself, but Jane Adams was in the kitchen, with orders to look out for the child, and Jane Adams was considered a dependable girl.
Elizabeth had her work to occupy her time—a napkin that she was to finish hemming. It was already half done, and if she was industrious she would have nearly an hour to play before her aunt came back at tea-time.
The napkin was shiny and stiff. Elizabeth knew how beautifully her grandmother would have hemmed it. From her place by the window she could see her Aunt Clarissa as she walked away, in her black silk dress and her bonnet trimmed with pansies. She had turned at the gate to wave her hand to Elizabeth and call to her to be a good girl.
Then she was gone ; but other interesting people were passing all the time. First a man with a gun and two beautiful dogs. Elizabeth did not approve of him. She was afraid he was going to shoot some little brown quail that she had seen the day before when she went walking through the fields with Aunt Clarissa. When he was out of sight, two men went by with a cart piled full of great green melons, and after them came a boy on horseback. It was quite impossible to sew with so much going on in the street, though Elizabeth seemed to hear her Aunt Clarissa's voice saying : "Your grandmother always did her tasks first and played afterward."
Elizabeth jumped up, and putting her work down in her chair, went over to her grandmother's picture, and stood looking up at it in indignant remonstrance.
"Grandmother, did n't you ever do one little, little thing that was naughty?" she cried.
But her beautiful grandmother only looked down at her, stately and sweet, without replying.
"If you had done only one thing that was bad," Elizabeth went on, "I think perhaps I could have liked you—a little; but as it is, I don't like you at all. I wish you were not any relation to me!"
But still her grandmother looked at her as sweetly as ever, and made no reply, and hopelessly Elizabeth went back to her work.
"I 've done just three stitches since Aunt Clarissa went out of the gate," she said; "and grandmother would have had it all done and folded up and put away long ago! The moon will be shining before I finish." Then, as she sewed, she began to sing:
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea, over the sea!
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me, all that love me!"
"I love the Lady Moon," Elizabeth said, "but I do not love my grandmother." Then she started and rubbed her eyes. The room had grown quite dark. It was so late she must surely have dropped asleep over her work. There was a light behind the trees by the gate, where the moon was rising.
"I had better go look for Jane Adams," she thought; and then she caught a glimpse of the moon, and stopped. It was just beginning to show above the branches of the lilac-tree, and there seemed to be something unusual in its appearance.
It was a three-quarter moon, and as it rose higher, instead of the man whom she could usually see quite plainly, it was her grandmother's face that looked down at her, smiling and sweet, framed in its beautiful golden hair.
Little Elizabeth stared in surprise and dismay.
"Oh, grandmother," she cried, "were you so good that they put you up there, for every little girl all over the world to see you shining, and try to be like you?" Elizabeth began to cry: "Oh, it 's not fair! It 's not fair! We would all rather have the Lady Moon to look at!"
But her grandmother was gazing down at her sorrowfully and tenderly. All the soft, sleepy sounds of the summer night seemed to be blending together into the song Elizabeth had been singing about the Lady Moon:
"All that love me, all that love me!"
It echoed so sadly and reproachfully that Elizabeth hung her head ashamed; but she looked up again, quickly, in self-defense.
"If only you had been like other little girls, I would have loved you, grandmother," she said; and the echoing murmur that might have been the voice of the summer night answered softly:
"Like you, dear. Just like you!"
Elizabeth looked up eagerly.
"Grandmother, do you mean that?" she cried. "Oh, grandmother, did you ever get blots on your copy-book?"
"Yes, I did. Just like you!" said the voice.
Elizabeth caught her breath.
"Grandmother, did you ever forget and climb the lilac-tree by the gate to look at the little young robins in their nest, when you had on your bestest Sunday frock, that gets holes in it so easy?"
"Just like you! Just like you!" was the answer.
Elizabeth clasped her hands in ecstasy. Her grandmother was looking down at her so kindly that her beautiful smile seemed brighter than the moonlight. The next question came hopefully:
"Grandmother, did you ever forget to learn your Sunday-school lesson?"
"Yes, I did," said the voice.
"Grandmother,"— Elizabeth was determined to have a few points settled forever,—"grandmother, did n't you like cake and jam better than bread and milk?"
Her grandmother's smile was so bright then that Elizabeth felt it lighted all the room.
"Yes, I did. Just like you!" said the voice, and Elizabeth sprang to her feet.
"Aunt Clarissa says—" she was beginning; but something had happened all at once. Her grandmother was gone. It was just the Lady Moon that was shining in at the window; the rest of the room was dark. She heard her Aunt Clarissa's voice in the hall, speaking very severely:
"Jane Adams, what do you mean by letting that poor child wait all this time for her supper? She must be famished!" Then the door opened, and she hurried in, Jane following with the light.
"Elizabeth!" she cried. "Where are you, child? I had no idea of being so late. I thought they never would get through with their meeting."
She took off her bonnet trimmed with pansies, and Jane Adams curtsied, and said tea was ready.
"Ready! I should think tea had better be ready!" said Aunt Clarissa. Then she took Elizabeth by the hand, and they went into the dining-room.
There was broiled chicken, and hot toasted muffins, and raspberry jam, and little escalloped seed-cakes for tea; but Elizabeth was very silent while her aunt told her how little Ellen Williams, the minister's niece, had made a beautiful centerpiece for her aunt's tea-table, all embroidered with wild roses and forget-me-nots.
"You might like to learn to do something of the sort," Aunt Clarissa said. "Your grandmother used to embroider beautifully."
When tea was over, Aunt Clarissa arose and took Elizabeth by the hand again.
"Come in the sitting-room, child," she said. "It 's time you were in bed hours ago, but you can't go the instant you have swallowed your supper. Come and sit in my lap and tell me what you were doing while I was away."
Miss Clarissa seated herself in her rocking-chair, and Elizabeth curled herself up comfortably, with her head on her aunt's shoulder.
"Did you finish your hemming?" she asked.
"No," said Elizabeth; "it grew dark, and I was talking to grandmother."
Miss Clarissa gave a great start at this.
"What do you mean, child?"
"Yes, it was grandmother," Elizabeth repeated tranquilly. "I did not love her, and I told her so."
"Not love your grandmother!" And Aunt Clarissa nearly dropped Elizabeth from her lap in her horror at such a state of things.
"She was too good. No little girl could love her," Elizabeth explained.
"Too good!" gasped Aunt Clarissa.
"I thought she was too good," Elizabeth amended. "But, Aunt Clarissa, she told me that when she was little, she blotted her copybooks, tore her Sunday frock climbing lilac-bushes, forgot to learn her lessons, and liked cake and jam better than bread and milk. She said she was just such a little girl as I am."
"Elizabeth, you were dreaming," said her aunt; but she did not speak severely, as she was asking herself, "Is it possible I have been too strict with the poor child?"
"I did not love my grandmother before," Elizabeth went on, "but now I do, and I am going to try and do the good things she did because she did some other things I do. And then, Aunt Clarissa, perhaps I '11 be put up in the moon sometime, where I can sail round and round, and see what all the little girls in the world are doing."
Aunt Clarissa did not answer. She was pondering many things to herself.
Elizabeth's eyes were nearly closed; she was very sleepy. Outside she could still hear the murmuring voices of the summer night—the sounds of crickets and grasshoppers and katydids—all singing drowsily together, and still repeating her grandmother's words:
"Like you, dear! Just like you!"
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